'ere wiggo, 'ere wiggo, 'ere wiggo

Was there ever a more apt marriage of moronic English sporting chant and the affectionate diminutive of our latest sporting hero? Probably not. But that, along with cow bell, whistles and cheers, was pretty much all you could hear in the English enclave that was the exit of the hairpin at the top of the Champs Élysées today.

I'm not going to produce a blow by blow account of the weekend I've spent in Paris with t'eldest, and still less our day on the Champs today. Last time I was there/here was last September, celebrating my own personal and team achievement of riding from London to Paris in one piece without any terminal arguments, and today I was celebrating someone else's personal and team achievement of riding from Liege to Paris in one piece (pretty much anyway) without any terminal arguments. But then, we had to take our own pictures; today, there were hundreds, thousands of others doing it for them. And their arguments weren't about route finding or letting their drying pants drip on the bunk below (unless there's a Sky documentary exposé down the line), but who had the right to stand on top of a podium in Paris. Mr Froome will tell us there were no such arguments, but don't you just wish you were a fly on the wall of his and his girlfriend's room? And I mean that in a completely non-pervy way.

Talking of the Froomedog, as David Millar seems to have christened him, check this out (taken by aforementioned eldest) in case you missed it on Twitter:

So no, there'll be no dull narrative about our "I was there" story. You know where we were. It was fun. I had tears in my eyes at times - though slightly oddly, it was the publicity caravan that inspired that; the unalloyed joy of those on the back of the crazily swerving motorised water bottles and loaves of bread somehow captured the essence of the event even more than the racing itself.

Two last words. When the teams did their lap of honour, the British fans, who I feared were going to lapse into the kind of booze-fuelled partisanship of their footballing compatriots, heartily cheered all the teams, regardless of their nationality or levels of success. They added colour, atmosphere and laughter. Just for a day, we were the fans everybody liked.

And finally, I lapsed. I sold out. I thought I'd never do it. I bought some Sky merchandise...shame on me. But you know, when the greatest sporting show on earth (and I brook no argument on that, regardless of anything that might be happening dairn sairf next weekend for a bit), is won by an interesting and seemingly decent British fella, what can you do?

Joy

One of the main reasons I cycle and run, apart from the fact they both keep you fit-ish, provide some time for quiet contemplation, and give you that satisfying feeling of justified fatigue, is that they can produce sublime moments, perhaps lasting no more than 30 seconds, of complete and utter joy. It's a hard feeling to describe precisely - it's not the kind of ecstasy you might get from finding out you've passed a difficult and important exam, or the deep satisfaction and amusement that comes with a sociable night with a good bunch of mates, or the relief from sorting out an urgent bodily function. It's more a feeling of knowing that at those precise moments, there are no circumstances that could make you feel happier, or more alive, or anything else you'd rather be doing.

They don't come along very often, and for me they nearly always happen when I'm riding a bike or running down a hill. The best days I've ever had have been spent on a bike, ranging from going up to and down from Tourmalet in 2010 to the more quotidian riding through the Pas de Calais last year. But thankfully those moments of joy happen more often, and I've had two this weekend.

Now, nothing can compare to the thrill of hurtling down a mountain pass on two wheels, but one of the advantages of running, especially in the hills, is that you can put some music in your ears without endangering yourself or anyone else. And my two moments this weekend were probably accentuated by the iPod. The first was yesterday, when I was attempting to stay on my feet as I ran down a really steep incline. The only way I could do it was by taking baby steps at a cadence, to borrow a cycling term, of probably 200 rpm. In my ears at the time was Earthquake by Labrinth & Tinie Tempah, a recent occupant of what I believe is known as the Hit Parade, and there was just something about the combination of the music, the crazy running, and the sunshine that just made me laugh out loud. There was no-one else around bar a few bullocks to witness the madness fortunately.

And then today, as I crested a small hill by Macclesfield Forest Chapel, the countryside opened up - Cat & Fiddle road and pub to the left, Macclesfield Forest straight ahead, and the Staffordshire Moorlands just beyond and to the right. Again, for a second morning running the sun was out, but it was pretty early so no other people were, and it was just fantastic.

