Don't fall over in shock. I know it's very rare that I put pen to paper (or fingers to plastic, whatever your preference) twice in the same week. But lugging the new bike into my boot on Wednesday night made me think about all the other weird stuff that I have had to take delivery of because of OH's life's work. And that got me thinking about the amount of paraphernalia one actually needs to 'do' triathlon. However, now I'm typing I'm beginning to wonder how interesting this is actually going to be - potentially it could just turn into a list of items - which would quite honestly be a bit crap. So I will endeavour to make it a bit more than that, but as usual would appreciate your patience as I get my ramblings written down and out of my system.
Firstly, a bit of background. Due to my working in the 'burbs, and OH being a city boy, we always get stuff delivered to my office as it's easier for me to wrestle items into my boot than have OH man-handle them onto the train with him (the other commuters would not approve, you know how they are, if you even bring a slightly bigger bag than normal you get ostracised from the commuting fraternity).
The people in my office are used to me getting deliveries so no real worries there. 6ft mirror for our living room; the Mad Boy Boomer aka our new karaoke machine; 10ft rug and underlay; hosepipe; lawnmower (it was a challenge getting that in the boot I'll tell you, a nice man from the pizza place next door to the office had to leap over the wall and help me with that one); plus the countless CDs and DVDs and books and clothes and day-to-day what not. But these are all pretty normal items (if not a bit bulky). When the first boxes of organic beetroot juice started arriving on a regular basis, people's eyebrows were raised and without saying a word I could see them thinking 'that must really make your pee purple' - let alone ' that sounds absolutely vile'. And they would be right. OH drinks it every day and whilst it makes him look like Dracula, he swears by it.
Of course there is lots and lots of kit. Recent items would be those outersock things that go over his bike shoes to keep his little feet warm on winter cycle trips. And those things that are essentially leg warmers but for arms (to keep his little arms warm on winter cycle trips). And the GB onezee - much laughter as my boss tried to squeeze into it. And the 2nd onezee (in case he ruined the first one), and then the 3rd onezee (in case he got caught in a freak mud-based accident and ruined the second one). No one was really that bothered by the whole 'GB kit' by the time that arrived (along with the zip up top, polo shirt, splash top...you get the picture). Obviously cycling shorts themselves cause much hilarity, drawing comparisons with nappies and incontinence wear (although when they all saw the teeny tiny nature of the saddle on Wednesday, I think it became clear why OH stocks up on the aforementioned shorts). Thermal underwear, gloves, shoes, trainers, bike shoes, pedals, wheels, inner tubes, oil, Muck Off, that pink powdery stuff that goes in squash, Maxi Muscle (this makes me laugh every time), gel pouch things, elastic laces, GPS, heart rate monitor...you get the idea. But this really is just turning into a list so I am going to halt it there.
You think girls are addicted to internet shopping? Trying living with a triathlete.
Friday, 12 November 2010
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
The new arrival
The title of this blog might suggest that I was talking about the arrival of a new baby. I'm not, in the strictest sense, although I might as well be. At my office today I have officially taken delivery of the most recent addition to our family: OH's new bike. I know, I know, another bike? It's a bit of a shock to us all. It's not like OH to make rash decisions which involve money (or any rash decisions, really, it normally takes him two weeks to decide what socks to wear), but in the time between my last post and this, he has sourced it and bought it.
He is delighted. I parked it in the middle of the hallway tonight so he could see it as soon as he got home. In fact, he spied it sooner than that as he pressed his face to the glass in the front door to have a peek before I could even get there to answer the bell. Bobbing up and down on the front step like he needed the loo, he bounded past me as soon as there was a crack in the doorway: "she's here!" he shouted. The proud father indeed. Straight away he was making the weird YouTube bike hardcore trance music sounds - I'm sure these constantly play is his head when perving over his bikes but it's not often it gets vocalised (thank goodness). Still in his city-gent coat he pulls it gently out of the box, cooing and aarhing, stroking and caressing, with whispers of 'there she is', 'look at this beauty', 'feel the weight of that' etc etc etc. I'm sure you can imagine (or maybe not? I don't know if all boys are like this around new bikes.)
Maybe they are. Perhaps not quite to the extent that OH is - but certainly there was a frisson of excitement amoungst a few of the boys in the office today. I had lots of questions from them: actually now I think of it many were similar to the loving comments OH was making. What's the weight? Will he use it for training? What make is it? What's the cost? This was the most common question. Let's just say they were silenced when I told them the answer. I happen to agree that it's not right for that amount of money to be spent on a lump of carbon unless it happens to take the form of a whacking great diamond positioned on my engagement finger.
But back to this evening. The most important decision to be made? What to call her. The TT is a boy (he is called Pacman on the basis that he gobbles up the competition like - you guessed it - Pacman). New bike obviously needs a girly name, with her more subtle black with white finish and only the occasional flirtation with a red flourish. I hope I'm not holding you in suspense about the name. We haven't decided one yet so I can't put you out of your misery. All I can say is that I hope OH isn't expecting that she will have her own room. We are going to run out of spare bedrooms. I'm also worried about the fact that I am now referring to this item, which will inevitably move me down the rankings in OH's affections, as a 'her'. It's ridiculous. Although I would be quite happy if Pacman and Lady Bike mated and produced mini-bikes which took the form of the latest models. That would save us a fortune.
