tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48564365657798958382024-03-13T20:20:35.596-07:00The London Triathlon 2012Ollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998474455470153055noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4856436565779895838.post-48637963387869855692012-10-02T15:23:00.000-07:002012-11-10T02:44:35.040-08:00It's all over!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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£2,273 raised so far for Cancer Research UK. My donation page is still open if anybody wants to make a contribution to this fantastic cause. <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/ollydavy">http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/ollydavy</a></span></span></div>
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Well, it’s all over. That was
undoubtedly one of the finest experiences of my life. Here are the official
results;<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was aiming to complete the
London Triathlon in less than three hours. In the end I managed 2 hours, 24
minutes and 38 seconds. I was shocked and ecstatic with the time. It seems all
the training paid off. Apparently I came 375<sup>th</sup> out of 4,046 Olympic
distance finishers. That seems pretty good to me and I am more than happy, but it’s
worth noting that the slowest guy took over five hours to complete the course!
Fair play to him for actually finishing. Although receiving his medal from the
cleaners tidying up post event must have taken the sheen off his achievement
somewhat.</div>
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I owe this result to a number
of things but here is my top 5 list:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal">Mum<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Training<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Notorious BIG<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Power flapjacks<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Training<o:p></o:p></li>
</ol>
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For those of you who, like
me, love the minutiae please enjoy the details of each leg;<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Swim<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<td colspan="2" nowrap="" style="height: 12.75pt; padding: .75pt .75pt 0cm .75pt; width: 29.0pt;" valign="bottom" width="39"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Rank<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>BikeStart<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<td colspan="2" nowrap="" style="height: 12.75pt; padding: .75pt .75pt 0cm .75pt; width: 29.0pt;" valign="bottom" width="39"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Rank<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<td colspan="2" nowrap="" style="height: 12.75pt; padding: .75pt .75pt 0cm .75pt; width: 43.0pt;" valign="bottom" width="57"><div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Bike<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>Rank<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>T2<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>Rank<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>Run<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>Rank<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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00:25:50<o:p></o:p></div>
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565<o:p></o:p></div>
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00:04:41<o:p></o:p></div>
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1331<o:p></o:p></div>
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01:05:54<o:p></o:p></div>
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619<o:p></o:p></div>
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00:02:27<o:p></o:p></div>
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532<o:p></o:p></div>
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00:45:48<o:p></o:p></div>
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475<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> The week leading up to the
big day was uneventful but peppered with bouts of nerves and the sudden
emergence of a big deadline at work did little to help my focus and my sleep. I
trained for the final time on Thursday with 39 minutes in the pool. Friday was
a rest day culminating with a wrestling match; Olly Davy versus humungous
steak. I won. And to celebrate my victory I laid waste to half a tin of homemade
flapjacks. In hindsight perhaps this night before the night before gluttony was
a good idea but at the time it felt like pure over indulgence. I struggled to
rest well on Friday night as the possible scenarios for race day ran through my
head. Getting a puncture was number one on the ‘genuinely could happen’ list.
Being dragged to a watery grave by a hideous dock-dwelling mutant spider crab
was firmly at the top of the ‘entirely ridiculous but still keeping me awake’
table. I managed to expend most of the 17,000 cow and oat calories consumed
with a furious room tidying session and Mozart did his best to soothe my nerves
as the sounds of drunken debauchery wafted up to my window from the streets of
Dalston.</div>
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On Saturday morning I was up
and at ‘em nice and early, surfing away on a caffeinated wave of black gold for
an hour and a half of yoga. The benefits of this ancient art form are well
understood in the athletic community but personally, it just makes me feel good
and gives the body a dam good stretch. Although, the diuretic properties of the
magic bean do result in me having to pick my way through the tightly packed
yoga mats to get to the toilet at least three times during the first rounds of
chakra realignments. <o:p></o:p></div>
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By pure chance my triathlon
weekend happened to coincide with my uncle visiting from Boston and as he is a
keen runner himself and also married to a sports scientist, a family lunch
revealed more intriguing details of the world of endurance sports and the
mentalists who populate it. The excitement these discussions generated was
tempered by the discovery that I had a puncture in one of my tyres. £50 of
brand new Continental Grand Prix 4000S rubber and I had a puncture. This was a
cruel twist and did little to calm my jangling nerves. However, it did give me
the chance to demonstrate my latest piece of exciting kit; CO2 tyre inflators.
One cartridge of compressed gas will pump up a road bike tyre to 120 psi in
about 5 seconds, leaving everything it touches freezing cold in the process.
Cool, in both senses. I fixed the flat and prayed it was an unlucky fluke.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Popping into Evans Cycles on
my way home to buy a new inner tube I noticed that they charge £13.95 to repair
a puncture, labour only. Fixing a puncture is five minutes work, which means their
grease monkeys are on an hourly rate of £167! Extortionate, but then perhaps
those who visit a bike shop to have a puncture repaired deserve to be fiscally
punished for their ineptitude. We live in an increasingly throw away culture;
if it’s broken, chuck it and buy a new one. If it can be fixed, get someone
else to do it; there is no need to learn. I thought approvingly of my old
chemistry teacher Dr Schidlow and his ‘keep it going for ever’ philosophy
demonstrated in Tuesday afternoon car mechanic sessions, which were filled with
tips on how to plug holes in the roof with chewing gum and replacing worn
accelerator pedals with blocks of wood. A wonderful relic of a bygone era. You
can’t do that with an iPad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On Saturday evening I cooked
myself a large mound of seafood pasta, which I ate suitably early to give
myself time to digest before hitting the sack. “Seafood?” My sister had
questioned my choice. “Bit dodgy isn’t it?” I had visions of losing my
bodyweight in bottom water and pulling out of the triathlon due to infected
marine life but I stuck to my guns and enjoyed a delicious supper. Another
restless night followed although I knew that the next day it would hardly
matter. What was important was the three months of training 7 times a week that
had come before.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I woke early to a sleeping
flat. My housemates had enjoyed their Friday evening after a busy week at work
and so I tiptoed around the place, feeding myself porridge and packing a bag
with gear. I initially opted for my courier cycle bag and then upgraded to the
huge North Face travel hold all for the luxury of not having to force everything in that the extra space afforded.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Here is list of the kit I
took with me:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cycle helmet, cycling gloves,
sunglasses, 5 energy gels, 3 flapjacks, oatcakes, hummus, running trainers,
cycling shoes, wetsuit, tri-suit, tape for attaching gels to bike, race number,
swimming cap, tyre levers, inner tubes, puncture repair kit, C02 dispenser,
bike, drink bottle, dissolvable isotonic drink tablets, talcum powder, triathlon
watch, bright pink towel to aid the spotting of my stuff during transition,
warm clothes for after the race and finally the event information booklet for
some nervous reading material. As if something new would come to light on the
47<sup>th</sup> perusal. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My designated driver arrived
on my doorstep in a cloud of weed smoke and UK hip-hop. “Great” I thought,
“This is just what I need. The exact opposite of a performance enhancing drug”.
But the benefits of driving down to the triathlon with supportive friends far
outweighed the chances of failing a random drugs test and so I arrived at the
cavernous temple of mass participation events that is the Excel Centre. The
weather was abysmal, in stark contrast to the sunshine of the day before, and
suddenly feeling very lonely, I waved goodbye to my mates who were to join
later for the finish and wheeled my bike out of the drizzle and into the
spacious halls of the venue. Hundreds of participants filled the space. Whether
they had completed their event or were still due to take part was obvious: the
happy finishers wore a beetroot hue and were attacking plates of fried meat
while the later waves were stocking up on water and looking pale.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was early. Very early. So
early, in fact, I could have registered for the London Triathlon 2011 but
decided to stick with the plan and collected my timing chip for that day’s
race. Earlier in the week I had panicked at the thought of the technology
failing and me not getting an official time. I have deliberately not mentioned
a target time to many people in case I should fall short but I knew what I was
aiming for and how important it was to me to know how I’d done. So, as a back
up, I bought myself a waterproof timing device:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">“After a
quick paddle down everyone’s favourite internet river to find a<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="il"><span style="background: #FFFFCC;">watch</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I am
the proud owner of an Ironman Triathlon. Those two words just exude
testosterone. I can practically see it leaking from my computer’s screen. At
any moment I expect a fist to fly out of the monitor and box me on the nose
before a low, gravely voice demands that I “go grab a beer”. In reality it
looks like a plastic toy from one of those grab-a-piece-of-cheap-crap machines
that children like. But it tells the time and has a stopwatch. It is also the
first entry on the list when you search for “triathlon<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="il"><span style="background: #FFFFCC;">watch</span></span>” and it gets many favourable reviews. However,
this is a device that came on the market in 2006. In fact, when I got mine out
of the box the friendly illuminated screen told me it was 2005. 2005! Nobody
remembers what they were doing in 2005. The last man who did died last year.
There was a ceremony. Have there been no advances in the world of triathlon<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="il"><span style="background: #FFFFCC;">watches</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>for
6 years? I may as well do the race with a sundial nailed to my face and have
the plague-afflicted peasants farming turnips at the side of the track shout
out the (approximate) time as I pass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">“It’s
quarter of the hour of noon, me Lord”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;">“Silence! Back to
your vegetables!” "<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;">The vast space
inside the Excel centre looked much barer than when I last visited for Olympic
boxing and wrestling events. The ‘World’s Largest Triathlon Expo’ was an
unexciting collection of trainer and bike stands. Handy if you have come to the
triathlon but forgotten your bike, I guess. “I knew there was something!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The rest of the area was given over to the transition
zone. The elite athletes enjoyed an uncluttered zone directly adjacent to the
swim exit while the rest of us normals were spread out as far as the eye could
see. I navigated to the correct aisle in the rows of bike racking and chose a
suitable spot. I was clueless as to what criteria defines a good place in the
transition zone and I’m not sure it makes much difference so I opted for
somewhere the ground was dry and there weren’t too many banana skins. To my
left the place seemed deserted, with many earlier waves of participants already
finished and in the pub, to my right plenty of other keenos were sorting their
gear and arranging it on garish towels.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;">I had spare minutes
to wander around the space and familiarise myself with the surroundings before
it was time to squeeze into the neoprene, so I made a mental note of where I
would exit the water and which route to take to get to my bike. The last thing
I wanted was a mid-race ‘lost in the airport car park’ moment so I walked the
course I would take after the swim and after the cycle to calm my nerves. </span>Satisfied that I wasn’t going to find myself pulling
off my wetsuit in the supermarket down the road shouting at the shopkeeper
“Where’s my bloody bike?” I decided to brave the inclement weather to set my
eyes on the first enemy of the day, Victoria Dock. <o:p></o:p></div>
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How deeply unpleasant it
looked there, choppy water under a leaden sky, a brisk breeze driving the rain
into my face. In a former life I would have been enjoying a late breakfast at
this time on a Sunday and contemplating whether the pub is really the only safe
cure for a hangover. A mass of bodies floated together in-between two large
inflatable buoys, identified as triathletes and not the victims of some hideous
ferry disaster only by their violently coloured Virgin Active swimming caps.
