I, Sid Kane cordially invite you to a pity party. The chief meal for the evening is pity, with a touch of tears, to give it that extra tart flavour. And if that isn’t enough for you, I will also be serving up side dishes of anger, disappointment and self-loathing. And if you actually manage to stick around long enough for dessert, you might just get a huge heaping of insight.
On Monday, the 2nd May, I ran my second half-marathon for the year. It was also my second half- marathon for the week, completing it within 2 hours and 17 minutes – my personal best. And although I was completely elated by my performance, this was tinged by the fact that I’d somehow injured my right foot.
“It’s the ball of my right foot. It feels as if the bone is protruding right through the muscle and skin. I just want to cushion my foot in bubble wrap,” I complained.
Fast forward to today – six days after I’d injured my foot and completely convinced that all that resting I’d done had completely healed my foot. Wanting to test this belief, the genius that I am, decided to enter the Milkwood Race. Not the 10km distance but the 21.1km. Because I’m hardcore, or as Mad Phoenix would eloquently put it, “completely fucked in the head.”
Seven kilometres into the race and I wanted to bail out. But I didn’t. I persevered. I’d always been taught that persevering was good quality to possess.
By the time I’d reached the 15km mark my usually perky disposition had dissipated. My general mantra of, “Just lift your legs”, had been replaced by, “You stupid bitch. Why? Why do you have to push so hard? Now look, you’ve gone and injured yourself.”
With 3km left, I was feeling so vulnerable and depleted that I couldn’t help thinking, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Just close your eyes and … breathe. You’re almost.” Of course I wasn’t almost there. Three kilometres is an eternity when you’re injured. And every step was torturous and I couldn’t help wondering if I’d torn a muscle in my foot.
TO BE CONTINUED
That pic I promised. Told you I was one sexy mofo.