December Stats

Swim - 2.4km
Bike - 241.48km, 15.1kph, 4362m el
Run - 16.1km, 7.2kph, 1349m el

Bestest hardes thing ever

"What do you want for Christmas?" he asked.

For months, possibly years, I have been trying to build up the courage to tell him the real answer to that question.

It started out a private thought, one which played on my mind like a butterfly. The imagination, the image of wearing a wedding dress again, the constant urge to no longer battle with the question, "is that Mrs or Miss?". Does it matter? You choose. If I'm Miss am I desperate or a fraud? If I'm Mrs, am I a liar? If it's Ms, I am clearly a divorce or trying to cover up for still being a Miss at 38.

It became a voiced desire when Silver Lining and I went for a walk together. One of those great gossipy walks that are as much about the talk as the walk. "you should tell him how you feel", she said. I didn't want things to change though. I didn't want my world to cave in around my ears if he didn't feel the same way. So it remained unsaid and filed under "another day".

I continued to think that I'd do it but then there was PBP to get through and my job in France and then not my jo in France and everything was too fraught and depressing and then better but up in the air. 

Then christmas arrives and the daily discussions about what I want for Christmas. I've pretty much made my mind up by now that there's going to be a paradigm shift here. My lovely tiger is, by now, pretty convinced that I don't want to get married.

I still hope that nothing will change between us. I hope he doesn't misread this as some sign that I want babies or to become a domestic goddess... and therefore run a mile or more.

I could wait for February and do the right thing but we're beyond romantic proposals and gestures and into the territory of adult discussions and paradigm shifts.

Nevertheless, I'd planned to raise the subject in a romantic location. I mean if things go well you don't exactly want to be the couple who got engaged at the Sainsbury's checkout. Not even Waitrose really!

A christmas shopping trip might be just the place. Fairy lights, happy surroundings, glittery decorations and joy. We had quite a quiet train journey to Leeds. The question of what for Christmas came up and I dodged it.

Walking down the high street we came across a shop selling moomin merchandise. As you know, I am the hippo and hippos love moomin stuff. I wouldn't let him buy me a moomin bag or a hot water bottle or a knitted moomin toy.

We went to the corn exchange where I wouldn't let him buy me a poncho. We got something for sissy instead.

We went up to the top floor where the architecture was impeccable and pretty breathtaking, like looking through the canopy of an air ship.

We were in a quiet place without anyone to hear my words flop - if they were going to flop. I opened my mouth and no words came out.
 
We walked away to the other side away from the few people who were there but still no words came out. Finally I could not put off staring at the architecture any longer so we headed out in to the cold to check out the rest of town.

We walked through the most romantic streets, arcades filled with sparkling light displays, a massive tree made from glitter balls and arrays of tinsel and fairy lights, dripping from the corners of expensive shops.

We walked through the market with its vaulted glass ceiling and traditional stalls and great big slabs of meat which Yorkshiremen in white coats slapped with pride. 

I could have said something here but there were too many people, busy with their shopping and their meat, all trying to listen in on my conversation.

We headed over to the Christmas market where we searched for a glass hippo on the stalls and bought some chips because by now I was even getting pissy about food.

We ate our chips next to a fountain. We looked at the hand prints of African children representing Nelson Mandella's freedom and christmas shoppers milled about somewhere in the periphery, too busy to be concerned with us. I thought I could do it here but there was a woman wailing to another woman on the bench and it just didn't feel right. I didn't want my big moment to be interrupted by a wailing woman.

After chips comes coffee but we couldn't find a quiet coffee shop with a quiet corner or even one with sitting down space so we headed back to the beautiful Corn Exchange.

I had one thing on my shopping list for me - a little note book to use to organise my time. I went into paperchase, a shop I love, and couldn't even get excited about stationery. This was getting serious. I was going to get more and more frustrated and get no Christmas shopping done whatsoever.

In the basement of the corn exchange over a coffee and a very delicious lemon cup cake, he asked me again what I wanted for Christmas. I started to sweat, blush and get all coy at once. The people next to us seemed quite occupied with eachother. I could do it now but they might be listening in. Of all the things that I had thought I would say, I thought it most prudent to warn him of the surprise and came out with, "Can I surprise you?"

He was quite amused by this, that I was going to surprise him with what he was getting me for Christmas and took the time to point out it isn't how it's supposed to work.

Some people came to look at the menu and I clammed up again.

Outside on the steps he asked me one more time what it is that I want for Christmas and how I am going to surprise him. There was no one around.

I grabbed his hand but I talked to the buildings. Blurting out that I really did want to get married to him and all I want for Christmas is his hand.

"Do you?" he said, his voice filled with glee.

We started walking down the road together in no particular direction, diverting off down an alley way because it was deserted, because it was interesting - brick built, cobbled streets, a shiny Leeds bar called The Mook - a cross between a Moo and a nook.

"Shall we do it then?" he said.  "Can we?" I said.

"Yes we can".

To say I whooped would be putting it mildly. 

November Stats - The recovery continues

And don't even talk to me about the house moving!


Swim - 2.27km, 1.5km/hr.  Ugh, but at least I am back in the water.
Bike - 124.54km, 20.3kph, 986m el.   Not all logged miles so the average is over and the mileage is under
Run - 44.5km, 7.2kph, 1396m el.  Surprising but true.

Catching up - October Stats. Oh the recovery!

Swim - BIG FAT ZERO!
Bike - 288.9km, 17.1kph, 3250m el. Not far but it's amazing what house hunting in Sheffield does for the elevation count
Run - 18.02km, 6.8kph, 425m el.

Catching up - September Stats

Swim - 2.72km, 2.5 kph.
Bike - 267km, 19.1kph, 3919m el. 
Run - 20.30km (although a LOT of the 3 Peaks was running / walking), 5.7km/hr, 921m el.

Closure

For the first time in 4 years, we don’t have a storage unit full of our stuff. This is a pleasant experience. Trying to find a location for the bits we want to keep (and some of those we don’t intend to) within the new house is more of a challenge.

As much as I’d like to go racing tomorrow, I don’t think I will. I want to be ready for my new job, get a good nights sleep and save the money on travelling by getting a work-out starting somewhere outside of my own front door before and early bath and falling into bed before 10pm. Besides which, we have no internet right now and I have no idea where the race is or how to get there.

As far as the new job is concerned, I am nowhere near as terrified as I was when I first moved to Sheffield but still filled with the usual anxieties associated with getting there on time on the first day, making the right impression… and of course, there’s what to wear.

La Retour

I ate, tidied and dressed for running this morning.  Up the hill to Walkley village centre, taking the branch off to the Rec.  A man has converted the old pre-fab built school at the edge of the park into his home and is working away on something in his open garage.  Dog walkers wish me good morning.

I ditch the tarmac path, shrugging off soggy trainers in favour of the short cut across the grass.  Two dogs bound towards me then veer off, attracted by eachother.  I stop at the edge of the park and enjoy the view out across the Rivelin and Damflask valleys. It’s 13 minutes since I left my house.

