Underwhelmed

"Good luck!" says Emma as I leave.  "If you keep to your schedule so far, this'll be your last session before the big day!"

It's a sobering thought. It's been probably 6 weeks since I last entered a swimming pool that didn't have a tube slide and a giant tipping bucket.  Even tonight, I've dithered in getting out the door.  I thought I was going to be saved by having left my goggles in the bag in the kid's bedroom.  Alas, they were fast asleep, allowing me to sneak in and fetch them. I check my emails.  I have another go at taming the new hamster (she's having none of it).  But finally I can't hold off any more, and away I go.

I don't hate swimming.  I don't even dislike it.  I just have no motivation for it.  Unlike running or cycling, it requires you to go to a particular place at a particular time, to go backwards and forwards in the same boring space, with little visual or audio stimulation.  No-one ever wrote a blog post about how they swam to an old French fort and gawped in wonder at the Alps.  Of course, it doesn't help that I have to pay £4.40 for the privilege either.

It doesn't even really feel like exercise.  When I've finished a run or a cycle, I certainly feel it - I want to find the nearest lady, flex my rock-solid thighs and say "'ave a feel of that, love". When I finish a swim, I come home with a slight fatigue and whiff of chlorine.  Maybe that's a sign I'm not really doing enough.

So, I get in the pool, I go backwards and forwards.  It's not great, it's not bad, although I definitely have a bit of trouble with my right elbow, and I'm still looking at 20 minutes for 750m. Whatevs.  I make a mental note to go and buy a wetsuit next week - I need the practice in open water, and it might alleviate some of the boredom.

In other news, a quick, and quick, ride on the bike yesterday.

La Bastille

A change is as good as a rest, they say.  I'm not sure I agree.  In moving house, a work offsite meeting, a week in Crete and a few days with work in Grenoble, routine has gone out the window.  Through it all, training is hanging on for dear life.  I haven't done a decent cycle for about a month, and mentally I've abandoned swimming. It's only running that continues to keep me honest.

The early morning sun peeks out from behind the clouds in Grenoble, and around the edges of the blinds in the Park Hotel.  It’s 6.30am, and the alarm goes off with a deafening tone, one that surely would be considered for use as a torture device in Guantanamo Bay.  I switch it off urgently, and fall back into the pillow.  It's so, so easy to allow my eyelids to close again, which they do for a few minutes.  It's cosy here.  I tell myself how much I'm going to enjoy getting up and going for a run, but the body does not believe it.  Eventually, it's only the need to pee that gets me out of bed.  Even then, it takes an awful lot of effort to convince myself not to get back in once I'm done.  By the time I get out the door, it's nearly five to 7, and I haven't left myself an awful lot of time to run before needing to get back for breakfast and the cab to the office. 

Outside, it's a little chilly, but otherwise a beautiful morning.  Right across the street, I into the Parc de Paul Mistral, a green hub in the middle of Grenoble.  On summer evenings, this place is chock-a-block with the sports-obsessed citizens of the city.  Running, football, touch rugby, ultimate frisbee, slacklining, bicycle polo; all get an airing here.  But this morning I'm largely alone. 

I am on a mission - to reach la Bastille. There are easy ways to get up there - the Téléphérique, or Les Oeufs to the locals, can whisk you smoothly and efficiently to the restaurant at the top in a matter of minutes.  It is unfortunate, perhaps, that it doesn't open until 10am, so today I'm running.  At dinner the previous night, my companions told me of a colleague who reached the Bastille in under 7 minutes.  Should take me 10, tops.

Grenoble, "Capital of the Alps", is in fact the flattest city in France.  It really is very flat.  The city sits at the conjunction of three flat-bottomed valleys, forming a Y at the eastern end of the Alps.  The flatness of the city, however, is almost by definition - the bits that aren't flat are so very not flat that to build on top of them would be crazy.  It is on one particularly not flat bit, nestled at the apex of the Y, that the Huguenot chose to build the Bastille de Grenoble.  It floats a few hundred feet above the city, a vast stone edifice built into the mountain.  

