"Is Art A Crime?" begs the question on the wall at the other end of the cemetery. Judging by the decidedly provincial quality of the other scrawls, Art at least has a case for libel. Further down the wall, neat 8-inch high letters shout "PAINT THE TOWN OR WHATEVER COLOUP". That the artist could not bring himself to finish the R is surely a sign of the mental exhaustion he must have been burdened with at authoring such a weighty, if somewhat nonsensical statement. Either that or he gave up in sheer desperation when he realised he'd missed a word.
I finish the week with a run, as the sun makes an appearance for the first time today. Trying to increase the distance, I push myself up to 2.2 miles. Generally I'm fine with it, but towards the end my knees start drafting a cease-and-desist letter. I have a horrible feeling this is going to be a regular theme in my training, and it's going to take a certain amount of care to not be injured by the time the event comes around.
The largely unremarkable training week in review:
Monday - 750m swim. This time, I track my time on the clock. 25 minutes - slower than I thought. Whatever I do, I just cannot seem to make myself go faster, over any distance. I may need to seek professional help on this one.
Wednesday - On Tuesday I find myself struck with massive lethargy, and choose to work from home on Wednesday. By the late afternoon however, I've found some energy and force myself out the door for a cycle ride. I cover 9.2 miles around the flooded Avon Causeway, at an average speed of 16.6mph. Were it not for the last mile through heavy traffic, it would almost certainly have been 17mph, which is heartening. My aim for the cycle on the day will be 40 minutes, which would be an average 18mph, so I'm hopefully not too far off being able to achieve that.
Thursday - another swim, and something of a write-off. I can barely do 100m at a time, and the busy, narrow lanes don't help.
Friday - a lunchtime run in the drizzle, 2.1 miles at 9:19/mi.
What is remarkable is that I'm doing this stuff without even really thinking about it.
Sunday 26 January 2014
Thursday 23 January 2014
Nada
The scales come out of the loft. Over the last 3 weeks of healthy eating and regular exercise, I've lost precisely zero pounds. Nothing, nil, nada. The scales go back in the loft. I console myself with the notion that it's because I'm now a rippling mountain of muscle.
Sunday 19 January 2014
Harder, Better, Faster, Older
I realise on Friday morning that the alarming noises on the bike are probably the tortuous screams of bearings in the rear wheel hub crying out for grease, and I almost certainly need to replace the cones. With the wheel in for repair and little time to swim, I'm stuck with running for the weekend. A good run on Friday night (1.5mi @ 9:19/mi) sets me up well. At the end of it I'm bounding along and certainly feeling a lot better than I did on the last run.
My birthday arrives. I treat myself to a day off from exercise and eating well, and fill it with cake and chocolate and wine and beer. My body treats itself to a surprise case of backache, obviously put out that I should be advancing beyond 37 years feeling fitter and healthier than I have for a while. My wife treats me to a custom made t-shirt with "ICANBUTTRI" on the front. There is no going back from the blog now, which I guess means I have to do the triathlon too.
Out for dinner, my brother, a former amateur triathlete himself, offers various hints and tips. Somehow, most of them - get a heart rate monitor, get a turbo trainer, you'll need a wetsuit, you could do with a new bike - involve spending money, preferably in the shop he manages. It's fair to say that there could be some expenditure along the way.
After a fairly lazy Sunday, I get out for a run in the late afternoon. It's a resounding success - for the first time I dip below 9 minute mile pace (1.5mi @ 8:49/mi). I'm breathing hard, but then I feel aware that I ought to be thinking about increasing my endurance. I walk briefly to catch my breath and then goad myself into another half mile, which I cover easily.
At home, I do warm down stretches in the lounge, in front of the kids eating their dinner.
"You look silly Daddy"
"It's not silly, it's sporty," I reply.
"But, you like computers and space and robots and things"
It's true, I do.
My birthday arrives. I treat myself to a day off from exercise and eating well, and fill it with cake and chocolate and wine and beer. My body treats itself to a surprise case of backache, obviously put out that I should be advancing beyond 37 years feeling fitter and healthier than I have for a while. My wife treats me to a custom made t-shirt with "ICANBUTTRI" on the front. There is no going back from the blog now, which I guess means I have to do the triathlon too.
Out for dinner, my brother, a former amateur triathlete himself, offers various hints and tips. Somehow, most of them - get a heart rate monitor, get a turbo trainer, you'll need a wetsuit, you could do with a new bike - involve spending money, preferably in the shop he manages. It's fair to say that there could be some expenditure along the way.
After a fairly lazy Sunday, I get out for a run in the late afternoon. It's a resounding success - for the first time I dip below 9 minute mile pace (1.5mi @ 8:49/mi). I'm breathing hard, but then I feel aware that I ought to be thinking about increasing my endurance. I walk briefly to catch my breath and then goad myself into another half mile, which I cover easily.
At home, I do warm down stretches in the lounge, in front of the kids eating their dinner.
