Tonky Talk

Paul finds running and toothache are a bad match

Heartened by last month’s speed session, I entered a local track race, the Golden Stag Mile. Then the tooth pain emerged. Just a dull ache at first, but enough to send me to the chemist pleading for pain relief. Things spiralled from there. I drove north for gigs feeling a bit woozy, then lost my phone at a services. Off-grid, adrift, floating on a co-codamol high, I went to Devon for a break. By now, I was taking painkillers every few hours or so. On Sunday morning, I rang round for emergency dentists: nothing. Monday morning: nothing again. Distrust of the out-of-towner paired with Covid restrictions meant a phone diagnosis was all I was getting. What level was my pain at? I don’t know – seven? Is my face swollen? Slightly. I was prescribed amoxicillin and told to see my local dentist the following Monday.

I still ran. I swam in the sea. I lay in the sun. Despite the fog of it all, I had a laugh and lost about half a stone: eating was painful, so I did it just once a day (surprisingly easy). And being off-grid became comfortable – not twitching through films, not waking up of a morning and rowing with the world, my consciousness assailed by beeps and infernal notifications. I took my news the old-fashioned way, with a paper, and I went to bed more peaceful as a result.

But over it all hung the question – should I do the race? I wasn’t at my best. Although only a mile, it would still be a stretch. Better to just be conservative and rest up. My body was fighting something, so why not help it?

The day before the race, I had a podcast recording on the run with the wonderful Jo Pavey; just a steady five-miler or so, then a drive to a gig in Worcester, then home. Not ideal. As it turns out, a steady five with Jo easily morphs into a moderate eight. Then the gig was cancelled, but I didn’t know till I got there because I didn’t have my phone. I awoke on Saturday tired, in pain and still questioning the race. Should I? Not really. Would I? What do you think?

The tooth pain seemed to intensify as the race approached and I was popping pills like smarties in the hours beforehand. Lining up, it all felt unreal. I was heavy but floating, faintly nauseous and because of the drying-up qualities of pain relief, I hadn’t had a ‘movement’ in three days. Do we need any more excuses?

The plan, such as it was, was to start slow, then press on in the last two laps. This did not happen. My lack of speed and general dissolution were compounded by the fact I’d forgotten a golden rule of club athletics: people lie about their time to have a chance of winning a race. So, 5:40-milers go in the sub-6:00 race; sub-6:00-milers go in the 6:20 race etc. In a fit of madness I’d entered the sub-6 race and when we set off, I was swamped by the field as they sped away. I settled in at the back, going through the first lap dead last in 84 secs. This is 5:40 pace; surely at some point it will settle? Nope. By halfway, which I struggled through in 3:01, hope of a surge was fading. There was nothing in my legs, my will was broken and the only silver lining was that my calf held. I finished in a career worst of 6:20.

Two days later, I was in a dentist’s chair for root canal treatment, being set upon by a guy dressed as Darth Vader and wielding a drill. Reality bites; reality bites hard.