My left foot... revisited (again!)

Last March I went down the gym and took an induction course. I'd joined the club to swim and then I thought I'd be clever and join the gym, which cost nothing extra so why not? While in the gym I tried various pieces of kit, one being something that required me to push my feet against something and I knew immediately that I'd injured myself in some way or other. Within a day or two I was proved right and I started hobbling around the place. So in the end I went to a local GP hub, had X rays and blood tests and nothing came back, there was nothing wrong with me, I must have just injured myself. But it's always my left foot. In the end the ailment left the building and I was back to normal again. If you check back on this blog there's virtually a whole month between my post on the subject and the next post, which was the time I rode to Sevenoaks and back and stopped off at Soprano's for lunch. Anyway, it was earlier in the year. We're now six months down the line and I must have done something (I know not what) to get the old foot ailment back again. This time I'm not going to see anyone about it because I don't think GPs know anything, they never have any concrete answers even if I'd dropped a piece of concrete on my foot, they'd still debate what was wrong and not give me any answers; it's the same with blood tests, they never tell you the results, presumably because nothing is wrong (that's what I was told, actually) so here I am, hobbling around. Well, not now, it's gotten better. Last night I awoke around 0130hrs (I've not been sleeping well). I came downstairs, poured myself a glass of water and dropped a Nurofen, just one, and then I had the best night's sleep ever, waking around 0800hrs and feeling that my foot was better. By and large it is, but I'll probably drop another Nurofen before too long. It's great to feel better, though, really great. My whole mood lifts when I'm feeling good, as I do now, but I'm not fit enough to get on the bike, perhaps tomorrow. I've had this foot thing back again since Wednesday. I was in town on Wednesday, Mayfair to be precise, and I was limping, but nobody I was meeting noticed (thank God!) as there's nothing worse than being recognised as the underdog, the disabled one, but as I say they didn't notice anything, I concealed it well. The last thing I wanted was sympathy. After a business meeting I chilled in a teashop in Shepherds Market. I'm not sure if there's an apostrophe or not, it could be Shepherd's Market, but not in the way that St James's Park has the double 's'. I sat there listening to some kind of Middle Eastern music and then left. I was going to read my book there, Eric Ambler's Passage of Arms, which is great, but the teashop or cafe or whatever you want to call it didn't have the right vibe so I refrained from reading and just sat there watching the guy outside with the shisha pipe, what a disgusting habit is that? Like smoking generally. Horrible. And I should know, I used to smoke. I started at around 19 years old, stopped when I was 25 and then 10 years later started again, for about a year, then stopped for good. Awful habit, but I just gave up, I'm one of those people, I can take or leave things, I don't think nicotine had anything to do with my smoking. I wasn't addicted, put it that way, I wasn't going to be wearing patches or chewing gum, I just smoked and then I stopped. I was more into the bits and bobs that went with smoking: the cigarettes themselves (Marlboro Reds were my favourite, or Camel or Benson & Hedges Gold); then there was the tin, when I smoked roll-ups I had a tin, full of Old Holborn, plus the papers, the Rizlas, and the Zippo lighter of course. Smoking was fun, but like all fun things it wasn't good for my health so I gave up, pure and simple, and I don't miss it, I just stopped. Likewise with drinking, I just stopped and I never looked back, never had any kind of cold turkey, I stopped and I haven't started, it's been nearly eight years. Okay, so it's Saturday morning and I'm watching YouTube videos of big waves and cruise ships capsizing (almost). Not sure what we're doing today. Somebody's coming round to collect a wicker chair that's languishing in our garage, we don't need it, but it's quite good and somebody's on their way round (we hope), meaning we can't go out until they've been and gone. As a result, it's one of those slobby mornings. After my four-part crapola lunch on Thursday (Marmite Sandwich, Mulligatawny soup, cheese and mustard pickle sandwich, chocolate HobNobs and tea) I kept up the trend with a breakfast of more HobNobs and a Marmite sandwich, no porridge for me today. Perhaps I'll keep up the crapola cuisine all day if we go out anywhere today. If the foot gets better perhaps a ride tomorrow, a 15-miler even! Who knows? Not much else to say other than next door got burgled and the burglars sound like they were pros. Doubtless they won't be caught, they never are: 'no arrests have been made'. I want that on a tee-shirt.

It's nearly 2pm. Johnny and Jake are on the TV making their own chocolate and we're still waiting for the person to come round and collect the wicker sofa. She might not turn up, a strong possibility if you ask me. The plan is a drive to Guildford, which means I'll take a trip to Anderton's, check out the guitars. I'm off next week. I need a break I really do and when I go back I'm going to be different. I'm going to keep out of the politics and just do my job and not sit there working beyond the time when I can officially go home. I'm going to chill more at home, read in the conservatory and not constantly freak myself out listening to what other people think of this and that, which just makes me angry and rebellious when there's absolutely no need. In many ways I've been foolish. The moment I let others in, that was the problem. Leaving doors open is always a problem. My advice is close all doors, lock them, don't listen to others, just do your fucking job.

