Blog Tired

Can’t exercise won’t exercise – the saga of a great toe

I can’t exercise for shit. And I don’t mean that I don’t know how to do it, because I do. Running, press-ups, sit-ups, all that nonsense -  It’s all in there, academically, and I’ve even tried it out on occasion, but there’s one really inconvenient obstacle that stops me from doing it regularly – I don’t seem to want to. I’ve tried really hard to want to, but I simply do not. Want to, I mean. I think it’s genetic.

Back in January, I did the classic January thing. I’d pulled a supplement out of a paper that outlined a (free!) fitness and strength building programme (from the British Army no less) that promised to walk me through a realistic schedule of running, press-ups, sit-ups, and a few other ups that I’d rather not go into. I decided then and there that I would follow it to the letter – three days a week: running and upper body stuff on Mondays, just running on Wednesdays, and just upper body stuff on Fridays. I wouldn’t need to buy any equipment at all, just start.

This is what I see when I make it to the top of the hill

I live within trotting distance of Hampstead Heath so getting into the running part was easy and I was happy enough to do the ‘ups’ stuff at home, behind closed doors where nobody could see my impassioned, straining face. After a few weeks, to my utter surprise, I even started to enjoy it. I began to believe I was actually getting fitter and stronger.

Now at this point, I start to become wary of myself. I have a long history of hating exercise. There’s a big part of me that’s self destructive, cynical, and lazy. That part of me hates people who try to encourage me to exercise, because exercise is stupid. You can imagine my consternation when it’s me trying to get me to exercise. My own inner motivational speaker was soon shot down by a cutting remark from my own inner heckler.

After all, it seems pretty pointless to run for half an hour just to get back to where I started (incidentally, if you are someone who runs on a treadmill, there is something wrong with you). Here’s where I start to relate to healthy people, however, because the inner motivational speaker (let’s call him Arnie) is strong. Stronger than the inner heckler (let’s call him Todd). If it comes to an arm-wrestle, Arnie wins hands down, and even Todd’s cuttingest remarks are pretty weak against such a studly and buff Austrian lunatic with a big gun. If he can get away with “Let off some steam”, after killing someone with a steam pipe, there’s really no outwitting him.

"No! You are the one who is not correct! Bwa ha ha!"

Todd (or me, Jimi, for those of you not keeping up), had to resort to more cowardly tactics. He broke Arnie’s toe (my toe). At least that’s what I assumed at the time. I remember the date because I’d just come home from a gig at The Bull & Gate in Kentish Town, where I’d been upstaged by a younger, cooler band. It was April 16 (or Black Thursday). About a week prior to that, I had stubbed my toe on the runner for the sliding door. It hurt quite a lot. On April 16, I committed the exact same injury, only much harder. It hurt more than anything I can ever remember. In the immediate aftermath, I invented several swearwords and tried to tear the door off its runners with my bare hands.

I sat down, holding the toe as tightly I could, imagining how nasty it would look when I could finally take my hands off it. Calming down, I talked myself out of that fear. It’s only a stubbed toe, I told myself. It would just look like a normal toe, maybe slightly pink. I peeled away my hand in time to see a glob of thick red blood dripping off the purple McNugget that my digit had become. More swearwords, but at least I knew what I was dealing with. I hopped downstairs, ran it under the cold tap, and limped into the bedroom. I don’t mind admitting that I felt faint but I think I can attribute the tear in my eye to grief at the death of Arnie. He was done for.

The next day, I limped to a job interview, limped home, changed my dressing. Tried to cut my toenail, did some more swearing. Soldiered on. Everyone (including you) told me not to go to the hospital, that even if it was broken, they wouldn’t do anything about it anyway. By July, the purpleness under the nail had just about faded, and I was able to file the nail, if not cut it. It still ached every time the temperature changed though. That was less than cool, and I finally succumbed and went to the hospital.

I may be the first person ever to go to the hospital two months after stubbing a toe

After a 2-hour wait, the conversation with the emergency nurse went like this.

“I think I broke my toe two months ago.”

“There’s not much we can do about that.”

“That’s what everyone told me. That’s why I’ve only just come in. It still hurts.” I removed my shoe and sock and showed her my big toe.

“It’s your great toe? You should have come in straight away for a great toe. That’s your balance”.

So by that point, I was convinced I was headed for blue badge territory (if distracted by the enjoyment of the phrase ‘great toe’). I might never run again. Todd, after all Arnie’s big talk, is an evil genius.

I don’t want to drag out this misery too long, so I’ll skip forward. I got the x-ray appointment (alarmingly, they loaned you a lead bath mat for the duration. I assumed it was for my heart but it turned out to be for my sperms). The x-ray came back ‘normal’ – not broken, just taking a bloody long time to heal. And here we are in October, with the temperature dropping and no signs of aching in the great toe. Exercise is back on my mind, and I’ve run out of excuses.

Aside from that one about not wanting to. I’ll blame the schedule of events – it tells me to start on a Monday, and Mondays are not good for me. I’m reluctant even to get to the kitchen on a Monday morning, let alone the park. If I could just get those first few weeks out of the way though, I’d be well on my way. I missed Monday this week, so I’m ‘resting’ until another Monday rolls around. And when it does… I’ll be back.