Standing in front of the student at Boots, two packets of Imodium and anti-bacterial wetwipes in front of you on the counter. Do you:
(a) explain it is precautionary because you are about to catch a flight to Kilimanjaro; or
(b) let her assume you have overdone it severely at Christmas?
Not yet nervous, I confess not knowing what to expect is causing me some concern. Have I got enough stuff? Have I got too much stuff? Will I be warm enough? Will I overheat when not on the mountain? It's too late now - I leave in 30 minutes.
On the positive side my beard is just about adequate. look at photos of successful mountain climbers of years gone, they almost all have admirable beards. Therefore (QED) all you need to climb a mountain is a beard. I am only hiking up a mountain, which is fortunate because I can only achieve an unkempt and patchy chin covering but I think that will be enough. That and the goretex jacket Edward rushed home for yesterday. There was a bit of concern when it was discovered I was planning on going onto the snowy -10 degrees (-16 with windchill) peak without a coat.
Saturday 27 December 2008
Monday 22 December 2008
The cost of being polite
It had to happen at some point - a challenge that failed through not even taking part.
I had written two poems that I thought would at least not be considered rubbish. One of them even name checked Ronnie Rosenthal. I had practiced reading them out loud (alone) and almost knew them well enough not to need them written in front of me. I went to the venue to register at 7pm exactly as instructed. I paid £6 to go in and as I walked through to the foyer an announcement was made to queue at a table for registration. Out of politeness I let a few others in front of me in the queue, assuming we would all get to take part. I got to the front of the queue, I was told I was 14th and there were only 12 places. I put my name down as second reserve but it clearly wasn't happening. I had somewhere else I could be so stayed and watched the first couple of people and left.
Manners cost me my chance. If I had not let the woman with purple ribbon in her hair and the man with an artistic goatee in front of me I would be regaling you with a tale of how women were stunned and men swooned at my revolutionary use of a novel variation on iambic pentameter. I am disappointed, of course. That disappointment is tempered by relief. The standard of the people I saw was phenomenal and they did not read from paper. I would have been embarrassed. However, I am going to do this, it will be outside the challenge year but I am going back, this time with them properly memorised.
I had written two poems that I thought would at least not be considered rubbish. One of them even name checked Ronnie Rosenthal. I had practiced reading them out loud (alone) and almost knew them well enough not to need them written in front of me. I went to the venue to register at 7pm exactly as instructed. I paid £6 to go in and as I walked through to the foyer an announcement was made to queue at a table for registration. Out of politeness I let a few others in front of me in the queue, assuming we would all get to take part. I got to the front of the queue, I was told I was 14th and there were only 12 places. I put my name down as second reserve but it clearly wasn't happening. I had somewhere else I could be so stayed and watched the first couple of people and left.
Manners cost me my chance. If I had not let the woman with purple ribbon in her hair and the man with an artistic goatee in front of me I would be regaling you with a tale of how women were stunned and men swooned at my revolutionary use of a novel variation on iambic pentameter. I am disappointed, of course. That disappointment is tempered by relief. The standard of the people I saw was phenomenal and they did not read from paper. I would have been embarrassed. However, I am going to do this, it will be outside the challenge year but I am going back, this time with them properly memorised.
Thursday 18 December 2008
The only thing we have to fear is poetry
Whilst the order may vary the content of a list of the most common phobias is quite predictable - it's a category I would chose to play on Family Fortunes. I'm confident that spiders, flying, heights, death, open spaces, enclosed spaces, vomit, snakes and water would all be included. The raspberry wouldn't come for a while.
If I have a phobia I am not sure what it is I quite like water, spiders and snakes and have something of a talent for being sick. Spaces of any kind are irrelevant to me. I just accept the others as being part of life (except death which I suppose is not part of life per se but the two things are traditionally closely connected).
Public speaking will be on that list too. Most people get nervous before public speaking, that is not a phobia that is normal. At some point for some people the nerves must get uncontrollable and then it becomes a phobia. I don't now when that is but what I do know that I am metaphorically crapping myself at the thought of tonight's challenge. A poetry slam. Standing up in front of a group of strangers, performing a poem I have written and then being judged on that poem and performance. It's beyond public speaking. Nobody has ever scored one of my speeches. Also I'd be a lot happier if I thought my poems were any good and if I had ever seen or heard a slam poem before.
Part of me is hoping that I will be too late to register (you can only sign up on the evening), part of me is thinking about just not bothering, part of me is saying this is the point of the challenge year get on with it. I have to answer a crucial question, what is worse - the fear of the challenge, the fear of failure or the fear of not trying?
If I have a phobia I am not sure what it is I quite like water, spiders and snakes and have something of a talent for being sick. Spaces of any kind are irrelevant to me. I just accept the others as being part of life (except death which I suppose is not part of life per se but the two things are traditionally closely connected).
Public speaking will be on that list too. Most people get nervous before public speaking, that is not a phobia that is normal. At some point for some people the nerves must get uncontrollable and then it becomes a phobia. I don't now when that is but what I do know that I am metaphorically crapping myself at the thought of tonight's challenge. A poetry slam. Standing up in front of a group of strangers, performing a poem I have written and then being judged on that poem and performance. It's beyond public speaking. Nobody has ever scored one of my speeches. Also I'd be a lot happier if I thought my poems were any good and if I had ever seen or heard a slam poem before.
Part of me is hoping that I will be too late to register (you can only sign up on the evening), part of me is thinking about just not bothering, part of me is saying this is the point of the challenge year get on with it. I have to answer a crucial question, what is worse - the fear of the challenge, the fear of failure or the fear of not trying?
Tuesday 16 December 2008
The Money Shot
What do (approximately) 4,000 people attempt, 1,400 achieve and 100 die doing each year?
What do I have in common with Gary Barlow, Ronan Keating, Alesha Dixon, Chris Moyles and a few other "celebs" that I can't be bothered to remember?
What was the main character doing that led to his death in a short story by Earnest Hemingway that I read years ago and made this an ambition of mine?
What challenge is going to see the culmination of this year?
Answer to all 4: Climbing Kilimanjaro (in the case of the celebs put "planning on" before the answer, otherwise it just doesn't make sense).
If all goes well I will be standing on the roof of Africa on my 31st birthday, if it doesn't I will have spent a lot of money on a wasted trip. And possibly be dead. And, even worse, face the rest of my life knowing that Chris Moyles (potentially) has achieved something I couldn't. I'm thinking bear traps might be the answer. Even if I don't get Moyles I might manage to take out enough people to stop a couple of reality shows next year.
What do I have in common with Gary Barlow, Ronan Keating, Alesha Dixon, Chris Moyles and a few other "celebs" that I can't be bothered to remember?
What was the main character doing that led to his death in a short story by Earnest Hemingway that I read years ago and made this an ambition of mine?
What challenge is going to see the culmination of this year?
Answer to all 4: Climbing Kilimanjaro (in the case of the celebs put "planning on" before the answer, otherwise it just doesn't make sense).
If all goes well I will be standing on the roof of Africa on my 31st birthday, if it doesn't I will have spent a lot of money on a wasted trip. And possibly be dead. And, even worse, face the rest of my life knowing that Chris Moyles (potentially) has achieved something I couldn't. I'm thinking bear traps might be the answer. Even if I don't get Moyles I might manage to take out enough people to stop a couple of reality shows next year.
Monday 8 December 2008
Chilling Out in Kent
PE lessons during winter usually meant football or rugby. For someone like me, who enjoys playing football and rugby, those were good days. The bad days were when the pitches were frozen or waterlogged. That tended to indicate cross-country runs.
“What about dodgeball, sir?” someone would ask. Others agreed. The gym was a far more appealing option than the cold and/or wet outdoors.
“Yes. Sir, that way you can join in, it’s always better if you play too”. A PE teacher, pretty much by definition, is competitive. He would play to win, regardless of whether the opponent was a grown man in Sunday League football or a group of snot leaking 13 year olds, awkward in their barely pubescent bodies, running around the school gym as the teacher hurled day-glo fluffy footballs at their heads. A good lesson involved knocking the inch thick glasses of the nose of the least sporting child in the class.
Sometimes this schoolboy psychology worked. Sometimes it didn’t. When it didn’t you would spend maybe thirty minutes of your school day splashing, slipping and tripping around muddy fields with number fingers and saturated trainers. You actually looked forward to communal school showers, poorly cut school uniform and, in several years time, leaving school, to never having to face a winter cross country run again.
Never.
Never?
150 people in Kings Wood, Churrock Hill, Kent had forgotten the teenage oath. Or maybe it had been worded wrongly because with heavy settling snow and gusting northerly winds it certainly felt like hell was freezing over. Paul (dongoling Paul, not 3 Men in a Boat Paul) and I had hidden in the car for as long as possible, watching the thermometer fluctuate around freezing, me ruing not having gloves, Paul ruing not having long sleeves (he didn’t seem to have an issue with shorts). But you can’t hide for ever and at 9 o’clock the rasce started.
The first running lap, of two miles, wasn’t too bad. The snow had just settled and was a bit slippery but you could maintain a grip. I started quickly in the hope I would warm up, most people had the same idea. I slowed down for fear of being too tired to cope with what was to come. Most people seemed to do the same. My time for this leg was 17:25, it placed me 57th.
Next came the cycle. Three laps to give a total distance of ten miles. I had been worrying about my knees but needn’t have wasted the energy. My body had gone so numb by the time half the first lap was complete I could not feel anything at all. My strategy was simple, hold onto the handlebars as tightly as possible and only when absolutely necessaryy pull the brake or change gear. The cycling was proper mountain biking, with some very technical parts. I’m not an experienced mountain biker. And by that I mean I have mountain biked once before in my life, going down a volcano in Guatemala about 8 years ago. My previous experience also involved riding a mountain bike and no snow. In this case I was on a cyclo-cross bike in the snow. The big advantage of cyclo-cross bikes generally is that they are light and skid over the surface. On steep hills you just get off and run up the hill with them over your shoulder. The disadvantage is that they are light and skid over the surface, so if you are technically incompetent and riding on snow it is kind of like ice-skating down hill, you spend most of your time trying to slow down and hoping you can maintain your balance next time you skid out of control. Also, if you are going mountain biking during a snow fall it is a good idea to wear untinted glasses, this will stop you being blinded by the flakes as you cycle into the wind.
With each lap the snow and mud got churned up a bit more, I had given up racing and focused solely on survival. I made no attempt to overtake anybody and let others go past me because the idea of manoeuvring with other cyclists close in front or behind was too unappealing. Finally, the third lap was over. What had been a very slow lap became even slower in transition, my fingers were so numb that I could not remove my helmet. I found a guy who had finished the race and asked him to help me, he kindly obliged, telling me he had kept his helmet on for the run because he had the same problem. Total time for the cycling leg was 1:06:25, my position for the leg was 88th.
Then started the second running lap, exactly the same two mile course as the first. It was initially a relief to be on legs rather than wheels. This was short lived as the running course had now been churned into a slippery bog. There was no chance of getting momentum because with each step your feet were sucked into the mud and all your energy was used pulling it out again. I had started quickly with the intention of making up ground on the cyclists but this was a reckless approach that resulted in me slipping, tripping and slipping again. The only reason I did not fall was because a well placed tree painfully helped me stay upright. Even with a more cautious approach after that I made up time on a lot of people. The last guy I overtook was a victim of his own pride when, in deciding he was not going to be overtaken so near the finish he sped up and took a tumble that allowed about 10 people past. My time for this leg was 18:07, I placed 47th for the leg. This gave an overall time of 1:41:57 and final position of 80th out of 124.
Back in Paul’s car we sat with the heater at full blast, waiting for the involuntary shivering to stop. This was a different cold to Tough Guy cold. That had been a suck the life out of you cold. This was an attack every sinew cold. I had been worried that a duathlon would be less challenging than this year's other components. Once again I was punished for underestimating. This had been as hard as any of them. The agonising conditions just capping an event that was, in any circumstances, difficult. It is nice to know my perspective has changed since being 13, it turns out that, whilst not as good as football or rugby, cross-country is actually good fun. More varied and interesting than road running. I'm certainly not going to say "never again". However, next time, if I am making my way to a duathlon and the thermometer is going down whilst the sun is coming up (albeit hidden by snow laden grey clouds) then, rather than race, I will remember what I learnt at school. I will find a group of stereotypical computer nerds, a sports hall and a football spend the morning sadistically knocking their glasses off.
“What about dodgeball, sir?” someone would ask. Others agreed. The gym was a far more appealing option than the cold and/or wet outdoors.
“Yes. Sir, that way you can join in, it’s always better if you play too”. A PE teacher, pretty much by definition, is competitive. He would play to win, regardless of whether the opponent was a grown man in Sunday League football or a group of snot leaking 13 year olds, awkward in their barely pubescent bodies, running around the school gym as the teacher hurled day-glo fluffy footballs at their heads. A good lesson involved knocking the inch thick glasses of the nose of the least sporting child in the class.
Sometimes this schoolboy psychology worked. Sometimes it didn’t. When it didn’t you would spend maybe thirty minutes of your school day splashing, slipping and tripping around muddy fields with number fingers and saturated trainers. You actually looked forward to communal school showers, poorly cut school uniform and, in several years time, leaving school, to never having to face a winter cross country run again.
Never.
Never?
150 people in Kings Wood, Churrock Hill, Kent had forgotten the teenage oath. Or maybe it had been worded wrongly because with heavy settling snow and gusting northerly winds it certainly felt like hell was freezing over. Paul (dongoling Paul, not 3 Men in a Boat Paul) and I had hidden in the car for as long as possible, watching the thermometer fluctuate around freezing, me ruing not having gloves, Paul ruing not having long sleeves (he didn’t seem to have an issue with shorts). But you can’t hide for ever and at 9 o’clock the rasce started.
The first running lap, of two miles, wasn’t too bad. The snow had just settled and was a bit slippery but you could maintain a grip. I started quickly in the hope I would warm up, most people had the same idea. I slowed down for fear of being too tired to cope with what was to come. Most people seemed to do the same. My time for this leg was 17:25, it placed me 57th.
Next came the cycle. Three laps to give a total distance of ten miles. I had been worrying about my knees but needn’t have wasted the energy. My body had gone so numb by the time half the first lap was complete I could not feel anything at all. My strategy was simple, hold onto the handlebars as tightly as possible and only when absolutely necessaryy pull the brake or change gear. The cycling was proper mountain biking, with some very technical parts. I’m not an experienced mountain biker. And by that I mean I have mountain biked once before in my life, going down a volcano in Guatemala about 8 years ago. My previous experience also involved riding a mountain bike and no snow. In this case I was on a cyclo-cross bike in the snow. The big advantage of cyclo-cross bikes generally is that they are light and skid over the surface. On steep hills you just get off and run up the hill with them over your shoulder. The disadvantage is that they are light and skid over the surface, so if you are technically incompetent and riding on snow it is kind of like ice-skating down hill, you spend most of your time trying to slow down and hoping you can maintain your balance next time you skid out of control. Also, if you are going mountain biking during a snow fall it is a good idea to wear untinted glasses, this will stop you being blinded by the flakes as you cycle into the wind.
