It feels like I’ve been injured forever. Days have turned into weeks have turned into months, and the light at the end of the tunnel is like the castle at the end of Windsor Half Marathon, or Kingston Bridge at the end of the Hampton Court swim. Someone* keeps moving it backwards.
But while the last three months have been a write off from a running point of view, they’ve been great for volunteering. I’ve volunteered at club races, parkruns, a half-marathon and an ultra or two, and I’ve had a ball. I’ve marshalled, given out tokens, called out times, recorded times, made tea, eaten chocolate, and whooped until I was hoarse. I’ve stood at the end of a parkrun, watching the runners coming in and marvelling at how some people make running a sub-20 5km look like an easy jog. I’ve celebrated as people have run PBs, watched the joy of a runner recording their first ever first finish and commiserated with hobbling runners wondering if their knee/calf/hip/Achilles will last just a little longer.
It’s kept me in touch with running and runners, has helped to distract me from all the races and inaugurals I’m missing and has even (thank you Ealing Half) added one more medal to my bannister of bling. But I am, quite frankly, itching for the day when I can ditch the hi-viz jacket, pin on a race number and go HARD!!!!! for a PB of my very own.
*Me. I’m not good at patient, and my recovery has been littered with bad decisions. A parkrun at the end of week one. A walk on the downs at the end of week 3. A speed-walked parkrun and two 20 mile cycles at the end of week 10. A return to running when the pain had subsided, rather than gone completely. What can I say? I’m a runner.