They think it's all over! Well......

That's my right ankle. Pretty, isn't it. Such graceful body lines are a gift - by gift I mean hinderance. 

For many years I have abused my ankles. Many moons of smashing around a soccer field, which my ankles informed me during my late twenties and early thirties was a terrible idea. They way they like to inform their owner of these things is to roll over on you and send you shrieking like Luis Suarez have been judo chopped on the football pitch. They do this periodically. Mostly at your behest, as you take on another ill sort after footie match with a bunch of over forties. All of which have their own ailments and none of which you believe you are like, physically. Yet, after each of these yearly games, where you charge around the field like a well oiled machine without the remotest thought toward taking it easy or being sensible, or the fact that this just might leave you sore for a week.

Those type of decisions is what lead me to an MRI table and an oh-so-familiar radio station menu to chose from, in order to drown out the loud obnoctious machine. This would be the third or fourth MRI on my ankles post excessive sideways activity. You'd think I'd take a hint.

Naturally, when the results find their way to you in an express fashion, not 45 minutes post scan, you mind flies to the "end of the world" scenario. It's all gone wrong! How will I make it through summer after they hack my ankle open?? Such vivid questions swirl in an ever busy mind. It's a natural path I think. Some minds are stronger than others and manage to keep such thoughts at bay.  Not my mind, no matter how hard I try.

Then came the consultation and the advice, post x-ray showing no "Wayne Rooney" fifth metatarsel breaks, to take up aqua jogging and lay off running for three weeks. Suddenly, celebration mode kicks in. Doom and gloom has turned to a small ray of sunshine cresting over the horizon. Perhaps my Ironman career isn't over. Perhaps I just might make it. 

Now the excitement brews for a new experiment in the pool. Me and my flotation belt take the the deep waters of the musty pool at lunch time.  Suddenly profoundly aware of how much like a dreadmill this is. Running with no place to go. Then that thought is trumped by the sudden rise in heart rate and the awareness that this lark is quite tiring. Perhaps there's hope at the end of the fitness tunnel!

This morning the legs were appropriately fatigued, as if I had actually gone for a long jog. Quite the fascinating result from a short 35 minutes of aqua jogging. Now, if I could just shed this cold, everything can start heading back to normal. 

More torture is due this weekend. Three long hours on the indoor trainer should provide the appropriate amount of menotony to force state secrets out of any international spy. At least at home I get a good movie to pass the time. On the road you have to make do and sometimes that involves a blank wall and a pool of sweat.

Here's hoping for a pain free week and a quick recovery!

Good luck to us all!