All posts by Andy Todd

Andrew

My First Triathlon – The London Triathlon (Andrew)

Gordon Ramsay tried to kill me. Not once, not twice, but three times.

You’ve got to admire his determination.

We’d booked Sunday lunch at his then three Michelin star restaurant at Claridges. When we booked it, I said “no nuts – I’m allergic”. When we arrived, the Maître D asked if I had any allergies. I said, “yes, nuts.” He said, “we’ll make sure there’s no nuts on the plate.”

And then served me hazelnuts as part of my starter. Then more nuts from my main. And then, despite twice saying, “I don’t eat nuts!”, I was served a desert with some crunchy bits artistically scattered over the top. “Are those nuts,” I asked. The waiter said, “no”, then looked at them again. “I’ll ask the chef” and he took away the plate – and came back without the crunchy ‘nutty’ bits…

Afterwards I wrote to Gordon Ramsay to complain. The big man himself wrote back. “I’m very sorry that…” and then the letter went blank for half page before “yours sincerely, signed Gordon Ramsay”.

And all I could think was how many complaints does he get that he doesn’t even read the complaints letters to check what he’s apologizing for? But it did give me the perfect space to write my own apology in the space.

“I’m very sorry that I am a big twat, yours sincerely, signed Gordon Ramsay”

Thanks, Gordon!

Which was a bit harsh as I do like Gordon Ramsay because he got me into triathlons because he was competing in the first triathlon I tried.  In fact, he was only a couple of bikes away in transition.  And I remember reading that he used to get up at 5am to train and I thought, “well, if he can do it at 5am then it’ll be easy for me as I can run during the day!”.

I was so, so wrong…

I was working in London at the time and I’d entered the London Triathlon. I’d entered as a team and I agreed to run while my friend, Graham, would swim and a girl we knew from work, Sally, would cycle. It seems simple. He’d swim. She’d ride. I’d run. What could go wrong?

First, Graham had never swum outside. He was a strong swimmer. Had swum for his university but only ever in a pool. He borrowed a wet-suit and was near the front when he came out of the water. Then a man told him, “you need to take your wet-suit off”.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“You need to strip out your wet-suit and carry it to transition”.

“But I don’t have any trunks on!”

It hadn’t occurred to him that he might want to wear swim trunks. He thought a wet suit was enough.

“But you were borrowing it,” I said later. “Did you not want to wear trunks for a borrowed wet-suit?”

“I never thought about it,” he said.

“Clearly!”

I was watching in transition as he went from first to near last arguing with the race marshal about how much of the wet-suit he could keep on while not disqualifying himself from the race. Eventually, with legs pulled up and top pulled down and waddling towards us in what now looked like the Michelin man’s rubber pants, we started the bike race – and Sally admitted she’d never ridden a bike before in the UK.

She was South African, so that was okay, she knew how to ride on the left hand side of the road. But she’d been in the UK for four years so was actually admitting that she hadn’t trained at all. Not even to sit on her bike. A ladies bike. With side saddle and all.

We went from near last, to last.

And then I ran. The easy part. Though by this point Gordon Ramsay had gone home hours before.

And I ran. And I ran. And I kept going faster thinking “I can catch up with the man in second last place”.

And then I cam back to transition and thought: “that was quick and I’m glad this is over”.

Only to find that I was running laps and had three more laps to run.

D’oh!

I hadn’t checked the course at all.

Needless to say, we didn’t rise up the ranks, I started last and finished last.

Then, to cap it all, we found out the London Underground wouldn’t let bikes on the tube and I had to cycle Sally’s bike all the way back from Canary Wharf to West Hampstead because Sally swore never to ride again.

And I got lost and ended up in Wembley.

But, because Gordon Ramsay was doing it, we swore (no pun intended!) to come back the following year and do it right because “if that twat off the telly can do it, then we can do it too!”

Andrew

Ice Skating For Dafties (Andrew)

What is the point of ice skating?

Apparently, ice skating started back when cavemen decided to cross a frozen expanse by gliding across it by strapping bones to their feet – and that’s where it should have ended.

First Caveman: Dave – what are ya doing, mate?
Second Caveman: I’m using the bones of a woolly mammoth to reduce the friction between the sole of my feet and the ice of this here expanse.
First Caveman: Aye, Dave, I can see how you might want to reduce the friction in order to move faster by achieving an optimal glide but…
Second Caveman: What, Sebastian?
First Caveman: YER STRAPPING A BONE TO YER FOOT YA CREEPY WEIRDO!!!!

Yet they all joined in and didn’t stop, not even when Dave went out in the ice and fell through into the icy water.

Which is why I hesitate with ice skating. No sport should involve possible death-traps!

