Make yourself a cuppa and slap an extra jammy dodger on the saucer, because this is a long one...
So, the nominees for the most overly discussed issues, without adding value, are....
1) Brexit
2) My knee
And the winner is...
I'm going to turn this into a drinking game. Everytime I mention my knee I'll take a glug of...well, it'll have to be coffee because I'm in the office. Seeing as I've already done it, I'll start now. Whooooo Afafafafafa. I'll give it a couple of minutes to cool down I think.
So, last time I wrote that I hopped gleefully out of bed at the first chime of my alarm clock...those were the days. This morning I rolled, teetered for a moment at the edge of the bed and then went down with a dull thud and a belated groan. Last time I wrote that I danced all the way to the clean pants drawer, imagining myself twirling a cane and daubed in glittery attire...aahhh, the nostalgia. This morning, I belly crawled across the carpet using fingernails and teeth and a couple of swear words thrown in for good measure.
Last night hit me like a rocket-propelled shovel.
For 10 days, I resembled road kill that had been ungraciously peeled from the gutter and glooped on the injury couch. Fate had tattered my dreams like a goat in a rose garden. My life changing, career ending injury (self diagnosis) had crudely painted a moustache on my Mona Lisa. Things looked bleak, these were desperate times, the black, thunderous clouds were banked up in the skies in all directions.
But then a soft, angelic voice glode through the mire. It was my wife telling me to get my arse up and sort out the bloody washing. I knew what she meant though. She meant, "Don't worry my darling, even the bravest of warriors may fall. Find your inner courage and rise forth from this bedevilled predicament. You will be in my heart unto the end. Find your strength through me." But then she spoilt it a bit by emptying the laundry basket on me.
Monday morning, I woke up chirping and my knee (drinking gaaaammme *slurp*) felt like it'd miraculously healed so I prepared myself for running yesterday. I decided to continue week 4 (run 2) and greased myself sufficiently to wrestle the lycra on. I like the base layers, they keep everything where it's supposed to be. Stop the pendulum swinging, so to speak.
By which I mean my belly. Obviously.
I've been trying to dissect where I went wrong and came to the conclusion that I hadn't warmed my legs up enough before my last run, so I've been looking into dynamic warm-ups.
I can tell you with complete and utter conviction that these things are not warm-ups. Not unless you want to warm yourself up like Icarus. They are a bloody, full blown work-out in their own right. My legs were like stirred jelly before I even got out the front door.
I started off with 5 minutes on my crappy fold-away, QVC-special cross-trainer that feels about as stable as a three-legged horse. I felt like a dog who's been couped up for a week and someone had just left the backdoor open. Over zealous is an understatement. I had to tell myself to slow down every ten seconds.
Then...what did I go onto next? *drums fingers on desk* Ah, 'controlled leg swings'. Those things come straight out of hell. At first I was holding on to the door frame for stability, but ended up hanging on for dear life. I did fifteen reps straight-on with both legs, that was pretty non-eventful, but then I went side-on, swinging my leg across my body, holding it at the extreme and then going back the other way. Again, fifteen swings per peg. My groins were in shock, like I've just killed their puppy right in front of them.
Then it was onto lunges. Fifteen on each leg. I'm looking at the guy in the pictures, thinking if he had this extra ten-kilos strapped round his midriff, he wouldn't still be looking so clean-cut after the first ten reps. I would've made a tomato look ashen.
Last up was pelvic thrusts. These were fun for the first three. My wife walked in on me halfway through and asked what I was doing. Like I bloody knew.
So now I'm fully warm (like I've been in the oven for a fortnight) and head to the door like I'm walking on a rocky ship. After the brisk walk, MJ gave me the nod to let loose and it felt like someone had swapped my undies for a tourniquet. There seemed to be a two-second delay between my brain looking at my legs and shouting "move!" and my legs wiping away the tears and blubbing, "o...kay..." Saying that though, when the first three minutes were up, I was surprised and almost perplexed to have to slow down. I felt a bit embarassed after all that fuss getting the big fellas pumping and then having to tell them to wind it in.
