The Lament of Achilles
When I was very young, just an infant really, my mother dipped me in the shuddering waters of the River Styx. Holding me by my heels she submerged me in the inky flow to ensure I was invulnerable.
And — in fairness to her — it almost worked. Almost. But those heels, the only area not to be dipped, would inevitably become my weakness.
Okay. Not quite. I may have appropriated Achilles’ story a little. But I have a surprising degree of empathy for the lad at the moment. We both found ourselves engaged in quests of epic proportions. He took his ships to Troy, I took my S/Labs to Troutbeck. And both of us were let down by our weak spot.
All of this to say, I hurt my heels.
“Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier;
-Homer, The Illiad
I have seen worse sights than this.”
One day I’m flying. Averaging 100km a week and straining at the leash to go further. Double sessions most week days. Plenty of vert at weekends. Going strong, I turned up in Troutbeck for a spontaneous ultra.
In fairness, before last summer the words ‘spontaneous ultra’ weren’t really part of my lexicon. But they’re a bit more embedded now. A nine and a half hour slog over the mountains felt a great way to end a training block.
As I guided myself over the last two Wainwrights of the day, by the beam of my head torch, I had the feeling that I was getting a blister on my heel.
I finished up, stretched a bit, dropped into the driving seat and felt tired but triumphant. 112km for the week and a steady pace all day that I could have maintained for hours longer.
I didn’t have reason to think about my heels again until the next morning when I tried to pop on some Chelsea boots and couldn’t walk. Any pressure on either heel felt acutely painful. I couldn’t wear shoes to drive. I could just about cope with a well padded pair to stand up and limp from the car to church.
As the other Homer said, “d’oh”.
“D’oh”
Homer Simpson
And so the last three weeks have been a whirl of ice, ibuprofen (not constantly, I know the craic) and reduced running. It’s included a recce of leg one and a mixed bag of local running, from a pain free twenty miles in the valley to pausing to let the pain pass one day plodding the streets.
I’ve decreased volume, rested for a five day spell and then started back up with 48 hour gaps between runs. Doubling up sessions is on hold. I’ve even done the unthinkable for an ultra runner and listened to advice (thanks, Endurance Academy).
It’s not getting any worse, in fact it seems under control and improving slowly. I’ve learned which shoes I can run in pain free and which ones put pressure on the wrong part of the heel – it seems to be the bursa rather than the tendon. I spend most of my running in half-wrecked two year old Sense Rides because they’re comfy and the heel is soft.
So the tight rope begins of increasing my mileage again while doing what I can to try and encourage full recovery. My base fitness is good, so I’m more worried about staying injury free so I can get lots of elevation in during March and April.
With 95 days to go, I just hope I get the balance right. I’ve not reached the end of the Iliad, but things worked out great for Achilles, right? Right?