"You look silly Daddy"
"It's not silly, it's sporty," I reply.
"But, you like computers and space and robots and things"
It's true, I do.
Thursday 16 January 2014
Non-zero
Thursday, and the rain hammers down. The initial flush of energy seems to have disappeared, and up ahead is what seems like a long haul to get fit. That disappointment sets in when you realise the flab hasn't disappeared in just 10 days, and you really are going to have to put some work in and stay off the pies.
To be fair, it's been an interesting week, buying a new house, which has directed attention away from such trivial matters as a bit of running, and into those important, grown-up things like arranging a mortgage, and considering whether your telly will be big enough in the new lounge. To add insult to injury, the news that we've won a sealed bid against 3 other people brings cause for a few glasses of wine on Wednesday night, and those alcoholic endorphins start flowing again like the good 'ole days of 2013.
Still, though, I plough on with training. On Wednesday, a damp lunchtime run is hard work. I try to do something akin to intervals - accelerating for periods of time. I work up to the big push, then run as fast as I can. Sadly, as fast as I can is not very fast, and it's all I can do to stop myself tumbling arse-over-tit. Even running as-not-very-fast-as-I-can, I can only sustain it for about 15 seconds before I come to a wheezing halt. I trust it'll improve in the coming weeks, but by the time I arrive back at the office I'm hurting all over and begging for it to be over. On the plus side, I've done 1.6 miles in just over 14 minutes, about 8:50/mi pace. On the down side, running has replaced the swimming as my least favourite tri sport.
Today, training goes out the window a little bit. Too wet for a run, not enough time for a swim, and some exceedingly poor maintenance on my part means my bike is making some rather alarming grinding noises, so is far from suitable for anything other than limping to and from the train station, until such time as I fix it. But I'm helped by random internet advice that has stuck with me - no more zero days. It's ostensibly about depression, but I think it's just sound advice for life. A non-zero day is one in which you do something, anything. Anything that isn't what you would have done if someone hadn't told you to have a non-zero day. Read one page of a book, do one pushup, go outside for one minute. It doesn't matter, as long as it's not nothing.
I slip the Just Dance disc into the Wii U again. Let us not speak of what happened next, for it involves slightly suggestive moves in time to Carly Rae Jepsen, but it all counts.
To be fair, it's been an interesting week, buying a new house, which has directed attention away from such trivial matters as a bit of running, and into those important, grown-up things like arranging a mortgage, and considering whether your telly will be big enough in the new lounge. To add insult to injury, the news that we've won a sealed bid against 3 other people brings cause for a few glasses of wine on Wednesday night, and those alcoholic endorphins start flowing again like the good 'ole days of 2013.
Still, though, I plough on with training. On Wednesday, a damp lunchtime run is hard work. I try to do something akin to intervals - accelerating for periods of time. I work up to the big push, then run as fast as I can. Sadly, as fast as I can is not very fast, and it's all I can do to stop myself tumbling arse-over-tit. Even running as-not-very-fast-as-I-can, I can only sustain it for about 15 seconds before I come to a wheezing halt. I trust it'll improve in the coming weeks, but by the time I arrive back at the office I'm hurting all over and begging for it to be over. On the plus side, I've done 1.6 miles in just over 14 minutes, about 8:50/mi pace. On the down side, running has replaced the swimming as my least favourite tri sport.
Today, training goes out the window a little bit. Too wet for a run, not enough time for a swim, and some exceedingly poor maintenance on my part means my bike is making some rather alarming grinding noises, so is far from suitable for anything other than limping to and from the train station, until such time as I fix it. But I'm helped by random internet advice that has stuck with me - no more zero days. It's ostensibly about depression, but I think it's just sound advice for life. A non-zero day is one in which you do something, anything. Anything that isn't what you would have done if someone hadn't told you to have a non-zero day. Read one page of a book, do one pushup, go outside for one minute. It doesn't matter, as long as it's not nothing.
I slip the Just Dance disc into the Wii U again. Let us not speak of what happened next, for it involves slightly suggestive moves in time to Carly Rae Jepsen, but it all counts.
Monday 13 January 2014
Achievement Unlocked
As you know, loyal readers, Monday night is swim night. In the changing rooms are two men sharing a thorough discourse on the economic development of the BRIC countries.
Not really. They're talking about stains on the ceiling. Every other word is "fuck" in some form or other, at a volume a good few decibels louder than strictly necessary. The odd "shit" is thrown in just to add some colour. They would make a fascinating training corpus for a POS tagger.
"Fuckin' hell mate, have you fucking seen the fucking shit on the fucking ceiling, there's fuck loads of it"
"Fuck off!"
"I don't know what the fuck this fucking stuff is"
Leisure centres, I fear, are the natural habitat of the boor and the bozo. I'm almost sure these guys are going to turn out to be doing triathlon. I wait for the topic to arise. Thankfully it never comes, but I'm always on my guard.