But it wouldn't have been if I'd driven up there. Writing this now my lungs hurt if I breathe in too hard. At the risk of sounding a bit Orwellian, the joy of those moments is enhanced by the labour of getting there in the first place, and I'd sure laboured to get up to nearly 1500 feet. Over the last couple of days I've run 32 miles, with 4,500 feet of ascent. That would be a fairly respectable mountain bike ride. And I've loved every single one of those miles. Not all the ascending feet necessarily, but definitely the miles

Opportunities in the next few weeks are going to be few and far between, though the bike was cleaned yesterday and I'm to get a few miles in when I'm in Brittany in a couple of weeks.

But first, Paris awaits next weekend. Barring accident, illness or any other misfortune, I'm hoping, nay expecting, to be there to see the first British winner of the event crowned. I'm just not sure of the identity of that winner yet. I'll be there with my eldest daughter - look out for us, we'll be waving...

"I'd rather have a go and fail than be a successful moaner"

Thus spake John Bishop, comedian, ex-sales and marketing executive, and professional scouser (though aren't they all?) on Desert Island Discs last week. I'm not having a go at him, in fact quite the opposite; he spoke words that resonated with me more than any others in recent times. He was talking about his transition from deskbound salaryman to successful entertainer. He took a chance; it worked. He gave up something secure and went into something competitive and insecure. He did it because he was passionate about it. He and I are were born within a month of each other, and despite his accent he actually grew up in Winsford, Cheshire, not too far away from me. It's set me thinking....(even more)..........

But on less radical scale, it's surprisingly easy to let life get in the way of the things that really matter. What do I mean by that? Well, now I've got the freedom to exercise again, I need to be out there, hitting the trails, the roads and the forest. I've managed decent runs every weekend day for the last three weeks, but that pattern's going to be interrupted badly over the next few weekends, what with trips to London (this weekend), Paris (two weekends after), Plymouth (the weekend after that), Brittany (the weekend after), and the Shropshire hills (two weekends later). However, I fear I may have mentioned that before, so I'll move on...

Last weekend I managed a run of just under 20 miles on 500 ml of water and one energy gel. Which was good, though the step up from 13 was probably a bit too radical to be sensible. However, I've been reading one of Dean Karnazes' books (possibly the most prominent ultramarathoner of recent years), and just as when I read Ranulph Fiennes' autobiography, I was inspired. I also got out early, and it was cool, but not too cool, and still - perfect conditions. As I've mused before, and fool can run one marathon (hello...), but real fools want to do more. And why not go further? Ultramarathons start at only 50 km.

However, to do that you need to be running more than just at the weekends. Sure I do plenty of core exercises, squats and stretches during the week, but it's not the same as getting the miles in. And there's one major barrier to that - work, and the integral accompanying parts of that for me; being away from home, and long hours. Unpredictable hours and locations - it's not conducive to running. I did get a few miles in last week doing circuits of a cemetery just off junction 4 of the M4 by Heathrow, but it was like eating dry crackers and stale cheese - it served a basic physiological need, but it didn't go much further. It would be tempting at this point to link this back to the first paragraph, but it's a temptation I'm going to resist.

Instead, I shall recount another painful lesson learned. Earlier this year I bought my third consecutive pair of Saucony trainers. I bought the first two pairs from Up and Running, a specialist - you'll never guess - running shop. They were the Saucony Triumph 7 and Saucony Triumph 8 respectively. They were marvellously comfortable. So when I needed a new pair at the start of the year I decided to cut a corner, and buy a pair of Saucony Triumph 9 directly off a leading internet sports retailer, who had said articles priced most competitively, quite a lot of Wiggle-room between them and the next best price. However, those naughty product designers at Saucony had, for reasons best known to themselves, increased the size of the part of the shoe I now know to be called the front box, making them more suitable for the wider-footed gentleman, but loose fitting on a lithe beast such as myself. The consequence - on a long run, little toe blisters (that's big blisters on the little toes, rather than small blisters randomly located). So, I'm having to retire them early, probably to France for shorter runs. I've been forced to change brand - it feels like treachery - to New Balance. Which, this time, I did go to an actual shop to take advice on, try on, and do a deal on (free pair of quality socks). Lesson learnt. And that is a good place to stop.

