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.
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
Monday, 7 June 2010
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?
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.
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.
Monday, 24 May 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
The dream
Woke up this morning with that slightly uneasy feeling you have when you know you've had a terrible nightmare but you can't at that minute remember exactly what it was. The most common ones I have follow the same theme. I am either: a) back at school about to take my History A-Level, b) back at university about to take my finals exams or c) standing outside a nightclub wearing nothing but my night dress. With the first two, I am shocked to find that I just haven't bothered revising. This is very unlike the real me. With the third, I can't work out how to get home and change. So not exactly the same set-up but you can see that my anxieties about not being prepared for stuff shine through even when I'm asleep.
It therefore caused me much consternation when I came to and realised that I had been dreaming about triathlon and was experiencing the same feelings I have with the exam/nightclub scenarios. Don't worry, I tell myself, you've already done the exams and passed. And you're now too old to be going to nightclubs so there is no need to get worried about inappropriately skimpy outfits. So what do I need to say to reassure myself that this dream is not real? It's not even me who features! Stupid me. I glance to the other side of the bed to see him intently reading his Tri magazines and I know I don't need to worry.
But back to the dream itself. As I said, it's not me in the race (thank god, although OH got very excited when I told him as he thinks that I am now receiving subliminal messages to enter a race for myself), but OH. I am anxious that for once he has not properly prepared for the race that he was now running in. To be fair, it was a slightly weird course - one lap of cycling, followed by two laps of rowing and then running, and then three laps of running. I was convinced that OH had simply forgotten to complete the second lap of the rowing/running section. I found myself in my running gear then, jogging alongside OH (yeah, right, quite literally in my dreams) shouting words of encouragement. Oh, and then yelling at him when he took a wrong turn off the course. Having then bumped into some 'competitively supportive' Kiwis on a tube which took you to the end of the course, I forced myself to wake up. I was not enjoying myself. I don't know what's worse - that I'm dreaming about triathlon or the fact that I am now worrying about OH's performance which is not even in my control. Aaargh.
So since the last post, we have had a very exciting time of buying the accessories for the new TT bike (I use the term 'we' here very loosely, you understand. 'Exciting' is also perhaps not the most truthful word). Firstly, it was this very odd looking water bottle thing which I have now learned fits neatly between the handlebars. Apparently putting it here is better than having it in the normal place on the cross bar in the middle of the bike. I appreciate that I am showing my ignorance here by not knowing the correct names for all these parts. However. The water bottle reminds me of something from Lawrence of Arabia, an animal skinned pouch slung onto a camel's back as vast trips are made across the desert. It has a big straw coming out of it. The only time I have dealt with a straw similar in length is at my friend's SATC party - we used them to slug our cosmos without even having to get up from the sofa.
Yesterday we took a 50 mile round trip to pick up the helmet. Please don't laugh. Think Bradley and Sir Chris at the Olympics. Yes, I am talking about the pointy pear drop helmet. I'm told it's going to save OH 30 seconds in a race. Well, that makes it worth the money, I think to myself. My only consolation is that it's black and white and will therefore go quite well with the rest of his outfit. It even comes with its own little hard-shelled suitcase. And because it is TT equipment, it also gets to live in the house with us. Yippee. You can only imagine how secretly thrilled I was this afternoon when OH announced that he now thinks he has all the kit he needs to complete a race. I mean, I'm sure it would have been a physical impossibility to even contemplate entering a race with an old-school water bottle. It will definitely make all the difference.
It therefore caused me much consternation when I came to and realised that I had been dreaming about triathlon and was experiencing the same feelings I have with the exam/nightclub scenarios. Don't worry, I tell myself, you've already done the exams and passed. And you're now too old to be going to nightclubs so there is no need to get worried about inappropriately skimpy outfits. So what do I need to say to reassure myself that this dream is not real? It's not even me who features! Stupid me. I glance to the other side of the bed to see him intently reading his Tri magazines and I know I don't need to worry.
