Seems I've joined the Central Scotland injured ultra-runners club - I went out for a long slow run up Dumyat last night (since it was dry for a change) and sprained my ankle as I came back down off the hill into Bridge of Allan. Unless the R in RICE stands for "run 6 miles home along roads", I didn't really follow the sensible advice for how to treat such an injury. Today my ankle is bruised and swollen, though not as sore as it has been when I have done it in the past. I was quite pleased that I could keep going at 10 minute mile pace with a rapidly swelling ankle over the last few miles of a sixteen mile run. I'd been taking it really easy on the run, trying to move as efficiently as possible, and it was all going very well until I felt the nauseating wrench in my foot in the Minewoods. Oh well, looks like I have a couple of very easy weeks ahead of me.
It was perhaps a bit of karma catching up with me since my 18 month old son Jack dropped a saucepan lid on his toe earlier in the day on my watch, and now has as black a toe nail as I have ever seen. Hopefully social services aren't reading this.
Yesterday we took the kids to Amazonia at Strathclyde Country Park. I was enormously proud of my 5-year old daughter as she was first in of the queue with her hands held out when the guide asked if anyone wanted to hold a tarantula. At the same time, a few Glaswegian hard cases cowared at the back of the room, not wanting to get too close to the hairy arachnid. Bunch of woosses.