In the pool, I do a few lengths to warm up, and then challenge myself to do a full 750m non-stop, just to see if I can. After about 8 lengths, everything goes into auto-pilot. I am a whirling, kicking automaton, barely cognizant of what I am doing. My nostrils are pumping out bubbles with a strict rhythm. My ears are plugged with water. My goggles are fogged once more, and all I can really see is the dark outline of the lane marker on the bottom of the pool keeping me in a straight line. Sensorily deprived, it's pretty boring. My mind switches to the code that I left unfinished before I left. By length 24 I'm mulling over the Viterbi algorithm. Yes, that boring.
I'm still slow. As I'm ploughing my watery furrow, a couple of bikini'd lovelies paddle gently up and down the pool alongside me, nattering as they go (maybe about the economic development of the BRIC countries, possibly about nail polish, I'm not sure). Over the course of about 15 lengths I only gain about 10 yards on them. But most importantly, I keep going, and I finish the 30 lengths with a minor cramp in my calf and a very sore right wrist, presumably not helped by poor technique. Having neglected to look at a clock before I started, I have no idea how long it actually took. Common sense says it was around 20 minutes, but it feels like an hour.
Achievement duly unlocked, I go home and raid the kids' sweet tin.
Not really. They're talking about stains on the ceiling. Every other word is "fuck" in some form or other, at a volume a good few decibels louder than strictly necessary. The odd "shit" is thrown in just to add some colour. They would make a fascinating training corpus for a POS tagger.
"Fuckin' hell mate, have you fucking seen the fucking shit on the fucking ceiling, there's fuck loads of it"
"Fuck off!"
"I don't know what the fuck this fucking stuff is"
Leisure centres, I fear, are the natural habitat of the boor and the bozo. I'm almost sure these guys are going to turn out to be doing triathlon. I wait for the topic to arise. Thankfully it never comes, but I'm always on my guard.
In the pool, I do a few lengths to warm up, and then challenge myself to do a full 750m non-stop, just to see if I can. After about 8 lengths, everything goes into auto-pilot. I am a whirling, kicking automaton, barely cognizant of what I am doing. My nostrils are pumping out bubbles with a strict rhythm. My ears are plugged with water. My goggles are fogged once more, and all I can really see is the dark outline of the lane marker on the bottom of the pool keeping me in a straight line. Sensorily deprived, it's pretty boring. My mind switches to the code that I left unfinished before I left. By length 24 I'm mulling over the Viterbi algorithm. Yes, that boring.
I'm still slow. As I'm ploughing my watery furrow, a couple of bikini'd lovelies paddle gently up and down the pool alongside me, nattering as they go (maybe about the economic development of the BRIC countries, possibly about nail polish, I'm not sure). Over the course of about 15 lengths I only gain about 10 yards on them. But most importantly, I keep going, and I finish the 30 lengths with a minor cramp in my calf and a very sore right wrist, presumably not helped by poor technique. Having neglected to look at a clock before I started, I have no idea how long it actually took. Common sense says it was around 20 minutes, but it feels like an hour.
Achievement duly unlocked, I go home and raid the kids' sweet tin.
Sunday 12 January 2014
Uphill swim
After a day off on Saturday - a couple of glasses of wine may have slipped in there somewhere - the family drop me off at the pool on Sunday morning and disappear off for a walk. The pool is busy, but one lane is cordoned off for elite athletes like me.
I concentrate yet again on correctly rolling my body when breathing, and breathing into the dip behind the bow wave, which prevents you having to raise your head too high to breathe. In a short period of time the swimming has become a lot more comfortable, even if my technique does start to disintegrate after a few lengths.
Something is odd, however, aside from the distraction of constantly fogging goggles. In one direction I seem to fly. In the other it feels a lot tougher, almost as if I'm swimming uphill. I can't determine if there's some sort of current from the shallow end to the deep end, or if it's because the "anti-clockwise" convention means that the uphill leg is next to the wall, in the turbulence of echoing waves. Either way, it's annoying, but a slight taste of what conditions will be like in open water.
All in all, I enjoy the swim. Still not fast; approximately 75% old lady speed (hereby 0.75OL) judging from the woman next to me. Also still not the prettiest, but a marked improvement.
The practicality of getting home again after the swim means I add a run straight after. It's about 1.6 miles from the pool to home, and I cover it in about 15 minutes. At one point, I nearly enjoy it. Strange.
I concentrate yet again on correctly rolling my body when breathing, and breathing into the dip behind the bow wave, which prevents you having to raise your head too high to breathe. In a short period of time the swimming has become a lot more comfortable, even if my technique does start to disintegrate after a few lengths.
Something is odd, however, aside from the distraction of constantly fogging goggles. In one direction I seem to fly. In the other it feels a lot tougher, almost as if I'm swimming uphill. I can't determine if there's some sort of current from the shallow end to the deep end, or if it's because the "anti-clockwise" convention means that the uphill leg is next to the wall, in the turbulence of echoing waves. Either way, it's annoying, but a slight taste of what conditions will be like in open water.
