Crepuscular Commuting

This is how I feel most days on my commute. This isn't a rant, it's just rang true and I wanted to share it. It came from a piece by an Aussie cyclist.

"Every time I see a four-wheel-drive or a ute, I expect them to do the unexpected. I seek out eye-contact with oncoming motorists to see if they plan to turn across my path without warning. I keep away from parked cars, fearing I'll be "doored". No matter what speed I ride, my hands are poised above my brakes."

I have to say most drivers I have encountered on the Manchester roads are considerate but there's something about dark winter mornings which seems to make people drive like loons.I got to wondering what my 'riding state of mind' might be doing to my stress levels - I arrive at work all keyed-up and full of adrenalin..then sit a bit zombied at my desk half an hour later. Having said all this I enjoy my  commute as on my bike I have control over my arrival time, and it wakes my legs up and keeps them in nice condition.

Turning my back on my first love

Running. My default state of being. Cycling, my new game, my new mode of transport, the challenge to my girly lack of mechanical nous.
I had a stern word with myself at the beginning of May. I had conquered my injury goblin and returned to form, and chucked myself headlong down and up the hills around glossop in the hugely enjoyable midweek fell races the crazy folk of the Peaks usefully and enthusiastically lay on. I did well. But a nagging voice whispered caution. Triathletes are so called, because they tri hard to be good at sports they aren't naturally disposed to, in my case riding a bicycle fast.
My salvation came from two sources. One, the happy realisation that my fell running clubmates also enjoy a spin about t'hills on a fast bike. Not only that, we have a bona fide hardened cycling guru in our number. Rod has a fearsome reputation, so it was with a little trepidation I turned up for a 'social ride' one Saturday morning. All my fears were chucked out with the new shorts I had bought - yes it was still Winter in May - ten of us set off at a chatty pace for romiley and the fabled Policini cyclists cafe. The first major thing I learned was that riding uphill slowly in an easy gear is, well, easy. And nice. Then the whole peloton feeling kicked in. I felt safe, protected, supported, and special. Cars waited politely before passing us, or being waved and nodded on. I can imagine their occupants shaking their heads to one another, "look at those MAMILs, no hang on. That's a bird. Poor lass, oh lots of them are birds.."
Chatting and riding was also a totally new experience. Lovely. It's great to be inducted into a new tribe, and Rod did it just right. He was firm on the rules, which makes perfect sense on the roads, and enthusiastic and confidence-building when it came to technical skills - "go on, right up to her wheel, no Right Up..*pushes me along*..like that. *zoe does face of fear* ...etc.
Don't even get me started on Gilbert cake at Polocini.

So, the other factor. Now I come to it, I can't decide. It's either the weather, or the man I'm spending my time with, who's threatening to beat me in the BUPA ride end of June, but also well up for a date ride.
Thanks to these two things I ticked off two big ticks in May. First : I took Mathilde on the train to the Isle of Arran and rode up and down the coast on a mizzly gusty afternoon, all on my own. I got through it by imagining its much nicer than the wind Marianne Vos must have to ride into. Second tick: rode 40 miles, with Rod's Social Ride Club, including the climb from Ladybower up to Snake Summit, during which I came over all Froomey and shot off up the slope to catch a lone veteran. Silly me, didn't save any matches and blew up on the final pull and let a boy beat me to the top.
So, I feel more prepared for triantics, I feel I can ride properly, I'm getting the hang of the gears, the balance, the shoes, the bollockings for having a mucky bike (sorry Rod) but now there's the pressing matter of the water and its frigidity. Aquathlon time is two weeks off, and my fingers and toes have still not felt the brisk chill of the Quays.
Plates in the air. Always with the plates.

