unironedman

My recent injury is giving me a taste of old age. Since my tumble off my roof and subsequent convalescence, I have had to rethink a few basics. And other things were completely out of the picture. The obvious items that were struck off the list included work, music and running. With a fractured L1 vertebra and my left wrist in a cast, I certainly had to stop the renovations in my mother’s garden. I would have, given the choice, broken my right scaphoid, and in that way still have been able to play the guitar, after a fashion. But I didn’t have enough time to think that one through. Indeed, I am still surprised I broke my wrist, but can only assume it was my body’s instinctive reaction in attempting to break my fall. I distinctly remember landing heavily on my back, followed immediately by thumping my head off the ground. With a little time and clarity since the fall, I have also realised that I did not in fact bang my head off the rockery. And this is a good thing. Because, dear reader, I doubt I would be here to tell the tale. That foot-high stone wall would have snapped my neck like a hangman’s noose. Sobering thought.

And of course, running is simply impossible.

And so, many things I took for granted in my daily life have ground to a halt. The running calendar was hastily reworked. That didn’t take too long. Cancelled was my 100 mile challenge fundraiser during February, and then I had to defer my Connemara Ultra, scheduled for April, ’til next year. After that, there were no solid plans, other than some form of long distance adventure in Mayo in Summer. And I am not making any decision on that until I see how the body is when I am free of the back brace and cast. And I am under no illusion that I will be straight back out there when the limbs are free from their shackles. There will be some physio to do. And I hope to be able to get into the pool to ease the legs back into action.

The running events calendar around these parts usually starts with the Donadea 50k national championship. This took place yesterday, and huge congrats to a local mate, Tom Lundy, who debuted with an impressive 4.16 time. I have only done this run twice and had no plans this year to take it on again. But no doubt as these races come and go over the next few months, each will be a gloomy reminder that I am not going to be taking part in any of them. I suppose if one had have an injury, then the end of January mightn’t be the worst time…

So my world, given that I am no use for dog walking or shopping, or anything involving physical activity, has shrunk down to the size of my house and garden. I can mooch about and do bits and bobs, but it’s been quite the revelation to see how much is off-limits or tiresomely time-consuming when you have one working hand and a back that is not allowed to bend. (I’m even started to reminisce fondly about those cardboard bottles they give you in hospital).

I pride myself on putting on my socks in the morning in the standing position. No chance of that now. Indeed, the couple of times I have needed to put socks on, I needed someone to do it for me. Ditto shoes. Mostly, I shuffle about in slippers. Let me zip up this fleece… ho, ho! Not without opposable thumbs, you won’t. You’d be forgiven for thinking that at least one decent hand would allow you to accomplish this simple task. Not so.

This hard-earned evolutionary advantage has been, I admit, rather under-appreciated by me up ’til now. And look, it is around this time in the telling of the tale where the protagonist usually swears that they will mend their ways and learn some invaluable life lesson from whatever beset them in the first place. In the general scheme of things, my tribulations are tiny, notwithstanding that they could have been so much worse.

But the truth is, once your own personal foxhole has been negotiated and you’ve made your pacts with your chosen deity and emerged out the other side, you tend to forget those deals, in much the same way as I plan on forgetting (for as long as possible) that I had to be helped into my shoes and socks. And that is as it should be. And how the human condition works. For I suspect it is as important a part of human evolution as the opposable thumb: the ability to pass through a crisis, and move on if one should survive, without carrying too many scars, or dwelling on the negative.

And while I’m here, check out the Harvard longitudinal study on happiness. There have been other studies which show that despite all the evidence to the contrary, humans are, on the whole, happier than they should be, given what faces many of us on a daily basis. Or, to put a more prosaic slant on it, things tend to be a bit more shit than you expect them to be. But I prefer the Harvard one, which rather proves the last point, I suppose…

(if you can’t be arsed to read it, then it suggests that positive, long-term relationships are the key to happiness. It seems reasonable to me. I would add in Monty Python’s observations from The Meaning of Life: ‘Uh, try and be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book every now and then, get some walking in, and try and live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations.’)

Pottering about the house should, in theory, allow me to catch up on a few bits and bobs that I generally put on the long finger. I read Dean Karnazes’ book The Road to Sparta, which is classic Dean (this means nothing if you haven’t read any of his books, I suppose) in a day or two. Possibly about the same number of hours it took him to complete the run (oops, spoiler alert!). Dean’s prose can be excessively florid at times, and in this book, he has taken a number of liberties. But it’s eminently readable and carries you along nicely to the end. One thing you can take away from this (and it could be a pub quiz question, so pay attention) is that the professional runner/messenger that was the hemerodromos Pheidippides most probably did a hell of a lot more miles than the fabled 25 or so miles from Marathon to Athens. His first task was to head to Sparta and ask for help against the impending Persian invasion. Roughly-speaking, about 150 miles across the rough, mountainous terrain. Once there, he then had to return to Athens with their response. Then he was off to Marathon for the actual battle, and then the final leg back to Athens to pass on the famous ‘rejoice, we conquer’ line. Allegedly. (We do know it gave birth to the Nike brand).

The upshot of all this running about is that he would have had to cover about 350 miles all told over a few days (along with possibly fighting in the battle itself). But we cannot be sure. What we can say is that the marathon distance is not the thing that did for him in the end. For a hemerodromos like Pheidippides, 25 miles would have been a handy stroll.

In other exciting news, I have been doing a large jigsaw. And I also discovered that I had forgotten how to do long division on paper. These are heady times, people.

Finally, congrats also to my neighbour Senan Kelly who won his most recent professional bout in Dublin to claim the BUI Light Welterweight title in Dublin.

Anyway, I’m off to drink a large glass of sump oil… sorry, I mean prune juice. It’s a symptom of my forced rest that my body is not as regular as it usually is. And another reminder of what awaits me down the line. Oh, the joy!

Last but certainly not least, I want to say thanks to my long-suffering wife, Saoirse. Normally, it’s a matter of putting up with silliness like marathon runs that gobble up time and render me useless for a day or two around the house. This is an altogether different level of stupid, and for that, I apologise. Love you. x