The other side

OH has been buying his GB kit for the race in September. It's not a cheap business. One hundred spondoolies for a personalised one-zee. One hundred! But of course he has to have it so there's not really a lot of point in worrying about it. There's also the fleece to get, and the polo shirt specially inscribed with the details of the Hungary race so no one can resist buying it (I know OH has visions of himself wearing the damn thing at the gym after the race is over, I honestly don't think he'll even wear it at the actual Championships). It's like not wearing your University hoodie until a group of you head off to Alton Towers all wearing them once your Finals are over and you are no longer a student at aforementioned University (or was that just me?)

Anyway, the point of this post and where this is all leading, is that OH wanted to buy me a GB fleece that would match with his. I immediately and in no uncertain terms said no - there was no way I would wear something that I had not totally and 100% earned for myself (and also any one who knows me would fall about laughing if they saw me wearing it - the irony would be too great). He couldn't understand it. He seemed convinced that I deserved it. I ran it past my mother who agreed. Despite all the training and sweat and commitment OH shows, they both seemed to think that I deserved some of the praise and consequent sporting merchandise for sitting at home on my backside and being 'supportive'. Well, no, I'm underselling my supportiveness a little here: think back to the early morning starts at the lake and sitting in random pub car parks waiting for him to run up hills. But even so. I've hardly been cycling alongside him handing out water bottles a la Tour.

But it got me thinking about what role the other half of the OH (ie. me) plays in all of this triathlon business. OH's new nickname for me is Support Car. Which is quite cute assuming that he doesn't think I look like an actual car (unless it was a nice Carrera or something, they are quite sexy). I presume not. I guess it's just being that person who he can turn to for help in all matters triathlon. On race day I am: box carrier (this is the place where he keeps all the kit); list checker off-er (wetsuit - check, goggles - check, bike - check, you get the idea); time keeper ('honestly, the race is going to begin in 5 minutes, please start to get your wetsuit on now'); moral supporter; car driver; shouter of instructions during the race (think Capello pitch side); photo taker; spy and susser out of the competition; sustenance provider and general all round encourager. Wow. The list is seemingly endless.

And what about before race day? That's another kettle of fish. Probably the biggest thing I actually do to assist in these times is to let him get on with it. In reponse to the amount of time OH spends training we have devised a way to manage our lives. Wait for it. I am Home Secretary, leader of the Home Office and director general for all inward-facing home-related activities. I do the cleaning and the shopping and make all creative DIY decisions. OH is Foreign Secretary, and he looks after all outward facing tasks. Lawn mowing, sorting out the house insurance, speaking to the neighbours - these all fall under his umbrella. Which is handy seeing as they are all the jobs that I hate. And whilst they are the nastier tasks, they are also the ones which take less time and are more infrequent, meaning that he has plenty of time to fit in his training. I'm not saying that this approach would work for everyone, but it does for us and I'm sure OH would agree that this is my most worthy contribution to his sporting success.

Other than that there's the usual day-to-day 'support car' tasks:

• advising on triathlon kit and co-ordination of bike to clothes
• filming OH swimming at our local gym so we can watch it back later and analyse (that was actually quite embarrassing)
• providing feedback as OH attempts to re-create the best swim stroke whilst lying on our lounge foot stool
• going with him as he susses out the bike courses for never done before races
• do you know, this list is going to get longer than all of the other posts put together so I may stop here, but you get the idea.

So when you put it quantitatively like this, I do do a lot! Maybe I should get that fleece after all. And the lady one-zee. And the shirt. And the tracksuit bottoms. And the swimsuit. Or maybe I just get an official looking T-shirt printed up with Support Car in big letters across the back.

Another PS

Oh, and before I forget, we found out last week that OH has also qualified for the full distance triathlon race at the Worlds - I am very proud...

The point of it all

These are exciting times. Following on from OH's performance in a sprint triathlon a fortnight ago, we have learned this week that OH has qualified for the GB team and will take part in the World Triathlon championships in September and the Europeans in June next year. As you can imagine I am very proud. OH gets a new one-zee with his name emblazoned across the butt and I get two unanticipated holidays. Yay! We are both very happy with these results. We are off for an extended weekend stay in Budapest for the Worlds, and then to northern Spain next year for the Europeans. And very excited I am too.

Actually, we didn't think OH had done that well at this particular race. This is the one just after his accident where I imagined him cycling the whole course standing up (like me in a Spinning class) so he wasn't really in tiptop form. He also had a bit of a mare with the swim - he was the only athelete in the whole race who chose to stand in the shallow water to get his wetsuit off instead of starting to run into the transition area and using that time to get undressed. He has never been much good at multi-tasking. I would normally have shouted at him to get a move on - but honestly, I was surrounded by other spectators and really didn't want them to know I was with the guy who couldn't run and unzip. All that transition training gone to waste. However. You live and learn.