Across the park I join a path which threads its way through the allotments – flat along the contours then dropping steeply on cobbled and flagged paving, they go on for over a mile, stretched out up and down the hillsides.  Some are split up into 4 or more plots.  Some covered in black paper for the winter, some still showing the spoils of ruined onions, leathery green leaves littered across the surface of the soil.

Finally I was spat out on Bole Hill Road and I wiggled down to a path which I had walked before, approximately 20 years ago.  I pinged out of the mud and dank trees of the allotments into an open field where two paths run parallel to eachother at different levels.

I stood here 20 years ago on a rest day from a course (lets ignore its basis until I’m happier in my work) and said the words, “Yeah, I think I want to go to Sheffield University”.  This field has been a defining point in my life.

20 years ago it had taken me ages to get there.  This time it took me 26 minutes so rather than turning around at the other end of the field I kept going in a rivelineley direction.

Through autumnal trees and finally to the river side below the A61.  It could’ve been a million miles away for all the noise that was present.  I reached the still millpond with ducks and reeds and the hillside and trees reflected perfectly, broken by nothing more than the excited paddling of expectant duck-feet.

I’ve run from the Rivelin Road down to the edge of town before so was on familiar territory, running up the hill.   The only differences this time are daylight, sunshine and other people for the last time I passed this way was December last year after work.  Dogs and children passed by and I reached the carpark before turning around and heading back down the path.  

 I swept up to the A61 and beyond, climbing to the small back-roads which run along the edge of the suburbs bolted onto the edge of Sheffield until finally, another path swoops back down to the valley, the river and the main road.  Straight down another path and into the parklands – swings and climbing frames and the lido paddling pools flitter by in the corner of my eye then eventually I am spit out at a 5-way junction.

A tiny back-road climbs up from the lights but then it dawns on me that it seems like a dead-end.  I persevere, having faith in Yorkshire planners that there will be a cut-through at the end that spits me out where I want to be.  Better than that, I find myself on the edge of the park where I was an hour earlier.

Instead of taking the straight-up-hill route I weave through some streets, gradually turning from detached, to semi-detached and into the terraces that I recognise.  More dead ends and cut-throughs take me to the old school building that I could see from the bottom of the park.  I wibble my way to my front door eventually, having reverted to walking for the last km or so.

My legs ache and all I want to do is take a bath in my new house.  It’s a damn sight more pleasant that the shower and bigger than the old house.  Satisfyingly so.  The rest of the day passes in a flurry of unpacking activity.  TSK and I head over to the old house to empty some more things away together and briefly check our e-lives.

We enjoy the drive home and look forwards to doing it for the last time.

Random running thoughts: the spice rack - who killed it?  Must eat oranges, post cards and fridge magnets, gardening tools from Bassett, compost bin, buy bike carry bag for Eleanor.

The bath was so much better than the shower. fully restored, I loaded the back pack on my back and walked out to Walkley. A well stocked grocer awaited at the top of the hill selling everything I expected - the best quality veg (mostly) - as well as everything I needed - lime curd, eggs and cereal for breakfast. I bought a lot (40 litre rucsac) of good food for less than £20.

Then across the road to the butchers for lamb leg steaks, pork sausages and rabbit for a stew £6.18 all together. I thought to myself it's proper shame that we don't get to shop like this regularly. Fun, cheap and sustainable. Then I realised we're allowed to. It could even be said that's what weekends might be for. It might even end up being a plan.

Another day in the life of moving

It’s been a bad day for this mover. The novelty of moving has worn off as the old house starts to seem further and further away and I return to the new home with the epic adventure ahead of finding a new place for all of our stuff and putting everything in that place – usually so that we can sit down.


The novelty of the house has not worn off but last night I stopped unpacking at 9:30 and this morning, when I went out to the van to get “that last couple of boxes”, I found three more boxes of books to go on an already full bookshelf and two large boxes of clothes and bedding and kitchen apparel and such randomness I don’t care to mention.

I planned to quickly unpack those things and go out for a run before doing anything with the rest of the day. By the time I’d unpacked I was too hungry for running so I set out to the other house to eat lunch there and figure out what other items I’d need to buy from the supermarket to make lemon drizzle cake.

Well, on the way to the house I popped into one retail area to get a freezer and walked out with two mirrors and some cleaning solution. I stopped in to buy wool to make Christmas presents and walked out empty handed and I stopped at Meadowhall to pay in the stash of cash my colleagues donated to help me buy a freezer for the new house.

Well, there’s a Lakeland plastics next door to the Santander and when starting a new job one gets the urge to try on lots of boots. I ventured into a couple of department stores to look at appliances but they’re all full of Christmas chintz so time was well and truly wasted. I ate some lunch before a final spin around B&Q to tick off cheap paper lamp shades and some random garden stuff.

At the house I threw random collections of stuff into randomly sized boxes and emptied the garage of most of the tools as a favour to TSK to bring him something for his fixie. Vanu only part loaded – really… but it feels like 90% of the stuff is gone from the old house. There’s a dishwasher full of crockery – some of which is ours and some of which gets put away and left, some bikes which are less loved than they should be and bits and bobs. I headed home via one last retail park off to see if they had any chest freezers in stock. Success! This one turned the whole day around. 90% of my shopping list is complete and tomorrow should well be my own.

I spent the journey home thinking of going for a run this evening but the rash of rain which has fallen and the fatigue in my legs is quite daunted by the multiple trips up the stairs to finish this final bit of unpacking. I find the sofa under layers of stuff and flop down to enjoy some fruit squash. At least I feel like I’ve achieved something today, even if my winter training is on hold for just one more little while.

First Day in the New House

On the first day of unpaid leave between my old job and the new one I have so far eaten breakfast in my new living room with the cat perched on a cushion by my shoulder and kissed TSK before he set off happily on his easy peasy new 30 minute commute.

After breakfast I scooped the cat poop and put it in the outside bin, much to the intrigue of the cat who has not yet been allowed outside into his new domain. He joined me in the almost-a-conservatory porch for the scooping. He stood on his back paws, front paws on the windowsill like a teenage boy looking over the wall into the girls school playground. He was definitely giving the scooping of his poop the attention he thought it deserved, haughtily ignoring me to serve me right for not letting him outside. Like many teenage boys before him, he then decided the playground was all a bit scary and set off back into the house to find a cushion to sit on.

Outside the dawn chorus was in full swing. The birdsong seems louder here than at the Grange. I could already feel the summer sun on my back and hear the drone of bees on the tree at the end of the garden but all that is to come, in a summer 9 months away from now.

The sun is rising behind the houses across the street. The downside of this house – no sunrise or set because of the steep hills to the back which will mask the sunset. I can still enjoy the yellow to orange flow as it bounces off the Yorkshire stone of the local charge and nearby school-turned-flats buildings which lie beyond the end of the back garden.

Down the street I can see down all of my neighbours’ gardens. Jumbles of grass, rose bushes, vegetables starting to rot after the frosts of October, a collaidescope of wood shades – fencing, sheds and tumbledown outhouses. Our own space is a blank canvas made of various grades of gravelly low=maintenance and paving slabs to one side of a concrete path. To the other side is an empty bed growing nothing more than a couple of budding chickweeds.