Race marshals in kayaks held the poor fools in position like waterborne
sheepdogs before gliding swiftly aside once the claxon sounded and a demented
churning of the murky water began. Hampstead Ponds was the closest I had come
to open water swimming during my training and although that did involve bravely
running the gauntlet of over-friendly gentlemen, I had little concern that Davy
Jones was eager to welcome me to his briny sepulchre. This dock was another
matter entirely. On the other side of the water a rusting German cargo ship
hulked high out of the water, unladen, full of mystery and romance as big ships
always are. Presumably crewed by legions of the undead, this would be my
transport to the afterlife. On the shore a huge crumbling warehouse stared
forlornly at me from the gaping holes in its disintegrating brickwork. Gone are
the glory days of the 19<sup>th</sup> Century when 850,000 tons of shipping
would have passed through these waters and the warehouses’ rooms would have
been stacked with goods from across the globe. Now the storage spaces are empty
and the few relics of the golden age that survive have only weirdoes in Lycra
to keep them entertained. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Before leaving my house
earlier in the day I foolishly read an account of last year’s London Triathlon
written by a regular participant. He described receiving a powerful kick in the
face that jammed his goggles into his eyes and gave him a nosebleed.
Marvellous. The anticipation of a size eleven in the boat race combined with
the sight of the industrial waste pool in front of me sufficed to raise my
heart rate and so I scurried back inside to eat some hummus and oatcakes. My
pre-race food consumption was based on a carefully planned ‘no clue whatsoever’
strategy, other than the knowledge that eating a huge lunch 10 minutes before
the race would be a bad idea. So, I’d fuelled up with my usual porridge
mountain before leaving the house and devoured some flapjacks and oatcakes with
hummus dip about an hour before the race. One of my biggest fears was needing
to make toilet at some point in the race, and not subtle toilet you understand,
but the kind that would bring the eyes of the world to bare on my plight and
cover me in shame, and toilet, for the rest of my days. I was confident that my<span style="font-family: inherit;">
trusty </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">сafetièr</span></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">e</span> of Colombian taken early and the subsequent trips to the water
closet would prevent this, but we all remember what happened to Paula
Radcliffe, and that thought stayed with me.</div>
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Zero hour was approaching
fast as I re-arranged my running trainers and cycling shoes on the bright pink
towel for the umpteenth time and tried to visualise the challenge ahead.
Striking up conversation with other participants preparing around me the chat
followed a similar pattern each time:<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Done one of these before?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Done much training?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Aiming for a particular
time?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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There were no great
revelations or horrible surprises as there could have been, like when chatting
before an exam and someone mentions memorising an entire book that you’ve never
even heard of. I felt ready, fit and motivated. <o:p></o:p></div>
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With half an hour to go I
suddenly felt a wave of sadness wash over me. I remembered exactly why I was
standing in the Excel Centre with 84 training sessions behind me waiting to take
part in the London Triathlon; because Mum was dead. I thought how excited she
would be to see me take part in this event and how much I would love for her to
have been there. I could picture all five foot two inches of her bouncing up
and down and wooping with delight as I crossed the line, and I knew that I
would have to keep that image in my mind because that is the only place it
would be. There have been many benefits in sticking to a rigorous training
regime and the blog that has accompanied my journey has been an invaluable tool
for sharing the experience and helping people to understand powerful emotions
that it is not always desirable to discuss in company. Mum valued her privacy
and she was careful with who she shared the fact that she was ill. She didn’t
want people to label her or treat her differently because she had cancer. She
didn’t want people to gossip. That attitude of coping quietly and relying only
on those closest to you certainly rubbed off on me and for months only a very
few people knew that Mum had cancer. It felt like a very personal situation,
one that others were unable to help with, and that spreading the news too
widely would sap my energy as a larger group of people enquired about how Mum
was responding to treatment and how we were managing as a family. Now that
stage is passed and I want people to understand what has been happening. I hope
that through my words there is a glimpse of Mum and our love for her and the
qualities that she engendered in my sister and I. It is all for Mum. The
response has been fantastic as supporters of my triathlon challenge reciprocate
with an openness of their own. I have learnt fascinating things about people.
People have been moved to share their life experiences, perhaps stirred by the
mention of a particular place that jogged a memory, and I have found this
method of communicating incredibly rewarding. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was time to don the second
skin and prepare to head over to the swim muster area. I put my headphones in,
filling my skull with the sweet 90s boom bap sound of ‘Life After Death’ by
Notorious BIG. As the irresistible bass line and crisp snare of Nasty Boy
kicked in under Christopher Wallace’s powerfully smooth braggadocio stylings, I
blocked out the dull roar of hundreds of chattering Lycra louts and entered
‘the zone’. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FWHZsvESq50/UGtf9jzcK1I/AAAAAAAAACg/rdM_bb2RvUg/s1600/DSCF1925_zps13751d82.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FWHZsvESq50/UGtf9jzcK1I/AAAAAAAAACg/rdM_bb2RvUg/s400/DSCF1925_zps13751d82.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A man in pink shorts explains how we should all refresh ourselves from the giant bottle of Gatorade</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Penned into a holding area
near the huge shutter doors that led out to the dock, I felt less human and
more bovine. ‘Perhaps all cows about to be slaughtered think they are going to
take part in a triathlon’ I imagined, feasibly. I stood among men of all shapes
and sizes and stared at a black wall of wetsuit-clad backs. The 2XU T:2 Team
did indeed seem to be a very popular model as there were many on display. The
shop assistant in Sigma Sport must have made a huge commission this summer. As
I made appropriately professional looking arm rotations to warm up and tried to
shed some of my nervous energy by bouncing up and down, I heard a shout from my
left “Olly!” It was my sister, Anoushka. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be there
until the end of the race but there she was with my uncle Martin and a big hug
followed. After a rousing chorus of “Oogie, oogie, oogie. Oi! Oi! Oi!” and an
instruction to hug a stranger next to you (I eschewed the hand offered to shake
and went it for the full man hug, always satisfying if executed correctly) I
found myself slipping off the floating plastic pier and into the inky waters. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The waters of the dock had
looked formidable when viewed from above but at duck level they were downright
unpleasant. My wetsuit quickly filled with the chilly liquid and I bobbed
around, unsure of my place in the universe. The wave before mine set off and
the kayak-mounted officials herded us forward. As we moved towards the start
line one man turned to me, and over the churning of grey water asked, “Have we
started yet?” To which the answer was no. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-649uorDxlOw/UGtgC5mwAII/AAAAAAAAACo/TbzF4b9JXoE/s1600/DSCF1931_zpsa5ac680c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-649uorDxlOw/UGtgC5mwAII/AAAAAAAAACo/TbzF4b9JXoE/s400/DSCF1931_zpsa5ac680c.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The start of the swim</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Soon enough I found myself
treading water and waiting for the sound of the off at the London Triathlon
2012. Holding my Ironman Triathlon watch clear of the water I pressed START as
soon as I heard the signal and began to swim for my life. It was impossible to
see the massive inflatable buoy that marked the turning point of the course so
I kept myself on track by checking for the smaller fluorescent buoys that lined
the inside of the circuit. There was little chance of going badly wrong, when
hundreds of other flailing bodies were all progressing in the same direction.
As I dodged flying legs and wheeling arms it became clear that I had underestimated my swimming ability.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Taking the training seriously
had paid off and I was constantly overtaking people. This pleased and also
infuriated me as I realised I should have positioned myself further ahead in
the group. It was a battle for open water to swim a race free of interference
and unwanted intimacy with other competitors. Struggling to avoid thrashing
bodies I went wide to carve my own line towards the first turning point,
swallowing water as the strong breeze chopped up the water into a salty diesel
soup. “That can’t be good for you” I retched to myself, not having a nice time.
At the halfway point I had no choice but to cut into the maelstrom. Bouts of
breaststroke were unavoidable as the turn caused mass bunching in the group and
everyone jockeyed for position. A quick check of my watch revealed that ten
minutes had passed as I turned. I knew there was no way that I could be
halfway, as a 20 minute 1,500m is beyond my reach but I ploughed on, morale
boosted by the surprisingly low time. And now the pack was considerably more
spread and I even began to pass some desperate characters from earlier waves.
