Author: Buck

Last night I was trying to catch up on all my happenings but was too tired and had to go to bed after updating my training. There is other stuff; for instance I found out that the race results for the Marazion Middle Distance triathlon, although displayed as ****** in the results boxes, tell you your time if you hover your cursor over them. Joy! So I now know that even given the very hilly and windy course, with no motivation and not really trying (just finishing with my head in that state was an achievement) I did the fifty six mile ride in 3.19:56 and the run in 1.48:37. To put that in perspective; for a flat race I was only expecting a time of about 3.40 and my time for the Warrington half marathon (same distance, but flat and  without the ride before it) was 1.43.38. That was a very pleasant surprise.   Today I got a nasty surprise though; six weeks until the Outlaw! Aaaaarrgggghhhhh! Panic!   In other news, we went out for a quiet meal for Wendy’s fiftieth. It was godawful! Shellie’s in town. The food was mediocre served with pretentions of adequacy (though the pudding was nice) but the worst thing was the owner. She felt the need to come and talk, loudly, about how the pizza place had stolen her idea of making someone stand around in a sandwich board to advertise her cafe. “And I said this to the mayor, and the mayor said ‘her family’s been here for generations and done this and done that for this town’.” There is never a Kalashnikov to hand when you most need one, is there? Grrrrr.   Wendy did apparently have a wonderful meal with her chums from work though. Some really fancy Indian restaurant in Manchester. One of her work mates hails from Pakistan or has roots their or some such. Speaks the lingo, anywho. It was she who knew the best place to eat, set it all up, picked Wendy up, made sure Wendy didn’t pay for her meal, etc. Seems like a really good egg. For her troubles she got abused in Urdu for sitting with English people and for not covering her head. She was in ethnic kit when she picked Wendy up. Funny old world.   I have seen a (n agency) job advertised that said ‘new drivers considered’. Observe me not holding my breath.   At work we are having a bit of a to-do. The rota for de-kit is pretty shit. When I went back in full time I was told I would be on permanent 6-2, but only get every fourth weekend off (although it is a long one, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday) the other three weeks you just get days off in the week or a Saturday or a Sunday. Within the short time I’ve been back in there it has changed to one weekend off every six weeks. Which is even shitter. The lads […]

First off, let me chronicle the heroic nature of my training, and the heroic fails therein. Swim; I’ve been for one swim since I came back of holiday! One. Count it. I have a lot of reasons why I didn’t swim, but only one actual swim. I’ve had everything from getting lost (obviously) the tide being in, going out for a meal, to today’s emergency ‘phone call off  our Robyn (my niece) as soon as I walked through the door from work. Today I was going to go to a coached swim session at Lymn with Warrington Triathlon Club (of which I am now a member) at 4.30. As I say, I walked through the door to hear that our Bryn (my nephew) needed picking up from our Lisa’s (his mum’s/ my sister’s) to do an emergency bit of dog taxi-ing. Apparently Bryn’s big-arse German Shepherd dog had playful bitten the arse out of someone’s tracksuit bottoms, invalidating the dog-sitters offer to look after him while all of the above went on holiday to Bulgaria. This news broke at about 2pm, they had the taxi to the airport booked for 4.30. So I was drafted in as no-one else has a car license. Go it sorted with twenty minutes to spare! No stress there for our Lisa, then. My point being; I have been trying to swim but shit keeps happening.   Ride; I’ve had mixed fortunes with the bike as well. I managed to crack my old speed on short (32 miles) hilly rides. A quick nip up to Helsby, with a detour up Frodsham hill was only marginally slower than the previous time to Helsby without the ascent. I need to work on endurance as well as speed so on my last day off I went for a ride to Morecombe. This should have been fifty eight miles there then just turn around and come home. It took me just under three and a half hours to get there. I pulled over for (literally) two minutes to show some malt loaf down my throat and have a drink of water (and rest my aching arse!) only to find the pocket on the back of my cycling top had malt loaf but was without my waterproof jacket.It had fallen out on route. Bugger. It was raining on and off all day. The last thing I wanted was to get soaked with three and a half hours of riding ahead of me. Having no option I set off back, hoping for the best. As I was approaching the seven hour point I suddenly noticed I was nowhere near where I thought I was supposed to be. I should have been practically home. As it was I had to just pick up a road sign for Wigan then follow signs for Warrington from there. An extra hour and a quarter ride! When I’d already given my all. Seriously gutted. I reckon I did well over one hundred and thirty miles. At […]

Cornwall is lovely. I really would like to retire there. Happy association I expect, as it’s where Wendy used to live, and where I spent the first three and a half years when we got back together. About a gazillion years ago. I would like to move there now, never mind retire. That was an early version of my career path in point of fact; get my truck licenses, get a job driving for the Royal Mail, then transfer to Cornwall. Which would solve the main problem, no jobs or money in Cornwall. That worked out well. Well, we trotted off to Cornwall in the mighty Micra. Us, bags, sports kit, and a push bike all wedged into its TARDIS like interior. We had a fair journey down, Wendy only screamed at me once for my driving. Good run. Our chalet was tiny but more than adequate for our needs. Two seats, a (tiny!) telly, heater, cooker, etc, a bog with shower, and bedroom. What more do you need on a holiday? The idea is to be out doing stuff, the chalet’s just  somewhere to lay your head at night. Here it is: See? Perfectly adequate. And they welcome pets, apparently. After the fail-fest of the Saturday we went to St Ives, being on the opposite coast it was sheltered from the wind. We didn’t realize it, but the sun was strong. By the time we went back to the chalet I was red as a lobster across my forehead. I spent the rest of the week rubbing peeling skin off! But it is lovely; Just look at that sea! Go on, look at it! How clear it is, and the different colours. Tempting, non? Sat here in the warmth, with no danger of having to get in it, I’m tempted. We ate out every night. Mostly just pub grub, but it tasted better when you are looking at this while you are eating: The one exception was ‘The Boatshed’ restaurant in Penzance. That was a bit pricey (compared to pub grub, Wendy assures me it wasn’t dear, £70 for two of us, three courses, with –pop- drinks) but bloody hell! Best food I’ve ever put in my mouth. Absolutely divine. If you are ever any further south than the Brum you have to pop in! Say I sent you. We went to the Eden Project (motto: We are ordinary people trying to change the world. A modest raison d’être, I thought.) which is worth a visit. A visit. Weird to see house plants in their native conditions, in the shade of the tree canopy in a steamy jungle. They must love the arid, central heated houses they are doomed to inhabit. Some interesting stuff to see in the flesh, like bananas hanging in bunches and this beast; Other than that, we went to Trebah Gardens, a skilfully arranged garden. Not in a formal style but as you walk through trees and bushes you come across sudden windows across the […]

