Triathlete’s Dictionary (Ranxiety) – (Andrew)

Ranxiety

Noun

  • A feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent race or something with an uncertain outcome.

“He felt a surge of ranxiety about tomorrow’s Nigel Barge 10k”

  • A desire to go running, typically accompanied by various excuses not to go running and a strong desire to watch some telly instead.

“His ranxiety increased throughout the week until he admitted defeat and watched four episodes of Making A Murderer in a row.”

 

Jan 20th – Football’s a stupid game (Andrew)

I’ve retired  from playing football two times. The first time I was 25, just returned from six months in London, and without a regular game of fives to join I chose to ‘retire’. Though I wasn’t so much retired as abandoned. I didn’t mind though, I just wanted to run and I concentrated on half-marathons (and eating cake) instead.

The second time I retired was when I was 34 and I’d snapped my ankle. I’d started playing again after a new game had started through work on an indoor pitch near my flat. After 18 months, I mistimed a tackle, snapped an ankle ligament and ended up in the Victoria Infirmary x-ray department. “12 weeks to heal” they said. 12 weeks later I walked out onto the pitch, ran scared from any tackles, then played on a further three months to show I’d overcome it. Then, I retired. This time, definitely, officially, over. Football is a stupid game, and people get hurt. People like me.

This time I retired until 18 months ago. A new job. A weekly game. A good chance to get to know the people I worked with. I’ve been playing regularly since then in a freezing cold shed in Falkirk and tonight I’ll swap a running session for a game of football. I know it’s not in the training program and I’ve got more chance of injuring myself but, despite retiring, I still like to play, just slower and with even less skill than when I was 25. Then home for some cake. I’ve never retired from cake.

 

 

Jan 17th (Iain) – SPRIIIIIIIINNNNNNTTTTT!

I once had a job interview where I was asked “what type of manager do you like?”

I wanted to say “one who lets me do as little as possible!” but instead replied “One who I’m scared of. I perform better when someone is shouting at me than one someone is being very nice.”

I remembered this whilst doing a Spin Class. The normal instructor was away. She’s a nice girl who gives very clear and easy to follow instructions. I enjoy her class and always get a good workout.

This week a man turned up. He was shaven headed, covered in tattoo’s and looked like he’d just left prison. Not the type of man who be released from prison but the type of man who would broken out!

He took one look at us and immediately shouted “Level 19 and a cadence of 100!”

This was going to be hard. The girl normally says “Level 12 but take it at your own pace”

“Level 20!” F**k – I’d only just got used to level 19

“LEVEL 21! I’ll Know if you’re slacking!” How does he know? Can he tell that sometime I put my hand over the switch to turn it up but only pretend to move it?

“LEVEL 22!!!” There’s sweat everywhere. In my eyes, matting my hair and dripping on the floor. I hope my bike floats as the pool of sweat is going to be deep.

“LEVEL 23!!!” I’m dying.

“LEVEL 24!!!” The man next to me can no longer turn his pedals. I can barely move mine. This can’t get any harder

“NOW SPRINT!!!!” It got harder.

At the end of the class I hated the instructor but he did make me work harder and better than I ever have in any other class.

So for Norseman I will adopt the shout at Andrew approach! “SPRIIIIIIIIINNNNTTTT!”

Jan 9th (Iain) – Snow Cock!

“That looks like a massive snow cock!” Shouts a runner as we pass what looks like two large snow balls and one large shaft.

“Maybe its two snowmen cuddling up for warmth with a chimney in between them?” I replied.

“Its definitely a massive icy wang!” They shout back.

“I think you’re right” I concede.

Today was a 7 mile trail run that would normally have amazing views overlooking Glasgow but due to snow and fog the only thing I saw was an erotic snow sculpture.

Jan 5th (Iain) – Standing In Front Of The School Naked

I was late for spin class.

I’d popped into work on the way to the class to pick up a parcel from my desk. I’d then spent too long trying to work out the pin code to get into my office. I know it’s got a 4, a 7, a 1 and and a 9 in it. I just didn’t know the correct order. After twenty minutes of randomly trying combinations I had to abandon my parcel.

I thought I’d sneak into the class and no one would notice.

I was wrong. The class was full. Everyone stared at me.

I offered to leave! I’d already biked that day so didn’t need to bike again.

The instructor told me to stay and gave me her bike. The one facing the rest of the class.

This must be the spin cycling nightmare equivalent of standing in front of the school naked.

I decided to look down for the whole class and pretend no one else was there.

Jan 3rd – Are Twins Psychic?

“Swim@1500?” Texts Andrew

“Ok!” I reply.

It’s claimed that twins are psychic but we prefer to rely on text message. Sending each other messages by thought alone has proved more unreliable than scotrail trains.