Metamorphosis

The new toy, Mathilde, my red entry-level road bike from Decathlon joined my evolving new personal life in January. The last few years have seen me become fascinated with the sport of road and sometimes track cycling. Injury had forced my hand (legs) into cycling and swimming in the autumn and after a few conversations with trusted rider friends and Twitter training mates I made the switch from flip-flops to asics gels (nice running analogy from @halfflashman)

Since then its been a fairly slow curve getting to know how and what I can and can't do on Mathilde. Slow because, well, I don't understand anything with moving parts and have the spatial awareness of a dead twig. I can proudly say I have a multi-tool ,can adjust the seat position and get the wheels on and off but heaven help me the first time I get a puncture. I also now understand gears. Yes its taken me 36 years.

Here are a few 'novice cyclist' musings, I expect they'll make the hardened roadies laugh and cringe at my ineptitude.

- I now look out the window of motor vehicles down into the kerb, assessing the road surface and mentally noting any 'mordor' type areas.
*I even said out loud 'wow look at this well smooth road' to the bewilderment of my running buddy recently

- putting your right foot down for all the red lights gives you a worrying ache. Must work on bilaterality. See also swimming.

- the nasty ache in your undercarriage only lasts a few weeks

- a wrongly adjusted saddle will give you a nasty ache in a very personal place

- I don't care if a car thinks I'm going too slowly/taking the wrong line/ am merging right too soon. I'm following the highway code. As yet have only been beeped twice though. So thank-you kind drivers in south east Manchester, so far we are not at war.
-I am becoming more au fait with the non-commute use of mathilde. To the pub! To the salon! To Morrison's! Yes, I am a mobile, independent lady. In a mini skirt. And gore-tex. Sexy.

- related to the above. It's comfortable and practical to ride a road bike in a short dress and tights. Summer is going to present some challenges. Big pants? However, for the dirty salty rainy commute I sleepily pull on leggings and baselayer, roll up the mini-dress and stash the girlyshoes at work.

- racing is great. You Don't Have To Stop!! Only done a small club Duathlon so far but woooe I enjoyed the chance to learn about mathilde's cornering and handling. Must learn more

Finally. Gotta get proper pedals for racing.

My next job is to increase my road mileage. Anyone up for a ride?

2013 - The right time to run

A quick post from a jubilant runner. Why so jubilant? The time was right today at noon. The conditions were perfect. Pearly, luminescent sky with a few broody clouds. Still, cold dark canal reflecting the arches and the sky. Calm, quiet, crisp air. A healthy cohort of other runners, from the pink-clad ladies group, to the trying-hard indie kid who restarted guiltily as I approached,  to the stony-faced wiry veterans (nod) in their woolly hats. All smiling inside because we'd chosen to pack the kit, clear the diary and sit in afternoon meetings a little achey today.

When else is it the right time to run? I know we can't always run at the Right Time. Life gets in the way, and the snatched half-hours in the dark on the streets, or the miserable sleet-blasted slog along the familiar hateful paths with a runny nose are the ones we are proud of having done when we cross the line.

The Right Time runs make us elated though. 6am in June, avoiding the heat and flies, watching the dew evaporate off the grass accompanied by orchestras of songbirds. 5.30pm in October counting the full buses of new-term kids and students who aren't getting home any quicker, or logging a training run. 9.30 on a Sunday in February, icicles tinkling to the ground, mist swirling and the trails all to yourself. 9.30 pm in July on the moors watching the sun sink over your working life. These are the runs which keep us going. I hope to run lots of them this year. Happy 2013.

An Impulsive Holiday

Last minute. Really last minute. I think I booked my trip about 14 days before flying - a conversation in the canteen at work, an idea sown, money waiting to be spent. Four nights in New York meeting up with a friend on a 2 week stay there.

I packed woolly, expecting biting cold and ice. I packed my running gear, despite being in rehab for a stress fracture. Even a mile run in New York would count as a big tick to me. I packed Cadburys Fruit and Nut for my landlady I found through airbnb,and Weetabix for my friend's ex-pat host.

I flew via Dublin and was treated to the luxury of clearing immigration in Ireland. The full stern American border guard experience but without the queues and hard questions. At least, I thought it was easy. Arrived at jfk and sailed through domestic arrivals.

