As soon as we crossed the finish line and stopped running I had somehow forgotten how to walk. My knees no longer wanted to bend. The short walk from the finish to Trafalgar Square took me a ridiculously long time. Continents move faster. Mark wasn't feeling well and Brogan was trying not to thump a very vocal nearby idiot, so we trudged on at a snail's pace. It was great to meet up with our families and friends and have a sit down at the fountain's edge. I removed my trainers to give my punished feet an illicit dip and this is the sight that greeted me:
Isn't that a beauty?
The next day my knees were both still in a fixed position, but I could walk. Getting from a seated position to standing however took a lot more effort and faith than I could ever have imagined. The cupboards were bare and I had to head out to the cornershop for something to eat. On an ordinary day it would take me less than five minutes to get there and back again. The day after the marathon the round trip took at least an hour. It must have been like watching a contender for the world's shortest stiltwalker take those first few tentative steps into a future that is both pointless and terrifying.
Over the next few days movement returned to my knees and I began to walk less and less like I was evacuating my bowels with each step. I quickly discovered that stairs were the enemy and that heading down was much worse than climbing them. In the midst of all this the down escalator at my nearest tube station broke, appropriately down, and I faced either a long walk to another station or a perilous and agonising descent to platform level. I'm still taking ibuprofen to help with the inflamation but it's getting easier all the time and I haven't had to place frozen peas of knees since last Monday.
At the risk of sounding like a broken record, you can still sponsor us and if you still need a reason you can take another look at my blister:
Total sponsorship to date = £1,963.14
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