Not so fast, pardner...

High on a hill overlooking Glenwood Springs and accessed by a steep, half-mile dirt trail is am archetypical pioneer cemetery that contains a monument to Doc Holliday, the gunslinging, gambling dentist who backed Wyatt Earp at the OK Corral and died in bed of tuberculosis aged 36.

I have to admit that on the way up to pay my respects to John Henry, I was figuring out what a great place this would be to do some fast-draw 800m repeats. The day's schedule was for 10x400, but so far Glenwood Springs had failed to produce a flat bit of road, grass or pavement -- Highway I 70 excepted. Then, glory be, pausing at a bench on the climb up, the sound of a ghostly horse-drawn hearse in my ears, there was a vision... laid out before me in the distant heat haze on the other side of town -- a track, a proper running track!

But here the story ends sadly. Attempting a test jog on the way down, my back produced the first of what was a series of spasms. You know the sort of thing. One moment you're loose and limber (if a little cautious)... the next.. well, not to stretch the analogy too far, but it's as if you've been shot in the kidney by a .45 slug from a Colt Peacemaker.

That pretty much put an end to thoughts of training. It was my own stupid fault as usual. Chiropractor Dr Dave, when I got myself to him today, in between trying not to laugh as I told him the provenance of this latest "tweak" suggested I could write a book on how people could injure themselves.

It started on Saturday. We were off for a three-day trip to celebrate our anniversary, I knew I might miss a day's training, at least. So just before we left I went for a run, did some exercise drills, then decided for good measure to try for a PR deadlift while doing plyometrics between sets. My journal entry reads: "Weights. PR 170lb, 5,4,3 reps...right on the edge of injury".

"You haven't done your back in, have you?" said Abby, as we loaded the car.
"No, no, I'm fine", I said through gritted teeth, adding under my breath, "I always walk like this".

Crawling out of the car 3 hours later I realised I was in trouble, and would have to a) admit it to Abby and b) rewrite that training diary entry.

But this was a pampering, relaxed long weekend. After rest and my first ever LA Stone massage treatment immediately following 15 minutes Total Sweat in the natural sauna of the hot caves, I really thought I was going to be OK. Until the descent from Doc Holliday.

So, I'm really sympathising with our pal littlemamalopez, who suffered five days off sick. I am not quite climbing the walls yet, but VERY frustrated. I had to miss the Dash & Dine 5k last night, although judging by the times it was another hard night in the wind. More to the point, I'm starting to wonder exactly WHEN this season is going to get started. I just can't seem to get a run at consistent training without something happening. It's starting to seem like a bad dream, where you're running flat out and getting nowhere. (Actually that's not a dream, that was me in the Uni Hill 2k two years ago.)

Still and all, I'm hoping that the enforced rest, plus the gentle hiking, will maybe pay off in allowing my body to assimilate the intravenous iron I got last week. I am sentenced to a couple more days of "light jogging". Then I'm going to hit another time trial session on Saturday and we'll see whether I've got slower or benefited from the rest.

Doc Holliday had a fearsome reputation. He was quick, very quick, but in action he rarely hit the target. One time he got into yet another argument in a bar; they both drew. The other guy got off one shot to Doc's three. Doc missed his adversary with one shot, hit the saloon owner in the hand with another and with his third got the bartender in the foot.

I know how he feels. I know I'm quick, but I keep missing my targets -- like 36 miles a week -- and hitting others at the expense of what I should really be focusing on.

Unlike Doc, I don't have the excuse of being drunk. Just stupid.