The results are in.

Swim – Wha-hoo!!!

Bike – Yayy!!!

Run – Could have been so good if it weren’t for the typo – have to add 10 mins to make the numbers add up (and bring it into line with what I was expecting).

Out of the starting blocks

Hooray, at last. After two aborted attempts so far this year, my triathlon season has finally started. I had booked the Windfarmer but, due to cold water temperatures (in June), it became a run-bike-run and I’d booked the Bexhill Lions triathlon and that, due to high winds and choppy seas, also became a run-bike-run. Well, we’ve all seen my run times and what is the point at putting yourself at such a disadvantage so early on – I don’t mind the loneliness towards the end of a race but there’s no fun to be had in starting with such a handicap.

Yesterday evening we went out to the lake where Mike (Velocity Events) had laid on a free (yes, free, no charge, voluntary donations to Great Ormand Street Children’s Hospital) sprint triathlon for any one who had entered either the Windfarmer or the Marshman. Considering it was mid week, windy and mostly grey, there was a pretty good turn out – 40 entrants.

At 7pm we were all bobbing about, with lightening flashes in the near distance, waiting to be started. Not sure what my splits were as the results have yet to be posted; a pen, some paper and a stop watch may not be quite as efficient as timing chips but at least they always work. I hobbled in after 1h40 (I think) of which I’m guessing the run took more than 40mins.

I stayed right at the back for the swim start; I can’t be doing with all that frenzy which sends me into hyperventilation mode and I must have swam reasonably well as, by the time I got to the first buoy, I was contending for space amongst other swimmers. The out and back bike route, although flat, was into a strong head wind to start and I was keeping myself pushing on by imagining the easy ride home; how can it be that some days, the wind can feel as if it is blowing in two directions. Unusually, I was still in the race (normally coming out of the swim to an empty transition area) and before I knew it I was into a game of tag. Had it been any other day, I’m sure the girl I was vying with and myself would have been disqualified for drafting as neither of us could get away into that wind. We both arrived back in transition, her a couple of seconds before me, and that is where the race ended. I started the run slowly; the sole objective to finish it running and not walking. Everyone I had overtaken in the swim and on the bike came past but that was OK – I was still jogging along. Until…. crap, crap, CRAP!!! Sure enough, aroung the 4k mark my knee went. At least I had the victim of an asthma attack to keep me company; obviously a reasonable athlete, the poor guy kept running and stopping and running and stopping and it was really inspirational to see his determination. Taking a leaf from his book, I broke into a hobble, deciding that it couldn’t make things any worse and limped home to the coach in my life standing at the finish line.

Slightly frustrating but not as bad as not starting the race at all and at least I felt I had earnt the free barbecue afterwards.

Beautiful Bosham

With the holidays just around the corner and no exotic getaway booked, it’s time to start thinking about how I can make the most of my precious weeks of freedom. Well, two weeks will be spent taking my mum to her house in France and a couple of days are ear-marked for catching the Olympic cycling and triathlon – if we can get anywhere near it. That leaves just under 4 weeks.

Not going abroad during the summer is more than just a reaction to the outrageous way the holiday companies inflate the prices during the school holidays, it is also because… I like my town and I like lots of different parts of my country. Especially if the sun shines.

And who knows when that might happen. Last year it was during the October break when we decided to chuck mountain bikes and sleeping bags into the back of the car and go. We didn’t go far and we didn’t go for long. But what a fantastic weekend we had.

We headed off to Bosham: a tiny little village which is about a 2 hour drive down the coast.

where we slept in the municipal car park (don’t tell the council) and breakfasted in the harbour (yes, ‘in’) at low tide.

I have seen images where unsuspecting tourists have parked on this hard-standing and come back 6 hours later, when the tide has come in, to find their cars submerged, to the roof, in water.

Tide out

Tide in

Having moved back to the ‘safe’ municipal car park (our camp site) and put another days ticket on the car we headed north with the bikes, over the A27 and into the countryside. We climbed up as far as Goodwood race course and circled back to Chichester harbour

where we had a picnic lunch before following the canal back towards Bosham. Ditching the bikes at the car, we wandered off into the village to watch the sun set over the East side of the harbour

 before heading off to the pub for some supper and bedding down in our unusual accommodation.

The following morning, after a surprisingly restful night, we headed back to the tidal basin for breakfast in the company of some of the locals,

and spent some time wandering and taking photos of the village

and more locals

before removing the car back to safety and setting off again on the bikes. This time we followed an eastbound coastal path (my favourite).

until we came to a dead end

not that is stopped some….

and (she says with glee) had to take the ferry

We stopped for lunch at the (in)famous Twitterings… I mean Witterings (a little over populated when the sun shines)

before turning for home.