Every man for themselves, and if you haven’t prepared for this, then get out of
the way! The feeling of urgency that takes hold of body and mind in a race
environment is fascinating. It is far from a matter of life and death but every
fibre of my being was compelled to surge forward as if there was no tomorrow
without success. I felt a force built of expectation from all the people who
had sponsored me pushing me on relentlessly.<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JSQ9voMED78/UGtgHaTZztI/AAAAAAAAACw/_yEIqlfXtSw/s1600/DSCF1934_zps1545beb2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JSQ9voMED78/UGtgHaTZztI/AAAAAAAAACw/_yEIqlfXtSw/s400/DSCF1934_zps1545beb2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The sad surrounds of Victoria Dock</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
second half of the swim was easier as I found some open water in which to
perform a comfortable stroke. As I passed along the opposite side to the buoys
that marked the swim entry point I wondered when the end of the water leg would
come. There was one more filth gulping turn before I raised my head and
glimpsed the exit ramp where heroic Virgin angels were waiting with a helping
hand to pluck me like a baby seal, dripping from the mire. </span><br />
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Staggering free from the grip
of Old Father cesspool, I hurtled confused into an alleyway of cheering. I
battled my wetsuit off my body and attempted to pluck the swimming cap directly
from my head. Have you ever tried this? It’s like you are being sucked up into
a vacuum cleaner by the brain. I noticed the fundamental flaw in my disrobing
technique and rolled the offending article over my ears instead. Shoving my
swimming gear into a bag and gulping a cup of the proffered Gatorade I was up
the steps and into the transition area.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Socks on, cycling shoes on,
both nicely coated in talcum powder pre-race to aid the process. Helmet on,
cycling gloves on, and I was off, jogging with my bike towards the exit and 2,
20km laps of the London roads especially closed for the event. Outside in the
drizzle, race marshals issued shouted warnings about the slippery surface and I
made my way gingerly down the exit ramp in the middle of a thin line of
cyclists. Once out and onto the flat I was flying. My handlebar-mounted
speedometer told me I was doing 27mph. 27mph! This was much faster than my
cruising speed during training and I thanked the gods for race day adrenaline
and recalibrated my estimated finishing time for a Brownlee brothers busting
world record. And then I made the first turn at Tower Bridge.<br />
<br />
Heading back
towards the Excel Centre, the tail wind that had driven me forward like an
invisible gaseous ally was now my foe. My speed dropped considerably as I
tucked into the soggy tarmac, the clips on my cycling shoes allowing me to pull
on the upstroke as well as push on the down. The cycling speed combined with
the wind and rain made for unpleasant conditions. I was working hard but still
felt cold in my flimsy tri-suit and there were no cheering crowds on the
miserable looking streets of Wapping. Who wants to stand in the wet and watch a
motley crew of lunatics career about when you could be in bed resisting
consciousness? An empty beer rolled across the road in front of me and I
swerved to avoid it.<br />
<br />
Again and again I remembered what all the training had
been for as I steadily overtook other riders. Several times I passed gentlemen
aboard multi-thousand pound triathlon specific bikes, struggling in the
unsavoury environment. It was difficult to resist feeling a little smug as I
cruised forward onboard my 5 year-old steed. Chucking money at the situation
does not make you fitter. The old adage “all the gear, no idea” sprang easily
to mind. It’s like putting a granny in an F1 car, or a child on the flight deck
of the Space Shuttle. The equipment is only as good as the person in charge and
it is impossible for a mere mortal to realise the full potential of a machine
designed for elite athletes. But humans have an inbuilt magpie gene and we like
shiny things, which is why it is not uncommon to see a 20 stone man on a £3,000
bike. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ploughing on I thought of all
the mornings spent spinning around Regent’s Park and the evenings passed
puffing my way up Swain’s Lane. All the social engagements for which I had made
my excuses and all the beer I had not drunk. All of the discipline, focus and
abstinence of the past three months was condensed and concentrated inside me
for this one day. And the guiding hand behind the whole endeavour was the
thought of mum and her happy face shouting, “Go on Olly!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At regular intervals I saw
poor buggers at the side of the road fixing punctures and I prayed I wouldn’t
get unlucky. With teeth chattering, adrenaline surging and numb hands fumbling,
it would undoubtedly take longer than usual to change a flat, resulting in an
outburst of rage and a grotesque mess of weeping man and mangled machine. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I kept on rolling, racking up
the kilometres, through the deserted streets of Wapping and Shadwell before
swooping down into Limehouse Link tunnel at 35mph. Instinctively I let out a
massive cheer as I sped down into the dry gloom of the underpass. What a
privilege to have the roads to ourselves. Forgetting all the stern talk of
discipline for a moment I remembered to enjoy myself. This was fun! I just wished
that cycling in London was always this easy. No cars to impede the flow and top
speed possible on every stretch. The short minutes spent inside the tunnel were
a delightful respite from the wind and the rain, and then I emerged into the
elements and onwards towards the second turn at the world’s famous Docklands
Light Railway station, Gallions Reach. They must have built this station
specifically for the triathlon because I have certainly never heard of it and I
doubt any galleons have ever reached there.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my blinkered zone on the
closing stretch of the first lap spinning alongside the Excel Centre, I somehow
missed the 50 massive signs indicating that riders should stay left if they
were finishing the cycle leg and keep right if they had another lap to do, and
so I found myself leaving the main road and cycling towards the centre’s
entrance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“INCORRECT!” my brain
screamed at me as I realised the error. “This is entirely incorrect. What are
you doing, man?!” The pilot at the helm of my brain box frantically pulled
levers and mashed buttons, feverishly attempting to get me back on course. He
managed to issue a command to the voice department and a panicked gurgle
struggled from my throat; “I’ve got another lap to do”, I squealed, my face
contorted like Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’, “Which way is it?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The obvious answer was; the
only other way it was possible to go but my mind was not working logically
during this instance of high drama. I swiftly corrected my course, did an about
face, and almost rode directly into the path of Bradley Wiggin’s less famous
brother, hurtling towards me at a very good clip.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhat rattled I continued on the final lap which thankfully
passed without incident although I did notice a man being loaded into an
ambulance which then overtook me with much horn-beeping and wailing of sirens.
Fat men in high visibility jackets riding motorbikes were dotted about the
place. Often I saw them standing at the side of the road assisting hapless
contenders with a bike issue. A large bloke swathed in leathers using a tiny
hand pump to inflate a bicycle tyre is an amusing sight. I imagined that he was
the cyclist and had experienced a serious attack of overkill when choosing his
gear for the triathlon. “No messing about now, motorbike leathers and a visored
helmet. It’s got to be.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On finishing the bike leg,
the speedometer on my handlebars had given up and was no longer feeding me
information, but my trusty Ironman Triathlon was still going strong and it told
me that I had completed the swim and the cycle in just shy of 1 hour and 40
minutes. This was way ahead of my expectations. The mental cogs whirred and I
realised that if I managed the run in under 50 minutes I could achieve a total
time of two and a half hours, or less! Encouraged by my rapid progress I
whizzed through the transition area; bike back on the rack, helmet off, cycling
shoes off, my hands were too cold to bother taking my gloves off, running shoes
on, race number belt spun from the back to the front and I was gone towards the
exit for four 2.5km laps. Crowds lined the course and I hoped for a glimpse, or
a sound, of the friends and family who had come to cheer me on. And there they
were, lining the route as it first exits the Excel Centre and passes alongside
the dock. Seeing people you know does wonders for the speed and form. As if
pulled by invisible wires my head lifted up, I stuck my chest out, and my
stride became longer and more purposeful. My whole demeanour screamed; “What a
lovely warm up this is. Once this little stroll is over I’ll strap an anvil to
my back and jog to Norway”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Safely out of side around the
corner, I resumed my tongue-lolling, sideways stagger, emitting a low, pitiful
groan as I went. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I picked my way through the
mass of runners strung out along every meter of the course. Some, especially
those with very large bottoms or bellies, looked like they had started running,
and I use the term loosely, the week before and would be there until the London
Triathlon 2013. Others, wearing triathlon suits sporting names like Mitcham
Missiles Tri Club, were more impressive as they elbowed the feeble aside,
crushing both dreams and bones on their way to the 2 hour glory mark. And then
I saw myself in the crowd. I thought Gatorade was simply a sugary sports drink
and was unaware of its hallucinogenic properties, so this development was
surprising. I rubbed my eyes but the vision did not fade. Three of me staring
back, with a fixed smile, in black and white! Friends from work who had the
wonderful idea of creating masks from my face to terrify me and make me go
faster but sensibly decided that printing in colour would have been a gross
extravagance. More high-fives, and on I ran. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
On the final lap I knew that,
barring a dramatic ankle snap, I was on course for a decent time. The benefit
of a training programme that had peaked with sessions much longer in duration
than those on race day was that I felt comfortable and so picked up the pace
for the final 2.5km. My family and friends were no longer visible on course and
I knew they must have moved inside to position themselves near the finish line.
I left the elements behind for the final time and entered the light and noise
of the Excel Centre. The final 200m meters followed a switch back path designed
to allow as many people as possible to watch the closing stages but also
presented a hazardous hairpin turn on the damp, shiny floor. 50m to go and
Chariots of Fire was playing in my head. 40m, 30m, 20m, 10m, and over the line!<br />
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<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GOxrb4LWJtA/UGtgP4WT2LI/AAAAAAAAAC4/eGSvLZN-v7I/s1600/DSCF1940_zps01e6be7a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GOxrb4LWJtA/UGtgP4WT2LI/AAAAAAAAAC4/eGSvLZN-v7I/s400/DSCF1940_zps01e6be7a.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A slave anoints my battle wounds</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Bright lights blazed in my face, a medal was hung around my neck and I
remembered to press stop on my watch. Sir Richard Branson, in his infinite
benevolence, had even deigned to provide each participant with a
dishcloth-sized towel. Presumably to blow one’s nose. Beaming with happiness,
and steaming with exertion, I gathered with those who had so gamely braved the
elements to support me. I felt like the sportsman fresh of the field of play who
has a microphone thrust under his nose and is expected to offer up pithy
reflections on the contest that has finished only moments before. Photos were
taken and I shared my sweat with everyone. Somebody handed me a banana and I
bounced from foot to foot with an excited energy. What a day! Before the
adrenaline wore off and hypothermia kicked in, I made my way back to the
transition area to get changed. My sister caught up with me and we shared a
moment looking at a picture she had brought of the two of us with Mum, the
entire reason we were standing in the Excel Centre on a rainy Sunday in
September. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z3-fdx4xa1c/UGtgYslgdDI/AAAAAAAAADA/i1eI2Wh4gLQ/s1600/DSCF1943_zps12d63e8c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z3-fdx4xa1c/UGtgYslgdDI/AAAAAAAAADA/i1eI2Wh4gLQ/s400/DSCF1943_zps12d63e8c.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My sister and I, and the amazing banner</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-95SOYQlcgz4/UGtgjDKq1CI/AAAAAAAAADI/yJbIUvdDYH8/s1600/DSCF1948_zpsa9f440be.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-95SOYQlcgz4/UGtgjDKq1CI/AAAAAAAAADI/yJbIUvdDYH8/s320/DSCF1948_zpsa9f440be.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Wonderful moments of pure self-indulgence</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zJtKPbyeJzQ/UGtgsz-RwlI/AAAAAAAAADY/TJhPswfksto/s1600/DSCF1953_zps379232f2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zJtKPbyeJzQ/UGtgsz-RwlI/AAAAAAAAADY/TJhPswfksto/s320/DSCF1953_zps379232f2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dry and changed, soothing my bike's post-race aches</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CFLOVVtp9MY/UGtgz3BMTKI/AAAAAAAAADg/50IrhQQswgU/s1600/DSCF1945_zps022b3cd8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CFLOVVtp9MY/UGtgz3BMTKI/AAAAAAAAADg/50IrhQQswgU/s320/DSCF1945_zps022b3cd8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I explain to my uncle Martin how I caught the bus for half of the bike leg </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q7oL_zaoh0U/UGtfgWdMnBI/AAAAAAAAACY/dtgekB9lPfs/s1600/308200_10151152628964654_385271562_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q7oL_zaoh0U/UGtfgWdMnBI/AAAAAAAAACY/dtgekB9lPfs/s400/308200_10151152628964654_385271562_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Seeing triple: the dangers of post-race excess</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Celebrating in a cosy East
London pub that evening, I embraced lager with the enthusiasm of a victorious
rugby team. It seemed pints were only two thirds drunk before another arrived,
with tequila alongside for good measure. I laid waste to a roast dinner and
revelled in the moment. And then I woke up. Fully clothed on my bed at half 5
on Monday morning, with the lights blazing and the inside of my mouth feeling
like a sandpit. Alcohol, welcome back.<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you everyone. It has
been quite a journey. If you came on the day, or have sponsored me or read my
blog, thank you. It has been a truly remarkable experience and I don’t know how
I would have coped if I had not decided to take on the triathlon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
In the week and a half that
has passed since the big day I have been slowly emerging from my monastic
training cave. Last weekend’s highlight was a party at Mum’s house which we held
as a send off as it will be sold soon. In an effort to keep our kitchen hours
to a minimum Nush and I asked everyone to bring a dish. <span style="font-family: inherit;">There were about 25
people and everyone came with a salad or a cake or some other sweet or savoury
delight. There was a lot of food. In fact, I have just eaten the last portion
of chilli con carne this evening and I feel I have topped up my reserves of
minced cow for a good while.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have also been experiencing
the inevitable post event comedown, and there is a hole in my life where the
triathlon was. The excitement has worn off and people are no longer asking me
about it in the hallway at work. The thought of becoming a normal person again,
without one driving goal and focus, scares me somewhat. Maybe I won’t go back.
