Two legs, two lungs, no brain

This all started when I hurt my knee last year, while running. This was a Very Big Deal to me; not being able to run makes me a far grumpier individual that normal. And for anyone that knows me, that really is a Very Big Deal.
Anyway, I went to a number of experts, had a suitably swanky MRI scan, where you have to stay perfectly still in a metal coffin whilst being subjected to Heart FM for 25 minutes (I think they do this as a sort of aural anaesthetic), and eventually got to see one of the country’s leading knee specialists, who was kind enough to see me a number of times at short notice. Which was nothing to do with him needing to pay for his daughter’s wedding.
Anyway, the day arrived where I was getting the full consultant treatment – diagnosis and treatment were promised in one session, so I arrived with a sense of nervousness and excitement.
I went into the office and closed the door; the consultant looked at me over his glasses, with what I think was a benevolent look.
“A lot of people get frightened when I say the word ‘Arthritis'”, he said. Probably not the most positive start to a diagnosis. On the other hand, not necessarily a surprise, or a disaster. After all, most people have some sort of arthritis; it’s what people get when their joints are getting worn. A bit of a blow to my plans for a new PB at marathon, but hey-ho.
Rattled back to Emu Towers, where Mrs E took the news remarkably stoically. “You’ll have to cut down on the running, and do more cross training,”, she constructively suggested.
I’m not sure what happened in the next couple of months. I kind of thought that it would be a good idea to push these knees a little bit more, maybe to prove that there was life in the old dog yet. So I got a place at the London Marathon. Then I started thinking about the Paris Marathon. Then I thought it would be a good wheeze to knock out a few miles between the two dates, in a ‘8 marathons in 8 days’ style.
Then I told Mrs Emu who, as a medical professional, has a delicate bedside manner that she was kind enough to put to one side in her reaction. And she’s barely contained her ire ever since.
So this blog is a rather pathetic attempt to apologise to her for a foolhardy exercise. But, as solutions to mid-life crises go, slightly better than the sports car/Lithuanian escort/crystal meth options that I might have chosen. Not that I pursued any of them, dear…
For all of you other kind souls with open and forgiving hearts, you can follow my new adventures between 9 and 17 April at www.paristolondonrun.co.uk – enjoy!