fits and starts

About two months ago, just a few days after finishing the Oberelbe-Marathon for the third time, I went to Ethos, the Imperial sports center, to play football with some mates. They're from Portugal, Germany and a handful of other countries, depending on the day, and most know what they're doing. It's always good fun. That day was good fun as well, but it didn't end like it. I tackled an opponent with all my uncoordinated might, lunging at him from the depth of our half, from a distance that couldn't possibly be considered safe.

It wasn't safe. As I slammed into the winger and crushed him against the wall of the gym, I twisted my ankle more badly than ever before. The pain shot through my leg and into my brain in less than a second. A fell to the ground like a dead cow and landed on my face. My hands were clutching my ankle to no avail. Swelling set in within minutes and increased visibly while I hobbled off the field with a face contorted in agony. My ankle turned black. Somehow I made it back to the lab without fainting and continued working, but I had to keep my foot in the ice box. And once the adrenaline and endorphines had done their duty and been washed from my blood stream, a dismal misery set in that would keep me immobile and largely incapacitated for the better part of a week.

For the longest time the swelling didn't recede, but when I went to see a doctor the other day because I got increasingly convinced that I had ripped something important in the mechanics of the ankle, she didn't even touch my foot. One look and my description of the incident were enough for her to claim that everything just needed a bit more time but would be all right eventually. All right, she said, it would be unless I went back to playing football.

I don't fancy myself much on my footballing skills. I know that I'm fast, even at my advanced age, and that I can go after the ball with much heart. I'm not short of goals on an inspired day, but most of my tackles end in anger. My arms are flailing and my legs kick viciously but without much direction. I'm much better off on the sofa watching the sport than on the pitch playing it.

Watching it I've being doing copiously over the last three weeks, though I've strayed from my sofa. As I don't have a TV at home, I had to make my way to the pub, as far away as right across the street, to see the games of the World Cup. I've seen many games and I've drunk a lot of beer. It was a good time, especially with the breathtaking playing of black-red-gold, and sitting on a bar stool sipping tepid Doom Bar was exactly the right kind of activity for a severely handicapped guy that still trying to keep a connection with the world of sports.

On Saturday, Germany routed Argentina like no German team has ever routed any team of world renown, certainly not within the last twenty years. My painted face soaked with the sweat of competitive cheering but its proud colors still clearly visible, I sauntered home after the game, each step a bounce that nearly ejected me from terrestrial orbit. I was relishing my life as a passive athlete, winning every game and having a drink at the same time.

Good times are not made to last. Germany will play Spain on Wednesday, and no one will remember England or Argentina after that game. And I might not remember the days of blissful leisure much longer either. They already seem like a dreamworld. On Saturday, I received my good-for-age entry form for the 2011 London Marathon. Hundreds of thousands of bog-standard Sunday-afternoon racers vie for a number. Sometime in early May names can be entered in the entry lottery. When 120,000 requests have been received, the lottery closes. Every sixth is lucky and gets a spot in the following year's marathon. The unlucky ones can sign up with a charity and are required to raise significant funds, after making a substantial donation. I happened to be fast enough to meet the consideration criteria of the organizing committee, and got a number for nothing. It's 32383.

I am excited, I have to admit. The London Marathon is something special; there's not many like it in the world. 35,000 crazies undertake the 42 kilometers. A handful finishes in better than 2:10hr. They earn their living with their feet, and it's not a bad one either. There is no question of my finishing tenth, as I did in Dresden earlier this year. Triple digitis is probably a more realistic goal. But then I don't tend to set my goals according to the competition. My goal is always my own. It was so when I tried to break the three hours, and it will be next year.

Let's say, just for the sake of having a number out there, that I'll run the damn thing in under 2:50hr. That will be impossible without some serious training, and without some early-season benchmarks. (A 1:19 half marathon, anyone?) In contrast to the three years before, next year I'll start the season in the fall before. Good thing the swelling in my ankle has almost disappeared. It's time to dust off the trainers and take to the Thames path – after the World Cup.