…Prepare to fail. I should have known it wasn’t as easy as the sum of it’s parts, or that indoors adequacy was equivalent to outdoor competence. I’m talking about my half Ironman distance triathlon, by the way. The reason we booked our week’s holiday in Cornwall. We trotted off down there on the Friday, arrived in plenty of time, found the booking-in site for the race eventually and I was all set. I got up at 5.20 on the Saturday morning, had a quick breakfast, woke Wendy to zip me in to my wetsuit and set off to the race. My first ever triathlon. My first ever sea swim. My first ever swim in a wetsuit. It writes itself, really. What the hell did I expect was going to happen?   We all made our way down to the beach. It was freezing cold. The wind was really blowing, straight off the sea. It was  a rough sea, and the wind was whipping up a nasty ‘chop’ (as we seasoned triathletes/ salty sea dogs say). Still, no worries. It’s only water. 7 am. We’re off! I followed everyone else into the sea. First was the shock of the coldness of the water which fair takes your breath away. Soldier on, everyone else is in the same boat. Face down in the freezing cold water. Stroke, stroke, so cold you put your head up to gasp for breath SMACK, a wave hits you in the face, instead of air you’ve got a mouth full of salt water. Spit it out in panic. Head right out of the water, gasp for breath, panicking badly. Another wave. Half a breath. Try to put face down, can’t breath, shock of the cold water, no air, head right up for air, wave in face, up nose, in mouth. Try to swim on, head up, every wave hitting you in the face. Shocked, confused, scared and really panicking. Try to carry on. Can’t breath, can’t stop the panic, start to think I really am going to drown.   I quit.   I just couldn’t go on. I was devastated. Beaten at the first hurdle. One of the canoeists pulled me back to shore. In front of the spectators who’s turned up to watch the triathletes. The shame. I was plodding back, utterly disgusted with myself, just going to pick my bike and running kit up and go home when one of the race marshals said I could do the other two events if I wanted. I thought I might as well but  then took off my wetsuit and was freezing cold and soaking wet in my tri-suit. My morale was at a low ebb so I thought ‘screw that, I’m going home’. There were two other chaps who got pulled out of the drink. One of them said he was thinking of just going home and doing some training, but seeing he was here he might as well do it in the other two disciplines. It […]

It is but five days until my first real race of the year; my half Ironman distance triathlon. I’m starting to get really nervous now! I’ve been trying to get some practise in my wetsuit doing open water swims. I failed on three consecutive weeks to make it to the Mersey-Tri Salthouse docks swim. Today, being my day off, was supposed to be a sure thing. I found a clean beach, gently sloping, and recommended for swimming by the Clean Beach Guide. I checked the high tides and the route yesterday.I dropped Wendy off at work this morning whilst wearing my wetsuit (akin to childbirth in degree of comfort) then drove straight there. I should point out it’s not some fashion/fetish thing, the suit is so tight you can’t zip it up on your own, hence Wendy had to strap me in before going to work. Anyway, I took a longer route (down the M53) as this avoided a toll and took me straight to where I wanted to be. Somehow I managed to get funnelled into the toll. That was a moment of panic as I hadn’t taken any money out with me and I couldn’t turn around. Luckily I found a few quid in the door of the mighty Micra. Trusty steed. When I got there the tide was fully in. The chart said I had at least another hour. But no, the waves were up to the land and pounding over the barriers. Bollocks. No shallow water swim there, just a brief dashing against the rocks then drowning. I gave it a miss.   So it’s five days until the race and I’ve still not done an open water swim/ swam in a wetsuit. Joy. No pressure.   When I get back from Cornwall I am going to have to bite the bullet and join (actually go to) a triathlon club. Warrington Tri is on my doorstep. I need coaching and people to push me. The trouble is, I don’t want to go because I’m too crap. If everyone else is swimming at twice my speed I am going to feel an arse. But I’m never going to get up to speed without coaching. Pride swallowing/ embarrassment accepting mode.   Looking ahead, I have found my first new challenge for next year. Marathons are passé, and a proper, branded Ironman is inevitable, but how’s this for challenging and fresh? A Fred Whitton. It’s a one hundred and twelve mile cycling sportive (group ride/race) around the lake district, designed to kill you it seems. Here is the graph of elevations. Read it and weep. I am!   When I went for that abortive ride in the Lakes a few weeks ago I did it from right to left, over Wrynose, to the bottom of the valley then rode back in shame. Look at the ascent of Hardknott in their direction (left to right, obviously) it’s vertical! And that’s after you’ve completed one hundred miles of killer hills/ mountains! […]