Touch Me, I'm Sick

Touch Me I'm Sick

Hello again!

Maybe as a consequence of running the race last week, I've been feeling a bit achy all over. It could just be me getting old, of course, but I've been waking up in the mornings, struggling to get out of bed, and going downstairs with a peculiarly crab-like, sideways shuffling motion. I get out of the door and wonder how on Earth I'm going to manage to keep putting one foot in front of the other for the next 55 minutes, but somehow I manage it.

In fact, it feels like my body is a spring, being coiled tighter and tighter with every day that goes by. And I know from painful experience that when this happens I can either do nothing, and wait for the inevitable injury to rear its ugly head, or I can pick up the phone and make an appointment with the physio.

Well, I say "the physio", but actually I go to two different ones, and they really are different.

I can't remember exactly how, when or why I started going to see Jaime at his practice, but it was at least six or seven years ago. I used to suffer quite a lot from calf strains and I would go there and subject myself to an hour's torture, then come home on what felt like totally new legs.

Three people work there, but usually I get Jaime, who is the boss and, I asume, the owner, or I get Hilda.

Initially I would always be assigned Hilda, and I was always happy to be treated by her. I have to say here - why deny it? - that she is a very beautiful young woman, with the hands of an angel. What generally happened was that she would go to work on my legs and put me through the most excruciating agony for the first half-hour. If I could just survive this, and luckily I generally could, then what followed was 30 minutes of bliss as she gently massaged my poor, battered legs back to life with her warm, soft hands. It was so pleasurable that on more than occasion I just could not control myself and...I fell asleep. Well, what did you imagine?

There was one time, though, when my calf must have been worse than usual and for days afterwards I could barely walk, so the next time I needed a service I called and was almost relieved to get Jaime, who duly booked me in for a session - but with him, this time.

Unfortunately, now it wasn't just about my calves or hamstrings, it was because of a nascent pubalgia which I'd been suffering for quite some time and which was getting so bad it prevented me from running - in fact it would wake me up every night. It's basically an aggravated groin strain resulting in a horrible burning sensation and dull ache in the muscles over the pubis bone, between the lower abdominals and the abductors. Obviously I couldn't go to Hilda with this!!

Looking on the internet, my heart sank, as it was generally suggested that this kind of injury spelled the end of many a runner and footballer's career, and even if it didn't, required months of rest and rehabilitation.

So it was with no little trepidation that I lay down on Jaime's couch and steeled myself for whatever was to come. But to cut a long story short, he identified the source of the problem as my poorly-aligned hips, and, straddling the couch behind me, he grabbed me in a sort of Heimlich manoeuvre and with one sharp twist and CCCRRRAAAACKKK, I was sorted. To this day (touch wood) it hasn't given me any more problems.

Ever since, I have considered Jaime as a sort of messiah-figure and now any time I have anything resembling an injury I go to him. However, it is no picnic. They have a sort of Zen atmosphere going on there, with aromatic oils and chill-out music, but relaxing it is not. It's fair to say that Jaime is not the most loquacious of men, and in fact many's the time my feeble attempts at small talk are met with nothing but a curt "on the couch, face down". He then gives me a cursory examination and declares, reproachfully, "you don't stretch at all, do you?" I am forced to admit to this as shamefacedly as if I was admitting to excessive masturbation or a penchant for farm animals, or something...

I went to him once when I had very tight abductors again, and he introduced me to the pleasures of the suction pad. This, he warns me, is painful, but will save hours of traditional massage, so I agree. He then brings out a suspicious, terrifying-looking instrument with a suction pad on the end of it, which he heats up and applies to my affected parts, rubbing and kneading with a vigour approaching Sadism. It is, without question, the most painful thing I have ever had to endure. For days afterwards I was horribly sore and even if I had ever indulged in the kind of practices suggested above, I wouldn't have been physically able to. But then, following his advice to return slowly but surely to running, I found once more that I was cured.

About a year ago, a physiotherapy practice opened about 100 metres from my front door, and so the next time I felt in need of a sports massage, I decided to try it. It is run by an affable, friendly man called Héctor, who couldn't be more different from Jaime. As he pummels and prods and stretches and pulls, we talk about running, football, travel, and life in general. Or rather, he does. I emit grunts and strangled shrieks in response, but can't help thinking that if he talked less (Spanish people use their hands to talk) I would get double the treatment in the same time period!

So these days if I just need my legs loosening up, I go to Héctor, as I will do this week, but if there's anything more serious that might develop into a full-blown injury, I bite the bullet and go to Jaime. They're both reasonably-priced (27-30€ an hour), so money isn't really the issue. Needless to say, though, I try to avoid both of them as much as possible.

Did I mention running back there? Oh yes, well, this week has been a sort of recovery one after the exertions of last week's race, so nothing special, and all a bit one-paced, in fact. I have cranked up the miles a bit more, however, and bashed out 11.3 miles (18.2 kms) yesterday, Sunday, in glorious sunshine.

I went out of the city and through woods and along a river, so it was pretty pleasant all round, really - a morning when it's a pleasure just to be outdoors.

Parque Santa Bárbara, near Lugones, Asturias

 

The Puente Viejo over the River Nora, near Oviedo

This made up a grand total of 36.2 miles (58.3 kms) for the week off five outings, so my mileage is finally getting to a respectable level, one to serve as a springboard to full-on marathon training.

Talking of which, my 18-week training plan starts the week ending 20th December. This is a bit annoying, actually, as on the 19th I have a 5.3-mile race in the afternoon, and then my work's Christmas do in the evening. How I'm going to do 12 miles on the Sunday is anybody's guess!

Spain loves its public holidays, and so today, Monday, and tomorrow, I'm off work thanks to Constitution Day and Immaculate Conception Day. I intend to move very little, at most between bed, sofa and kitchen. The bathroom may get a look-in, too, I imagine.

Well, that's all for this time. Thanks ever so much for reading. I hope all your Christmas preparations are coming along nicely (if that's your thing) - not too long to go now! Take care.

Touch Me I'm Sick