Moderation

Okay, so après killer cardio session in the gym last Thursday, obviously the most sensible thing to do was meet the rest of the Journal crew at Clayton’s for Chris Rogers leaving party.

When I arrived at 9pm Chris and crew were already the noisy and dribbling side of a few drinks. For a moment I contemplated staying sober and smugly looking on as my colleagues embarrassed themselves. But Laura had already ordered me a vodka and cranberry— well you’ve got to treat yourself right?

A few drinks later, and I couldn’t feel the pain in my back at all, incredible, best drink more.

We then all stumbled into Sherries hoping for some good drunken comedy courtesy of the locals. And we weren’t disappointed, plenty of hollering and general foul behaviour going on, and that was mostly from our table.

We were slightly disappointed at the lack of Karaoke, so the rest of the pub were treated to our word for word rendition of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody- led by Anna, before seamlessly drifting into Prince’s Purple Rain, and finishing on a grand finale of New York, New York—cleverly adapted by Laura and Anna to Torquay, Torquay in honour of Chris leaving to go to Torquay.

I woke up on Friday feeling the effects of two nights drinking. I should add that up to this point I have been in really hard training and my body just isn’t used to it. But I might never have the excuse to party without guilt again, so I’m seeing it as an entertaining social experiment.

The weekend came and Laura and I decided to escape the bubble, and venture down to Welcombe Mouth on the Devon and Cornwall border to meet up with an old college friend Anna, and some others. We spent the day sunning ourselves on the rocks and swimming, and had a barbecue in the evening.

The day was made easier by the fact that the surf was barely rideable, so I was quite happy to bake myself for the day.

In the evening I was descended upon by my dear friend Karly, who is getting married at Cawsand near Plymouth on September 27. The impending wedding has morphed my friend into what can only be described as bridezilla. The woman is a nightmare. If it isn’t the hen weekend, it’s the wedding and all the organisation that goes with it.

I had envisaged my Saturday night might be spent with my friends chilling with a cider. Karly evidently had other ideas. In fact I was to be dragged on a wedding invitation delivery hell mission. The reason? The suppressed pirate in her thought it would be a marvellous idea to have her wedding invitations rolled up in scroll form, and stuffed into a glass bottle… beautiful, original and romantic I know—but not very easy to shove through a letter box.

So to my horror on a Saturday night I find myself in a garden at my other smug married couple friends’ house, Kim and Shane, with bridezilla, being made to feel horribly single by my dearest friends.
After a good hour of being berated about my love life by the little treasures, I managed to escape to Laura’s. Laura is also single and had sent me the following text message:

“Hurry up, I’m sitting in on a Saturday night eating cheese and watching Mean Girls.”

Laura and I, being the party girls that we are, then wrapped ourselves in shawls and started watching Muriel’s Wedding. However a week of excess had taken its toll, and we both fell asleep on the sofas and woke up at midnight—time for bed, rock and roll.

Sunday morning I did a cardio session in the gym, again mainly cross-trainer stuff, although I did do a sly run as well…

Sunday afternoon, and the surf is still flat (thank god) and me Laura and Matt decide to head down to Middle Beach Woolacombe to catch some rays. As had the rest of North Devon judging by the volume of cars at Marine Drive.

It’s always lovely at Middle Beach, you tend to get more of a local crowd down there. Plus the car park is cheaper than the ones in the main village, and the money goes back into the parish, rather than into some corporate monstrosity…

Monday comes and it’s time to look at my X-Rays with the harbinger of back doom, Stephen Masters. Who, amongst other things, tells me I have a grade one Isthmic Spondylolisthesis—this is apparently good news as it could be a grade five and then I’d be in serious trouble.

And it’s not all doom and gloom, as Stephen said there is no reason I can’t surf in small waves with moderation.

Oscar Wilde ( Novelist, 1854-1900) said: “Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like excess.

A confusing debate then struck up about how much I can actually surf.

Stephen: “There is no reason for you to not be training in moderation, you just need to stop when you feel yourself getting tired, as this will be when you put strain on your back.”

Chloe: “I don’t really get tired, give me timings.”

“If you normally surf for two hours you should cut it down to one, and not go out when it’s massive and you’re going to be paddling lots.”

“And what about training, what training can I do, can I be running, cross training?”

“You shouldn’t really be doing that movement, it will put strain on your back.”

“What not even a little bit, what if I just go easy.”

“It would be better if you didn’t train this week and just do the exercises I’ve given you.”

“I was planning on going to the gym after this.”

“Chloe, what do you want me to say to you.”

“I don’t know.. whatever’s best for me.”

“Well okay if you do train please try and think about your back, and keep in mind the brace position (exercise Stephen has given me to strengthen my abs and glutes, so they take the strain off my back) just think brace, all the time, at your desk, when you walk, all the time, it’s very boring.”

So here I am at my desk, bracing. As I drive I brace. As I ran on the beach last night I was bracing…

I am aware I look very upright and tense.

My back hurts..

About three weeks ago I became aware that I had a pain in my lower back. Obviously I ignored it and carried on surfing and training thinking it would go away.But following three weeks of manically smothering myself in deep heat to numb the pain, and developing a hobble which resembled something from the back streets of Dickensian London, I finally decided it was probably time to go and see someone about it.I managed to get at appointment with Stephen Masters at Litchdon Street chiropractor's. Who had been looking at my back for all of 20 seconds when he said: "Did you do gymnastics as a child?""Yes from the age of about five to fourteen..""Ah... There is a chance you may a have a stress fracture in your back, it's really common amongst people who used to be gymnasts."Next thing I know I'm strapped into a slightly ancient looking machine, which looks like it may have been stolen from the set of Return to Oz, having an X-Ray done on my back.Stephen told me he would ring me with the results, as I had to get back to Journal towers on mount Roundswell. The phone rang."Hi Chloe it's Stephen, I'm afraid you have got that stress fracture in your spine."I'm gutted, my head is swimming and all I can picture are images of myself trapped in some kind of metal back brace, with my mates wheeling me around the Marisco."What does this mean?""Thirteen weeks of treatment in the rehab gym twice a week."Further discussion with Stephen revealed that it's not as severe as it originally sounded, in fact the injury means if anything that I am sentenced to a lifetime of physical activity- fine by me, I'm a self confessed excersise junkie. Stephen also told me that the worst that could happen is that I end up in surgery having pins put in my back if the rehab doesn't work.The following day I flew to Barcelona for a week for Summercase festival, where there is no surf, but plenty of alcohol, so when I flew back on Tuesday my back wasn't feeling too bad, having not been put in under any strain, apart from some pretty enthusiastic dancing to Blondie- who were amazing.However, the surf came up on Tuesday night and I merrily skip down the beach feeling stupidly invincible after a week in the sun. Almost straight away as I get out back and sit on my board I'm aware I'm in pain. several waves later and I'm really in pain... I get out and realise I'm probably not going to be able to surf for a while.13 weeks in fact... What am I going to do in North Devon without surfing for 13 weeks?Presently I am filling my diary with exciting things to do, last night I got boozy with the sports team as Chris Rogers, sports editor extraordinaire is leaving.Tonight, after an hour on the cross trainer (non weight bearing) I intend to probably get boozy again as Chris is having another leaving party.I'm really hoping I can find something more to do with my time other than drink...