Category Archives: Andrew

Andrew, Triathlete's Dictionary

Triathlete’s Dictionary: Rushing Roulette

Rushing Roulette
phrase

A lethal game of chance in which a cyclist decides to go for a ride without a spare inner tube.  Frequently involve rushing to leave and forgetting to replace the flat tube in your saddle bag that you absolutely meant to replace the night before. Also involves the phrase “I’m sure I’ll be alright – what’s the chances of getting a puncture?”. Phrase frequently uttered 10 miles from civilisation and 30 seconds before puncture.

Usage: “I had to walk home after a game of rushing roulette!“

Andrew

Racing into 2018 (Andrew)

Triathlon and running magazines will tell you that Autumn is a time to relax. The race season is over. The nights are drawing in. It’s time to let injuries heal and training decrease because, damn it, you deserve it, you magnificent athlete, you!

You did so well this year!

You smashed that A race.

You got the PB!

You ran out of acronyms to describe your achievements!

Except, what happens if you didn’t?

You got round your A race (just). Your PB stood for peanut butter and the sandwiches you ate by the dozen. And then you stopped doing anything at all for two months because you didn’t have time to train.

Do you get to relax?

Well, yes, Because it’s cold, and wet and frankly, it’s Scotland in Autumn. What other excuse do you need, you magnificent athlete, you?

And it is an excuse. Because the one thing the magazines don’t tell you is what happens when everything goes wrong, like this year for me.

The summer was a write off. A project at work meant I had very little free time for three months. And while I completed Escape From Alcatraz and IronMan 70.3 Edinburgh it was very much a case of “Thank you, Lord, for cancelling/shortening the swim and making it easier to get round!”.

So, Autumn for me is a chance now to get back to training, to start a few months earlier to be ready for next year and another attempt at Escape From Alcatraz and, as Iain’s announced, being the support for Norseman.

Because racing isn’t really about racing. And that’s something the magazines don’t get. Not some years.

This year wasn’t about racing as other things were more important and next year won’t really be about racing either, it’ll be about making sure Iain completes Norseman. Taking part and supporting others are just as, if not more important, than racing.

Though results always matter when you do race! 🙂

So, while I’ll be supporting Iain, I’ll also be secretly hoping he finishes Norseman after 111 miles on the bike so I can say I’m the best Todd at Norseman by getting to 112 miles!)

 

Andrew, Race Report

Antonine Trail Race 2017 (Andrew)

Normally you get a banana at the end of a run but, yesterday at the Antonine Trail Race, we got a big banana at the start – along with two skeletons, several witches and a Homer Simpson.

That’s what happens when you have a race on Halloween weekend.

We didn’t join in. It was tough race and the only fancy dress I wanted was a jet pack to help get up and over the two hills that made up most of the route. First up, Croy Hill, a long climb through muddy tracks and thick grass, then Bar Hill, another long climb along a forest track before, cruelly, the race finished with another climb up Croy Hill.

It was a fantastic day, sunny, bright, and with a slight chill that made it impossible to decide what to wear – assuming you were wearing running gear and not a large yellow fruit costume – as it was too cold for a t-shirt at the start but too warm to run in two t-shirts a mile after starting. I choose a single t-shirt and then stayed in the car with the heater on until the race was about to start. This is my version of warming up…!

The race was mostly off-road and on narrow tracks. While dry, the previous week’s rain had left much of it covered in thick mud. The first few miles were spent doing the bandy legged hop leap and jump of someone half runner/half frog.

The good news was that you could follow the runner in front of you and try and follow their footsteps on the basis that if they cleared a path then you would just be stepping into the hole they’ve already created in the mud. So, if you want to keep your trainers clean when running through mud just follow someone with big feet in front of you.

The race was tough, with a few steep climbs (which in this context means, ‘walks up hill’ rather than ‘gets out the rappelling gear’) but some great views across to the Trossachs and outwards Falkirk and the east coast.

You can see part of it on this short video:

Andrew

How to chose a new mountain bike (Andrew)

Names are important. They tell you a lot about the thing you’re looking at. A road bike is bike that goes on the road. A track bike is a bike that goes on the track and a mountain bike is a bike that, well, goes on a mountain, possibly, maybe, with someone else who knows what they’re doing. I’ve never been on a mountain with a bike!

But that’s about to change.

