Injury Blues

Last week I had the Post Ironman Blues, this week I just have the Injury Blues.
I foolishly decided to do a 10K and afterwards my back just exploded into spasm. I am now sitting at home with an ice pack on my lower back trying hard not to cough, sneeze or breathe to hard as everything hurts. It’s actually more comfortable to sleep on the floor than a bed, I should have known better.. I got through the Ironman on a wing and a prayer and was obviously inches away from a “DNF” instead of that I decided to ignore the ache and pains and drove on one of the worst roads in the country (not a single chance to overtake between Limavady and Strabane) to the Riversdale Leisure Centre for a High noon kick off.
I did my first K about 28 years ago. At that stage it was the limit of my ambition. A 10K is 6.2 miles. It’s the longest distance track race of the Olympics, the Commonwealth Games or the World Championships. It is 25 laps of the track, it is of course much more familiar as a road race distance. Every town should have one, it’s a classic distance. I was able to bluff a 5 mile race two years ago in 32 minutes, but a 10 K is a lot harder even though it ‘s only 1.2 miles longer. A 10 miler or half marathon might even be easier because your pace is a lot slower, but for a 10K you not only need endurance, but speed. Every second counts... The first time I did one I think I broke 50 mins. After a few years of consistent – and sensible training - I broke 40 mins. in Coleraine. I felt as good as Roger Bannister did when he broke 4 mins. for the mile. It was such a psychological as well as physical barrier.
A few years later after lots of three by 2000 metre laps at the trim trail outside Coleraine, I broke 36 mins. in Warrenpoint – admittedly the flattest course in the country! My Uncle and Aunt were over from New Zealand so I was obviously trying to show off! I then turned my attention to the 10 mile distance where the ultimate aim for a club runner is Sub 60. I had a 62, and then a 61 but never broke the magic barrier. My times then started to drift north, my training became less run specific and I forgot about the glorious pain and pleasure of track work outs and intervals.
There is nothing quite as painful as 400 metre repeats on a track, it is pure undisguised pain. We used to flog ourselves mercilessly at the cinder track on Rugby Avenue Coleraine every week. If you didn’t throw up after a training session you were damned close to it. The shower afterwards never felt as good.
Over the years I used various injuries – and the lack of a proper track in Limavady – to cut down on the interval work. Some guys, including Colin Loughery, have a 200 and 400 metre course marked out on the fairly quiet road up to the Radisson Hotel. There is no reason however why you can’t use any 400 metre stretch or loop. The Country Park is the best spot in the world to run but you need a circuit that brings you back near the start so you can have one minute of trying to suck air into your scorched lungs before you go again. It always helps if you train in a group. If people are of a different ability the you either give them different recovery periods or you make the faster guys go longer so that everyone starts – if not necessarily finishes – together. So about 10 years after my last serious track session I stood on the start line of the Strabane 10 K with about 200 others, some were runners, some obviously weren’t.
The race obviously incorporated a fun “walk” ( what’s ‘fun’ about spending two hours walking on busy roads is beyond me!). I jogged down to the start line with Karen Alexander of the Sperrin Club. Karen had won Round the Bridges in Limavady a few weeks before in 62 mins. She informed me that she had done the Newtownards Half Marathon the night before! Is it any wonder she felt tired? She said the 10K was too short for her. I felt that despite a years’ Ironman training in my legs the 10K was too long for me... Karen thought she would finish 4th - and she did. I bumped into the Jennings family on the start line. Two of them used to be members of the Triangle Triathlon Club. Sinead left Triathlon, took up rowing, became an International and made a World Championship final and just narrowly missed out on selection for the Olympics this year. Catriona, also a rower turned up – and won the race last Saturday. Hey, form is temporary, but class is permanent. It turns out they have got great genes – their father Billy cycled from Mallon to Mizen Head in under 24 hours – and you thought I was nuts!
Mind you, that ride is but a mere bagatelle compared to the legendary Race Across America. I caught an hour’s programme of it on Setanta the other night. This is a non-stop bike ride from the Pacific to the Atlantic. If you snooze you lose. If you sleep, you weep. The clock keeps on ticking. About 30 blokes set out from California and there were cut off times along the way. The English bloke the cameras were following hoped to break the British record but was gradually overcome with fatigue and injury. He changed his bike to a very low aero dynamic set up which only resulted him getting a very painful back, his neck then couldn’t support his head and the latter felt like following off his shoulders. His support crew built him this iron contraption that went over his back and raised his head up so that he could actually see the road. On and on he cycled, like the hunch back of Notre Dame, through state after state, from California, Utah, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Kentucky, West Virginia, the Appelachian mountains on the way to New Jersey, cross deserts, up mountains, over bridges etc. he just kept making cut off times and no more. His crew thought that he had blown his chance of making a final cut off time. If you don’t beat 12 days 8 hours then you are not an official finisher, can you imagine how that would feel? He had been averaging 11-12 miles an hour. He had 180 miles left to go and he had to average 16 miles an hour. His crew didn’t think it was possible, but the cyclist thought otherwise. He was obviously inspired by the same motto that Hannah Jack thought up a few weeks ago for her old man – How much have you got left to give? – Nothing – How much are you still prepared to give? – Everything – the cyclist made it with 5 mins. to spare in Atlantic City. Sleep deprived, at his wits end, completely shattered and looking like the Count of Monte Cristo in the Ironmask, his crew picked him up as he fell off his bike, threw him into the Atlantic for a very welcome dip in the briney. You don’t have to be mad to complete long distance events, but it obviously helps as the bloke is now back in training for another crack at the Race Across America UK Record..... rather him than me!