All in all, I enjoy the swim. Still not fast; approximately 75% old lady speed (hereby 0.75OL) judging from the woman next to me. Also still not the prettiest, but a marked improvement.
The practicality of getting home again after the swim means I add a run straight after. It's about 1.6 miles from the pool to home, and I cover it in about 15 minutes. At one point, I nearly enjoy it. Strange.
Friday 10 January 2014
Fluorescent Slut
I make the most of the blue skies and decide to make it a cycling day. I promise myself that I won't get waylaid again.
At the bottom of Christchurch Road, another cyclist appears ahead of me. He looks the business, a proper cyclist, all the kit. Cyclists in front are always helpful, something to aim at. He's slow to get going, and quickly I catch him and shoot past. By the time I get to the lower reaches of Pokesdown Hill, it's clear I've gone too soon, and as I drop a couple of gears he powers past and on up the hill. I try to stay on his back wheel, but by the time we reach the top he's pulling away rapidly. It's only thanks to the traffic lights that I manage to catch up.
Now on the flat, I resolve to try and stick with him as much as possible. He's pretty quick though, traffic gets in the way, and slowly but surely he puts distance between us. All the way through Boscombe, he teases me, occasionally appearing up ahead at junctions or weaving through traffic. Eventually, at the roundabout, he heads straight on, whereas I take a left and mourn the loss of my companion.
I coast down Bath Hill and onto the Pier flyover. At the bottom, a truck turning right slows the traffic, and me with it. Unexpectedly, the fluorescent slut appears from behind, on the outside of the cars, and zips past once more. It's great timing - up ahead is The Hill. I step on the power in an effort to keep up.
The Hill is everything I fear it will be. It's lung-burstingly steep. It's short but not short enough. Your thumbs are numb from frantically pushing the shifters, praying that a lower gear will magically appear on the cassette. At times, you pull so hard on the bars that the front wheel lifts slightly, and you fear being thrown into the road. The only solace I take is that my target up ahead also looks decidedly uncomfortable, albeit still quicker than me.
At the top, the eggs and banana breakfast threatens to make a reappearance, and it takes a good few minutes of drifting along to regain my breath and my legs before I can get up to speed again. The thought of having to do this hill straight after a 30 minute open water swim is unpleasant. On the plus side, by July I hope to be fitter, lighter, and not be carrying 2st of laptop and other paraphernalia on my back.
At my destination, a 14.6mph average is a decent achievement for a ride through traffic, including a personal best for the Iford to Pokesdown section. Tonight, I may even treat myself to a beer.
At the bottom of Christchurch Road, another cyclist appears ahead of me. He looks the business, a proper cyclist, all the kit. Cyclists in front are always helpful, something to aim at. He's slow to get going, and quickly I catch him and shoot past. By the time I get to the lower reaches of Pokesdown Hill, it's clear I've gone too soon, and as I drop a couple of gears he powers past and on up the hill. I try to stay on his back wheel, but by the time we reach the top he's pulling away rapidly. It's only thanks to the traffic lights that I manage to catch up.
Now on the flat, I resolve to try and stick with him as much as possible. He's pretty quick though, traffic gets in the way, and slowly but surely he puts distance between us. All the way through Boscombe, he teases me, occasionally appearing up ahead at junctions or weaving through traffic. Eventually, at the roundabout, he heads straight on, whereas I take a left and mourn the loss of my companion.
I coast down Bath Hill and onto the Pier flyover. At the bottom, a truck turning right slows the traffic, and me with it. Unexpectedly, the fluorescent slut appears from behind, on the outside of the cars, and zips past once more. It's great timing - up ahead is The Hill. I step on the power in an effort to keep up.
The Hill is everything I fear it will be. It's lung-burstingly steep. It's short but not short enough. Your thumbs are numb from frantically pushing the shifters, praying that a lower gear will magically appear on the cassette. At times, you pull so hard on the bars that the front wheel lifts slightly, and you fear being thrown into the road. The only solace I take is that my target up ahead also looks decidedly uncomfortable, albeit still quicker than me.
At the top, the eggs and banana breakfast threatens to make a reappearance, and it takes a good few minutes of drifting along to regain my breath and my legs before I can get up to speed again. The thought of having to do this hill straight after a 30 minute open water swim is unpleasant. On the plus side, by July I hope to be fitter, lighter, and not be carrying 2st of laptop and other paraphernalia on my back.
At my destination, a 14.6mph average is a decent achievement for a ride through traffic, including a personal best for the Iford to Pokesdown section. Tonight, I may even treat myself to a beer.
