Autumn finally caught a flight to Ireland yesterday and I've had to park wearing shorts around town until late spring. Better for the locals.But I feel like I've gotten away with something. 22nd of September and the rain was warm on today's spin. The lanes (I'm a lanes man) welcomed me with a carpet of beech nuts, defeated leaves and a handful of chestnuts. I felt like a hunter-gatherer on two wheels, searching for challenges and dancing in different directions avoiding incoming showers and outgoing energy.
I didn't get out yesterday when the Fall arrived and instantly did what it promised. No point slinging my leg over my whip and heading out into lightening, flash floods and pounding thunder. I love bad weather but I didn't have to go out and I'm glad i didn't. I welcome snow and ice, hail and heat, wind and downpours. But electricity isn't in any way predictable. Like going hiking in bear country, I fail to see why you might purposefully head into a risk zone. I was afraid to lose more than a Marbella tan.
Not bad, not bad at all that we've gotten to now with short sleeve and suncream spins. Time for the Gods of unpredictability to take hold. It's ok, the windfall apples and sun-tanned blackberries are baked up or preserved, those chestnuts beaten down off bruised trees are in corners fending off spiders. Fruit presses squeeze the life out of harvests and bottle it to keep us in the months ahead, those days of
eight hours of light. My plan is to savour the delights of this autumn time and later, filled with stewed apple or rosehip and chilli dip I'll go out again and breath the frosted air and smell the turned soil. Yup, after the day of the dead I'll go find life in the lanes and indeed in me again.
You see you can't ignore your DNA. Somewhere in those cells that built you up into what you are lies but a few atoms of your ancestors that settled in for a winter of rest and supplies to wait for better days. They showed you the way. You may now be chronically barbered, wear hide for shoes and not underwear, Lidl could be your larder instead of dried meat and I suppose killing your breakfast might be off the cards but really most of us are just one step removed from that flint-wielding, hut-dwelling visceral forerunner of ourselves. They took a break and watched the botched sunsets of chronic weather fronts and galloping winter storms and just rested. Enjoy the break. Never mind your coach. Listen to the tiniest echo of your distant past.
Sunday, September 22, 2019
Friday, March 15, 2019
Racing cyclist survival guide.
Surviving the bike races this season is simple once you follow my fool-proof guide. Trust me, there's nothing to fear with a little planning! I aught to know, I was a successful A4 for nearly a decade!
1)Plan your planning. Stress uses energy. To avoid stress and therefore you losing a race, plan ahead. Where is the race? When do I have to leave home? So, you should also; put your money/licence/shoes/helmet in the bag the night before. Likewise... bike washed/lubed/shoved in car the night before. Petrol tank full the night before. Track pump in boot. The night before. And a loo roll. Don't ask.
3)Put your gear (in order of putting on) out too. Socks on top of a pile with shorts, vest and arm warmers underneath.
1)Plan your planning. Stress uses energy. To avoid stress and therefore you losing a race, plan ahead. Where is the race? When do I have to leave home? So, you should also; put your money/licence/shoes/helmet in the bag the night before. Likewise... bike washed/lubed/shoved in car the night before. Petrol tank full the night before. Track pump in boot. The night before. And a loo roll. Don't ask.
3)Put your gear (in order of putting on) out too. Socks on top of a pile with shorts, vest and arm warmers underneath.
4) You should by now have emptied a supermarket of bananas and dragon shots in the preceding days. There's nothing more satisfying than placing 14 bananas and 8 dragon shots on the conveyor in Centra and watching the bespectacled auld one trying to figure out what it's all for? A chimp sanctuary? A rave?
5)Morning of race; Flahavan's factory bowl-full of God's laxative along with the obligatory double shot from the Sage Barista. The coffee is not performance enhancing, it's merely to amp the banter in the car with your mates.
6) Jersey!!!!! Don't pin on your numbers while waiting on the microwave/ coffee machine. Get it done last night and always use too many pins too.
7)Too many bottles filled. Don't just think of getting through the race! You must drink on the way there and on the return journey or you'll resemble an old turtle the following day. You might wee in a bin at every rest stop on the M9 but the alternative, leg-locking-in-the-middle-of-a-sprint, is more embarrassing.
8)Get there early. Something always gets in the way. That could be; A] A sign on queue longer than your losing streak. B] 250 racing/ 3 toilet cubicles/ one sodden jax roll now worth more than a piece of the Berlin wall. C] An Untimely puncture. D] Changing clothes coz its colder than you thought. E] No parking available because someone read these suggestions and beat you to it. You see, you want to psyche out your frenemies by being in a healthy sweat on prominently displayed rollers as they arrive late, unable to park or poo or sign on without crying.