The tide was in by the time we got back to the basin at Bosham and the road was closed so we made the most of out time by having a little swim amongst the weeds

before sitting, with a well earnt Cider, watching another glorious day sink over the horizon.

I wonder what adventures this summer holds.

Foraging for Clams

It’s not all about the bike – mostly but not all. Sometimes we take a day off and go and do something else instead. An extremely low tide was forecast for this week, and as the sun had actually shown it’s face, we took off one evening, with the dog, for the seashore.

As well as catching a sea bass from the kayaks, we have set ourselves a second challenge of foraging some razor clams. Watching Hugh  Fearnley-Whittingstall on the Tv, you’d think it would be easy but, it seems not. However, we have made an unexpected discovery:  We think they are Mya arenaria, or soft shell clams or steamers (US) or Otter Clams… in fact, we’re not really sure what they are.

But one thing we have ascertained is… they are tasty. Wandering the sands, looking for little holes, we came across some about the size of a thumb nail and as soon as the trowel hit the sand, a fountain of water ejected from the hole and the thing started burrowing. I think we need to perfect our technique as they were buried, elbow deep, before we had dug down to them. Once we’d got the knack of spotting them, things got quite exciting and, eventually we ended up coming home with a good dozen. So, we had a dozen of something we couldn’t identify and… we didn’t know what to do with them. Thank goodness for the internet.

Strangely, every site we could find was from America – don’t the English eat these? Having soaked them (but apparently, not for long enough as they were still a bit gritty) and shelled them, we chucked them in the frying pan and hoped for the best. Excellent! They were really tasty, so good that there was no way that they could have been unfit for human consumption – and we awoke the next morning without any stomach complaints.

I wonder why the Brits don’t make better use of these meaty, tasty morcels of protein. What with the day of rest and the good food, I’m sure my cycling will benefit this weekend. Maybe it is all about the bike.

Sentimental cycle

It’s that time of year again when the bluebells are peeking out of the undergrowth to see if the sun is ready to play… It seems not yet. And until he participates, like the bluebells, I don’t really want to either.
However, tomorrow is the annual St Michael’s Hospice Castle Challenge charity bike ride and as I’ve done it every year since we lost my dad (they cared for him so well), I’d better come out from hiding in the undergrowth and show my colours. Especially as we have made the effort to prepare something different this year. Furthermore, this was the event, 5 years ago when confronted with my own mortality and first partial experience of being orphaned, that reunited me with my childhood love of cycling and consequently, my enthusiastic if somewhat hopeless involvement with triathlon.
So, what have we lined up for this year?
Well, we’ve done it on mountain bikes when mountain bikes were the only bikes we had . As our involvement with the sport grew, we raced it on road bikes, completing the 40 miles before some participants had even registered. And this year? This year, at great risk to domestic harmony, we are going to do it on a tandem; an old steel, gear levers on the cross-bar tandem.
Inevitably, the spring will arrive, the flowers will blossom with gusto, warmer weather will prevail and outdoor pursuits will draw me out of hibernation – until then I’ll have to rely on the danger and novelty factor of ‘ridin’ tandem’.

Open water swim

Two firsts today. First open water swim of the year. Lydd Action Water Sports lake. Was promised temperature was 12 degrees. Bloody wasn’t. Had a bit of a panic attack but eventually got over it and got my head down. Stayed in for about 30 mins. Second first of the day is my first blog from a mobile phone. So, apologies for sloppy spelling and punctuation. It’s a bit bouncy in the car and so excited, I couldn’t wait to get home to write this up.

Foiled Again

Friday on the seafront.

It’s gradually becoming apparent why sport is so important in the formation of one’s character. I am beginning, as I approach the autumn of my years, to understand the huge range of life’s lessons that can be experienced through an involvement with sport: the social skills to deal with a wide range of people, many ot whom whould never otherwise cross paths; the recognition and acceptance of self, including all the weaknesses as well as the strengths and the ambition to chase goals that may offer nothing more than self satisfaction and the awareness to recognise those small acheivements are but a small part of what I never knew about sport. (Had I known when my children were small, I would have encouraged them but, unfortunately I think I have implanted in them my former attitude , based on a huge amount of naivety – which seems to have been further embedded in school –  that sport is for aggressively competitive people who want to kick a ball around a field).  At the moment, I am learning about another lesson; I am learning that sometimes I will have to be persistent. I will have to show determination, especially in the face of adversity.