Throughout the first run, I'm instructing myself to slow down. I'm pointing accusationally downwards at my lower half like it's a dog who's just torn up a pair of shoes, saying, "No! Too fast!" But I just cannot get the hang of going slow. I seem to only be able to slow myself down by tensing up, like driving with the brakes on, and I start inadvertently hammering my heels down like a string-puppet dancing. So I concentrate on a smooth footplant that transits gently from heel-to-toe and this speeds me up. I watch my shadow bobbing about like I've strapped on a pair of pogo sticks, so I swing my arms to get more of a fluid motion and this speeds me up even more.
During the walking interval, I saw a fellow runner (yeah, I'm a runner like Boris Johnson is a fashion icon) doing some weird high-knee thing and some heel-butt slapping. The first one is where you put your hands out flat about chest height and lift your knees up to touch them in stride and the second is where you flex your leg such that your heel gives you a saucy German spanking. I thought to myself, this guy clearly knows what he's doing, I should probably give it a shot.
StOiOiOiOnG!!!!
Nope. Best not. Carrying on.
Into the five minute run and I was building up my confidence. I was really happy with my chest-stamina. Although my knee (*slurp*) seems to have the inherent strength of a cheap bin liner (false economy those things are) I feel like all this exercise is helping develop my aerobic fitness. Who would've thought? Even after a slight smoking relapse, which I'm deeply ashamed of. Now, this part of my circuit brings me down Pervert's Pass which I've named due to sheer number of houses that are net curtain-less and have their lights on. It's my favourite bit. I can't help myself, gawping into people's living rooms as I tumble along in my sweat haze. Ooop, she's having her dinner on her lap...bloody hell, he's in his jim-jams early. Ulgh, put a vest on Malcom. Your unfettered man-boobs are like two hairy trifles sliding down the wall at different speeds. Honestly, it's all the motivation I need to get out there.
After my almost-disappointment that the three-minuter ended so soon, I was puffing away thinking, 'Bloody hell, MJ. Check your watch, mate" when he pipes up that I'm halfway through. Halfway? I left the house at 7pm and it's almost dawn! The last thirty seconds was like a controlled forward-fall getting rebounded by legs. Especially that second five minute run. I fell for the exact same thing twice, thinking I'm almost done and getting told I'm two-and-a-half-minutes short. Einstein must've been jogging when he came up with his theory that time is relative.
But I pushed through, and the moment that I got permission to walk is right up there with my daughter being placed in my arms for the first time.
The five minute cool-down walk was like striding on coiled springs. When MJ chimed in for the last time, I hit the stop button on Strava (I include the warm up and warm down walks for some reason. I'm only doing it now for continuity) and found out that all my efforts of going slowly were about as effective as a diet coke with your McDonald's. I did my 2nd fastest 1 mile (10:02 - which includes walking), my 2nd fastest 2 miles (20:43 - which also includes walking) and an average pace of 7:03/km (which also includes walking). I did 4.3km with a moving time of 30:39 (which also includes walking) and I'm now bored with writing 'which also includes walking'.
Being a bloke, I saw it and was imediately impressed. Then I remembered being crocked for a week. My wife has had enough of being dragged into my running antics (as I'm sure you have), otherwise I would've sent her an advanced screenshot as I'm hobbling to the front door.
I went out in base layer (lycra) long sleeved top and trousers with shorts over the top (for the good of the general public), plus a running jacket, hat and snood. I think I over-layered. For the first time in this programme, my face was burning. Like a rancher mistook my crumbling visard for the back end of a Steer and branded me on both cheeks. I stripped off and got on with my stretches, laid out on my back trying to get right into the glutes with my two-year-old quite helpfully sat on my forehead, picking my nose.
Later on, I tucked myself in bed, slept like a corpse, alarm went off at 5am, swung my left leg out of bed and put some pressure on it and...
ARGGGH!!!!!!
My bloody knee is crocked again.
*Slurp*
Yeah, you might have been a touch over-enthusiastic with the warm-ups! Whoah boy! 
Iliotobial band 😪 - advice please
Weird one!! 
Brisk walk = niggly knee????
W9R1 This morning. And do you know what? I actually enjoyed it!
