The loneliness of the short distance and moderately puffing runner

Last Friday I went for a run. Three miles, down by the river, no biggie.

Halfway through I did the usual - pause at the kiddie play area to knock out some chins on the monkey bars, and feel that self inflicted sense of discomfort - "what if someone sees me and calls me a paedophile?"

Then just this Tuesday gone - out for a run, same route, only this time I came a cropper. Put my foot on something hidden in the grass and down I went. Obviously I ruptured a whole series of ligaments in my ankle, damn near tore the whole foot off, but that wasn't my first thought.

I wasn't worried that my new nickname might become "hop along Jimbo".

I didn't care that I was now the limping buffalo calf of the Newport herd should Jurassic Park ever come true.

All I could think - I was down on my hands and knees, hidden in the long grass, lurking right next to the kiddie play area.

Now it's three days later, and though the foot has reattached itself I'm still in considerable agony.

People tell me - don't be a hero James.

But damnit, men should be men.

I'm still going on that sushi making course tomorrow.