I’ve bought a mountain bike and, after a careful search of all the models and specifications open to me, I have, after much consideration, bought…

…. an orange one.

Not an Orange one, though. There is a brand of bike called Orange. Nor indeed have I bought one made out of a citrus fruit. Instead, I’ve bought an orange one (the colour).

Now some people may say that choosing a bike is a complicated process. And it is. If it was a road bike then I’d be considering various types of position – aero or sportive; or the type of riding I wanted to do: TT, triathlon or unicycle (in case I ever decide to become a street performer) – but I don’t know the first thing about mountain bikes. So I thought I should share all I’ve learned in the last two months as I carefully considered my next bike:

Wheels

The big ones look really cool. I think they might also be comfier, like cycling on pillows, but the only thought I had was “How long does it take to blow that up?”. I already spend 10 minutes at the side of the road inflating a skinny road tyre, how long will it take to blow up two wheels that you could hang a basket off and launch it as a balloon?

So, I choose a bike with biggish wheels. Not the biggest. Not the smallest. Just biggish.

I recommend biggish.

Frame

These come in two types. Ones without cool looking suspension type thingamajigs. Or one without. I don’t know what the cool looking suspension type thingamajigs do, but I knew I wanted one so I could be cool looking too. One day I may ever tough the dial on it, but not today, I might break it.

I recommend cool-looking.

Suspension

The front of the bike will have a suspension on it. It should also look cool. Ideally with some kind of logo that people who know logos will be impressed by. I don’t know anything about logos so, for all I know, my logo could say the mountain bike equivalent of “fannybaws” – but it says “Rockshock” and that sounds cool and definitely something that might appear on screen when Batman punches a bad guy, and you don’t get cooler than that.

I recommend fannybaws.

Saddle

Unless its got a spike on it, I really don’t care. It’s a black one.

I 100% recommend a saddle.

Brakes and gears 

Check the bike definitely has them! Mine does so that makes it a good bike.

I recommend stopping.

Colour

The most important thing of all. And one that’s a matter of personal taste so I wouldn’t presume to tell you what colour to go for (orange!) and what to avoid (neon green – it looks like radioactive boogies).

With these top tips and careful research of all the different types of mountain bike I was able to walk into the shop say to myself “that’s a good bike!” as soon as I spotted an orange one with wheels and brakes and a frame and a saddle that didn’t have a spike up the bum.

Andrew

Life: the fifth triathlon discipline (Andrew)

Some people say that triathlon is a sport of four, not three, disciplines.

You’ve got your swimming, your cycling and your running – the three sports that make up a triathlon.

But you could add a fourth. Transition. The ability to stay upright while trying to pull a wetsuit off your foot with all the grace of an alcoholic ballerina performing the dance of the swans on a stage made of butter. Transition is a sport in itself.

However, there is also a fifth discipline. One that’s more complicated than bilateral breathing and harder to master than keeping upright with tri-bars whenever the wind blows (which is every day in Scotland). And that discipline is ‘life’.

Because the one thing triathlon expects, nay demands, is that you actually find the time to run, swim, cycle, struggle with wet suits at the side of lochs, and that can be tricky. You can’t spend all your time on your bike when you’ve got to be at home or work.

And some weeks, that means you don’t get to do very much at all. And those are the toughest weeks because you might have a diary or training plan that requires you to swim 4×500 metres followed by 30 minutes of light jogging. Yet you’ve not left work. The dog needs walked and you want to be home in time for dinner.

That’s why I call life the fifth discipline. Arguably, the most important one, because you need to be just as good as balancing everything else that’s happening in your life before you can even think about going out for a run. At least if you want to avoid divorce, the sack, or a grumpy dog.

So, for the last few weeks, I’ve been concentrating on the fifth discipline. Life.

Which is definitely a thing – and just something I’ve invented to justify eating cake.

And I’ve definitely not been lazy and put my feet up for a month.

Oh, no, not me –  I’ve been hard at work.

Training – honest! 🙂

Andrew, Race Report

Forth Road Bridge 10k (Andrew)

Untitled

I hate flying. It’s unnatural. Even birds think so and they fly everywhere. They’re always saying “Bloody hell, how did I get up here – and how do I get back down without crashing?!”

I tried to get over my fear of flying by watching a video designed to reassure nervous flyers. It was a 10 minute video on YouTube that showed you exactly what every button did in a cockpit.

