All posts by Andy Todd

Andrew

[Cough] [Splutter] [Cough] (Andrew)

Day one.

Perfect. One hour on the bike on a FTP test for Trainerroad. If you don’t know what FTP stands for then I think stands for “Faster Than you normally Pedal*” because, as the name says, it makes you go faster than you normally pedal.

(It also stands for something else entirely in Glasgow!)

The test consists of a warm up, a cool down and 20 minutes of cycling as fast as you can. In my case it kept telling me to cycle at a cadence of 150, which is fast, real fast. Just imagine a kid with a sparkler making circles in the air. Now, imagine that kid hopped up on Sunny Delight. That’s how fast it was telling me to go. Sunny D fast.

I struggled to keep my legs spinning that fast. I went as fast as I could go but I never hit 150.

Or 140.

Or 130.

But I tried.

That’s the main thing (I keep telling myself).

From that Trainerroad was able to adjust all it’s other setting so that…

Jumping Ahead to Day Three

I’d have one hour 15 minutes on the bike at a rate which was just right…

…if I could only pedal faster.

Blimey, charley, luv a duck. Even after the test it was still telling me to pedal at 130 – 140 pedal strokes a minute and I must admit I struggled. I tried to go faster but, by an hour, I was struggling to keep up and slowed down.

I finished it though and, because the programme required a run immediately afterwards, I even went out and ran round the block dodging unwanted Christmas trees on the pavements (today was bin day for collecting trees).

I was tired, lethargic, and I thought it was partly a response to my third day of getting up at 6:15 to fit in training before work and an early start which meant…

Jumping Back To Day Two

I was swimming at 7am and joining the small number of people waiting for the pool to open. I swam 2 km. I’ve not done that since September last year. And I was really happy to see I still could which makes…

[Cough]

Day four 

[Cooooouuuuugghhhhh!] [Throaty rasp!]

Such a disappointment.

My cold from last week, which earlier in the week was the occasional cough is now a full on [cough] can’t talk without [cough] interuptions and [cough] can’t walk [cough] without coughing [cough].

A throat infection or chest infection. A tickly cough just at the base of the neck which makes it impossible to tell if it’s an ‘above the neck okay to train’ type cough or a ‘below the neck not okay to train’ type cough.

It’s now day six. I’m still coughing so, until it goes away, I’ll add two new stats for this week one of training.

Andrew: 0

Cough: 1.

*It actually stands for Functional Threshold Power which is just a fancy way of saying Faster Than you normally Pedal.

Andrew, Stats

Week Zero Stats (Andrew)

Celtman training starts next week. This year I’m going to try and be a little bit more scientific and track some stats to see if I’m actually improving. To help, I’ve signed up with TrainerRoad and will be following one of their long distance plans. First up, a 12 week build programme.  (Which has nothing to do with building, or bricks, but might involve BRICS).

I’ve never used a heart rate monitor, a power metre or even perceived lever of exercise so this will all be new to me. So, to kick things off lets look at the stats I do know:

Height: 5 foot 11 inches

Weight: 12 stone 6 pounds (about four pounds above my normal weight but Christmas is not a time to say no to pudding!)

Body fat: 22.5% 

Did I say how much I love Christmas?

Physical condition: 7/10

Apart from a niggling hip injury, I feel strong and confident with 5 – 7 mile runs and two hour bike rides. Swimming has slipped but a few 1km swims in the last two weeks have at least started to get me back into a rhythm (albeit a very slow one) in the pool.

Overall, I’m stronger and more confident than last two Januarys.

Mental condition: 6/10

That hip injury again. It’s not gone away as much as I’d have hoped. It doesn’t stop my training, but it does play on my mind as I look to start training.

Monthly goal

Visit a physio tomorrow, stretch out the hip, complete first few weeks of training, add in TrainerRoad stats and reduce weight to below 12 stone 4 pounds.

Andrew

Sick note (Andrew)

Hello. My name is Andrew Todd and I’m a hypochondriac.

Some people have a cough. I don’t. I have lung cancer.

Some people have a twitch. I don’t. I have sclerosis sclerosis sclerosis scleroris, also called multiple scleroris. 

Some people have nothing at all.  I don’t. I always have something. I’ve even had Motaba, the fictional disease from the film Outbreak, because I’m a hypochondriac, and I don’t let fiction stop me catching a made up disease from a movie monkey.

This week I had scurvy. I admit it shared many of the symptoms of a heavy cold but I’m 100% convinced it was scurvy as I’d forgotten to buy apples at the weekend and didn’t have any fruit last week. No fruit = scurvy. Everyone knows that.

