The dreaded ‘i’ word: injured. It happened on Sunday after a steady 12-mile run. Post-run I had stopped for half an hour to talk, eat breakfast. As I began the jog home, I felt a sharp pain in my left hip, a place previously untouched by injury in my previous 29-and-a-bit years.
It felt better yesterday, so I ran last night: a track session, 10 x 500 metres. Bad idea. The hip hurt from the off, midway into the first repetition. I should have walked off the track there and then. I carried on, trying to distinguish discomfort from pain. This was definitely pain. But once I had started, I could not allow myself to stop. If I gave up, it meant I was injured. If I carried on – however grim the experience may be – I was not injured.
I got to the end. It was a terrible training session, each repetition slower than the next. I was obviously injured. The hip hurt all night, throbbing even as I lay in bed.
But it felt better tonight. Heard this before? So I went for a swim, a 1,500-metre effort at Brockwell Lido. It was not as disastrous as the track session, although towards the end I was dragging my left leg, scarcely kicking. The coldness of the water did not help. It was 21C, apparently. Yet the temperature took my breath away on the first length and I was shivering uncontrollably after the last. Now I will rest. Unless it feels better tomorrow.