Twinge. Niggle. Stabbing pain in calf. All warning signs that runners regularly ignore so they can get that extra run in.

My right calf had been playing up for a week or two but I couldn’t quite decide whether it was “uncomfortable” (okay, according to Sam) or painful (not okay, according to Sam).

We runners (ha! Still get a thrill writing that, like I’m some sort of professional) tend to ignore injury as much as we can.

Anything that stops us going out for that exercise needs to be ignored.

That’s why when runners get injured, they get really injured.

The calf seemed to pull when I was running up a hill but there was an easy solution to this. Just walk instead.

I don’t think I moaned too much.

Mind you, we’ve been with coach Tony at BodyFit a fair bit and I’m sure he thinks I can’t really run because I’m fat.

The last few times there’s always something stopping me and I think he thinks I’m having him on.

However, when running started to reach the “my leg is going to fall off” stage, I tried to get an appointment with a sports physio.

These appointments are rarer than hen’s teeth because they are so busy.

Who knew West Cumbria had so many injured sportspeople?

So it was two weeks before I could see anyone.

In the meantime, Sam recommended stretches and using a rolling pin up and down the offending leg.

I don’t think the husband was too impressed as he was breadmaking at the time and I kind of covered myself in flour.

It worked though. The feeling that someone was kicking me in the calf with a pointy shoe had receded to a dull throb (like they’d swapped stilettos for Doc Martens, without the steel toecaps).

I got to the physio, thinking she’d tell me it was all in my head.

I rolled up my trousers and showed off my calves.

“Hmmmmm,” she said. “One calf is bigger than the other. I think you may have torn something.”

Reassuring in a way because I’ve hit a running plateau and at least I would have something to blame.

I still whimpered, although I knew it was going to be okay though as this lovely petite, delicate woman was going to fix me.

I laid down on the bed. She prodded me a bit.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” she said.

“Mmmmmm, good please.” “It’s not a tear. The bad news? It’s not a tear. But we’ll sort it out.”

For the next 10 minutes, I swear she used red hot needles under my skin.

I have not felt pain like it, although admittedly I have a low pain threshold.

I began to whimper a bit louder and then yelped several times.

I would have happily screamed the place down but the front door went and her next client had arrived.

There was only a curtain between me and the next victim so I felt a bit embarrassed.

As the tears rolled down my cheeks, the physio told me she wasn’t actually being as aggressive as she could be. Oh dear.

When the torture was over, the lady physio informed me that I should be okay but we needed to work on my core – apparently my pelvis is out of sync due to over-compensating thanks to the calf and needs to be sorted out next.

My appointment is tomorrow. Wish me luck.