With each lap the snow and mud got churned up a bit more, I had given up racing and focused solely on survival. I made no attempt to overtake anybody and let others go past me because the idea of manoeuvring with other cyclists close in front or behind was too unappealing. Finally, the third lap was over. What had been a very slow lap became even slower in transition, my fingers were so numb that I could not remove my helmet. I found a guy who had finished the race and asked him to help me, he kindly obliged, telling me he had kept his helmet on for the run because he had the same problem. Total time for the cycling leg was 1:06:25, my position for the leg was 88th.
Then started the second running lap, exactly the same two mile course as the first. It was initially a relief to be on legs rather than wheels. This was short lived as the running course had now been churned into a slippery bog. There was no chance of getting momentum because with each step your feet were sucked into the mud and all your energy was used pulling it out again. I had started quickly with the intention of making up ground on the cyclists but this was a reckless approach that resulted in me slipping, tripping and slipping again. The only reason I did not fall was because a well placed tree painfully helped me stay upright. Even with a more cautious approach after that I made up time on a lot of people. The last guy I overtook was a victim of his own pride when, in deciding he was not going to be overtaken so near the finish he sped up and took a tumble that allowed about 10 people past. My time for this leg was 18:07, I placed 47th for the leg. This gave an overall time of 1:41:57 and final position of 80th out of 124.
Back in Paul’s car we sat with the heater at full blast, waiting for the involuntary shivering to stop. This was a different cold to Tough Guy cold. That had been a suck the life out of you cold. This was an attack every sinew cold. I had been worried that a duathlon would be less challenging than this year's other components. Once again I was punished for underestimating. This had been as hard as any of them. The agonising conditions just capping an event that was, in any circumstances, difficult. It is nice to know my perspective has changed since being 13, it turns out that, whilst not as good as football or rugby, cross-country is actually good fun. More varied and interesting than road running. I'm certainly not going to say "never again". However, next time, if I am making my way to a duathlon and the thermometer is going down whilst the sun is coming up (albeit hidden by snow laden grey clouds) then, rather than race, I will remember what I learnt at school. I will find a group of stereotypical computer nerds, a sports hall and a football spend the morning sadistically knocking their glasses off.
Monday 1 December 2008
And Pienally... My True Story.
I was famous once. Television, radio, and newspapers clamoured to tell my story. I was getting emails and Facebook messages from people I have never met. I was Londoner of the day on 20 November 2008. Everybody wanted a piece of me. I hadn’t courted fame, it was thrust upon me. My story is one of overnight success, an exciting mix of glorious highs and agonising lows. It is a story the world should hear but unlike these fly by night celebrities capitalising on their moment of fame with rushed autobiographies I have waited to publish. I want my story to be a fair and realistic representation of what really happens when a mortal is thrust into the spotlight.
[I have skipped the dull first 300 pages about my childhood for you]
The morning of 18 November offered no clues that it would be the day that changed my life. At first I followed my usual routine, get up, breakfast, shave, dress, gym, dress. I dressed the second time not in a suit but in jeans, a t-shirt promoting the Stroke Association and a coat. This marked the point my day stopped being a work day. Instead of going to the office I headed to Hammersmith to pick up a rental car. I drove to Wookey Hole, two and a half hours through sunshine, drizzle and downpours.
Wookey Hole is a village in North Somerset, near Wells. At Wookey Hole there is a tourist area, it has caves and a museum, a circus-themed theatre and a restaurant. It has a car park and that is where I parked my car. It has an entrance, and that is where I went in. It has tables and at one of these tables I confirmed my arrival and filled in a form. The form asked my name, my contact details and my eating specialty. I gave my name, my contact details and put “none” as my eating specialty. It was 11.40am.
There were a lot of people in the entrance area, sitting standing, chatting, laughing. I stood amongst them and waited to be called through. At 11.55am I was called through, along with about 26 other people who had also been waiting. We were taken to the start of the museum area and given t-shirts – we had a choice of size, extra large or extra extra large. We then stood around for a little longer.
A man came through and called the names of the competitors in the order we were to enter the eating arena. We lined up in order. A man from ITV, who was also taking part, interviewed the largest of the people in the queue – he had come from Birmingham for the competition. I used this time to chat with the people next to me. They recognised the event for what it was, a bit of fun. At the same time they wanted to win. I consider that to be a sensible attitude.
We were then taken into the theatre and called one by one down to the main show area. We stood behind trellis tables that had been set up in a U shape and laid with trays covered in mince pies and jugs of water. Below it were a lot of orange buckets. A man dressed as a ring master told us the rules. Eat as many mince pies as possible in ten minutes. If you’re sick you’re out. Photographers and cameramen stood amongst the tables, an audience sat in the viewing area.
The ring master counted us down to the start. We started eating. The man next to me with a turkey hat on his head (his nickname was “the Gobbler”) knelt down to eat. I stayed standing. I ate. My theory was to get into a rhythm of eating and, when necessary, drinking water to stop the pastry drying out my mouth. I concentrated on this so intently that I stopped being aware of what everybody else was doing and just focused on eating. I was in the zone, shutting out all internal and external distractions. The rhythm was everything.
The photographers and cameramen moved around the group, the ringmaster commentated and gave time readings. He said three people were doing very well. I was one of the people he was referring to. I ran out of water and signalled to a woman that I wanted more, she thought I meant more pies and put another tray in front of me. The pies on my first tray were disappearing fast but that seemed optimistic. I kept eating. We were told there were only a couple of minutes left. The photographers were suddenly all in front of me. I kept eating. The Countdown thirty second music started playing just as I was eating the last pie on my first tray. The ringmaster said 15 seconds and I decided to force down one more from the additional tray. Pie then water, I swallowed “dum dum, dum dum diddly dum” went the Countdown music. The competition ended. I looked around me, nobody else had an empty tray in front of them – not even close. The significance of this did not register. The bloated feeling in my stomach did.
A guy patted me on the back, “You know you just ate 40 pies” he said.
“That doesn’t sound right” I answered.
“It was definitely 40, there were 40 pies on each tray”.
“I ate one off that tray too”.
“You just ate 41 pies”.
“How long do I need to hold them down for?”
“Until the prize money is safely in your pocket”. More excellent advice.
The photographers kept taking pictures. People were coming up to me with notebooks, asking me my name, where was I from, how did I feel. I thought about how I felt. Uncomfortably full, almost painfully full, like eating far too much Christmas dinner. I also felt a bit dazed. I put that down to the sugar. Some people were going to each table counting how many pies were eaten.
The ringmaster announced the results but by then so many people had told me I had won that I was pretty sure I had won. The photographers were in front of me, waiting for the announcement. I knew I had to give some sort of reaction so when my name was called I raised my arms in victory. Cameras were flashing. I was given a cheque. I put it in my pocket. I smiled for the cameras, they told me to hold up pies, so I did. They told me to move to a table with a big pile of mince pies, so I did, I was asked to do all sorts of ridiculous poses. So I did. I was feeling a bit absent from my own body, just responding to the instruction. My only thoughts were, I really want a napkin and I’m going to have my picture in the press wearing a T-shirt 3 sizes too big and holding mince pies. Close ups on my mouth, open wide. I had to push my upper body through a banner for the competition and hold mince pies. Smile, head up, eyes down, left arm forward, mouth a bit wider. A woman interviewed me whilst holding a video camera. The guy from ITV interviewed me and I showed him my stomach. Then they left, they had deadlines. I left too, I had a deadline, I had to get the car back.
As I was walking back to my car the guy who organised the competition asked me if I was available for publicity. Graham Norton was interested, Eggheads were interested, Jonathan Ross was interested. That was when I started to doubt exactly how likely any of this was going to be. I didn’t think the Jonathan Ross Show was going to happen. He also told me that they were going to get in touch with the American Professional Speed Eater Organisation to see if they would let me take part. He asked if I was interested in doing that. I told him that if the logistics allowed it then why not.
The rain had blown over and the day was now glorious. I drove back, stopping at the services to be sick – a sort of syrup came out of me. No solids. I still felt full. As I drove I was taking phone calls from the press. Then I realised what I had done – shown my stomach on ITV – how embarrassing. Also 41 pies is a lot of pies. I had no idea it was that many and have no idea how I did it.
Car back, I went to the gym. After the gym I was sick. Syrup again. I was still full.
All afternoon and evening I was getting texts from people who had seen it on television or heard it on the radio. I was an ITN “and finally” piece. My story was all over the internet and also made it into a couple of the hard copies of the newspapers. Phone calls still came in. Real People wanted my story so I gave it. Radio Star for North Somerset wanted to interview me live on radio, as did BBC Radio Northampton, I spoke to them both. But my star was not going to shine forever. A new “and finally” story broke, maybe an escaped farm animal or a skateboarding squirrel.
It wasn’t completely finished though. George Lamb wanted to speak to me on his BBC 6 Music show on the Friday at 12.40. I agreed and waited to be called. 6Music never called but a member of The One Show on BBC1 production team did. They were planning to do a Christmas Food special with Gordon Ramsay the following Tuesday and wanted me to have a mince pie eating race with someone on the production team. I agreed and was told to expect full details after the weekend. Over the weekend the News of the World reported that Gordon Ramsay had been having an affair. In light of that he dropped out of the show and my race was scrapped. My reputation was safe but my fame was over.
I feel sorry for Gordon Ramsay, an unwitting victim of the News of the World’s ongoing revenge campaign against me. It is no coincidence that News Group are one of the only newspapers not to have told my story. Well they succeeded. My phone stopped ringing, the emails stopped arriving and my new friends abandoned me. Graham Norton never called, Eggheads never called and there is no news of America. The system that embraced me has spat me to the kerb like the gum from an irresponsible chewer. For one year I can call myself a pie eating champion but mince pies are seasonal. Who will care when Easter comes around?
So now I sit here, alone in my flat surrounded by empty packs of Mr Kipling Battenburgs and Fruit Fancies. All I have left to look forward to is my “true” story appearing in the 11 December issue of Real People and an invite to be on the next series of I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. Actually my fame hasn’t fallen that far.
[I have skipped the dull first 300 pages about my childhood for you]
The morning of 18 November offered no clues that it would be the day that changed my life. At first I followed my usual routine, get up, breakfast, shave, dress, gym, dress. I dressed the second time not in a suit but in jeans, a t-shirt promoting the Stroke Association and a coat. This marked the point my day stopped being a work day. Instead of going to the office I headed to Hammersmith to pick up a rental car. I drove to Wookey Hole, two and a half hours through sunshine, drizzle and downpours.
Wookey Hole is a village in North Somerset, near Wells. At Wookey Hole there is a tourist area, it has caves and a museum, a circus-themed theatre and a restaurant. It has a car park and that is where I parked my car. It has an entrance, and that is where I went in. It has tables and at one of these tables I confirmed my arrival and filled in a form. The form asked my name, my contact details and my eating specialty. I gave my name, my contact details and put “none” as my eating specialty. It was 11.40am.
There were a lot of people in the entrance area, sitting standing, chatting, laughing. I stood amongst them and waited to be called through. At 11.55am I was called through, along with about 26 other people who had also been waiting. We were taken to the start of the museum area and given t-shirts – we had a choice of size, extra large or extra extra large. We then stood around for a little longer.
A man came through and called the names of the competitors in the order we were to enter the eating arena. We lined up in order. A man from ITV, who was also taking part, interviewed the largest of the people in the queue – he had come from Birmingham for the competition. I used this time to chat with the people next to me. They recognised the event for what it was, a bit of fun. At the same time they wanted to win. I consider that to be a sensible attitude.
We were then taken into the theatre and called one by one down to the main show area. We stood behind trellis tables that had been set up in a U shape and laid with trays covered in mince pies and jugs of water. Below it were a lot of orange buckets. A man dressed as a ring master told us the rules. Eat as many mince pies as possible in ten minutes. If you’re sick you’re out. Photographers and cameramen stood amongst the tables, an audience sat in the viewing area.
The ring master counted us down to the start. We started eating. The man next to me with a turkey hat on his head (his nickname was “the Gobbler”) knelt down to eat. I stayed standing. I ate. My theory was to get into a rhythm of eating and, when necessary, drinking water to stop the pastry drying out my mouth. I concentrated on this so intently that I stopped being aware of what everybody else was doing and just focused on eating. I was in the zone, shutting out all internal and external distractions. The rhythm was everything.
The photographers and cameramen moved around the group, the ringmaster commentated and gave time readings. He said three people were doing very well. I was one of the people he was referring to. I ran out of water and signalled to a woman that I wanted more, she thought I meant more pies and put another tray in front of me. The pies on my first tray were disappearing fast but that seemed optimistic. I kept eating. We were told there were only a couple of minutes left. The photographers were suddenly all in front of me. I kept eating. The Countdown thirty second music started playing just as I was eating the last pie on my first tray. The ringmaster said 15 seconds and I decided to force down one more from the additional tray. Pie then water, I swallowed “dum dum, dum dum diddly dum” went the Countdown music. The competition ended. I looked around me, nobody else had an empty tray in front of them – not even close. The significance of this did not register. The bloated feeling in my stomach did.
A guy patted me on the back, “You know you just ate 40 pies” he said.
“That doesn’t sound right” I answered.
“It was definitely 40, there were 40 pies on each tray”.
“I ate one off that tray too”.
“You just ate 41 pies”.
“How long do I need to hold them down for?”
“Until the prize money is safely in your pocket”. More excellent advice.
The photographers kept taking pictures. People were coming up to me with notebooks, asking me my name, where was I from, how did I feel. I thought about how I felt. Uncomfortably full, almost painfully full, like eating far too much Christmas dinner. I also felt a bit dazed. I put that down to the sugar. Some people were going to each table counting how many pies were eaten.
The ringmaster announced the results but by then so many people had told me I had won that I was pretty sure I had won. The photographers were in front of me, waiting for the announcement. I knew I had to give some sort of reaction so when my name was called I raised my arms in victory. Cameras were flashing. I was given a cheque. I put it in my pocket. I smiled for the cameras, they told me to hold up pies, so I did. They told me to move to a table with a big pile of mince pies, so I did, I was asked to do all sorts of ridiculous poses. So I did. I was feeling a bit absent from my own body, just responding to the instruction. My only thoughts were, I really want a napkin and I’m going to have my picture in the press wearing a T-shirt 3 sizes too big and holding mince pies. Close ups on my mouth, open wide. I had to push my upper body through a banner for the competition and hold mince pies. Smile, head up, eyes down, left arm forward, mouth a bit wider. A woman interviewed me whilst holding a video camera. The guy from ITV interviewed me and I showed him my stomach. Then they left, they had deadlines. I left too, I had a deadline, I had to get the car back.
As I was walking back to my car the guy who organised the competition asked me if I was available for publicity. Graham Norton was interested, Eggheads were interested, Jonathan Ross was interested. That was when I started to doubt exactly how likely any of this was going to be. I didn’t think the Jonathan Ross Show was going to happen. He also told me that they were going to get in touch with the American Professional Speed Eater Organisation to see if they would let me take part. He asked if I was interested in doing that. I told him that if the logistics allowed it then why not.
