warning one

August was sensational. Back in training, big style. 142 miles on the clock, my biggest month ever. Times coming down to within sprinting distance of my 2014 highs. I beat Arnold Schwarzenegger to it, I was well and truly back.

Then, on a routine 10k during Friday lunchtime, I felt my left calf getting a bit tight. I slowed down but jogged on. A mile later, I felt the sharp pain of a calf strain. Then I stopped running and walked the lonely mile back to base.

It’s just a calf strain, I said to myself.

With no running over the weekend the discomfort went away and I thought I would try a short jog. This lasted about 10 paces until the pain returned and I aborted. I’ll leave it longer this time, I said to myself, and on Friday managed a very gentle 4 miles.

It was only a calf strain. I congratulated myself. Deciding the world was right again I set off on a lets-see-how-far-I-can-go run the following day. 9.4 miles later I hobbled home.

You dick, I told myself, but not so politely. But don’t worry, it’s only a calf strain.

For some reason I can’t explain, my dick complex remained in gear and I went out again on Monday. Half a mile later, another abort. This time I won’t run for at least one whole week, I promised myself. This lasted until Friday, when I managed to convince myself that, obviously, compression socks would sort things out. Surprise, surprise, another abort.

Which puts me one week away from the Great Scottish Run with a max distance of less than 100m at my disposal and no training for the last 3 weeks.

But I’ll be OK. After all, it’s only a calf strain.