Unless…

Torvil and Dean may have got a perfect score for shoogling about on ice, but how much better would it be, if, two minutes into Bolero, instead of standing up, Jayne Torvill caught a sea trout with her mouth after falling through the rink?

Which isn’t to say I don’t like ice skating. I can see how strong and athletic you have to be to leap into the air, spin three times and then land on one leg while simultaneously doing the Floss. I can see that. But…

I hate ice skating. Or, to be specific, I hate me ice skating. Other people doing it is okay. It’s just not for me.

First, I can’t ice skate. Or skate. Or even stand. I fall over. A lot. So much, that spectators start to ask if I’m okay as I try and make my way round the ring, clutching the side and with an expression of pure terror.

I don’t get it. I know there’s a technique to skating but, whatever it is, I don’t have it. I just fall. And fall. And fall again.

And, what worse, knowing that I’ll fall, I went ice skating at the weekend and spent the whole time thinking “don’t fall on your left knee, that’s a bit sore, try and protect it. Just don’t fall!”

And I didn’t.

Well, fall on my left knee.

I fell on my right.

CRACK.

And now I not only hate ice skating, I have a massive bruise on my right knee.

And now, not only can I still not skate, I can’t run either.

I hate ice skating.

Andrew, Challenge Roth

New Year’s Resolution (Andrew)

Goals are meant to be SMART.

  • Specific – target a specific area for improvement.
  • Measurable – quantify or at least suggest an indicator of progress.
  • Assignable – specify who will do it.
  • Realistic – state what results can realistically be achieved, given available resources.
  • Time-related – specify when the result(s) can be achieved.

Which is where most new year resolution’s fail. Resolutions are never SMART or smart. My resolutions involve

  • scoring a hat tick in the Scottish Cup final.
  • winning a gold medal at the Olympics.
  • do the floss.

Since I’m too old now for any of these to actually happen I’ve already failed my new year resolutions. They were DUM goals.

  • Daft
  • Unrealistic
  • Mad

But aren’t DUM goals the best kind? Who knows what you can do unless you set yourself a completely unrealistic, definitely daft, probably mad goal? Columbus wouldn’t have crossed the ocean, Neil Armstrong wouldn’t have stood on the moon unless someone somewhere had said to themselves “you know what, I can do this!”.

And most of the times you fail. But in the failing you’ll probably do much more than you ever would have done with a SMART goal because realistic goals are boring. That’s why, for this year, my goal is to WIN Challenge Roth.

Now, the last time I tried an Ironman distance race I completed it in 15 hours. Now the winning time at Challenge Roth might be half that at 7 hours 46 minutes, but that only means I need to go twice as fast. And, last time I did an Ironman, I stopped for a sandwich halfway through the bike course. That’s already 15 minutes saved, if I eat it on the bike.

And I’m not very good at getting out of my wetsuit. I really struggle with getting my legs out once the wet suit bunches up around my ankles. At Challenge Roth, they have wetsuit assistants who help you get changed. That’s an extra five minutes.

Now, I just need to find another 7 hours and 20 minutes and I’ll be on the podium!

So, this year I have set myself the challenge of winning Challenge Roth. And while I know the chances of me winning are quite small, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. Because I have a goal. A DUMB goal. And that’s the best goal of all!

Andrew

Watching Stuff 2018 (Andrew)

As move stars become telly stars, and telly stars become movie stars, and films become 20 part series culminating in Avengers: Infinity Series Finale War, I feel justified in combining favourite telly and favourite films into one this year.

Also, I watch them on the same sofa, so I’m including them in the same category! 🙂

Best Programme About Digging a Hole

Better Call Saul spent most of the year rock blasting an underground meth lab in Albuquerque but The Americans had almost an entire episode dedicate to digging up a coffin in tedious, tedious minutes until… well… watch it. Also, if you ever need to pack a dead spy into a suitcase then The Americans shows you how to meet your Ryanair baggage allowance with a foot to spare.

Best Film

Mandy, which is both unwatchable and something I never want to sit through again but also the one film this year that made me think: “I’ve not seen that before!”. Nic Cage. Heavy metal. A bag of cocaine? Demons! A DIY axe! Ken Barlow’s son’s penis?! The apocalypse???

Best B-Movie

Shout out to the old school action of Braven but the best b-movies have a rock solid plot and a brilliant bad guy and Better Watch Out had both. A film so good, if you google the reviews you’ll find many call it sick, awful and one of the worst films of last year. Which is all you need to know because the best b-movies get the worst reviews. (Also see Aquaman).