My left foot...

Late February 2012 was the last time I recorded there being anything wrong with my left foot and if there is any kind of pattern developing (assuming that cycling and the state of my foot are in some way linked) then it has to be steep hills and possibly pushing things a little too far. Back in 2012 Andy and I rode to Limpsfield village following an off-road route through the Titsey Estate. On the return journey we had no choice other than to ride up Titsey Hill to reach the plateau and Botley Hill Farmhouse. The following day I was in the same state I found myself in last Monday – unable to walk. In a nutshell all of this week I've been hobbling around. It started Monday and got progressively worse as the week progressed. It was so bad that I was quite literally dragging my left leg behind me and it took me an inordinate amount of time to get anywhere. Fortunately my wife picked me up each night from Purley station, saving me the agony of the longish walk home. I say 'longish' because any walk, be it a short stroll to the local shops, is like trekking across the Himalayas. It wasn't pleasant and night times were just as bad as a dull, mildly throbbing ache meant that it was difficult to get to sleep. I resorted to Nurofen but was clearly not taking enough. In fact, I ought to relate my Nurofen story. In essence, all we had in the house were Nurofen melts, which, for some reason, didn't really appeal. Now you might say that if I was desperate, surely any port in a storm and all that, but for some reason I wanted basic Nurofen. So, at 0200hrs, I hopped out of bed – and by 'hopped' I mean I hopped out of bed on my right leg, wary that as soon as I put any kind of pressure on my left foot I'd be in total agony. I couldn't even put a shoe or trainer on without shrieking with pain. Suddenly the peace of the night was shattered. Arrrrgggggggggggggggghhhh! In the end I resorted to wearing my slippers.

At the foot of Hesiers Hill – perhaps I was over enthusiastic.

This shot was taken in the summertime.

Outside it was cold and quiet and the halogen street lights created a kind of lunar landscape in a suburban setting. I limped to the car, jumped in and drove off, passing a couple of gas stations and pulling in to their deserted, brightly-lit forecourts to see if they were open. It was hard to tell and the last thing I wanted to do was get out of the car and try walking if there was no point. The pumps were on; I could clearly see the digital read-outs of the meters, the forecourt was ablaze with light but there didn't appear to be anybody in the shop. I drove out and later found another gas station equally deserted. There was only one thing for it: the 24-hour Tesco in Purley – which, in all honesty, was where I was heading anyway. The huge car park there was virtually empty so I drove to the nearest parking space next to the store and then limped off in the direction of the shop floor. Fortunately I was directed to a small counter selling Nurofen Express, which I figured were good enough (although why 'brand extensions' exist I'll never know). There were no cashiers, just self-service machines, which required me to limp for a few yards more to pay. Clasping my much needed drugs I limped to the car, drove home, took some Nurofen and went to bed. It was around 0300hrs before I fell asleep, possibly later.

The week was characterised by limping everywhere and by Wednesday I figured a trip to the doctor's was in order so I booked up and found myself waiting almost an hour in the surgery's waiting room. GPs tend to be pretty useless as they don't really know what's wrong with anyone, they simply ask a few questions and then suggest that it might be X or Y and that anti-inflammatories are the best bet to start with. "Come back if you've still got it next week," she said and I limped away.

The last time this happened (back in February 2012) I went to a doctor in Croydon, at May Day hospital, and asked them if they thought it might be gout. I was told no, not gout. If it was gout, she said, I wouldn't be able to touch it. Phew! But this time round the subject raised its ugly head again mainly because, over the Christmas period, I had stuffed my face with tangerines and oranges and other acidic fruits. I wished I hadn't mentioned it because it led to the doctor saying that perhaps I should consider a blood test. I hate blood tests. But she said it wasn't necessary so I haven't bothered. What she did say was 'no cycling', not this weekend at any rate, so I resolved not to go. Andy wasn't going on Saturday and, as it turns out, the rain was falling on Sunday, which meant it was likely that we would have aborted anyway. It was one of those damp mornings when everything had that wet look and the back lawn in particular took on a sponge-like appearance.

Fortunately, my foot is now better. I can walk virtually normally and I'm no longer in pain. There's nothing worse than being out of action for health reasons – in this case a dodgy left foot. It makes you realise the importance of good health at all times.

It also makes me realise how lucky I am to be able-bodied and how these things shouldn't be taken for granted. I'm levelling the blame for my left foot at Hesiers Hill on last Sunday's ride and, perhaps, I was overdoing it a bit. To be honest, I don't know the real cause, but that's the only thing I can attribute it to. Fortunately for me, it's over now. I'm feeling better, I'm not limping, I'm not in pain and I'll be back on the bike next weekend – weather permitting.