It’s warm except under my sock-feet so I retreat indoors and sit in my loft room writing and watching the sunlight develop in colour.

The cat snores in a sleeping-bag den he has built for himself.

I am home.

New Home

Only 24 hours until I move into my new house. I lay awake last night totally unable to sleep for imagining my limited furniture in the new spaces, my kitchen accoutrements on counter tops and the window sill, unhindered by other peoples' things.


In the bathroom, my towels are already folded away in the cupboards of my imagination and the bed is already assembled in the big bedroom with fresh sheets and new curtains hanging in the window.

Of course there's a temporary phase in between me collecting the keys tomorrow and Andrew finishing work on Friday and helping me move the heavy stuff.

In this interim period, the vanu will be stripped of its matress and I will set up camp in my new loft room for one night only so that on Thursday night we can enjoy a pre-planned night out in Sheffield combined with the new wobble home back from town in big woolly coats and hats.

We will return to our new cosy house, turn on the soft lights and stare at its freshly decorated walls with the satisfaction that we are home and the toaster is downstairs for breakfast and for my last day at work in Rotherham I will ride to work from Sheffield. It was always the plan but somehow I got lost along the way.

The day after the day after

Tuesday, yesterday, I was like a tiger the day after the day after my sunday race... which was the day after my Saturday run.  I sprinted home, riding into the wind regardless, chewing up the hill in my middle ring despite the paniers on my bike snatching into the wind.

I got home a hero.  I changed, cooked dinner and sat down to watch tele.

Today, I was pooped.  I bimbled into to work in the little ring on all the hills and hauled my way home the quickest way. 

A rest is upon me as I embark on moving house on Thursday.  I am working late tonight to earn myself Thursday afternoon off. 

Roll on domestic bliss.

Recovery

It's been ages since I've written in here and there's two reasons for that: the three peaks cyclo-cross finished me off for the season and life has gone super-critical with a change in jobs and (since I live in a work colleague's house) the inevitable change in house.  This house has never achieved home status and I can only hope that the new one will.

This house is middle aged.  It is an 80's build, it has a conservatory and chaise-longue.  It has polished oak furniture, feather filled sofa and mediocre flooring.  There are attempts at modernity with a state of the art TV balanced on a glass table but the dressing table with its leaf mouldings and mirrored back which is gradually de-silvering gives away the fact that this is a middle-aged house.  There are no pictures in this house save the ones that we mounted on the walls.  There are no mirrors, should we be tempted to look in them and see our wrinkles (or worse, for fear that they should damage the new plaster-work).

Our new home is called Laureate.  He is terraced, brick and victorian.  Outside it says "affordable for funky young couples".  Inside it says, "fresh, new, cosy, independant".  There are alcoves and disused fire places, new carpets, built-in wardrobes that are tidy.  It has a simple, white, practical bathroom with a glass shower door and nice big mirror.  Most importantly, there is a garage-sized cellar with a work bench where bikes will live and be worked on in the winter and where gear will be stored.  It has a porch which says,

"Oh, did you get wet?  Here, come inside, pop your bike here and take of your soggy boots".

If I took a can of spray paint and scrawled "TREP" across the front door, it would not have my name more written all over it.

The three peaks this year will need to be the subject of another post another time though suffice to say, this year passed by without a hitch, without any outstanding performances from me but was remarkably enjoyable.

I have been riding my bike since - both to work and in cyclo-cross races on the weekend.  It has been an odd adaptation period.  I have had an overwhelming desire to start planning next Triathlon season and yet no impetus to actually do so.  Every day I feel like I've already been infront of a computer screen for too long that day.  Almost the fact that I don't have a plan has stopped me from doing any sport whatsoever although I think that is partly because I've had no inclination to do any.  Sure, I have commuted, I have done house viewings on my bike (it's an hour into Sheffield from work) and I have done 'cross but none of it has felt like it counts and I've certainly had no inclination to run. 

I did try to run two weeks ago when I met up with TSK after a house-viewing and took him to his bicycle polo match.  I thought of going out with the tri club but decided that on a nice evening I should run somewhere nice in Sheffield.  I dropped TSK off, got changed into running gear and went to park the van.  Suddenly it seemed like a good idea to go back to the track with the club and on my way there it became a good idea to go home and let the cat in before going for a run in Todwick.  By the time I got home it was dark and Holby City was on the TV.  At least I looked like a runner.

Yesterday as I rode up the very long steep hill to Crookes in my granny gear (with full paniers) I was passed by a chunky student on a mountain bike wearing baggy shorts and teeshirt.  It hurt, it really did and only the big, full paniers on my bike stopped me from crying.  I dropped off some forms at the estate agents then headed off to the doctors' for a 3pm appointment.

I sprinted up all of the hills on the way there (they are steepish, longish and threefold) and arrived at the docs 10 minutes late, sweaty and flustered.  On the last hill I really felt like my legs had nothing left to give me and crawled painfully slowly over the top, trying so desperately to overcome the head-wind pushing me back the other way.  I went to book in at the electronic screens which said they couldn't register me so I stood in line whilst old biddies requested drugs they can only get from the hospital and booked in for flu jabs.  I knew she was going to say it, I knew she was and yet some how I didn't actually think she would. I really didn't.

"I'm 10 minutes late for my appointment" I said.

She looked at her screen, "Actually, you're 15 minutes late", she said.

I am so proud of myself for remaining calm and not shouting, "Ten minutes!! Ten minutes!! I was ten minutes late... and five standing in a fucking queue!".

I got home at 4:30 and cooked dinner then did little for the rest of the evening.  I went to bed on time and slept (mostly) through until 10:05. Boy! Did I need that?

So this morning, in the bright sunshine of early autumn, I got out for a run - finally.  I say morning, it was 11:45 by the time I left.  I don't particularly enjoy the run through the village but when I hit the lovely lush green fields and open path I settled down quite nicely.  I didn't even mind the feeling of being sprayed by pesticide as a tractor passed me in the cross-wind.

The return trip across the field was even more lush as the sun shone on my face and I felt open and free.  I had a stretch, right there and then in the middle of the field - probably much to the satisfaction of the fishermen at the pond - then jogged back to the village road.  Enjoyable as it was, all I could think was how much more enjoyable it would've been if I'd set off from the new house, into the Rivelin Valley and beyond to Strines Moor.  I vowed to come home and get the OS maps out and figure out those traffic free routes.  Roll on next week.

7.75km 56 minutes

First cyclo-cross of 2011-12

I wasn't sure about racing today.  I still feel tired from Helvellyn on a daily basis and the palava with work didn't help my recovery.  Still, I decided to give it a go thanks to TSK's persuasion.

I was rushing around like a mad thing before the start at Tong.  Thank goodness for a hint of disorganisation.  I managed to get a lap in.

The entire course was fun. Difficult twists and turns, some short run ups, some gnarly wooded descents and a very steep long climb which I really struggled.  Deffinately too much Helvellyn left in my legs.