Favourite film

Your best film is never your favourite film. Your favourite film is the one you watch again and again. This year, there was only one film I watched twice (to go with the once I watched it last year as well). Superstar: Never Stop Never Stopping. Brilliant. Unless, like Lesley, you hate Andy Samberg then this film will be called Superstar: Please Stop!

Best Thing I Haven’t Finished Watching Yet

The Haunting of Hill House.

Best Thing I Saw All Year

No contest. The Leftovers. The first series has good moments but the second and third take everything from six series of Lost and said what if we remade Lost with all the single episode stories about different characters, with a whole dollop of religion, fantasy, conspiracy, an island (Australia) and a random kangaroo instead of a polar bear – but actually had an ending? Best thing all year (except for Andy Samburg singing The Bin Laden song so I’ve got a clip of that instead).

 

 

 

 

 

Andrew

Music 2019 (Andrew)

Someone told me that you lose interest in music when you get to 40. Can’t remember who it was, can’t remember why we were talking about it, but, it stayed with me. I love music. And when I heard it I thought: “Not me, grandad, I’ll still be buying CD’s and tapes when I’m 100!”

I was wrong. I haven’t bought music in 10 years – thank you, Mr Internet! And, apologies to all those struggling bands not getting paid any more, I promise I’ll buy a ticket for your live show!

But, as I’m now 41, and officially older than 40, I do try and listen to as much new music as I can to prove that comment wrong.  I do sometime wonder why this comment stuck with me and not a useful one like “you’ll lose interest in cases and statutes when you get to 40!” and I would now be working furiously to be a top notch lawyer to prove them wrong. But, hey ho, I got music.

So, in a challenge similar to Iain’s – see his post – I  also tried this year to listen to different types of music. I tried jazz, opera, classic, techno and Abba. All the ones I would normally avoid (except country because no one should listen to country, not even for a Christmas timed music blog).  And this is what I learned:

I hate jazz.

I hate opera.

I hate any form of metal. Death. Thrash. Doom or -icca.

But… I did discover a love of modern classical, obscure German techno that goes BOOM, BOOM, BOOM and Kylie. (Who doesn’t love Kylie!)

Most of all I learned that music doesn’t have to end at a specific age because hearing new music is easier than it’s ever been. There’s millions of songs just a click away and the challenge now is not just to remain interested but to actually listen to music more than once. As soon I listen to an album, I listen to another then another and then it’s the next week and there’s more albums out and more tracks and I never get back to the songs I liked just seven days ago.

So, this year, when I was thinking of what music I loved, my favourites are those I returned to again and again such as:

Daithi – Have To Go

Calvin Harris should sue for plagiarism.

Sarah Blasko – Heaven Sent

Richard Marx should sue for ‘Hazard’.

Pictures of You – HMLTD

Lady Gaga should sue.

(I’m noticing a theme)

Confide In Me – Kylie (from the Abbey Road Session)

An original. Well, a live version of an original.

Teleman – Cactus

Finally, an actual original. Pity the rest of the album didn’t equal this.

Brockhampton – BOOGIE

And neither did this. But this is P A R T Y with a capital [expletive deleted – parental advisory warning]

The Joubert Singers – Stand On The Word – Larry Levan Mix 

Praise the lord, this list is nearly over because we have the two best songs of the year.

Let’s Eat Grandma – Donnie Darko

Ten minutes. Doesn’t get going for two of them but, when it does, does it beat…

Sufjan Stevens – Visions of Gideon

And it does. While Visions of Gideon is pure heart breaking Sufjan Stevens it has the in-built advantage of me loving everything Sufjan has does for the last 10 years. So, in the spirit of new music, this year’s best song is….

Donnie Darko and here’s a video of it live with an awkward Dutch man in the front row wishing that he was anywhere else.

Andrew

Getting Started On Zwift (Andrew)

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A few weeks ago I bought a smart trainer. Until then I had a dumb trainer, it would only do what I told it, and I told it to “woah – take it easy, there’s no need to go too fast!”

What I needed was a trainer with a PHD. That’s a trainer with a Pedal Harder Damnit attitude – and a smart trainer seemed the answer. A smart trainer is one that links to a laptop or tablet and adjusts your workout as you ride. And not just to make it easier, as I would adjust it, but it also makes it harder (damnit!).

With the trainer sorted, I knew I needed a training programme that would help me ride smarter too. I had a look at a few but Training Peaks seemed to require a spreadsheet and Sufferfest had the word Suffer in it’s title and who wants to suffer? Harderfest maybe? PushYouALittleBitMoreFest? But not Sufferbest? You might as well call it Quitfest. ‘Cause that’s what I’d be doing…

Instead, I tried Zwift on an iPad linked to my trainer because it promised I wouldn’t suffer as I’d be using it like a computer game. And, instead of spreadsheets like Training Peaks, I’d see a wee rider cycle round New York’s Central Park and the centre of London. It would be like Mario Kart!