The rain had blown over and the day was now glorious. I drove back, stopping at the services to be sick – a sort of syrup came out of me. No solids. I still felt full. As I drove I was taking phone calls from the press. Then I realised what I had done – shown my stomach on ITV – how embarrassing. Also 41 pies is a lot of pies. I had no idea it was that many and have no idea how I did it.
Car back, I went to the gym. After the gym I was sick. Syrup again. I was still full.
All afternoon and evening I was getting texts from people who had seen it on television or heard it on the radio. I was an ITN “and finally” piece. My story was all over the internet and also made it into a couple of the hard copies of the newspapers. Phone calls still came in. Real People wanted my story so I gave it. Radio Star for North Somerset wanted to interview me live on radio, as did BBC Radio Northampton, I spoke to them both. But my star was not going to shine forever. A new “and finally” story broke, maybe an escaped farm animal or a skateboarding squirrel.
It wasn’t completely finished though. George Lamb wanted to speak to me on his BBC 6 Music show on the Friday at 12.40. I agreed and waited to be called. 6Music never called but a member of The One Show on BBC1 production team did. They were planning to do a Christmas Food special with Gordon Ramsay the following Tuesday and wanted me to have a mince pie eating race with someone on the production team. I agreed and was told to expect full details after the weekend. Over the weekend the News of the World reported that Gordon Ramsay had been having an affair. In light of that he dropped out of the show and my race was scrapped. My reputation was safe but my fame was over.
I feel sorry for Gordon Ramsay, an unwitting victim of the News of the World’s ongoing revenge campaign against me. It is no coincidence that News Group are one of the only newspapers not to have told my story. Well they succeeded. My phone stopped ringing, the emails stopped arriving and my new friends abandoned me. Graham Norton never called, Eggheads never called and there is no news of America. The system that embraced me has spat me to the kerb like the gum from an irresponsible chewer. For one year I can call myself a pie eating champion but mince pies are seasonal. Who will care when Easter comes around?
So now I sit here, alone in my flat surrounded by empty packs of Mr Kipling Battenburgs and Fruit Fancies. All I have left to look forward to is my “true” story appearing in the 11 December issue of Real People and an invite to be on the next series of I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. Actually my fame hasn’t fallen that far.
Monday 17 November 2008
was Weg zur Spitze?
Tower running has enthusiasts, elite athletes, worldwide contests and dedicated internet sites. In fact it has all of the trappings and paraphernalia that one would expect of a serious sport. I knew all of this before going to Vienna but still could not treat the concept with the respect it deserves. At its lowest point Grandstand would not have filled the void between the 4.15 from Haydock and Final Score with tower running. They would have chosen bowls or water polo or lumberjacking, if Eurosport had not got that first. In my mind it is something organised by a company based in Canary Wharf on a team building/charity fund raising day. Even the chairman joins in, donning the tennis shirt and shorts he was inspired to buy just after Bjorn Borg first won Wimbledon, each man made fibre of his t-shirt desperately clinging to its neighbour to avoid exposing a paunch born of his expense driven lifestyle. His face turns puce by the 5th floor but he makes it to the top and all the ambitious executives comment on what a good sport he is at the buffet, hoping he hears them and moves them down the sacking league table.
So curiosity, rather than trepidation was the emotion that encouraged me to be at Kaisermuhlen Ubahn station at 7.55am on a gloriously crisp Viennese winter’s morning. I had not actually worked out where to go next, it I expected to easily identify Austria’s tallest construction and then head in that general direction. The problem was that Kaisermuhlen is the gateway to a business area with several tall buildings. The one I suspected was my destination, based on it being the only one that looked to have a rotating restaurant at the top, did not look much taller than all of the others. I was underwhelmed just long enough to reach the start of the business park and realise perspective was playing a joke. To transmogrify a line from Father Ted* “Those towers are small, that tower is far away”.
As I walked through the business park, and then the normal park beyond it, the tower took on an increasingly intimidating loom. It's true I’ve seen bigger, the Donauturm is less than half the size of the Empire State Building and Eiffel Tower and about two-thirds of Canary Wharf. But I’ve not (yet) faced the prospect of running up any of those. I was disappointed to see that there were no windows in the concrete cylinder that separated the restaurant and the ground. I had quite liked the notion of seeing the world winding away from me like a cork separated from its bottle. Unsure whether I had helped the environment I was leaving to develop character or just tainted it.
I, like, I suspect most people, cannot help but assess the other competitors at the start of an event. It is reassuring to identify some people you are confident you will beat (and so not finish last). At the bottom of the tower there was not one person about whom I could confidently draw this conclusion. Not even the chain smokers huddled by the changing shed. I realised this was no charity event. The only people that happily give their Saturday morning to exhausting themselves in this manner take their fitness and/or tower running seriously. Or they are bumbling around finding pointless challenges in an attempt to give reason to an otherwise puerile existence.
The usual procedure followed: registration, pin number to top, timing chip around ankle, hang around until the start. My age group (30-39) was scheduled to run between 10.45 and 11.10 (competitors went up one at a time, 20 seconds between each). It was too cold to stand outside so I decided to watch the under 30s at the start.
Again I was caught out by the standard of the set up. The starters were all filmed, a commentator announced what was happening and a large flat screen television flicked between images of the start, half way up, the 135m landing and the finish. Two timer displays were set up, one repeatedly counting down 20 seconds, one showing the time of the most recent finisher. These tended to be 6 minutes or less, 6 seconds per flight of steps. That seemed very quick to me.
The queue of people waiting to climb did not reflect the under 30 demographic I had expected. Everybody in a running kit was jostling for position. I decided I wanted to get on with things so added my frame to the hubbub. Several minutes and some careful manoeuvres later I was watching my 20 seconds count down to zero. The man recording who had run jovially pointed out to me that I was the 100th competitor of the day. I watched the clock and smiled.
0 seconds, I went. My tactic was to go as quickly as possible the whole way, fully anticipating that my “as possible” would continuously decrease. Each landing was numbered, starting at 60 and counting down. I managed to “run” to 40 but with two thirds of the tower left my legs insisted that I walk. So I walked, and hauled myself up by the banister (a painful place to be hauled). The sound of heavy breathing echoed around me, it was my breathing. The man immediately behind me bounded past at 37, the man immediately behind him did the same at 17. I did not care particularly, I only cared about two things – getting enough oxygen in my lungs to stop me feinting and that I had just overtaken the guy starting immediately in front of me, I would not be last.
Finally level 1, out from a claustrophobic, artificially lit tube and into the bright sunshine of the observation deck with a view of Vienna. It meant nothing to me. 6:51:05 said the clock, I desperately gulped for air like a goldfish floundering on a carpet.
Challenge complete.
This was a painful challenge. For the rest of the day my throat felt as if I had woken up following a night of straight spirits in pre-smoking ban pubs and clubs of Bristol, shouting over music and finally eating the contents of an ashtray. I would imagine. But, even though it was agonising and I was relatively slow - finishing 176 out of 289 men – it was over quickly and it was fun. If I was in a city at a time that coincided with running up its tallest building I would try to get involved. Mind you, at €16 per person I may just organise one myself. There was nothing about the competitors, consisting of Austrians, Poles, Germans, Hungarians, Swiss and a Brit that indicated they were any more eccentric/crazy/foolish than any of the other people I have met this year. I think it would be embraced in this country, it would appeal to our sense of quirkiness with a purpose. It’s too late to save Grandstand but I believe lumberjacking season has just finished so Eurosport might have a gap to fill. I just need to find out where I filed the number of that chairman. He seemed like a good sport.
*Sorry Jen, I only plan on buying one glass of wine.
So curiosity, rather than trepidation was the emotion that encouraged me to be at Kaisermuhlen Ubahn station at 7.55am on a gloriously crisp Viennese winter’s morning. I had not actually worked out where to go next, it I expected to easily identify Austria’s tallest construction and then head in that general direction. The problem was that Kaisermuhlen is the gateway to a business area with several tall buildings. The one I suspected was my destination, based on it being the only one that looked to have a rotating restaurant at the top, did not look much taller than all of the others. I was underwhelmed just long enough to reach the start of the business park and realise perspective was playing a joke. To transmogrify a line from Father Ted* “Those towers are small, that tower is far away”.
As I walked through the business park, and then the normal park beyond it, the tower took on an increasingly intimidating loom. It's true I’ve seen bigger, the Donauturm is less than half the size of the Empire State Building and Eiffel Tower and about two-thirds of Canary Wharf. But I’ve not (yet) faced the prospect of running up any of those. I was disappointed to see that there were no windows in the concrete cylinder that separated the restaurant and the ground. I had quite liked the notion of seeing the world winding away from me like a cork separated from its bottle. Unsure whether I had helped the environment I was leaving to develop character or just tainted it.
I, like, I suspect most people, cannot help but assess the other competitors at the start of an event. It is reassuring to identify some people you are confident you will beat (and so not finish last). At the bottom of the tower there was not one person about whom I could confidently draw this conclusion. Not even the chain smokers huddled by the changing shed. I realised this was no charity event. The only people that happily give their Saturday morning to exhausting themselves in this manner take their fitness and/or tower running seriously. Or they are bumbling around finding pointless challenges in an attempt to give reason to an otherwise puerile existence.
The usual procedure followed: registration, pin number to top, timing chip around ankle, hang around until the start. My age group (30-39) was scheduled to run between 10.45 and 11.10 (competitors went up one at a time, 20 seconds between each). It was too cold to stand outside so I decided to watch the under 30s at the start.
Again I was caught out by the standard of the set up. The starters were all filmed, a commentator announced what was happening and a large flat screen television flicked between images of the start, half way up, the 135m landing and the finish. Two timer displays were set up, one repeatedly counting down 20 seconds, one showing the time of the most recent finisher. These tended to be 6 minutes or less, 6 seconds per flight of steps. That seemed very quick to me.
The queue of people waiting to climb did not reflect the under 30 demographic I had expected. Everybody in a running kit was jostling for position. I decided I wanted to get on with things so added my frame to the hubbub. Several minutes and some careful manoeuvres later I was watching my 20 seconds count down to zero. The man recording who had run jovially pointed out to me that I was the 100th competitor of the day. I watched the clock and smiled.
0 seconds, I went. My tactic was to go as quickly as possible the whole way, fully anticipating that my “as possible” would continuously decrease. Each landing was numbered, starting at 60 and counting down. I managed to “run” to 40 but with two thirds of the tower left my legs insisted that I walk. So I walked, and hauled myself up by the banister (a painful place to be hauled). The sound of heavy breathing echoed around me, it was my breathing. The man immediately behind me bounded past at 37, the man immediately behind him did the same at 17. I did not care particularly, I only cared about two things – getting enough oxygen in my lungs to stop me feinting and that I had just overtaken the guy starting immediately in front of me, I would not be last.
Finally level 1, out from a claustrophobic, artificially lit tube and into the bright sunshine of the observation deck with a view of Vienna. It meant nothing to me. 6:51:05 said the clock, I desperately gulped for air like a goldfish floundering on a carpet.
Challenge complete.
This was a painful challenge. For the rest of the day my throat felt as if I had woken up following a night of straight spirits in pre-smoking ban pubs and clubs of Bristol, shouting over music and finally eating the contents of an ashtray. I would imagine. But, even though it was agonising and I was relatively slow - finishing 176 out of 289 men – it was over quickly and it was fun. If I was in a city at a time that coincided with running up its tallest building I would try to get involved. Mind you, at €16 per person I may just organise one myself. There was nothing about the competitors, consisting of Austrians, Poles, Germans, Hungarians, Swiss and a Brit that indicated they were any more eccentric/crazy/foolish than any of the other people I have met this year. I think it would be embraced in this country, it would appeal to our sense of quirkiness with a purpose. It’s too late to save Grandstand but I believe lumberjacking season has just finished so Eurosport might have a gap to fill. I just need to find out where I filed the number of that chairman. He seemed like a good sport.
*Sorry Jen, I only plan on buying one glass of wine.
Thursday 13 November 2008
My Marathon Career
It’s 6.20am and I have just made my contribution to the crowd of people jostling to board one of the 30 odd busses that lined Vas. Konstantinou in Athens. Deep Heat and liniment forms a fug around us. Behind us, lit up against the last remnants of night sky is Panthinaiko Stadium.
Historical note: The stadium was originally used in ancient times to host the athletic events in the ancient sporting games. It was rebuilt in 1896 for the Olympic Games and is constructed entirely of white marble.
My note: the stadium is now used as the end point of the Athens marathon. It looks nice, but only has three sides (well marble is expensive).
Having worked out that queuing is not a word of Greek derivation I elbowed my way onto a bus and took one last look at the stadium. Logic pointed out how ridiculous it is to travel 42.2km by bus only to be dropped off and run back to where I am now. Far easier just to disembark now. Sense of occasion told me that logic was being a dick. I agreed, told logic to shut up and tried to sleep. I did not want to see the course, whilst making my porridge that morning a Canadian couple had told me that it is all uphill after the first 10km. I decided that, as I could do nothing about that, ignorance of what was to come would be better than trepidation.
By the time we were dropped off in Marathon the sun was coyly peaking over the side of the mountain and the morning breeze made it feel a lot cooler than the 16 degrees Celsius indicated on the board by the start.
Historical Note: Marathon was the place where, in 490BC, the Greeks and Persians had a battle. The Greeks won.
My note: In 2008 AD Marathon is a scrubby village with a nice sports stadium. Every tourist who has ever visited it has, in their head at least, made a joke about calling it Snickers.
With over an hour until the start I decided to find some shelter from the wind. I chose a position that allowed me a good view of the meticulously prepared starting area. They had held an opening ceremony the day before with a flame being lit just like in the Olympics. There was also an old stone by the flame.
Historical Note: The old stone had been excavated when the stadium in Marathon had been rebuilt for the 2004 Olympics. Some writing on it indicated to the clever Greek archaeologists that it was the very stone that had been used as the start of the marathon in 1896.
My note: I am no geologist but it was a nice looking stone. The writing looked suspiciously recent.
The whole event had been very impressively planned. The registration process the day before had been quick and simple. Today had gone as smoothly as the marble that was about to chill the posteriors of the VIPs waiting at the finish line. It was clear that this event meant a lot to the Athenian authorities. They wanted a proper marathon, they wanted to reclaim their event. Not for the first challenge I found myself wondering how a chump like me had got into an event like this.
“Bet you wish you were wearing long sleeves”, an American accent brought me out of my self-deprecation. That was good, I had just decided to find somebody to talk to and he had saved me the much needed energy. However, it turned out this was not soi much a conversation as a soliloquy. Uninvited information I discovered (and I am sparing you his supercilious detail) included, this was his 20th marathon this year, he had done 50 in total because amrathons were his warm up runs because he is an ultra runner who preferred to travel 50 plus miles across deserts and other wilderness. Marathons did not exhaust him and his ex-girlfriend was even more into it than him (man, she had energy). He fitted his exercise around his job in television. He had just had a dump but there was no toilet paper and he hadn’t had breakfast, which did not worry him because he did not need the energy as amrathons are so easy. Also he had got laid last night.
“Do you travel as part of a team?” I asked him.
“No, man” he replied, making an exaggerated mime of tugging at his crotch, “I don’t want hangers on taking y glory”.