The other interesting result to come out of this race is that it transpires that OH doesn't really like swimming in close proximity to other people. It seems therefore quite strange to me that triathlon is his chosen sport. Admittedly I can't imagine that I would be too keen on being swum over and across by strangers and having them pull at my ankles and grab at my shoulders either but then I probably wouldn't take up an activity where one third of that activity is something that I hated. Maybe I should encourage him to take up bowls.

The garden

Do you ever find yourself doing something so ridiculous that if you were a fly on the garden wall, you would fall about laughing whilst watching yourself do it? I'm not sure flies laugh so much as buzz like the hideous World Cup horn things (I am deliberately not learning the proper name of them as they are actually sooo annoying and consequently don't deserve to be part of my vocabulary) but you get the picture. The particular activity I am thinking about here is Transition practice.

I assume all triathletes practice the transitions (don't they?) as it seems like a fairly easy area to make up some time. Certainly OH takes it rather seriously. His past experience shows that a few seconds can be the difference between the podium and the rather crappy plastic medal that all the entrants get awarded. So. We set up a practice transition area in our garden. I honestly don't know what the neighbours make of us - I suspect they are waiting for the right time to have us sectioned. (Having said that, maybe they prefer this more silent activity to our more vocal late night karaoke sessions).

The bike is propped up against the wall, shoes and helmet carefully arranged in their pre-ordained positions, towel on the ground to remove any stray pebbles between the toes. I have the stop watch at the ready. I can imagine that you believe this up to now, based on the histories I have shared with you thus far. But will he really get his wet suit on just to practice a transition? Surely not. But yes, he does. In fact, he gets it on and off three times just to make sure. And believe me this is no mean feat - it normally takes him a good 15 minutes just to get it on. He even found an instructional video on YouTube for me to watch so that I knew how to zip him up properly. Truly. This is a very serious business.

So the giant rubber man (complete with frog-eyed goggles and swimming hat) stands hands on hips in the middle of the lawn. A short sighted nosy neighbour might think that some kind of fetishist superhero had popped round. But all the potential embarrassment is worth it because I then get the hose and soak him. We are simulating the real-life situation of having just evacuated the lake. I know. It's hilarious. The Oxford graduate is reduced to standing statue-still whilst his rather gleeful girlfriend has complete license to drown him with icy cold water. I especially like the bit when he holds the front of the wetsuit open and gets me to direct the nozzle down his neck and onto his bare chest. One of my favourite triathlon moments, actually. As my deep belly laughter drowns out his screams I think that all the early mornings are worth it just for this.

The post script

Forgive me. I realised that my last post was a little sombre and so thought I ought to post a cheeky little PS to lighten the mood. It also occurred to me that I had not updated you on my 30th birthday weekend away, which, in summary, was fabulous. You know those kinds of holidays where you have such high expectations that you always feel a teensy bit disappointed by the real thing because it's not as good as you thought it was going to be? Well, this was not one of those holidays. The surprise was that it was better than I thought it would be. Even the Ventoux part.

Actually, the Tour de France part of the mini-break was pretty cool. 'Cool' being quite apt here - seeing as I found myself 1900 metres in the air in the pouring rain in nothing but my summer maxi dress and flip flops. For some reason it had not occurred to me to wear something warmer, despite the fact that every year on our ski trips (where we would stay at a comparable altitude) I wouldn't consider leaving the apartment without a full thermal layer, ski wear and my trusty hand warmers. But not to worry, I did have the car at least, and also took refuge in the teeny shop at the summit. I do not know what kinds of cyclists are going to buy Ventoux tourist paraphenalia at the top of the mountain they have nearly killed themselves climbing. Where on their bikes are they going to put a miniature mileage post (see picture for the real life version) or a stuffed toy marmot?

OH did really well in his ascent though, completing the climb in a pretty good time I think - although of course he now says he could have done it faster. I might play up to that next year - any excuse for a return trip back to Mayle's Provence.

The call

It's an irony that I always nag OH to take his mobile with him when he goes out for a bike ride, and yet it's the thing I least want him to use. I dread the sound of the familiar OH ringtone when he's meant to be cycling - it's never going to be a good sign. If I'm lucky, it's just a call to say that he's got a puncture, and please can I drive 25 miles to come and pick him up from some layby in the middle of nowhere. If we're not so lucky it's the kind of call I got this weekend.

