Post Abscess Training
POST ABSCESS AND TOOTH EXTRACTION
So, I had a week off from work and it was absolutely fantastic except, I had to get this dirty, infected, scumbag, flappy, fish market of a tooth taken out. It has been giving me problems for years from an abscess that keeps recurring. I explained in a previous blog what had happened so I won’t bore you with the details.
So here is the fucking sequel.
It’s 7:30am. I’m looking in the mirror. Staring back is this baldy, ginger bearded, creepy guy with the look of dread on his face. I have just finished an easy 60-minute run to start off the day. The run was actually really good because it felt pretty easy and my legs didn’t fell like lead for a change. Also, I didn’t have to stop for a shite. Which is just as well because all the public toilets in Greenock have been closed over lockdown. I have literally shat all over Greenock during lockdown and every single time I’ve been very lucky to find a secluded spot in the woods to empty my bunker. I was very nearly caught once, however, that is a story for another time.
I’m not in good condition just now as I’ve not been able to train properly over the last 2 months. This is due to the above described tooth. I really can’t wait to get back into training but I need to be patient and build the miles gradually.
I step out my shower, dry myself, wrap my hand towel round my waist and crawl back to my room like Gollum to get ready for the dentist.
I throw on a white t-shirt that I like and then I remember that I’m getting my tooth ripped out my gum so I decide to put on a black t-shirt. If I wore the white t-shirt then it would probably look like a butcher’s curtains afterwards. I throw on my jacket and I’m striding towards the dentist with an attitude that says “let’s do this” but at the same time says “I’m a proper shite bag”.
The weather is nae bad today with a slight cloudy overcast and the sun poking its head out like a wee turtle. The dentist sent me an email letting me know their COVID procedures. I was to phone them, let them know I’m outside and then someone would come out to let me in. I’m not sure if this is their actual procedures or if they made these up especially for me because they don’t like me or something.
The big black door opens up. The dread feeling fills my gut instantly and I feel a bit of shit come out. There’s a junkie walking in my direction so I could make it look it’s him that smells until he passes and I can only hope they assume the smell is him.
As I’m ushered in, I sanitise my hands and plaster my face mask onto my face. I’m told I’ll be seen in two minutes but as soon as my arse hits the seat I’m being ordered into the dentist’s and strapped to the chair. What is about a dentist that makes it feel like you’re in a concentration camp? I’ve never been in one before but I can only guess.
The dentist was actually very gentle. The local anaesthetic worked a treat and I can feel nothing on the left side of my gum. Within 5 minutes he’s pulling out a set of rusty pliers and starts pillaging my tooth. My mouth is getting rag dolled about like a horse at the grand national but it’s exhilarating, I feel like this is rush I’ve been looking for my whole life.
Within 5 minutes my tooth is yanked out and flapping about on the dish like a fresh trout. I couldn’t believe how quick it was. He’s holding with a pair of pliers analysing it and he says “oh it looks quite dissolved at the back”.
He shows me it and I couldn’t believe what I seen.
Bearing in mind this tooth has lived rent free in my gum for 10 plus years and has given me nothing but bother. It’s like a really bad tenant or a shite neighbour who always has loud house parties. There was blood all over it but the tooth was black, 2 of the roots were black and dissolved. I have a picture of it which I’ll attach at the end of the blog. It isn’t for the faint hearted I tell thee.
I make an appointment for a check-up around November time and walk outside. I’ve never really given a thought to effects on anaesthetic on myself because it’s not something I’ve accustomed to an awful lot, but, when I left the dentist, I was walking like a new born giraffe.
The anaesthetic obviously a had a wee effect on me and I felt dizzy and really tired. Thankfully my girlfriend, Jade, was there to pick me up and make sure I was ok.
Now that the abomination of my tooth was gone, I could now recover and re-assess my training targets. I’ve decided to get the miles in and build up my aerobic endurance again. I was in great shape for the marathon and I want to run faster than my 2:44 debut. And yes, I will keep saying “2:44 debut” because I’m terribly fucking proud of running a London Marathon championship qualifying time on my first marathon.
But for now, I need to let this gum heal. The blood is pouring out of it and there’s only so much gauze I can be bothered putting in it. Eventually after 2 days and 3 pillow cases later the bleeding stops and I resort to warm, salty water to keep the bastard clean.
It’s now Friday and I haven’t ran since Tuesday so I decide to meet James McFadden for an easy run. Immediately I can feel the shite in my legs and I know this is going to be a painful run. We set off at a really easy pace from the esplanade down to Gourock and back. It’s a warm, windy day and I’ve made the mistake of wearing a rain jacket so I’m fucking roasting. This is the last time I’m trusting the iPhone weather app. I genuinely think it’s run by some prick in Silicon Valley who just says “ah it’s Scotland just put down rain as the forecast. Oh and pass me my gun”.