9)Put 20 psi less than it says on the tyre. (Note, the same does not apply to the car.)
10)Start at the front, ride at the back. You need to see who is keen/there and easing back to the last ten will give you the inventory you need. It usually goes from fittest and feisty at the front but usually not winners, through dangerous tri-athletes new to the sport, with the spatial awareness of a brick (see what I did there??) to the auld cagey ones in with a chance, all the way down to the Belgian mix. That's the last ten that either can sprint like a rocket, want to wait until the eager gits wear themselves out thinking they are at the Giro doing it for the Tifosi, or the barrel-bottomed boys that have the physique of a rugby player crossed with the strength of a sumo wrestler and a 0-60 of a dragster for that last quarter mile. Why ride at the back? Ever watch a pilot fish follow a great white? Now you have it.
11)Wear mirror lenses. So you're fecked? Nobody can see it. Blood vessels have exploded with the eye-popping intensity? Not visible. You cry tears of blood? Same. Cross-eyed from Russian pre-workout? Likewise.
12)Elbows and butt power; Ah bunch riding. Realistically you can ride any race hanging off the back like a native of Calcutta taking the train as long as you get your sh*t together for the last kilometre. Then you need tunnel vision. Keep the elbows out, don't apologise for baulking that 15-stone Neanderthal silver-back that you sat at the rear with for the last 2 hours. Yes he can bench press your Ma but can he weave like a hornet through a meadow? Hell no. Keep your butt clenched for the 90 seconds it takes to cover that last K. You will experience handlebars, fists, mitts and gear levers trying to jostle you for position but hold firm. Pucker up. You belong there. Darwin mentioned you in 'Origin of the species'.
13)Wait. And wait. Maybe wait a while. You may think you have the power output of an antelope but don't forget A4 racing is akin to the Serengeti at the height of Summer. And those 10 at the back represent Leopards, Lions and Jackals . Let them off, view them as a lead-out train and follow them to victory. Hopefully the rasher sandwiches or barrel of ale they consumed last night will release just enough cholesterol to slow them in the last 30 metres. Then, out of the slipstream like a surfer on the bow wave of the fast ferry... You jostle through for victory.
Disclaimer:
* Events may not pan out as outlined above.
**A hand of bananas and a quart of Dragon Shots may have a detrimental effect on your colon post-event.
***No responsibility is accepted for penalty points/ fines incurred while pooping like a waste-pipe in a bin on the M9.
****Read instructions carefully.
5)Morning of race; Flahavan's factory bowl-full of God's laxative along with the obligatory double shot from the Sage Barista. The coffee is not performance enhancing, it's merely to amp the banter in the car with your mates.
6) Jersey!!!!! Don't pin on your numbers while waiting on the microwave/ coffee machine. Get it done last night and always use too many pins too.
7)Too many bottles filled. Don't just think of getting through the race! You must drink on the way there and on the return journey or you'll resemble an old turtle the following day. You might wee in a bin at every rest stop on the M9 but the alternative, leg-locking-in-the-middle-of-a-sprint, is more embarrassing.
8)Get there early. Something always gets in the way. That could be; A] A sign on queue longer than your losing streak. B] 250 racing/ 3 toilet cubicles/ one sodden jax roll now worth more than a piece of the Berlin wall. C] An Untimely puncture. D] Changing clothes coz its colder than you thought. E] No parking available because someone read these suggestions and beat you to it. You see, you want to psyche out your frenemies by being in a healthy sweat on prominently displayed rollers as they arrive late, unable to park or poo or sign on without crying.
9)Put 20 psi less than it says on the tyre. (Note, the same does not apply to the car.)
10)Start at the front, ride at the back. You need to see who is keen/there and easing back to the last ten will give you the inventory you need. It usually goes from fittest and feisty at the front but usually not winners, through dangerous tri-athletes new to the sport, with the spatial awareness of a brick (see what I did there??) to the auld cagey ones in with a chance, all the way down to the Belgian mix. That's the last ten that either can sprint like a rocket, want to wait until the eager gits wear themselves out thinking they are at the Giro doing it for the Tifosi, or the barrel-bottomed boys that have the physique of a rugby player crossed with the strength of a sumo wrestler and a 0-60 of a dragster for that last quarter mile. Why ride at the back? Ever watch a pilot fish follow a great white? Now you have it.