Maybe I will remain a Lycra-clad, stay at home, training obsessive. I can build
a collection of triathlon medals and talk to them instead of the friends I used
to have. Two things I have learned from this experience; physical exercise can
help you through the toughest times. And if you put the effort in you will reap
the rewards. It is impossible to go cold turkey after training so hard and I
enjoy exercise too much to just give up so I continue to run often. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I bought my wetsuit back
in August, the man in Sigma Sport told me that triathlons are addictive. As I
write this my internet browser is open on Runners World, search term –
triathlon 2013. So the question is, what’s next?</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dedicated to the memory of my
amazing mum, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lesley Davy. 19 May 1953 – 26 June 2012</span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
£2,273 raised so far for Cancer Research UK. My donation page is still open if anybody wants to make a contribution to this fantastic cause. <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/ollydavy">http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/ollydavy</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 12px;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yxbwnIJucNI/UGtlbUev08I/AAAAAAAAADw/eN95ijeYxGo/s1600/me+mum+nush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yxbwnIJucNI/UGtlbUev08I/AAAAAAAAADw/eN95ijeYxGo/s640/me+mum+nush.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
Ollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998474455470153055noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4856436565779895838.post-45116229072901153512012-09-15T15:50:00.000-07:002012-09-16T01:48:59.363-07:006 days to go...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/ollydavy" target="_blank">£2,063 raised so far for Cancer Research; click here to go to my fundraising page</a><br />
<br />
We have smashed the £2,000 mark! Thank you all for helping me to reach this fantastic milestone. It
seemed unlikely a month or two ago but we have cruised past the post with a
week to spare.<br />
<br />
<h1>
<o:p></o:p></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Dear Lesley Davy</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm delighted to tell you that Oliver Davy has renewed
your Tate membership…"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have yet to navigate the block capitals, black ink maze of Royal Mail procedures and re-direct Mum’s post from her house to mine,
so regular trips to collect letters are a necessity. It’s not a task I mind too
much as it gives me a chance to be in her house and to reflect. I feel I must make the most of these opportunities
as the house is on the market and won’t stick around for long. So, it was after
one of these visits that I sat, confused, with a letter from the Tate in my
hands, shiny new membership card attached. And then, with a smile, I
remember the birthday present from last year. It must be on a rolling renewal,
I realise. The cheeky sods. Nothing for it but to get the name changed and
enjoy the benefits on Mum’s behalf.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Friday night ride</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I procrastinated about buying a new bike and now it is too
late. It turns out that triathlons are an expensive pursuit with various pieces
of specialist equipment required but the main cost is the quantity of food I
have been buying. With vast amounts of fresh fruit and vegetables being
consumed daily, along with eggs, sweet potatoes, chicken, porridge and coffee,
I have been spending between about £80 per week on food just for myself. That
does not take into consideration the frequent mornings when I leave the house
without eating, head straight for a session in the pool, and then enjoy bacon, scrambled
eggs, and a mound of beans (no toast) in the canteen at work. Eating at work is
not expensive (£2.50 for that little lot) but it all adds up. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, my bank balance is thanking me that I never made the
time to do the research and test riding necessary to find a shiny new steed.
Bikes are wonderful things; an engineering marvel and often beautiful to look at.
The genius lies in the simplicity of design and their persistent popularity
over the years proves the value of their function and the joy that they bring.
From the pure, unalloyed pleasure of a child ‘going solo’ without stabilisers
for the first time with a proud and nervous parent watching on. To the cutting
edge technology employed in the finely tuned thoroughbred that Bradley Wiggins
tested to its limits as, teeth gritted, he powered to glory over the two weeks
of one of the toughest endurance tests known to man. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kI2DUopykqw/TrKxYb4qFQI/AAAAAAAAH24/5ng9jqfFNyk/s320/Picture+1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="221" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bicycle messenger; copyright Richard Todd</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have had my bike, a Specialized Allez, since 2007 when I
bought it for about £500 with a bonus from work. This one object has brought me
more enjoyment and been more useful than anything else I have ever owned. This
bike (I have never named it due to a superstition that once you name a bike it
is more likely to get stolen. I can think of at least one example where this
has happened to someone I know) encouraged me to make the transition from
depressed tube commuter, to beaming tarmac chewer; liberated from the confines
of the sweaty, metal, human-transporting box to see the sky once more. To feel
the sun and the rain, to risk one’s life and breathe the polluted air but also
to enjoy the benefits of increased fitness not to mention savings on public
transport. No longer shelling out £100 per month on my Oyster card, it didn’t take long for my
bike to pay for itself. When I left GCap Media, the bike became my livelihood
as I made the daunting leap, or should that be wheelie, into the world of
bicycle couriering. It is difficult to explain exactly <i>what</i> is the appeal of enduring the elements and the perils of
London’s streets day in, day out, earning a pittance in the process but I think
the key to it was a sense of freedom. At first glance this is not immediately
apparent. For starters you are no longer known by your name but by a number; my
call sign was three-zero. And on the busy days the ‘controller’ will be
breathing down your neck if you so much as stop to sniff your sandwiches...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Three-zero, three-zero?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-garbled response through a mouthful of pasta salad-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘THREE-ZERO?!’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An increase in the volume of the controller’s voice was
normally indicative of indignation at a perceived indiscretion from a rider. In
this case, my indiscretion was having lunch. As I attempted to shovel down some
desperately needed calories during a stationary moment between jobs, I was fully
aware that at that very second the controller was reclining on a chaise longue
having a King Size Twix dangled into his mouth by the office junior. This
radio-wielding demon is about to send me from Tower Bridge to Notting Hill to
collect a filing cabinet, booked as a ‘rush job’ to be in Barnet in 20 minutes.
So, I had better eat something first. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cycling up to 80 miles a day everyday was exhausting. In the
first couple of weeks as my fitness improved I would collapse through the door
at half 6, eat a pile of food as big as the manure heap in an elephant
enclosure and be in bed by half 8. But I got used to it and skinny as a rake I
clocked up the miles and earned my keep. I endured many long waits on freezing
winter days, thawing numb fingers while nursing an Americano in Costa with my
radio turned down low waiting for the magic numbers to crackle over the
airwaves. These pauses would be followed by frenzied periods of manic cycling
kamikaze at high speed down one-way streets. Recklessly running red lights and
weaving through crossing pedestrians. I felt outside of the mainstream hum drum of the daily slog with a righteous obligation to break
the rules. The wary stares of security guards and preened receptionists tends to
give one that feeling as on entering a polished office block, literally
steaming from exertion with oil covered hands and snot strewn chin, you are
told for the fourth time that day to ‘go around the back’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a grinding, relentless effort to the job. But there
were also moments of pure joy, free of meetings, computers and to do lists.