As we acquire more and more of the dual-wheeled mobiles, I am surprised to find that I am actually learning more about them than I thought. I'm not sure if I should be happy or sad about this realisation. Take the quiz OH sprung on me tonight as he was dancing around with Lady Bike in his arms in a way which would make Anton du Beke and Anne Widdy proud. It's called 'what is the make' quiz:
OH: Who is the frame by?
Me: This is easy, it's written all over it - Cervelo
OH: And who makes the groupset?
Me: (Yes, I do know what a groupset is). Sram?
OH: No - guess again
Me: I think there is only one other main one - so it has to be Shimano. And something to do with Ace? Dura Ace.
OH: Handlebars?
Me: 3T Brezza? (I know this is wrong because these are now illegal for racing, but it's a test)
OH: (Repeats what I am thinking in brackets above)
Me: Well they must be 3T - that's what they've got written on them
OH: I'm so proud of you!
Me: (Probably even more so than on my graduation day? The day I got my first job? The day I went on stage dressed as a whore? That's a whole other story and not as bad as it sounds: think University Am Dram)
But it's made OH very, very happy. And a happy OH means a happy me. Using the situation to my best advantage I have decided not to bother cooking proper tea (we're having pizza when the Sainsbury's man delivers it in about 3 minutes). Normally he would have been whining about how he's a growing man and needs a full on dinner. But tonight, in his deliriously heightened state of New Love, he doesn't give a frik. And so I'm free to watch rubbish tele and do some online shopping when typically I would have been slaving over a hot oven. Rock on.
He is delighted. I parked it in the middle of the hallway tonight so he could see it as soon as he got home. In fact, he spied it sooner than that as he pressed his face to the glass in the front door to have a peek before I could even get there to answer the bell. Bobbing up and down on the front step like he needed the loo, he bounded past me as soon as there was a crack in the doorway: "she's here!" he shouted. The proud father indeed. Straight away he was making the weird YouTube bike hardcore trance music sounds - I'm sure these constantly play is his head when perving over his bikes but it's not often it gets vocalised (thank goodness). Still in his city-gent coat he pulls it gently out of the box, cooing and aarhing, stroking and caressing, with whispers of 'there she is', 'look at this beauty', 'feel the weight of that' etc etc etc. I'm sure you can imagine (or maybe not? I don't know if all boys are like this around new bikes.)
Maybe they are. Perhaps not quite to the extent that OH is - but certainly there was a frisson of excitement amoungst a few of the boys in the office today. I had lots of questions from them: actually now I think of it many were similar to the loving comments OH was making. What's the weight? Will he use it for training? What make is it? What's the cost? This was the most common question. Let's just say they were silenced when I told them the answer. I happen to agree that it's not right for that amount of money to be spent on a lump of carbon unless it happens to take the form of a whacking great diamond positioned on my engagement finger.
But back to this evening. The most important decision to be made? What to call her. The TT is a boy (he is called Pacman on the basis that he gobbles up the competition like - you guessed it - Pacman). New bike obviously needs a girly name, with her more subtle black with white finish and only the occasional flirtation with a red flourish. I hope I'm not holding you in suspense about the name. We haven't decided one yet so I can't put you out of your misery. All I can say is that I hope OH isn't expecting that she will have her own room. We are going to run out of spare bedrooms. I'm also worried about the fact that I am now referring to this item, which will inevitably move me down the rankings in OH's affections, as a 'her'. It's ridiculous. Although I would be quite happy if Pacman and Lady Bike mated and produced mini-bikes which took the form of the latest models. That would save us a fortune.
As we acquire more and more of the dual-wheeled mobiles, I am surprised to find that I am actually learning more about them than I thought. I'm not sure if I should be happy or sad about this realisation. Take the quiz OH sprung on me tonight as he was dancing around with Lady Bike in his arms in a way which would make Anton du Beke and Anne Widdy proud. It's called 'what is the make' quiz:
OH: Who is the frame by?
Me: This is easy, it's written all over it - Cervelo
OH: And who makes the groupset?
Me: (Yes, I do know what a groupset is). Sram?
OH: No - guess again
Me: I think there is only one other main one - so it has to be Shimano. And something to do with Ace? Dura Ace.
OH: Handlebars?
Me: 3T Brezza? (I know this is wrong because these are now illegal for racing, but it's a test)
OH: (Repeats what I am thinking in brackets above)
Me: Well they must be 3T - that's what they've got written on them
OH: I'm so proud of you!
Me: (Probably even more so than on my graduation day? The day I got my first job? The day I went on stage dressed as a whore? That's a whole other story and not as bad as it sounds: think University Am Dram)
But it's made OH very, very happy. And a happy OH means a happy me. Using the situation to my best advantage I have decided not to bother cooking proper tea (we're having pizza when the Sainsbury's man delivers it in about 3 minutes). Normally he would have been whining about how he's a growing man and needs a full on dinner. But tonight, in his deliriously heightened state of New Love, he doesn't give a frik. And so I'm free to watch rubbish tele and do some online shopping when typically I would have been slaving over a hot oven. Rock on.
