The Decathlon debacle of 2014 was rapidly becoming a dim and distant memory as the autumn turned into the winter, and still my Achilles had not healed by that Christmas. The realisation that my daughter might actually be faster than me was causing panic and nagging at my soul, and I was missing the track and that damn bear and his dastardly fridge. This was enough motivation to get out there into the garage gym and start lifting stuff, but running was still out of the question.
And so the year dragged past as the injury gradually heeled, I mean healed, so I one dry Sunday morning in May (and there aren't many of those in Wales), I tentively set off for a lap of the local field, and things didn't look too bad for at least a week. In true masters style, just as things were getting better, I re-injured myself, this time not by training, having even survived a 4x200m grass session without mishap, but by running up the stairs like pregnant spring chicken, catching my foot at stair ten and tearing the remaining ligaments.
The summer dragged by somewhat slower than I had hoped as a result of this stupidity, but I was greatly cheered by the progress my daughter made as she closed in on the paltry times I had set the year before. But this all served to be the extra little push I needed to get back to the garage gym once more and get some conditioning done as I got slower and slower, and older and older.
I had given up on the idea of competing in the 2015 season, sometimes the message does get through, on the basis of doing more damage and making myself look an even bigger prat than I already had. Others had different ideas though.
By complete accident, I managed one competition. My daughter, Chloe, had gained selection to represent East Wales in the Welsh Regional Championships in Colwyn Bay, North Wales, which as everybody in South Wales knows is on a separate planet completely inaccessible from places like Newport. Anyway, I rang the East Wales team manager to inform him that I would be taking my daughter to the championships and that she would not be on the team bus, when he said rather ominously "Oh, bring your kit just in case.". As I wasn't up to running, and in the words of the immortal Jedi - "I have a bad feeling about this!"
True enough, I had to cover the throws in the Senior Men's events, these are not what I would call my strong suits. Well all I can say is I was consistent, and hit the ground every time. I should point out that the positions I achieved reflected last place each time despite being 3rd on occasion, such is the depth of talent we have in Wales.
Having successfully completed my season's humiliation, I carried on with the training in the feint hope of taking part in the indoors. By October I was running in the field again, well when I say running, I was doing less than wife who had signed up to the "Couch to 5k" series. So an all time low where my beloved wife was fitter than me as well a my eldest. She even got me out running whilst we were on holiday on Islay, Scotland, where we were touring the island's distilleries for my 55th birthday. I had planned a trip to the inner Hebridean island in order to tour each and every one of their 8 distilleries plus the one on the neighbouring isle of Jura. I definitely enjoyed 5 days of tasting single malts rather than the training, both left their mark as you might gather, although the single malts were much more expensive. From what memories I have managed to retain, the Bruichladdich tour turned into a session with a young American chap as we strayed to the Highland Park, whilst at Laphroiag they made the mistake of leaving us alone with the tasting bottles, I don't remember much after that.
By Christmas I was showing signs of recovery, from the injury as much as the sudden addiction to Islay malt whisky, so I cautiously entered the Welsh Masters Indoor championships long jump. The cunning plan Mr. B was to jump off the right foot to save the weak left ankle. It went OK at first, but I wasn't winning, and I don't enjoy that so for the last round, I braved the left footed take off, painful though it was, and I came down at 4.57m. This would have won it but I nudged the pastercine so had to settle for 2nd with a lowly 4.21m.
As I could still walk, I went on to do the 60m in the second Masters Championship meeting a fortnight later. This time the choice of legs was no longer an issue, other than the misfortune of actually having to use my own. Despite almost falling asleep in the comfy starting blocks I won the M55 category, but had to watch the M60 competitor, Chris Monk, eclipse my time of 8.57 by two tenths, and worse still, the M70 World Record went to my mate Glyn Sutton at 8.18. I don't mind being beaten by youngsters so much, but the old gits are just taking the p.......
So assuming the BMAF sort out the entry system, I'll see those who go at the BMAF indoors in March.
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