Although it was hard, the race was like a wake-up call for my body.  I feel tired now but only standard tired.  I also feel more confident about the 3 Peaks next week, like I know just how fast to go away at the start (not very) and how much I will have left at the end - enough. 

I'm coming into it this year knowing that I've already done something harder.

I'll spend the rest of this week resting up now, perhaps treat myself to running track training one evening to get the running legs firing again.

The rest of my time will be spent planning and knitting.

RIP ITER Posting

Seems my new-found work Zen was exceptionally short lived.  It's unclear as yet what has happened but I am no longer required in the South of France for 3 months.

Whilst this may, initially seem like a bit of a blow, I am infact completely non-plussed about the whole affair.  Of course I am worried that with such a short turn around, I have somehow pissed someone off.  The project manager seems hurt - he was hoping to make the expenses I have spent over the last few days back based on the imense ammount of money they were charging for me, so it's not him I've enraged.  The local man seems to just refer me back to my Rotherham boss and he is not taking my calls or answering my emails.  So I wait to find out what the score is when he returns to the office.  I know he was expecting much more work to come out of France and back to Rotherham but as resources in France have mounted up, this isn't the case so perhaps he just wants one of his peeps back.

Has my new resistance to putting myself out, refusing to travel half way across Europe when tired, upset someone?  Maybe.  I don't really mind.  I'm sorry this whole affair has overlapped an important project.  I'm glad I'm not there, all tired.  Quite frankly, I'm glad the panic of the century is no longer my project.

This changeover has made me realise that my own personal USP (ultimate selling point) has to change.  I no longer want to be the one to deliver the panic du jour.  I will be the organised one who does everything to time and makes sure it runs smoothly.  Not the catch-up queen.

I spent Thursday evening unpacking my bike from it's box and reassembling it.  The non-move did at least give me the opportunity to clean my bike properly.

On Friday morning I got up at 6:30 especially to put the finishing touches to it (put the rack on) and rode to work.  It was dead on 9am when I arrived, having hunted down various keys and things that I'd put away for another day.  My legs were still a little bit fucked but the flat start to the ride helped me feel happier and the hills at the end of the ride gave me a proper stretch out despite the fact that I was riding in bottom gear on the little ring.

At 3pm, TSK phoned to say his overdue balloon ride was off and so he came to pick me up from work to ride out to a country pub.  We had a few debates on the way as to which way to go.  Eventually headed for Firbeck which is one of my favourite flatlands rural villages.  We didn't think there was a pub there but decided to make it up as we went along.

Just as we rode through Firbeck, TSK commented, "There should be a pub here" and like an outspoken wish, the Black Lion appeared on a sweeping bend.  Perfect cyclists pub.  Plenty of spaces for bikes, really nice food.

A big portion of pork belly should help with the muscle restoration.

Saturday morning, a recovery run to the Royal Mail to pick up spiky balls to masage my scabby muscles with.

The perfect start to the restorative process that is a change in jobs.

Post Helvellyn. The way forward. The next year.

That's it for dumb training.

I really managed to smarten-up when I took up road racing on the bike. I suppose it was only one sport to think about but I am still learning with tri.
 
After this weekend I was very ill due to nothing more than sheer exhaustion and bad nutrition. I can only imagine I let my body get so drained on the last 3 miles that all of the toxins in my body took over and I had no energy or gut left to fight them with. Although the yogurt was the only thing that made me throw up yesterday, it also seemed to be the one thing that eventually restored me to normal function.
 
In short I can not let myself get in this mess again.
 
On a mental front I have been working with a counsellor to understand why I clench my jaw. My voyage of discovery about the choices I make has been interesting. I have realised that promising the earth to everyone and not delivering is only going to make me anxious and so I have to set limits and stick to them, or at least choose my own exceptions.

I have come to realise that when I try to do everything and please everyone that it doesn't work. I end up tired and I do things wrong and end up making things worse. I might please someone but it's not always me.

So now I have started doing things for me. I've started doing what's best for me. I've changed work plans to give myself more time and this week when I became ill, I changed the date I will return to France.
 
It's empowering. Sure I feel bad for letting them down when they were expecting me but I know now that when I arrive there rested I can achieve so much more and they won't ground to a halt without me.
 
It's taken me all day today to pack my bike away in a box ready for shipping out to France. It could take me all day tomorrow to put all my laundry away from my holidays and pack for going back to France.

That leaves me one day to work here and well, if I travel Friday, I might as well make it Sunday and have the weekend with TSK. How happy I will then be when I return to France knowing it's only two weeks until we're back together?
 
Now that my brain is restored to normal after Helvellyn (really?) I am taking 3 weeks out to chill before the 3Peaks. I'll do some race specific training if I feel up to it but this year I'm just coming back to take part.
 
This time of year I'm usually excited about it but this year I don't mind. I'm looking forwards to seeing my friends and doing the outdoorsy bit but I'm happy enough just to hang out and actually get back to France in one piece this time.  Perhaps I'll ride with my dad for a bit.


Beyond 3 Peaks (rest)prep I get to embark on the fun task of planning next years season and this year I intend to make a proper job of it, not the half hearted run-swim-bike plan of last year.
 
Sometimes I feel like I'm over doing it with planning in minute detail because plans always get blown out the window with me.  I hope my new disciplined approach to time and effort management will make things work out and help me to stick to the plan for once.  I've been moderately disciplined this year - next year will be better.  Sheffield Tri have given me enough training tools to get through the next 3 months and when I'm back in the fold it will be perfect timing for finishing 2011 and getting started on spring.

Must remember to plan for those all important trips down to London in 2012 to watch the best in the world at work.

Helvellyn Triathlon Notes

I had an amazing day at Helvellyn.  Sadly, the effort made me quite ill so at the moment my enthusiasm is dulled and I doubt that this post will do it justice.

The day before the race was torrential - no other word for it.  I was glad I ordered a hoodie as I needed something to wear underneath my raincoat at registration.

The race day dawned clear and we watched the mist rise off a still Ullswater as we racked our bikes.

I managed to get through the swim in less than half an hour although the jog over the line into transition has me at 30 minutes 28 seconds.

For a mixed gender open-water swim it was quite civilised.  We couldn't see the first buoy for the sun shining in our eyes so I think the entire pack swam a slight loop around to the buoy so there was a bit of swimming over eachotehr as half the pack fell into the shade and started to steer towards the buoy and the other half continued in a random direction.

As we rounded the buoy, quite a lot of people took it easy and steered wide so there wasn't much fighting.  As I swam away from it, I saw the seond buoy and the pack stretched out ahead and felt tired and disjointed.  I started to worry that I'd misread the instruction, that it was a long swim but before I knew it I was on the second buoy.  I managed to sit on someone's feet most of the way around, making the occasional effort to stay in contact.  As I reached the peir my hands froze and I reverted to combing the water with my splayed fingers so consequently I used my legs more to drive me towards the finish.