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
The new term
Before we even begin, please can you adjust your expectation levels of this post to the 'low' setting? To be honest, I think it's going to be a bit crappy. I have spent the last 1.5 months scouring the depths of my brain for something new and interesting and triathlon related to write about. I have come up with nothing, really. But I need to get something down before I'm thrown out of the BMC (Bloggers Magic Cirle, not British Medical Council - in case you were wondering) and before I lose the momentum to ever again write another word.
Part of the trouble is that OH has been on his yearly "time off". My mother wonders why he can't plan this time off over Christmas so he doesn't need to train on Boxing Day. OH would rather reschedule Christmas. So my muse has done a runner, for once not literally, and I've been left pretty stumped by what to discuss. Maybe I should just use this forum to air my general views and concerns on art, literature, politics? Not a chance! I don't really have intellectual or newsworthy views on art ("do you think we should get some personalised baubles for our tree this Christmas?"); literature ("I wonder why Gary Barlow is not on Twitter?") and politics ("Florence Endellion sleeps in a cardboard box - how sweet"). If I used this space to discuss my deepest, darkest thoughts you might well have me wheeled off to the funny farm.
This is not so say OH has not been busy. Quite the contrary. He likes to try and squeeze all of his drunken and debaucherous (well, as debaucherous as coupled up thirty year olds get anyway) nights out into this time off. The self confessed ring leader, OH suddenly becomes the most persuasive port-drinking individual you have ever met. "Yes of course you want to frequent the local 80s club and dance like a loon until 2am", he can be heard saying. And imagine what the neighbours think? 3am arrivals home clad in sparkly wigs and massive heart shaped sunglasses - they've probably got (another) committee together with the main discussion point being how they can get rid of us. And what about the Walk of Shame we had to do on another occasion? Dinner and a few drinks with OSF and Fiancee turned into a late night Singstar session (the poor, poor people in the flat above) and impromptu sleepover as we realised there was no way for us to get home until the morning after. It's like he needs to squidge in a year's worth of drinking opportunities into these 6 weeks and to hell with the hangovers! Urgh, let's not think about that. Even alluding to the T word* is making me wretch a little.
We've been having a great time and I think that's why it's been so difficult to begin the transition back to Triathlon Life this last two weeks. It's like going back to school. You know you don't mind it once it gets going but that first week back is such a bummer. To make it worse the nights are dark and the mornings are dark and there seems to be so much less champagne hanging around than there used to be. However, this is where we are and I'm not complaining too much. Once we get back into it those hazy days of Spandau Ballet and involuntary drunken vomiting will be nothing but a fuzzy distant memory (for OH at least - I'm not planning on stopping).
And how to ease the 'new term' blues? OH has submersed himself in bike porn. He is convinced that he needs a new bike (I know, another one) and as he builds himself a fantasy machine on his favourite bike site I steal back control of Sky+ and watch back-to-back episodes of SATC for the fourth time. Every cloud and all that.
* Tequila (euuugghhhhhh)
Part of the trouble is that OH has been on his yearly "time off". My mother wonders why he can't plan this time off over Christmas so he doesn't need to train on Boxing Day. OH would rather reschedule Christmas. So my muse has done a runner, for once not literally, and I've been left pretty stumped by what to discuss. Maybe I should just use this forum to air my general views and concerns on art, literature, politics? Not a chance! I don't really have intellectual or newsworthy views on art ("do you think we should get some personalised baubles for our tree this Christmas?"); literature ("I wonder why Gary Barlow is not on Twitter?") and politics ("Florence Endellion sleeps in a cardboard box - how sweet"). If I used this space to discuss my deepest, darkest thoughts you might well have me wheeled off to the funny farm.
This is not so say OH has not been busy. Quite the contrary. He likes to try and squeeze all of his drunken and debaucherous (well, as debaucherous as coupled up thirty year olds get anyway) nights out into this time off. The self confessed ring leader, OH suddenly becomes the most persuasive port-drinking individual you have ever met. "Yes of course you want to frequent the local 80s club and dance like a loon until 2am", he can be heard saying. And imagine what the neighbours think? 3am arrivals home clad in sparkly wigs and massive heart shaped sunglasses - they've probably got (another) committee together with the main discussion point being how they can get rid of us. And what about the Walk of Shame we had to do on another occasion? Dinner and a few drinks with OSF and Fiancee turned into a late night Singstar session (the poor, poor people in the flat above) and impromptu sleepover as we realised there was no way for us to get home until the morning after. It's like he needs to squidge in a year's worth of drinking opportunities into these 6 weeks and to hell with the hangovers! Urgh, let's not think about that. Even alluding to the T word* is making me wretch a little.
We've been having a great time and I think that's why it's been so difficult to begin the transition back to Triathlon Life this last two weeks. It's like going back to school. You know you don't mind it once it gets going but that first week back is such a bummer. To make it worse the nights are dark and the mornings are dark and there seems to be so much less champagne hanging around than there used to be. However, this is where we are and I'm not complaining too much. Once we get back into it those hazy days of Spandau Ballet and involuntary drunken vomiting will be nothing but a fuzzy distant memory (for OH at least - I'm not planning on stopping).