The learning curve has been steep this week. I’ve tried and I’ve tried and, if truth be told, apart from honing my determination, I haven’t really achieved very much. On Friday afternoon the sun was shining, the snow was beginning to melt and I had managed to get out of work while it was still light. So, with all good intentions, I rushed home, threw on my running kit and headed for the seafront. Yes, there was a cutting northerly wind and it was freezing but I was looking forward to my first run in 2 weeks. My intentions were to take a nice slow 5km run along the front without stressing my knee. Ususally, if I keep the pace slow, and if I haven’t run on it for a while, I can complete the distance. But, no. According to my new toy, I ran 3.9 km at a VERY sensible pace, taking nearly 29mins and still, my knee collapsed. ****!

OK. I’d done something, which was better than nothing. And we did have a good session planned for Sunday. Ha! We got up early, drove the 10 miles to Rye where we meet the gang and started the swim session with full enthusiasm. 45 minutes in and it started to snow. 55 minutes in the snowflakes were ressembling white cornflakes. 60 minutes into the session and the pool was empty; everyone, having come from far and wide, was frantically dragging on clothes, desperate to get home before the roads became impossible.

Once more, I find myself foiled again, sitting on the sofa with a big bottom lip, wondering what to do now. Determination insists that I will get my butt of this sofa and take myself up the road to the gym where I WILL overcome that feeling of extreme, frustrated tedium of the treadmill and I WILL run for 30 minutes – knee permitting

Friday on the seafront.

.

Going carbon

Me and my gob. I was only joking last Sunday when I started complaining about the disrespect shown towards my trusty steed at the bike maintenance course a fortnight ago. I was probably doing it for the sympathy vote, being the only girl on the ride and holding up the boys. Well, we did spend a lot of time cycling into a strong head wind on the Romney Marshes and then found the sharpest hill in the whole of the Isle of Oxney. On reflection, maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough if I still had energy to winge at the end.

Anyway, open my mouth once again, I did. ‘Yeh, it was well used when I bought it and I’ve had it for three years now. I’m thinking of buying a new one.’ This was followed by ‘No, I don’t want carbon fibre. Unless I lose a stone and a half there’s no point.’ And finally ‘My cycling doesn’t warrant that level of kit and I’d be terrified of dropping it.’ Well, the fixer in our club, the same guy who listened and acted and organised (although he didn’t need it himself) the bike maintenance course, the guy who’ll happily service our bikes, the bloke who can always procure a swim session out of thin air, who knows all the websites to buy the best, cheapest kit (What, You don’t have one of these guys in your club? Change club!) and still wins his age group at Sprint, Olympic and Ironman distance (Well, you’ve got time to train when you’re drawing your old age pension) happened to be within hearing distance.

I didn’t realise he was listening, let alone had heard my jibes but 24 hours later the phone went  with the name and address of someone who had bought a bike for his wife 3 years ago and it had sat in the garage ever since…. And by the way, she’s about 5’10 too. Women specific (a novelty for me), Specialized, XL 54in frame. Sounding too good to be true until…. Carbon Fibre. No, I don’t want that. I’m not worthy. I don’t want to turn up at a race and be labelled ‘All the gear, no idea’. I want a bike that creates no expectations, with which I can remain anonymous, can be dismissed as belonging to a ‘back of the packer’, a ‘was there also’. I want a bike like…. the one I already have, but that one is becoming worn out. Anyway, he’d made the effort to think of me, the least I could do was go and see it.

Blue, not pink. – a good start. Subtle, not garish – getting better. Chain and gears still factory clean – oh dear. I was beginning to like it a little bit. I was made to sit on it by the coach in my life – a little bigger (the bike, not the coach) than the one I have now and therefore, really, really comfortable. I was made to take it to the bottom of the road and back – smooth and clean ride. I took it round the block – clean gear changes and fast, really fast. Too much bike for me but by now I was loving it. The smile on my face obviously clinched the deal because by the time I’d dismounted it had been paid for. Thank you – I think.

The pedals have been changed to clips, the saddle has been raised and the water bottle holder and pump attached. It’s mine. And tomorrow is Sunday – our long training session. The two hour coached swim session in the pool is going to seem awfully long as I count down to getting out on the bike. Head wind and hills, here I come. I’ll let you know if sometimes, just sometimes, it is worth opening your mouth.

 

 

Mad Fools and English Men

I like to get outside my comfort zone but… I’m not sure I could go this far on Christmas morning.

Oh, to swim like a dolphin…

Is it that part of the human pysche that pushes us to conquer our environment that has led us to the water? Surely, if God had intended us to swim he would have given us gills.

I grew up by the sea and I’ve always loved the water. On the few occassions when I’ve moved away even the distractions of Paris and London never quite dispelled the yearning for the open vista that the sea offers.

As children, although not proficient swimmers, we were confident in the water, squabbling over the last remaining unpunctured lilo; the strongest or luckiest taking possession and paddling off to safety from any further offences.

