Morning Story: Back to dreaming about Coast

I've always wanted to do the Coast to Coast.

It's the Ranfurly Shield of Kiwi adventure racing. A holy grail of alpine cycling, white-water kayaking and boulder jumping, a competitive version of Frodo and Sam's quest to Mordor.

To boot, on the finish line you get a can of Fresh Up and a hug from the mad Robin Judkins. That's worth the entry fee alone.

Thinking baby steps, I registered for the event's more sedate second-cousin, twice removed - yesterday's Hawke's Bay Today Country 2 Coast - only to wake in the morning with a crook back. I blame Saturday's painting session where I spent hours on my back Michelangelo-like, painting skirting boards.

That put paid to participating in the event. It was rather frustrating. Earlier I woke eager to walk the 7km picturesque track, only to leap out of bed to realise someone had lodged a rusty, blunt tomahawk in my lower back. At least that's how it felt.

I'm now angry and lame.

Maybe that's why they call sick people patients, because patience is what it takes to endure sickness. The frustrating thing is I've only recently recovered from another back strain.

Just three weeks ago walking off (another) bad back, I strolled past a house on Hastings' Whitehead Rd early morning and had a rabid dog lunge at the gate, snarling with teeth like ivory thorns.

I thought back to our chicken coop when I was a kid, where I watched in disbelief as the rest of the brood incessantly pecked a sick hen. The menacing pooch must have sensed my injury, and pounced at the opportunity.

I'm glad the property had a high gate, because I wouldn't have been able to put up much of a fight. The law of the jungle would have ruled. Darwin would have been nodding in quiet approval as I became a dog's breakfast.

I think that's why us males hate being injured. Moreover why we're reluctant to see the doctor. We keep our injuries hidden in case someone takes advantage. We have a primal instinct to both hunt for and protect our families. When we're incapacitated, impaired or sick, we feel threatened and vulnerable. If it weren't for the cling-wrapped dead animals in my freezer, my whanau would have starved.

Back pain is a most debilitating pain. Worse than toothache, worse than those rare moments where you confuse your tongue for sirloin, worse than a eye-poke in a ruck.

Pain killers are a small mercy. I've kept a small pack handy the past two days. The merciful active ingredient is the alien-sounding diclofenac potassium, packaged in tiny pink pills. Oddly enough, the box tells me they're made in Turkey. Mini-Turkish delights, I say. I don't think I'm addicted, yet, but I do need twice the dosage before I can stand upright. Thing is, just when I feel well enough to tackle savage dogs again, I get sleepy because of the high dosage. Then there's the advice not to drink alcohol while on pain killers. Pardon? They're both anaesthetics in my book, and will be treated as a holy marriage until further notice.

Anyway, with my continued high intake of booze and paint fumes, I'm guessing my dream of completing the Coast to Coast will never materialise. Of course, I can always buy a can of Fresh Up to wash the painkillers down - but a hug from Judkins now seems unrealistic.

 Mark Story is deputy editor at Hawke's Bay Today.