The funny bit after Pete's
breakdown, on Sunday was the stoic way he finally got up, shook himself down and put the kettle on. After an effort that nigh on killed him, physically and emotionally, there was no stretching or sipping a blended recovery drink. Nope, a sleeve wiped across his snotty nose and a good brew. Tea is an extraordinary comforter in times of woe, and recently, I've been erring towards tea rather than coffee as my brew of choice. Herbal or fruity teas actually. There's taste to explore here. And colour. Tea, though, is not my preferred recovery regime. In fact nothing in terms of food or drink is ticking my box right now. My calf's are like metallic lumps. There is no spring in my legs whatsoever at the moment and it's getting me down.
I've not run since Sunday at Cloud Nine, and actually have struggled walking at times. Stairs are the indicator of form at home. There are moments when I can bound up the stairs and give a flamboyant jump off the top step. On other occasions I have to haul my sorry arse up on the rails, wondering just how secure the fixings are. At the moment, it's like my ankles are fused. There is nothing there. It's just calf tightness, but I'm fed up with seeing physio's and now have a pair of special insoles which feels like I'm sharing my shoes with someone who is most unwelcome to do so. I've been looking out of the window for most of the day, longing for a run. But when I got home, I just wasn't in the mood. There's just nothing in my legs. The kettle is on...