Thursday 9 January 2014
Betrayal
On Wednesday I decide to make the 12 mile commute across town on my bike. In the summer, this includes a glorious scoot along 7 miles of flat, traffic free promenade between Boscombe and Sandbanks, beautiful views of the Needles and the Purbecks beneath an endless blue sky. In the winter, the south-westerly winds blow the golden sand onto the prom - the lack of winter-time tourists means it's not worthwhile the council rolling out the tractors at 5am to clear it - so it's a no-go area, unless you're on seriously knobbly tyres. I have an alternative route through town, and I plan to tweak it slightly to take me up Priory Road - on race day, 100 metres into the cycle, I'll be required to hit the nasty hill behind the BIC, so I figure it will do me good to get some regular practice in beforehand.
Five minutes out the house, I'm caught up by colleague Andy, who makes the same cycle commute almost every day, albeit via a different route. I decide to ride with him instead of following my intended plan. It's only after 45 minutes of weaving through rush hour traffic that I come to my senses and curse myself for so easily forgetting that this was supposed to be training. When it comes to the cycling, the endurance is not a problem, but I need to work on the speed, and I most definitely haven't done that in this otherwise pleasant ride. It reminds me that I mustn't take the cycling for granted and need to work at it.
On Thursday, I head out the office at lunchtime for a run. At first I head for nearby parkland, but the ground is waterlogged from a month of rain, so I end up doing a circuit around the less scenic industrial estates of Cabot Lane. I cross over the road just in front of another lunchtime athlete, who lopes past in long strides with ease and disappears into the distance. In contrast, I feel like I have lead weights in my feet, and I'm painfully aware of my wobbling stomach bouncing along in front of me.
Boredom can be a problem when you're doing these things. Luckily for me, I now have a single train of thought when I'm training - blog posts. I author and re-author in my head as a I plod round. Observations are made, (hilarious) jokes are formed, prose is forged into shape like a blacksmith on an anvil.
And then when I arrive back (1.7mi @ 9:26 pace for the record), I forget it all and just write this bollocks.
Five minutes out the house, I'm caught up by colleague Andy, who makes the same cycle commute almost every day, albeit via a different route. I decide to ride with him instead of following my intended plan. It's only after 45 minutes of weaving through rush hour traffic that I come to my senses and curse myself for so easily forgetting that this was supposed to be training. When it comes to the cycling, the endurance is not a problem, but I need to work on the speed, and I most definitely haven't done that in this otherwise pleasant ride. It reminds me that I mustn't take the cycling for granted and need to work at it.
On Thursday, I head out the office at lunchtime for a run. At first I head for nearby parkland, but the ground is waterlogged from a month of rain, so I end up doing a circuit around the less scenic industrial estates of Cabot Lane. I cross over the road just in front of another lunchtime athlete, who lopes past in long strides with ease and disappears into the distance. In contrast, I feel like I have lead weights in my feet, and I'm painfully aware of my wobbling stomach bouncing along in front of me.
Boredom can be a problem when you're doing these things. Luckily for me, I now have a single train of thought when I'm training - blog posts. I author and re-author in my head as a I plod round. Observations are made, (hilarious) jokes are formed, prose is forged into shape like a blacksmith on an anvil.
And then when I arrive back (1.7mi @ 9:26 pace for the record), I forget it all and just write this bollocks.
Tuesday 7 January 2014
Tribbath
Tuesday is rest day, the Sabbath, or Tribbath if you
will. A chance for muscles to catch up
and bones to rest, and a chance to ponder the first week. The physical effort exerted is relatively
minimal - probably around 800m of swimming in total, about 3 miles of running,
and no cycling except for the usual 4 mile round trip on the daily commute. The mental effort, however, is
considerable. I'm suddenly perked up,
motivated. Wanting to get out and
exercise, keen to eat right (no thanks to the Dev team), keen
to push myself and find out what I can do.
This may or may not last, but at the moment it feels pretty good. I end up telling everyone about the triathlon,
not to impress, but simply because it's an exciting thing right now. In some ways, 6 months seems like a long time
to wait to do this thing. Bart suggests that perhaps I'm only doing the triathlon to give me something to blog
about. Maybe he's right.
Tomorrow: cycling. At lunchtime, I think about the saddle
position on my bike. For months I've
noticed the nose in the air, and struggling to get comfortable reaching for the
handlebars, and for months I've been doing it tomorrow. In my new found enthusiasm, I rush out to the
bike shed to adjust it. A five minute
job, and on the ride home I wonder why on earth I hadn't bothered for so long.
Monday 6 January 2014
Progress
Monday night is swim night. At least, it is now. After Friday's debacle I'm a little hesitant, but I tell myself that things can only get better.
Two men chat in the changing rooms, every sentence using the word "mate" as a full stop. The conversation of one in particular chock-full of braggadocio, especially on the subject of women. Not to promote stereotypes, but he's 5'5" on his tiptoes. The weary nods of his companion suggest a long suffering relationship. Mate B none-too-subtly turns the conversation to the more mundane topic of the workout they have just done. Mate A seizes upon it, and it's not too long before he's gladly listing the athletic achievements he anticipates over the coming year - including triathlons.
"'Fink I might just stick to a Sprint mate," says Mate A.