11)Wear mirror lenses. So you're fecked? Nobody can see it. Blood vessels have exploded with the eye-popping intensity? Not visible. You cry tears of blood? Same. Cross-eyed from Russian pre-workout? Likewise.
12)Elbows and butt power; Ah bunch riding. Realistically you can ride any race hanging off the back like a native of Calcutta taking the train as long as you get your sh*t together for the last kilometre. Then you need tunnel vision. Keep the elbows out, don't apologise for baulking that 15-stone Neanderthal silver-back that you sat at the rear with for the last 2 hours. Yes he can bench press your Ma but can he weave like a hornet through a meadow? Hell no. Keep your butt clenched for the 90 seconds it takes to cover that last K. You will experience handlebars, fists, mitts and gear levers trying to jostle you for position but hold firm. Pucker up. You belong there. Darwin mentioned you in 'Origin of the species'.
13)Wait. And wait. Maybe wait a while. You may think you have the power output of an antelope but don't forget A4 racing is akin to the Serengeti at the height of Summer. And those 10 at the back represent Leopards, Lions and Jackals . Let them off, view them as a lead-out train and follow them to victory. Hopefully the rasher sandwiches or barrel of ale they consumed last night will release just enough cholesterol to slow them in the last 30 metres. Then, out of the slipstream like a surfer on the bow wave of the fast ferry... You jostle through for victory.
Disclaimer:
* Events may not pan out as outlined above.
**A hand of bananas and a quart of Dragon Shots may have a detrimental effect on your colon post-event.
***No responsibility is accepted for penalty points/ fines incurred while pooping like a waste-pipe in a bin on the M9.
****Read instructions carefully.
Thursday, February 21, 2019
The great escape
Ah the olive groves... thousands of acres of symmetric trees glistening in sun-speckled solitude. It must be the Tour of Andalusia that appears to burst from my tv.
Beautiful. But not reality. No indeed, while a whole bunch of mad Spaniards juiced to the gills flung themselves around the B roads of southern Spain real life was being played out on an insignificant piece of blacktop between Enniscorthy and Wexford.
Back story. Cue the music....
I brought my daughter to enniscorthy for a tennis camp. I planned to go cycling whilst she belted backhands and drank Robinsons. The missus wanted a fitbit from a shop in Wexford so I thought I'd kill two birds and enjoy the spin. Little did I know....
I love headwinds. When you turn around they become your friends. There I was having my eyebrows reshaped by a howling hoor of a southerly and making as much headway as a brexit negotiator when I ran into roadworks. This wasn't some farty old few yards of tar or line-painting. Oh no, this was a one mile stretch of crazy one-way-only that had me ringing my psychologist before the biscuit-eating, hipster-bearded Neanderthal sign-man turned the lollipop to 'Go'. I was now time crunched. Don't tell the missus but I jumped a creamery truck, now set free and pedalled like a gurning goat in it's slipstream at 71km/h.
So far so good. I turned in towards Wexford town and hit the Flandrien concrete roads along by the river with panache. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum for an eternity.
Drew Barrymore. She was the spit of Drew Barrymore. In looks anyway. Alas the good-time, girl-next-door Drew had been replaced by a humourless kid with the people skills of freddie Kruger. She didn't like that I had vouchers. Didn't like that I had a laser card too.Didn't like that I refused the insurance I could have with the product. I was the only customer in Argos but I wasn't feeling the love. It still needed a calendar to time the fitbit coming from the storeroom to front of shop. Like they were busy. Once outside and with a quick glance at the Garmin I knew it was serious. Would I make it to enniscorthy on time to pick up my daughter? Cue tense music....
I retraced my pedal strokes. Concrete roads. Check. Traffic lights. Check. Jump a truck? Check. Don't tell the missus but I jumped a concrete delivery truck and maxed out my gears at 73km/h. Avoided a suicidal pensioner in Oylegate. She only seemed to look left. French I assume. Shimmied a shite-fest of epic proportions thanks to a slurry carrying farmer and rode into enniscorthy with 3 minutes to spare. And brown in colour. Pretty.
My daughter beamed as I rolled in just as she finished up. My heart soared. Because I'd timetrialled like an animal for 40 minutes and felt like vomiting.
Lidl car park New Ross. 30 minutes later. Exit the car. Get a cramp akin to childbirth. Lean against the car screaming. All in a day's work. Kill two birds? Enjoy the spin? D'ya know what? I Did!!🤣😣
Beautiful. But not reality. No indeed, while a whole bunch of mad Spaniards juiced to the gills flung themselves around the B roads of southern Spain real life was being played out on an insignificant piece of blacktop between Enniscorthy and Wexford.