And how to ease the 'new term' blues? OH has submersed himself in bike porn. He is convinced that he needs a new bike (I know, another one) and as he builds himself a fantasy machine on his favourite bike site I steal back control of Sky+ and watch back-to-back episodes of SATC for the fourth time. Every cloud and all that.
* Tequila (euuugghhhhhh)
Friday, 24 September 2010
The aftermath
If I were to appear on Mastermind my specialist subject would be Celebrity. And celebrities themselves (except Kiera Knightly, that pout is so annoying. And Madonna. She needs to put it away). I can name all the children of Heidi & Seal, SJP, my favourite Posh, Jamie & Jools; I can tell you who's been with who and where they've been spotted and who divorced whom to be with who. Even the Z-listers (except the really lowly Big Brother ones, I can't bear to read about them). I'm aware that this makes me a bit of a saddo. Not that I would ever ask for an autograph if I were to bump into someone famous in the street. In fact I would go out of my way to ignore them (Becca from Hollyoaks eating in our local pub, for example; or Martin Freeman in Pizza Express at Westfield. Or even Gok in Selfridges. All of these I have religiously turned my nose up at). Of course as soon as I get out of their radar I promptly post the celeb-spot on FB for friends to confirm their points value (I know these are no high scorers) and get rather excited. I am a closet-non-stalking-celeb-lover.
By now you will know that we are back from Budapest and into the one month of 'no training' to let the body rest and re-cooperate before we get into the hard winter training ("winter miles summer smiles" is how we like to refer to it). OH has shown remarkable stamina so far in sticking to this mantra with only the small blips of one gym class and one cycle ride taking place in the last 4 days. With the consumption of 3 pints at lunchtime today he has shown me that he really is giving himself a break - and giving the people in his office a bit of a laugh I would think, judging from the state he arrived home in tonight.
But, yes, we're back. The World Champs event over. It was rather cool, actually. With OH performing better than we had anticipated - despite him taking his crappy road bike and youth-sized helmet instead of his fancy TT bike and super-duper helmet, he still managed a very creditable 37th out of 120 in his age category and a new PB of under 2 hours. So we were chuffed. And have learned lots of lessons (the first being to take the fancy TT bike and the super-duper helmet - in comparison to everyone else racing he looked like he had turned up with a BMX with a basket on the front).
Watching the races though - and in particular the Elite event with its TV cameras and helicopters and road closures and pre-race interviews in cushiony hotels - I started to think about how sports people now have their own celeb status. I don't think this is a bad thing necessarily (except for Wayne and the doormat Coleen - there's always one who ruins it for everyone else). At least these people are famous for achieving something rather than just for sitting in a house for a thousand weeks doing nothing but moaning, crying and eating. Now I'm not saying that OH has anywhere near any kind of celebrity status in any way shape or form at all, and not that he would ever even wish to be any kind of celebrity, but I do think that his achievement in qualifying for the event in Budapest is outside of the normal bump and grind of every day life: maybe OH has become my own little mini celeb? Sometimes I feel like a Manager as I print out boarding passes and arrange insurance and pack cases that's for sure.
Think about it. Entourage - tick. Me and the nearly-in-laws (otherwise known as OH's parents) trekked out to Buda to watch and support our little triathlete. On some occasions the entourage was literal. Somewhat foolishly we decided we wanted to get a sense of the city so didn't get a taxi from the airport to the hotel, but to get the local train service instead. We then thought it would be sensible to walk the remaining god knows how many miles to the hotel from the train station - all so that OH could get a first glimpse of the bike course. Normally I would not have minded this. But please bear in mind that we had all of our suitcases and that I was wearing my nice leather boots - which you can guess were not of the 'ideal to walk 3 miles in' variety. We also had the bike. This was not fun. Packed into into its carry case it actually took on the look and feel of a mini horse. It's huge. As I trudged the streets of Budapest dragging along the Shetland bike bag I tried to ignore the funny looks on the Hungarian faces who quite honestly seemed like they had already had enough of this annoying triathlon business disrupting their daily lives.
Then there's the diva-ness. Picture the scene. It's 2am, the morning before the race. We have to be up at 5am for the taxi. We are wide awake despite having been in bed since 9pm. OH has announced that his sore throat has flared up - admittedly he does have a recurring sore throat problem - my not so favourite incident being when the Doctor told me/him that it was the worst case he had ever seen and if OH's throat were to get any more closed over I should take him to A&E. But honestly, this throat condition only seems to come on in the lead up to a race so I was a bit sceptical that the throat really was sore. Was it more in his head? Had he decided that he didn't want to enter because he had only got a push-bike to race on? But being the ever so supportive girlfriend I am I talked to him soothingly until he dropped off and I was satisfied that he was deep in sleep (as opposed to dead) before finally allowing myself to drift off....for the 3 seconds sleep until the alarm went off.
And the screaming fans. Of course I am (in all seriousness) very proud of him, he thoroughly deserved the shouts of support from the GB fans. But above all this, he seemed more thrilled with the fact that a man with a camera on the back of a motorbike followed him running for about a mile - checking out his kit and trainers and running style it seems. And yes, OH did do the stupid 2 thumbs-up salute (dear god) although I was relieved to hear that he stopped short of doing a Usain Bolt. OH is searching YouTube for this footage as we speak.