Flying over Waterloo Bridge at sunset, remembering what a beautiful city London
is, and catching a lucky run of green lights and gaps in the wall of buses
along Oxford street, or tearing down Park Lane towards Hyde Park corner, legs
spinning at an impossibly high cadence with a manic grin fixed to my face. Or
plunging into the depths of Kingsway underpass at 30 miles an hour, the roar of
trucks behind echoing and ominous in the confined space; don’t slip at the
corner, Olly. Before emerging into the light, shifting the weight of parcels on my
back and powering up the slope and on towards Marylebone Road. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I went to work in Africa and my bike was stored
under a sheet in mum’s shed for nearly two years. Occasionally I would ask
after my bike in an email to mum as if feeling scorned by the lack of use,
trapped and unloved at the bottom of the garden, it might have inflated its
tyres and escaped in the dead of night to roam the streets as a stray,
beholden to no one, surviving on scraps of chain flung from the back door of
bike shops and lapping at pools of oil in the road. But it was still there when
I got back. And now we are a week away from tackling the London Triathlon
together. It has been quite a journey.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since I bought the bike I have gone through 4 bottom brackets, 3
headsets, 6 wheels, 5 chains, 4 cassettes, 8 chain rings, and handfuls of brake
pads. In order to add to this list I took it for a once-over at Push Cycles on
Newington Green (highly recommended for friendly service and quick turnaround)
this week and, resplendent with bright yellow bar tape, it feels like a new
(ish) bike. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On Friday evening I politely declined offers to attend
payday-drinking sessions and cycled home to undergo my transformation into a
Lycra lout. It is unfortunate that the male appendage is quite so visible in
skin-tight sportswear but the benefits of the heavy padding in the seat of my cycling
shorts cannot be overestimated as the combination of the aluminium bike frame,
tyres inflated to 120 psi and potholed London roads take their toll on my
delicate money maker. I weaved my way through the tail end of rush hour traffic
along Holloway Road, through Archway and up into Highgate Village before
completing 5 repetitions of Swain’s Lane. It is not a long hill but it is suitably
steep and a good section of relatively quiet road, passing the famous Highgate
Cemetery (the final resting place of Karl Marx) on which to build strength in
one’s legs. As the light began to fade I sped down through Kentish Town and
Camden to put in some laps around the Outer Ring of Regent’s Park. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I rode into the park off Camden Parkway behind a serious
looking cyclist on a decent bike but I soon overtook him as he adjusted the
courier style bag on his back. As I settled into a steady rhythm at 22 miles
per hour, he sped past me and fell in just off my front wheel. He then began to
have a conversation with me using only his hands. I am not overly familiar with
the etiquette and signals of group cycling and I felt like a weary traveller being
denied permission to enter his destination by a furious official shouting in a
tongue he doesn’t understand; confused and frustrated. And then a pattern began
to emerge and I could see that he was indicating when he planned to move out to
avoid another cyclist or a parked car or if he was warning me when the traffic
lights ahead were red. How enthusiastically polite of him, I thought. I can see
the merits of this sign language when cycling in a large group, racing through
the streets, but it is wholly unnecessary when there are two of you going
around a quiet park with hardly anyone in sight. I overtook him at the lights
and as I indicated to turn left just north of where the Outer Ring joins
Marylebone Road I heard ‘Yep!’ from behind me. I hadn’t asked a question, I
required no answer and so I was baffled. I enjoy my training as a solitary
pursuit, alone with my thoughts and the road, and this unnecessary
communication was disrupting my flow. And then followed the most blatantly
loaded line I have heard in all of my gay adventures in triathlon training:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I can pull you if you like. I’m only doing one.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Ww..what?!’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I can pull you if you like.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Half expecting the man to get off his bike and head for the
nearest bush, gesturing me to follow, it slowly dawned on me what he really
meant. By ‘pull’ he was indicating that I should cycle close to his back wheel
and benefit from the reduced air resistance, which I duly did before he peeled
off grinning with a friendly wave; ‘Have fun!’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Crikey, you do meet some characters.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Trauma release</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">When a group of people undergo a traumatic event, such as a
car crash or bereavement, the body records </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">the incident and stores it as tension,
which can later affect our physical and mental health. A man named David
Berceli noticed that when a group of adults and children experience the same
stressful episode, afterwards the children shake physically but the adults do not. It was this observation that led him to develop his revolutionary
theory and techniques to allow traumatised people to release their anxiety and
regain equilibrium and strength in their lives. Guided by a skilled
practitioner I underwent the trauma release process recently and it is one of
the most remarkable things I have ever experienced. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It began with me standing
barefoot on carpet in my councillor’s living room before completing a series of
simple physical exercises on his instruction, such as touching the floor with
the hands or standing on one leg. Nothing strenuous but simply designed
to prepare the body for the end result. I then lay on the floor on my back,
feet touching, knees bent and held slightly apart. I lay this way,
concentrating on deep and steady breathing, feeling self-conscious and
unconvinced that anything was going to happen, for about 5 minutes. I began to
notice a slight tremor in my legs but dismissed it thinking I was creating the
sensation myself. I was embarrassed at my inability to develop the expected
reaction and I blamed the large amounts of running and cycling for creating a
stiffness in my legs that was insurmountable by even this unusual process. I
was worried that it was a desire not to disappoint that was causing the quiver
in my knees and nothing else. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Be patient’ he told me, and so I lay there
quietly, breathing in and out and trying not to think about what I was going to
have for dinner. As I debated the relative merits of vegetable curry and smoked
mackerel fish cakes with myself, something unusual happened. A wave of powerful
shaking swept over my legs, rushing up through my body and into my core, before
subsiding into a constant but gentle tremor. ‘There you go’, he said
encouragingly and I was pleased that I was not immune to the powers of trauma
release. The sudden and powerful vibrations rushed in once more and my legs
were visibly shaking as if I was standing naked in sub-zero temperatures or
trying to maintain my footing during an earthquake. Each time the shaking would
subside into a much gentler high frequency resonance, like an electric current
running through my body. This process continued for 15 minutes or half an hour,
I can’t be sure, and then seemed to naturally come to an end with the waves of
vibration becoming less frequent. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I remained lying on my back as instructed,
agreeing that it would be unwise to hurry to standing after such a powerful and
unique experience. And then I was struck with great clarity of thought, a
feeling of joy and an uncontrollable desire to weep all at the same time. The
next day, with the tightness in my legs gone and a new lightness in my mind, I
ran a 42 minute 10km; a personal best. Right now I have no desire to fully
understand what I experienced, although there are books available to unpick the
mystery and it is no witchcraft, but I value it and feel better for it. That is
enough for me. And the effect on my body was clear from the fluidity with which
I ran.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Expressing pain</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I rarely cry in company because I feel uncomfortable sharing
my deepest emotions with others. Perhaps this is a male thing but much of my grief
is expressed alone. That is when I feel able to unburden myself as I no longer need to put a brave face on or maintain the famous British stiff upper
lip. I do cry and I normally feel better afterwards so I don’t believe I am
trying to bottle anything up, but I choose my moments and practice an element
of control over my sadness so that I can continue to function in this bustling
modern world with myriad pressures and commitments. Mum would always say, and
this is a classic truism of the type that all departed loved ones have
attributed to them, ‘If you’re going to do something, then do it properly’.
And that resonates with me now more than ever. It applies to my triathlon
training which I have dedicated myself to with a desire to honour mum’s memory
by achieving my dreams, and it applies to the shedding of tears. So, if I am
going to cry it won’t be a little sniffle on the bus but rather a full-blown,
snot bubbling, 45 minute weep-fest, complete with hand-wringing and shouting
which leaves my eyes so red and puffy it looks like I have been on a 3 week
skunk binge with Cypress Hill. And nobody wants to see that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Nearly there</b></span><u><o:p></o:p></u><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are only 6 days to go now and I feel ready. I will
continue to train next week but only for relatively short periods and I will
spend most of the time thinking about what I should eat on the day and whether
attaching nitrous oxide to my bike is a step too far for an amateur triathlon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you all, once again, for your encouragement. By
supporting me you are honouring mum’s memory and for that I am truly grateful.
I will be sure to let you know how I get on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And finally, let’s hope I don’t end up like this <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i6t2bvP9Qho&feature=related" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i6t2bvP9Qho&feature=related</a></div>
</div>
Ollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998474455470153055noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4856436565779895838.post-73694556535958199802012-09-09T14:30:00.000-07:002012-09-10T23:16:07.657-07:0013 days to go...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/ollydavy" target="_blank">£1,878 raised so far for Cancer Research (so close to my £2,00 target!) click to go to my fundraising page</a></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>The tube</b> – boy am I glad that I cycle to work these days. The
person who coined the phrase ‘it’s about the journey, not the destination’ has
clearly never spent years commuting on London Underground. My journey to
Wolverhampton began pleasantly enough on the Overground service from Dalston
Kingsland to Highbury and Islington, still very busy at half past 8 on a Friday
morning but not oppressively so. I observed the father of a young boy educating
his son with an impromptu, and esoteric, history lesson. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘Fish and chips was invented by Jewish people’ The boy
stared straight ahead, swaying gently with the rocking of the train, probably
used to his old man’s bouts of trivia. The man looked up at his wife, who was
reading intently. ‘Did you know that Mummy?’ He said, challengingly. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘Mmm’, came the reply. He could have asked ‘Have you sold
that enriched uranium to Iran yet?’ and received the same response.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">'Tea became popular in the Victorian era’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The boy was studying the emergency stop lever closely. I
looked over to try and catch a glimpse of the ‘Food and Drink Through the Ages’
fact book that the man must have been reading from, but there wasn’t one. Where
was he dredging this stuff up from and why did he sound like he was reciting
from cue cards? Perhaps his brain had been taken over by aliens determined to
fill the world with so many random factoids that we don’t notice we are being
invaded by extraterrestrials.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Victoria line was packed. I was already regretting my
decision to wear a vest under my shirt while the pointless fans whirring above
seemed to only add noise to the heat generated by hundreds of bodies. I noticed
with a shock that the man next to me was wearing a fur lined body warmer. How
is he doing that? I thought, and then realised his hair was slick with sweat.
Poor guy, sartorial error, must be a tourist. And then I realised the ‘sweat’
was brill cream and he looked quite comfortable. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>The words ‘mum is dead’</b> – I can’t get used to them.
They sound strange in my head and when I say them out loud. I laugh at an
unusual sight or funny story in the newspaper and think, ‘I must tell mum’,
before remembering a split second later that I can’t.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Loneliness </b>– sadness separates me from others. A
feeling that people don’t understand and cannot help makes me want to keep
myself to myself. Although paradoxically, sharing the experience with others,
and especially those who have been through something similar, is nearly always
helpful. My life at the moment involves little socialising in groups and
sometimes, with most of my spare time spent training or writing, I feel quite
isolated. At work I am surrounded by people but this just heightens the sense
of distance that grief has put between me and the ‘normal’ world. I am pretty
good at putting a brave face on it and I still enjoy a joke with my colleagues
but concentrating on 5 days’ work and keeping focussed on the job at hand is a
test. Luckily I have a job that I enjoy, which stimulates me mentally, and an
understanding boss.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>On the train - </b>a man across the aisle cracks opens a
super-size can of energy drink and the sickly sweet aroma floods the carriage.
The smell reminds me of days spent working in Thomas Rigby’s in Liverpool. Long
shifts endured while suffering from self-induced booze complications. Going
down to the cellar to change a barrel, I would sneak a can of Redbull before
furiously munching a handful of chewing gum to disguise the scent of my sins.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Caffeine to get going and alcohol to relax. These are the
twin pillars of our society. We feel sluggish so we need stimulating but by the
end of the day we are wound tight and need soothing. Each drug creates a
situation that necessitates the other. Having formed that thought and kicked it
around a bit I made my way to the shop in coach C for a crap coffee served at
the temperature of molten lead. </span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://s0.geograph.org.uk/geophotos/01/02/91/1029150_c7ea41a8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://s0.geograph.org.uk/geophotos/01/02/91/1029150_c7ea41a8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mixed swimming pond at Hampstead Heath (image copyright Stephen McKay)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>The Ponds</b> - After the unsatisfactory experience of testing
my wetsuit in the River Wye I have relocated two of my three weekly swimming
sessions from London Fields Lido to Hampstead Ponds. This remarkable and
internationally famous (according to </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the leaflet) facility is a North London
treasure and at only £2 a swim it is also a bargain. The unscrupulous need not
bother to pay at all; the entry fee is not compulsory. There are no lockers,
the showers are cold and you have to bring your own post swim snacks but the
experience of swimming in a stunning setting, in unchlorinated water,
surrounded by nature makes such concerns pale into insignificance. I haven’t
been to many municipal pools where moorhens make their nests on the marking
buoys and swans glide up and down majestically. However, I would be glad to see
a goose attack that guy in the fast lane who insists on doing breaststroke.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, on Wednesdays and Thursdays after work, with a bag full
of bananas and my superhero costume, I cycle away from the City to escape into
a watery sanctuary. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are three ponds for swimming at Hampstead Heath; mixed,
ladies’ and men’s. I am precluded by gender from entering the ladies pond and
the mixed pond is the smallest and very busy in fine weather so I take my place
among the other bathing gentlemen. As well as being a great spot for a swim, the
Hampstead Men’s Pond is undoubtedly a popular place for gay men to meet and
hang out, quite literally in most cases. Being naïve and a victim of my own
prejudices I am only slowly beginning to realise that not every man there has
made the trip to the ponds to pick up a date, but it does take a while to get
used to the wandering eyes and the men who take 5 minutes to dry each leg while
completely naked with their foot propped on the bench. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘Excuse me, I think you can stop drying your leg mate, I can
see the bone.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This experience of being eyed up is one that women must
endure throughout their lives and I can only hope the regularity of it makes it
less stressful. Squeezing into my second skin for a vigorous circuit I cannot help but feel like I am dressing up for a fetish party. This feeling is enhanced as
I struggle to fasten the zip running up the back of the wetsuit and a strange
man offers his assistance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘NO!’ I say, a little too loudly. ‘I mean, I’m fine,’ I
bluster, furiously tugging at the cord attached to the zip, </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘thanks, but it’s
good practice’. I manage to restrain myself from the urge to glance down at an
imaginary watch, gasp in horror, ‘Is that the time?’ and crash through the
fence and bushes and away from the scene of my imminent defilement. I am the
victim of my own naivety.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On another occasion I am studiously ignoring the man
changing next to me who is looking over while I pour myself into the T:2 Team.
