Saturday, March 18, 2017
I was wished a happy St. Patrick’s Day by the people in a record shop where I had to pick up a concert ticket. They saw my name on the booking and were wondering what kind of weird name it was till I told them it was Irish. Then they wanted to know what it meant. I told them a small black-haired fella, which of course I’m not. They remembered it was March 17, wished me a great day for my country’s “Festtag” and suggested I should go out and drink loads, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to me or any other Irish man, woman or child.
But I didn’t drink at all. It was the soberest I’ve been for Paddy’s Day since I was a baby. I haven’t had a drink now for seven weeks. Though the outlook is bleak and I still can’t run, I haven’t given up on this marathon. My life is on hold till April 23. Whatever happens, I’ll have a drink then.
“He extends himself far beyond his means, pushing his limits and exceeding his own capabilities. The failure of his titanic struggle is preordained, but in the face of overwhelming oppression Stroszek never stops trying anyway.”
I feel like Stroszek. You must go on. I can’t go on. I’ll go on.
The years have gone quickly as forgetful old people say. Of course when I arrived in Berlin I was entranced by all I saw and experienced. Everything was possible in a world turned on its head, flipped right over. Suddenly I was someone else, awakened to life, swimming in new experiences and discoveries and the Spree, buck naked at a theologians’ party. In hindsight, I see now that many of these new experiences simply involved letting go of preconceived ideas, and clothes.
I discovered that I could dance after all because the Germans don’t give a shite what they look like when they dance. They don’t give a shite about anything unless you cross a red light when there’s a kid within 300 meters.
Now I feel I know Berlin and it knows me. I know when you get post in German it’s bad; if you get post in any other language it’s good. I chat with the neighbors and the conversation invariably turns to how things were better in the DDR. “Not all things!” I remind them. And they agree. But they’d just as soon put the Wall back up again to keep the investors away. The antique shop downstairs is closing in June because they can’t afford the rent.
I just read Metamorphosis by Kafka and while I’m not turning into a cockroach, I guess I’m changing too. Being a father will do that to you. He was only a twinkle in my eye when I got here but I’m glad he made it. Where the other twinkles will lead is anyone’s guess.
Tuesday, March 14, 2017
It happened Thursday on an easy 8K run. I was taking it easy as I didn’t want to screw up the right knee, which was troubling me when I ran 25K on Tuesday. I knew right away there was something wrong with the left – couldn’t walk for two days afterward.
Dr. Ziesche was able to diagnose it straight away, put his thumb right where the pain is. When I told him about the stabbing pains down from my right knee he asked if I had back problems. I do, and they’re the cause of that apparently. I’m a wreck.
He was sympathetic but said it doesn’t look good for the marathon. It’s in 5½ weeks.
He told me to rest for 10 days before doing anything, that I “might be lucky” and it might have cleared up then but it usually takes much longer. It’s usually four to five weeks, he said. There’s a danger of antagonizing it if you start back too soon.
He prescribed Ibuprofen and I’ve to go for physiotherapy. I’ve to see an orthopedist about the back.
I haven’t given up but I’m obviously less confident I’ll be able to do the marathon now. I was supposed to run 26K yesterday, could only go swimming. It’s a setback, potentially a fatal setback, but I’m not giving up.
Wednesday, March 01, 2017
I went to the doctor today after the run. Bronchitis. She told me to stop running for a whole week, rest up, do nothing, inhale steam, eat soup, drink herbal teas and ginger. She wrote down a load of shit but I can’t read it – doctors’ handwriting. She also prescribed some tablets that dissolve in water.
I already take more pills everyday than a techno junkie. Magnesium tablets, ginkgo, krill oil, guarana, vitamins and some "Gelenk" tablets for the knee to cure cartilage damage and a meniscus tear.
I’m eating salads and loads of fruit – no pancakes for me! – and I’ve cut out tea, coffee and alcohol. I haven’t had a drink since one last rum after work on Jan. 27.
I should be fit as a fiddle but obviously I’m not. It’s like I have the body of a Trabi, constantly braking down. But Trabis can go forever. Despite everything, I’m actually pretty confident I’ll run it. Maybe it’s delusion but it’s strong stuff. I’m more determined than ever. If it was on tomorrow I’d fucking run it, or hobble it if I had to, the whole damn thing.
As I mentioned I have a training plan now, approved by three people who’ve actually run marathons, including my cousin who gave me invaluable advice.
"Don’t overdo it and listen to your body!" she said. So I was all ears, listening to my body gasping until it told me there was no way in hell it was doing any more. The green numbers are what I’ve actually run compared to what I’m supposed to run in the black. Now I just have to amend it to include a rest week.
Last week I transferred another €500 to MSF. That’s €2,000 for their Syrian appeal so far. I’m so grateful to everyone! I’m sure the money will help improve people’s lives somehow, alleviate their pain or even just give them a glimpse of hope, a reminder that there is indeed kindness and compassion in the world.
The fundraising continues. I’ve chipped in too – I wouldn’t ask anyone to donate if I hadn’t. But of course I’m greedy – the more we raise the more people we help, the more hope we spread. There are only 53 days, 7 hours, 39 minutes and 23 seconds (as I type) until the Madrid Maratón. Every second counts.
IBAN DE09500105175554452542 (BIC: INGDDEFFXXX) or donate below.