And Facebook. And Twitter. This is the thing that gets me the most about OH and his celebrity jaunt. He point blank refuses to join either of these networking sites and yet always wants to know if I have updated my status to reflect his new achievements - and then sit back and wait for the adoration to roll in. But wait! Maybe I am being unduly harsh. He actually is pretty shy and wouldn't act like a spoilt celeb (in public anyway) so perhaps my comparison is unfair. Well. Having said that - let me think back to two days ago: just finished the first day back at work and OH waltzes through our front door. Apparently one of the girls in his office has googled him the day after the race and has told everyone in the office that he was racing and how he got on. People he has barely spoken to thus far have come up to him to pass on congratulations and engage in conversations. As he kisses me on the cheek on the way in, he announces: "I'm famous!"
I rest my case.
By now you will know that we are back from Budapest and into the one month of 'no training' to let the body rest and re-cooperate before we get into the hard winter training ("winter miles summer smiles" is how we like to refer to it). OH has shown remarkable stamina so far in sticking to this mantra with only the small blips of one gym class and one cycle ride taking place in the last 4 days. With the consumption of 3 pints at lunchtime today he has shown me that he really is giving himself a break - and giving the people in his office a bit of a laugh I would think, judging from the state he arrived home in tonight.
But, yes, we're back. The World Champs event over. It was rather cool, actually. With OH performing better than we had anticipated - despite him taking his crappy road bike and youth-sized helmet instead of his fancy TT bike and super-duper helmet, he still managed a very creditable 37th out of 120 in his age category and a new PB of under 2 hours. So we were chuffed. And have learned lots of lessons (the first being to take the fancy TT bike and the super-duper helmet - in comparison to everyone else racing he looked like he had turned up with a BMX with a basket on the front).
Watching the races though - and in particular the Elite event with its TV cameras and helicopters and road closures and pre-race interviews in cushiony hotels - I started to think about how sports people now have their own celeb status. I don't think this is a bad thing necessarily (except for Wayne and the doormat Coleen - there's always one who ruins it for everyone else). At least these people are famous for achieving something rather than just for sitting in a house for a thousand weeks doing nothing but moaning, crying and eating. Now I'm not saying that OH has anywhere near any kind of celebrity status in any way shape or form at all, and not that he would ever even wish to be any kind of celebrity, but I do think that his achievement in qualifying for the event in Budapest is outside of the normal bump and grind of every day life: maybe OH has become my own little mini celeb? Sometimes I feel like a Manager as I print out boarding passes and arrange insurance and pack cases that's for sure.
Think about it. Entourage - tick. Me and the nearly-in-laws (otherwise known as OH's parents) trekked out to Buda to watch and support our little triathlete. On some occasions the entourage was literal. Somewhat foolishly we decided we wanted to get a sense of the city so didn't get a taxi from the airport to the hotel, but to get the local train service instead. We then thought it would be sensible to walk the remaining god knows how many miles to the hotel from the train station - all so that OH could get a first glimpse of the bike course. Normally I would not have minded this. But please bear in mind that we had all of our suitcases and that I was wearing my nice leather boots - which you can guess were not of the 'ideal to walk 3 miles in' variety. We also had the bike. This was not fun. Packed into into its carry case it actually took on the look and feel of a mini horse. It's huge. As I trudged the streets of Budapest dragging along the Shetland bike bag I tried to ignore the funny looks on the Hungarian faces who quite honestly seemed like they had already had enough of this annoying triathlon business disrupting their daily lives.
Then there's the diva-ness. Picture the scene. It's 2am, the morning before the race. We have to be up at 5am for the taxi. We are wide awake despite having been in bed since 9pm. OH has announced that his sore throat has flared up - admittedly he does have a recurring sore throat problem - my not so favourite incident being when the Doctor told me/him that it was the worst case he had ever seen and if OH's throat were to get any more closed over I should take him to A&E. But honestly, this throat condition only seems to come on in the lead up to a race so I was a bit sceptical that the throat really was sore. Was it more in his head? Had he decided that he didn't want to enter because he had only got a push-bike to race on? But being the ever so supportive girlfriend I am I talked to him soothingly until he dropped off and I was satisfied that he was deep in sleep (as opposed to dead) before finally allowing myself to drift off....for the 3 seconds sleep until the alarm went off.
And the screaming fans. Of course I am (in all seriousness) very proud of him, he thoroughly deserved the shouts of support from the GB fans. But above all this, he seemed more thrilled with the fact that a man with a camera on the back of a motorbike followed him running for about a mile - checking out his kit and trainers and running style it seems. And yes, OH did do the stupid 2 thumbs-up salute (dear god) although I was relieved to hear that he stopped short of doing a Usain Bolt. OH is searching YouTube for this footage as we speak.
And Facebook. And Twitter. This is the thing that gets me the most about OH and his celebrity jaunt. He point blank refuses to join either of these networking sites and yet always wants to know if I have updated my status to reflect his new achievements - and then sit back and wait for the adoration to roll in. But wait! Maybe I am being unduly harsh. He actually is pretty shy and wouldn't act like a spoilt celeb (in public anyway) so perhaps my comparison is unfair. Well. Having said that - let me think back to two days ago: just finished the first day back at work and OH waltzes through our front door. Apparently one of the girls in his office has googled him the day after the race and has told everyone in the office that he was racing and how he got on. People he has barely spoken to thus far have come up to him to pass on congratulations and engage in conversations. As he kisses me on the cheek on the way in, he announces: "I'm famous!"