Back story. Cue the music....
I brought my daughter to enniscorthy for a tennis camp. I planned to go cycling whilst she belted backhands and drank Robinsons. The missus wanted a fitbit from a shop in Wexford so I thought I'd kill two birds and enjoy the spin. Little did I know....
I love headwinds. When you turn around they become your friends. There I was having my eyebrows reshaped by a howling hoor of a southerly and making as much headway as a brexit negotiator when I ran into roadworks. This wasn't some farty old few yards of tar or line-painting. Oh no, this was a one mile stretch of crazy one-way-only that had me ringing my psychologist before the biscuit-eating, hipster-bearded Neanderthal sign-man turned the lollipop to 'Go'. I was now time crunched. Don't tell the missus but I jumped a creamery truck, now set free and pedalled like a gurning goat in it's slipstream at 71km/h.
So far so good. I turned in towards Wexford town and hit the Flandrien concrete roads along by the river with panache. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum for an eternity.
Drew Barrymore. She was the spit of Drew Barrymore. In looks anyway. Alas the good-time, girl-next-door Drew had been replaced by a humourless kid with the people skills of freddie Kruger. She didn't like that I had vouchers. Didn't like that I had a laser card too.Didn't like that I refused the insurance I could have with the product. I was the only customer in Argos but I wasn't feeling the love. It still needed a calendar to time the fitbit coming from the storeroom to front of shop. Like they were busy. Once outside and with a quick glance at the Garmin I knew it was serious. Would I make it to enniscorthy on time to pick up my daughter? Cue tense music....
I retraced my pedal strokes. Concrete roads. Check. Traffic lights. Check. Jump a truck? Check. Don't tell the missus but I jumped a concrete delivery truck and maxed out my gears at 73km/h. Avoided a suicidal pensioner in Oylegate. She only seemed to look left. French I assume. Shimmied a shite-fest of epic proportions thanks to a slurry carrying farmer and rode into enniscorthy with 3 minutes to spare. And brown in colour. Pretty.
My daughter beamed as I rolled in just as she finished up. My heart soared. Because I'd timetrialled like an animal for 40 minutes and felt like vomiting.
Lidl car park New Ross. 30 minutes later. Exit the car. Get a cramp akin to childbirth. Lean against the car screaming. All in a day's work. Kill two birds? Enjoy the spin? D'ya know what? I Did!!🤣😣
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
Spring Sportif
As a first event of the year the Barrow 100 Sportif is a cracker. Helped by sunshine and seasonal cold, to all participants it feels like coming home. And that's just the sign-on! In reality it is different things to different people. We all want to shake off the carnage of Christmas and see where we stand.
However some of us want to complete, others compete, yet more want to delete. 100k is no joke. Just cycling that distance in one go takes it out of you. Add in trying to stay with 180 other humans, each and every one with a different viewpoint and goal and completing isn't a given. Competing is another kettle of fish. Some live on Zwift. Some do 15 hours a week. Some turn themselves inside out in the shed/ garage/ mancave doing ferocious efforts in the depths of Winter. Some just go cycling when they can. ALL arrive on February 10th with a hunger that no food will fix. Road hunger.
And what of delete? Last year's poor form. A change of club that brings pastures new. Past mistakes; Not enough food and drinks. Over/ under-dressed. Mistakes to be rectified, problems to be solved. Delete the past, evolve, learn.
Weather apps, surfers, old farmers and TV channels are scoured for the wind, temperature and moisture content of a three hour segment on a given Sunday. Your kitchen table begins to take the shape of a meteorology laboratory what with your apps and laptop. Makes Met Eireann look stone-age. Clothes choice is whittled down as weather patterns are confirmed. Saturday night, as your friends sink pints and flick peanuts in the air to catch like seals would a fish, you have your gear laid out in order of putting on. Tyres at requisite pressure [grippy/ not too slippy]. Salt in the bottle. Bananas and gels. Everything charged.