So began what I expect they call a whistle-stop trip. Met giuseppe at Columbus Circle and followed him, drowsy and wide-eyed, through streets with familiar names. Saw a big Christmas tree, a skating rink, another skating rink. Rode the subway back to Brooklyn and went out, to a benefit for animals affected by Hurricane Sandy. I know, really. It was a friend of a friend situation and it was a real two men and a dog audience. Beers were good though, and ramen was good afterwards. The next day I did my run. I got my 'running in a foreign city' grin out. I didn't care that it was drizzling and I could only run for 20 minutes. I even ran up a small hill and then recklessly down it on dead leaves and mud. Fort Greene Park I salute you.
The next morning was spent excitedly and untidily purchasing tickets to Smashing Pumpkins.
The afternoon was spent mooching around town with the three wiseguys. One, my friend giuseppe - sicilian, photographer, warm and funny, late every time we met. His friends Marc - baby-faced, cheeky and downright dirty, slight stutter, indieboy handsome. And Chris - professional photographer, floppy foppy hair, another indieboy handsome with a need for affirmation a mile wide. We shopped, correction, they shopped, whilst I looked on and gave opinion on coats, jeans, ipads. We never made it to the MOMA due to Chris' marathon coat-buying mission, but I enjoyed it thoroughly. And we all agreed Chris looked great in his new coat.
We arrived at 9 at the immense and shiny-new Barclays arena (yes that Barclays bank) to find the headliners already underway. One ten-dollar beer down and my eyes were heavy. The music was heavy too, so I fended off sleep until the second encore at which point Marc shook me awake. How undignified. I came round enough to walk to the Brooklyn Public House to enjoy a Weihenstephaner weisse and set the world to rights relationship-wise all round the table.
I attempted a lie in then failed. Rockefeller day. Giuseppe had a yen to photograph from the top.  I'll go for that I said, two englishers with vertigo and hangovers on top of a high building, great idea. The fog and drizzle had cleared and the views were amazing. We both held it together, high-fives us. Back home for a power nap and then the hotly anticipated Brooklyn Brewery tour. Brooklyn lager is my absolute favourite beer for any occasion, and giuseppe was curious enough to come along. Walking through Williamsburgh I realised I had seriously missed out on the hipster district, but a mission was underway. The beers we tasted were the brewers choice types. Interesting. We met a couple from Ashton and giuseppe had a small world moment when he realised he'd dated a friend of theirs at college. I bought souvenirs and we drank Sorachi beer and ate jerky. We then headed to little Italy where I got pizza, coffee, pastries and indigestion. And a massive childish hump. I tried to atone for my petulence by buying a ridiculous.expensive round at a craft beer posing joint but that only made my tummy worse. Taxi!

Final day with the wiseguys, who by now were banned by me from speaking in a faux-mobster accent, we met at lunchtime for the MOMA. I have to add that I fit in another 20min turn around the now sunny and bustling park before heading uptown. MOMAs 5th floor collection is a feast of colour and familiar works. I discovered that Munch and Klee's other stuff is very very pleasing, and the waterlilies becalm a room charmingly. The rest does fall into 'modern art' quite firmly. We skimmed through all that guff, and I bid farewell to the boys on 5th avenue.

Beer and burger with my effusive and interesting landlady wrapped up the holiday for me. The only thing left for me to do was walk over the Brooklyn bridge to Lower Manhattan. My final morning dawned another shining crisp day which made it a perfect walk. Battery Park was disappointingly under renovations and the queues for Ground Zero put me off. I walked back, marvelling at the well maintained cycle-and-footway which I totally missed on the outward trip,and had a lovely lunch of soup near my lodgings at the brilliantly-named baguetteaboutit.

