European Masters Championship 2003, Pescara Italy.

The European Championships loom just three weeks away, and my body is now a sophisticated patchwork of pain and regret. Regular trips to physiotherapists, sports therapists, and anyone who will take pity on me become part of the daily grind, along with a stretching routine so intricate, Cirque du Soleil would be impressed. A week later, my back finally starts behaving, and naturally, I take this as a sign that I’m invincible once more.

Off I go to the track for a “gentle” session, just to test the waters, mind you. I go through the usual warm-up routine, trying to look convincing as I stretch muscles that seem to protest in 17 different languages. However, after a few easy 50m sprints, my adductor and hip flexor issue a joint statement of disapproval. In fact, they deliver their message with such enthusiasm that I halt the session immediately, realising that recovery might not be a straight line, but more of a rollercoaster with missing safety bars.

Two weeks to go, and I cling to optimism the way one clings to the hope that their lost keys will magically appear in the same spot they’ve already checked seven times. The European Championships are so close, and yet, my groin is still holding daily protests. Upon arrival, I make a beeline for the Medical Team. They do their best, loosening muscles, adding more tape than is strictly necessary, and offering looks that say, “Maybe consider tiddlywinks instead?”

Feeling somewhat improved, but still carrying the groin niggle like an uninvited guest, I withdraw from the 100m. Pragmatism wins, for once. A few more visits to the Medical Team follow, who by now must be operating some sort of tape rewards program, judging by how much is wrapped around my thigh.

Race day arrives. I warm up and feel… okay-ish. Not great, not terrible. That is, until I push for full power in the race. Four seconds in, my adductor waves the white flag, tears violently, and sends a wave of pain so profound it could double as a sound effect in a horror film. My European Championship dream? Over. Time elapsed? Four seconds. Who says sprinting isn’t fast?

Disappointment is inevitable, but the past eight weeks have made me well acquainted with disappointment, so we nod at each other in passing. Rather than sulk, I spend the rest of the event cheering on friends and fellow GBR athletes. The absence from the 4x100m relay, a race I cherish for its team spirit, stings, but watching the M60 GBR team take gold softens the blow. It’s a win for all of us, even if I contributed nothing but moral support and a limp.

Now, I face months of rehabilitation and careful rebuilding. Slow and steady, I tell myself, knowing full well I’ve made this promise before. But this time, I plan to stick to it. Mostly. Maybe.er, and, with a bit of luck, faster than before.