My pretence is shattered and I am forced to engage him when he addresses me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘Here we go,’ I think to myself, ‘ you are only seconds away from an invitation
to a Nazi-themed sex party, Olly. Brace yourself.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Looking up to reply I notice that the man is Jewish:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘Do you <i>need</i> a wetsuit for such temperatures?’ He
began, accusingly. As if I was a massive softie who was due a dressing down for
wearing protective clothing to swim on a sunny evening in early September.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘I’m training for a triathlon’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘So?!’ I read between the lines of this single word; that is
no excuse for your ridiculous get-up he was telling me. ‘How far is it?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘1500m swim, 40km bike and 10km run’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘Ha! That’s not so far. I have 9 grandchildren. I should do a
triathlon’</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">'Yes,’ I replied, unsure what the virility of his offspring
had to do with anything, ‘you should. They can be your pacemakers’</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then I swam 13 circuits of the pond, about
4000m. This has been the peak week of my training and now my the sessions
taper towards race day with a 20% drop in duration next week and a 30% drop in
the final week. There are few last minute preparations such as getting some
tinted goggles to avoid being blinded by low sun, wetsuit lube for easy removal in transition, and taking my bike
to be serviced. I am now also two weeks into my alcohol embargo and there have
been some astonishing effects; my IQ has leapt by 30% and I can see through
walls. Returning from a show on the Southbank on Saturday night, I stepped over
the splattered vomit and streams of urine on Shoreditch Highstreet and it
certainly didn’t make me desperate to hit the nearest bar. But, before I get
too high on my high horse, I'm sure I will be throwing myself back into the
melee after the triathlon with a nice quinoa and vodka cocktail. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You can see the training run I did today, here </span><a href="http://www.mapmyrun.com/routes/view/134417865"><span style="font-family: inherit;">http://www.mapmyrun.com/routes/view/134417865</span></a></div>
Ollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998474455470153055noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4856436565779895838.post-79527358248532465402012-08-30T23:16:00.001-07:002012-08-31T00:27:35.801-07:0023 days to go..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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<a href="http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/ollydavy" target="_blank">£1,733 raised so far for Cancer Research</a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i757.photobucket.com/albums/xx211/DragoAug2010/Wales/DSCF1812.jpg?t=1346099218" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://i757.photobucket.com/albums/xx211/DragoAug2010/Wales/DSCF1812.jpg?t=1346099218" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wonderful wooden wagon, near Capel-y-ffin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Arriving at a service station on the M4 after a weekend staying in a wooden wagon in the wilds of Wales was like being clubbed in the
head with a bat labelled ‘modern world’. I did not enjoy the experience. There were currents, not the watery kind that had carried us serenely down the River Wye,
but of returning weekenders, swirling around an identikit cluster of shops containing
Burger King, WHSmith (on the motorway? ‘Thank god, darling. Let’s stop here, I
MUST get some ring binders before we get to your mother’s’) and the obligatory
amusement arcade.</div>
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The weekend had been filled with delightful experiences and,
removed from the National Grid and the reach of radioactive mobile phone
transmitters, down in the glade accessible only by foot, we spent pleasant
evenings reading by candlelight, drying wet boots on the wood burner, and
skinning recently caught bears. You know you have had a wholesome weekend
enjoying the great outdoors when all of your clothes smell of wood smoke.
Either that or you are a serial arsonist ‘up to his old tricks’.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Running on the Black Mountains</b></span><br />
<br />
As life affirming experiences go, this ranks very highly. On
Sunday morning, as dictated by my training schedule, I put on my running shoes
and headed out into the unknown. There is a great joy in going for the first
run or ride in a new place. A sense of imminent discovery that removes any
feelings of duty or routine. The Black Mountains did not disappoint. My t-shirt
and shorts felt very flimsy in the cool morning air but the sun was streaming
down into the valley and, knowing my own body, I was sure that in no time at
all I would be generating as much heat as a geo-thermal vent and sweating
prodigiously.<br />
<br />
Up and out of the glade by the stream where our wagon
sat, I ran. Across a steeply sloping field, through dew covered grass watching
rabbits scatter at my approach, I jumped the gate onto the track, and followed
the path upwards where we had ridden when pony trekking the day before. The way
was muddy, with large puddles and protruding rocks, causing me to watch my step
carefully, keeping me present and preventing me from sinking too deep into
reverie of the natural beauty all around. Across another gate and I was in to
Brecon Beacons National Park. Running along one side of a steep narrow valley,
carpeted with battered bracken, I could hear nothing but the rushing of the
stream and my own heart pounding as I gulped the cool air and climbed the
treacherous, twisting path upwards. Once or twice, as I splashed through the
deep gooey patches, cool mud coating my calves, I even cackled manically to
myself with joy. It’s good to be alive, I thought, dancing a merry waltz with a
giant, buxom, cliché. Embrace it and enjoy it to the full because our time is
short. Live for now and whatever it is, get it done. Anything is possible.<br />
<br />
I was motivated to sign up for the London Triathlon before
mum died, as a way to transmute some of the sadness into something positive and
raise money for a fantastic cause. Her death has strengthened my resolve and
given me focus like I have never known. I wouldn't recommend loss as
a desirable accompaniment to achieving your dreams, and there are many stages
of emotion that different people experience at different times, but I am
determined to give this triathlon the best of me and to make mum proud.<br />
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i757.photobucket.com/albums/xx211/DragoAug2010/Wales/DSCF1899.jpg?t=1346142495" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://i757.photobucket.com/albums/xx211/DragoAug2010/Wales/DSCF1899.jpg?t=1346142495" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wild pony and foal on the Black Mountains</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><b> </b>Upwards, the winding track took me. Looking back I could see
the lush valley falling away, below, the wild untamed parts of the National
Park giving way to a patchwork quilt of farmland. Sheep ran ahead of me in
mini-flocks, needing only to turn left or right off the path to escape the
onrushing muddy freak, but determined to be unwittingly herded to pastures new.
I imagined an angry farmer on a quad bike searching the hillside for his woolly
beasts, only to find them running before me, as I staggered along behind with
strings of saliva swinging from my mouth shouting, ‘this is living!’</div>
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<br /></div>
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Wild ponies, a legacy of Roman occupation and less flighty
than the sheep, paused in their grazing and watched me cautiously as I
blundered on. As I thought how excellent it would be to come for a walk up this
very path, even take a picnic, I ran out of the morning sun and into thick low
cloud. Visibility dropped dramatically and I could see not more than 20 metres
in front of me. I crossed a stream and as the track lead away from the water it
merged with the grassy surrounds and became harder to follow. Rabbit holes and
rocks lurked about, waiting to snap my ankle if I misplaced a step.</div>
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‘This is how those mountain rescue shows start,’ I thought
to myself. ‘Nobody knows where I am. <i>I</i> don’t even know where I am. I
don’t have a phone and I am inadequately dressed for exposure at 600m up a
Welsh mountain.’ </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Best not break anything then, I decided, and plunged on.
Running through the whiteness I had the feeling of being in a dream, the only
human left, floating across a wild landscape in a cloudy womb. A remarkable
experience and one sadly not equalled by running past kebab shops on Kingsland
Road. The fading track turned north along a ridge and the wind whipping up from
the unseen depths brought me back to reality and, after 21 minutes exactly, it
was time to turn back. </div>
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Out of the window of my room at the hospital in Abergavenny
I have a great view of the mountains where I was running just the other day,
and the wifi is good enough for me to update my blog from my bed, though the
cast on my leg makes balancing the laptop a bit tricky.</div>
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<br /></div>
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That <i>could </i>have happened, but happily it didn’t. I
ran back to the wagon, feeling like one of the first men returning from a
successful hunt, invigorated and alive. I showered next to the stream in icy
water poured from a watering can, which was suspended from a moss-covered tree
with a rope. More of this, please.</div>
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<br /></div>
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See the route of my run in the Black Mountains <a href="http://www.mapmyrun.com/routes/view/129805447" target="_blank">here </a><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Canoeing on the River Wye</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i757.photobucket.com/albums/xx211/DragoAug2010/Wales/DSCF1779.jpg?t=1346098107" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i757.photobucket.com/albums/xx211/DragoAug2010/Wales/DSCF1779.jpg?t=1346098107" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The smile belies the terror</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">I have rafted down the Zambezi in Zambia and the White Nile
in Uganda but it was with trepidation that I listened to the briefing from the
instructor at Wye Valley Cano</span><span style="font-size: small;">es, before reluctantly accepting a paddle from him, while
exchanging a worried look with my sister. We were expecting a pleasant day on a
picturesque waterway and were not prepared to learn that a section of the river is known as ‘the Rookie Butcher’ or to hear phrases like ‘body recovery’ and
‘impossible’.</span></div>
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<br />
As it turns out, the toughest part of the day was deciding which to eat
first, the dried dates or the dried apple rings. And debating whether or not
shouting loudly would encourage the herons to come closer.</div>
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We paddled our canoe ten miles from Glasbury (pronounced
Glays-berry) to Whitney-on-wye and with my expert knowledge born of almost
watching my sister drowned on a grade 5 rapid in Uganda, I sat at the back to
steer and we (I) paddled languidly down-stream assisted by the strong current.