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The first time I used it, I didn’t know what I was doing. My wee man on screen was surrounded by other riders. I tried to ride round New York’s Central Park and keep my speed around 20mph. And I didn’t get it. It was slow. The trainer would increase resistance as I rode up hills and I didn’t understand why because I’d just drop the gears to make it easier and then –

– someone shot past me and I thought “follow them!” and then

– a group formed around me and I was in a peloton and we’re all doing 25mph and I’m thinking “I can’t be dropped”.

– then I’m climbing a hill and a message is telling me that if I keep this pace I’ll be in the top 50.

And I think “Now, I get it!”. Zwift is for folk who need a bit of competition to motivate themselves. It’s a game of jealousy and better my neighbour. Even though you don’t know the people around you, you suddenly want to be better than them just because they’re real people too. You’re no longer training on your own. You’re not just Mario – you’re also racing Luigi!

Since then, I’ve spent around 10 hours on Zwift trying various routes and features. But, despite the ability to customise my wee man on screen, I’ve point blank refused to do so. I know I can change the colour of his socks but why would you?! This is Zwift not Barbiefest.

In a few weeks I’ll report again and see how a month of Zwift compares to a month of trying to cycle in Scotland in December.

Andrew

Game of Tat (Andrew)

“Christmas is coming, the runners are getting fat, look at the rain out the window, we ain’t going out in that!”

It’s December, it’s Christmas, and this year, Iain’s not getting anything sporty for his Christmas present…

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Andrew

Woman, A Warning! (Andrew)

A couple of weeks ago I was watching Sky News when they cut to a report of a man, Ross Edgely, who had just swum round the whole of the UK. 

“Wow,” said the reporter, as he reached the shore.

“Wow,” said the crowd, as he raised his arms in triumph. 

“What a dick,” I thought, as I watched him explain how swimming in salt water for months and months had gradually destroyed his tongue. Or, as he said it: “Swumming ‘n sawt wather ‘as detroyth ma tong!”.

While I admire all athletes who take on and achieve an epic challenge. I couldn’t help think this time that there’s a danger in automatically admiring them.  They’re creating a dangerous trend. They’re creating the idea that longer is better, when it’s not. Long races are boring. Long races are hard. Instead give me a medium length race. A half-marathon. A half-ironman. Just the thought of entering a race with the word half in it, gives me a boost. “It can’t be that bad,” I think, “it’s only a half!”.

The word “ultra” on the other hand makes me we want to avoid it like a colleague from work on a train station when you know you’ve got an hour’s journey ahead of you and don’t want to sit beside them because you know you’ll run out things to say in five minutes. 

Yet, despite the difficulty, there are longer and longer races all the time. Board of IronMan? Why not run a double, triple or even ten times IronMan? Want to go for a swim, why not avoid the pool and head towards Norway instead? It’ll only take three weeks, a yacht and a willingness to lose your tongue within sight of Bergin.

I blame guys. Guys are daft and macho. We want to take on harder and harder challenges. Which is okay, but I think we should call them what they are. IronIdiots. And, when they complete a race. When they swim 3 miles, cycle 112 miles and run a marathon they should be greeted at the finish line with a cry of “YOU ARE AN IRONIDIOT!”

Which is better than IronMan because it’s not sexist, woman can be idiots too.

Except they’re not. The number of woman who take part in longer events is significantly smaller than the number who take part in short events like 10k or half-marathons. 

But it’s starting to grow. I’m seeing more woman take part in longer races. And I have this to say to them: “STOP! DON’T DO IT! DON’T BE AN IRONIDIOT!”

Instead, women, invent your own races. Races that are fun and people actually want to do. Don’t copy the guys. They don’t know what they’re doing. Why would anyone want to run a marathon after cycling 112 miles? It’s stupid and arbitrary and random and proves nothing except guys will follow any instructions provided they get a medal at the end.

If there was a medal for swimming 3 miles then cycling 112 miles then punching yourself in the face until you make your nose bleed then sign me up!

Women, don’t repeat the mistake of men. Men are idiots. Who invented the marathon? A man? And what happened to him? He died running it. Yet other men thought, “Hey, that’s a great idea – let’s do it too!”

Invent your own races. Don’t follow the guys into extreme triathlons. Invent benign triathlons. Races where the water is warm, the courses are downhill and, if you get a puncture, everyone has to stop until you’ve fixed it. That sounds like a nice race.

Just don’t follow the guys, they’re only leading you on an adventure that should be banned on health & safety grounds!