But back to the dream itself. As I said, it's not me in the race (thank god, although OH got very excited when I told him as he thinks that I am now receiving subliminal messages to enter a race for myself), but OH. I am anxious that for once he has not properly prepared for the race that he was now running in. To be fair, it was a slightly weird course - one lap of cycling, followed by two laps of rowing and then running, and then three laps of running. I was convinced that OH had simply forgotten to complete the second lap of the rowing/running section. I found myself in my running gear then, jogging alongside OH (yeah, right, quite literally in my dreams) shouting words of encouragement. Oh, and then yelling at him when he took a wrong turn off the course. Having then bumped into some 'competitively supportive' Kiwis on a tube which took you to the end of the course, I forced myself to wake up. I was not enjoying myself. I don't know what's worse - that I'm dreaming about triathlon or the fact that I am now worrying about OH's performance which is not even in my control. Aaargh.
So since the last post, we have had a very exciting time of buying the accessories for the new TT bike (I use the term 'we' here very loosely, you understand. 'Exciting' is also perhaps not the most truthful word). Firstly, it was this very odd looking water bottle thing which I have now learned fits neatly between the handlebars. Apparently putting it here is better than having it in the normal place on the cross bar in the middle of the bike. I appreciate that I am showing my ignorance here by not knowing the correct names for all these parts. However. The water bottle reminds me of something from Lawrence of Arabia, an animal skinned pouch slung onto a camel's back as vast trips are made across the desert. It has a big straw coming out of it. The only time I have dealt with a straw similar in length is at my friend's SATC party - we used them to slug our cosmos without even having to get up from the sofa.
Yesterday we took a 50 mile round trip to pick up the helmet. Please don't laugh. Think Bradley and Sir Chris at the Olympics. Yes, I am talking about the pointy pear drop helmet. I'm told it's going to save OH 30 seconds in a race. Well, that makes it worth the money, I think to myself. My only consolation is that it's black and white and will therefore go quite well with the rest of his outfit. It even comes with its own little hard-shelled suitcase. And because it is TT equipment, it also gets to live in the house with us. Yippee. You can only imagine how secretly thrilled I was this afternoon when OH announced that he now thinks he has all the kit he needs to complete a race. I mean, I'm sure it would have been a physical impossibility to even contemplate entering a race with an old-school water bottle. It will definitely make all the difference.
Saturday, 20 March 2010
The hill
Part of me can’t believe what I am about to write. The other part of me can totally believe it. I am sat in my car, with the laptop, in the car park of a random pub in the middle of nowhere. It’s midday, on an ordinary Saturday in March. There is no real, sensible or normal reason why I should be here. I’m not meeting any late-running friends for a spot of lunch. Nor am I a Mystery Customer assessing the state of this hostelry’s parking facilities. By now I’m sure you have guessed that this situation is triathlon related. And you are right.
Today, Other Half has decided that he needs to step up his running training; ’up’ being fairly operative here. About ten minutes ago, I dropped him off, GPS in hand, at the bottom of a pretty substantial hill slap bang in the midst of the beautiful Buckinghamshire countryside. Last night I was briefed with instructions on where I was to drive to and pick him up. Straight up, up a bit more, over the T-junction, a bit more up, a sharp right, up and up some more and I’ll meet you at the junction at the top of the hill, he says. My palms had started to sweat with all the upping.
I have dutifully followed these directions (at least I hope I have – otherwise we could be in trouble seeing as OH does not have his phone with him) and so find myself parked up for fifty minutes whilst only imagining what terror is going on beneath me. It is a shocker of a hill. And not short either. At some points even my car was struggling to make it, juddering in second as we laboured ever on upwards. To make matters worse, it is raining; that annoying kind of rain which from indoors doesn’t look particularly wet – but when you get out into it you feel foolish for ever thinking that...because of course the rain is wet. My poor drowned rat.
But, trying to be ever so “supportive”, I have only done minimal moaning about this latest escapade. I think my tolerance and assessment levels of what is weird (in comparison to other couples) is getting lower and lower. I’m actually pretty happy sat in my steamed up car – I do however wonder what the people arriving at the car park to drop off last night’s empties at the row of bottle banks in front of me are thinking though... I’m quite enjoying the chance to sit and watch and think about what to write. At least sat up here there is no way I can feel bad about not doing the hoovering back at the ranch.
