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.
Thursday, 9 January 2014
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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