All In The Name Of Science

Why don't Flintstone's Chewable Morphine exist?

Despite waking up exhausted this morning, I woke up with a giant smile on my face.

My smile had nothing to do with the fact that it was Friday, nor with the fact that I had spent some beer and chicken wing1 filled time with colleagues the night before. It also had nothing to do with some sort of defence against the potential evil that could befall me given that today was Friday the 13th.

While all of these things could have been the source of my big stupid grin, it was actually due to the knowledge that I was going to be getting my first massage in months. A much-needed, long overdue massage.

Normally I build massage, chiropractic visits, and acupuncture into my schedule of short runs, sprints, long runs, hill training, stretching, and yoga. In my mind, it’s essential to ensure that my body doesn’t fall apart, break down, or start screaming at me for putting it through the paces. However, given the insanity that was the previous semester, I just never found the time. It’s not that I didn’t have time, per se – I just chose to use the time I had to work on other things, or go for runs, or stretch, or in some very rare cases – sleep.

As a result of this negligent behaviour I’ve been extremely tight – especially in my hip flexors, glutes, hamstrings, etc. I take every opportunity to stretch but it just hasn’t been enough. If Flintstone’s Chewable Morphine existed, I’d likely have taken them to treat the aches and pains that come hand in hand with extremely tight muscles. Sadly, they don’t, and this is the reason that I’ve been wanting to book a massage for ages.

This week I finally booked a massage.

Patrick and not me. But that could be me - getting a massage in the name of science.

And, dear readers, my massage did not disappoint. In fact, it was better than I expected. Yes, everything was sensitive and tight, and yes, everything felt bruised to touch. But my hips, hamstrings, glutes, shins, thighs, lower back, calves, feet, and pretty much everywhere else Patrick – my RMT – poked, felt about 10 gagillion times better after only an hour of massage.

I’m pretty convinced that Patrick has magic fingers, but haven’t yet been able to produce the evidence to prove this. As a science-y type person, I know the only way to determine this is via repeated experiments. As such, I’ve taken on the challenge of repeatedly exposing myself to potentially dangerous and life threatening massage treatmentsso that I might test this theory. The risks I take, I take not for fame or glory, but so that I might expand the collective knowledge of humanity. That’s right folks, I’m getting massage to benefit you. I’m giving like that.

Massage in the name of science – it has a nice ring, no?

1 A couple of pints of Flying Monkey Smashbomb with Salt & Pepper Chicken Wings and awesome colleagues at the Woolwich Arrow is a recipe for a pretty awesome Thursday night.

2 Potentially dangerous in the sense that I might slip into a coma or fall of the table because I’m so relaxed. Life threatening in the sense that should I fall off the table, I might smash open my face and die. Probability of occurrence – about zero.


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