I’m sure you are also hanging on to know about the bike. OH is like a new man. He keeps disappearing and I’ll only notice that he’s gone twenty minutes later and find him in the spare room (I know, I know) looking at it or fiddling with it or talking to it or something. I think it was worth the money just for the amount of pleasure he has had from sitting on it and marvelling at the aero position he can now assume (I had to take photos for him to assess this of course).
It’s not been all fun and games for me, mind you. The day he picked it up we were having friends over for dinner (friends which OH knows much better than I do). Inevitably, it took him so long to have it fitted and do whatever it is they do with new bikes in bike shops that he didn’t get home until ninety minutes after the guests had all arrived. By that time I was the best part of a bottle of white down and in no fit state to serve the lamb casserole and pavlova I had lovingly spent the day preparing. OH didn’t seem to notice – so happy regaling the story of when he picked up the new bike, already an anecdote of legend – basically consisting of: them applauding him as he arrived (seriously, give me a break) followed by photos of OH by the bike/on the bike which were promptly posted by the bike shop owner on Twitter. OH is famous. And yes, he did do that annoying two handed wave which I know he now regrets. I will need to do some work with him on his PR skills.
Today, Other Half has decided that he needs to step up his running training; ’up’ being fairly operative here. About ten minutes ago, I dropped him off, GPS in hand, at the bottom of a pretty substantial hill slap bang in the midst of the beautiful Buckinghamshire countryside. Last night I was briefed with instructions on where I was to drive to and pick him up. Straight up, up a bit more, over the T-junction, a bit more up, a sharp right, up and up some more and I’ll meet you at the junction at the top of the hill, he says. My palms had started to sweat with all the upping.
I have dutifully followed these directions (at least I hope I have – otherwise we could be in trouble seeing as OH does not have his phone with him) and so find myself parked up for fifty minutes whilst only imagining what terror is going on beneath me. It is a shocker of a hill. And not short either. At some points even my car was struggling to make it, juddering in second as we laboured ever on upwards. To make matters worse, it is raining; that annoying kind of rain which from indoors doesn’t look particularly wet – but when you get out into it you feel foolish for ever thinking that...because of course the rain is wet. My poor drowned rat.
But, trying to be ever so “supportive”, I have only done minimal moaning about this latest escapade. I think my tolerance and assessment levels of what is weird (in comparison to other couples) is getting lower and lower. I’m actually pretty happy sat in my steamed up car – I do however wonder what the people arriving at the car park to drop off last night’s empties at the row of bottle banks in front of me are thinking though... I’m quite enjoying the chance to sit and watch and think about what to write. At least sat up here there is no way I can feel bad about not doing the hoovering back at the ranch.
I’m sure you are also hanging on to know about the bike. OH is like a new man. He keeps disappearing and I’ll only notice that he’s gone twenty minutes later and find him in the spare room (I know, I know) looking at it or fiddling with it or talking to it or something. I think it was worth the money just for the amount of pleasure he has had from sitting on it and marvelling at the aero position he can now assume (I had to take photos for him to assess this of course).
It’s not been all fun and games for me, mind you. The day he picked it up we were having friends over for dinner (friends which OH knows much better than I do). Inevitably, it took him so long to have it fitted and do whatever it is they do with new bikes in bike shops that he didn’t get home until ninety minutes after the guests had all arrived. By that time I was the best part of a bottle of white down and in no fit state to serve the lamb casserole and pavlova I had lovingly spent the day preparing. OH didn’t seem to notice – so happy regaling the story of when he picked up the new bike, already an anecdote of legend – basically consisting of: them applauding him as he arrived (seriously, give me a break) followed by photos of OH by the bike/on the bike which were promptly posted by the bike shop owner on Twitter. OH is famous. And yes, he did do that annoying two handed wave which I know he now regrets. I will need to do some work with him on his PR skills.
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