I reach the river. On the other side, there is a single road, and a single line of shops and houses, that found the space to fit themselves along the riverbank before the ground rises almost vertically to the Bastille above.  Straight ahead, a path heads through a set of iron gates, inviting people to make their way up to the Bastille.  Looking up, it's clear that it’s not going to be an easy task to get up there.  At least I'm only running - an invading army would surely have handed in their collective notice at this point and gone home.  

Beyond the gates, one hits a set of Escher-esque steps through stone battlements that immediately lift you 100 feet above the river.  At the top of the steps, the zig zag track starts in earnest.  The path is steep but not unbearable, so feeling spritely, I try to keep up a relatively normal pace.   By the third hairpin, it’s clear this is not going to work.  My calves are feeling the burn already.  I plough on, but I'm getting slower and slower.  Another runner appears from another path, and as much as I want to keep up with him, I can't do it.  Eventually I have no option but to stop and catch breath.  Which I also do at the next hairpin, and the one after that, and after that. 

A mile of path and 15 minutes later, I make it to the base of the fortifications, 700 feet above the river.  The final push is up a steep set of steps, which are torture on my thighs and calves.  At the top, the steps turn through the stone wall, and on to an interior balcony, with a large arch looking out over the city.

This was why I came up here.  Down below, the city sprawls out in all its flatness, the closely packed medieval core clearly delineated from the 1960's concrete that grew up around it.  Beyond it, wooded peaks rise steeply to meet the low cloud floating above them.  But the cloud is merely a decorative sash for the mountains behind, that keep drawing your eye upwards to their snow-capped summits.  For a boy for whom the Mendip Hills are high peaks, it’s hard to grasp the scale.  A photograph could not even start to convey it.  At this time of the morning, the sun hits the mountains horizontally, picking out every crevice and rock in sharp relief.   I feel like I could take the pain every morning if this were the reward.

Moving

"Grandeur" is not a word often associated with Pokesdown Railway Station. I'm not about to change that either.  It's the most functional of stations.  The station entrance is simple double doors sandwiched between Cheque Express ("Tel 42-22-52 for Kwik Cash!") and Klevaco Air Conditioning Ltd. The ticket concourse is bland beige flooring with white tiled walls.  The long platform - once a necessity to accommodate the hordes of holiday makers arriving by train - is deserted, sheltered by a shabby roof held up by iron stanchions, backed by a high wall.  That wall, at least, has in recent times been perked up with an impressive spray-paint mural, the length of the platform, but still it struggles to lift the station out of its misery. Situated in a cutting, there's little view to be had except the weeds that grow in between the rails.  Two years ago, the station was officially renamed "Pokesdown For Boscombe".  This probably tells you everything you need to know about the sort of people that normally disembark at Pokesdown - those that are inhibited, either by alcohol, language or simple map-reading skills, from locating the nearest station to their destination unless it's made explicitly clear.  Which begs the question "who gets on a train not knowing where they're getting off?", but I digress.

My commute now terminates at Pokesdown.

It's been moving week for the family, half a mile across the gently flowing River Stour to the tree-lined suburbia of Boscombe East.  It's meant a severe dent in the training regime. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday all fly by without a hint of exercise, save for the lifting of boxes.  On top of this, the upheaval means a bunch of takeaways, and the Easter weekend delivers chocolate aplenty.

On Monday I take myself out for a post Easter run. It's the familiar 5k loop around the Iford and Tuckton bridges, albeit that I now start from the opposite side of the river.  Everything starts well, as I keep a sub 8-minute mile pace along Barrack Rd.  It's notable that 8:30/mi pace, not so long ago a "stretch goal", is now considered slow and steady.