He once fell off his bike and broke his arm. If I was psychic I’d have felt his pain. I felt nothing!

Which is why at 1510 I was standing outside the pool wondering why he was ten minutes late. After another 10 minutes I decided to go in and swim as he mustn’t be coming.

I got changed and headed to the pool. I jumped in a lane. There was with one other swimmer in the lane so I waited for them to swim to me so I could check it was ok to share the lane.

“Hey!”

It turned out the swimmer was my brother

“Why didn’t you meet me here at 1500?” He asked

“I was outside!”

“Oh! I thought you’d come inside.” he replied

What did I say about twins not being psychic.

Jan 1st (Iain) – What Is A Tradition?

I have a New Years day tradition which I started last year. Does that count as tradition? How many years do I have to do it before it becomes traditional?

I climb a hill on New Year’s Day. It doesn’t matter which one. I’m not picky.

I decided to climb the hill nearest my house. Before I left I double checked the route on the map. It seemed simple. Walk to the top via one route and follow a different path down.

I decided to go Alpine style which is a another way of saying I couldn’t be bothered carrying a bag or a map. I’d regret that later…

How hard could it be to walk to the top of a hill and then find a path back down? Surprisingly difficult. There was no path back down. Whoever drew the map must have failed map school.

I could have walked back the way we came but instead I decided to make my own path. I went to the hill edge and headed down the steep slope. I could see the town so I aimed for that. There must be a path eventually…

40 minutes and no path later I was standing in the middle of a very muddy field. My shoes were muddy, my jeans were muddy and my nose was muddy. I’m not sure how that happened!

The field was the only thing keeping me from reaching the town. I could see the houses. All I had to do was walk across this field. The choice was simple. Retreat and spend time looking for a better way that might not exist or commit to the mud.

I choose mud.

I squelched my way across the field. The closer I got to the houses the more I realised I faced a non mud related issue. Their was no gaps between the houses. The only way to get to town was to jump into someone’s garden.

I hoped whoever’s house I invaded would be too hungover from the night before to notice their first footer is a 6ft tall stranger covered in mud.

I choose a delightful 3 bed bungalow to invade. They didn’t have a dog (I hoped) and their garden wall looked sturdy enough to clamber over.

I couldn’t see anyone in their windows so I jumped over. I landed in the garden next to their trampoline. At that exact moment a women appeared at the window.

She looked at me

I looked at her

I waved hello

And legged it!

I stopped running when I got to the house.

My new New Year’s Day tradition is to not scare the neighbors!

Physio (Andrew)

I’m wonky. Officially.

After four weeks of pain from my lower back I went to see a physio today. Her description was short and to the point: “You’re wonky”, she said.

Of course, in my mind, I’m not wonky. I’m dying. It’s spine tumours. Its cancer. Its everything but the very reasonable explanation that I tweaked it training for Iron Man UK and I pulled it while out cycling round the Campsies in October.

I was cycling with Iain, my brother, when he got a puncture at the wrong side of the Trossachs. The Trossach are the hills that you can see to the north of Glasgow. The first wave you can see in the mountains that stretch broken like the sea all the way north towards the Highlands and home. The wrong side is the other side. Behind the crest of the wave and back down to a long road that flows along a gully from Killearn to Stirling. It’s a road filled with bumps, holes, and, most crucially, for this story, no mobile reception.

We’re about five miles from when my brother gets a puncture. We stop at a parking space and, while he tries to fix it, I read a poster tied to a pole. It asks if anyone has seen two cats who were “Out for a walk in the woods”. And I can’t help thinking: who takes cats out for a walk? Cats don’t walk. Cat’s don’t hike. Cats like to play hide and seek so, whatever you do, don’t take them for a walk in the woods.

While Iain manages to fix his bike we cycle on and he immediately gets another puncture. He only had spare tube with him. I have another but as he has deep section rims my tube won’t fit his wheel. He has no choice, he needs to walk because, and here’s the crucial bit of the story, this road, as it’s the wrong side of the Trossachs, has no mobile reception. He walks for three miles to Fintry, the nearest town, while I pedal slowly beside him trying to keep walking pace but upright at the same time. After an hour of balancing on pedals my back is sore but I don’t think anything of it, just ordinary tightness from being on the bike. A week later and its still sore. A month later and I admit that I’ve got a problem. I’ve not run except for one game of football a week, I’ve not been swimming and I’ve definitely not returned to the bike. I’m wonky.

I make an appointment and the physio confirms it. She prods my back and stomach, mentions tightness and things not moving as they should. She pulls my arms and shoulders. Puts pressure on my legs as I curl and uncurl on a massage table then she tells me to come back in two weeks for another session. It already feels better but she tells me to come back in two weeks for another session to check the muscles have become more flexible.

%d bloggers like this: