They say with age comes wisdom. I say with age comes more creative ways to ignore perfectly good advice.
I’m 62 now, and recently found myself skating (badly) on the thin line between dedication and downright stupidity. It all started with that cold snap we had in early Jan – thick frost on the car, breath in the air, pavements glistening like an ice rink. We all predicted that Woking parkrun would be cancelled, but come Saturday morning, even though it was -7 degrees, it was on! My coach – who is both wise and endlessly patient – said, “Don’t run. It’s icy. Rest. Be smart.”
Naturally, I gave that advice due consideration… and promptly ignored it.
In my defence, the sun was out and the parkrun race director pointed out the ice patches during the briefing. So off I trotted, thinking I’d be fine. -7 does strange things to the mud in the woods. Well it doesn’t really, it is entirely predictable – the previously soft rutted mud was like corrugated iron with solid stalagmites waiting to trip the unwary. Second time through, I twisted my knee, already weakened by a fall at Brooklands a couple of weeks before. I felt it “go”, yes it definitely “went”.
Did I stop? Of course not. I carried on, limping through the final lap with that classic runner logic: “It only hurts when I bend it. So I just won’t bend it so much.”
The result? A knee the size of a grapefruit, and a sheepish message to my coach cancelling the following week’s session (and as it turned out, the whole of Feb). I expected and deserved a lecture. I got kindness. She didn’t say “I told you so” (though she was well within her rights). Instead, she gently picked up the pieces of my battered body and ego, created a rehab plan (lots of elliptical!) , and helped nurse me back to fitness with the sort of patience usually reserved for toddlers and sick puppies.
And yet… within a week, I was back at it. Not properly, you understand – just “gentle” shuffles to “test” my knee. Which, predictably, didn’t help. Because running is a glorious, addictive madness. It makes you ignore pain, reason, and highly qualified professionals.
But I’m learning – slowly, stubbornly, and with a lot of ibuprofen. My coach has the patience of a saint, and thanks to her, I’m back to running smart (or at least smarter). Maybe age does bring a bit of wisdom – eventually.
So here’s to the runners who mess up, the coaches who forgive us, and the knees that somehow keep going. We may not always get it right, but with the right people in our corner, we do get back on track.
And next winter, I’m avoiding the ice. Probably.
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