I almost choked on a fruity snack when I heard my sister remark, while lying
back in her seat, with her feet resting up on the gunnels, ‘Oooh, our muscles
are going to ache tomorrow’</div>
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<h1>
<span style="font-size: large;">Wetsuit Test in the River Wye</span></h1>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i757.photobucket.com/albums/xx211/DragoAug2010/Wales/DSCF1861.jpg?t=1346141368" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i757.photobucket.com/albums/xx211/DragoAug2010/Wales/DSCF1861.jpg?t=1346141368" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swathed in neoprene, the wetsuit test</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Feeling fit and strong after plenty of training I was
looking forward to donning my new 2XU T:2 Team wetsuit (the most popular model of
the season according to the man in Sigma Sport) and piling into the river for a
test. We found an accessible spot near Hay-on-wye and, much to the bemusement of
the canoeing day-trippers, I attempted to swim up river against the strong
current. Oh dear. It was hard work and disheartening so I angled myself to
compensate for the flow and swam widths instead. I stopped to remark to one
gawping paddler, clearly confused by the sight of a fish-man waste deep in
water that is perfectly good for floating on, 'I've lost my car keys’, by way of an explanation. He kept on staring,
while scratching his head, and then crashed into a bridge. </div>
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</div>
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Since last Sunday I have swum twice more in my wetsuit and I
am starting to get used to it. I think being comfortable with your equipment is
key to avoiding a panic on the day. The sensation takes some getting used to;
it is obviously very tight and puts pressure on the muscles. A good wetsuit
shouldn’t restrict movement of the arms but it feels like it is doing exactly
that and the buoyancy of the neoprene causes you to float higher in the water.
This should ultimately help you to swim faster but you have to get accustomed
to the altered position. And damn and blast it, if I wasn’t just 3 laps into a
4000m swim around Hampstead Ponds when I heard the call of nature. And not the
kind that can be answered subtly in the water. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Sometimes, like when I am swimming for over an hour in cold,
murky water, on a cold, rainy day, dressed like a superhero gimp, I wonder why
I am doing this. I remember in an instant and it drives me on for the next 100
or 1000 metres. Few things in my life have meant as much to me as this
triathlon does. It has become symbolic as an attempt to wrestle back some
control from the inescapable reality that there is only one certainty in life,
death, and it is coming to us all. My mum’s body was taken over with disease
and let her down so I want to train mine to run at its peak. Mum lost her
battle against cancer but I am taking on this triathlon to win. Not in the sense of coming in first place, but by overcoming the challenge. This is my
fight. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Next week sees me reach the peak of my training with 9 hours and 16 minutes of swimming, cycling and running to complete.</div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Olly</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 12px;"><a href="http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/ollydavy">http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/ollydavy</a></span>
</div>
Ollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998474455470153055noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4856436565779895838.post-56938756224004239902012-08-22T16:03:00.000-07:002012-08-23T01:11:14.186-07:0030 days to go..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/ollydavy">£1,645 raised so far for Cancer Research</a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b>Dealing</b></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b> with grief </b></span>has made me selfish with my time and
careful about whose company I choose. I like to hang out with my friends but I
have absolutely zero tolerance for making small talk in the pub with work
colleagues. This is not because I don’t like the people I work with, far from
it, but the trivial banter that I normally find entertaining with the right
crowd requires an immense effort, my heart is just not in it, and relative to
the big recent event in my life it just seems so, well, trivial. Luckily, I
always have my triathlon training as an out. Or the myriad elements of life
administration that have sprung up like a geyser and are now raining down on me
in an Excel monsoon.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> My brain is
trying to cope with the enormity of what has happened and activities that keep
me focussed and present are the best at helping me do that. Exercise is an
excellent tool that I am using to chip away at the monumental sadness that
looms over everything. The release of endorphins that accompanies a big session
in the pool, a long ride, or a hard run, doesn’t make me forget, nor do I want
to forget, but it gives me the boost I need to focus and carry on. Because life
doesn’t stop. No matter where you are emotionally or mentally, no matter what
awful event has just befallen you, the number 83 keeps on rolling down the
road, and the taxi driver will still be shouting at the cyclist:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Excuse
me mate! – I know you just dangerously cut me up in heavy traffic while cycling
along wearing huge Dr Dre cans on your head and failing to observe any of the
hazards around you, but more importantly, did you hear about Olly’s….Yeah, I
know, terrible. Anyway, you go ahead, and have a good day!”</span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The breath</span></b> – an automatic action, a bodily necessity. A
vital function for life but one we don’t think about unless we are struggling
for it, or focussing on it and practicing it. In yoga, drawing attention to the
breath helps to direct the consciousness to a point and still the mind of
chatter. During sport, control of the breath is key to performance. Now I am
training for a triathlon my breathing is of constant interest to me. It is
sometimes regular and controlled when running at a steady pace; two steps on
the in-breath, two steps on the out-breath. Or there is the unpleasant feeling
of claustrophobia when swimming; a snatched breath with the head rotated to the
side followed by the constant exhalation underwater. Or, the fast shallow pant
when out of the saddle pounding up a hill. Each time I am aware of my breath I
think of mum and her fight for air. Each inhalation was a fight, a battle to
get enough oxygen into the body to keep in functioning. In the end, she lost
that fight. But I am going to take more than my share, for her. Great, gulping
gasps to fill my lungs as I charge at full tilt to the top of Muswell Hill.
Ignoring the burning, muscles using the gas fuel faster than I can supply it.
Sucking, swallowing, slurping, fumes and dust. Dirty London air, keep my body
running.<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
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Last Friday I planned to go for a 2 hour and 20 minute cycle
before work. Which would mean getting up at 5 am. Why would I consider doing
this? Because my training timetable told me to. And that piece of A4 paper,
printed from the internet, and taped to my bedroom wall, is the most revered
deity in my life right now. I don’t have to think about which exercise I need
to do on a particular day, because someone else, far more practiced at this regimented
lifestyle than I, has typed it all into a grid and made it available to
download. So, I am now programmed to build my days around blocks of exercise –
7 sessions a week, squeezed into 5 days, with Tuesday and Saturday off.
Luckily, I have retained enough autonomy to make sensible adjustments. So, I
cycled 40 miles to, and around, Richmond Park on Friday <i>evening</i> instead. And
this is one of the marvellous things about London; in under an hour, one can be
cycling in a huge beautiful park, full of deer, watching the last sun of the
day glint off the steel and glass towers in the distance. Cheers. And then, I
felt incredibly self-righteous as I powered past the Shoreditch drunks on my
way home. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The next day, I did it all again, to go and buy a wetsuit at
Sigma Sport in Kingston. It was not nearly as unpleasant, or peppered with
comedy moments, as I hoped it would be. But I got one, and plenty more
semi-erotic sportswear that leaves nothing to the imagination. Practical? Yes. But
it doesn’t make you go any faster. Commuters travelling 5 kilometres to work
please note – you don’t need a £120 cycling jersey or a£2,000 Bianchi. If you’re
being overtaken by an old lady on a Boris Bike, you need to go back to the
drawing board. <br />
<br />
<b style="font-size: x-large;">Brain malfunction - </b>I cycle to work everyday. I don't consider this part of my training because my office is only ten minutes down the road, and I prefer to take a measured pace in order to avoid looking like I've just come out of a sauna, wrapped in cling-film. But the daily commute on my velocipede, through London's streets, has hard-wired my brain with certain habits. So much so, that when walking home yesterday, on foot because I was suited and booted for a client meeting, I felt an urge to stick my left arm out as I turned off the main road and onto my street. Worrying. Imagine if everyone did this? Limbs flung out violently to the side, belting nearby pedestrians in the face in order to indicate that you intend to step off the street and into Primark. There would be chaos in the streets. We would all be wearing helmets, however, so injuries would be few, and bells for walkers would be mandatory. Which leads me to ask; do bells for runners exist? A little chime, strapped to the forehead, or some other convenient location, would work wonders to warn families, walking Reservoir Dogs style down the road, dominating the pavement, to disperse immediately or prepare to be quietly tutted. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="http://www.mapmyrun.com/routes/view/126355861">Sunday run</a>.</b></span> This is the training run I did on Sunday. It was delightful at 30 degrees Celsius. I had to stop half way to buy water in a corner shop near Canary Wharf, and apologise to the worried looking shopkeeper as litres of sweat ran down my body and onto his floor. I have an old Garmin Forerunner 350 (now selling for £180 on Ebay!), which sits like a shed on my wrist, but still works well and communicates with the excellent website, mapmyrun.com. Even if on closer inspection the device reports long meandering diversions from the canal tow path and across the water itself, I am a sucker for this type of geeky performance monitoring. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Diet report - maintaining a healthy diet has not been difficult and I am enjoying huge amounts of fresh fruit and vegetables. But, last night I went to the Bull and Last, near Kentish Town in London, for a family birthday. Most people would call it a pub, and technically that is correct, but I prefer to think of it as a Bacchanalian paradise of delightful excess. This place is too good resist, and it's practically impossible to eat anything that isn't rich here anyway, so I piled in up to the elbows:</div>
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<br />
To start: crispy pig cheek with pickled watermelon, toasted sesame and basil.<br />
Followed by: Deadham Vale onglet with triple-cooked chips and bearnaise sauce.<br />
Rounded off with: salty sweet churros, dulce de leche and yoghurt sorbet.<br />
<br />
Welcome, to a magical place I call Decadencia. You will enjoy your stay. This one meal alone contains more calories than the entire Sky racing team burns during the course of the Tour de France, but that's okay because I drank it liquidised through a straw while running on a treadmill, strapped to a heart monitor. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am going to Wales tomorrow with my sister, to stay in a
cabin in the woods with no electricity or phone reception. We have booked a canoe trip, and horse riding, and I’m going to test out my wetsuit in the River
Wye. Goodbye, London. Get me to the wilderness immediately.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">Olly</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span><a href="http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/ollydavy">My sponsorship page</a></div>
Ollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998474455470153055noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4856436565779895838.post-60625187945162760992012-08-16T14:59:00.001-07:002012-08-19T02:00:18.143-07:0037 Days To Go<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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£1,545 raised. </div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 12px;">http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/ollydavy</span>
</div>
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The Olympics are over, in case you hadn’t noticed. For me,
it’s finally beginning to sink in. Rushing home after work, sweaty palms
fumbling the remote, feverishly stabbing buttons and turning on the TV to
find…the One Show. Confused, I hit the red nodule of joy. “There must be some
badminton on BBC 9. Maybe some water polo at least.” Alas, no. It has been a
truly incredible ride though. A city, and a world, united by sport for two
glorious weeks. Apart from the bits where people are fighting wars or being oppressed.