Thank God, out on the road all is forgotten. It's a meet and greet. A reunion on a grand scale. Platonic speed-dating. "Ah Jaysus how are you lad???", "Good my friend!", and we are all back together again in a social sense, moving up and down the lines like soldiers on the Somme. Then without further adieu the poop hits the fan. We turn towards a cutting wind that comes at us from the Comeragh mountains. It smells of ragged sheep and icicles. Conversation stops. All we hear is a headwind licking past our ears, parting our eye-brows and stretching what was a 200 metre, smiling, cycling snake into a one kilometre long road kill. By kilometre 25 you've got it or had it. This wasn't the plan. Neither was seeing full-timers or those back from Gran Canaria attack like there's a first place. The soup at the finish will be delicious but I don't think it's a prize. So the horse has bolted and what's left are 'riders' or 'hiders'. Riders keep pushing at the front causing momentum to move us all forward. Hiders sink into tiny gaps and shadows, unable to be up the road making the race. Instead they stay out of the wind, conserve energy and leave the work to others. They can fit their front wheel into the one inch of road you leave in the gutter, in order to arrive at the last few hills rested, 50 mile-phantoms. And the other riders, the ones that didn't make the split in the headwind; They are the day's real winners. A slog in a small group or solo is a religious experience akin to purgatory. You hope to make it to the finish but most of your day is suspended just above hell. Any old goat can hide. Real cyclists are the ones that look like ghosts at day's end.
Picturesque Inistioge is an oxymoron. Here is where grimaces and pulled faces and pure carnage constricts the best of us and hands us our hopes in a bag. Everyone feels the few kilometres of vertical. No jersey or wheels or gears or prayer prevents pain up there. Gravity turns your blood to gravy and your hopes to mush. Your incantations to God fall on deaf ears. It's your own tough if, instead of twelve o'clock mass you are waylaid on a hillside in South Kilkenny by your own short-comings. A decade of the rosary won't lift cramp or double-vision. But if you pray long enough you'll crest the hill and breathe again.
New Ross is a beautiful place. After 99 kilometres of self-inflicted mutilation, arriving at the town limits is akin to seeing the promised land. Or a Saharan mirage. Minutes later you are holding a group post-mortem with your similarly dead-legged friends. Wolfing down the prized soup and eating the weight of a Spanish climber in sandwiches. A wave of euphoria, the release of the endorphins of relief, and in no time you are bigging-up next year. And then you try to stand up....
However some of us want to complete, others compete, yet more want to delete. 100k is no joke. Just cycling that distance in one go takes it out of you. Add in trying to stay with 180 other humans, each and every one with a different viewpoint and goal and completing isn't a given. Competing is another kettle of fish. Some live on Zwift. Some do 15 hours a week. Some turn themselves inside out in the shed/ garage/ mancave doing ferocious efforts in the depths of Winter. Some just go cycling when they can. ALL arrive on February 10th with a hunger that no food will fix. Road hunger.
And what of delete? Last year's poor form. A change of club that brings pastures new. Past mistakes; Not enough food and drinks. Over/ under-dressed. Mistakes to be rectified, problems to be solved. Delete the past, evolve, learn.
Weather apps, surfers, old farmers and TV channels are scoured for the wind, temperature and moisture content of a three hour segment on a given Sunday. Your kitchen table begins to take the shape of a meteorology laboratory what with your apps and laptop. Makes Met Eireann look stone-age. Clothes choice is whittled down as weather patterns are confirmed. Saturday night, as your friends sink pints and flick peanuts in the air to catch like seals would a fish, you have your gear laid out in order of putting on. Tyres at requisite pressure [grippy/ not too slippy]. Salt in the bottle. Bananas and gels. Everything charged.
Thank God, out on the road all is forgotten. It's a meet and greet. A reunion on a grand scale. Platonic speed-dating. "Ah Jaysus how are you lad???", "Good my friend!", and we are all back together again in a social sense, moving up and down the lines like soldiers on the Somme. Then without further adieu the poop hits the fan. We turn towards a cutting wind that comes at us from the Comeragh mountains. It smells of ragged sheep and icicles. Conversation stops. All we hear is a headwind licking past our ears, parting our eye-brows and stretching what was a 200 metre, smiling, cycling snake into a one kilometre long road kill. By kilometre 25 you've got it or had it. This wasn't the plan. Neither was seeing full-timers or those back from Gran Canaria attack like there's a first place. The soup at the finish will be delicious but I don't think it's a prize. So the horse has bolted and what's left are 'riders' or 'hiders'. Riders keep pushing at the front causing momentum to move us all forward. Hiders sink into tiny gaps and shadows, unable to be up the road making the race. Instead they stay out of the wind, conserve energy and leave the work to others. They can fit their front wheel into the one inch of road you leave in the gutter, in order to arrive at the last few hills rested, 50 mile-phantoms. And the other riders, the ones that didn't make the split in the headwind; They are the day's real winners. A slog in a small group or solo is a religious experience akin to purgatory. You hope to make it to the finish but most of your day is suspended just above hell. Any old goat can hide. Real cyclists are the ones that look like ghosts at day's end.