To be on the safe side I stoppped any exercise for a few days. Next week is officially week 1 of Celtman training so I didn’t want to risk anything this week by trying to train when I was clearly about to die, which I was, because hypochondria messes with your mind.

Not just in the obvious ways. The thinking you’re ill when you’re not type ways.

Hypochondria also makes me jealous of those who are genuinely ill – at least they know what they have. I don’t. Not until I’ve checked NHS Direct, WebMD and the ‘TellItToMeStraightDocAmIDying?’ internet forum where GPBobaFett357 confirms that “Yes, a thick head, a sore throat and a hacking cough is definitely a sign of scurvy – particularly if you’ve not eater an apple in the last 24 hours“.

It’s ridiculous. I even feel jealous of the genuinely ill because at least they know they can be cured.

There’s no cure for hypochondria. Even if there was, I’d just catch something else. Like the Black Death, which I’ve also had. It’s also remarkably similar to the common cold (and scurvy). If only Dark Age doctors had prescribed two paracetamol, a cup of Lemsip and a Netflix subscription, they could have avoided a global pandemic. It worked for me, it would have worked for them.

I think it’s the same for all have a go athletes. We’re so worried about getting ill that every headache becomes a brain tumour, every tremor a sign of Parkinsons. I know this response is neither rational nor sane, I know that. But, while everyone is aware, on some level, of their body clock counting down the days, my body clock is bloody Big Ben.  Every hour on the hour: “DOOM! DOOM! DOOM! DOOM!“.

DOOM! That brown mole is… the start of skin cancer! DOOM! That white spot is… a leprous pox! DOOM! That red itch… is viral meningitis!

I should see a doctor. But I don’t trust doctors. How can you trust someone who gave dyslexics such a hard word to spell? Or stutterers and stammerers such hard words to say?

Doctors don’t even know any medicine anymore. Last time I went to my doctor, all he did was check Google. To book a holiday. Do you know how much that hurt? To be ignored by a man who has sworn the hippocratic oath but was more interested in snapping up an all inclusive hotel in Magaluf. Especially when I told him I was absolutely certain I had cerebral palsy. Again.

Hypochondria’s not even a cool mental illness. We don’t get to wear a black bin bag and get off with her-from-The-Hunger-Games like Bradley Cooper in Silver Linings Playbook. Ironically, for an illness that’s all about being ill, we don’t even consider it a proper illness. Hypochondria’s other name is ‘Man Up Syndrome’.

“I think I might have bird flu because a seagull shat on my head.”

“Man up!”

“I think I might have brain parasites because I fell asleep watching Star Trek 2: The Wrath Of Khan and they crawl in your ear while you sleep you know.”

“Man up!”

“I think I might have scurvy because I don’t like bananas.”

“MAN UP!”

But I can’t help it. I can’t choose my mental illness. I can’t pick nymphomania, kleptomania,  Wrestlemania or Romania (research note to self – double check these last two are proper manias).

If I had a choice I’d choose nice mental illnesses. Something like Foreign Accent Syndrome – “I am lookin’ for ze Madonna wiv ze big boobies!” or the Cotard Delusion, also called the Zombie Delusion – “I’m a zombie and I want BRAINS!” – or, my favourite, Tourette’s Syndrome, which is 50% genuine mental illness and 50% opportunistic heckling.

“You’re a window licking finger sniffer!”

“What did you say?!”

“It was my Tourette’s.”

 “Oh God, I’m so sorry, please forgive me, I didn’t know.”

“That’s okay, you pishrag bollockmonger!”  (Hee! Hee! That one was mine!).

And the strange thing about hypochondria is how predictable it is. There are tens of thousands of illnesses yet hypochondria acts like there’s just three. The big three. Cancer. Cardiac Arrest. Athlete’s foot. Imagine going to a garage that acted like every emergency was the worst possible thing that could happen to you.

“Hi, I’ve think I’ve got a flat tyre – can you take a look at it?”

 “No need. I can see the problem from here.”

“Oh, is it the tyre,  it looks lower than the other three?”

“No. It’s definitely exhaust pipe AIDS.”

 “Are you sure? The exhaust pipe isn’t connected to the wheels.”

 “Sorry mate, and your tyres have athletes foot. If I were you I would just curl up in a ball and cry yourself to sleep just like you do every single night.”

“Oh, imaginary mechanic, you know me so well!”