In transition I couldn't find my lightweight socks so stuck my fell running socks on under my cycling shoes.  Annoying 5 minutes for transition.  Someone noticed and asked me if they were my lucky socks.

Out on the bike I weaved my way through people dragging their shoes along the ground on their bikes or wiggling around and finally jumped on 15m beyond the mount line.  It was 45 minutes before I got warmed up, riding over the 1st climb in 1st gear, wondering how on earth I was going to get up the struggle a bit later on.

When I did warm up I settled down, making sure I was enjoying myself and saving myself for the rest of the day - The Struggle and Helvellyn.  There was a shady ride along the side of Thirlmere which made me shiver before the climb upto the AA phone box which was my trigger to take an energy gel to let it sit in my belly and get me up The Struggle.

We turned into The Struggle and I relaxed.  I knew once I was here, there wasn't much to go.  This time I went straight into bottom gear, not saving the gears this time - saving my legs instead.  After the first kick, I gave some advice to a fellow lady-competitor about zig zagging and got her back on the bike.  We both had a little walk on the next kick as my legs started to twitch with thigh cramp.

We finally reached the flattened section for a rest then hit the final climb.  Suddenly there were people watching.  Teams cheered and screamed at riders still on their bikes to keep going.  I put it on for the photographer and for TSK at the top, cheering and showing me his belly.  As I made the turn onto the top of the Kirkstone pass my face muscles were twitching from grimacing and smiling.

An efficient and skillful descent of the Kirstone pass meant TSK only caught me at the bottom.  To be fair, I scared myself a few times.  With the dry road I wasn't as cautious as last time which made me worry I was going to melt the brakes when I did use them full-on at each of the corners.  If I hadn't been a skilled cyclo-cross rider there's every risk I would've skipped my wheel into the air at some points.

It's an easy ride back to transition from the bottom of Kirkstone pass although each of the little rises did hurt somewhat.

My T2 should've been quick but I spent some time unpacking some stuff from my bumbag.  I also stopped off at the plastic boxes on my way out.

I jogged up to the begining of the climb, through the trees, along the river, past the vanu in the campsite then started walking at the rocky path.  I figure, if you're not running, you might as well eat so I finished the energy bar I started on the bike ride and started downing rehydration fluid as it was a hot, breezy day.

When we reached the moor we all had a bit of a run to the bottom of the climb to Swirral Edge.  A fellow competitor stopped for tea from a flask with her friends and I felt quite jealous.  I enjoyed the climb because I'd done it before and knew there was a cairn, a pointy rock, another cairn and then I was at the ridge, the interesting bit.

I got on the heels of a mountain goat and enjoyed the lift up the craggy edge.  Eventually I got hunger pangs so I stopped to try and eat something.  Sitting on an outcrop above red tarn watching athletes pass me by and munching was very satisfying.  Someone was skinny dipping in the tarn.  As someone faltered in front of me with their footwork I took an alternate direct route, my fell shoes acting as well as soft rubber climbing boots.

I didn't take much of a topping out ceremony, I was too keen to make the most of my food and get onto the much-practiced downhill section.  On the first drop off, I was looking forwards to going back up again, until I got there.  On the second drop off, I was passed by one or two which forced me to run myself.

At the sharp descent - the much feared zig zags - I was doing quite well.  I felt like I was running like my dad but it seemed effective.  I crossed the water station (a  stream) but had plenty of fluids left.  Food was the issue.  My tummy was rumbling but I decided I could probably make it to the finish from here.  The drop down to the bunk house was starting to get painful.  By the time I reached a small incline on the concrete road, my legs said no.  I reverted to a walk so delved in to the last energy gel.  I knew there wasn't much point in me trying to digest anything else.  It worked just long enough to get me down to TSK waiting at the edge of Glenridding village but I had to apologise to fellow competitors for farting.

Once TSK had cycled past it was the crowds of folk cheering through the village and the finishing straight that got me over the line.

Whilst it was nice to walk straight into the lake in my shorts, it became clear very quickly that the cryotherapy was not going to help my feet which tend to cramp after a race.  Perhaps not removing my shoes and socks was an issue but then I can't stand on rocks when I'm' fresh, never mind when I'm knackered.  It took me half an hour around transition to get my stuff and change into dry shoes and socks so I could actually walk back to the van.  I had to drink constantly all the way there just to refuel and regenerate enough to walk.

Lessons Learned
1. Should've taken sugarey drink and some real food on the run.
2. Any ban on plastic boxes - a replacement carrier bag should be clear so I can see the stuff in it.
3. Don't give up downhill running training - not for anyone.  It will only end in days off work after the event.
4. Don't make decisions on nutrition during the event.  I used more calories (2000) out of my body than I actually consumed in the day (1900) ie. total calories expended were in excess of 4000... and I don't often count calories.

Swim: 30:28, 3.2km/hr: 357/599, 44/92 Fem, 28/53 Sen Fem (target time 28:52)
T1: 05:05,
Bike: 2:36:13,14.6m/hr (23.36km/hr): 481/599, 58/92 Fem, 35/53 Sen Fem (Target time 2:14)
T2: 5:48.  What? did I take a nap?
Run: 2:43:18 18:08min/mile (11:18min/km) 507/599, 73/92 Fem, 43/53 Sen Fem (Target time 2:23)

Overall: 6:00:57 (gutted!) 515/599, 74/92 Fem, 44/53 Sen Fem (Target time 5:13).

End of Season lessons
More brick training on longer sessions

August Pre Helvellyn Stats

Swim - 6.21km, 2.3 kph.  Still good but not as far as July.  That's OK.
Bike - 181.62km, 20.7kph, 1360m el.  Ever so slightly faster but not so high and about 1/3 of previous months.  That'll be all the travelling.
Run - 52.67km, 7.5kph, 1266m el.  Considering I feel like I've scaled back the running this is amazing!

I am now officially looking forwards to Helvellyn.

Paris-Brest-Paris the Support Report

The calm before the storm

I can not deny that the P-B-P and helping TSK has been difficult for a Trep who is not too sufficient at sacrifice.  However, I can not deny that I have enjoyed making up for all the times TSK has been a spectator and put-upon helper in my sporting activities.  It has taken me back to my childood, being the proud support team offering encouragement to everyone and refuge, food and companionship and most importantly, coffee, to my special competitor.

Certificate of insanity

I am imensely honoured to send him on his way at each control.  I will be particularly so today when he returns from Brest this afternoon, having riden further than ever before.  I have been warned that 600 - 700 km will be mentally tough.  I remember my first 200km ride.  When leaving the 160km checkpoint a whole 12 months after we returned from the Canada trip was the furthest I had ever ridden in one go.

So this is how PBP turned out for me:

Sunday 21st August 2011 16:00-01:00
 

Pre-race shopping in theUK

The pre-hotel at Saclay (Novotel) was comfortable, quiet and enjoyable.  Some Brits got tired of the laxadasical French attitude of the staff and were toffee nosed and complaining.

We enjoyed our dinner, delivered to our table in a relaxed time frame and went out to the Boulangerie for breakfast, making coffee in the room using the cafetiere from the vanu.

