A pain in the arse

Darren Anderton - a man not unfamiliar with the misery of injury

Six months in and this running thing had been going well. I'd exceeded all my expectations when it came to speed, distance, stamina and how I performed in races. I was enjoying iy more than I thought I would, I wasn't useless and I was going fine at the club.

With a fortnight off from work coming up in July I sorted out my plans. I contacted a running club in Paisley to ask if it was OK to come along when I was in the area, which it was. I was planning to spend a few days in Edinburgh so looked at possible running routes in the capital. Parkruns - organised three-mile runs every Saturday morning - weren't available in Dumfries for adults, but there was one in Linwood I'd be able to do. Everything seemed fine.

And then it was all ruined by a massive pain in the arse.

This may have indirectly caused my pain

The weekend before my last working week ahead of the holidays I went for a run, then watched Andy Murray win Wimbledon for a second time. The following day I felt a weird pain in my backside I hadn't felt before. It wasn't that sore, just there, niggling away. I put it down to the way I'd been sitting watching the TV, which isn't the most sensible position, and didn't let it affect my plans.

I'd decided that week to go to the Tuesday running club session, rather than the Monday. I can't remember why - maybe the forecast was better, maybe it was more challenging - but, aside from a run in Ae Forest a few weeks earlier, it was due to be my first time at the more advanced night. Unfortunately, amidst reassurances it would be on despite there being a race in Moffat the same night, only two other folk turned up. After waiting for 10 minutes we all agreed to go home.

I should have taken this as a sign that I wasn't meant to run that week and I should go home and rest. But I didn't. And so, as I sat chortling away at Celtic's inability to beat Lincoln Red Imps, I brought forward my plans to meet someone for a pre-morning run the following day rather than Thursday as originally planned.

Imagine losing to a motorbike display team

The first few miles weren't too bad, but as we continued I could feel the pain getting worse. And worse. And worse. I could barely walk, let alone run, the last mile or so back to my flat. Standing talking to my neighbour for 10 minutes before I could get in for a shower didn't really help.

Work was a nightmare. Every time I tried to walk around the office I was in agony. I'd had the problem with my knees a few months earlier, but this was a whole new ballgame. The following day - the last before my holiday - it seemed the pain was easing. Whatever the problem was, it seemed to be loosening. I wasn't going to be running any time soon, but I foolishly thought this was a problem that would clear up in a week or so.

Wrong. Instead of my holiday being parkruns and lovely jogs along Edinburgh's canals, I was reduced to limping around, wolfing down ibuprofen and sitting on hot water bottles and ice packs in a bid to cure the problem. At the end of each day the pain would almost have vanished but come the morning it quickly returned. I'd go for a walk and think it was getting better but five minutes later the pain would be as bad as ever. The first day wandering around Edinburgh left me feeling raw - although saying I had a raw backside might get me some different blog visitors than usual...

A haggis supper. Perfect nutritional intake if you're an injured sportsperson

One of the main benefits of running was it meant I could eat what I want and not have to worry too much about putting on weight. That became a problem when I was injured - especially when I was on holiday and had more opportunities to eat than normal. The Edinburgh weekend was the biggest problem. A Chinese was followed by a haggis supper which was followed by a massive pizza. All on different days, I'm not that bad! With me eating more than normal and doing sod all exercise, I could feel the pounds piling on by the hour.

By the end of my fortnight off I hadn't run a single mile, although I'd done a fair bit of walking (which was probably why my injury wasn't healing). I was also getting pains elsewhere, leading my brother to compare me to injury-prone footballer Darren Anderton, who has the nickname Sicknote. I was dreading the return to work, not just for the usual reasons but because the first week in August always involves covering a farming show. For some reason, it's probably the job I hate most all year.

In the build-up to it, I'd felt my injury getting better - to the extent I almost thought about going back to running club before getting roped into a pub quiz team. In a bid to get to farmers and their animals, the show can involve a bit of running and climbing over the odd fence. The first time I did that I felt the pain in my backside come flooding back, and not because I'd been attacked by a cow.

Fortunately this did not happen to me

I was devastated. That evening, as I tried to sleep, I was close to tears as I came to the realisation I was possibly back to square one. I'd hoped to ease myself back running again that weekend with a parkrun but there was no chance now. I decided to seek professional help, something some people would say was long overdue.

I looked into going to a physio, then discovered it cost a small fortune. So I came up with a plan, which was either incredibly smart or incredibly stupid. I would go to running club, do the warm-up and if I felt bad I'd stop and arrange an appointment. If it felt OK I'd continue. If I was going to have to pay for treatment, I was going to get value for money by properly wrecking whatever muscle was causing me problems. Somewhere in my tiny brain, this made sense.

How my brain works

The time came. The warm-up arrived. I felt the pain get slightly worse, but decided I'd give it a go anyway and went for the four mile group to, ahem, ease myself back in. The pain didn't get too bad - always present but never unpleasantly so - and the physio could wait.

Over the week I tried to go back to my old routes and distances, gradually building it up rather than flying back in with long runs. Was the injury gone? No. Was it bearable? Yes. If I wasn't stupid, I could go running and I could manage the pain without any problems. To be honest, nearly six months on, the pain still isn't completely away - it just comes and goes and as long as I'm not stupid I can get away with it. I probably do still need to get some help but I'll wait until I properly wreck it again.

I was annoyed I'd had to sit out a month without running, especially as it was the summer and the weather was (in theory) better than in winter, when I'd started. However, there was no point looking back, it was time to look forward, to get back to proper running, to shift some of the weight I'd put on with all that haggis and ice cream and start targeting some races.