Gradually I feel the acid sting of half digested Mini Eggs rising in my oesophagus.  I immediately regret my chocolate intake. But I keep up the pace anyway, over the railway bridge and on to Stour Road.  The Garmin beeps to let me know that I've completed 2 miles, and it's a quick one.  If I keep going like this, maybe even on for another 5k best.  But then my brain gets in the way.  "Stop," it whispers gently, "you've earned it.  Ease yourself back in." I've become pretty good at ignoring my brain, as my wife would testify, however today, for some reason, it's not so easy. I slow to a walk, and congratulate myself on the run until now. After a breather, I speed back up, ready to attack the last mile at a similar speed.

"What the...?" shouts my left shoulder blade.

"This isn't what I signed up to" says the arch of my right foot.

The left foot nods in agreement.

"I'm sleepy," yawns my right arm, slowly going numb.

"I told you this would happen," moans my right knee.

"It's a disgrace!" grumbles the left knee.

"Hi, I'm new here!" proclaims my neck.

It's a disaster.  Every part of my body suddenly has a tale of woe to tell.  Things are so bad that I barely reach the other side of Tuckton Bridge before having to stop again. I've gone from Mo Farah to Big Mo in the space of 30 seconds.  Things continue in a similar vein for the rest of the run, and I'm mighty relieved to round the corner on to the finish straight.  I am a broken man.

With a holiday coming up next week, I fear this situation may not improve either.  And I still haven't got back in the pool.  The clock is ticking down to July 6th.  Erk.

Game of Bones: The Tale of Paa-Krunne

It was dark days in the Kingdom. The King's trusty steed, Knees, was rendered lame. Instead, the King - devilishly handsome and wonderfully benevolent - busied himself toiling in the fields; playing with his casual band of minstrels; attending the tremendous displays of derring-do by the King's Regiment.  Meanwhile, the Queen prepared the Royal household for its relocation across the sparkling waters of the great River Stour, into the hinterlands of Iford.

But none of this could hide the fact that the King was avoiding his duties. A great malaise was spread over the land. The waters of the lagoon lay undisturbed.  He found solace in wine and beer.  The twin trolls, Sloth and Gluttony, hid under the palace drawbridge, awaiting their chance to ambush the King.  People all over the land beseeched the messengers of the court to bring them news of the King, but they could not, for he could not even find the heart to update his blog.

But news reached the King of great trouble.  A great dragon, Paa-Krunne, had come down from the mountains, and was now troubling the peasants in the King's Park.  The King discussed the situation with his advisors.  Everyone expected the King to do something, but he feared for the still recovering Knees. He did not want to show his vulnerability in a battle that he might lose.  But when the time came, the King knew what had to be done.  This was the opportunity he needed to show his people his bravery and courage.  He knew that he must take Knees into battle, and slay the dragon - in under 25 minutes.

On the high plateau of the Park, the King laid eyes upon the dragon.  It was still 3.1 miles distant, but the King was brave of heart and strong of head.  He was surrounded by his loyal troops - Sir Greg, once rumoured to have slain the dragon in just 22 minutes; Sir Kennedy and his young trainee, Master Henry; Dame Black; Lord John of Motson.  Urging Knees into a gallop, the King rode steadily but quickly.

Paa-Krunne was still a mile away when the pair came to the Marsh of Fatigue. A fog hung heavy over the marsh, and Knees struggled to make headway through the soft ground.  The King was by now alone, and ruing his earlier pace.  He was longing for a tavern in which to rest, when he passed by a fair maiden.

"'Tis a tortuous journey, my lord," spoke the maiden.

"Verily it is. But we have come so far, and we are so near," replied the King.

"What is your quest?," she quizzed.

"I have come to slay the beast in under 25 minutes"

The maiden, red hair funnelled into a thick plait down her back, considered the quest. "Then I think you are travelling well, sire. In this marsh I fear I have lost my way, and I shall not reach my destination today".

"Then we shall travel together, fair maiden, for I too am lost in this terrible place.  I am Sir Mark," said the King.  He did not wish to reveal his true identity, for he was humble, as well as devilishly handsome and wonderfully benevolent.

"I am Lady Kate."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Come, we must not tarry, for the dragon is near."