Registration for PBP went smoothly and we took the opportunity to turn it into a warm-up ride with me blazing a pace into a headwind through the cornfields and TSK spinning along behind with all his paperwork and regulation kit in his Caradice.

Pre-PBP warmup

Before...

Start day began relaxed.  I dropped Andrew off on a side street to ride down to the start then set off to find somewhere more suitable to park - in trees by a river park - nice and cool.  I met up with TSK and we dozed in the shade for a while before watching the first wave depart at 4pm. An announcement that car #2088 had to move or it would be impounded by the police filled me with dread.  Was my "terribly good yet quite deserted" parking spot actually illegal?  My car number was 0288 but I was only half-listening to the

Bike servicing.  Where you're are asked to remove illegal equipment

announcement.  In the end car number 2088 delayed the start of the race by 5 minutes as it was broken down right in the race route.  Friends from YACF joked, "leave it where it is, we'll ride around it - just like we have been doing for the last 4 years leading up to today".




It was a very angry first wave pack that finally departed at 5:05 having been standing confined to areas of open sunshine for over 2 hours in 37 degree heat.

First wave fervour

We lined up to enter the stadium for final bike checks at 4:30pm.  Officials cleared a path through for the constant stream of special bikes that were due next.  We had a great view of some lovely machines.

Yes, this is Wakefield Tri

Billy no gears.  Actually, there is one more - it involves back pedalling.

Just as Andrew was allowed in, he got hungry so my first task of the week was to find a sandwich and some munchies to feed him as he passed out of bike check and lined up behind the second wave to start.

Eating, not starting

A good 20 minutes of standing out in the sun.  For once it was not team Pamplemouse that had the startline puncture but a guy from West Brom.  That aside, it was a truly international feel to the startline.

Russia, Brazil and Sheffield

Other competitors come from China, Canada, India, Japan, America, Holland, Germany, Italy.  Poland and the Philipines set up an Audax club Mondial and rides in their countries purely for the purpose of qualifying and entering PBP this year.  Of course, Wakefield tri were there and we bumped into a guy from Sheffield dressed in a Columbia jersey because it was the only one he owned with a full-length zip on.

Au revoir Paris

Once I'd snapped the departure photo I headed to the van, thankful it was still there and I hadn't been impounded.  I changed out of sweaty lycra into a cooler skirt.  However, it was so hot I stayed in my bra top, didn't bother with a tee and stepped out of the bike shoes into sandals.

I drove out along the N12 to Millemont where I cycled out to try and catch a view of the riders passing by.  I just popped my helmet on but stuck with the skirt, bra and sandals for a more refreshing ride, thinking I'd only be out for 10 minutes or so.  This was regretable as I left the map in the car, got lost and spent an entire hour retracing my pedal strokes.  When I returned to the vanu I was more sweaty and had very tired legs from riding on SPD pedals in sandals. 

Having not seen a single rider, I headed for Mortagne au Perce where I arrived about 11pm to a party atmosphere in the main square.  This was the first control for most people.  Me, I was in the mood for a sleep so I found a lovely backstreet partking lot and went to join the cheering when I was summoned by a sleepy TSK heading into town at 1am.

Monday 22nd August 2011 01:00- 18:00
We got an hours kip together then he set off on his way.  It wasn't a scheduled sleep but he was so blown out from the hot day before.  It's a pitty I didn't get to see more of Mortagne.  I was needed for 09:30 breakfast appointment at Fougeres so I decided to get up and go at 6am.  It was just getting light - this is good to know.

Transition bike park a la vanu

The N12 switches between motorway status (2 lane dual carriageway or more, hard shoulder, offlane services) to what we'd call A-road which mianders from 50 kph through towns or trundling single carriageways through countryside (90kph) with crappy parking places.  Desperate for speed and convenience and taking a moment, I spent most drives longing for motorway services but on this case, eventually resorted to a Patisserie when they opened just outside Fougeres at Ernee.  

TSK was 2 hours behind schedule giving me the oppotunity to rearrange all our stuff and brew cofee.  The parking at Fougeres was enough for me to spread out and sleep for a while. Now in between large groups of riders, space opened in carparks closer to the control and I shifeted us to a sheltered spot out of the rain as it began to fall.  

I walked up to the control to see TSK arrive and cheer on other riders who seemed genuinely happy that someone was prepared to sit in the rain and encourage them.  

Soggy in Fougeres

TSK did eat some brekfast baked goods but now 11:30am he was craving more.  As I hadn't had time to shop, we resorted to tinned baked beans and tuna I bought from the dodgy corner shop on Saturday evening.  I ate the leftovers for lunch.  Such is the sacrificial life of race support.

Aware that I have a long and more complicated journey ahead including some of that shopping, I head off straight away. 

Combourg seems to be the showcase venue for the organisers to deliver the best of Britany to the visiting nations.  It is a nice enough place but diverting through it to get onto a very poxy road to Tremblay presents a challenge to many of us and an international convoy of campervans amuses the locals by rallying around various different routes alternately following eachother then breaking away from the pack, only to meet eachother coming in different directions.  I find my way out by nipping trhough the town centre where a no-entry barrier has not been restored and find myself driving up the cobbled high street passing a street cleaner going the wrong way down a one way street.

The picturesque lake at Combourg

On the right road finally, I sopt for second lunch overlooking Combourg lake.  I'm too tired to take a picture - and this is just the start.  I am too tired to enjoy this place.  I have still missed the official route but I get a message from TSK to say he's fine at Tintineac so I stick with the D795 which is fast and just crosses the rider's course in a different place, much to the confusion of the marshalls as I pass by.  

I take the turn for Hede as this is a town on my list but it's litterally a dead end.  A frenchman in a PBP cambpervan shrugs at me and I indicate to go back down the hill.  From Hede to Bedee I fight my way along the D80 and D68, muddling through villages with too many roundabouts and therefore U-turns.  Finally I get on the N12 again and drive for some time before admitting my brain is fucked and I need an hours' sleep.  I am only about 6 minutes from Loudeac.  

I'm exhaused when I get going again and a sign says 38km to Loudeac.  I've only missed a turn and undone all that good work fighting my way south.  I'm not the only one and pip my horn at other confused PBP motorists as I pass by.  The french like to sign roads going in completely different directions to places which seem similar (at least, they start with the same letter and that's about as similar as it needs to be to confuse you when you've only had 4 hours sleep).

Monday 22nd August 2011 18:00 - 00:23



Eventually I get to Loudeac and see riders passing below so I pull into the Leader Price supermarket and cook dinner.  Essentially this is for me as TSK needs to sleep when he arraives at 8pm.  I enjoy chatting and cooking with other supporters in an area where the supermarket has taken the time and effort to segment a section of the carpark for us so that we don't clash with regular shoppers or the HGVs doing middle of the night deliveries.  