It’s the lack of variety in hypochondria that makes me watch every medical drama on telly. Many hypochondriacs avoid all medical information because it makes them more anxious. “Got that! Got that! Got that too! Oh God, I’m going to die!” But, when my Big Ben strikes DOOM I don’t want what everyone else had, I want to be unique, I want to be the world’s first hypochondriac hipster.

DOOM!

“Is this brown mole skin cancer? No, it’s malignant hyperpigmentation – it’s the next big thing!”

DOOM!

“This white spot? Leprosy? Do I look like Jesus? Yes, I know I’m wearing sandals, I am a hipster, but that spot is clearly Denghe Fever which I caught after watching a Discovery Channel programme about rafting in the Congo.”

If hypochondria is all in my head, then I want my head to be bloody brilliant at it. And that’s the difficulty isn’t it? Hypochondria is something that no one can see. People think I must be making it up. It’s a mental illness and we’re not good with mental illness. We don’t even have mental illness in the Paralympics – and they’ve got blind people playing basketball: how mental is that?!

I have this theory. In the hierarchy of illnesses you get one point for a losing a limb, two points for a coma and three points from any disease that would actually get people to respond to an office wide email for a charity challenge. The mentally ill get minus one point. Hypochondria minus two.

We don’t get sympathy. All the mentally ill get is a straight jacket and a padded cell because, – you know – it really help the mentally ill to have their arms strapped together so they can’t protect their delicate brains when they ricochet off the walls in an all-white padded bouncy castle/loony bin. Yes, we protect the mentally ill by making it impossible for them to protect their brains. I told you, Doctors are pricks.

Well, I say fuck that. It’s time for me to “Man up!”. Yes, “MAN UP!”

My hypochondria’s an illness: as destructive as cancer, as strong as AIDS, as difficult to cure as athletes foot. I’ve don’t need to be ashamed. I have a big boy sickness. A proper disease. Just like Spanish flu, syphilis, scarlet fever and, my current illness, the all consuming rage virus from 21 Days Later. Which I’ve also had, because, as I told you, I don’t let fiction stop me catching a made up disease from a movie monkey.

Say it loud. Say it proud: “My name is Andrew Todd and I am a hypochondriac!”

And it was definitely scurvy I has this week and not just a cold!

Andrew

Would you like ice with that? (Andrew)

There are very few things that can’t be improved by adding ice. Take drinks. All drinks can be improved with ice. Take tea. On it’s own it’s just brown boiled water. Add ice though and it becomes swaggering hip-hop muthafunkin’ gangsta, Ice T. That’s how powerful ice can be. It can make hot water cool.

There’s one thing however that can’t be improved with ice and that’s cycling. Ice is dangerous. And not in an 1990’s ‘dangerous’ is cool type way. I’m talking a smash your head off the road kind of danger.

Take yesterday. The Glasgow Triathlon Club held it’s annual race up the Crow Road, a three mile road climb from Lennoxtown, north of Glasgow, to top of the Campsie hills. Iain and I joined them and, afterwards, decided to carry on over the Campsies and back along the Carron Valley before climbing back over the Campsies at the Tak Me Doon road.

Only one problem

Ice.

Lots of ice.

Glittering across the road like tempting frosting but, like frosting, likely to leave you flat on your back if you have too much of it.

We were halfway along the Carron Valley when we realised that there more ice on the road than road. Iain was already though the worst of it but I could see I still had five metres to go. I tried to keep upright, tried to slow down so I could put a foot out but all I ended up doing was falling back off the bike as my front wheel slid under me.

As I fell I remember thinking: “Don’t put your hands out, you’ll only break something”.

Which was good advice.

For my hands.

But not my head.

BANG!

My head bounced up off the road.

“Ouch!”

I lay there for a few second, looking up. It was a cold day but there was a blue sky.

“That was stupid,” I thought to myself, “now, do I need to stay awake for 24 hours?”

A random thought. You hit your head, you stay awake for 24 hours. But I was wearing a helmet, I hadn’t blacked out, and I knew, even as I was thinking, that it was a daft thought.

“You’re okay, just get up.”

I pushed myself up, being careful to keep my footing on the ice.

I was okay. No cuts or bruises, no road rash, just fuzzy head and stiff neck from the mild whiplash of hitting the ground.

Iain had returned. He was concerned, obviously: “You didn’t scratch my bike, did you?” He said.

Which is the first question anyone asks if they see there bike on the ground, even if their brother’s lying beside it!

To be fair, I’d borrowed his bike for today’s ride. I’d also borrowed his girlfriend’s cycle helmet as I’d forgotten my own which meant my final thought after getting up was: “Thank God no one called an ambulance – I’m wearing a ladies helmet with pink trim!”

