Su Gologone

My exile from running required some other channelling of energy and so when on holiday in Sardinia I rented a mountain bike for a day in a vaguely optimistic attenpt at countering the surfeit of consumed calories.  I had taken my road pedals and shoes but the island just doesn't seem set up for roadies; sure there were cyclists coming through the villages very early in the morning but the roads just didn't feel wide enough, and the stereotypical view of Italian drivers seemed justified.

So, taking advantage of the trail that left from the hotel, I headed up into the ancient hills above the hotel.  Granite outcrops poked out from the land and pushed the sky up, and the ground raised dust in little puffs.  The temperature was well into the 30's which forced most birds into shelter; their role in noise-making being replaced by crickets churring and buzzing like muted electric buzzers.  The land was locked into stillnes and even the wind seemed reluctant to upset the supremacy of the sun.

I pumped up the first climb, pleased to be out and using my legs, and my knee felt pretty good.  I have been cycling for longer than I have been running, and raced for long enough to feel immediately at home on any bike I sit on.  When running I find myself considering the natural urges to run and cling on to the nativist argument that we evolved to run, but this just can't apply to cycling.  There is something so deeply satisfying about pushing on the pedals with a resulting accelaration that far outstrips running, but it does depend on technology.

I took full advantage of this feeling by cruising and bouncing down the track at a speed slightly higher than my confort zone - I really am a rubbish mountain biker (although in my defence it was an unknown bike and I haven't ridden off-road for ages).  Wind streamed into my face and the front wheel bumped and jarred over rocks and dust with the odd random piece of tarmac thrown in to provide variety.

A quick stop to look at a cave that was home to people 5,000 years ago.  I left my bike on the track and crawled in to see if I could feel some buzz of historical connection.  The cave was pretty untouched despite having been excavated in the 1970's and fine green moss contrasted with the cool dust on the ground lending the space a cool calm.  I squatted there with the outside noises seemingly more distant than they really were - no spark or ghostly presence sadly, but a comforting space nonetheless.

Back on the bike and starting to build to a sweat now, the legs recognising deep action-memories.  I stomped harder and thundered through the heat; mountains rearing up on either side as I passed into the 'paleozoic valley of Lanaittu'.  Bare rocks offered no leafy coolness, and even the trees seemed too miserly to spread their branches.  Donkeys stood squashed into shady patches and gazed at me with their liquid eyes and the occasional lizard flicked across the track.  Dust was settling on my sweat and when I licked my lips there was a salty graininess that mirrored the rocks.  A quick in-flight swig from the bottle and I pounded on to the Nuraghe village at the head of the valley - remnants of an ancient civilisation nestled in a cave.

I didn't go in - no money for the entry fee and actually no desire to do so when there are tracks to be thumped along.  Ignoring the pathetic map I was using I just rode along a track until by great good luck I looped back and hit the trail to return to the hotel.  Returning raises the spirit, and linked with my increasing confidence on the 29er, I really started to pile on the speed.  The air was thick with dust and the hills seemed steeper than the outward journey.

A quick shimmy past the car park and up the vertiginous cobbles that led to the hotel entrance.  I parked the bike on the terrace by the bar and walked past the guests reclining in all their clean poshness with a gait that in my mind suggested a saddle-weary cowboy but in reality resembled a rather dirty dork struggling to stand upright.

Cycling - oh yes!  Who cares if the weather is so hot that all sensible people are in the bar or swimming pool?  Who cares if the combination of BaD Tri top and tatty barefoot shoes breaks sporty cultural codes?  Not me - the legs got to work, and the swimming pool afterwards was like diving into refrigerated liquid silver.

Weebles

You know those Indiana Jones- type films when they are crossing a rope bridge with the baddies catching up with them, and the baddies cut the rope? The bridge starts to disintegrate and the slats of wood fall away one by one into the chasm; the roaring river below waiting to swallow up anyone who falls. Every time the hero thinks they have a firm footing it suddenly gives way and they scramble along with us sitting, hearts in mouths, thinking they can't possibly make it.

I went to a Kung Fu class once and my instructor asked me if I would mind helping him practice for his black belt; he wanted to practice his knife drills and needed someone to attack him. I was happy to do this and spent the next two hours repeatedly threatening him with a plastic knife; each time he used a different technique to kick, punch or generally hurl me to the ground and deal me a death blow. After each mauling I would get up, pick up the plastic knife, and square up for the next futile attack.  Down I went, punch, roll over, get up and repeat.

My running in the last few years has felt like this; recover from injury, nearly get back to form then something else happens to stop me running- another slat drops away from under my feet. In the last year alone I have sprained my ankle twice, continued with treatment for tendinopathy, had a sore knee caused by tight quads, had problems with every element of work that took up too much of my time, and found myself thrown into the role of primary carer for a sick partner.

So what now?

A torn meniscus. I can't run at all; in fact today I can barely walk.  The unfairness of this is many- layered. I look after myself, I stretch daily and carry out strengthening exercises as well. I always use the stairs at work to get up six floors to the office. I attend a yoga class once a week, so my muscles and joints are well looked after. I eat very well and am highly motivated and passionate about getting out running.  I don't push myself too hard and have read enough books to know how to construct a sensible training regime.  I have been running competitively for 30 years, so have surely built up some durability. However, I have managed only one race this year, and only two last year despite some pretty regular running.
I am now faced with weeks, probably months of no running; another race entry fee down the drain, and another year closer to not being able to compete at all. The whole thing is deeply dispiriting and feels very unfair considering the amount of time and effort I invest in running.  Not to mention that for me running is a perfect release for all the stresses of a challenging job and a seriously ill partner; the one thing I have always depended on has let me down again. I need to exercise but can't.
Surely one of the wooden slats is going to be the final one to give way and I no longer have the spirit to leap onto another one. I can't just keep getting up from an attack only to be floored again, and again and again. There will be a point when I just roll over.

So, how do I get up from this latest attack? Should I ask myself if my body is telling me something?  Be unhealthy like most people? Pull myself together?

So, trying to maintain some optimism and clutching at straws rather than bits of bridge, I have been told yoga is ok if I don't sit cross legged, and cycling is fine.  Cycling, my old fail-safe.

In the absence of any running it is on with the Lycra and out with the triathlon club. So the next blog entries will be cycling ones in the same vein as previous entries, and we will see what happens.