Another week has passed since the marathon. I'm sticking to my plan which is short runs, no pressure. My achilles aren't as sore any more but I am still a rag-bag of aches and pains. Tripping and falling on my right hand side last Saturday has meant that every night, round about three, I wake up all sore because I've been lying on the wrong side - and getting out of that position means using the arm with the sore shoulder, straightening the leg with the sore IT band - using my hand with the sore finger to give me leverage.
A pee, a glass of water, and back to bed to lie on my back, where all the aches stop their complaints as I relax into it.
I know what I sound like. I sound like an old people. The old people in my life have always behaved thus; making noises when they sit down, stand-up, bend over to look in the fridge...and now I do too.
Anyway - yesterday was beautifully sunny, so me and Buchanan headed down the coast. My first mile out the car was an 11 minute mile, running on concrete legs. After that they started to loosen off.
The first thing to distract us along the way was a lovely patch of poppies.
Then ever more artful selfies.
A fruitless butterfly chase means we end up just taking pictures of each other. It was hot and the path felt very good under foot and my aches and pains were lifting a bit.
Down at the beach the clouds had rolled over, so it was darkish but warm. The tide was out and the sand was flat. We picked the pace up for the last quarter mile of the beach. I got up to about 6 minute pace by nearly bursting myself. Nice to know it's possible though. It meant breathing properly into sore ribs and pushing properly into sore tendons however.
Fog was rolling in over the water in Fife.
I thought a paddle might be restorative for creaky legs. Peter took this all a bit further and went in the for the full swim. He kept saying it was "not bad". I didn't know what he was talking about. Going in the icy cold water felt brutal. It's hard to explain the pain. But kind of like having your legs beaten with hammers. I imagine. But more global, less local.
Photo journalism at its finest. Me, canoe man and Peter all in the one shot!
"Just like James Bond"
Ursula Andress more like.
Peter has a fight with a ghost.
My left foot.
I'd like to tell you that standing about in the icy water has cured me. But it hasn't. I wonder what we'll do today.