unironedman

“Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.”

Anthem
Leonard Cohen

Despite the rather ominous look of this picture, the overall outlook is more amber-to-green, rather than red. It’s just that the traffic lights they installed at the top of the Avenue where we often walk the dogs are triggered by a pressure pad, and as the park entrance is closed at 6pm currently (and yesterday evening, when I took this picture, I had locked the barrier myself, as one of two households on the Lane who are key-holders that lock up each night), the top set of lights default to red. That’s all a bit convoluted. In other words, from that angle, I couldn’t have taken a photo of them on green. Are you still with me? Let’s push on…

The light analogies shall continue until morale improves.

So, there is finally some light at the end of the tunnel. It’s been seven weeks since I tossed myself unceremoniously off my own roof, landing in a heap on the path below. A full day in the emergency department followed, which in itself is where I believe someone coined the phrase ‘insult to injury’. There were casts, back braces, pain and discomfort, pissing into cardboard bottles, and many x-rays and scans. Whilst I wasn’t doing any running, I certainly got my steps in traipsing up and down from the Outpatients Department in the last few weeks to get the x-rays done.

And how great that service is. All part of the national health service. All paid for through central taxation. Long may it last.

And so today, I was officially discharged from the orthopaedic folk and into the loving arms of the physios. Or ‘physio-terrorists’, as my Dad was fond of calling them. The lady who looked after me was also a runner, and after a few gentle stretches, she had me doing some squats and lunges. I broached the whole running thing, and after a chat about what I had been doing previously, she assured me I could start back doing short stuff in a month or so. There was a brief pause after she said this, and she asked me if that was okay. I replied that, seven weeks ago, there was a moment there where I wasn’t sure if I would walk again, so yes, this was more than okay. Indeed, I could feel an emotional wave threatening to well up and break from my poor, abused torso, so I moved on, before I became a blubbering eejit.

I have various exercises to do, and will return in three weeks. And here’s a free tip from the wellspring of knowledge that informs everything we do here at unironedman, inc.: if you are given something to do by your physio, do it. Do it all. Religiously. Don’t go back in several weeks time, sheepishly mumbling that you have ‘done a bit’, but that it’s been ‘really busy’ or some other bullshit.

No. Do the exercises. That’s how we get better.

My wrist is still rather stiff and a little sore. But that was put through its paces too, and there a number of exercises to do in order to free it up. I have just tried playing the guitar, and that is still rather uncomfortable. But according to my physio (whose husband also plays guitar), playing – or attempting to, anyway – is also good exercise. In moderation.

So there is a bit to go yet on this journey, but there is also some light, finally. The cast is gone, and the back brace can be dispensed with unless I really feel like wearing it. Which is unlikely. The fifty-five plus rotations around the sun have given me a little wisdom, and perhaps all that long-distance running has helped too, with perseverance. And being poor at quitting. There’s many a slip ‘twixt cup and lip was another of my Dad’s favourite maxims. So I will sit tight and bide my time. I can help the healing process along, but I can also hinder it, or possibly even reverse it, if I push too hard. So patience is the order of the day.

After all, I’ve been a patient for seven weeks now! (Get out! Ed)

Of course, while I’ve been recuperating, the great world keeps spinning. Life goes on. And even for crocks like me, there have been other adventures.

On Friday, my good mate and running partner Mark picked me up and we drove into town to a gig. He has a relation who works in the entertainment industry, and occasionally gets freebies. And so tonight, I was going on a serious trip down memory lane, courtesy of Uriah Heep, Saxon and Judas Priest at the Three Arena.

For the record (record! Geddit?) (Shut up! Ed), I wasn’t much of a Judas Priest fan growing up, nor were Uriah Heep really on my radar. But I did have a grá for Saxon, and had seen them perform live a few times in a rather seedy venue called the SFX in Dublin’s north inner-city. Truth be told, neither Mark nor I knew Saxon were the middle act until Uriah Heep’s backdrop fell to the stage after their performance to reveal Saxon’s familiar artwork; a logo I would have emblazoned on a jacket in my youth, and on various school copybooks, no doubt.