I nodded, but thought that it would at least give him someone to talk to. The announcer finished telling us about the stone for the third time and asked all those who had not yet dropped their excess clothes off to do so immediately. I didn’t need a second invitation to escape.
Bang on 9 o’clock a gun was fired, a load of balloons were set free and several thousand runners shuffled forwards. The bunching spread out surprisingly quickly and soon we were running. And it was hot. My tactic was to just plod on. I had not taken a watch, I though I would listen to my body, and take stock every 10km, hoping that by splitting the run up like that it would seem less daunting.
0-10km – hot, mostly flay and I felt quite comfortable. At about 6km there was a statue of Fidippides and several runners stopped to have a picture taken with it.
Historical note: After Greece won the battle Fiddipides was the soldier given the task of going to Athens to spread word of the victory. He ran all the way, passed on the information and died.
My note: The statue has been erected at a point where the route doubles back on itself, indicating that if we are following in his footsteps Fiddipides did not have a great sense of direction. Also, apparently there is a shorter flatter route to Athens – maybe if he had followed that he would not have died.
We passed through a village where the local school’s brass band was playing for us. I distracted myself by observing the different nationalities taking part. Just about every country in Europe seemed to be covered and USA and Canada had a lot of representatives. Clearly the majority were Greek, and in their singlets they revealed just how hirsute a nation they are. You could have knitted several jumpers from the hair on their backs and shoulders. And the men were even worse (boom tish). Official Time to 10km 55:03.
10-20km – Hotter, mostly uphill with one short, steep downhill. Feet hurting from the pounding but otherwise fine, I knew I was going well because the song that popped into my head was good – Painting and Kissing by Hefner. I spent much of this spell talking to a very pleasant guy from Essex/Andover/Middlesborough who was running with his army unit in aid of the Poppy Appeal. He told me that he had done the London Marathon a few times, almost always with a time of 3hours 30 to 3 hours 45 but this course was tougher and he would be delighted to beat 4 hours. I left him behind at about 17km, although I am not sure if he was fading or if he stopped for the toilet. Official Time to 21km 1:54:31
20-30km – Hotter still, all uphill, Out of Jail by They Might Be Giants. For the most part I was still feeling pretty good and was getting excited at the countdown for the last 10 that was approaching. I had been distracting myself by trying to work out what the Latin Alphabet equivalents of Greek letters were. I was still managing to smile at the old ladies shouting “bravo”. But then, at about 27km my left knee started to hurt and my right calf felt very tight. Both legs deciding to give me trouble together. I tried to change my gait to take pressure of the left knee and right calf but in reality I think this just meant slowing down a bit. I had no intention of stopping until the pain made it impossible to continue so just hoped I could run it off. Official Time to 30km 2:42:54.
30-40km – very hot, the downhill started at about 33km and did not stop. I was counting down to the end and whilst my legs were feeling the pounding, I was not out of breath. I was beginning to look out for the distance markers and the songs had stopped completely. By about 35km the aching passed in both knee and calf and I picked up the pace a bit, I was overtaking more people than were overtaking me.
40km – finish – I felt pretty good, no wall hit and the end very much in sight. I picked up the pace with the intention of accelerating significantly at 41km, but then did not see the 41km marker. By the time the stadium came into view I was travelling quicker than anybody else around me and put on as close as I could a sprint finish for the end. Grimacing and shouting at people to get out of the way. I went under the finish line as the clock ticked 3.48.59. I hoped there had been more than 4 minutes between the gun and me crossing the start line. As it turned out I had been 3minutes and 53 seconds crossing the start line – Official time to finish 3:45:06. Those 6 seconds do irritate me.
Challenge complete.
So what to make of marathons? I hate to sound like an American ultra runner but they are in my opinion* overrated. I certainly had an adrenalin rush after finishing and my legs ached for a couple of days but I was not out of breath and did not feel as bad as the media images make you think you will. In fact, as far as I can tell they are designed for one thing only, damaging your legs. I am very glad I have done it but unlike a lot of the other challenges, which were equally demanding, if not more so, I have not come out of this thinking I may do another one. Paula Radcliffe did not finish this course, Fidippides died at the end of it. I might as well quit while I'm ahead.
*Although I am not sure who else’s opinion you were expecting.
Historical note: The stadium was originally used in ancient times to host the athletic events in the ancient sporting games. It was rebuilt in 1896 for the Olympic Games and is constructed entirely of white marble.
My note: the stadium is now used as the end point of the Athens marathon. It looks nice, but only has three sides (well marble is expensive).
Having worked out that queuing is not a word of Greek derivation I elbowed my way onto a bus and took one last look at the stadium. Logic pointed out how ridiculous it is to travel 42.2km by bus only to be dropped off and run back to where I am now. Far easier just to disembark now. Sense of occasion told me that logic was being a dick. I agreed, told logic to shut up and tried to sleep. I did not want to see the course, whilst making my porridge that morning a Canadian couple had told me that it is all uphill after the first 10km. I decided that, as I could do nothing about that, ignorance of what was to come would be better than trepidation.
By the time we were dropped off in Marathon the sun was coyly peaking over the side of the mountain and the morning breeze made it feel a lot cooler than the 16 degrees Celsius indicated on the board by the start.
Historical Note: Marathon was the place where, in 490BC, the Greeks and Persians had a battle. The Greeks won.
My note: In 2008 AD Marathon is a scrubby village with a nice sports stadium. Every tourist who has ever visited it has, in their head at least, made a joke about calling it Snickers.
With over an hour until the start I decided to find some shelter from the wind. I chose a position that allowed me a good view of the meticulously prepared starting area. They had held an opening ceremony the day before with a flame being lit just like in the Olympics. There was also an old stone by the flame.
Historical Note: The old stone had been excavated when the stadium in Marathon had been rebuilt for the 2004 Olympics. Some writing on it indicated to the clever Greek archaeologists that it was the very stone that had been used as the start of the marathon in 1896.
My note: I am no geologist but it was a nice looking stone. The writing looked suspiciously recent.
The whole event had been very impressively planned. The registration process the day before had been quick and simple. Today had gone as smoothly as the marble that was about to chill the posteriors of the VIPs waiting at the finish line. It was clear that this event meant a lot to the Athenian authorities. They wanted a proper marathon, they wanted to reclaim their event. Not for the first challenge I found myself wondering how a chump like me had got into an event like this.
“Bet you wish you were wearing long sleeves”, an American accent brought me out of my self-deprecation. That was good, I had just decided to find somebody to talk to and he had saved me the much needed energy. However, it turned out this was not soi much a conversation as a soliloquy. Uninvited information I discovered (and I am sparing you his supercilious detail) included, this was his 20th marathon this year, he had done 50 in total because amrathons were his warm up runs because he is an ultra runner who preferred to travel 50 plus miles across deserts and other wilderness. Marathons did not exhaust him and his ex-girlfriend was even more into it than him (man, she had energy). He fitted his exercise around his job in television. He had just had a dump but there was no toilet paper and he hadn’t had breakfast, which did not worry him because he did not need the energy as amrathons are so easy. Also he had got laid last night.
“Do you travel as part of a team?” I asked him.
“No, man” he replied, making an exaggerated mime of tugging at his crotch, “I don’t want hangers on taking y glory”.
I nodded, but thought that it would at least give him someone to talk to. The announcer finished telling us about the stone for the third time and asked all those who had not yet dropped their excess clothes off to do so immediately. I didn’t need a second invitation to escape.
Bang on 9 o’clock a gun was fired, a load of balloons were set free and several thousand runners shuffled forwards. The bunching spread out surprisingly quickly and soon we were running. And it was hot. My tactic was to just plod on. I had not taken a watch, I though I would listen to my body, and take stock every 10km, hoping that by splitting the run up like that it would seem less daunting.
0-10km – hot, mostly flay and I felt quite comfortable. At about 6km there was a statue of Fidippides and several runners stopped to have a picture taken with it.
Historical note: After Greece won the battle Fiddipides was the soldier given the task of going to Athens to spread word of the victory. He ran all the way, passed on the information and died.
My note: The statue has been erected at a point where the route doubles back on itself, indicating that if we are following in his footsteps Fiddipides did not have a great sense of direction. Also, apparently there is a shorter flatter route to Athens – maybe if he had followed that he would not have died.
We passed through a village where the local school’s brass band was playing for us. I distracted myself by observing the different nationalities taking part. Just about every country in Europe seemed to be covered and USA and Canada had a lot of representatives. Clearly the majority were Greek, and in their singlets they revealed just how hirsute a nation they are. You could have knitted several jumpers from the hair on their backs and shoulders. And the men were even worse (boom tish). Official Time to 10km 55:03.
10-20km – Hotter, mostly uphill with one short, steep downhill. Feet hurting from the pounding but otherwise fine, I knew I was going well because the song that popped into my head was good – Painting and Kissing by Hefner. I spent much of this spell talking to a very pleasant guy from Essex/Andover/Middlesborough who was running with his army unit in aid of the Poppy Appeal. He told me that he had done the London Marathon a few times, almost always with a time of 3hours 30 to 3 hours 45 but this course was tougher and he would be delighted to beat 4 hours. I left him behind at about 17km, although I am not sure if he was fading or if he stopped for the toilet. Official Time to 21km 1:54:31
20-30km – Hotter still, all uphill, Out of Jail by They Might Be Giants. For the most part I was still feeling pretty good and was getting excited at the countdown for the last 10 that was approaching. I had been distracting myself by trying to work out what the Latin Alphabet equivalents of Greek letters were. I was still managing to smile at the old ladies shouting “bravo”. But then, at about 27km my left knee started to hurt and my right calf felt very tight. Both legs deciding to give me trouble together. I tried to change my gait to take pressure of the left knee and right calf but in reality I think this just meant slowing down a bit. I had no intention of stopping until the pain made it impossible to continue so just hoped I could run it off. Official Time to 30km 2:42:54.
30-40km – very hot, the downhill started at about 33km and did not stop. I was counting down to the end and whilst my legs were feeling the pounding, I was not out of breath. I was beginning to look out for the distance markers and the songs had stopped completely. By about 35km the aching passed in both knee and calf and I picked up the pace a bit, I was overtaking more people than were overtaking me.
40km – finish – I felt pretty good, no wall hit and the end very much in sight. I picked up the pace with the intention of accelerating significantly at 41km, but then did not see the 41km marker. By the time the stadium came into view I was travelling quicker than anybody else around me and put on as close as I could a sprint finish for the end. Grimacing and shouting at people to get out of the way. I went under the finish line as the clock ticked 3.48.59. I hoped there had been more than 4 minutes between the gun and me crossing the start line. As it turned out I had been 3minutes and 53 seconds crossing the start line – Official time to finish 3:45:06. Those 6 seconds do irritate me.
Challenge complete.
So what to make of marathons? I hate to sound like an American ultra runner but they are in my opinion* overrated. I certainly had an adrenalin rush after finishing and my legs ached for a couple of days but I was not out of breath and did not feel as bad as the media images make you think you will. In fact, as far as I can tell they are designed for one thing only, damaging your legs. I am very glad I have done it but unlike a lot of the other challenges, which were equally demanding, if not more so, I have not come out of this thinking I may do another one. Paula Radcliffe did not finish this course, Fidippides died at the end of it. I might as well quit while I'm ahead.
*Although I am not sure who else’s opinion you were expecting.
Wednesday 5 November 2008
Marathon I'd Like to Finish
And so to the anachronism of marathons. The bombshells from a bygone age. They defy metrification and continue to dine out all afternoon when everybody else wants to finish and get on with their busy lives. And yet each of them retain the glamour that has long departed contemporaries, the distance walking and 10,000 metres age gracefully in a home but the marathon is still forcing herself into the public eye. We all know it is wrong but there is something about her, people continue to be entranced by her mystique, drawn, powerless, into her clutches and then she devours them, mercilessly destroying joints, tendons, muscles and cartilage. And afterwards you are a member of a limited but not very exclusive club. People, however distasteful they find it still have a grudging respect that you did one.
For a very long time I have contemplated a marathon. I had a place in London twice but had to drop out both times through a knee injury picked up in training. The nature of this year meant I had to have one last attempt before accepting she is a conquest too far. But this year London didn’t want me. I needed to find somewhere else. Not any of the other big three. New York was out, I didn’t want to go back to the same place for more than one challenge. Boston and Berlin came at the wrong time. I had to look at the minor marathons. Nearly every city seems to have one so it was a case of finding the right one for me. I looked at Prague, I looked at Rome, I looked at Paris. None were quite right. I wanted something with a bit of kudos, somewhere that had a bit more meaning than shutting your eyes and doing it for the sake of doing it. Finally I decided where to search, the original, the inspiration, the mother of them all. A couple of clicks of a mouse and there she was, exposed before me. She retained all her legendary charms, maybe now a little tatty but the route and the finish were as they were in the beginning of it all. She still had the exotic allure of somewhere I had never been before. I could pay to enter her. I was snared.
But now the moment nears and I am not ready for her, not if I am going to do myself justice. The three weeks I have had to train since my knees got over cycling is the amount of time period they advise you to use for winding down and conserving strength. I will go slowly, I will pace myself and, injuries permitting, she will be mine. It has to be that way. I always said I would defy the bombshells. I would use Athens for my needs. I will only ever do one marathon in my life and this is it. I know they lure back others who make these claims but not me. I have seen what their power can do to people, turning them from cool DJs into peculiar old men.
PS. For anybody who is thinking of taking part in a marathon here is my top training tip. However stylish your snug fitting Chelsea boots may be avoid wearing them for the first time since Spring the weekend before the marathon. This is stupid and is just asking for the skin to be taken off your ankles. You will face the prospect of being in a lot of pain just walking to the start line. Go with the broken in, slightly tatty brogues.
For a very long time I have contemplated a marathon. I had a place in London twice but had to drop out both times through a knee injury picked up in training. The nature of this year meant I had to have one last attempt before accepting she is a conquest too far. But this year London didn’t want me. I needed to find somewhere else. Not any of the other big three. New York was out, I didn’t want to go back to the same place for more than one challenge. Boston and Berlin came at the wrong time. I had to look at the minor marathons. Nearly every city seems to have one so it was a case of finding the right one for me. I looked at Prague, I looked at Rome, I looked at Paris. None were quite right. I wanted something with a bit of kudos, somewhere that had a bit more meaning than shutting your eyes and doing it for the sake of doing it. Finally I decided where to search, the original, the inspiration, the mother of them all. A couple of clicks of a mouse and there she was, exposed before me. She retained all her legendary charms, maybe now a little tatty but the route and the finish were as they were in the beginning of it all. She still had the exotic allure of somewhere I had never been before. I could pay to enter her. I was snared.
But now the moment nears and I am not ready for her, not if I am going to do myself justice. The three weeks I have had to train since my knees got over cycling is the amount of time period they advise you to use for winding down and conserving strength. I will go slowly, I will pace myself and, injuries permitting, she will be mine. It has to be that way. I always said I would defy the bombshells. I would use Athens for my needs. I will only ever do one marathon in my life and this is it. I know they lure back others who make these claims but not me. I have seen what their power can do to people, turning them from cool DJs into peculiar old men.