It starts to rain so I pack everything away.  I meet TSK at the roundabout at the bottom of the hilll and he sleeps for only 3 hours in an attempt to make up for the very hot start and time lost at Mortagne.  It thunders and lightens whilst we're sleeping and I'm glad he's not out in it (never mind him being glad he's not out in it).  When he gets up to go again I decide it's only 10pm I might as well get up and get ahead of him.  I feed him pasta that I made earlier.


Tuesday 23rd August 2011 00:23 - 08:30
At Carhaix I enter the first campervan park I find, the carpark of a tyre garage where about 23 vans are parked, waiting for their riders.  I sneak a spot right by the bay doors where no beastly large camper will fit and try to be as quiet as possible as there is a tent pitched nearby and by the look of a bike on a rack, the tent is occupied.  

TSK arrives at Carhaix at 2am and I meet him in case he needs a sleep but he's eager to push on to Brest and that's fine with me.  We eat some breakfast in the control together amongst sweaty and sleeping people.  I try to enjoy the romance of the moment.


The vanu car park is eerily quiet and I'm frustrated that my longest break without driving (as TSK goes to Brest and back) falls on a time when I need sleep but I look on it as a great opportunity for a lie-in before I do something for me and I go to sleep easily despite the fact that I'm parked on private property.


I haven't set an alarm and wake to the owner of the tyre shop arriving for work.  Most of the 23 campers that were there last night have thankfully left but still, the owner seems perplexed that 10 campervans are all needing tyres at the same time and he looks nervously around the car park.  I leave to go and eat my breakfast and get some me-time somewhere more private.

Tuesday23rd August 2011 08:30 - 19:30

God bless you St Katherine

I randomly drive down Carhaix streets in search of a leisure centre before concluding that if I can't find a pool (following signs) I'm too tired to enjoy swimming training so I randomly drive into the countryside.  Finally I stumble on the pretty St Katherine's church where there's a parking space for the Vanu and a wide, fast-flowing river in which to rinse out some of TSK's clothes and my body (support crews are not allowed to use the participant's showers so I declare it the only race where the suport gets more manky than the riders). 


My dreams of skinny dipping are shattered by the arrival of 3 lads fishing but I still manage to do laundry medieval style and have a Timotei-moment hair wash in the river.  I wash my upper body with my bra on (yes the same one!) and paddle in my shorts which gets rid of about 3 days stickiness.  I felt I deserved a full change of clothing and sat back for a few hours of writing, dozing and making coffee whilst the laundry blew about in the breeze.  A respecful walk around St Katherine then drove back to Carhaix to get a parking spot with the support crews.


When I returned to Carhaix, most riders had already left for Brest, some of their support crews going with them so only the return journeyers were left.  I managed to claim an obvious spot on the roundabout right below control and adorned the gate posts with a Norton Wheelers jersey and a carrot-shaped plastic dog toy I'd picked up earlier from the supermarket so that TSK could spot me whilst I was cooking dinner.


By the time he arrived I had everything packed away and the bed made and had been cheering riders for half an hour.  He climbed in bed for an hour at 4pm and I stayed out cheering because it seemed to make people smile.  He didn't want anything to eat and set off to use the facilities at the control.  I saw from the race plan how far it was to the control we were next supposed to meet so I jogged up with a packed dinner and a box of fruit juice - only one of which was taken as he promised to eat at the riders' control in between Carhaix and Loudeac.  I wondered if they had dancing girls there.


There was little point in me standing around at 6pm so I started the drive to Loudeac where I arrived at 19:30.  

Tuesday23rd August 2011 19:30 - 00:00



Loudeac on la rentree came across as a completely different town.  I parked at the end of a bridlepath / disused railway called le petit train vert.  I parked there mostly because there were toilets but also because I had some me-time left.  The toilet was closed but at least the bridlepath made for a nice run route around town for me to see some riders (most of whom recognised me as a cyclist from previous cheering or from the tan lines well below the extent of my running shorts).  On my recce of the town I discovered I'd parked only 2 streets beck from the control main drag where there was a service lane filled with campervans. I tried shopping in town where I saw this amazing mozaic fish and lady (which I imagined to be like my swim in Ullswater in two weeks time).  I resorted to filling  the water bottles in control then drove down to get a convenient parking spot as darkenss fell and we began to cheer riders in.


The local club seemed to be taking part so a long chain of spectators had sprung up along the inbound lane to control.  It was 9:30 pm and most riders were fairly with-it, waving to the cheers as they arrived.  One man nodded his way down the line and we soon realised he wasn't checking his bike, he was grtadually nodding off.
 

Time for a well-deserved douche

Everyone screamed at him to wake up and he just about managed to see the marshall at the end of the coridor and make the turn into control as the crowd started to part, just in case he didn't make it.

TSK left with his towel to shower in control.   As I walked away, a lady on a recumbent was concerned that she had a wobble in her her front hub.  "Can you feel that?" she asked me in French.  I gave the wheel a good shake in its fork.  "Je crois que c'est le peur" I said, "I think it's the fear".  

She seemed content with the answer and set off on her way.

TSK and I went to bed.


Wednesday 24th August 2011 00:00 -16:30

Mill cottages

One hours sleep for TSK and 6 interupted ones for me as I received updates on TSK's progress.  When my alarm went off at 6am I drank TSK's left over coffee (well stewed in a thermal mug) then set off for the wild navigation of Combourg and rural Britany.  It was easier on the way back and I sat and ate breakfast and took the pictures that I missed on the way in.


I was close to Tintineac when TSK texted me at 6:26am so we changed out a back tyre that was starting to go threadbare and I drove on to Fougeres.

By the time I reach fougeres its 7:45 am and I can't be arsed to put the bed up  and make coffee so I go into the Super U (turning out to be our ride sponsors) cafe and chat with the Barista.  I do a little shopping then take a nap in the van.  The next thing I know, TSK is ringing me.  "I'm in a car park sleeping", I say. Thankfully I find the riders' route and follow them to do some nifty parking on the road to control. TSK just wants to get rid of some stuff and pick up snacks.  I cry, "Go away, I don't like you any more, stop ringing me".  Well, I'm awake now, I may as well go to Villaines la Juhel.

Approaching Villaines through Loupfougeres the traffic suddenly ground to a halt and one of the spectators began making gestures to a motorist that a rider had fallen off.

As I understand what the ride is and what the riders are going through and I understand both English and French and a little first aid I decided I'd rather park and help than sit in a traffic jam so I make a parking lot of some business's yard and find dutch man lying in the road with a head injury - a 2.5 inch bruised bump on his forehead and a lovely gash.

His head is resting on his helmet and apprently it wasn't on his head when he crashed.  In deed he speaks  no French and the spectators speak no English so between us we get the message cross to the ambulance crew about his name, Marcus Minihold, his condition and, according to the spectators, that he lost conciense for about 10 seconds.  I'm helped to make him comfortable by replacing his helmet with my knees and we joke that he's resorting to extreme measures just for a lie down.

I am heartened by the English competitor who stops because he's seem my Sheffield Tri top to check if we need a French Translator.  Poor Marcus has clearly lost concentration for just long enough to hit the cobbles on the central reservation whith a wheel.  He's determined that he's fine but not too quick to jump back on his bike either - or stand up for that matter.

