dancingthroughchaos

‘This island is a little paradise’ – Karl Marx on the Isle of Wight

I’m fairly confident that there are few things on which Mr Marx and I would agree, but I’m fervently hoping that ‘the Island’ will be the exception.

I am the youngest of three sisters, and the middle one is about to celebrate her three score years.  What better way to do so, she decided, than for the trio to walk around the Isle of Wight together over the course of a week.  Perhaps sunning ourselves on a beach, listening to the lapping of azure waves and siping fancy iced drinks served with flair and cocktail umbrellas would have been a plan more appealing to myself but, on the other hand, who needs the hassle of all those threatened airport strikes, let alone the crowds, the jet-lag and the expense of getting there and back?

This should suit us nicely and, when I stop to think about it (I’ve been somewhat distracted with the new book – have you bought a dozen copies yet?  Seriously, one for you, your siblings, children, nieces, nephews, god-children, grandchildren, neighbours, the lady on the till at the supermarket, random strangers etc), I’m quite excited about it.

The official magazine of Britain tells me that: ‘Covering 147 square miles in total, the island is blessed with a wide variety of landscapes, from sheltered river valleys to wild, windswept headlands and golden sandy beaches to forests and picturesque villages.’

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It sound idyllic.

I’ve only ever been to the IoW once: a day trip which saw us half blown away as we clambered up to view the Needles.  That was years ago, possibly before we were even married.  Anyway, owing to one thing and another, excitement aside, I’m not feeling quite as prepared as I’d hoped.

The thing is, I had a great plan to up my fitness regime in readiness for this adventure.  Said middle-sister, after all, has been tramping the highways and byways of Surrey for about a year, losing weight, gaining fitness and generally getting scarily focused.  My eldest sister apparently, has some arthritis niggling a toe which sounds horrible but actually makes my own fitness level seem not quite so bad.

Oh, I had big plans.  ‘Kick the year off with Couch to 5k,’ I said to myself, as I emerged from the food coma of Christmas.  ‘That will increase your fitness and enhance all those walks you love so much and from which your photos smother social media.’  ‘Ha!’ said Covid, ‘Think again.’

No matter, I resolved, I’ll just start a week or so later; there’s plenty of time.  And so there was.  Then.

For those not in the know, the Couch to 5k NHS App is a 9 week programme consisting of three weekly runs, building up stamina and fitness until you can run 5km in 30 minutes and, judging by the exploits of those in the Facebook group, skip merrily on to run 10k or even an entire marathon.  Nutters.

My ambitions were not so great.

Somewhere about week 6, when I’d already surprised myself by not collapsing in a asthmatic heap requiring hospitalisation, the UK was hit with three gale storms in a week, and I flatly refused to contemplate any kind of motion that required leaving the house.  I was concerned that the chickens might end up in the next county and I wasn’t taking any risks for myself.  Besides, the slippery pavements of Bath had already claimed a broken foot from my husband two years ago, from which he has never fully recovered (mostly because he didn’t realise it was actually broken).  

No worries; I plugged in again, simply repeating a week and feeling confident.  There was still time.  Then, just a week or so later, I managed to twist my left knee.  How in the world is such a thing possible when you’re simply moving in a forward trajectory?  I have no idea at all.  I didn’t slip, stumble or fall, so what on earth happened?  No idea; but it required ice and elevation for not one, but two weeks.

I re-engaged, trusting all would be well, repeating earlier weeks but unable to shake off the unpalatable truth that my knee had not in fact got better.  Really, the improvement was negligible.  

Should I push on or should I rest? A question we’ve all asked if we’ve been foolhardy enough to begin this journey.  I went for the push through option and regretted it.

Then, with just two runs to go, came the much anticipated trip to South Africa.  I had hoped to graduate from the programme by then, but refused to be daunted.  After all, logic told me, I must have achieved more than if I’d never started.  Girding up my loins and my trainers, I headed out to complete the penultimate challenge.  This would probably have been fine if I’d left at the time I planned, but an uncharged phone delayed me.  I needed to have my App virtual coach tell me when I was half way through and when I’d finished, as well as inspire me with her ridiculous, ‘You can do it’-type motivational encouragements. 

Alas, a mixture of exhaustion and heatstroke took me out for the next week.  At this point, the knee was clearly still swollen and I heard a horrifying statistic about the percentage of knee and hip replacements currently performed on those who’ve taken up running after the age of 40.  Dang!  I had begun several years too late.

So, dear reader, I have not graduated but I am armed with a raft of medication, strapping and exercises from a lovely physiotherapist who both frowned and raised her eyebrows up into her hairline when she heard the birthday plans.  We shall see what happens.

Until then, I am contemplating the lyrical words of Mr William Shakespeare in The Tempest (Act III Scene 2) and projecting them onto the coming week:

‘Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.’

Here’s hoping.