Daddy, Daddy, Daddy

One Street: Brook Street, Ilkley #4

Although mostly overcast, it's been a very mild and dry day (finally) and therefore a little frustrating not to be able to get out for a run on the moor or a ride on the bike. The knee is not as bad as it was yesterday so I'm not expecting to be immobilised for too much longer. As I suggested on yesterday's blip, I've been through this before, but much, much worse.

It must be six or seven years ago now. I'd travelled down to Wales to meet my good friend Dave (who was on a short trip to this country from where he now lives in New Zealand) to do a fell race together. We were once inseparable training partners when we were both into the ultra-distance running scene, running countless miles together in preparation for races of up to 100 miles in distance. We were total nutcases really, but absolutely loved being that fit, and competing at the top end of the field, something neither of us could hope for over shorter, more sensible distances. We try to get together whenever he comes to the UK to relive our old rivalry.

Anyway, the race was run and I'm happy to report that I beat Dave by about a minute, having to work very hard to do so. After enjoying some post-race banter and food at the local Village Hall I had to leave to catch the train back to Ilkley. It was a Sunday and the service was poor, involving quite a few changes and a bit of waiting around. It was at one such stop that I noticed my right knee becoming sore and a bit stiff to move. I didn't think too much of it but as I left Manchester on the penultimate leg to Leeds, it became impossible to ignore. It was rapidly swelling up and becoming very painful.

By the time the train drew into Leeds I could barely move my leg at all, and it was impossible to put any weight on it. I just about managed to get off the train by holding on to things, but as soon as I was on the platform I was completely stranded. I literally couldn't move, stood as I was on my left leg, utterly unable to put any weight at all on the right one. I started to utter a rather feeble and embarrassed plea for help - which soon grew louder and more plaintive as panic started to take over. I was fairly soon noticed and a wheelchair was quickly found to take me to my connecting train. With help I managed to get on board and phoned ahead to see if the boys could find someone to meet me in a car at the other end in Ilkley.

The next 12 hours were quite possibly the worst of my entire life. I experienced pain like at no other time, even after I broke my knee - to which this problem is almost certainly connected. I did vaguely remember twisting my knee during the race, quite innocuously, and my body had simply gone into overdrive to protect it. I guess it's a bit like a massive allergic reaction. My knee just kept on swelling and swelling. I couldn't move from the couch, which is where I spent that night, and fortunately the next day brought improvement as the swelling subsided. I was able to get around the house on the crutches that I keep around for emergencies. By the day after that I was just left with a bit of puffiness and after realising that it was ok to walk on, and then jog on, I went for a run on the moor. It gave me no problems. I'm hoping for the same result tomorrow!

So it was just a hobble into town to grab this shot on Brook Street. I thought this moment rather timeless.