I rest my case.
Thursday, 26 August 2010
The pool
From the safe distance of the "non-serious swimmers" section of our gym pool, I have, of late, been observing the behaviours of OH and others like him when it comes to lane-swimming. I feel a little bit like David Attenborough as I breast stroke along, sneaking sideways glances at those alpha males who will only swim in the lane designated 'fast' even if there's plenty of room in the rest of the pool. It's very amusing actually. And as it happens, very much like the behavioural patterns of chickens. I'm pretty certain that OH won't overly appreciate me referring to him as a chicken (or even the male 'cock') but having done my thorough - and I mean thorough - ten minute reseach stint on Wikipedia, I have concluded that those men in the 'fast lane of freestyle' are nothing but a bunch of henpecked chickens.
It might be worth quickly discussing the general rules of etiquette that apply at our pool. Despite there being nothing written down, or no signage, people just seem to know the rules. Perhaps when new members sign their free time away on their gym contracts, the pool rules are subliminally passed onto them along with their membership cards and direct debit forms. It sounds a little bit like Fight Club, but here are the rules:
It might be worth quickly discussing the general rules of etiquette that apply at our pool. Despite there being nothing written down, or no signage, people just seem to know the rules. Perhaps when new members sign their free time away on their gym contracts, the pool rules are subliminally passed onto them along with their membership cards and direct debit forms. It sounds a little bit like Fight Club, but here are the rules:
- in the non-lane swimming section, people should still form their own lanes. These are marked by their flip-flops or water bottles at either end of the pool
- never swim in anyone else's lane
- if you get the lane first, it is yours - do not move to accommodate anyone
- if someone does get in your imaginary lane, you are allowed to swim straight at them. They are going to move first. Ironically it's a game of Chicken
- if you happen to end up swimming directly next to someone, that is taken to be their consent to race you. It is imperative that you win these impromptu bouts
- standing around at the end of the pool smooching with your girl/boy friend is frowned upon - think 'no petting' a la the Eighties
- don't talk to anyone you don't know. Just keep your head down and get out of there as soon as possible
Is this the same for all swimming pools? I don't know. But re-reading this list, I am thinking it's no wonder I'm not that keen on swimming. And if it's like that in the non-serious swimming area, what must it be like in the "I'm here to train; I'm wearing Speedos" section?
Which leads me back round to my initial discussion point about the men swimmers who run the gauntlet of the fast lane. The normal rules don't apply. Whether you each go straight up and down, or swim in a mini rectangle is decided there and then; seemingly decided with no actual conversation taking place. It doesn't matter who was there first. It doesn't matter how many floats or other aqua-paraphernalia you bring with you. It's all about the creation of the pecking order. Once the king-pin bird has been decided, the others will make way for you and allow you to swim at your pace whilst they stop at each end to let you pass. The weaker birds (what are they even doing in the lane?) have to be prepared to take onslaughts from the poultry higher up in the pecking order than them. They may even be bullied into an early jacuzzi.
But how is the pecking order actually established? Like the chickens, there needs to be a bit of argy bargy early on to show true strength and colour. They swim a few lengths each in their best front crawl to see who is fastest (think qualification races in Formula 1). They try and out stare each other through their tinted goggles. Occasionally, there might be a of collision, a grab on the shoulder here, an accidental slap there. It's pretty much like the Next sale on Boxing Day. But like the chickens, once the pecking order is established, it works. Each man is permitted to swim and get on with whatever he needs to in peace.
Very infrequently, there are those people who put themselves in the fast lane when it would be clear to a blind man that they would be better suited to the children's pool. It is at this point that the lane rules go out of the window. I can think of one such incident. In question were a husband and wife tag team - probably off-peak joint members - who had baggsied the fast lane for themselves. They were spending more time gossiping than swimming. OH got in. Perhaps foolishly, it didn't occur to him that the rules might go out of the window with these infiltrators. He started to swim; fast and loud. They didn't move. In fact, they persisted with their slow backstroke ("backstroke! What a joke!" OH said, as he recounted the tale to me). The man ended up mashing into OH which basically was like a red rag to a bull. A full on shouting match ensured. Wifey tag-teamer ran down to the reception in her swimsuit (I know! Hilarious) to get the Manager. He came, calmed the situation down. OH was too enraged to finish the work out and so left. It's just what happens when the unwritten rules are broken. Needless to say, we've not seen the tag team again. I keep waiting for a letter to land on our hallway mat to say we're being sued for Swimming Pool Harrassment. Bring it on...
Friday, 13 August 2010
The drinkies
I know. I have shown myself to be a completely and utterly uncommitted blogger and deserve to be punished. I deserve to have the feather-lite pages of my dictionary torn out one by one infront of my eyes (and you know how much I love that damn book). I don't even have a valid reason why I haven't updated: things in the triathlon sphere of my life have not ground to a halt. My typing fingers have not fallen off in an unexplained and unseasonal attack of frostbite. I have not lost the ability to think. I just haven't done it. So I am a naughty school girl and I accept that - but it's enough, I have been castigated too much. No one can despise me as much as I despise myself. Let's just draw a line under the whole nasty episode and get on with our lives.
