I knew it was bad when I started to cry. Not in a sad type way. More in a “AAAAAARRRRGGGGHHHH FLLLLIIIIIIPPPPPPPIINNNNGGGG NOOORRRAAA!” type way.

I was playing football and I knew as soon as I tried to tackle another player that they had a foot made of concrete and I had a foot made of napkins: strong enough to pick up pasta, not strong enough to build a house. There was only going to be one winner. I swung. He swung. He went right through me and I fell. I didn’t get up for three days.

When I hit the ground I snapped a tendon in my ankle. I tried to stand, I tried to hobble. I even tried to carry on “It’s alright, I’m okay!” but I quickly realised that you can’t play fives while hopping on one foot.

Someone drove me home while the game continued but as I didn’t have keys or my phone I was left standing outside my flat with no means to get in because I’d forgotten to bring my bag home with me. D’oh!

I then had to hop to my girlfriend (now wife) and hope that she was in.

I’m not sure what I looked like. Trainers, shorts, one legged and bawling but I do know that I saw no one on the way there. The same way that a charging lion doesn’t tend to see anyone because all the antelopes run away when they hear it roar. Hop. AAAAAARRRGGH. Hop. AAAAARRGGH. Hop.

That night I tried to sleep but I couldn’t even lay a blanket on my foot as the weight of even a silk sheet was like an elephant jumping on my foot.

“I think I need to go to the hospital,” I said.

“You think,” said the now Mrs TwinBikeRun, looking very haggard after a night of failing to sleep because I kept screaming.

At the hospital a doctor confirmed I’d snapped an ankle.

“But I’ve got some good news,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yes, you’re in luck, we’ve just had an orthopaedic boot returned so you won’t need crutches, instead you can wear a massive plastic welly with no toes that’s impossible to keep your feet dry when it rains and it makes it look like you’re doing a good impression of Robocop’s leg”

(Not his exact words, but that’s what he meant).

He then took out the boot.

“That looks like a moonboot,” I said, trying to convince myself that it would be cool to be an astronaught and that my return to work would see me being asked:

“How did you get injured.”

And I’d say: “Injured? Me? No, I’m off to the moon!”

But all the doctor said was: “A moonboot? Don’t be daft. It’s a surgical shoe.”

Trust a doctor to ruin things by naming it correctly. Just like they spoil that innocent headache you’ve had for three weeks by calling it a brain tumour. The spoilsports.

That’s why most runners don’t go to see the doctor when they’re injured. They’ll only tell you that you’re injured and that you have to stop running. And no one wants to be told that. Instead, if you don’t go to the doctor, you’ll never be injured…. unless someone snaps your ligament. Then definitely go and see a doctor.