Way back in the mists of time, when dinosaurs roamed the internet and nobody had heard the words ‘Instagram’ or ‘TikTok’, Victoria Beckham wrote a book containing all her advice on how to make “the best of yourself”. I say ‘wrote’ but I think probably she dictated it to someone, as I would too, had I millions in the bank and an unfeasibly handsome husband in my bed. Having neither of these things, my editor at the time devised an absolute wheeze of a feature, which saw me living my life according to Victoria’s book for an entire week. This mostly involved constant blow-dries, endless facials and tottering around in designer clothes I couldn’t afford on six-inch heels that gave me bunions. I think my conclusion was that it was very exhausting to live like Victoria Beckham, and while I admired her very much, it was unlikely I would ever be able to do anything other than make the worst of myself.
The years passed, and life forced me to begrudgingly accept that I would never have anything in common with Victoria Beckham. Then, last week, everything changed. In one damascene moment, I learned that we were finally twin souls. Of sorts. No, I didn’t win the lottery and no, my husband didn’t have a makeover. Instead, I wound up on crutches, much like Posh, who has recently been hobbling in and out of fashion shows after breaking her foot.
Of course I would choose to be more Victoria Beckham when her footwear comprised an orthopaedic boot, rather than a pair of Christian Louboutins.
Let me explain. According to reports, the former Spice Girl injured herself in the gym last month. A broken foot might be enough to put most people off exercise, but not our Victoria, who is apparently refusing to stop going to the gym in preparation for her forthcoming 50th birthday party, where, in typical Posh Spice style, she wants to show the best of herself. Last week, she revealed on Instagram that her husband David had bought her a mobility scooter to help her get around without putting any more pressure on her leg. It was, she said, the best present he’d ever given her (and for her 40th birthday he gave her a £50,000 diamond bracelet).
Laugh if you will, but I know Victoria’s pain. Quite literally. For much like Victoria, I have sustained a midlife injury from doing too much exercise. As many readers will know, I have been training for a big challenge this month, to raise money for Mental Health Mates. I had planned to run the Brighton Marathon, and then, over two weeks, to run to the capital, where on arrival, I would run the London Marathon. In total this would be around 120 miles. And so it was that last autumn, I began my training.
The miles went up, and all was well. Then, as I approached my final long run of the programme three weeks ago, I came down with a terrible head cold, the kind that knocks you out in exhaustion. I lay in bed for a couple of days, feeling a bit sorry for myself, and then dusted myself off and out to do my weekly long run. I had 17 miles in the diary, and figured I would be okay because I had done this distance before, just a few weeks earlier. Six miles in, it began to rain. Torrentially. I pushed on. Ten miles in, I felt a tugging in my left leg that didn’t feel right, but it was nothing too terrible and besides, I had been reading books by ultra-runners that told me the body was capable of far more than we give it credit for. At fifteen and a half miles, I “gave up”. I was cold and in pain and knew that nothing good would come from carrying on.
The next day, I woke up in agony. The physio told me to rest and try again in a couple of days. I did, and felt a severe tugging in my leg that suggested I needed to sit down. I found myself on a main road in south London, weeping in pain but also the slow dawning realisation that I was going nowhere, very, very slowly. I was referred for an MRI, which revealed I had fractured my shin. At the hospital, they put me in a boot and handed me some crutches, before telling me I would be out of action for the next six weeks. No running challenge for me, or at least not this year. I hobbled home feeling devastated, and – taking instruction from Victoria Beckham – got my husband to wait on me hand and foot.
“I don’t know what is worse,” he said, bringing me breakfast in bed. “You whanging on about all the running you are doing, or you not being able to run at all because you have a broken leg.”
There is something very humbling about being incapacitated two weeks before you are supposed to run a marathon. I have realised that I am not the sprightly thing who ran her first marathon at 36. Only seven years have passed since then but I have gone through perimenopause, and already my bones aren’t as resilient as they used to be. The doctor says the damage is not too bad and I will be able to do it next year, so I will. The running challenge has not ended – it has simply been extended by 12 months. But in the meantime, much like the wonderful Victoria Beckham, I feel unable to sit still, even when ordered to do so by a medical professional. We are, after all, midlife women, and we haven’t come this far by relaxing or doing what we’re told. So we pivot. And just as Posh has decided to keep working out in the gym, I will keep moving – I will just have to move differently. I have been told I can do as much swimming as I like. So with that in mind, this year’s challenge is about to become a Swim-a-thon. Perhaps I can even get Posh to join me.
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