Together they travelled, from the Marsh of Fatigue, through the Woods of Twisted Ankle.  The tales they told along the way passed the time, and compelled them onwards.

At the summit of the Hill of Doubt, they found the lair of the dragon, and inside, the awakening beast.  It noticed the brave adventurers.  The Hill of Doubt had sapped their energy, but they reminded each other of the rich rewards that awaited the completion of their quest.  The dragon reared up and beat its massive wings.  It was angry, and its fiery breath scorched the muscles and took away their breath.

"We must aim for the heart, Sir Mark.  Gird your loins, for now is the time we must attack."

"Aye, Lady Kate.  Attack we shall."

The party advanced upon the dragon, deftly avoiding its attacks.  The King charged at full speed.  The good horse Knees was now at his limits.

"Sprint now, Sir Mark, if you are to accomplish your quest!," squealed Lady Kate.

As Knees buckled beneath him, the King plunged his sword deep into the heart of Paa-Krunne.  The beast let out a moan that reverberated throughout the Kingdom, and slumped to the floor.  It was slain.  The King glanced at his most ancient Garmin to see that he had completed his quest in 24 minutes and 20 seconds.

As light returned to the Kingdom, the people rejoiced, and once more did the King update his blog.

Block

"You haven't posted on your blog for ages," says Benji.

"I know. I haven't had anything to write about."

"Perhaps you have writers' block. You should post about writers' block."

It's probably not so much writers' block as triathlon block. A general trough of apathy has followed the duathlon.  It's not been without it's highlights, most notably a 25:10 parkrun 5k, and an 8.5k lunchtime run, but otherwise it's a litany of missed training and underwhelming effort.

To underline the gloomy outlook, today my knees age about 30 years of their own volition.  It starts with a hill reps session with Greg.  The warm up run is fine, but as soon as we start the first run up the hill, the inside of my right knee pings and I have to stop. It's another few minutes before I can go again, and then it's gingerly.

Over the course of the afternoon, my left knee decides it needs a bit of the action too.  By the time I get home, climbing the stairs is a chore. This cannot be good.  It it maybe life's way of telling me that I really should get back to swimming. I haven't been for two weeks.  Perhaps, just perhaps, this is the opportunity I need to discover my inner dolphin.

Race Day

Race day.  I wake up at 6:15am, before the alarm goes off, almost unknown for me.

The Holiday Inn M4 Jct 10 (not to be confused with the Holiday Inn M4 Jct 11) is actually a nice place, or at least as nice as these places can be.  From the 6th floor I get a good view over the surrounding area, Winnersh Triangle, a triumph of post-millennial office space, all mirrored windows and gently glowing logos.  On a Sunday, it's a ghost town.

In a fit of anxious preparation, I've laid out my kit at the foot of the bed, and separated race bits (rucksack) from overnight stuff (holdall).  I keep thinking through the race and transitions, trying to figure out what I might have forgotten about, but all seems in order.  A couple of bananas and a slice of malt loaf serve as breakfast.

The venue is literally just the other side of the road from the hotel.  Unfortunately, that road is the A329(M), so it's a 2.5 mile detour through Winnersh to actually get there. I arrive just after 7am and register.  Back at the car, the guy from the neighbouring vehicle nods at the AFC Bournemouth logo on my shorts (yes, I'm a real pro) and says "good result yesterday".  It turns out he's also a Cherries fan, originally from Wimborne, now studying in Reading.  We strike up a bit of conversation; it's a good way to start the day.

I put the bike in the transition area, and fuss over the bits and pieces that I'll need.  Helmet, cycle shoes, a towel, water.  Sunglasses just in case, a couple of energy bars.  With about 20 minutes until transition closes, I go about affixing race numbers.  It's at this point that I realise I've left my race number belt in my holdall, which is back at the hotel.  I could try and blag some safety pins from somewhere, but as the hotel is only a few minutes away, I decide to go and get it.