PS. For anybody who is thinking of taking part in a marathon here is my top training tip. However stylish your snug fitting Chelsea boots may be avoid wearing them for the first time since Spring the weekend before the marathon. This is stupid and is just asking for the skin to be taken off your ankles. You will face the prospect of being in a lot of pain just walking to the start line. Go with the broken in, slightly tatty brogues.
Thursday 30 October 2008
2 weeks, 4 Challenges
I have gone from wondering what comes next to facing the most intense challenge period of the year.
9 November
Athens Marathon - you all know what one of these is. A separate post about the background should be up next week.
18 November
They say that you can burn up to 2600 calories running a marathon. So with that and the Tower Run I will clearly need to get some food in me. Lucky then that the British Mince Pie Eating Championship takes place just a few days later. One mince pie contains 20% of the Government guideline for saturated fat (have you ever noticed how if it's good for you it is measured as RDA, if it's bad for you it's a Government Guideline?). The world record for mince pies eaten in 10 minutes is 48. I won't hit that marker but should down enough to give Gillian McKeith cause for concern.
For all the scoffers (do you see what I did there?) this is a proper competition. First prize gets £1000 and a place in American gastrogames (competing with professional eaters). I am taking this as seriously as any of the other challenges and so will be genuinely training for it - the best competitors treat it like a sport and are not just bloaters. Also the event will be about as spectator friendly as it gets this year so take the day off and watch me be very sick.
23 November
Back to the physical stuff. I have done a triathlon, I will have done a marathon so it would be rude not to go for the clean sweep and take on a duathlon. But not a nice clean road duathlon. I have done enough running and cycling on hard surfaces, that would not be a new challenge. This is cross country running and mountain biking. A nice twist and, judging by recent weather, it could be messy. So far arse and knees are not aware of their return to the saddle. I like to surprise my body parts.
I am hoping to have a bit of news on some other work in progress stuff fairly soon and, in the next few days will be confirming the grand finale. Exciting times so, don't miss out on reading all about me - subscribe.
9 November
Athens Marathon - you all know what one of these is. A separate post about the background should be up next week.
15 November
Now, I've heard a few theories about the best way to recover after a marathon. They include drinking about 2 litres of water immediately after finishing, light exercise (swimming is particularly good) the day after to break down lactic acid and getting a lot of rest. What no one seems to have suggested yet is running up the 60 storeys of the tallest structure in Austria 6 days later. I am putting that down to a lack of research in the area rather than it being a bloody stupid idea.
18 November
They say that you can burn up to 2600 calories running a marathon. So with that and the Tower Run I will clearly need to get some food in me. Lucky then that the British Mince Pie Eating Championship takes place just a few days later. One mince pie contains 20% of the Government guideline for saturated fat (have you ever noticed how if it's good for you it is measured as RDA, if it's bad for you it's a Government Guideline?). The world record for mince pies eaten in 10 minutes is 48. I won't hit that marker but should down enough to give Gillian McKeith cause for concern.
For all the scoffers (do you see what I did there?) this is a proper competition. First prize gets £1000 and a place in American gastrogames (competing with professional eaters). I am taking this as seriously as any of the other challenges and so will be genuinely training for it - the best competitors treat it like a sport and are not just bloaters. Also the event will be about as spectator friendly as it gets this year so take the day off and watch me be very sick.
23 November
Back to the physical stuff. I have done a triathlon, I will have done a marathon so it would be rude not to go for the clean sweep and take on a duathlon. But not a nice clean road duathlon. I have done enough running and cycling on hard surfaces, that would not be a new challenge. This is cross country running and mountain biking. A nice twist and, judging by recent weather, it could be messy. So far arse and knees are not aware of their return to the saddle. I like to surprise my body parts.
I am hoping to have a bit of news on some other work in progress stuff fairly soon and, in the next few days will be confirming the grand finale. Exciting times so, don't miss out on reading all about me - subscribe.
Monday 20 October 2008
A short post at last
Monday 13 October 2008
Help needed. Enquire within.
This year has had a significant impact on my mental state. I am constantly looking for challenges, and regretting missing them. On there tube adverts Multibionta are imploring the public to take their challenge. Every time I see it I think ‘Ok, I will’. If Pepsi were still setting up stalls in town centres I’d be throwing even more money at my dentist than I already have done this year and if a struggling TV presenter turned up at my door with a box of Daz then my whites would have taken on a radioactive glow. Or at least, that would happen if I didn’t recognise these all to be marketing ploys.
But it is frustrating when I miss out on genuine challenges.
Just yesterday I missed the World Porridge Making Championship and the World Conker Championship because I found out about them too late. I have missed tower running (although Austria is being considered) and I have missed Wacky Races style driving challenges. I realise I can’t do everything but the year is running out and I have a few spare weekends. In fact the only definite one at the moment is a marathon. I hope to confirm a few more soon (subscribe to find out if they happen).
So I need help – suggest a challenge, the requirements are simple, cerebral, physical it doesn’t matter it just needs to be something that you can’t just turn up and do. A bit of planning or training is required to achieve a definite end – and there does need a definite end. I’ll consider but not necessarily do everything. As examples, a few I have been trying to set up, without success, are:
1. a world record attempt - I’ll consider pretty much anything but oldest or youngest whatever will be a bit tricky.
2. a quiz show appearance. I have been trying to get on some without success but don’t really watch them so don’t know what is around at the moment. Can anyone suggest a good one? I realise it might be too late for filming this year but you never know.
3. a speaking line on a television show/film preferably with swearing – because that would be big and clever.
Send me an email, leave a comment. Help me.
But it is frustrating when I miss out on genuine challenges.
Just yesterday I missed the World Porridge Making Championship and the World Conker Championship because I found out about them too late. I have missed tower running (although Austria is being considered) and I have missed Wacky Races style driving challenges. I realise I can’t do everything but the year is running out and I have a few spare weekends. In fact the only definite one at the moment is a marathon. I hope to confirm a few more soon (subscribe to find out if they happen).
So I need help – suggest a challenge, the requirements are simple, cerebral, physical it doesn’t matter it just needs to be something that you can’t just turn up and do. A bit of planning or training is required to achieve a definite end – and there does need a definite end. I’ll consider but not necessarily do everything. As examples, a few I have been trying to set up, without success, are:
1. a world record attempt - I’ll consider pretty much anything but oldest or youngest whatever will be a bit tricky.
2. a quiz show appearance. I have been trying to get on some without success but don’t really watch them so don’t know what is around at the moment. Can anyone suggest a good one? I realise it might be too late for filming this year but you never know.
3. a speaking line on a television show/film preferably with swearing – because that would be big and clever.
Send me an email, leave a comment. Help me.
Tuesday 7 October 2008
Ireland; South to North and Inside Out - The Warm Down
I'll go the signed route. I don't want to get lost out here. Particularly not in the wind and rain. Anyway, maybe Malin has buses. It wasn't tiny. No buses in Malin, maybe Culdaff, maybe Gleneely. I guess I'm going to Moville, that's a big palce it must have a bus. Moville is not as big as it looks, where will I find a toilet. The library - that must have one. [The library did not have a toilet but the librarian let me through the back to use his because "if any bastard has ever looked like they need the feckin' toilet it's you"]. I hope the ferries are still running because it looks like I'm going to Coleraine by bike.
Ferry is there and going despite the weather, so pleased I could not face going back to Londonderry. Back into Northern Ireland then. And a border here, although nobody is checking documents, just car boots. Follow the coastal road. AAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH, the wind ,the rain, my knees. I'm glad this is a quiet road - shouting seems to help.
Whoever named Downhill is a liar, or they only approached it going in the opposite direction to me. All these signs for the Giant's Causeway, I'd go if I wasn't so desperate to get off this bike and stay off it.
Coleraine - that was 50 miles I could really have done without. Another ugly place, what is it about Northern Ireland that means the villages and small towns are lovely but the big towns and cities are hideous. But it has a bus station and a train station, direct to Belfast, that's all I need. I'll go tomorrow. Tonight is for celebrating, just me, a pint of Guiness and two choc-ices. The bike can stay at the hotel.
Ferry is there and going despite the weather, so pleased I could not face going back to Londonderry. Back into Northern Ireland then. And a border here, although nobody is checking documents, just car boots. Follow the coastal road. AAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH, the wind ,the rain, my knees. I'm glad this is a quiet road - shouting seems to help.
Whoever named Downhill is a liar, or they only approached it going in the opposite direction to me. All these signs for the Giant's Causeway, I'd go if I wasn't so desperate to get off this bike and stay off it.
Coleraine - that was 50 miles I could really have done without. Another ugly place, what is it about Northern Ireland that means the villages and small towns are lovely but the big towns and cities are hideous. But it has a bus station and a train station, direct to Belfast, that's all I need. I'll go tomorrow. Tonight is for celebrating, just me, a pint of Guiness and two choc-ices. The bike can stay at the hotel.
Monday 6 October 2008
Ireland; South to North and Inside Out - Day 5
That hotel was essentially an independent Travel Lodge but it was where I needed it to be just at the time I was beginning to worry so I will always remember it fondly. It also had a sign just outside it pointing me to Malin Head and so provided me with my first indication that I'm nearing the end of this glorious torture. Disasters aside, this should be my final day of cycling, I don't think it can be more than 40 miles. AAAARRGH, my knees, the left one in particular. This is going to be like Tuesday but I'm too close to stop now. Push on and hope the endorphins kick in.
What defines crying? Surely it needs a degree of intention to be it. People cry even if they don't want to, of course, but there has to be the sense within them that something has got too much. I am a man. I am a man who, amongst so many other things, has done Tough Guy, swum Alcatraz, completed a triathlon and am now cycling Ireland and so I do not cry. If my eyes are watering because of the pain it is a completely involuntary, unwanted physiological reaction and therefore not crying. No.
[When on the flat or going uphill, (i.e. when pedalling) for the next 30 odd miles I only had one thought] Ouch, any further and I would stop.
[When freewheeling my thoughts were more varied but mostly along the lines of] This is stunning again. Crossing the peninsula, surrounded by heather and bracken, the smell, the view out to sea. Please don't let me have to pedal, let me enjoy the end.
I'm really close to Malin Head now. I wasn't expecting it to look like this. Far more populated and busy than Mizen Head was. Malin itself is so far away from the Head, so many buildings and indeed villages between. What do these people do? The ones that are not farmers. This is it - one last climb. What a climb. So steep. I think those endorphins are working because my knees aren't as bad now. Any water around my eyes is from this rain. I guess I will finish as I started - wet. At least I can see the sea this time.
Cars are constantly coming and going - why would anybody come here? There is nothing to do and you can see cliffs and sea all over Ireland. The South West and Sperrins had more appeal and they were nearer civilisation, proper civilisation, those houses don't count you wouldn't stay here. Ah, yes, getting back to civilisation. Time to face the one thought I have been suppressing every time it popped by. The wind has picked up, the rain is pummelling, the driven focus to complete the challenge has gone but there is only one way out of here, one way to get off this bike and give my knees a rest. Challenge complete but the cycling isn't.
What defines crying? Surely it needs a degree of intention to be it. People cry even if they don't want to, of course, but there has to be the sense within them that something has got too much. I am a man. I am a man who, amongst so many other things, has done Tough Guy, swum Alcatraz, completed a triathlon and am now cycling Ireland and so I do not cry. If my eyes are watering because of the pain it is a completely involuntary, unwanted physiological reaction and therefore not crying. No.
[When on the flat or going uphill, (i.e. when pedalling) for the next 30 odd miles I only had one thought] Ouch, any further and I would stop.
[When freewheeling my thoughts were more varied but mostly along the lines of] This is stunning again. Crossing the peninsula, surrounded by heather and bracken, the smell, the view out to sea. Please don't let me have to pedal, let me enjoy the end.
I'm really close to Malin Head now. I wasn't expecting it to look like this. Far more populated and busy than Mizen Head was. Malin itself is so far away from the Head, so many buildings and indeed villages between. What do these people do? The ones that are not farmers. This is it - one last climb. What a climb. So steep. I think those endorphins are working because my knees aren't as bad now. Any water around my eyes is from this rain. I guess I will finish as I started - wet. At least I can see the sea this time.
Cars are constantly coming and going - why would anybody come here? There is nothing to do and you can see cliffs and sea all over Ireland. The South West and Sperrins had more appeal and they were nearer civilisation, proper civilisation, those houses don't count you wouldn't stay here. Ah, yes, getting back to civilisation. Time to face the one thought I have been suppressing every time it popped by. The wind has picked up, the rain is pummelling, the driven focus to complete the challenge has gone but there is only one way out of here, one way to get off this bike and give my knees a rest. Challenge complete but the cycling isn't.
Sunday 5 October 2008
Ireland; South to North and Inside Out - Day 4
I’m so pleased that they didn’t do breakfast. The room was so dirty that I would be suspicious of the state of the kitchen. It does make you wonder what they think the second B in B&B stands for.
I’ll walk to the road, work out my direction. I hate my knees. The muscles are fine, the weather is fine, everything would be perfect if it wasn’t for the pain they are giving me. Still the choc-ice seems to have helped [in an effort to reduce the swelling and ease the pain I had spent an hour or so before going to sleep with a compression bandage on my right knee, leg raised over my head and a choc-ice shoved in the bandage until it melted to nothing (the choc-ice was still in the wrapper)]. This part of town looks much nicer, I stopped too early, I bet that B&B does breakfast. I’m actually scared of getting on the bike, I’ll just get to Lisnaskea and take stock there. At least I’ll be in the UK so my lack of travel insurance won’t be a problem if I need to speak to a doctor. Ok knees here we go. I can’t believe this, the left one hurts more than the right. Two choc-ices tonight.
There are so many crows in Ireland, or they might be jackdaws, ravens, maybe rooks. Chris will know, I’ll ask him. Hang on, that’s a British speed limit sign, miles per hour. I must have crossed the border. There was nothing to indicate it. That Polish coal for sale sign over there is in Euros, but this is a BT phone box. I must be on the border. Britain, abroad, Britain, abroad. Nothing to show it but the clues are there. 10km to Lisnaskea, what’s that in miles? No, that is miles, so what’s that in kilometres?
Time for breakfast. Where did I put my sterling? Milk and I need some carbs. Potato farls, bread and potato sounds like a traditional food, also sounds a bit like farts, two excellent reasons to buy it. My knees aren’t as bad as yesterday afternoon. I reckon I can get to Fivemiletown, and then maybe Omagh. I’ll take stock again at Omagh. So Green road to Fivemiletown and then white road [B-roads] to Omagh. In Omagh I’ll get some Euros, some sterling and some pain relief cream, maybe another compression bandage too. Where did this rain come from, it was sunny a moment ago. Bloody British weather.
This is rivalling the climb at Caha Pass. No it’s not, that’s a lie. But it is steep, and wet and the scenery is incredible so there are similarities. That’s a good place for a windfarm – also nice to reach the peak. The windmills look like giants, I think Cervantes got to that one first. I’m with you Don Quixote. But for now downhill. What a downhill, wet and winding road but no cars, I can go as fast as I like. No fear just get lost in the moment. I’m 12 again.
