by Jenny Critchlow (Fri Aug 14, 2009)
Miles run/cycled/swam: ooh loads, I promise
Pennies in the swear jar: 458
Tears wept: 1986
Triathlon suits bought: 1
Amount of times triathlon suit tried on and admired in
mirror: 25
Amount of times Husband was asked to admire triathlon suit:
25
Arguments with Husband: 25
Panics: 5
It's been a month, a
whole month since I started training for this sprint triathlon and have I
moaned once? At all? No. Well not to you anyway - you'd probably stop reading me
and I do need to be loved. I deserve a medal just for my reticence, surely.
Anyway, this month was the one in which I became a bone fide
athlete. Seriously, a proper athlete complete with that qualifying badge: The Injury. Yes! I know! I had to applaud too. How
professional do I sound? I even got to say that immortal line ‘I'm out with an
injury.' I tried to find an agent to issue it as a statement for me but they're
a little thin on the ground in Warwickshire.*
It all started with sprint training. Now I don't know if you
knew this already but apparently in sprint training you're not allowed to jog.
No siree, you have to run really really fast and not stop when it hurts, not
even for ice creams. This was quite a shock as you can imagine - it was no walk
in the park, which is generally what I'm used to.
Anyway the upshot of sprint training was that my hip flexors
were a little tight the next day - only a little though. I'd had a cooling mint
choc chip cone to ease the inflammation on the way home.
It's about this point that I should mention that my
Favourite Shoe Shop In The World was having a sale. Not just any sale, a half price sale (are you salivating
too?), and there in the window, calling me as a siren onto the rocks of
bankruptcy, sat a luscious, pink, velvet, four inch heel pair of orgasms with
my name flashing in neon above them. They were made for me (or someone a size
larger but nothing a little cotton wool in the toe wouldn't solve), and I had
to have them.
Had to.
And so I made them mine, with promises of marriage, children
- hell even a life insurance policy if that's what it took.
I wore them that night to a girls' night out, pink and
glistening, basking in the gasps and admiration that only shoes of this
ethereal beauty warranted. It was, as they say a match made in heaven.
Until, until the third glass of wine, and a dropped credit
card, and a kneeling down to the floor to retrieve it, and a standing up, all in
one movement in four inch heels and with tight hip flexors.
The rip of muscle was heard across the room. A light but
cooling sweat broke out as everybody enquired whether the shoes were OK. They
were, but I wasn't. I hobbled to a seat and sat as soothing wine was
administered and somebody thoughtfully removed my shoes and tried to put them
in her handbag.
I awoke the next morning reborn an injured athlete, one
that was considering chiropractic treatment and some kind of relaxing massage.
I phoned the gym and explained my plight, ensuring along the way that my
trainer knew exactly how beautiful these shoes had been. What a shame. Training
and possibly the triathlon would have to be postponed. I was devastated as you
can imagine.
But apparently you can do all sorts of exercises that don't
use the hip flexors. Loads of them. And they all hurt. So I'm back on track,
biking the roads, ploughing up and down the pool and jogging the five km track.
But no sprints yet.
And I do have a fantastic
pair of shoes.
*Any prospective agents please feel free to get in touch
