Apparently I was the first of my family to be brought up on SMA baby formula. Quite a big deal at the time. Never mind breast is best, try powder as chowder! Of course it was still the sixties so I imagine that formula probably contained nicotine, iodine, creatine, caffeine and a sprinkling of milk powder infused with lead. Thankfully things have come a long way and today's baby foods are kosher. I imagine that all that blend of crazy stuff set me up nicely for adult life. My Dad candidly stated that I had a stomach like a swill-barrel. He was on target for sure.
I've been reliving my healthy appetite fiascos and favourites over the last few days as I've emptied a (quality) street and single-handedly drained an EU wine lake. Ah yes, the memories. A loaf of Quinnsworth bread and a pound of luncheon sausage every couple of days in college. You remember luncheon sausage? Pink meat with no actual meat. Abattoir floor's finest. It was rumoured to be able to walk by itself if not refrigerated. Or tinned aubergine in vinegar, my fave treat in Spain. My stomach did somersaults but my pupils dilated. And a bottle of wine with a midday meal. And now I drink coffee like a bean fiend. Indeed, none of that freeze dried Kenco nonsense in my house! And it's all slipping down into the swill barrel.
So there I am trying to go cycling over Christmas and doing the dog with my diet at the same time. But what's different is that I'm reading a mindfulness book. One that speaks my language. Don't be offended with the title or some of the concepts. It's called The Life Changing Magic of not Giving a F**k. I'm not going to go all Chi and Pilates on you. But I've learned a simple truth. I CANNOT CHANGE HOW PEOPLE THINK. How does that fit in with this blog? Well, as a cyclist I am susceptible to outside influence. Be it what training others are doing, what they post on the internet, what (when they get together in covens) they are saying. Or worst of all the racehorse that tells everyone that No, they are training like a donkey. This stuff used to bother me. But I've read some of the book and spliced it with some cycling buddy's advice and now, to paraphrase that book..." I no longer give a f**k".
And the changes don't stop there. If I can't change what people think then I can't change what they might say or feel towards me. But I can remove them from Facebook or from taking up my TIME. And time is more precious to me than an aubergine/luncheon roll sandwich washed down with dirty red wine. The book urges me to make out a 'F**k budget'. I have a finite number of f**Ks to give about people/situations/activities. If I exceed my budget then I'll be tired, caught for time or thinking about stuff that stresses me for zero gain. So I've started the budget. There are situations and people and activities that are no longer getting my attention simply because they are too complicated. Joe doesn't believe in complicated. Be straight with me or be gone. Of course there are items that I must budget for. Things too important. People that have to have a share. And there are those that don't.
Sarah Knight's book has arrived in my life just in time to watch me turn over a new leaf. I am training for myself instead of what people expect of me or assume of me. My exterior may resemble second trimester but my mind is expectant of nothing but change. Yes all that sludge of Yule tide gluttony will have to be removed but I'm not thinking of doing that for some short-ass ignoramus who would like to wheel-suck me to within sniffing distance of a finish line. I'm just going to train for Joe. I'm a good guy. After all, I may not use L'Oreal but I'm worth it. I'm not going to try harder to impress other cyclist's or clubs either. What's the point? I read a pertinent line on Facebook recently. "The grass is sometimes greener on the other side because it's fertilized with bullshit." I love that. I only need to impress myself in cycling now.
Something was broken in me in recent times. Not giving a f**k about some parts of my over-extended, candle-burning-at-both-ends life will help repair some of the scar tissue.
Of course it's not all bad. I climbed 80,000 metres last year in under 6,500 kilometres. Not bad in what was for me an exhausted car-wreck in cycling terms. I never trained hard. I feel already as though I'm turning a corner.
I'd like to skip off into the sunset; alas my rheumatoid, stretch-marked and muscle-depleted body won't allow it. But mentally I'm jumping and high-fiving every molecule of serotonin that is fuelling me at this very moment. After all it's not what I eat between Christmas day and New year's but what is consumed between New year's and Christmas day that counts. My midriff is broadening but only in line with my smile. See you on the road in 2019. I'm the one that always waves.
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