Which would not be cool, even with ice.

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Andrew

How Long is ‘Long’ (Andrew)

It’s Boxing Day. Iain and I are running a three mile route around Stornoway and I say: “Tomorrow, we’ll run the long way round the Castle Grounds”.

I know what I mean. I mean we’ll run from our parents house to the Castle Grounds then we’ll run anti-clockwise through Willowglen, the golf course, Lews Castle, Cuddy Point, the Porter’s Lodge and then out and back around town via the harbour.

Iain should have known what I meant.  It’s our usual route. The one we run most times we’re at home. It’s the long way round because, well, it’s 5 miles, and that’s quite long. Hence, it’s the long way round the Castle Grounds.

Iain, on the other hand, hears an entirely different route. The next day we don’t take a left and run down to Cuddy Point, which is about midway along the Castle Grounds, he takes a right.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“The long way,” he says.

“That’s not the long way.” The route he’s going will take us to the very end of the Castle Grounds before coming back via the outer road.

“Yes, it is!” He insists. “You said we’re going the long way round and this is the long way!”

“No,” I say, “That’s is the ULTRA way!”

It’s amazing how the word long means different things to different people. When I started running and I was going for a long run I meant I was going to run a couple of miles. A couple of years ago a long run was  6 – 8 miles. Now a long run is 10 to 12. My idea of long has changed.

It’s the same with triathlons. My first triathlon felt like it lasted forever. The 10k run at the end was chalked off a kilometre at a time with each kilometre feeling as slow as waiting for a Dominos pizza to arrive (the slowest feeling in the world).

Now, a triathlon doesn’t feel slow (though my times tell me otherwise) because my perception has changed. Long has become short.  And long has become longer.

That’s why you can’t yourself when training. You’re idea of a long run or a long ride changes over time and it’s easy to kid yourself when training for a race that you’ve put in the miles when your long runs and rides were all in your head.

That’s why I’m going to try an experiment in the next month. I’ve had a heart rate monitor for over a year but I’ve never used it. Next week I’ll start to use it. I’ve joined TrainerRoad and I’m going to see if science and technology will help with my Celtman training.

This year “long” won’t mean “long”. Instead “long” will mean “a scientifically generated objective number based on verifiable testing and quantitative analysis”.

Andrew

Books 2016 (Andrew)

Another break from normal service…

There’s only one contender for book of the year.

‘I Hate The Internet’ had the sarkiest writing.
‘High-Rise’ the best explanation of what actually happened in the incomprehensible film.
‘Annihilation’ the best homage to Robert Bloch’s Cthulu short story ‘A Notebook Found In A Deserted House’.
‘You Could Do Something Amazing With Your Life [You are Raoul Moat]’ and ‘In Plain Sight’ the darkest books (almost) written by Raoul Moat and Jimmy Savile.
‘Before The Fall’ was the best page turner I read this year.

But there was only one winner.

And it’s complete tosh.

But brilliant complete tosh – Jack Reacher in ‘Tripwire’, which in any shape or form is not a great book. But, this year, it’s the only book that attempted an audacious plot twist worthy of 20 years of waiting to find out how Hodor in Game of Thrones got his name…

SPOILER ALERT

… because it had Jack Reacher working on a building yard and developing chest muscles so big, so huge, so freakishly large, that you have no idea why Lee Child keeps referring to them until, 500 pages later, just as it looks like Jack will lose, he uses his chest to stop a shotgun blast and the pellets didn’t kill him because they couldn’t penetrate his big, huge, freakishly large chest.

Now that’s what you call great writing*!

(*It’s not, but bloody ‘ell, you’ve got to admire the commitment to write a 500 pages book built on the single idea that a man can pump iron so much bullets bounce off his chest. Go, Jack, go!)

#tomcruise #notmyReacher #shortarsebignose

Andrew

Music 2016 (Andrew)

MUSIC 2016

The problem with streaming music is that you can’t lie to yourself anymore. I’d like to think I’ve got an eclectic musical taste and seek out new and interesting music. This year (excluding all the obviously great chart stuff) I’ve loved:

Sensible Soccer – AFG
White Lies – Hold Back Your Love
Clint Mansell – High Rise OST
Frank Ocean – Nikes
Savages – Adore
Justice – Randy
Thrice – Black Honey
Mitski – Your Best American Girl
The Slow Show – Strangers Now
Sing Street – Crash It Like You Stole It

But, despite this, according to Spotify, the song I loved most of all was Pillowtalk by Zayn.