The roads around Winnersh Triangle are a wonder of town planning.  I'm sure that they do a wonderful job of shepherding the masses of commuter vehicles on a Monday morning, but at 7:45am on a Sunday they are a bewildering kaleidoscope of lane markings and traffic lights, going through the motions regardless like a cargo cult.  For a man in a hurry, they're torture.  I get back just in time. To add to the fun, it's only during the race briefing that I realise I've left my Garmin in the car, and the car keys in the now closed transition.  I have to beg a marshal to fetch them for me.

Near the start, everyone mills around warming up.  They all look far too fit for my liking.  One guy is in a skin tight all in one - with his long sideburns and the build of a twig, he has a bit of the Bradley Wiggins about him.  He looks a bit more serious about this than me in my fleece and football shorts.

So 8:30am comes around, the horn goes and we're away.  The run is around the lakes of Dinton Pastures - a rural idyll betwixt Reading and Wokingham, and only slightly disturbed by the thrum of the motorway along its borders.  The sun starts to shine, which takes the edge off the chilly breeze.  The stony paths are not terribly friendly on the feet, but I settle into a decent pace on the shoulder of #27, resplendent in fluorescent peach, and stick with her for the next 3 miles.  She's probably cursing me panting heavily in her ear.

I hit T1 in just under 28 minutes, a pretty good pace - the run is actually 5.25km.  Having pondered the mechanics of transition for so long, this is my chance to do it for real.  In the event, it's really pretty simple - trainers off, cycle shoes on, helmet on, off you go. Not sure what all the fuss is about.

I mount the bike just behind #82.  He looks like he's going to be fairly quick - he has aero bars - but he's taking his time getting up to speed.  Given the drafting rules, I either have to sit behind or overtake within 15 seconds.  I make the decision to go for it and overtake.  Ten seconds later, lactic acid fills my thighs, and not surprisingly he just comes past again.  Lesson learnt, I stick to a rhythm and try to forget what everyone else is doing.

It's a pleasure to be sat down, and with the wind behind and a merciful lack of hills, it's a pleasant ride down to the M4.  Just beyond the motorway, the course turns and heads north, back into the frigid wind.  It also becomes a bit more hilly at this point, but they at least provide some shelter from that wind.  The increased difficulty shows as I come across a long line of cyclists, and gradually pick them off one by one.  It's a massive confidence boost, and in the end I'm only overtaken by two cyclists, both of them part of relay teams.  The only shaky moment comes as I reach a hill having just taken a mouthful of gooey energy bar - trying to breath through that stuff is tricky.

Back at T2, it's a simple change back to the trainers, and off for the second 5k run.  As I head out of transition, the race winner is coming over the finish.  Not surprisingly, it's The Twig.  My legs continue to cycle for the next few minutes, and the run is slow going.  For the most part, I'm on my own, save for the good people and dogs of Reading and Wokingham, and all I can do is count off the kilometres and hope the finish comes soon.  It comes, but not nearly soon enough for my liking.  Over the line in a grand total of 1:41:37.

Still, it's a job done, and a good marker for future efforts.  The time is about what I thought I'd do, and I'm 61st out of 87, so well above the bottom 10%, which was my aim.  I get a nice weighty medal for my efforts, as well as the obligatory water bottle and wad of leaflets for future events.

Vital stats:
Run 1 - 27:52
T1 - 01:21
Bike - 41:11
T2 - 01:35
Run 2 - 29:36
Total : 1:41:37 (61st of 87)

Time for bed.

Indecision

Ok, sports fans, the dream is back on.  Tomorrow I'm tackling the Reading Dinton Duathlon, thanks to the support and understanding of my family.  It's been touch and go - I missed the online sign up deadline by about an hour, but thankfully can still enter on the day.  I was going on my own, then with the family, then on my own, then with the family. Then I booked the wrong hotel (Reading has two Holiday Inns near the M4, who knew?).  Then I discovered the right hotel didn't have a family room available, so now I'm on my own again.   It's not quite been the preparation of champions.

It may or may not be live on Sky Sports. Full report tomorrow, assuming I still have energy in my fingertips.