"Yeah, start small mate," replies Mate B.
"I mean, I reckon I could do the longer distance, but ain't really got time for that mate"
"Right mate"
"You know where you wanna go mate? Tenerife. They 'ave a proper one there. Ironman. 70.3. Whatever that means" (actually, 70.3 is a Half Ironman)
"I think that's the distance you have to do mate"
I trust that this is not representative of your average triathlete.
Anyway, business.
My focus is breathing. Exhalation, breathing into the pocket, and body rotation. I keep it simple by forgetting about bilateral breathing or trying anything more than breathing every 2 strokes. I think that this will help keep me slower, reduce the urge to go faster to get to the next breath.
It works like a charm. I feel so much more confident in the water, and I'm able to do continual stints of 150m before taking a breather, far better than my first attempt last week. I'm certainly not terribly fast - in the lane next to me, a mature lady, no stranger to the odd Ginsters herself I suggest, breaststrokes past with ease - and my stroke style is probably none too pretty, but I climb out the pool feeling much more positive about the possibility of not drowning.
Two men chat in the changing rooms, every sentence using the word "mate" as a full stop. The conversation of one in particular chock-full of braggadocio, especially on the subject of women. Not to promote stereotypes, but he's 5'5" on his tiptoes. The weary nods of his companion suggest a long suffering relationship. Mate B none-too-subtly turns the conversation to the more mundane topic of the workout they have just done. Mate A seizes upon it, and it's not too long before he's gladly listing the athletic achievements he anticipates over the coming year - including triathlons.
"'Fink I might just stick to a Sprint mate," says Mate A.
"Yeah, start small mate," replies Mate B.
"I mean, I reckon I could do the longer distance, but ain't really got time for that mate"
"Right mate"
"You know where you wanna go mate? Tenerife. They 'ave a proper one there. Ironman. 70.3. Whatever that means" (actually, 70.3 is a Half Ironman)
"I think that's the distance you have to do mate"
I trust that this is not representative of your average triathlete.
Anyway, business.
My focus is breathing. Exhalation, breathing into the pocket, and body rotation. I keep it simple by forgetting about bilateral breathing or trying anything more than breathing every 2 strokes. I think that this will help keep me slower, reduce the urge to go faster to get to the next breath.
It works like a charm. I feel so much more confident in the water, and I'm able to do continual stints of 150m before taking a breather, far better than my first attempt last week. I'm certainly not terribly fast - in the lane next to me, a mature lady, no stranger to the odd Ginsters herself I suggest, breaststrokes past with ease - and my stroke style is probably none too pretty, but I climb out the pool feeling much more positive about the possibility of not drowning.
Dream
The first event - the wee. The starter's pistol bangs, everyone points into the urinal and golden streams begin to flow. Except mine. I have stage fright, unable to produce. I look around frantically, but I'm the only one with a problem. Competitors, finished already, start heading for the door. Gradually I coax a few small drops out, and find myself in last place as I head to the forest.
In the forest, the field scrambles around vines and roots, pushing through leafy undergrowth. I'm not even sure what the event is. Everyone else appears to be looking for something, but I don't know what. I climb a tree anyway, just to look like I know what I'm doing. I sit there a while, perplexed and nervous, while underneath me others stride with purpose, out of the undergrowth and off towards the beach. Once everyone has gone, I climb down and follow.
The beach is wide and flat, the sand damp and compacted. In the middle stands a blue desk, behind which a man serves wetsuits like a cloakroom attendant. I join a queue. As I get to the front of the queue, I realise that everyone else already has their wetsuit in the cloakroom - I, on the other hand, failed to think about doing so. I get to the desk.
"What number, mate?"
"Errr, I don't know"
The man looks at me quizzically. My heart races as I try and fail to think about what I should do next. I notice the rest of the field already in the water and making headway.
There is a delicate tap on my arm, and I come to.
"Daddy, I had a bad dream".
I am grateful for the rescue.
In the forest, the field scrambles around vines and roots, pushing through leafy undergrowth. I'm not even sure what the event is. Everyone else appears to be looking for something, but I don't know what. I climb a tree anyway, just to look like I know what I'm doing. I sit there a while, perplexed and nervous, while underneath me others stride with purpose, out of the undergrowth and off towards the beach. Once everyone has gone, I climb down and follow.
The beach is wide and flat, the sand damp and compacted. In the middle stands a blue desk, behind which a man serves wetsuits like a cloakroom attendant. I join a queue. As I get to the front of the queue, I realise that everyone else already has their wetsuit in the cloakroom - I, on the other hand, failed to think about doing so. I get to the desk.
"What number, mate?"
"Errr, I don't know"
The man looks at me quizzically. My heart races as I try and fail to think about what I should do next. I notice the rest of the field already in the water and making headway.
There is a delicate tap on my arm, and I come to.
"Daddy, I had a bad dream".
I am grateful for the rescue.