As is the case with the other two bands, very few of the original line-ups of these acts were on stage that night. Indeed, while the current Saxon line-up has been around for longer than most modern bands, only the singer, Biff Byford, was in the original band that formed in Barnsley, Yorkshire in 1975. And boy, can he still sing! Which is impressive, not least considering he’s 73 and he’s been belting out serious heavy metal for nearly fifty years. Here’s a song from the evening.

As with many of these time-traveling experiences, you can have as much fun people-watching as you can watching the bands perform. Of course, you must accept, as you gaze with wonder over a sea of balding, old rockers, that you fit in perfectly. Though I wasn’t wearing my denim jacket, which I somewhat regret now. Not that I actually know where my denim jacket is… it may be in the house somewhere, or I may have given it to Dallan. What I can say for sure is that the first one I ever owned hasn’t fitted me for decades. I would have got it in my early teens, and decorated it with logos of my favourite bands; Led Zep, Motorhead, Iron Maiden and AC/DC.

As I grew out of it, I extended its lifespan by cutting off the sleeves. But in the end, I had to let go. I had two after that, and I know Dallan has one; that one I decorated with Gandalf and couple of hobbits from Lord of the Rings. The last one has a very elaborate oil painting on the back which took weeks to do. I must root it out.

Judas Priest were good too, though as I say, they weren’t one of my regulars. But they have been on the road fifty years now, so credit where it’s due. They can still bang out a tune.

And the following day, we had the finale of the Six Nations rugby. Ireland clinched the title, even though the game wasn’t the greatest spectacle. That honour went, fittingly, to the last game of the tournament, where England and France went at it like two manic boxers looking for a knock-out. In the end, France clinched it with a penalty kick near the death, but it was a close match, and good to see England back playing some rugby again after a period in the wilderness.

On Sunday, I popped up to the parade to see the lads from the station doing their thing. Since Leixlip has had its own St. Patrick’s Day parade, the fire service have always taken part. I managed to cadge a lift in one of the jeeps on the way back through the village, so I inadvertently was part of the event once more.

The excitement didn’t end there! Although my home team of Leicester were cruelly dumped out of the FA Cup by Chelsea following an incredibly dubious red card (!), my back-up team of Manchester United pulled off the most stunning victory over the old foe, Liverpool, to advance to the semi-finals, where they will play surprise package, Coventry.

And yesterday, to top off an action-packed weekend, Saoirse and I, along with our friend Carolyn, paid a visit to the Hill of Tara. It’s a regular haunt for us, but it was Carolyn’s first time. We circumnavigated the central raths on the outer perimeter, which is how I would recommend visitors to take it all in.

We also did our penance in the gift and coffee shop afterwards. Saoirse and I have been going to Tara since we were kids. The original ‘visitor centre’ was nothing more than a shed, really, and the owners fought a long-running battle with the local authority to allow them plumb in toilets and running water. The café gradually expanded, and along with it, the inevitable gift shop. As shops go, given its location, it has more than its fair share of godawful paddywhackery and ‘Celtic’-inspired nonsense. But there are a few nice trinkets there to catch the eye, and as it was very busy, it gave us a chance to while away some time before we could get a table in the café.

All of which brings us both to the end of the weekend, and the end of this tedious blog post, and back to matters in hand. The healing has well and truly begun. I fervently hope, dear reader, that it won’t be too long before this tiny and inconsequential corner of the internet starts to deliver again on its promise of… actually, I’m not really sure I promised anything in particular… but at least I can start to write about running again, and those sorts of things.

And speaking of internet nonsense…

And speaking of legendary runners, a huge shout out to Camille Herron. Read all about her here. Camille set all sorts of ultra-running world records last week. There are so many, it would take too long to list them all. She is married to Conor Holt, an Irish 5k champion and part of the Junior World Cross Country team for Ireland back in the day. I mention this because, of course, Camille is a legend and set all those world records last week AND drank cans of Guinness Zero whilst doing so. And she follows me on Twitter, so there.

And now, a pony (and a smaller pony)…