top of page

Nervous System Education & Performance Training

UNDER MILKWOOD (3)_edited.png
Train your nervous system to perform with clarity, resilience and control.

Performance isn't just physical. It's the nervous system behind it. 

Work With Me
Work With Me
Copy of Copy of Copy of Black and Beige Modern Professional Creative Agency Logo (3).png

I am Ingrid's Left Achilles tendon

  • Writer: Ingrid Avidon
    Ingrid Avidon
  • Apr 2, 2025
  • 3 min read

Some may say it’s a privilege being Ingrid’s left Achilles tendon. And, well, it was… in the beginning. There were perks. I got to live in Benoni, travel across mountains, through rivers, dance on tabletops, and yes — in the early days, I caught occasional glimpses of Ingrid’s boobs. From far away, of course. These days? They're much closer.


But lately? The boobs er perks are... questionable. Over the past few years, I’ve been subjected to repeated humiliations. Poked, prodded, taped (in duct tape and some other pink stuff), burnt with ice, electrocuted with shockwave therapy — it’s been a horror show. And what does the right tendon get? Nothing. She just chills on the longer leg while I take all the beatings. Unfair, right?


Ten days ago, I overheard the physio whispering that maybe she shouldn’t do the SA standard triathlon champs in PE. I was feeling niggly. Grumpy. Like I probably ate something dodgy. But was I heard? No. Ingrid mumbled something like, "I’m sure it’ll be fine..." Classic athlete speak. Denial — not just a river in Egypt. It's practically her life motto: Fortune Favours the Brave.


Well, fortune may favour the brave — but it does not favour the reckless. Or stupid as Ingrid’s mother says. Of course we did the race. I knew that Ingrid wanted to win. We had trained hard. We even did swimming training despite Ingrid’s goggle face vanity concerns.


On the run, I started protesting. Loudly. All the other tendons were getting their fancy energy juice. What did I get? Inflammatory soup. I shouted. I clenched. I begged. And Ingrid? I know that she can hear a packet of chips opening 50 m away, but she could not hear me screaming! I may be the strongest tendon in the body, but if you cut me, do I not bleed? I made her limp. I made her hobble. Then Ingrid called me stupid. ME. As if I’m the one who can’t read a compass! And some cheeky spectator yelled, “Hard-loop Ouma!” That was it. The final fibre. I snapped. Literally. That’ll teach her.


In Cape Town we went to a brilliant (and rather good-looking) orthopaedic doctor— Dr Workman. Apparently, Ingrid was his Physiology lecturer back in the day. That explains his brilliance. Lucky for him she didn’t teach him Geography — he’d still be trying to find the lecture theatre. He smeared gel all over me and looked at me naked, on a screen. And took photographs!


So yes, I am embarrassed to admit that I tore myself. Better than wetting myself, I suppose. I am now not just Ingrid’s left Achilles Tendon. I am now a diagnosis: a grade 2-3 tear. I now live in a moon boot. And let me tell you, there is no moon-walking happening here. No sign of a rocket ship. Just darkness. Foot sweat. Toe jam. Humiliation.


But mark my fibres:

I. WILL. BE. BACK.

Stronger. Smarter. More resilient.

Just give me 5 to 6 months... and this time, Ingrid will hear — and maybe, just maybe — listen.


The cycle was OK.
The cycle was OK.
And then the hobbling. But we still finished second.
And then the hobbling. But we still finished second.
I even got the attention of the media (I am the left tendon). Of course my face gets hidden by the timing chip.
I even got the attention of the media (I am the left tendon). Of course my face gets hidden by the timing chip.
I am now stuffed into a sweaty moon-boot. Toe jam and darkness.
I am now stuffed into a sweaty moon-boot. Toe jam and darkness.

 
 
 

Comments

bottom of page