The Gift of a Run
I thought my calf was on the mend. On Wednesday I ran 11.7k with Chris, pushing at times to keep up with his occasional 5:40 kilometres. The calf was fine during the run, but I was devastated to find myself walking around like John Cleese for the next two days. On Saturday there was still a little tenderness happening, so I debated with myself the merits of trying to run, or settling for a mountain bike ride. Finally, I laced up the Brooks and shuffled, Cliffy style, down the street, with the promise that I'd stop at the first sign of pain.
I made it to the edge of Theodore. This was looking good, I thought to myself. There was a lightness in my stride as my shuffle expanded to accommodate a few 5:20 kilometres. I continued along the banks of the 'Melrose River' (actually a stormwater drain into which it flows). A small brown snake slithered from my path towards the trickling stream. I was happy to be running without pain – just the normal stress of a neglected cardiovascular system.
After covering 6 kilometres in 33:46, I was back home, very happy in the knowledge I had given myself the gift of a run. It very nearly didn't happen.