Picturesque Inistioge is an oxymoron. Here is where grimaces and pulled faces and pure carnage constricts the best of us and hands us our hopes in a bag. Everyone feels the few kilometres of vertical. No jersey or wheels or gears or prayer prevents pain up there. Gravity turns your blood to gravy and your hopes to mush. Your incantations to God fall on deaf ears. It's your own tough if, instead of twelve o'clock mass you are waylaid on a hillside in South Kilkenny by your own short-comings. A decade of the rosary won't lift cramp or double-vision. But if you pray long enough you'll crest the hill and breathe again.
New Ross is a beautiful place. After 99 kilometres of self-inflicted mutilation, arriving at the town limits is akin to seeing the promised land. Or a Saharan mirage. Minutes later you are holding a group post-mortem with your similarly dead-legged friends. Wolfing down the prized soup and eating the weight of a Spanish climber in sandwiches. A wave of euphoria, the release of the endorphins of relief, and in no time you are bigging-up next year. And then you try to stand up....
Wednesday, January 16, 2019
Average Joe's Gym
Expecting an average Sunday spin to be, well... average, can be a mistake. I should have known when I passed a burning bin down town at 7am that it wasn't an average day. And then I got to thinking [cycling gives you serious time to think. Could be planning somebody's downfall, a full-blown argument with your nemesis, the plot of your novel, mentally pummeling an idjit in the workplace or... just shooting the breeze with nature....], sorry, I got to thinking, is there ever an average outing for a cyclist? Or for that matter, any endurance sport enthusiast?
I'm not blowing my own trumpet [now that would be an interesting sound!] but I'm above average. OK, not in the looks department. Nor talent, ability, intelligence or attitude.😣 BUT; I'm not a loser either. So how on earth is average Joe not average? I think being an average cyclist has raised me above the average! I'm munching porridge and glugging coffee while a large amount of lard-arteries are lying in bed floored by the excesses of draught beer, dead-calf-kebab-meat and probably keeping their eyes screwed tight lest they see the Chupacabra they brought home with them in a moment of alcoholic idiocy. I am sneaking out an hour before dawn to reboot my chip and get my brain in gear for whatever the future will bring.
I am also organised. GPS, lights, bottles, food, clothes; you name it, its charged or arranged. Coffee ground the night before too lest I wake a child and fail to escape to freedom. Even the squeaky bathroom door is left open in case it is heard. Sunday donuts complete with plates and glasses are out for the sprogs. My life might be chaos on ketamine but my biking is OCD [Obsessive Cycling Disorder].
And then there's my sensory faculties. Average? Nope! I'm alert to everything. Once it was that I saw the sights, heard the others in the group chatting and advising. I can still smell cotton jerseys and chamois cream and varying embrocation for your legs that went from mild through warm to Chernobyl. And now I'm switched on. I am above average because I'm NOT driving to the gym, my gym is the road. I'm a hate-figure, a smug git, cycling on roads belonging to cars and vans and impatient imbeciles. Imagine that! I'm above average because I make motorists think, react, respect. There's not much out there that can do that today. But I still have time to smell the Roundup, turned earth, slurry, spilt diesel, dead badgers and rain. I hear hidden running brooks, birds and the hum of milking parlours. And I feel; Sun on my skin. Cold air, rain on my bare shins... In fact I feel... ABSOLUTELY UNFREAKIN-BELIEVABLY ALIVE!!!!!!!!
Am I above average in your estimation yet??? What about day to day? I'm not awesome. Nobody is. But I'm striving. Cycling has given me a sense of humour. Mostly as a cyclist you'll end up laughing at yourself or someone else. Near death experiences make you (eventually) laugh at the grim reaper. A bunch of like-minded individuals shooting the breeze will inevitably lead to laugh-out-loud moments. Endorphins make everyone happy. So if I cycle vigorously and load up on them, I've basically been given the key to God's crackhouse, haven't I? If I try to make you laugh I'm just divvying out the goods.
A good friend said "energy makes energy". Bloody right! So when I'm out pounding the roads, trampling tarmac, ace-ing asphalt, I'm really a human perpetual motion machine, creating energy to get me through all the other challenges life flings. I'll never be that flat-on-my-butt dude that won't go outside with the kids. Cycling makes me want to exercise more. Thats above average. Most dudes my age have jelly for organs and tempranillo for blood. And soon their personality reverts to that negative, poor-mouth old-fart setting. An often irreversible affliction.