There were over a 100 buttons, flicks and switches. There were back ups of back ups. Bright lights blinked red to warn of dangers. Everything was designed to keep us safe and keep us in the air – and all I could think was: “HOW CAN ONE MAN REMEMBER ALL THESE BUTTONS?!?!?! IT’S IMPOSSIBLE! AND IT’S NOT LIKE HE CAN WATCH YOUTUBE ON THE PLANE – HE’S GOT TO SWITCH HIS PHONE OFF! WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!”

I hate flying.

But I loved the Forth Road Bridge 10k even though part of it made me think I was flying above North Queensferry.

The Forth Road Bridge 10k starts in North Queensferry, a town designed to have a view of the Forth Rail bridge out of your front window but not designed to have any shops or roads built without a steep slope. Personally, I’d rather have a pint of milk than a red bridge, but, if you’re a trainspotter, I assume North Queensferry is your ideal home.

The race starts at the top of North Queensferry and the first two miles are mostly downhill before you turn and cross the bridge. At this point, the land drops away beneath you and you run over the roofs of North Queensferry below.

It feels like flying. By which I mean, it feels slightly queasy and I wished I was back on solid ground again.

But as the race crosses the bridge you start to cross the Forth and you get fantastic views to your left and right of both the Forth Rail Bridge (the red one) and the new Queensferry Crossing which should really be called the new Closed Because of Lorry Overturning In High Winds Bridge, because that’s what Fife will call it as soon as winter hits.

The race sells out instantly so you need to be quick to enter but it’s well worth making the effort to secure a place. The bridge provide a different experience and finishing at the end of the bridge provide a great finish line experience.

Also they have hundreds of cakes and sandwiches to eat afterwards. Everything is better with cakes and sandwiches – except flying!

 

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Andrew

Ultra Iron Mega Badass Brutal Hardcore Three Legged Race (Andrew)

What’s in a name?

I’m reading ‘Iron War’, the story of the 1989 Ironman championship and the battle between two of the greatest ever triathletes – but also a history of the spot of triathlon itself as it places the race in context.

The book tells the story of how Ironman got it’s name. It referred to the iron will needed by competitors to compete the challenging conditions of Kona in Hawaii. It wasn’t the fastest who would win, or the most physically capable, the winner instead was the one with the iron willpower to compete through draining heat and strength sapping head winds.

The name fitted the course – if not female competitors, is it not time for IronWoman? And, as such, it stuck.

But it struck me that many races have followed this template. They’re named after their defining characteristic. Usually the place the race takes place. The London Marathon. The Great Scottish Run. Or they describe the worst aspects of the course. Slateman refers to the slate covered hills of Snowdonia. Brutalfest has a series of races that are, well, brutal.

It’s human nature, it seems, to concentrate on the worst that could happen. All race organisers are pessimists.

I realised this while in Iceland this week on holiday. I was checking out all the tourist spots and I was reading the guides for each place and, in every one, they seemed to tell the same story. The name of the place was always the name of a tragedy that had happened there.

In the town of Borgarne, the bay was named after a man who was stoned to death on it’s shore. The waterfalls of Hraunfosser were named after the children who fell to their death. The entire country is basically a a cross between a OS map and a graveyard.

But what about the hundreds of people who played at the beach and enjoyed it’s soft sands and sheltering dunes? What about the children who paddled in the pool at the base of the waterfall and their children and their children and their children and their children and centuries of children all of whom called the falls “the really safe and not at all dangerous falls”, yet when one child said “hey, look at me, I can balance on one leg while standing right on the edge!” all the good times are forgotten.

As I said, it’s human nature. We’re pessimists. We remember the bad, not the good. The suffering, not the finish line.

And it’s time for a change. Who wouldn’t want to enter “Flatfest” or, better yet, “The Downhill Marathon”. Why should suffering be celebrated? Bring on “The Easy Peasy Triathlon”!

Andrew

The sound of silence (Andrew)

I listen to voices in my head. Not in a mental way. Not in a ‘They’re all out to get you!’ type way. I mean Podcast voices. Intelligent voices that talk about science and design, movies and sport. Voices from Radiolab and 99% Invisible. Interviews from Desert Island Discs. Voices that make you smarter.

I used to listen to the music in my head until, a few years ago, I ran the Lossiemouth half marathon while listening to Radiohead’s King of Limbs.