I like to think arms were laid down and dictators cut their people some slack
for the final of the Kieran, but it’s unlikely. There is a thread of guilt
running through our national psyche, which makes us quite uncomfortable with
shouting about our achievements but for a short while we have been able to
shake off our colonial hangover and revel in the feats of some remarkable human
beings. And we came third in the medal table. And London didn’t collapse. At
the risk of sounding gushing, I will never forget London 2012. I have had the
Olympic logo tattooed onto my face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now the
elite sportsmen and women of the world that we have all shouted to glory over
the past fortnight will have their nuclear cores removed, be placed back in
their foam-lined carrying cases and be returned to storage until the next time
they are needed, in Rio Di Janeiro in 2016. It’s amazing to think that they
train so hard and see the sun only once every four years. Amazing, but true.
Goodbye humans+, the people of Earth will miss you. And goodbye to the army of
70,000 smiling Olympic volunteers who have done their country proud. They will
now hand in their remaining supply of happy pills and head back down into the
vast holding cavern underground where they will remain dormant, silent and
waiting. Perhaps if a foreign invader ever threatens our shores they will be
activated once again, to direct the marching aggressor towards our seat of
power with a cheery wave. </div>
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I have
revelled in the constant displays of skill and determination, and the powerful
human stories that have emerged onto our screens daily. However, the comedown
need not last for long. For an even more captivating example of the strength of
the human spirit and triumph over adversity, look no further than the Paralympic
Games. They start on 29 August. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.invigorate360.com/reviews/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/coffee-addiction-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.invigorate360.com/reviews/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/coffee-addiction-1.jpg" /></a> So, now the
nation has gone cold turkey from the athletic smorgasbord and commuters sit pale
and sweaty on the tube, shaking in the throes of withdrawal from their daily
fix of viewing physical excellence. But for me, one addiction persists; coffee. Mother
Nature’s pick-me-up and mood enhancer. Legend has it that a goat herd in
ancient times observed his charges becoming unusually animated after eating
berries fallen from a certain bush. Humans were not slow to follow suit, and now
we have Starbucks. Damn you, goats. In
a former life, I trained as a barista in a delightful organic establishment
where the tables were wiped with hemp rags and the biodynamic placenta cakes
cost £9.50. I won’t pretend to know what I’m talking about though because I was
fired. Something about my ‘aura’, apparently. I’m no expert, just an
enthusiast, but I find my morning<span lang="FR">
cafetiere</span> ritual so enjoyable that I even get excited about it the night
before.</div>
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<br /></div>
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‘Only one more sleep until I can have a fresh coffee’ I
think to myself, disturbingly. </div>
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<br /></div>
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And when I’m filling the kettle and spooning the grounds
from the packet, wallowing in the rich aroma of Hot Lava Java straight from the
fridge, I hum a little ditty to myself, to the tune of T-spoon’s epoch defining
‘Sex on the Beach’: </div>
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<br /></div>
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‘I’m gonna get high on the bean. I’m gonna get high on the
bean’</div>
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<br /></div>
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Ah, the
novelty song made up to soundtrack one’s own life. What a dull existence it
would be without this niche musical genre.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://images4.cpcache.com/product_zoom/581801664v2_460x460_Front_Color-White_padToSquare-true.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://images4.cpcache.com/product_zoom/581801664v2_460x460_Front_Color-White_padToSquare-true.jpg" width="200" /></a> My diet has
been affected positively by the regular, or relentless, triathlon training. I
have always eaten reasonably healthily, barring the 3 am pile in at Chicken
Cottage, but exercising for 8 hours a week has made me consider carefully
everything that I put into my body. Dairy and wheat are now almost entirely
absent from my life and this is not because I have any allergies or read a book
but I just feel better without them. Bread and cheese are hard to digest and
they make me slow and sluggish so, despite my profound love of cheddar, I've taken
a hiatus from doorstep sandwiches filled with mouldy milk. I was very proud to
tell my sister (who is studying for a naturopathy degree, my guru if you will)
that I had swapped cow juice for the soya alternative. To précis her response –
‘You’ll grow breasts and the world will end’. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I've since found out it’s
true. If you don’t believe me, Google it. Luckily there are various alternative
alternatives and I have opted for oat milk, which in no way detracts from the
enjoyment of my morning cup of black gold, and I can now confidently attribute
any increase in the size of my pectorals to the regular swimming.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There is one pitfall of the caffeine kick-start, and that is
the effect it has on one’s digestive system. When getting up early and heading
straight to the pool, the sudden activation of the lower regions can be most
inconvenient. Three lengths in and ‘Woah…’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most people pee in the pool, they’ll
deny it, but most probably do. Going any further than this is entirely unacceptable,
as I found out the other day when I…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not really, but I do hope I don’t experience
this on the day of the triathlon or I will be creating a David Walliams
situation all of my own.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I am going to try on wetsuits this weekend. I am predicting
the experience will be hot, sweaty, unpleasant and expensive. Check back to
find out.</div>
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Thanks.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Olly</div>
</div>
Ollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998474455470153055noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4856436565779895838.post-70666641664299595862012-08-10T00:03:00.000-07:002012-08-10T04:26:24.092-07:0043 Days To Go<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">£1,310 raised</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/ollydavy">http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/ollydavy</a></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-i_lB0C78RLI/UCSxd_1kyJI/AAAAAAAAACI/uqeircQb8_k/s1600/team-gb-adidas-stella-mccartney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-i_lB0C78RLI/UCSxd_1kyJI/AAAAAAAAACI/uqeircQb8_k/s320/team-gb-adidas-stella-mccartney.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-First of all, the Olympics. Amazing. I am going to be
gutted when it’s all over on Sunday. Watching grumblers and naysayers
transformed to beaming enthusiasts of the Double Trap or 10 metre synchronised
diving has been great. And Team GB is flying, I don’t think I have ever shouted
so much at the TV in excitement. Staging the Olympics is very expensive, to put
it mildly, and there is an argument that the money should have been spent
elsewhere, but it’s here, so we might as well enjoy it. It’s also impossible to
quantify in financial terms the inspirational effect on the World of watching
these incredible athletes compete at the highest level. I’m loving every
minute.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-And so I keep training. On Monday evening I was
propositioned by a complete stranger whilst cycling laps of Regent’s Park Outer
Ring. This is the only place near to me in London where you can enjoy a fairly
unbroken ride at a good speed and it’s popular with serious looking peddlers,
on expensive machines. I’m not the former, nor do I possess the latter, but I
dutifully sweat away on my creaky old workhorse, putting down the miles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I’m
always amazed that professional cyclists riding in peleton don’t crash more
often, and I am fascinated by the technique of drafting (sitting behind another
rider to benefit from the reduced air resistance) and the self-sacrifice of the
‘domestiques’ who expend their own legs, and chance of glory, to keep the race
pace high for the intended winner of their team. Stuart Hayes is the unsung
hero whose selflessness enabled the Brownlee brothers to begin the final stage
of their Olympic triathlon at the front of the pack with fresher legs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It seems
to be accepted practice to ride in mini-peletons in Regent’s Park; cycling
around and around in silence with someone you’ve never met before sticking to
you like glue. Following, or leading, someone of a similar pace does give added
impetus to your ride but I’m not sure you if you are meant to acknowledge the
other person vocally in anyway. It’s an etiquette minefield. Perhaps a simple
‘Cheers!’ when you peel off for home would do. Or how about the slightly bolder
‘Good riding!’ If you go any further than this it’s going to sound dangerously
like flirting. So, having ridden a few laps of the park with my new silent
cycling buddy on Monday, we both happened to leave the park for Camden Parkway
at the same time. I was pondering this etiquette dilemma when he looked back
over his shoulder and said ‘I’m going for a circuit of Hampstead Heath now.
Want to come?’ </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was shocked. Firstly because conversations between strangers
are sadly lacking in London and secondly because he had hijacked my thought
processes and gone straight to a stage I didn’t even know existed. I was at the
end of my training time and craving sustenance, so I declined his offer, but on
reflection I was quite touched by the genuine friendliness of his proposition.
As an alternative he may also have said, ‘would you like to be my friend?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-Come September, hopefully I can go faster than this... </span>
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</div>Ollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998474455470153055noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4856436565779895838.post-67057402654031423362012-08-01T14:52:00.000-07:002012-08-01T14:52:47.279-07:00Random musings of a first-time triathlete<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BUG2fTLraro/UBmki8DFhgI/AAAAAAAAABw/3758FglAwoU/s1600/4549_3_triathlon-start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="189" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BUG2fTLraro/UBmki8DFhgI/AAAAAAAAABw/3758FglAwoU/s320/4549_3_triathlon-start.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My training continues apace.
I am into month 2 of taking this seriously and following a training regime I
found, somewhat disappointingly, on the internet. I was hoping a grizzled
Patches O'Houlihan type character might spot me in a bar, shooting whisky and
weeping into a copy of Tri-Monthly, and offer to take me under his wing and
coach me to glory. The problem is I don’t often go to bars and world-class
trainers down on their luck don’t often frequent East London pubs. All that
sourdough bread lying in wait to tempt their athletes from the righteous
protein path. We all know bread is cake and the watering holes of our fair
capital are a yeast-strewn minefield. Fact. So Google came up with the goods,
again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My timetable involves 7 training sessions a week, with 2 cycles, 2 runs
and 3 swims. This week I will train for a total of 7 hours. Next week the
duration will increase by 10% to 7 hours and 40 minutes, and then by another
10% in the 3<sup>rd</sup></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> week before dropping down 40% in the final week of
the month for recovery. If you think that sounds complicated, it’s not a patch
on some of the rigorous programmes out there. I want to train hard for this
challenge so that I can complete it strongly but I don’t want it to take over my
life entirely. Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to cycle up and down the stairs 300 times before bed. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The focus that training for the triathlon has given me
is great and a much needed distraction at this time. People tell me to ‘look
after myself’ and that is what I am trying to do, by way of a brutal and
punishing exercise diary. I can certainly feel an improvement in my fitness
level and my swimming especially is getting faster. Watching technique videos
on Youtube and then practicing what I have seen in the pool is a great help.
Who said I was obsessed? Feel the water, keep the elbows high, and don’t swim
up someone’s backside. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">London Field’s Lido is a fantastic facility to have
practically on my doorstep but it does get very busy on sunny mornings. And now
I will air a couple of gripes: why do people not realise they are in the wrong
lane when they are being consistently overtaken and lapped? And why do people
treat the end of the pool, the space where a swimmer needs to turn at the end
of a length, as social club to catch up with their mates? Both behaviours are
incorrect and for both a suitable punishment would be to snatch them up with a
giant fairground claw and deposit them in the park, soggy and confused. The
appropriate equipment not being available however, I take the only other
suitable action; to silently fume. How English. I will try to update this blog
every week up to the triathlon and post my results at the end of September so
please do check back. Coming soon - trying on wetsuits. Thanks for reading.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>Ollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998474455470153055noreply@blogger.com0