OK Go...

An interesting week....apart from the most challenging week at work for years, I had an appointment with my physio on Wednesday. The great news is that I'm free to resume doing what the heck I like on the sporting front. (Without boring you with the detail, my two conditions can, we concluded, continue to be managed, just as I've got them both under control, through a strict and unending regime of exercises, and care with the diet, in terms of both inclusions and exclusions [ok, next level of detail; the inclusions are salmon, turmeric, green tea and ginger; the exclusions are non-organic dairy products as far as possible, red meat more than once a week, refined sugar]).

My first reaction, apart from massive relief of course, was that I should resurrect plans from earlier in the year to join Mendi Prouleur in the Pyrenees at the end of August. Then I realised that was madness - not only have I done no riding of note this year; not only do I not have access to a bike during the week at the moment (and for the foreseeable future), but I've also got plans for many of the weekends over the next couple of months. Weekends in Paris and the Shropshire hills with each of my two eldest kids, sister-in-law's wedding in Plymouth, another Brittany visit, and a posh and free weekend in London, all mean that I have no time to do the kind of extended rides needed to equip you for a week in the high hills. So, things must stay as they are, more's the pity.

I was bemoaning the fact last time that 2012 is a bit boring compared to previous years. Well, there might not be many landmark events, but there are plenty of smaller ones. This weekend was an example of that - it was 'Barnaby' weekend in Macclesfield, a 3 day festival that celebrates the olden days, when all the silk mill workers and their families decamped to Blackpool for the week. And what a fantastic amount of effort had gone into organising a multitude of events. Mrs M did loads, including a 2 hour paleocalligraphy course, otherwise known as how to read 15/16th century handwriting. I accompanied her to an evening of ludicrous cabaret-type magic on Saturday night, which was bonkers, enjoyable, and the filling in a half-marathon sandwich.

Yup, I managed 13 miles on both Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning in the hills, so 2000 feet of climbing each time as well as the distance. That's nothing on a bike, but it got the ticker going when I was trying to run, I can tell you. And there's going to be a whole load more of it...it fits in with the new work-dictated lifestyle, and I have to say, I enjoy it. Time to go and look up the marathon calendar for the rest of 2012....

Fastidiosam anno

The title approximates to something like "a boring year". Queenie had her 'annus horribilus' back in 1992. Twenty years later, I'm just having a dull year. That's part of the reason why this blog has been pretty quiet over the last few weeks - there hasn't been much to write about. However, even the dullest period eventually yields something interesting, so here goes a random selection of things......

Let's start with the dull year bit. Every year since 2001 I can point to something relatively major or interesting that happened in that year, not all of it necessarily sport-related. I know you'll be fascinated, so the list looks something like:
2001 - moved to Chester, 9/ll, acquired the injury that stopped me playing football and eventually started me cycling
2002 - spent a month in Germany doing MBA, took kids to Disneyland Paris
2003 - split up with 1st wife, lived on own for 6 months, met current wife, started cycling
2004 - Etape du Tour, moved to current house, proposed to current wife in Barbados
2005 - got married, Gran Fondo Campagnolo, holidayed in Singapore & Vietnam
2006 - loadsa sportives, fantastic activity holiday with kids in wet mid-Wales
2007 - loadsa sportives, last time I bought a new roadbike, Etape de Legend, holiday in France with kids
2008 - loadsa sportives, watched 4 stages of TdF at roadside whilst doing a mega-tour of France
2009 - Lands End - JoG with Mendi Prouleur, decided to buy a house in France, watched end of TdF in Paris
2010 - bought a house in France, Raid Pyrenean
2011 - Monmarduman year: duathlon'd, marathoned, brilliant charidee ride from London to Paris
2012 - er, well, hummm, changed job? being injured?