So I thought I ought to begin with some general housekeeping. Plans are progressing well vis-a-vis our sojourn to Budapest. My in-laws have signed up for the 5 day city break extravaganza: flights are booked; hotel is booked; specialist insurance has been taken out. OH decided that he didn't want to stay in the GB team hotel (did I mention that his nickname for himself is Lone Wolf?) - that would have involved talking and interacting with other people - God forbid. So we have booked a centrally located hotel which pleased me muchly - this is turning into more of a holiday-holiday (as opposed to a 'sports' holiday) than I thought it would. I have also booked tickets to the opera which will be just fabulous. Not 100% clear on what language it's going to be in and if they'll have that little LED screen thing scrolling across the top of the stage with translations either - but I guess that might well be in Hungarian anyway - in which case I'm as lost as I was before. Will just need to swot up on Wikipedia the night before to memorise the plot - then astound my in-laws with my very detailed operatic knowledge.
We've also been in the North (well, north of Birmingham) for another preparatory triathlon. I am now more convinced than ever that we should buy a caravanette to facilitate our attendance of triathlons. At the moment, OH is certain that he knows how to show a lady a good time by repeatedly booking us into the local Travelodge the night before a race. Really; we should have a loyalty card. And it's not that I actually have an issue with Travelodges per se, it's more that I don't really sleep that well in an alien bed and when coupled with the fact that it's normally a very early start on race day, I tend to be a bit grumpy (which is not what the finely tuned OH needs from his support car at such times). So I figure that if we get a caravanette it will be like a home from home. We can take our own duvet and cook our own carb-based meals and watch our own tele - brilliant. And hopefully we could park up in a place which wasn't next to the meeting place for a big and loud group of chavs (as per our last Travelodge experience). Or near a bunch of very vociferous ducks (from the time before).
OH not yet convinced on the caravanette front. I'm not sure where we would park it during the off season either - not overly sure the residents of our street would like it blocking up the roadway. Bear in mind that the last correspondence which popped through our letterbox from the street committee was asking us to "adopt our street" by keeping the areas outside of our houses clean and tidy (I know, don't ask, we don't even have time to keep our own garden tidy). Not sure the modern day Steptoe & Son style caravanette would be overly welcome. But. I will persist with my quest to get one (along with getting a cleaner and a gardener and a cook and me giving up work - and all of the other things OH rules out).
But. Onto the main event. I thought it might be mildy amusing to consider the area of drink and triathlon. I'm not talking the Um Bongo variety (although some very cool cocktails do make me mindful of UB). There are no two ways about it - OH is a total and utter lightweight. When in training, he won't pick up a drink which means that for about seven eighths of the year, OH is sober - and honestly, just a teensy little bit square. This is why it's all the more hilarious that on those rare occasions when he does go out for a few, he's anybody's after half a pint.
We had an example just this week. I had forgotten what it was like. In the BC Triathlon era, OH used to be a bit of a city-socialiser and would often go out for 'just one drink' after work and then stumble home 7 hours later thoroughly pickled. In those days I was less tolerant. Many a night did I laugh to myself as I locked the bedroom door and left the sleeping bag in the hallway. Let's just say the poor dog had become homeless with the amount of time that OH spent in its kennel. But ironically, triathlon has been my saviour in this respect, and the nights that OH goes out for drinkies are now few and far between.
I knew that this week OH's night out would develop into a large one. As I packed him off to work in the morning, he was still blissfully unaware of what was going to happen. Be home by midnight! he shouted as he ran out of the front door. I knew that this was never a realistic assessment. He was meeting his oldest school friend (OSF) for some mano-a-mano time and they are just bad influences on each other. It was inevitable that it was going to get messy. OSF has just recently got engaged and so these drinks were celebratory as well as to partake in their usual debates of art v science (OH being a physics graduate; OSF, English).
Sure enough, at 10, I got a text. OSF had asked OH to be his best man! Fabulous news! Although by the time OSF asked the question, OH had already imbibed a pint and a half and so was pretty wasted (honestly). The panic he felt at having to do a speech infront of a congregation of wedding goers made him drink more. And more. A call at ten thirty confirmed he was totally and utterly sozzled. Giggle giggle, we are going for curry now, giggle, giggle. Won't be long after that, he assured me.
So when I wake up at 2am the next morning with the big OH shaped hole still in the bed next to me, I start to panic. I always assume that he's in a ditch somewhere. My heart is going like a pair of bongos. I text him. Finally I get a reply: "fell asleep on train. Successfully avoided casino temptation in [town near where we live] - in taxi now". Joy. Falling asleep on the train is one of OH's best skills. I remember him calling me on another occasion asking me to drive to pick him up from Didcot Parkway at 3am in the morning. You can imagine what response he got (it was no, in case you thought I would actually go and get him).
So he was homeward bound. I was more concerned with the fact that he had considered going to a casino on his own. What a loser. The next morning he looked hideous. As I got the peas out of the freezer so as to try and reduce the swelling around his eyes (caused from lack of sleep, not me hitting him when he got home) he muttered he was getting too old for all this. Me too, I thought.