Sunday 5 January 2014
Run
A steady drizzle falls, yet a run is a good chance to have a few minutes out the house. Ensconced in fleece and woolly hat, at odds with the shorts and trainers on my bottom half, I walk briskly through the cemetery for a warm up. At the other end, I find a wall to use for stretches. Stretches in chilly drizzle, looking like a proper athlete.
"Are you alright?" asks a lady, concerned.
I push on regardless of such insolence.
This is not my first flirtation with running. About 5 years ago I got into it to the point where I was regularly running 8 or 9 miles. At one point, I even did a half marathon. Unfortunately, no-one was there to see it, given that it was the result of getting lost in the back lanes of Normandy and doing about 7 miles more than I'd planned to do. I walked a bit stiffly for the rest of that holiday.
That running phase came to an end when I badly tweaked my IT band, which has always been a persistent issue for me, and never got back into it subsequently. I discover now that my stride might have something to do with that - I'd always assumed getting your foot out in front and striking with your heel was a good thing to do. Turns out that's entirely (probably) the wrong thing to be doing.
As the drizzle continues, I reach the corner of my road, and I've done 1.5 miles at 9:38min pace, which I'm pretty pleased with. I decide that this is probably a good distance to stick with for the next couple of weeks at least.
Friday 3 January 2014
Sink or Swim
I stay up late looking through triathlon blogs, finding the people who have done what I'm doing. Among others, I find this one. I read the latest post with dismay, and my thoughts turn to Scott [1]. I'm reminded that I'm terribly lucky to be even in a position to do a triathlon. I'm fortunate to be healthy enough; fortunate to be able to part with 50 quid for the pleasure; fortunate simply to have life so easy that the biggest problem in my life is how to cover 16 miles under my own steam. Not for food or water or shelter or medicine, but simply for fun.
Friday morning I have to myself, and I elect to swim. The swim is the bit I somewhat dread. I'm a competent, but far from confident, swimmer, and decidedly un-aerodynamic in the water. I treat myself to a pair of classy mirrored goggles at the pool, and consider a swim cap, but decide that nature has taken care of that for me already.
I survey the pool - it's a "proper swimming" session, so the pool is split into slow, medium and fast lanes, plus an open section. I get into the open section, and notice that it's all ladies. It is, I'm sure, coincidental, but I can't hazard the small but not impossible chance that I'm breaking some unspoken rule whereupon gentlemen are not welcome, so head for the lanes. I'm pretty sure that I'm not going to want the fast lane. I look at the slow lane, which is full of gently gliding grannies, so choose the medium lane.
I figure that I'm not the best swimmer, but bashing out 750m in a pool can't be that much trouble. It's 30 lengths of the pool, so I'll just get cracking and see how we go. One length of front crawl later, and I reach for the wall, spluttering and breathing hard. This has not worked out quite how I thought it would. I breaststroke back to the other end to consider my plans. I unscientifically conclude that my breathing is all wrong - I'm holding my breath underwater, and I'm taking a breath only every 4 strokes - and I'm simply going too fast. Try as I might however, I can't slow down, although it's notable that my "fast" is a good deal slower than the "slow" of most of the others around me. The urge to breathe keeps propelling me forward.
By the end of the session, I'm still struggling to do more than 2 lengths of front crawl without needing a break, or even to feel comfortable doing front crawl. Water has entered every facial cavity. I wonder how I'm going to do this in the middle of a pack of flailing arms and legs in open water that will be at best 12 degrees colder than this pool.
[1] whose immaculate talent for writing prose, by the way, was a significant inspiration for writing this stuff down to try and hone my own skills
Friday morning I have to myself, and I elect to swim. The swim is the bit I somewhat dread. I'm a competent, but far from confident, swimmer, and decidedly un-aerodynamic in the water. I treat myself to a pair of classy mirrored goggles at the pool, and consider a swim cap, but decide that nature has taken care of that for me already.
I survey the pool - it's a "proper swimming" session, so the pool is split into slow, medium and fast lanes, plus an open section. I get into the open section, and notice that it's all ladies. It is, I'm sure, coincidental, but I can't hazard the small but not impossible chance that I'm breaking some unspoken rule whereupon gentlemen are not welcome, so head for the lanes. I'm pretty sure that I'm not going to want the fast lane. I look at the slow lane, which is full of gently gliding grannies, so choose the medium lane.
I figure that I'm not the best swimmer, but bashing out 750m in a pool can't be that much trouble. It's 30 lengths of the pool, so I'll just get cracking and see how we go. One length of front crawl later, and I reach for the wall, spluttering and breathing hard. This has not worked out quite how I thought it would. I breaststroke back to the other end to consider my plans. I unscientifically conclude that my breathing is all wrong - I'm holding my breath underwater, and I'm taking a breath only every 4 strokes - and I'm simply going too fast. Try as I might however, I can't slow down, although it's notable that my "fast" is a good deal slower than the "slow" of most of the others around me. The urge to breathe keeps propelling me forward.