Omagh is bigger than I expected, or at least the outskirts are. Like so many places the centre itself is just a High Street. This one though is sadly familiar, even though I have never been here before. I think I must be standing exactly where the film footage was shot – the view down the hill towards the church. Thought provoking rather than moving. A proper banana at last. The Republic’s were adequate but a bit over-ripe and small but still infinitely better than the green, manky excuse for a banana that they were offering in the Scottish Highlands. Oh, hi. Nice pyjamas [I had just been approached by a middle-aged man who looked like he was on a day out from a hippy colony]. 40km to Londonderry. That doesn’t sound right and you look a little kooky but I would expect you know better than me and you seem like a very nice guy, and I don’t want it to be far so I’m going to believe you. Only 24 miles to go and my knees held up ok, time for the last leg so next target is Londonderry, less than 2 hours to go. That pain cream has done nothing and my knee has stiffened up. If I go on the white road I’ll pass through a decent number of villages and no doubt they will have B&Bs I can stay at if it gets too bad. So let’s go scenic and be careful.
I don’t mind these climbs now. I don’t know why they bothered me so much a couple of days ago (is it really only a couple of days). They are worth it for the views, and the downhill. Today is on a par with day one for beautiful scenery. People who travel to holiday in Ireland should make a point of taking in Northern, it is a stunning place. So much to distract a cyclist with painful knees. The villages are all at the bottom of the hill. There must be a historic reason – Paul will know. All of the villages are dressed in red and white. The hand painted signs wish Tyrone good luck. Is there a County not in a cup final?
Five steep hills in an afternoon is enough for anybody. I’m not going to be able to find a B&B in a place as large as Londonderry, I’ll stop at the village before it. Oh, nothing here and purple pyjamas was wrong, this is over 30 miles and counting. Wow, I wasn’t expecting that, Derry is stunning. Churches, a cathedral, all on the river of a historic walled city, there must be somewhere to stay. I should even break the Indian/Chinese monotony. Last push for the day.
Hmm, not so pretty up close but all I need is a B&B and restaurant. Maybe a pub too. I’ve no idea where to start, maybe if I just follow the road that I will take tomorrow and see what’s on that. Shit my cleat has jammed, I’m going over. That really hurt. Lucky I have bandages on my knees already. Probably looked quite funny, better on this road than the busy one I was joining. B&B – perfect and not too far from the centre. Hi, do you have any…oh sorry you don’t work here. No rooms, crap. Nowhere nearby, everywhere full. I will travel some distance for something, yes, I don’t really seem to have a choice. I’m never going to follow that, you have already described two different routes, these must be the worst directions ever. Thank her and get out, it would be nice to find somewhere before it gets dark.
I’ll give her directions 5 more minutes. Although these might not actually be what she said. It’s cold and it’s dark and this is taking me away from the road I want tomorrow. Sod it, I’m going back and will just follow that. Londonderry has just been bad luck, I must be able to find something, some time if I go towards Malin Head.
Back in the Republic. I’m glad I got Euros in Omagh. Hang on, that’s Bridgend, where she said the hotel is. And in fact there it is. How did that happen? And a proper restaurant next door, not Chinese or Indian. Just in time, it’s really dark. Please have a vacancy. Through Londonderry, in and out of Northern Ireland in one day, 101 miles. So much for a shorter day. My knees feel better now than they did this morning (aside from the blood coming out of the left when following that fall). All in all a very good day. [Those worried about my diet will be relieved to know that night I had local venison covered in neither a curry sauce or MSG, and very nice it was too]
I’ll walk to the road, work out my direction. I hate my knees. The muscles are fine, the weather is fine, everything would be perfect if it wasn’t for the pain they are giving me. Still the choc-ice seems to have helped [in an effort to reduce the swelling and ease the pain I had spent an hour or so before going to sleep with a compression bandage on my right knee, leg raised over my head and a choc-ice shoved in the bandage until it melted to nothing (the choc-ice was still in the wrapper)]. This part of town looks much nicer, I stopped too early, I bet that B&B does breakfast. I’m actually scared of getting on the bike, I’ll just get to Lisnaskea and take stock there. At least I’ll be in the UK so my lack of travel insurance won’t be a problem if I need to speak to a doctor. Ok knees here we go. I can’t believe this, the left one hurts more than the right. Two choc-ices tonight.
There are so many crows in Ireland, or they might be jackdaws, ravens, maybe rooks. Chris will know, I’ll ask him. Hang on, that’s a British speed limit sign, miles per hour. I must have crossed the border. There was nothing to indicate it. That Polish coal for sale sign over there is in Euros, but this is a BT phone box. I must be on the border. Britain, abroad, Britain, abroad. Nothing to show it but the clues are there. 10km to Lisnaskea, what’s that in miles? No, that is miles, so what’s that in kilometres?
Time for breakfast. Where did I put my sterling? Milk and I need some carbs. Potato farls, bread and potato sounds like a traditional food, also sounds a bit like farts, two excellent reasons to buy it. My knees aren’t as bad as yesterday afternoon. I reckon I can get to Fivemiletown, and then maybe Omagh. I’ll take stock again at Omagh. So Green road to Fivemiletown and then white road [B-roads] to Omagh. In Omagh I’ll get some Euros, some sterling and some pain relief cream, maybe another compression bandage too. Where did this rain come from, it was sunny a moment ago. Bloody British weather.
This is rivalling the climb at Caha Pass. No it’s not, that’s a lie. But it is steep, and wet and the scenery is incredible so there are similarities. That’s a good place for a windfarm – also nice to reach the peak. The windmills look like giants, I think Cervantes got to that one first. I’m with you Don Quixote. But for now downhill. What a downhill, wet and winding road but no cars, I can go as fast as I like. No fear just get lost in the moment. I’m 12 again.
Omagh is bigger than I expected, or at least the outskirts are. Like so many places the centre itself is just a High Street. This one though is sadly familiar, even though I have never been here before. I think I must be standing exactly where the film footage was shot – the view down the hill towards the church. Thought provoking rather than moving. A proper banana at last. The Republic’s were adequate but a bit over-ripe and small but still infinitely better than the green, manky excuse for a banana that they were offering in the Scottish Highlands. Oh, hi. Nice pyjamas [I had just been approached by a middle-aged man who looked like he was on a day out from a hippy colony]. 40km to Londonderry. That doesn’t sound right and you look a little kooky but I would expect you know better than me and you seem like a very nice guy, and I don’t want it to be far so I’m going to believe you. Only 24 miles to go and my knees held up ok, time for the last leg so next target is Londonderry, less than 2 hours to go. That pain cream has done nothing and my knee has stiffened up. If I go on the white road I’ll pass through a decent number of villages and no doubt they will have B&Bs I can stay at if it gets too bad. So let’s go scenic and be careful.
I don’t mind these climbs now. I don’t know why they bothered me so much a couple of days ago (is it really only a couple of days). They are worth it for the views, and the downhill. Today is on a par with day one for beautiful scenery. People who travel to holiday in Ireland should make a point of taking in Northern, it is a stunning place. So much to distract a cyclist with painful knees. The villages are all at the bottom of the hill. There must be a historic reason – Paul will know. All of the villages are dressed in red and white. The hand painted signs wish Tyrone good luck. Is there a County not in a cup final?
Five steep hills in an afternoon is enough for anybody. I’m not going to be able to find a B&B in a place as large as Londonderry, I’ll stop at the village before it. Oh, nothing here and purple pyjamas was wrong, this is over 30 miles and counting. Wow, I wasn’t expecting that, Derry is stunning. Churches, a cathedral, all on the river of a historic walled city, there must be somewhere to stay. I should even break the Indian/Chinese monotony. Last push for the day.
Hmm, not so pretty up close but all I need is a B&B and restaurant. Maybe a pub too. I’ve no idea where to start, maybe if I just follow the road that I will take tomorrow and see what’s on that. Shit my cleat has jammed, I’m going over. That really hurt. Lucky I have bandages on my knees already. Probably looked quite funny, better on this road than the busy one I was joining. B&B – perfect and not too far from the centre. Hi, do you have any…oh sorry you don’t work here. No rooms, crap. Nowhere nearby, everywhere full. I will travel some distance for something, yes, I don’t really seem to have a choice. I’m never going to follow that, you have already described two different routes, these must be the worst directions ever. Thank her and get out, it would be nice to find somewhere before it gets dark.
I’ll give her directions 5 more minutes. Although these might not actually be what she said. It’s cold and it’s dark and this is taking me away from the road I want tomorrow. Sod it, I’m going back and will just follow that. Londonderry has just been bad luck, I must be able to find something, some time if I go towards Malin Head.
Back in the Republic. I’m glad I got Euros in Omagh. Hang on, that’s Bridgend, where she said the hotel is. And in fact there it is. How did that happen? And a proper restaurant next door, not Chinese or Indian. Just in time, it’s really dark. Please have a vacancy. Through Londonderry, in and out of Northern Ireland in one day, 101 miles. So much for a shorter day. My knees feel better now than they did this morning (aside from the blood coming out of the left when following that fall). All in all a very good day. [Those worried about my diet will be relieved to know that night I had local venison covered in neither a curry sauce or MSG, and very nice it was too]
Saturday 4 October 2008
Ireland; South to North and Inside Out - Day 3
That was a very experienced B&B owner. Absolutely lovely and had staged the house to be a perfect balance of personal house and guest house. Everything ran like clockwork and breakfast was set up so you did not need to ask for anything. I wonder why that American couple didn’t talk to me at breakfast. I wonder why they didn’t talk to each other. Breakfast was enormous again. Portion sizes have been massive at every meal so far. One dish in a restaurant will comfortably feed two. Maybe that is where it all went wrong in America. The Irish emigrated, taking with them their generosity with food. The Americans were too polite to say turn it down and the result, obesity.
My muscles feel pretty good but my right knee is hurting a lot. Target town is Athlone, the weather looks like it could go either way. Starting on a green road, it’s maroon and white flags around here but hurling rather than football and I guess they won judging by last night [whilst I was having one of the two pints of Guiness I would allow myself each night a convoy of cars, police and a large coach went past the pub with a lot of flag waving and horn beeping. The locals glanced, made a sardonic comment and returned to their pints]. I have no idea what Comagie is but they have also reached the final of that. [The Internet has not been very helpful on this, not even the ever reliable Wikipedia, but it looks like it’s just a different name for hurling]
My knee really is struggling. This is bad. I’m going to have to see how this goes but will have to be careful, it’s not worth long term damage. Ballinasloe looks nice. It also means I am out of Galway, into Roscommon. I trust my chances of safety on the roads are better here. National Ploughing Championship taking place here in 2 weeks time. Could I enter that?
Maybe the knee strain is because I put the saddle back too high. I’ll lower it next time I stop. It’s raining, I’ll stop now. “Last garage to the motorway” – what motorway? The map doesn’t show a motorway anywhere near here. This could be trouble. I know Athlone has a dual carriageway and I need to go on that but not a motorway. Actually that dual carriageway is more than dual, it does look like a motorway. I need junction 4 and there is no alternative. The next target town is Cavan.
County Longford, 21 deaths in 4 years, I like those odds. Ballymahon for lunch, not much of a place but it has a one-stop shop so no yoghurt issues today.
Since stopping for lunch my knee is agony. I could cry. If it stays like this thgen it is the end. What a place for it to happen, or more precisely what a non-place for it to happen. There is nowhere really between here and Cavan, I have to get to Cavan and that must be at least 30 miles. Maybe that First Aid kit has paracetamol, it does, that might help. I’m not really sure what it does but I hope it blocks pain or magically stops it. I think lowering the seat was a mistake, I’ll put it back. What does that sign say 40km to Cavan, what’s that in miles? Oh, crap – I could be hitchhiking if this gets any worse. Only about 2 hours still to go. Just keep going. Wow, cat’s eyes look a lot like Wall-E’s head.
That sign said Longford has had 23 deaths. I wonder which is correct. Either way the statistics must be pre-quarry traffic because they are terrifying me. Granard seems to be the quarry town so I should be safe when I’ through here. Shit, that was cl….he’s got a trailer [if my bike hadn’t been serviced just before leaving there would at this point have been the sound of squeaking brakes and skidding] You prick, is my dayglo yellow top not bright enough for you to see? I don’ want to become just a number on a board at a County boundary. Even that legacy only lasts 4 years and then you can be scrubbed from the records forever.
1.5 hours, just keep going. This musty be the longest version of The Magic Number ever. I really need to get that iPod sorted.
1 hour to go and the left knee seems to be giving out too. I thought the road would get flatter as I moved inland but this is constant up and down. So slow now. Holstein/Friesians [in checking spelling I have uncovered a whole world I did not know about as to the breed name of the black and white cows so common on farms] are the flightiest cows, they run from me whilst the others stand and watch with their patronising, pitying eyes.
Half an hour, twenty minutes. I’m going to make this. I can see a church spire. And this is Cavan. Not since that nightclub in Reading spun it’s last block rocking beat has Utopia looked so shit. I don’t feel very safe here. It is all locals and the restaurants just look rubbish. This town is sort of Roddy Doyle meats Irvine Welsh. I can’t do Chinese again and it will take more than this to get a kebab in my mouth so I guess it is Indian by default.
[At dinner] This is not looking promising. You don’t know what lager you sell, you’ve just put “Last Christmas” on the hi-fi, you are telling me that an Irish Naan is exactly the same as plain Naan despite it costing €2 more than the plain Naan you have on the menu. I wish there was an alternative and then I could just leave. Although that would involve walking and my knee is not in favour of that. I’m not sure I can do tomorrow. Average speed and distance are definitely going to be down. 89 miles today but I don’t know how. I can’t stay in Cavan, it’s the Ireland that the tourist board doesn’t want you to see. Which is fair because it’s also the Ireland that tourists don’t want to see.
My muscles feel pretty good but my right knee is hurting a lot. Target town is Athlone, the weather looks like it could go either way. Starting on a green road, it’s maroon and white flags around here but hurling rather than football and I guess they won judging by last night [whilst I was having one of the two pints of Guiness I would allow myself each night a convoy of cars, police and a large coach went past the pub with a lot of flag waving and horn beeping. The locals glanced, made a sardonic comment and returned to their pints]. I have no idea what Comagie is but they have also reached the final of that. [The Internet has not been very helpful on this, not even the ever reliable Wikipedia, but it looks like it’s just a different name for hurling]
My knee really is struggling. This is bad. I’m going to have to see how this goes but will have to be careful, it’s not worth long term damage. Ballinasloe looks nice. It also means I am out of Galway, into Roscommon. I trust my chances of safety on the roads are better here. National Ploughing Championship taking place here in 2 weeks time. Could I enter that?
Maybe the knee strain is because I put the saddle back too high. I’ll lower it next time I stop. It’s raining, I’ll stop now. “Last garage to the motorway” – what motorway? The map doesn’t show a motorway anywhere near here. This could be trouble. I know Athlone has a dual carriageway and I need to go on that but not a motorway. Actually that dual carriageway is more than dual, it does look like a motorway. I need junction 4 and there is no alternative. The next target town is Cavan.
County Longford, 21 deaths in 4 years, I like those odds. Ballymahon for lunch, not much of a place but it has a one-stop shop so no yoghurt issues today.