Actually, I had a funny feeling that something was wrong. I'd been down to the local DIY store, sussing out paint tester pots for our hall stairs and landing (the next DIY projet) when I realised that OH had been gone ages, way longer than he should have been. I even got my phone out of my handbag and set it on the table beside me, so that I wouldn't miss it when he called. Sure enough, he did. Please could I come and collect him from under the motorway bridge? Why, I ask, almost afraid to do so. I've come off my bike, he says. My stomach drops away from itself. What the hell do you mean? I yell, not meaning to sound angry and yet finding myself annoyed that he is not telling me quickly enough what has happened. He sounds drowsy, a bit slow to respond to my questions. This makes me feel worse.

But he is talking at least, I reassure myself. I'll be there in one minute, I shout, wishing that were actually true - that the approximate 6 minutes it will take me to get there would shrink into mini-minutes. As I'm driving to get him, the same thoughts are going round and round in my head. What's happened? Has he broken anything? Will we be going to the hospital? I get irrational road rage at the biddy in the car in front of me who is driving too slowly - admittedly she was driving at the speed limit - but today this is too slow for me. Suddenly though I see the ambulance too soon, his bike propped up against a post, OH not to be seen. I park up, and creep up to the ambulance. They open the door and let me in and I can see him - he's ok, he's ok, thank god.

Well, I say that, but considering he only has what he is calling "flesh wounds", he's in a pretty poor state. His eyes are blackened and red raw, all of his bony extremities are covered in bright red open grazes. His cycling top has been scratched open, revealing bloody cuts and the largest area of road rash I have ever seen. The purpling bruises on his butt cheeks are already coming out - he looks like he has gone six rounds with Rocky - but thankfully this is about the extent of it. No broken bones, and as yet anyway, no more sinister injuries. So I suppose we need to consider ourselves lucky.

But how did this happen? Some shirt-less divvy pulling out onto an island (when OH had the right of way) and then, instead of going, he stopped directly in OH's path. So either OH could have driven into the car, or did what he did, which was brake hard and go head first over his handlebars. I cannot believe what a big advocate I am now of the cycling helmet. The one he was wearing is totally mashed - it would however have been a different story had he not been wearing it. If (by some miracle) I ever get on a bike, I will wear one no matter what the after effects on my hair.

Perhaps more scarily though is the fact that the paramedic man couldn't believe that OH had never been involved in a cycling accident before now (well, he did need paramaedic treatment once before - but that was from a crazy man who got out of his car and punched OH in the face because he must have gotten in his lane at the island - but that's another story). It makes me terrified of what could happen to him. You just can't control what everyone else does and that's the worrying bit.

I begged him afterwards to only cycle on a track and to stop going on the roads when he's in training. Of course he won't. There's a race this weekend and no amount of girl-crying, emotional blackmail or pleading will stop him competing. He's already been back out on the bike to 'make sure it's ok' - you can imagine that more of his concern was for the TT bike than for himself - but it's now had a thorough pit stop and you'll be pleased to know it's fine. What a relief. If only I could say the same about OH. I don't know how he's going to finish the race this Sunday with his bruises - he'll have to do all of the cycling standing up.

The lake

I am a very good girlfriend. I don't say this because I think it's true - I say it because I know it's true. This weekend, for the first time this season, I dragged myself out of bed at 6.30am (that's in the morning, by the way) on Sunday to go and supervise OH throwing himself into the outdoor lake for swimming practice. Any of you who know me will know how vile I am in the mornings. I am not pleasant. I have never been an early bird - despite my mother's repeated attempts to highlight to me and my siblings the delights of early mornings, she has never managed to succeed. Now, whenever I go home for the weekend, I sense that she is trying to get her own back - I'm sure it is not right for Lionel Richie's Greatest Hits/School Boy Choir Does Christmas Carols (season dependant) to be blasted out at 7am on a Saturday whilst she puts the washing machine on and does the hoovering. But there we go.

So, as I was saying, I am quite quite hideous in the mornings. OH barely gets a grunt from me as he leaves to catch the early train to work in the week. God forbid that he gets up even earlier for a pre-work run or swim. I have alluded previously to the shrieks of "you're a mentalist" and "if you don't be quiet I'm leaving you" which have been known to escape my lips. They only hint at what a joy I am to be around before the more earthly hour of 9am (I have to be better by the time I get to work, they would sack me otherwise). But, despite all of this, I almost-happily lever myself out of dream land and throw on a hoodie and tracksuit bottoms at this Sunday crazy o'clock in the triathlon season. Why? I hear you ask. Because actually it's rather cool at the lake. I'm always overjoyed that the place is already packed by the time we get there at just gone 7. It's a reminder that there are other loons out there. It appeals to the side of me which is comforted by the fact that some places open 24-7 (this might explain why I quite like the thought of working in a prison, or a hotel on more sane days, don't ask).