By the end of the session, I'm still struggling to do more than 2 lengths of front crawl without needing a break, or even to feel comfortable doing front crawl. Water has entered every facial cavity. I wonder how I'm going to do this in the middle of a pack of flailing arms and legs in open water that will be at best 12 degrees colder than this pool.
[1] whose immaculate talent for writing prose, by the way, was a significant inspiration for writing this stuff down to try and hone my own skills
Thursday 2 January 2014
A rush and a push and the land is ours
The scales have gone in the loft.
I had an epiphany - last time I lost a significant amount of weight (around 2st), the point where it went to pot was when I appeared to stop losing weight. No matter that I felt great, might even allow that I looked quite good. As soon as I wasn't seeing that weight dropping, I got disheartened, and here I am 18 months later having put more than a stone of it back on again. I see people who go to Weight Watchers talking about how they've "lost half a pound this week". Eh? My weight can vary by 3-4 pounds simply depending on whether I've had a big breakfast and a dump. Obsessing over weight is, on anything but a macro scale at least, meaningless. With the scales next to the sink in the bathroom, the urge to stand on them is too great, so in the loft they've gone. Maybe I'll get them out at the end of March, just to check where we are.
Yesterday was the foulest of weather, so I was very careful to fully observe the advice about rest being a very important part of any triathlete's training plan. True, I don't yet have a training plan, but if I were to have one, rest would be top of the list of activities, so I feel it's a good start.
Today was a day out with the kids - a decent walk around Corfe Castle, but any walk with the kids is inevitably a dawdle punctuated by spontaneous ladybird adoptions, or repeated sign reading, or generally complaining at how far they've walked. So all in all it wasn't particularly energetic, and I felt a need to do something.
I decide to go out for an evening run, just around the block. For the most part, running actually feels great, and subsequently I have a wonderful image of myself when I run, something like the white Mo Farah. As I consider this, I realise that I almost (almost) certainly do not look like this (although it is true that I have great legs, the one part of me that isn't fat). I am just another hapless plodder hauling their bloated corpse around the streets, barely able to peel their rubber soles from the tarmac long enough to propel their not insignificant mass forward. To top it all, it's January 2nd - I may as well have a large neon sign above my head proclaiming "Happy New Year!". I half expect cars to toot as they pass, their occupants passing judgement on the likelihood of me still doing this by the end of the month.
By the end, I've run 1.1 miles, at a plodderly 10.57/mi, but it'll do for starters, and I wonder what it is that's stopped me from just doing this for the past year. Just stick some trainers on, round the block and back in time for Eastenders. The mental training is just as important as the physical.
Also, note to self, get some running clothing that has pockets. Running whilst carrying front door keys in one hand, mobile (for Strava) in the other is not going to do.
I had an epiphany - last time I lost a significant amount of weight (around 2st), the point where it went to pot was when I appeared to stop losing weight. No matter that I felt great, might even allow that I looked quite good. As soon as I wasn't seeing that weight dropping, I got disheartened, and here I am 18 months later having put more than a stone of it back on again. I see people who go to Weight Watchers talking about how they've "lost half a pound this week". Eh? My weight can vary by 3-4 pounds simply depending on whether I've had a big breakfast and a dump. Obsessing over weight is, on anything but a macro scale at least, meaningless. With the scales next to the sink in the bathroom, the urge to stand on them is too great, so in the loft they've gone. Maybe I'll get them out at the end of March, just to check where we are.
Yesterday was the foulest of weather, so I was very careful to fully observe the advice about rest being a very important part of any triathlete's training plan. True, I don't yet have a training plan, but if I were to have one, rest would be top of the list of activities, so I feel it's a good start.
Today was a day out with the kids - a decent walk around Corfe Castle, but any walk with the kids is inevitably a dawdle punctuated by spontaneous ladybird adoptions, or repeated sign reading, or generally complaining at how far they've walked. So all in all it wasn't particularly energetic, and I felt a need to do something.
I decide to go out for an evening run, just around the block. For the most part, running actually feels great, and subsequently I have a wonderful image of myself when I run, something like the white Mo Farah. As I consider this, I realise that I almost (almost) certainly do not look like this (although it is true that I have great legs, the one part of me that isn't fat). I am just another hapless plodder hauling their bloated corpse around the streets, barely able to peel their rubber soles from the tarmac long enough to propel their not insignificant mass forward. To top it all, it's January 2nd - I may as well have a large neon sign above my head proclaiming "Happy New Year!". I half expect cars to toot as they pass, their occupants passing judgement on the likelihood of me still doing this by the end of the month.
By the end, I've run 1.1 miles, at a plodderly 10.57/mi, but it'll do for starters, and I wonder what it is that's stopped me from just doing this for the past year. Just stick some trainers on, round the block and back in time for Eastenders. The mental training is just as important as the physical.
Also, note to self, get some running clothing that has pockets. Running whilst carrying front door keys in one hand, mobile (for Strava) in the other is not going to do.
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