Since stopping for lunch my knee is agony. I could cry. If it stays like this thgen it is the end. What a place for it to happen, or more precisely what a non-place for it to happen. There is nowhere really between here and Cavan, I have to get to Cavan and that must be at least 30 miles. Maybe that First Aid kit has paracetamol, it does, that might help. I’m not really sure what it does but I hope it blocks pain or magically stops it. I think lowering the seat was a mistake, I’ll put it back. What does that sign say 40km to Cavan, what’s that in miles? Oh, crap – I could be hitchhiking if this gets any worse. Only about 2 hours still to go. Just keep going. Wow, cat’s eyes look a lot like Wall-E’s head.
That sign said Longford has had 23 deaths. I wonder which is correct. Either way the statistics must be pre-quarry traffic because they are terrifying me. Granard seems to be the quarry town so I should be safe when I’ through here. Shit, that was cl….he’s got a trailer [if my bike hadn’t been serviced just before leaving there would at this point have been the sound of squeaking brakes and skidding] You prick, is my dayglo yellow top not bright enough for you to see? I don’ want to become just a number on a board at a County boundary. Even that legacy only lasts 4 years and then you can be scrubbed from the records forever.
1.5 hours, just keep going. This musty be the longest version of The Magic Number ever. I really need to get that iPod sorted.
1 hour to go and the left knee seems to be giving out too. I thought the road would get flatter as I moved inland but this is constant up and down. So slow now. Holstein/Friesians [in checking spelling I have uncovered a whole world I did not know about as to the breed name of the black and white cows so common on farms] are the flightiest cows, they run from me whilst the others stand and watch with their patronising, pitying eyes.
Half an hour, twenty minutes. I’m going to make this. I can see a church spire. And this is Cavan. Not since that nightclub in Reading spun it’s last block rocking beat has Utopia looked so shit. I don’t feel very safe here. It is all locals and the restaurants just look rubbish. This town is sort of Roddy Doyle meats Irvine Welsh. I can’t do Chinese again and it will take more than this to get a kebab in my mouth so I guess it is Indian by default.
[At dinner] This is not looking promising. You don’t know what lager you sell, you’ve just put “Last Christmas” on the hi-fi, you are telling me that an Irish Naan is exactly the same as plain Naan despite it costing €2 more than the plain Naan you have on the menu. I wish there was an alternative and then I could just leave. Although that would involve walking and my knee is not in favour of that. I’m not sure I can do tomorrow. Average speed and distance are definitely going to be down. 89 miles today but I don’t know how. I can’t stay in Cavan, it’s the Ireland that the tourist board doesn’t want you to see. Which is fair because it’s also the Ireland that tourists don’t want to see.
Friday 3 October 2008
Ireland; South to North and Inside Out - Day 2
There was something of the care home rather than guest home about that B&B, the people were nice though and I liked my fellow resident, [he was a jovial Dublin voluntary worker who was helping out with a big special needs outward bounds holiday at a field centre just outside Tralee]. First target today is Listowel, there is racing on there today, maybe I could watch it. That would lose me the day though, probably not a good idea. It is tempting though. I’m going to have to get there early though to avoid the traffic. Legs are fine but knees hurt a bit. That can’t be good because that’s joints and so only likely to get worse. Still that is definitely blue sky up there, the first I have seen in Ireland – a promising start. Uphill grind of course – my legs already feel like the night’s rest did not happen. If I can get to Listowel and then on to the ferry at Tarbet I will have an enforced break. Weather looking good, I wonder how long my iPod will last. Why didn’t it charge? The charger worked fine for the phone and the connections were fine. I guess I probably have two hours. I’ll try to find another charger somewhere, there must be some sort of Irish equivalent to Currys in most of these towns.
Not much in Listowel, traffic or life generally. iPod is holding out so on to the ferry. The smells, you only notice the strong ones in a car. Yesterday it was pine, now the sea. It’s like Mr Airwick’s wet dream. Shame the road here is so bad, my arse is taking a real pounding, not good for so early in the day. It’s also a shame I couldn’t find where I put my mud guards because I’m pretty sure that is pig shit flicking up now. The smell certainly suggests it is, Mr Airwick won’t like that one so much. The ferry is there, result. It looks like its only cars, please take bikes. Not so keen on the decline down to it, not in cycling shoes, don’t slip, just don’t slip. There is another bike on there, they allow them, I think it is going to be a good day. iPod is still going too. I should stop it while I’m not cycling but my hands are too numb to press the button.
You’re wearing socks and sandals and I am prejudiced against you because of that. But you might be interesting and I don’t have a lot of choice in this because you are going to talk to me. Please be genial eccentric rather than nutter. I have had a good run on meeting interesting people so far, should be ok. Oh, you’re on a cycling holiday too, from Surrey, 18th time in Ireland. The information you potentially have could be very useful to me, but please tell me it without spitting every other word. No, it’s no good. I don’t care what you are telling me the saliva spraying from your yellow teeth has focused my every sense. I don’t know why that includes hearing but it does. We’ve arrived, I need to wash my face, that will give him a chance to go. Oh crap, he’s waiting for me. No I don’t want a coffee, I just want your festering germs off my face. [Having escaped to the café toilets I returned to my bike] he’s still here, but hooray for lonely café staff, he has somebody else to talk to, time to make my excuses, she’s beaten me to it, he wants to know where I’m going – what if he is going the same way and wants to ride with me? Find out his route first. It is the same. Lie. This is like that scene in Bugsy Malone when Blousie is trying to escape Bugsy. This one isn’t ending in a pie fight, a full cast sing-a-long and a trip to Hollywood, go before he does and cycle quickly.
Faster, faster, if he plans to stop in Innis [which was my next target town] then if I can get through there before he catches me I should be fine. Was he r name Blousie? Blousie Brown – sounds like a stale loaf of bread. I can barely even remember if I’ve seen a film these days but still know the script from a film I probably haven’t seen in 20 years. [Turns out I got the name right but the spelling wrong – Blousey].
Nice graveyard, pretty full, standing room only now. Strange seeing as there isn’t a house in sight. Hmm, the graveyard admiration gene that appears to be active within me. I wonder if it is dominant or recessive? I wonder why I wondered. Irish graveyards do look pretty interesting though, but at least I didn’t stop. I daren’t. I’m sure I’ll see another one past Innis. I’ll get a photo – actually that might be a little bit weird. iPod has died. Is that irony? I can’t tell any more.
This weather is so different. It’s really hot. I need to lose the leggings. Where though? this is a green road and all those houses and all those builders. Lissycasey looks like a completely new town, odd place. Ouch, my eye [a wasp had just flown into it], that really hurts. I think it was as shocked as I was – too stunned to sting at least. Maybe I could hide behind a bush or, even better, a random and hideous horse statue. Come on hands, work quicker, I need to get to Innis.
These towns are definitely getting less tourist focused. Innis has no obvious gift shops or wacky green felt hats anywhere. It does have a reasonable proportion of young mum’s. Maybe it should twin with Basingstoke. No problem with bananas but nowhere is selling yoghurt [my scientifically calculated nutritionally balanced lunch each day consisted of 2 bananas, a yoghurt and a bottle of lucozade sport]. Safe now – Spitty will stop here. On to Gort.
Why does it look like I’m joining a motorway – the map definitely said green road. Maybe if I’m stopped the Garda will give me a lift to Gort.
This is the dullest bit of road so far but at least it’s stopped looking like a motorway. Nearly 2.5 times as many people died on the roads of County Galway than County Kerry in the last 4 years, I’m not surprised these are easily the worst drivers yet [this is not a statistic I just happened to know, most of the Counties in Ireland have a board up somewhere telling you this information]. Gort is ugly, this must be the first town not to have won a Tidy Town Medal. So they don’t just hand them out like medals to the children who try hard at school sports days [up to this point just about every town had a sign when you enter it announcing it had won a medal of some description in the Irish Tidy Town competition of 200X] but I don’t care I need to stop for 5 minutes, maybe 10 minutes, my legs really ache. I still have time to get to Loughlea. One last push. Dogs must have innately know not to jump off the back of a moving truck. There’s no way that can have evolved. Not enough time, although the process would be pretty quick seeing as any dog that jumps out is not going to be passing on its genes any time soon.
This hurts. This really hurts. My knees hurt, and that is joint. My arse feels like it has been sandblasted [just to be clear this was a metaphor – I have never had my arse sandblasted] and this road surface is terrible. Oww, avoid the bloody cat’s eyes. I don’t care uphill, downhill just get to Loughrea.
At last, there it is. It looks fantastic. I’d rather it was this side of the Lough but what a great view. Where did the sun go? Blue sky but so cold. There was no sunset – it just vanished. I hope this isn’t cataclysmic, I’d rather the world didn’t end with me wearing cycling shorts and having a sore arse. I assume that they allow you to change before passing through the pearly gates. I bet it has really nice changing rooms and a wide selection of clothes for every taste. I suppose it would have to be a department store. I hope the accessories section is good.
Hmm, Loughrea looks a bit of a let down. I guess it is going to be Chinese again tonight, without question the most disappointing of all Anglicised cuisines (is there an Irish equivalent, gaelicised maybe?)
That meal has done nothing to change my mind. And the fortune cookie is stale, “Be patient and optimistic, you have a strong appeal to the opposite sex”. Nice, clearly they have a special table for one pile.
Not much in Listowel, traffic or life generally. iPod is holding out so on to the ferry. The smells, you only notice the strong ones in a car. Yesterday it was pine, now the sea. It’s like Mr Airwick’s wet dream. Shame the road here is so bad, my arse is taking a real pounding, not good for so early in the day. It’s also a shame I couldn’t find where I put my mud guards because I’m pretty sure that is pig shit flicking up now. The smell certainly suggests it is, Mr Airwick won’t like that one so much. The ferry is there, result. It looks like its only cars, please take bikes. Not so keen on the decline down to it, not in cycling shoes, don’t slip, just don’t slip. There is another bike on there, they allow them, I think it is going to be a good day. iPod is still going too. I should stop it while I’m not cycling but my hands are too numb to press the button.
You’re wearing socks and sandals and I am prejudiced against you because of that. But you might be interesting and I don’t have a lot of choice in this because you are going to talk to me. Please be genial eccentric rather than nutter. I have had a good run on meeting interesting people so far, should be ok. Oh, you’re on a cycling holiday too, from Surrey, 18th time in Ireland. The information you potentially have could be very useful to me, but please tell me it without spitting every other word. No, it’s no good. I don’t care what you are telling me the saliva spraying from your yellow teeth has focused my every sense. I don’t know why that includes hearing but it does. We’ve arrived, I need to wash my face, that will give him a chance to go. Oh crap, he’s waiting for me. No I don’t want a coffee, I just want your festering germs off my face. [Having escaped to the café toilets I returned to my bike] he’s still here, but hooray for lonely café staff, he has somebody else to talk to, time to make my excuses, she’s beaten me to it, he wants to know where I’m going – what if he is going the same way and wants to ride with me? Find out his route first. It is the same. Lie. This is like that scene in Bugsy Malone when Blousie is trying to escape Bugsy. This one isn’t ending in a pie fight, a full cast sing-a-long and a trip to Hollywood, go before he does and cycle quickly.
Faster, faster, if he plans to stop in Innis [which was my next target town] then if I can get through there before he catches me I should be fine. Was he r name Blousie? Blousie Brown – sounds like a stale loaf of bread. I can barely even remember if I’ve seen a film these days but still know the script from a film I probably haven’t seen in 20 years. [Turns out I got the name right but the spelling wrong – Blousey].
Nice graveyard, pretty full, standing room only now. Strange seeing as there isn’t a house in sight. Hmm, the graveyard admiration gene that appears to be active within me. I wonder if it is dominant or recessive? I wonder why I wondered. Irish graveyards do look pretty interesting though, but at least I didn’t stop. I daren’t. I’m sure I’ll see another one past Innis. I’ll get a photo – actually that might be a little bit weird. iPod has died. Is that irony? I can’t tell any more.
This weather is so different. It’s really hot. I need to lose the leggings. Where though? this is a green road and all those houses and all those builders. Lissycasey looks like a completely new town, odd place. Ouch, my eye [a wasp had just flown into it], that really hurts. I think it was as shocked as I was – too stunned to sting at least. Maybe I could hide behind a bush or, even better, a random and hideous horse statue. Come on hands, work quicker, I need to get to Innis.
These towns are definitely getting less tourist focused. Innis has no obvious gift shops or wacky green felt hats anywhere. It does have a reasonable proportion of young mum’s. Maybe it should twin with Basingstoke. No problem with bananas but nowhere is selling yoghurt [my scientifically calculated nutritionally balanced lunch each day consisted of 2 bananas, a yoghurt and a bottle of lucozade sport]. Safe now – Spitty will stop here. On to Gort.
Why does it look like I’m joining a motorway – the map definitely said green road. Maybe if I’m stopped the Garda will give me a lift to Gort.
This is the dullest bit of road so far but at least it’s stopped looking like a motorway. Nearly 2.5 times as many people died on the roads of County Galway than County Kerry in the last 4 years, I’m not surprised these are easily the worst drivers yet [this is not a statistic I just happened to know, most of the Counties in Ireland have a board up somewhere telling you this information]. Gort is ugly, this must be the first town not to have won a Tidy Town Medal. So they don’t just hand them out like medals to the children who try hard at school sports days [up to this point just about every town had a sign when you enter it announcing it had won a medal of some description in the Irish Tidy Town competition of 200X] but I don’t care I need to stop for 5 minutes, maybe 10 minutes, my legs really ache. I still have time to get to Loughlea. One last push. Dogs must have innately know not to jump off the back of a moving truck. There’s no way that can have evolved. Not enough time, although the process would be pretty quick seeing as any dog that jumps out is not going to be passing on its genes any time soon.
This hurts. This really hurts. My knees hurt, and that is joint. My arse feels like it has been sandblasted [just to be clear this was a metaphor – I have never had my arse sandblasted] and this road surface is terrible. Oww, avoid the bloody cat’s eyes. I don’t care uphill, downhill just get to Loughrea.
At last, there it is. It looks fantastic. I’d rather it was this side of the Lough but what a great view. Where did the sun go? Blue sky but so cold. There was no sunset – it just vanished. I hope this isn’t cataclysmic, I’d rather the world didn’t end with me wearing cycling shorts and having a sore arse. I assume that they allow you to change before passing through the pearly gates. I bet it has really nice changing rooms and a wide selection of clothes for every taste. I suppose it would have to be a department store. I hope the accessories section is good.
Hmm, Loughrea looks a bit of a let down. I guess it is going to be Chinese again tonight, without question the most disappointing of all Anglicised cuisines (is there an Irish equivalent, gaelicised maybe?)
That meal has done nothing to change my mind. And the fortune cookie is stale, “Be patient and optimistic, you have a strong appeal to the opposite sex”. Nice, clearly they have a special table for one pile.
Thursday 2 October 2008
Ireland; South to North and Inside Out - Day 1
Breakfast at 9, I’ll nip down to Mizen Head and back first. Some signposts would be nice, this can’t be the quickest route, nice beach, I bet if it wasn’t pouring down this would look nice. Left my iPod at the B&B. I wonder if I’ll see a car, or person. Quick photo and go. How can the batteries be dead? I haven’t taken a picture. The spares are at the B&B, shake them, that works, or at least I can get a quick snap. Not that a picture will show much, apparently the red sandstone cliffs and coastline will take my breath away but the cloud is so low that I can’t even see the sea. Ok time to leave, get the challenge officially started. Time to get breakfast.