There were no thoughts of feats of derring do as I stood on the start line and enjoyed the nervous banter of my fellow athletes. Everyone was pawing the ground waiting for Gerry Lynch to say ”Go”. I tried to tell my body to start sensibly but the mind of course thought that it knew better. I went through the first 3K in 12-45 and then proceeded to die a very painful slow and lingering “Death”. My body had been used to the Ironman shuffle pace, i.e. slow, slower, and slowest. As the 10K unfolded all of my injuries came back to haunt me, my hip, my hamstring, but primarily my back. I thought of my Chiropractor Paula Gallan and my physio Greg Kearney and of all their hard work and of what was left of my body. Two discs were rubbing together and I had an L5 which was compressed and didn’t remotely look like – or function like – an L5 should. I was sending signals down to my legs, - the general message was to put one foot in front of the other, the left leg seemed fine but the right leg seemed to be in a world of it’s own. My brain sent down the message but it kept getting a “Does not compute” response. For the last 5K I was taking my right leg for draggies – it was a somewhat reluctant participant in the proceedings. I certainly couldn’t do the hokey cokey, “You put your right leg in, you put your right let out.... “ etc. Thinking of pain however reminded me of my two club mates Ronnie”The Kidd” and Paul “Fletch” Fletcher who were sitting in Frankfurt whilst I was in Strabane. They were 16 hours away from their date with destiny, - the Ironman. Ronnie had got over his injuries and Paul had managed to combine training with running the 55 Degrees North Restaurant in Portrush. It turned out that Ronnie had a dream day and achieved a 10 hours 3 mins. finish - while Paul didn’t achieve the time he deserved. Paul decided to adopt a very low aero dynamic set up on the bike (why does this sound eerily familiar?), got back ache and suffered like a dog on the 112 mile bike and the subsequent marathon for a 12hr 17 finish. Paul finished, sore but at least he finished and has earned an invitation to the hottest dinner ticket in town – The Triangle Triathlon Club Inaugural Ironman and 70.3 finishers night out! The club this year has William O’Kane, Simpson McGrath, Artie O’Kane, Ronnie, Paul, all finishing the Ironman (with hopefully Conal Heatley to join them after this weeks’ Forestman in England) and with Kay Hack safely at the table after winning her age group at Wimbleball a few weeks ago in the toughest 70.3 in Europe and with Annie P to follow in Monaco and big Adrian to still have a crack at Ironman Uk in September and with the club hosting the Half Ireman Race in Groomsport (with an entry of 250) and with plenty of TTC members hoping to achieve a finish or even a PB this could be a busy dinner table!
What is a 70.3? Well it’s the new sexy name for Half Ironman and comprises the total distance of the swim; the bike ride and the run i.e. a 1.2 mile swim, a 56 mile bike and a 13.1 mile run – in metric terms it’s 113 K but it doesn’t sound quite as good.
Having said that, the 226K Brand for the Ironman distance is alive and well and is thriving all over the world for those of you who want to complete an Ironman distance in an event not officially sanctioned by the World Triathlon Corporation. Anne Paul has decided that the athlete with the fastest time based on a very complicated mathematical formula including age and good looks etc. will receive a coveted and much desired and totally splendiferous first prize.... an iron!..
On this will be engraved a winner’s name and time. I’ll obviously remove the cord and plug in case a bloke wins it as we wouldn’t know what to do with one of these new fangled domestic objects....
There will be a lot of competition for this debut prize and I think it’s going to take a very special performance to prevent Ronnie the “Kidd” from taking home an iron to a very bemused Mrs Kidd....
Meanwhile back in the foothills of Co. Tryone, the organisers had very helpfully decided to insert a 200 metre climb at the 5K mark, by this stage I was having to apologise to female athletes I was passing in case they thought they were being approached by a heavy breather and my chest was thumping like a well beaten 12th July drum. I was trying to grab down air like a drowning man and my limbs were hopelessly uncoordinated. A few guys looked round at the noise of my dog tags flapping up and down on my chest. It maybe annoyed them but it gave me a sense of rhythm – ok a very slow rhythm, but a rhythm none the less.
Eventually the kilometre signs crept past albeit very slowly – 6K, 7K and 8K. We were now back in the town.
Columb Knowles, my Springwell colleague and I both desperately tried to fool the other by pretending we weren’t really knackered until CK told me to “Go for It”. If it’s possible to go for it at a pace that would have disgraced a tortoise, then I went for it. The distance between 8 & 9 K seemed liked 2K not 1K. Now there was only 1,000 metres of pain between me and the finish line. My mind told my body again to forget about everything that was aching and put my head down. I originally had wanted to break 50 mins. but now I thought I could break 45 – and did so with 23 secs. to spare. My legs immediately turned to jelly and I felt like throwing up, but a finish line was never as welcome. That was harder than the Ironman for some reason, my body instantly decided that it was “Pay Back Time” and my back started to throb like an alcoholics hang over. It was time for a shower, cup of tea and a well deserved brufen.
It got worse over the next two or three days and Paula told me that I wasn’t even allowed to indulge in that most gentle of non weight bearing exercise, swimming, she expects me to do nothing! Gadszoots! This will not be easy, dear reader, but I will try hard, honest, I will try, try and try again. In fact my mother says I am very trying....
My Chiropractor gave me the bad news that I had just done my last ever road race, but Paula, can I do my 10th and last Ironman, please, please, please?