I am back on the treadmill full time, well once a week which is virtually full time compared to not being on it. Session kicks off with a brisk walk then intervals.
Week 1 – 1 minute walking & 1 minute running
Week 2 – 1 minute walking & 1 minute running interspersed with 10 x high steps alternating legs
Week 3 – 1 minute walking & 2 minute running
Week 4 – 1 minute walking & 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 minute running
Stretch afterwards. No aches, no pain and nearly back to a normal run.
The leg is then royally rested for a couple of days afterwards. If I have learnt anything then its not to wear shoes that are too flat (namely my lovely battered Converse), the day after because if I do my leg lets me know about it, usually when I am walking home laden with shopping.
Next step from the treadmill is to conquer the great outdoors again. My physio has said that I could try now but realistically think that’s a while away.
I’m just shy of eight months post op, I’ve stopped reading the Achilles press so not sure how my recovery fits with the overall grand scheme of things. Sometimes that’s a good thing. If you are reading my blog and gauging your recovery against mine, then I apologise now.
This weeks challenge is one of a swollen foot. I did think it could be a slight disagreement with the shoes, (flat, nude patent or flat leopard skin for those who care), I make it wear to work and swelling is its cry for help. But the reality is worse, my post surgery foot/leg now detests boots. Detests them, in any shape/size/colour. I wore my Converse last week and the swelling is the response. Brown ankle boots a few weeks previously caused similar outrage.
Frozen peas are back on the daily schedule but applied further south.
The other challenge I am mulling over is to start slowly getting back into running. Not for something specific like a bus, more just for the hell of it. Today is five months since the snap so the thought of a light trot around the park has entered my mind on numerous occasions over the past week or so. A light trot, that’s all.
I like a weekly challenge. Its become a personal point of pride to see if I can cure the week’s problem before the next ailment rolls along. Its all a bit like an episode of Dr Quinn Medicine Woman but without the period costumes and horses.
It’s all been quiet the last few weeks. Post angry leg, its just the usual battles of a girl about town…swelling, icing, stretching exercises, ankle pain and coordinating outfits with compression socks. If you ever need to include a nifty pair of compression socks in your wardrobe then I recommend getting black and white. I made a major rookie error just getting black.
I am surprised that Grazia doesn’t cut out the celebrity wedding trash and replace with highly informative articles like this. I think there is at least 1000 words to be written on which shoes show off your swelling and which don’t.
See who says this blog isn’t informative?!
The best line I’ve heard in a while.
To be encased in a plastic grey solid knee high aircast boot is traumatic. Its especially traumatic for someone with a love affair with shoes. My flat is littered with them. Tall, spiky, chunky, sleek, old, new, colourful, scruffy, tidy, patent, sexy, homey and slightly odd. They line both sides of my hallway, like cheerleaders to wave me off and welcome me home. Boots are strewn all over the cupboard and boxes of heels are hidden in the wardrobe. I own a fair number of heels. A few pairs…
My aircast was a flat heeled prison that could only be partnered with another flat shoe. Partnered in the loose sense because nothing matches an aircast, apart from another one and we certainly don’t want that.
I’m average height – 5’8″ – not small, not abnormally tall, just right. Throw in a couple of inches from a perfect heel and it all comes together.
Yesterday was three months exactly to the day of my rupture. Three months of trying to perk up a left foot with pink Converse, patent brogues and pointy gold tipped flats. Anything to brighten up my 5’8″
It all came to head last week after several successful (booted) dates. Which ended with the words…I’m holding out for someone taller.
Well I’m holding out for a hero but we can’t win them all.