So as you can see, 2012 does not sit particularly comfortably just yet. Actually, I shouldn't complain, for lots of reasons. First, having the eldest two kids just down the road, relatively speaking, in Wolverhampton, has meant lots of unexpected opportunities to see them, which will sure as heck disappear later this year when one goes back to Bath Uni, and the other toddles off, with a bit of luck, to Exeter Uni. Today, for example, we had a cracking 4 hours hill-walking together. And last night we watched the football and ate curry together. Humdrum, workaday events perhaps, but very precious to me, made particularly so in the knowledge they won't last much longer. So to those of you with young-ish / younger children, it's a terrible cliche, but do enjoy them now, because time does disappear before you know it. That said, they're a hell of a lot more entertaining at 21 than they were at 11.

Other reasons not to complain - I've not just participated in sportives, runs and so on in previous years, but I've trained quite hard for them, and towards the tailend of last year I was truly knackered - long term exhausted. Having a few months off, which has partly been necessitated by the injuries, is helping to address that. Though that could just be me retro-fitting facts to theory.

The other thing that's forced a relatively low level of training in recent times is the change of job - I'm finding it very tough, partly because I don't really know what I'm doing (mid-life change of career - I'm not sure yet whether it's advisable; watch this space), and hence working lots, but also because I'm away from home most of Monday to Friday at the moment, and I'm not working in a part of the world where I can just nip out for a quick run.

Yes, that part of the world is about 400 yards beyond the end of runway 1 at Heathrow. It's just a phenomenonally busy, noisy and not especially safe-feeling area. It's not where I'd choose to spend my life, and truth be told, I'm becoming very jealous of those of you who get to sleep in your own bed most of the time between Monday and Friday. I don't regret changing job at all - the petty bureaucratic nightmares and corporate groupthink have been removed, and for that I am mighty grateful. It's just that I'm questioning if this is what I want to do till I retire, where 'this' is solving other people's problems, being away from home, and sitting in a stinky air-conditioned office making up clever powerpoint presentations to justify being charged out at a ridiculous daily fee. I mean, the last roadbike I bought was cheaper than my daily rate (which I only get a fraction of, I stress). Hey ho.

Anyway, dear reader, I'm back in the saddle metaphorically and the TdF is only 2 weeks away, which always raises my spirits. Courage to those of you getting in the miles at the moment, I hope to re-join you mentally and physically over the coming months.  

The egregious case notes of London cyclists

Er, title means what?

Well, there's three main threads to this week's post, and I decided to combine them in the title so that I don't forget them....

Egregious won't take long....it seems to be le mot de choix at the moment, that's all. I think someone at the Leveson Inquiry used it a few weeks ago, and there seems to have been a rash of public figures using it since then. I haven't heard it at work yet though, but that's possibly not surprising - one of the benefits of the new job is that I seem to have moved into a largely jargon-free zone. That's what happens when the people you work with both have brains and are allowed to use them.

Case notes - I'm begging your indulgence again with this one, but I got my X-ray results last week. Mixed news. Pleasingly, there doesn't seem to be anything too dramatic wrong with the back, at least in the sense there's no immediate need to consider surgery; the sciatica seems to be calming down nicely. A slightly revised diet, exercises to open up the sciatic nerve, and a better posture at work seem to be combining to produce gradual improvement. The hip, however, is different. There's evidence apparently of cartilage damage caused by the ball and socket not rubbing together properly. It's a condition known as femoroacetabular impingement. The physio puts it down to the volume of sport I've done over the years. It's quite common, it's associated with low back pain too, but it's treatable. I'm seeing the physio again on 22nd June to decide where we go from here. In the meantime the advice remains the same; moderate running, minimal cycling.

London cyclists - I spent quite a lot of time in central London last week, and the weather was so glorious I decided to walk between Euston and Aldwych, both ways on two separate days. It gave me a good opportunity to look at lots of things you certainly don't see if you're Underground, and not that likely to see from a bus, but the thing that occupied me the most was the cycling. It's insane! I think of myself as a pretty confident cyclist, but I think I'd hesitate before cycling regularly in London. It's not the motorised vehicles, though they can be a bit unpredictable; I'm used to that. It's the other cyclists - I could go on, but I won't. I'll just say that what did amuse was the fact that cycling seems like a drag race from one set of traffic lights to the next, but with the added complications of a) you don't have to go in a straight line - in fact weaving about is de rigeur, and b) you're never too sure whether your competitors are actually going to stop at the next red light. Did you know that in London 16 cyclists died on the roads in 2011, whilst in Paris the figure was zero? I think that's what's know as statistically significant, and if I were Boris I think I'd be having a look at what I could do about it, as I don't believe that Londoners are either significantly worse bike riders or car drivers than Parisians.

