willing it

The season started well. I've mentioned it before. I'm not gonna bore you with heroics, but I did my share of training in January and February and I could feel it. The Roding Valley half marathon marked the end of the first half of the preparation for London. I struggled mentally in a strong field but finished with a new personal best – and a surge (wind to 6:25, and you'll see). I was buoyantly optimistic at this point.

Things turned sour shortly thereafter. Three weeks ago, I sprained my ankle badly doing nothing more than walk through a genteel borough of northern London. A dint in the pavement twisted my foot underneath me and took me out for almost a week. One weekend of no training – no big deal maybe overall. When I had sufficiently recovered I went for a long one by the Thames. After two hours, my knee started pinching and I hobbling. I tried a recovery run the day after, but couldn't do more than slow intervals interspersed with breaks spent massaging my knee in the hope of dulling the pain.

I took it easy the week after that, going out for very controlled lunchtime runs only. My knee didn't seem to mind and I grew great hopes for the weekend, last weekend. On Saturday morning I woke up with a throat as if the Libyan civil war were taking place in there, heat, dryness and all. I had to decant a small bottle of fish oil into my pipes before I could swallow again. (It's always the oil, by the way.) My memory is dim but I recall that the sore throat quickly developed into a full-fledged cold, with a congested nose, puffy eyes, a dry cough and hardly enough energy to breathe. The weekend passed my by. I didn't go outside.

Three immobile weekends in a row are not the best preparation for anything unless the competition is for couch potato of the year. As I'm also not in town and my trainers this coming weekend, drastic measures needed to be taken. Yesterday, I was still a wreck, but today I could feel the cold on the wane. My fortune cookie said, Make it or break it, my colleague advised to drive the bastard out, and I went back to the park this evening – against better judgment and any sort of common sense.

The first lap was a hard: slow progress, lack of hydration despite gallons of water over the last few days, mucus – I'll spare you the details. For all the suffering, I knew one lap wouldn't do, and that's where it gets interesting. As I soldiered past the Albert Memorial to start the second lap, I could feel my body change. I picked up speed, breathed more freely, felt better. In the battle between me and my body, a winner was being declared.

I have my work lined up for this week, two big laps tomorrow night and three on Thursday, and then a recovery run on Friday before I head out to the airport. But even if things won't go fully according to plan, I'll rest assured in the knowledge that I can will myself into a decent run if I really have to. And if nothing more, London will be a decent run.