My shop of choice is a bike shop. The weather forecast is the only news I need. My friends talk about PSI, carbon weaves and watts. I shave my legs knowing it'll help fight infection if I fall. Not because I'm perverted. My chosen sport transcends age, place of birth, any class system, politics, creed or past. I am addicted to, beholden and sworn to my above average life. An ordinary life is extraordinary as a consequence. Come and join ordinary Joe's gym. It's free. It'll set you free. And it's anything, anything but average.
I'm not blowing my own trumpet [now that would be an interesting sound!] but I'm above average. OK, not in the looks department. Nor talent, ability, intelligence or attitude.😣 BUT; I'm not a loser either. So how on earth is average Joe not average? I think being an average cyclist has raised me above the average! I'm munching porridge and glugging coffee while a large amount of lard-arteries are lying in bed floored by the excesses of draught beer, dead-calf-kebab-meat and probably keeping their eyes screwed tight lest they see the Chupacabra they brought home with them in a moment of alcoholic idiocy. I am sneaking out an hour before dawn to reboot my chip and get my brain in gear for whatever the future will bring.
I am also organised. GPS, lights, bottles, food, clothes; you name it, its charged or arranged. Coffee ground the night before too lest I wake a child and fail to escape to freedom. Even the squeaky bathroom door is left open in case it is heard. Sunday donuts complete with plates and glasses are out for the sprogs. My life might be chaos on ketamine but my biking is OCD [Obsessive Cycling Disorder].
And then there's my sensory faculties. Average? Nope! I'm alert to everything. Once it was that I saw the sights, heard the others in the group chatting and advising. I can still smell cotton jerseys and chamois cream and varying embrocation for your legs that went from mild through warm to Chernobyl. And now I'm switched on. I am above average because I'm NOT driving to the gym, my gym is the road. I'm a hate-figure, a smug git, cycling on roads belonging to cars and vans and impatient imbeciles. Imagine that! I'm above average because I make motorists think, react, respect. There's not much out there that can do that today. But I still have time to smell the Roundup, turned earth, slurry, spilt diesel, dead badgers and rain. I hear hidden running brooks, birds and the hum of milking parlours. And I feel; Sun on my skin. Cold air, rain on my bare shins... In fact I feel... ABSOLUTELY UNFREAKIN-BELIEVABLY ALIVE!!!!!!!!
Am I above average in your estimation yet??? What about day to day? I'm not awesome. Nobody is. But I'm striving. Cycling has given me a sense of humour. Mostly as a cyclist you'll end up laughing at yourself or someone else. Near death experiences make you (eventually) laugh at the grim reaper. A bunch of like-minded individuals shooting the breeze will inevitably lead to laugh-out-loud moments. Endorphins make everyone happy. So if I cycle vigorously and load up on them, I've basically been given the key to God's crackhouse, haven't I? If I try to make you laugh I'm just divvying out the goods.
A good friend said "energy makes energy". Bloody right! So when I'm out pounding the roads, trampling tarmac, ace-ing asphalt, I'm really a human perpetual motion machine, creating energy to get me through all the other challenges life flings. I'll never be that flat-on-my-butt dude that won't go outside with the kids. Cycling makes me want to exercise more. Thats above average. Most dudes my age have jelly for organs and tempranillo for blood. And soon their personality reverts to that negative, poor-mouth old-fart setting. An often irreversible affliction.
My shop of choice is a bike shop. The weather forecast is the only news I need. My friends talk about PSI, carbon weaves and watts. I shave my legs knowing it'll help fight infection if I fall. Not because I'm perverted. My chosen sport transcends age, place of birth, any class system, politics, creed or past. I am addicted to, beholden and sworn to my above average life. An ordinary life is extraordinary as a consequence. Come and join ordinary Joe's gym. It's free. It'll set you free. And it's anything, anything but average.
Sunday, December 30, 2018
Baby food and some words rude...
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.
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.
Saturday, December 8, 2018
Random thoughts on how to approach life.