Off to France for 4 days over the long weekend with wife and t'youngest, so next post will probably be mid-week next week. A bientot.

White Peak (Matlock) Half Marathon

This is the half version of the full marathon I did last year. It's such a nice course, and t'eldest had shown a bit of interest in running recently, that we decided in January to do the half marathon together, give her something to aim at and all that. I've been a really good dad, not interfering in her training, not getting on her case about the number of runs she's been doing (or, ahem, not).

And so the day dawned, and it dawned darned cold and wet. The wet let up on the drive across to Matlock, but dear Lord, the temperature - admittedly it was the Cat & Fiddle road we had to drive up to get across to Derbyshire, but 3c??!! In May? It was only 6c when we parked up, registered and stripped off. When can I move to the south of France? Ah yes, when the € has collapsed and I can buy a shack in the hills behind Nice for the price of ripe Brie. 

Back in the real world we took the coach to the start in the middle of somewhere along the High Peak Trail, and a couple of minutes past 11 we were off, down a puddle-strewn gravel and cinder path. In the clouds. Brrrr. But then, disaster!! Within half a mile of the start, Georgina disappeared from my side. I stopped, went back; she was stopped, stretching her right leg. Cramp she reckoned. Not a chance, said I, this soon in. I forced painkillers, gels and water down here, but things didn't improve. She was managing to jog about 400 metres, before she had to walk for 150 or so, which seemed to ease the pain enough for her to run the next 400. This was not rapid progress. We carried on in this vein for the first 3 miles, which took 40 minutes.

By then, we were stressing each other out. Her to me, because I loathe and detest changes of pace, and the walking was driving me nuts. I was prepared to run slowly, but not to walk, and even stop at times. Me to her, partly because she could sense my frustration, and partly out of guilt. After those 3 miles, we established that first, she'd finish, even if it took her 3 hours, and second, it was going to be better for both of us if we went our separate ways. We were rank last in the field at this point.

But I was seized by a mighty anger, and as I left her the mountains of frustration came pouring out. All of a sudden, I was Lance Armstrong in the 2003 Tour de France on the way to stage victory after being brought down by a spectator. Er, perhaps not, I didn't win my race. But I did run the 10 a bit miles to the finish in 1 hour 12 minutes, spectacularly fast my my standards. I tore through the field, not bothering to eat or drink anything. Crazy. I crossed the line in 1 hour 50 minutes, pretty respectable, but what could it have been but for those first 3 miles? 1 hour 35 perhaps, who knows. It might have been crazy, but it was a lot of fun - nothing hurt for the first time in ages, but that could just have been the masking effects of adrenalin.

After collecting my fabulous commemorative mug (mustard yellow being this year's colour of choice), popping on a fleece and collecting a camera, I decided to hike back up the route to meet George. Truth be told, I was expecting it to be a fairly long hike, but bless her, less than a mile back up the route there she was. I jogged back with her, accelerating only to get to the finish line in time to get some decent photos. Given that she a) had her thigh pain, b) had a stinking cold, and c) it's her (squeamish look away know) lady's time, and d) was her first half marathon, getting in under the 2 hr 30 mark was good going. She already wants to do it again next year. Which is a pity, because it'll be about the same time her Finals will be starting at Bath Uni. 

So, today wasn't quite as I intended. I'd sworn we'd stay together (certain readers will be sighing in resignation; "yes, yes, you always say that"). I'd thought that one of my ailments would cause pain. (They may yet; a 35 minute session on the bike trainer on Thursday made the hip feel quite spiky and uncomfortable for 24 hours after). But it was still a blast. There's something about an event, sharing an endeavour with other folk, that just makes it better, somehow. I'd love to say it's the comradeship, the sense of overcoming a challenge together, or perhaps seeing others battle the odds (a 79 year old, a guy who had open heart surgery 6 months ago). But it's not - it's the mustard yellow mug. The one that says: "I did that".