I’m getting niggles in my left calf – and my shoes are now at the 320+ miles stage of affairs. I cannot but help believe that these two facts are related. I did 13 miles on Sunday (down the towpath again. I swear I noticed a sculpture that I’ve never seen before. In fact, I would swear it wasn’t there on the way out, but had mysteriously appeared by the time I was coming back), and the last couple of miles were distinctly uncomfortable, so I’m now thoroughly taped up and trying not to push too hard. I have made an appointment with LovelyChiro, for Thursday. It’s not a strain – that I can tell. It’s “just” a bit inflamed. More ice, more ibuprofen. More taping. Proper resting between times.
At the same time, I’m pushing a little bit – because I realised, part way through last week, I’m possibly taking this training a little easier than I could. I went out with N on his birthday for 6 easy miles. He pushed me up to a sub-9-minute mile (I would have hovered at 9-9.30min/miles left to my own devices), and concluded that, yes, I am capable of such things on an empty stomach so, really, get with the programme woman. Put in a bit more effort and stop cruising about. This morning’s intervals I tried to remember to push. I tried to remember that I can do a 7:30min/mile over 400 metres and actually do it. It would have helped if I’d taken water, used the inhaler a bit more, and not wasted quite so much effort glaring at the woman who was running round the track clockwise. Who does that? I mean. Seriously. Everyone else was going anti-clockwise, but this woman was going clockwise, and in the inside lane (natch) so we all had to keep moving out of her way. I think she needed more coffee. I think I needed more everything.
We then headed up to the Albert Hall to get our tickets for the Last Night Of the Proms. I was still pre-coffee (other than the early morning instant) and pre-breakfast. I can’t say that I was exactly well disposed to the woman who seemed to think it was necessary to teach us how to queue when there is no clear queue, and to tell us we were standing in the wrong place, but I was polite, as was N. We’re British. We know how these things work innately (it’s a bit like queuing at a bar, where there’s no proper line either). She had coffee. I was jealous. We now have tickets. And, by 10am, I finally had both coffee and breakfast, and was feeling much more amiable and well disposed to the world. I much prefer a spot of equanimity.
Tonight’s plans involve supper, and an early night. We’ve been promming the last four nights straight: it’s been a total Sibelius Fest, and I need to do some Listening Again. We also went to the Sherlock Prom (which was brilliant fun, and didn’t require any brain power). I need to phone Mum, and I need to weigh the mittens I’ve knitted so I can mail them off to R. I was going to do that today (the mailing) but realised the fundamental flaw – no idea quite what the package weighs, so I can’t do online postage.
Tomorrow’s plans involve paying the solicitor and praying that we actually exchange on the house before the month is out.
Tomorrow’s plans also involve a spot of morris dancing. And five easy miles at about 6am. And a deployment.
Is it any wonder that I’m finding it hard to read anything but pulp fiction? I’ve given up on Parade’s End for the time being (too post-modern and impressionistic). I’ve started Pamela (very easy so far), am roaring through the Mary Russell Sherlock Holmes stories (excellent fun), and have also embarked on The River Between (easier, so far, than The Cubs and Other Stories, with nice short chapters). The Mary Russell books are the ones I want to read, though. Or perhaps some Harry Dresden books (but I only have one of those on the bookshelf unread).