If you had asked me two years ago to give an example of a sports injury, I would have said a black eye from a secret punch administered in the scrum. Little did I know that these injuries are self-inflicted.
A very late convert to club running, I was keen to try a variety of events. It was on a club training night, running around the local industrial estate, that I witnessed the phenomenon. For no apparent reason, a runner suddenly pulled up, like a lame horse, and sank to the kerb. There was an outpouring of sympathy as he hobbled off.
“I’m surprised you never get injured.” said Paul, although I remained convinced that it would never happen to me, despite the periodic disappearances of my newfound pals.
The first warning sign was a sudden twinge towards the end of a cold Sunday morning run through the woods. We needed to cross a main road. The preceding six miles had been most enjoyable, but then I committed the rookie error of stopping dead, rather than jogging on the spot. No running for two weeks.
The next lesson to learn was that if you are in any doubt, just don’t do it. The local Parkrun course had become very muddy indeed. I had seen people face down in the quagmire and had slipped a few times myself. It became a bit of a strain on the knees and so one of them gave out. Two months out and a few physio sessions have got me back on my feet.
A wiser and warier Frank steps forward.