By the time we get to the first kilometre my heart rate is up at 160bpm. This is effects of doing nothing for almost 8 weeks and the importance of keeping your training going. I remember my heart rate would average 149bpm for 70 minutes at 4:15/km. This was during the marathon schedule but still, I need to get back to that.
I come back home to a whatsapp message from Mark Pollard. The whole way through lockdown he’s text me every day asking me if I’ve ran 100 miles for that week because I told him once I would love to run 100 have run miles a week consistently. He knows fine fucking well I haven’t/never have run/ran 100 miles a week in my life. He can see my garmin connect account so he’s proper on the wind up. He’s a black hearted bastard.
I wake up on Saturday feeling genuinely fucked from that run. How on earth am I feeling buggered from that run? In response to this feeling I lace up and head out for another hour’s run. I’m feeling incredibly unfit again but I don’t care as I know it’s all money in the bank.
After the run I head up to my big brother’s house to do some weights. I spoke to George a few weeks ago and asked if he could help me to lift some weights to make me stronger for running. He replied with: “Yes of course and you’re adopted. Your real parents are Polish”.
Doesn’t make sense George. Everyone knows I look like a leprechaun. A malnourished one at that.
He lays out the weights and barbell in his patioed back garden with a quite ingenious set up. He has his brown and blue bins set up as a squat rack. It pains me to say that I’m impressed with his home gym creativity. I always thought George was simple. Anyways he tells me to do squats, dead lifts and shoulder press.
I forgot how weak I was because George told me to deadlift 35kg for 5 reps. He showed me the proper technique and off I embarked on my weight lifting journey.
I knew I was weak but not this weak. I barely squeezed out the 5 reps and afterwards my glutes were quivering like Prince Andrew in a Pizza Express. After 3 sets, I did the squats and the shoulder press exercises and that was me finished for the day. After the weights, and being convinced my arse was going to burst into song, I drove home and had a protein shake to get those damn gains. I’ve been using one called VOOM nutrition chocolate and vanilla flavour. It is awesome and I highly recommend it.
My arse feels like it’s had a terrible beating so I decide to take a day off on the Sunday and not tell anyone my arse is sore.
Monday is the last day for my holiday and I realise I’ve seen my good friend and training partner Neil McLaughlin in a while so I text him for a run and we meet up to run 9 miles.
Once again, the weather is pretty pish and cloudy/really warm but I’ve learned from past experiences and not listened to iPhone weather. I wear my Inverclyde AC t-shirt and shorts so I immediately feel the benefit as I start running.
Today’s run feels much better and my legs don’t feel anywhere near as bad as Friday or Saturday. The conversation is flowing with Neil and he tells me he’s off Tinder which is a bit like the Pope saying he’s going to stop giving mass.
Myself and Neil trained for the marathon last time and discussed the 2021 marathon. I genuinely think the 2021 London Marathon will be better because it’s not until October 2021. That means a summer training plan for the marathon which means better weather, lighter nights and mornings and most importantly you don’t need to wear 5 layers on clothing just to stay warm during a session.
BANG!!!!.......It’s happening again…..
My bowels start moving and I know for a fact I’m going to need to stop for a shit at some point. The local council (pure shite council) have started to open the public toilets again as the lockdown restrictions ease up and there’s a public toilet open but it’s 2 miles away. Can I hold on?? Well we kept our pace easy and we reached the toilet in under 15 mins, however, there’s someone in the cubical and they don’t sound like they’re going to be quick.
I decided to run out to our turning point, run back and hopefully this guy is out the toilet. By the time we get to the turn I know it’s DEFCON 1. It’s fucking imminent. My bowels are sending the nukes and I need to find a way to hold them back. It’s like the cold war in my bowels just now. My bowels are like Russia sending the nukes and my arsehole is like America holding them back.
I need to stop as I’m afraid in case I shit myself. How bad would that be eh? A 31-year-old, baldy, ginger beard, malnourished boy shitting himself in the middle of a promenade in Gourock. As I stop Neil tells me he’ll meet me at the toilet.
I can see it in the distance as it’s only around 300 metres away but with the way my bowels are feeling it may as well be a marathon. I’m standing in the middle of Gourock pretending I’m stretching my hamstring when my bowels suddenly ease up and I feel better. The cramps ease off and I sprint to the toilet where I can see Neil waiting patiently. What a good pal!
I get in, get the job done and thank the running gods for saving me from a public shit catastrophe in the middle of Gourock during a pandemic.
When we start running again, I feel much better and Neil tells me I need to get a grip of my bowels. I agree and decide that I now have 2 targets….
Become an aerobic monster again and………sort out my diet!
Until next week!
Ps: Below is the picture of my tooth……..Enjoy 😊