A stop-start 2013 has stopped again. I have sprained the right ankle of a troublesome right leg. A physiotherapist delivered the verdict. He looked at me in horror when I told him I would probably be running if I was not seeing him – 72 hours after the twist. It is a second degree sprain, he said. After going over on the ankle in mile 6 of a trail half-marathon that I subsequently finished, the joint swelled to impressive, bulbous proportions. Following the inevitable feeling-sorry-for-myself stage, I now feel fortunate. I have rolled my ankle numerous times when running on my own in the fells or mountains, and once memorably in the Rough Bounds of Knoydart. I was, in hindsight, extraordinarily vulnerable; a twisted ankle there would be potentially disastrous. For the worst ankle roll of my running life to happen in the sanitised environment of a marshalled race is, therefore, a stroke of luck.
I do not know when I will run again. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe not for a fortnight. The fluctuations of 2013 convince me that I should perhaps err on the side of caution.