Somewhere between the ages of fourteen and forty-four I absentmindedly misplaced that confidence and now, like Tootles looking for his marbles, I am on a mission. I will find my gills. Oxygen, or more accurately, the lack of oxygen brings me back to the difficulties I have with running. And the difficulties I have with running lead me back to the fact that my lungs are knackered from 30 years of smoking and this all adds up to mistrusting the functioning of my own body. This mistrust then triggers a panic button that tells me to stay in control, to not push too hard because my body won’ t be able to cope and then I’ll be in danger. Well, no more! Bring on that childish recklessness. Although, not straight away and all at once. Let’s take things a little gently.

When we joined the gym a couple of years ago as a reaction to our (my) mid-life crisis, the best I could hope for was 10-15 lengths of a breast-stroke that didn’t involve putting my face in the water. It was unsatisfying – and it gave me neck ache and it would have to change. Firstly I had to rediscover the reality that getting my head wet didn’t mean I was going to drown. I progressed onto straightening out for the push in breast-stroke. It still wasn’t enough. I was going to teach myself to do the crawl. First 3 strokes, then 5. It was a looonng time before half a length became a length. I couldn’t get the breathing right and was often to be seen coming up for air, coughing and spluttering. I scrutinised what other swimmers were doing and some swimmers, seeing me floundering, were generous with advice. Things took a turn for the better when I started using a float between my knees. It kept my lower body up without kicking my legs, meant I was expending far less energy and therefore requiring less oxygen and I could concentrate on trying to develop some of technique for my arms and breathing. It worked but it also created its own setback; I became loath to relinquish the float. With it I felt like a swimmer, without it a length was still a long way but I weened myself off of it. Three lengths with it, one without progressed on to two lengths with and two lengths without and so it continued, over a long period of time, until I could swim continuously without it. Once there was some semblance of technique to my swimming it wasn’t too difficult to build up the distance; I soon went from 20 lengths to 75 lengths and more. By the time we entered the local triathlon, I thought I had the swim under control. Wrong!

Putting on a wetsuit and getting in the freezing English channel on a cold, grey March day was like starting to learn to swim from scratch again. Cold water panic attacks, lack of oxygen, terror at putting my face under the water all contributed to a quickly aborted session on my part. But at least we had been in and just as well because the triathlon entry form had already gone off and we only had a month to prepare. We took it in turns, one on the kayak watching the other swim and then back onto the beach for a change over. The second time we went in, the coach in my life seemed to get his act together and I was managing about 10 strokes before the mind went weak and I had to come up for reassurance, air and orientation. I never realised how much I would miss those lane markers and little points of reference I’d come to recognise when swimming in the pool. Weather and tide permitted that we got three more swims in before D-Day. It’s difficult to measure distance in the sea. How far is 750m? If 40x20m is 800m and it takes about 20mins to swim that in the pool, then surely 20mins swimming in the sea should be about the same distance? Well, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? It was the only way we could think off to measure the distance we should be practising. The calculations could have been good, and in fact they were a pretty good guestimate for the coach in my life. But they didn’t take into account the regular stops I ‘felt’ I needed to take. And they certainly didn’t account for someone freaking out and losing all ability to stabilise a panic attack. Neither did they take into account a 750m swim that would double when swept off course by the tide.

I did the triathlon but I can’t say I was proud of the swim. As getting back on after falling off a bike, I felt that getting back in the water after such a frightening experience was the best medecine. 8 days later, having recovered some energy, we were back on the beach. I kayaked first whilst the coach in my life swam and then, it was my turn. Oh, no! I had a nice new tri wetsuit so luckily, I had to justify the expense. I say ‘luckily’ because without that sense of obligation, I may have never got back in. Getting in as far as my knees was fine. Up to my waist was OK. By the time I was up to my chest, I was aware that I should be taking my feet off the bottom. It was proving more difficult than the first time we went sea swimming over a month ago. I was regressing. Treading water brought on a breathless panic which was suppressed by a very severe self-reprimand. A gentle breast-stroke was maintained for a few minutes before I tried to put my face in. Dip. That was OK. Double dip. Still fine. I pulled a crawl stroke… and another. I stopped after three strokes and bobbed upright. Although breathing a little fast, I was still OK. It was now time for bloody-mindedness – I would conquer this swimming lark. I put my head down and I was off. And I kept going. And when I next popped up I’d been swimming consistently for 5 minutes. Yes! I was back in the zone. But 5 minutes wasn’t going to cover very much ground? No not ground… water…? distance?

Distance. Stamina. The ability to keep going. It was becoming reminiscient of when I’d started running a couple of years ago and as I’d conquered that to the point of finishing a half marathon, I now felt the swim was just a matter of time. I will gradually gather together those lost marbles of confidence. I will eventually rediscover my gills. However, it’d better not take as long as it took for the running as the entry for the next triathlon in two months time has already been sent off.