Music should make you run faster. You feet should follow the beat as you pound the streets in time with the music.

Unless you’re listening to Radiohead.

Unless you’re listening to Radiohead at their most experimental, which in this context means: “without any hint of a tune, melody, beat or any sense of where one song finishes and the next begins”.

I swear the first mile of the half marathon felt like I was running in ultra-slow motion. 10 years passed while I passed just one house. Another decade passed and Thom Yorke’s only just sung his first decipherable word. A century passes and, in the distance, I can just see the one mile marker.

I stopped. I had to. I wouldn’t normally take out my phone during a race but I had to change the music. It was treacle. It was the aural equivalent of queuing at the Post Office.  (Which I always thought was the worst thing to do in all the world until I realised there was one thing worse than that – working at the Post Office).

I switched to Kanye West’s ‘My Beautiful Dark Fantasy’.

“HE’S A MUTHA*********ING MONNNNNNSSSSSTTTTTEEEEERR!”

It was an instant boost. I was flying. It was the aural equivalent of whatever Sir Mo Farah’s on – which, for the avoidance of doubt and for any of Sir Mo’s lawyers reading this, is only Quorn sausages and hard work.

Music matters.

But I have a problem with listening to music. I count the songs as I run. If I’m listening to an album I know that I will need to run for 50 minutes to hear it all and I don’t like thinking “Oh, that’s the first song finished, that’s three minutes done, just another 47 to go. Groan…”

I had to stop listening to music. Instead I switched to Podcasts, to speech, and not knowing how long I was listening to it.

But, this last month, I’ve been trying a new idea. I’ve been listening to… nothing.

I’ve left my phone at home.

Because I have this idea, that I’ve been concentrating on the wrong thing. I’ve been concentrating on the latest scientific news, the six songs you’d choose on your desert island, but I’ve not been concentrating on running. I don’t think about form or technique or anything other than what I’ve been listening to.

So, instead, I’ve tried to run without headphones. An experiment, now three weeks old, and one I’ll report back on in a few weeks – and you’ll be the first to hear how I’ve got on.

(But not while you’re running, obviously).

Andrew

Extreme to the max to the edge to the limit!!! (Andrew)

I want to walk on the moon.

I want to follow in the footsteps of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin because… moon men are fannys!

I’ll show them how a real man walks on the moon!

Take Neil Armstrong. He could have said anything when he opened that door and stepped out onto the lunar surface. He wanted to talk about what a giant leap it was for mankind. Me, I’d have said “Does anyone smell cheese? Because this moon is made from chedder!”

That joke, copyright me, aged 7.

Instead, he went for the safe route, the boring route, the route of the second man on the moon, Buzz Aldrin. Why was he called Buzz? Because he was NASA’s B man….

That joke, copyright me, aged 39.

No-one remember Buzz because he was the man holding the camera, not the one posing in front of it. Buzz was an intergalactic skivvy whose sole job was to avoid getting his thumb on the lens and to make sure he’d didn’t cut off Neil Armstrong’s head when he planted the flag.

Of course, today, Buzz would have been in the shot because he’d have taken a ‘moon selfie’ and he and Neil would have trout pouted on the surface before taking an artfully lit photo of their space rations and captioned it “Trying to open your breakfast while wearing space gloves 🙂 #firstmoonproblems #yolo #blessed.”

But, if Buzz had been smart, he could have been more famous than Neil Armstrong. I don’t know about you, but when I’m driving, I always need to go to the toilet. It’s something about the rhythm, the bumpiness of the journey, but within five miles I’m desperate for the loo. Imagine doing that for three days. Cooped up in lunar module. The door opens. What do you do? I know, what I’d do. I’d have a pish in the nearest crater. That’s if I could wait that long. Neil would be half through his speech when –

“It’s a small step for man, it’s a giant – PENIS. MY GOD, MAN, PUT IT AWAY.”

I tell you what I don’t get. Why the push to be the biggest, best, furthest, fastest? It’s always extremes. But there are two sides. Fast must have slow. Best has worst. When skydiver Felix Baumgartner jumped from space, I wanted to show the world instead the shortest skydive in history: me, lying down on the floor and not moving for twenty seconds.