Or ZAYN, as he calls himself, presumably while shouting: “MY NAME IS ZAYN, NOT Zayn. ZAYN!”

Or his caps lock key is broken on his laptop.

Either way. He’s a TWAT.

However, as I suspect Lesley may have played a small part in Zayn, sorry ZAYN, being my most played song of the year, I’m going to chose my second most played song: I Am Chemistry by Yeasayer, a song that even now many, many listens later I still have no idea what they’re singing about and why halfway through a children’s choir joins. Barkingly Brilliant.

Andrew

Films 2016ish (when I watched them not when they were out) (Andrew)

A break from normal service… 🙂

Fake news. Post-truth. Just as the real world becomes a work of fiction so our works of fiction have become obsessed with reality.

Take Oscar nominated films: Spotlight was based on a true story; The Big Short was based on a true story; The Revenant was based on a true story; and Bridge of Spies was based on a true story (though not an actual Bridge of Spies, it was made of iron, not double agents).

Even The Martian, a film about a man on Mars, loudly proclaimed how real it was – “It’s exactly what would happen!” – as it showed exactly what would happen to a botanist on Mars left with just a greenhouse, some seeds and book called “What To Do If You’re A Botanist Trapped On Mars With Just A Greenhouse And Some Seeds”, which was handy, and realistic. While one of the best reviewed UK films was I, Daniel Blake. A poignant and realistic film about a man filling in a form. If this trend continues, I can’t wait to see the latest Transformers film next year: I, Optimus Prime, a film about a giant flying robot truck applying for disability allowance in Sunderland because it can’t find a job as an industrial welder. I’d pay to see that.

But, as films became more realistic, and, let’s face it, more boring. Spotlight: a two hour film about paperwork. The Revenant: a two and half hour film about it being bloody cold out there when it snows. Bridge of Spies: A two hour film about paperwork and it being bloody cold out there when it snows. Zzzzzzzzz. My favorite film this year is one of pure escapism instead. My favorite was the fantastic half film half musical Sing Street; about a boy starting a band in Ireland during the 80s just to impress a girl. Great songs, great story and the best/daftest escape plan in movie history as two characters recreate Dunkirk with nothing but a dream, a boat and Boy George’s eyeliner. Loved it! Go and watch it now! Go on, go on, go on, go on!

Honorable mentions:
Central Intelligence, Mistress America, Ex Machina, Inside Out, Civil War, Whiplash, Force Majeure, Pride, When We’re Young, Cinderella, Wiener and Midnight Special

Andrew

Pop goes the weasely hip (Andrew)

“I’ve had a problem with my right hip. Just a wee niggly pain. I’ve rested it for a month and, before I go home for Christmas, I thought I’d get it checked to make sure it’s all fixed.”

And, with that, I removed all my clothes except my boxers.

Just to be clear, I was prompted to do that.

I don’t just rip off my clothes at the drop of a hat, jumper, trousers and socks. I booked a visit to a physio in Larbert, one I’d been to before so I knew the routine. I would say what was wrong with me. She’d say strip. I’d strip then she’d prod me with her thumbs and make me scream.

Again, just to be clear, she asked first if it was okay to prod me. Though I think “prod” is not the medical term. Her term might have been “apply pressure to the muscle to cause it to release” but, whatever the right term, the effect was the same. She prodded my back and then I screamed.

But that was just the start.

“Your right leg is tighter than your left.”

“I know,” I said “I can never get money out of my right pocket.”

She didn’t laugh. I assume she hadn’t heard.

“Lie on your side. Bend your knee. Raise your arm. Put your hand here. Keep that leg straight.”

I try and follow but it feels like I’m trying to re-create a chalk outline of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

“Don’t worry if you can’t manage it,” she said, “just breathe out.”

I did.

And she pushed down on my knee.

Just to be clear, she didn’t ask me first. It was assault. A vicious attack. An unproved invasion of my physical space and a –

POP!!!!!!!!

WTF!

A balloon had exploded. The planet had exploded. I’d just heard the Big Bang.

“That’s it,” she said, “got it, you’re cured!”

And I was. I couldn’t feel any pain. Whatever had popped had stopped whatever was niggling the jiggling of my legs and hips.

It was a miracle.

But, blimey, it hurt. But at least it was over. Done.

Then she said the five words you never want to hear from a physio.

No, not “It’s not meant to crack!”

Or “Let’s call the Doctor now.”

Or “Can I cup the balls?”

It’s worse. It’s “Let’s do the other side!”

No!!!!