By all means eat the meatballs in IKEA but don't kid yourself that flat pack is good craic. 😥😥😥😥😥😥😥😥😥
Don't judge anyone by creed, colour or DNA. Judge by how comfortable they make you feel.🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔
Understand that the past can't last. Turn the page and act your age.🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓
Read. A lot. Don't apologise for preferring to turn pages rather than turn up.👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀
Wearing Superdry and Hollister to stand out and be different is irony at work.🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈
Not walking in the rain or wind is a sin against nature. Breathe in the ozone. Feel droplets in your ears and shiver.👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀
Eat cake, drink espresso. Reward yourself for some achievement unimagined yet.🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗
Make mistakes. But learn from them. Don't regret but don't repeat.😕😕😕😕😕😕😕😕
Unless you've fought in a war it's gonna take a long time to realise waking up in the morning shouldn't be taken for granted. ☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠
Love, luck and losers come in threes.😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍
Terrific highs are followed by horrific lows. Try to be the tea-light, not the flare.🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅
We all have faith. It could be faith in your lack of faith. It could be a sense of a god in everything around you or a faith in yourself. But none of us are truly faithless. 🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐
Life levels. Hardship comes to all. Often the pauper possesses riches in their hearts that no millionaires will experience. 🏰🏰🏰🏰🏰🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡
No one has it all. The supermodel won't like her toes, the streetsweeper will have a six-pack, the mogul might need stack-heels or the refugee's smile might light up a ship's deck.😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁
Death is a tarot card. Sometimes its carrying a scythe, sometimes its ending something in your way to a brighter future.💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀
Be prepared to be judged by people stupid enough not to get to know you. Expect to be accepted by the least likely of souls.😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈
Trust your gut. Its never wrong. 💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪
Three things in life bring out the truth. Alcohol. Children. Leather pants. Thankfully it's only possible to mix two of those at a time. 🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣
Manners aren't negotiable. Some people treat them like ancient runes yet to be deciphered. Others speak them fluently. 🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡
Be prepared to take your own advice eventually. You may have avoided it for decades, it may taste like ear wax... But you'll have to do it. 😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝
We all turn into our parents. Or a previous generation we didn't even know. Could be a bumpy ride. Could be a pleasure boat cruise. 🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖
Say thanks. There's bad s##t that passed us by we didn't even know about. Thanks. Thanks some more.
👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼
Pick and choose what twee life advice you take. And from what source. Could be a well meaning cherub hoping to change the world one person at a time. Could be the random brain farts of a total melt, more in need of advice than giving it out.😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎
Don't judge anyone by creed, colour or DNA. Judge by how comfortable they make you feel.🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔
Understand that the past can't last. Turn the page and act your age.🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓🤓
Read. A lot. Don't apologise for preferring to turn pages rather than turn up.👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀
Wearing Superdry and Hollister to stand out and be different is irony at work.🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈🙈
Not walking in the rain or wind is a sin against nature. Breathe in the ozone. Feel droplets in your ears and shiver.👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀👩🚀
Eat cake, drink espresso. Reward yourself for some achievement unimagined yet.🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗
Make mistakes. But learn from them. Don't regret but don't repeat.😕😕😕😕😕😕😕😕
Unless you've fought in a war it's gonna take a long time to realise waking up in the morning shouldn't be taken for granted. ☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠
Love, luck and losers come in threes.😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍
Terrific highs are followed by horrific lows. Try to be the tea-light, not the flare.🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅🔅
We all have faith. It could be faith in your lack of faith. It could be a sense of a god in everything around you or a faith in yourself. But none of us are truly faithless. 🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐
Life levels. Hardship comes to all. Often the pauper possesses riches in their hearts that no millionaires will experience. 🏰🏰🏰🏰🏰🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡🏡
No one has it all. The supermodel won't like her toes, the streetsweeper will have a six-pack, the mogul might need stack-heels or the refugee's smile might light up a ship's deck.😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁
Death is a tarot card. Sometimes its carrying a scythe, sometimes its ending something in your way to a brighter future.💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀
Be prepared to be judged by people stupid enough not to get to know you. Expect to be accepted by the least likely of souls.😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈
Trust your gut. Its never wrong. 💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪💪
Three things in life bring out the truth. Alcohol. Children. Leather pants. Thankfully it's only possible to mix two of those at a time. 🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣
Manners aren't negotiable. Some people treat them like ancient runes yet to be deciphered. Others speak them fluently. 🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡
Be prepared to take your own advice eventually. You may have avoided it for decades, it may taste like ear wax... But you'll have to do it. 😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝
We all turn into our parents. Or a previous generation we didn't even know. Could be a bumpy ride. Could be a pleasure boat cruise. 🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖
Say thanks. There's bad s##t that passed us by we didn't even know about. Thanks. Thanks some more.
👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼👼
Pick and choose what twee life advice you take. And from what source. Could be a well meaning cherub hoping to change the world one person at a time. Could be the random brain farts of a total melt, more in need of advice than giving it out.😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎
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