There's a shack open which pumps out the tunes whilst serving up bacon butties. The people are very friendly too - you have to hand it to the triathletes for that. This week, after a rather hardcore nose-blowing-hay-fever-induced session I got a nosebleed and some nice triathlon boy asked me if I was ok. Bless. We don't know anyone else there - we're both pretty shy - but this week not only did nosebleed man talk to me, but another guy asked OH about the flex in the shoulder area of his wetsuit. We were very proud. We must look more approachable than I thought we did.

The drill is the same everytime we go. OH jumps in, swims 3 laps, and I time him. As soon as he leaves the first buoy, I head off to the shack for my first cup of tea of the day (it is surprisingly good), back in time to press the 'lap' button on the stop watch as he completes the first circuit. Simples. I must have gotten rusty in the year just gone by though. My timing of the first lap was a little awry - I was not so looking forward to telling OH that he had gotten 3 minutes slower over the course of the last year. However, it transpires that OH had started swimming and then turned back and started again. Of course I was off like a shot to get my tea so completely missed that U-turn. He's actually faster than last year. Thank goodness.

We have a couple of days off work this week for the wedding of some good friends of ours. Guess what we are doing on Thursday morning before we head off to the church rehearsal? Can't wait.

The holiday

I am 30 this weekend. Despite my mantra of "thirties are the new twenties", I still thought it was only right that OH take me away for a surprise birthday weekend somewhere lovely to celebrate. I have been subtly ('wouldn't it be great to have a weekend away at some point this year?') and not so subtly ('look at these flight times') suggesting that taking me away was the right and proper thing to do. All of my newly 30 year old contemporaries have been taken away. One to New York, another Prague, another Rome, a fourth to New York again. Everytime I see the photographic proof on Facebook that someone else has received a surprise weekend away, I have chuckled with glee and rubbed my hands together as the evidence grows. Everyone is doing it. OH would be a bad boyfriend if he didn't take me anywhere.

I had decided that I wanted to go to France. Having only ever skied there and not really having experienced the France of Peter Mayle fame, I thought it would be fabulous for us to have a few cheeky little days away: long walks through the lavender fields; lazy brunches in a quaint village where we would charm the locals with our amazing linguistic skills; sunny afternoons in the vineyards quaffing the Chateauneuf du pape - you get the picture. So OH had quite a lot to live up to with my expectations being so high. So high in fact, that I decided I would book everything myself. The irony of the 'surprise' element of this birthday trip makes me laugh every time.

You may wonder what on earth this all has to do with triathlon. I am getting there, honestly. You may even already see where this one is going.

Despite my quite specific daydreams of what I wanted from this trip, I had not decided exactly where I wanted to go. Suddenly OH became quite interested - piping up now and again with his suggestions of where to go. What about Provence, he said? (I'm not sure why this hadn't occurred to me weeks ago bearing in mind my Mayle visualisations - I had been looking at Cannes). I did a quick bit of surfing, found a few gorgeous chateaux, and yes! We were going to go to Provence! It was like doing a deal with the devil. Once I had signed on that imaginary dotted line I had given the green light for OH to cycle Ventoux.

Ventoux, notorious for its gruelling gradient, is one of the most famous stages of the Tour. OH assures me it is like a mecca for cyclists. It would be like me spending the day shoe shopping with Carrie Bradshaw, he tells me, as if to try and convince me that to not let him cycle it would be a crime against humanity. How can he not at least attempt it if we are going to be staying only a few kilometres away? His puppy dog eyes widen. But don't worry - I am a hardened negotiator in these situations. OH and I have been away on way too many holidays together for me not to have guessed there was some triathlon-related intention behind his willingness to suggest a location for our trip.

So. The deal is this. OH can cycle Ventoux if we get to stay for an extra day (I had only been planning a 3 day trip). And we have to stay in a luxury chateau. And he really ought to get me a small birthday present for me to open on the day, alongside his funding this trip. He will get to cycle, I will get to chill by the pool with a book. With the thoughts of Ventoux-shaped glory in his eyes, OH readily agreed. In fact, he called me today to say that he has officially purchased the 'small, on-the-day present'. Result. I have tangoed with the devil and I think come out with a pretty good deal.

And to be fair to him, he has delivered. Our hotel looks beautiful - lavender fields abound with french wine and cheese featuring prominently on the dinner menu. We have a turret room (if only I had long hair for a Rapunzel re-enactment). I am very, very excited and cannot wait to go. Even with the Ventoux blip.

Of course, depending on when you are reading this, you will know that at the moment we're not going anywhere. Volcanic ash courtesy of Iceland is keeping all planes grounded in the UK. I will be so disappointed if we don't get to go. But OH probably even more so - his new nemesis, for the moment at least, just out of his grasp.