I had no preconceived ideas about New York and nothing I really wanted to do, bar run a little and visit the brewery. Manhattan is much like any other city centre but bigger, shinier and too familiar given the amount we see it on tv. New Yorkers are to a man polite and smart-looking, and Brooklyn seems a cool place to live. I felt tired from day 2 onwards, I've never flown west and experienced what one understands to be the worst form of jetlag before. Now I feel super super tired sat at Dublin airport waiting to complete the final leg home. I need a holiday.

Ps I'll put some pictures up on this soon...boarding flight!

Replacement therapy, or, happiness through injury

Injury is part of the whole deal for runners and anyone who tells you it isn't so is either very lucky or doesn't train enough. From minor tendonitis to major tears and breaks, the spectre looms over all training plans, archly whispering caution, the devil to ambition and ability's angel.
I'm not going to use this post to whine about how much I miss running. Six weeks ago my foot exploded whilst on a flat road route. A sudden bloom of heat and pain which I foolishly ran on for another 15 minutes. Diagnosing a stress fracture I now know isn't easy but a process of elimination led there. Thanks to Global Therapies
Due to my four months off last summer I was able to bypass the rage and gloom stage (well, mostly!) and once able to actually walk without wincing (about 3 weeks in case you're wondering) launched into my plan. The aim: keep the engine running at full capacity whilst strengthening my core and trying as much as possible to keep my legs in condition.
Motivating myself to swim is a bit of a challenge now openwater's out of the question but improving my stroke is some kind of carrot, and the meditative calm and silence of the water goes a little way to replacing the wind on my face and the scenery spooling by.
And then there's this years newest game - the bike. Twenty years since I last rode on the roads and its taken about a month to feel anything like comfortable. I'm not going to rant about traffic or car drivers, I've not experienced that yet. I am going to rave about how good it feels when I get to the die-straight flat last two miles of my ride home from work and my second-hand ladies folding bike becomes a charging yellow Pinarello. I can almost feel the sideburns growing.
Suffice to say, the triathlon is becoming more and more of a reality.
So to the point. It's tragic and horrid to be disabled from doing the very thing which defines you. Settling for second best can be a stack of fun though, deftly kidding the inner sheepdog that its getting its exercise whilst feeling good about learning a new skill.
I'm now taking my first baby steps in my Nikes, looking forward to running next season, though I'll be listening to that spectre. I think it has some kind of grudging respect for me now.

A different kind of clubbing

'we off clubbing tonight?' - a common question between me and my mate Steve, on a Tuesday. He once actually thought I meant, are we going to a hip music event at a dingy ex-mill or warehouse. I meant, are we off to train with the running club.
Early this year I decided to dip my toe in the water of running with a club. I've always been a lone wild runner, enjoy training with friends now and then. But the arguments for were good - directed speed training isn't something many people can do alone, I take my hat off to anyone who can do the right amount of reps at the right pace without someone shouting at them. Other runners swore they got loads faster after joining, etc.
I was on the fence. I tried it anyway.
Half a year down the line I  can't say I'm a dedicated member. I make maybe 3 sessions a month out of a possible 8. At the beginning it was odd, no-one told me what to do, I didn't know anything about the rules, or whether to get a club vest, no-one mentioned any events.
After a while it changed, after I entered a few races I knew some others would be going to. It's fun to be part of a team, us versus the ones in the other-coloured vests. Then I got all giddy and joined one of the other-coloured vest clubs. I now have one club for road-running and one for fell-running, and I'm just about managing to keep up both.
Being with a club has changed the way I train. I used to train in the gaps in the days before breakfast, on the way home from work, on lunchbreaks. Now I can do two fun sessions with people I know in the evenings. However I now value and covet my 'alone' runs of a weekend or a lunchtime Headphones in, thoughts going along by themselves. I am essentially a lone wolf with a sociable bent, which is a bit schizophrenic but there you are.
So this summer's been different and I did get faster, new 5k and 6 mile PBs and lots of messing about in the hills, though I attribute the speed to the hills I've run up rather than the track laps. I'm now on another enforced rest due to a new injury but I'm looking forward to donning my coloured vests again in the Spring.