So I thought I ought to begin with some general housekeeping. Plans are progressing well vis-a-vis our sojourn to Budapest. My in-laws have signed up for the 5 day city break extravaganza: flights are booked; hotel is booked; specialist insurance has been taken out. OH decided that he didn't want to stay in the GB team hotel (did I mention that his nickname for himself is Lone Wolf?) - that would have involved talking and interacting with other people - God forbid. So we have booked a centrally located hotel which pleased me muchly - this is turning into more of a holiday-holiday (as opposed to a 'sports' holiday) than I thought it would. I have also booked tickets to the opera which will be just fabulous. Not 100% clear on what language it's going to be in and if they'll have that little LED screen thing scrolling across the top of the stage with translations either - but I guess that might well be in Hungarian anyway - in which case I'm as lost as I was before. Will just need to swot up on Wikipedia the night before to memorise the plot - then astound my in-laws with my very detailed operatic knowledge.
We've also been in the North (well, north of Birmingham) for another preparatory triathlon. I am now more convinced than ever that we should buy a caravanette to facilitate our attendance of triathlons. At the moment, OH is certain that he knows how to show a lady a good time by repeatedly booking us into the local Travelodge the night before a race. Really; we should have a loyalty card. And it's not that I actually have an issue with Travelodges per se, it's more that I don't really sleep that well in an alien bed and when coupled with the fact that it's normally a very early start on race day, I tend to be a bit grumpy (which is not what the finely tuned OH needs from his support car at such times). So I figure that if we get a caravanette it will be like a home from home. We can take our own duvet and cook our own carb-based meals and watch our own tele - brilliant. And hopefully we could park up in a place which wasn't next to the meeting place for a big and loud group of chavs (as per our last Travelodge experience). Or near a bunch of very vociferous ducks (from the time before).
OH not yet convinced on the caravanette front. I'm not sure where we would park it during the off season either - not overly sure the residents of our street would like it blocking up the roadway. Bear in mind that the last correspondence which popped through our letterbox from the street committee was asking us to "adopt our street" by keeping the areas outside of our houses clean and tidy (I know, don't ask, we don't even have time to keep our own garden tidy). Not sure the modern day Steptoe & Son style caravanette would be overly welcome. But. I will persist with my quest to get one (along with getting a cleaner and a gardener and a cook and me giving up work - and all of the other things OH rules out).
But. Onto the main event. I thought it might be mildy amusing to consider the area of drink and triathlon. I'm not talking the Um Bongo variety (although some very cool cocktails do make me mindful of UB). There are no two ways about it - OH is a total and utter lightweight. When in training, he won't pick up a drink which means that for about seven eighths of the year, OH is sober - and honestly, just a teensy little bit square. This is why it's all the more hilarious that on those rare occasions when he does go out for a few, he's anybody's after half a pint.
We had an example just this week. I had forgotten what it was like. In the BC Triathlon era, OH used to be a bit of a city-socialiser and would often go out for 'just one drink' after work and then stumble home 7 hours later thoroughly pickled. In those days I was less tolerant. Many a night did I laugh to myself as I locked the bedroom door and left the sleeping bag in the hallway. Let's just say the poor dog had become homeless with the amount of time that OH spent in its kennel. But ironically, triathlon has been my saviour in this respect, and the nights that OH goes out for drinkies are now few and far between.
I knew that this week OH's night out would develop into a large one. As I packed him off to work in the morning, he was still blissfully unaware of what was going to happen. Be home by midnight! he shouted as he ran out of the front door. I knew that this was never a realistic assessment. He was meeting his oldest school friend (OSF) for some mano-a-mano time and they are just bad influences on each other. It was inevitable that it was going to get messy. OSF has just recently got engaged and so these drinks were celebratory as well as to partake in their usual debates of art v science (OH being a physics graduate; OSF, English).
Sure enough, at 10, I got a text. OSF had asked OH to be his best man! Fabulous news! Although by the time OSF asked the question, OH had already imbibed a pint and a half and so was pretty wasted (honestly). The panic he felt at having to do a speech infront of a congregation of wedding goers made him drink more. And more. A call at ten thirty confirmed he was totally and utterly sozzled. Giggle giggle, we are going for curry now, giggle, giggle. Won't be long after that, he assured me.
So when I wake up at 2am the next morning with the big OH shaped hole still in the bed next to me, I start to panic. I always assume that he's in a ditch somewhere. My heart is going like a pair of bongos. I text him. Finally I get a reply: "fell asleep on train. Successfully avoided casino temptation in [town near where we live] - in taxi now". Joy. Falling asleep on the train is one of OH's best skills. I remember him calling me on another occasion asking me to drive to pick him up from Didcot Parkway at 3am in the morning. You can imagine what response he got (it was no, in case you thought I would actually go and get him).
So he was homeward bound. I was more concerned with the fact that he had considered going to a casino on his own. What a loser. The next morning he looked hideous. As I got the peas out of the freezer so as to try and reduce the swelling around his eyes (caused from lack of sleep, not me hitting him when he got home) he muttered he was getting too old for all this. Me too, I thought.
Monday, 5 July 2010
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:
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...
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