While Usain Bolt breaks record books I’d take part in the 100 metres by having a picnic on the Olympic track. I’d be munching on a plum tomato and not making any move to move even an inch. The stadium could go home. I’d go home. I’d get a good nights kip and, in the morning, or maybe the afternoon, or maybe even the next day, or year, I’d come back and I’d cross the line. F*ck it, I might never cross it because I’m the world’s slowest man.

And I was thinking about this because I read this letter in the latest issue of 220 Triathlon.

FullSizeRender

And part of me thought: “When did Triathlon progression become a race to Iron distance?” Progression is not just about going longer and longer until you’re running, swimming and cycling all day? You progress by getting faster, or getting better at a part of the race, or by just enjoying it more no matter what speed you go.

So, part of me rebels and says “I don’t want to go to the moon”.

At least not yet.

At least not first.

It wouldn’t be special. I’d wait until everyone else has gone. My mum, my dad, the folk I went to school with, even Steven Hawking in his wheelchair, and when, and only when, everyone else in the world has been will I go. Me, Andrew Todd, the last man on the moon!

Andrew

Use As Directed (Andrew)

“Stick it where the sun don’t shine!” is a threat, not an instruction. Top tip: do not confuse the two – you will regret it!

Let me explain.

Around 10 years ago I was taking part in the Caledonian Challenge, a 54 mile walking challenge from Fort William to Loch Lomond and following the West Highland Way.

I was walking with three team mates. It was our first challenge of this type and we had no idea what we were doing.

We’d barely trained. We’d walked 20 miles along the Fife coastal path and, while using walking poles to help us get used to using them in action, we were spotted by a local gang in Kirkcaldy. “Oi, yous!” They shouted, “‘ave yous lost yer skis?”.

Which was very funny – if you’re not the prat trying to keep his dignity while walking with walking poles outside a chip shop in Kirkcaldy.

After that, we let training slide and we thought we could just turn up at Fort William and wing it.

Big mistake.

But not our biggest.

Our biggest was not reading the instructions. If we had, we’d have spotted that long distance walkers wear tight fitting cycle shorts and not, I repeat NOT, ordinary boxers.

Why?

Let’s just say one word – friction – and leave it at that.

Or, if that doesn’t help, let’s just say one phrase – don’t let Tarzan swing free – and leave it at that.

Okay, okay, let’s just spell it out. If you don’t have tight fitting shorts then there’s a whole lotta rubbing going on down there in a 54 mile walk. The kind of rubbing that a boy scout could use to start a fire.

By mile 40 we’d realised our mistake. We were the bow-legged walkers. If you’d seen us you’d have shouted “Oi, lads, ‘ave yous lost yer horses?”. We looked like cowboys, felt like pillocks – until one of us had an idea.

“We’ve got sun-cream!” He said.

“So?”

“It’s a lubricant, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Well, it’s wet.”

And, with that rigorous debate over, three of the four us were hiding behind a bush, trousers round our ankles and applying sun-cream to areas that frankly the sun had only ever shined out of.

Five minutes later, no longer bow-legged: “This is BRILLIANT!”

And it was.

For five more minutes. Then the first cry went up.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH”

The second cry went up.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK”

The third cry went up.

“JAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYZZZZZZZZZZZUUUUUUSSSSCCCCCCHHHHHRRRIIISSSSTTTTT!”

Then we all fell down.

It was agony. It turns out sun cream is not a lubricant at all. It was chilli oil. There was heat and pain in places that only a Mexican who’s followed on a red hot burrito will ever experience.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH”

But, it wasn’t the worst thing to happen that day.

It turns out one of us had an even smarter (dumber) idea. He’d said he didn’t need to use the cream however it was only after the race that we found out why.

He’d wrapped zinc oxide tape around his toes to prevent chafing and blistering. Then, in a move that only the Darwin Awards can truly appreciate, he’d decided he should use the leftover tape on other parts of his body that might be subject to chafing.

He, and, well, let me be delicate about it, had wrapped, um, Tarzan’s hanging baskets in tape.

And it worked. He didn’t feel a thing for the entire race.

He was very smug… until he got home.

Then he realised that the only way to take the tape off was to rip it off.

And when it was ripped off, it took everything with it. Every little and not so little hair.

He spent three hours in the bath hoping the tape would soak and fall off naturally.

It didn’t.

He had no choice. He had to let it rip.

He had smooth toes.

And Tarzan was bald.

“AAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!”

He never used zinc oxide again.