After strapping him to a stretcher the ambulance crew ask me to explain that they're taking him to hospital for an x-ray, to which he said, "Why? I'm OK".  All I could think of to say was, "so they can check you out is all".  At this point I started feeling guilty, that he'd be ok and be forced to abandon or miss his time cut off.  I convinved myself it was the better worst case, compared with putting him back on his bike and finding out he'd dropped dead from a brain haemorrage just outside Fougeres.

I arrange with the race official, now directing traffic, that I will take the bike to control for the rider to collect when he is well.  [Post ride note, the rider finished though his speed before his crash was around 18km/hr and fell to a steady 15.5kph for the rest of the event].

TSK had ridden past just as I was strapping Marcus Miniholds's bike to the rack of the Vanu and I caught him up on the road with a "see you there".  In fact he beat me to the line as I tried to persuade French officials to take ownership of a bike that I had no interest in keeping for myself (frame too small).

Wednesday 24th August 2011 16:30 - 19:30


TSK and I sat under a tree in Villaines swapping stories in the afternoon sun and getting our photo taken by the local journo (still not appeared, we must've looked rough).  Andrew killed some time till 4:30pm to avoid the warm weather that was reoccurring then set off on his way for Fougeres.  I rallied around some minor roads then eventually joined the N12 again into Mortagne au Perche.

I arrived in good spirits, did some cooking and set the bed up.  The sausages I bought turned out to be pretty spicy.

TSK: Do I really have to put these back on?

I don't fancy them and they're certainly not race food so they go in the bin and I set the lentils out to heat up if necessary.  I'm in more or less the same spot as the outward bound so I have a soft spot for this pretty, quiet town.  I bump into an English couple I last saw at Carhaix.  They are supporting his best friend who is due in around 2am.  In fact my first question when I see him on his own is, "is your wife still here or has she left you?".

Decorative velos at Mortagne au Perche

The square is prettily decorated at Mortagne and I fill the bottles before TSK arrives.  He climbs in for what I expect to be a 5 hour sleep but he's still playing catch-up and only wants 2 hours.

Whilst he's in bed, I give his bike a clean inspired by an italian team I saw earlier and reinforced by the quantity of dirt that comes off the front wheel when I change his second tyre of the PBP.  He has a 5mm x 20mm flap of rubber hanging off the contact surface, exposing the beading beneath.  That's got to be annoying.

Brake dust and gravel removed, chain superficially cleaned in oil, dried and re-oiled and deraileur goo shaved off, it is midnight when I get to bed.  When TSK gets up he's hungry so I heat up my dinner from last night and he eats two batches and a desert of cereal complemented by Lychees and a toffee puddindg.  He TSK leaves soon after.

Thursday th August 2011 00:00 - Finish

The last thing I do before going back to sleep is decide how long I want to get to sleep before leaving for the next control.  TSK says he doesn't need me at Dreux and has taken the clothes and supplies with him that he needs to get to Paris.

Do I want to NOT be there if he does need me?  No.

So I pass up on sleeping for now and get up again to drive down the N12 in the dark.  Dreux is an old and complicated place so I'm glad I'm there at 1:30 am and not during any traffic hours.

I text him to let him know I'm there and sleeping.  He says to carry on to Paris but I sleep for a bit and he texts me he's through control at 4:30am and my alarm goes off.  I wait for a bit to wave him off and he seems to take for ages.  He's been contemplating a beer at Dreux so I make sure he's not passed out or just decided to get drunk instead of finishing.

I decide to press on as I don't want to get caught in Paris rushour in 2 hours time.  It might be French holidays but there's got to be some people left at work surely.  Apparently TSK sees the vanu disapear off up a side street - probably trying to get off the riders' route asap.

Dreux to Paris was, not surprisingly a blurr.

Paris was Hell.  I could not for the life of me remember where I was going or the name of the staium I was looking for so I couldn't even ask directions.  I repeated the route we'd done on our bikes several times, constantly forgetting a turning.  Then I became completely lost and began doing circuits again but this time on unfamiliar streets and bypasses.  I even turned the wrong way down a slip road in front of a police man who was (thankfully) preocupied with a lamp post which someone else had knocked over.

I did a shifty three point turn then took an exit which dropped me into a building site and then a carpark then a garage forecourt from which I eventually escaped.  Eventually I saw a stream of riders so I followed them again into an audacious parking spot, less than 50 m from the finish in the place where offices are just down right closed (and the parking is completely free of charge) in the month of August.

A canteen light was still on a timer on the other side of a glass wall, the occupants on holiday oblivious to the madness, mess and carnage going on outside their usual place of work.  Good job as a lot of people stopped at the bush outside for a pee.


I slept through the sunrise like a corpse for a whole hour before tentatively retracing the route to meet TSK  and other riders coming in.  Some tootled along at 10km/hr, others time-trialled down the dual carriageway doing bit-n-bit to slash a previous best or possibly to get in before the cut-off time.  No longer special to the busy people of Paris, the world was oblivious again to men on bikes and there were a few near misses as riders, used to quiet country roads, were thrust, tired, into the city with nothing but little A4-sized arrows to follow to the finish.

I peeled off, directing the riders to take their glory lap down the finishing lane.

Flags of the world and TSK with his precious finishing papers.

A tired TSK checked in in 86 hours 48 minutes.  He slept whilst I loaded the van then we both slept on the train for around 3 hours to Aix en Provence.  He continued to sleep all except for a short check-in time at the hotel and dinner-break until 9am the next day.

After...proud and satisfied TSK (I had to remind him to smile)

No idea who this old woman is

 For anyone who happens across this post, trying to find out whether they want to support a rider during the PBP, consider that I'm a resilient person with a reasonable competancy for driving on foreign roads and reading a map (sometimes more successfully than others).  Timing is crucial, knowing your rider is crucial.  They won't always need you.  They won't always seem grateful (but they will be).  You will want to put them in a plastic bag.  You will want to put yourself in a plastic bag!  You will want it to stop but you can't.  If you plan to be at every control, it takes all of the rider's time for you to pack up, shop, cook, clean up and make the bed in between controls.  Stay ahead of your rider and it will all work well.  Don't try to rush and always stop to sleep when you feel drowsy - even if it's the middle of the day.

Controls are only signposted on the riders' routes and you should avoid this route at all costs.  You are only allowed on the riders' route within 5km of the controls.  There's nothing to stop you riding out to the route but good luck with finding their route, never mind rendezvousing with someone on the move.

There are no campsites set up on the route (although I may have missed one in Carhaix). You are relying on the good will of local businesses and homeowners.  There's a lot of it about but it should not be taken for granted.  A happy "bonjour or bonsoir" goes a long way to persuading people that you're not going to steal from them or poo in their garden.

If you can afford it, the best way to see this ride is to hire a big, well equipped camper with a shower and toilet that you can enjoy at your own convenience.  You may wish to do what the germans did and set up a tent with a camp bed in it for your rider.  (If they happen to leave their feet outside the tent, do throw a tarp over them when it rains).