[After a full Irish at the B&B] very Atkins friendly [I headed off properly].
It’s wet but not windy at least. First target town is Kenmare [the number of potential things that could go wrong meant that I hadn’t planned a route, I was just selecting a target town to aim for before each leg]. I’m glad I remembered I have the iPod. 8pt Agenda, good first song, although maybe not complimentary to the beautiful landscape. I wonder if I’ll see a car before I reach the N71. Here’s the N71, there’s a car. That must be an impressive ancient anchor to merit its own road sign, maybe I should stop. Is that it? I’ve seen better anchors and 1796 isn’t really very ancient. Bantry Golf Club, designed by Christie O’Connor Jr. He always looked a nice guy – like a great grandfather, I wonder if he is now a great-grandfather. Ballylickey, classic comedy town name. I don’t like jokes, I like wit. Actually I do like jokes but I can’t tell them and people who can’t tell jokes like to make themselves feel better by saying wit is superior. It would be nice to be able to tell jokes but I’d prefer to be able to do accents. People laugh at accents even when the words aren’t funny – Rory Bremner has made a career out of that. Glengariff Golf Club, was Christie O’Connor Jr not good enough for you?
I wonder if Ill ever see blue sky in Ireland. The cloud looks higher, or maybe I’m lower. I think I’m at saturation point anyway, I’m not noticing the rain now.27km to Kenmare, I wonder what that is in miles? Hill, hill, hill, when is this going to end? That’s over an hour and still going and steep too. The Caha Pass, I’m going to check its elevation when I get back because that was ridiculous [not even Wikipedia seems to know]. Why couldn’t they put that tunnel lower down? And into County Kerry, looks the same as County Cork, weather is the same as County Cork but it’s downhill – weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Finally Kenmare, time to stretch off and try to get at least a little drier, I’ll wring out the gloves, my hands haven’t been that shade of blue since Alcatraz. This town ticks every Irish cliché going. It knows its market is ageing American tourists, and it has worked they are everywhere. What are they actually finding to do? Next target is Killarney. I wonder if I’ll make Tralee today.
Not another climb. That can’t still be this road over there. This is not a good idea with cold muscles. Hillcrest Farm, at the moment the most pleasing farm name ever. The farm lied, so much for honest country folk. Killarney National Park looks pretty, all these loughs and trees. I’m liking the smell of pine, wouldn’t notice that in a car. This part of Ireland must be an area for touring as there is nothing to do in the towns and villages. I expect bike is best, if it ever stops raining, you seem to notice more and certainly have a lot more time to appreciate the detail. I can handle the steep ups here, they are followed quickly by steep downs. Not so keen on the coaches overtaking me on the narrow roads. And the diesel is destroying the pine smell. Killarney, this is bigger than I expected, a proper large town but it could do with a signpost to Tralee. Nice big church with a rugby pitch where most churches have graveyards. There must be a sport meets religion quip just waiting for Gary Lineker there. Do quips count as jokes or wit? Why is everybody here displaying green and yellow flags? Surely the ones on the car windows are reserved for Esso Garage Promotions until our penalty defeat in the World Cup [It turned out these were Kerry flags because they were soon to be playing in the Gallic Football Cup final]. A roundabout, they are the best way to find directions out of a town, and there is Tralee, 32km, what’s that in miles? Ok, I should be there between 6.30 and 7. Uphill again, is there any Irish town that you can escape without going uphill? Doesn’t Ireland have roads where things defy gravity by rolling uphill? Let’s find one of those. I’m not so keen on the green roads, they are too busy and the view is less interesting. I’ll stick to red roads as much as possible [on the map I was using green roads indicated the primary roads and red roads indicated the secondary roads]. For crying out loud avoid the cat’s eyes, my arse is hurting enough as it is. I think I can almost see the sun through the cloud over there – still raining though. I bet it rains even when it is sunny, no wonder rainbows play a part in Irish folklore. A roundabout, that always signifies that I am near a town, they are the traffic equivalent of a dove with an olive branch. Loads of B&Bs but I could do with one near the centre but will they take bikes?. I’ll start at the centre and work my way out. 6.40 is respectable enough. 97 miles. One day in and my legs ache and my arse is raw, 4 more days will be a struggle.
[After a full Irish at the B&B] very Atkins friendly [I headed off properly].
It’s wet but not windy at least. First target town is Kenmare [the number of potential things that could go wrong meant that I hadn’t planned a route, I was just selecting a target town to aim for before each leg]. I’m glad I remembered I have the iPod. 8pt Agenda, good first song, although maybe not complimentary to the beautiful landscape. I wonder if I’ll see a car before I reach the N71. Here’s the N71, there’s a car. That must be an impressive ancient anchor to merit its own road sign, maybe I should stop. Is that it? I’ve seen better anchors and 1796 isn’t really very ancient. Bantry Golf Club, designed by Christie O’Connor Jr. He always looked a nice guy – like a great grandfather, I wonder if he is now a great-grandfather. Ballylickey, classic comedy town name. I don’t like jokes, I like wit. Actually I do like jokes but I can’t tell them and people who can’t tell jokes like to make themselves feel better by saying wit is superior. It would be nice to be able to tell jokes but I’d prefer to be able to do accents. People laugh at accents even when the words aren’t funny – Rory Bremner has made a career out of that. Glengariff Golf Club, was Christie O’Connor Jr not good enough for you?
I wonder if Ill ever see blue sky in Ireland. The cloud looks higher, or maybe I’m lower. I think I’m at saturation point anyway, I’m not noticing the rain now.27km to Kenmare, I wonder what that is in miles? Hill, hill, hill, when is this going to end? That’s over an hour and still going and steep too. The Caha Pass, I’m going to check its elevation when I get back because that was ridiculous [not even Wikipedia seems to know]. Why couldn’t they put that tunnel lower down? And into County Kerry, looks the same as County Cork, weather is the same as County Cork but it’s downhill – weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Finally Kenmare, time to stretch off and try to get at least a little drier, I’ll wring out the gloves, my hands haven’t been that shade of blue since Alcatraz. This town ticks every Irish cliché going. It knows its market is ageing American tourists, and it has worked they are everywhere. What are they actually finding to do? Next target is Killarney. I wonder if I’ll make Tralee today.
Not another climb. That can’t still be this road over there. This is not a good idea with cold muscles. Hillcrest Farm, at the moment the most pleasing farm name ever. The farm lied, so much for honest country folk. Killarney National Park looks pretty, all these loughs and trees. I’m liking the smell of pine, wouldn’t notice that in a car. This part of Ireland must be an area for touring as there is nothing to do in the towns and villages. I expect bike is best, if it ever stops raining, you seem to notice more and certainly have a lot more time to appreciate the detail. I can handle the steep ups here, they are followed quickly by steep downs. Not so keen on the coaches overtaking me on the narrow roads. And the diesel is destroying the pine smell. Killarney, this is bigger than I expected, a proper large town but it could do with a signpost to Tralee. Nice big church with a rugby pitch where most churches have graveyards. There must be a sport meets religion quip just waiting for Gary Lineker there. Do quips count as jokes or wit? Why is everybody here displaying green and yellow flags? Surely the ones on the car windows are reserved for Esso Garage Promotions until our penalty defeat in the World Cup [It turned out these were Kerry flags because they were soon to be playing in the Gallic Football Cup final]. A roundabout, they are the best way to find directions out of a town, and there is Tralee, 32km, what’s that in miles? Ok, I should be there between 6.30 and 7. Uphill again, is there any Irish town that you can escape without going uphill? Doesn’t Ireland have roads where things defy gravity by rolling uphill? Let’s find one of those. I’m not so keen on the green roads, they are too busy and the view is less interesting. I’ll stick to red roads as much as possible [on the map I was using green roads indicated the primary roads and red roads indicated the secondary roads]. For crying out loud avoid the cat’s eyes, my arse is hurting enough as it is. I think I can almost see the sun through the cloud over there – still raining though. I bet it rains even when it is sunny, no wonder rainbows play a part in Irish folklore. A roundabout, that always signifies that I am near a town, they are the traffic equivalent of a dove with an olive branch. Loads of B&Bs but I could do with one near the centre but will they take bikes?. I’ll start at the centre and work my way out. 6.40 is respectable enough. 97 miles. One day in and my legs ache and my arse is raw, 4 more days will be a struggle.
Wednesday 1 October 2008
Ireland; South to North and Inside Out - The Build Up
[I had booked a pre-challenge night kayaking trip to see phospholuminescent algae. However the appalling weather meant that this was cancelled. I had also booked a B&B near the kayaking point but as I had no reason to go off route I took a late bus to Goleen instead. Goleen is the nearest mapped conurbation to Mizen Head – Ireland’s most southerly point].
How can the weather be this bad? It was nice in Cork, I’d have liked to have stayed there, it looked like the lovechild of Sheffield and Amsterdam that had rebelled against its parents by dying its shop fronts in lurid primary colours. The clouds here are so low, they are trying to get carnal with the heather. It’s getting dark now, I wonder how big Goleen is, I hope it has some B&Bs, it must do. I hope the B&Bs have vacancies. What will I do if they don’t? [We got to Goleen at 8.30] At least the rain has stopped, I bet we could have gone kayaking. It’s so dark, it would have looked great. This place is tiny, 2 pubs, a general store, a post office, no B&Bs. Hang on, The Heron and Cove B&B and restaurant. I hope they have vacancies, there’s a lot of cars but it is a restaurant and it is dinner time so that means nothing.
Who has a wedding on the 13th? I thought the Irish were superstitious. Please let there be another B&B, I’ll ask at the post office, what if the wedding party has taken every room in town? Better buy something to get directions, some sort of peanut confectionery bar, perfect, but no other B&Bs. She might be wrong, she couldn’t even work the till, maybe the general store will know. Again I'd better buy something, these biscuits are cheap. Above the church and right at the crossroads, please let them have vacancies my teeth have suffered for this information. The church lights are on, maybe I could sleep there. I must have gone wrong there was no B&B and I'm out of town now, I’m going back to church. Wait a sign facing this way only. Please have space, please have space. Yes.
A classic B&B, all floral patterns and it smells of baking, compliment the smell. Oh crap she's offered me cake, I have just had some sort of peanut thing and some biscuits but I can’t say no, she might throw me out, I’ll have to take a slice, why didn't I bin the biscuits? my poor teeth, please don’t let it be chocolate, please don't let it be chocolate. Carrot cake, no icing. It's an enormous slice but that could have been a lot worse, my luck has picked up here. I can’t face a walk back to the village, time to embrace a bed that looked unlikely an hour ago. I hope the sugar rush won’t keep me awake.
How can the weather be this bad? It was nice in Cork, I’d have liked to have stayed there, it looked like the lovechild of Sheffield and Amsterdam that had rebelled against its parents by dying its shop fronts in lurid primary colours. The clouds here are so low, they are trying to get carnal with the heather. It’s getting dark now, I wonder how big Goleen is, I hope it has some B&Bs, it must do. I hope the B&Bs have vacancies. What will I do if they don’t? [We got to Goleen at 8.30] At least the rain has stopped, I bet we could have gone kayaking. It’s so dark, it would have looked great. This place is tiny, 2 pubs, a general store, a post office, no B&Bs. Hang on, The Heron and Cove B&B and restaurant. I hope they have vacancies, there’s a lot of cars but it is a restaurant and it is dinner time so that means nothing.
Who has a wedding on the 13th? I thought the Irish were superstitious. Please let there be another B&B, I’ll ask at the post office, what if the wedding party has taken every room in town? Better buy something to get directions, some sort of peanut confectionery bar, perfect, but no other B&Bs. She might be wrong, she couldn’t even work the till, maybe the general store will know. Again I'd better buy something, these biscuits are cheap. Above the church and right at the crossroads, please let them have vacancies my teeth have suffered for this information. The church lights are on, maybe I could sleep there. I must have gone wrong there was no B&B and I'm out of town now, I’m going back to church. Wait a sign facing this way only. Please have space, please have space. Yes.
A classic B&B, all floral patterns and it smells of baking, compliment the smell. Oh crap she's offered me cake, I have just had some sort of peanut thing and some biscuits but I can’t say no, she might throw me out, I’ll have to take a slice, why didn't I bin the biscuits? my poor teeth, please don’t let it be chocolate, please don't let it be chocolate. Carrot cake, no icing. It's an enormous slice but that could have been a lot worse, my luck has picked up here. I can’t face a walk back to the village, time to embrace a bed that looked unlikely an hour ago. I hope the sugar rush won’t keep me awake.
Tuesday 23 September 2008
An Orange Parade
I am Father Christmas who gave me my first bike
And my father who took the stabilisers off, 5 years later.
I am all the people who have sponsored me
And potentially the people who have said they will.
I am the wasp that flew in my eye in Lissycasey
I am the choc ices that reduced the swelling in my knees.
I am the American couple that wouldn’t talk at breakfast
And the Dublin volunteer worker who did.
I am a spitting geographer and an iPod charger that didn't work.
I am Denzil Gunner and I cycled Ireland south to north – challenge complete.
Being (a) on my own and (b) a bit tragic, every time I took a break from cycling I would replay the section of the trip I had just completed and jotted down all the thoughts I could remember thinking in that time. My intention was to use this as the basis of my Ireland report but I have now decided that these will be, unedited, the posts. I am allowing myself this act of incredible arrogance so that when I am the only person reading this (i.e. now) I have a pretty much contemporaneous summary of what was happening in my head during the challenge. The posts will be very long, even by my excessive standards but even then they are not thorough. I have not gone back and added thoughts that were recalled after the immediate jottings so it is missing my 30 minute rumination on whether any adaptations would be required to turn a horsebox into a cowbox and the analysis of Irish etiquette (all swear words are fine in any company but burping was not).
So the next 7 posts are extra-curricular reading, they will not count towards the end of year party qualification exams. The only relevant details are 415.5 miles cycled over 4 days and 3 hours at an average of just under 12.5 miles per hour. The rest is pure self-indulgence.
And my father who took the stabilisers off, 5 years later.
I am all the people who have sponsored me
And potentially the people who have said they will.
I am the wasp that flew in my eye in Lissycasey
I am the choc ices that reduced the swelling in my knees.
I am the American couple that wouldn’t talk at breakfast
And the Dublin volunteer worker who did.
I am a spitting geographer and an iPod charger that didn't work.
I am Denzil Gunner and I cycled Ireland south to north – challenge complete.
Being (a) on my own and (b) a bit tragic, every time I took a break from cycling I would replay the section of the trip I had just completed and jotted down all the thoughts I could remember thinking in that time. My intention was to use this as the basis of my Ireland report but I have now decided that these will be, unedited, the posts. I am allowing myself this act of incredible arrogance so that when I am the only person reading this (i.e. now) I have a pretty much contemporaneous summary of what was happening in my head during the challenge. The posts will be very long, even by my excessive standards but even then they are not thorough. I have not gone back and added thoughts that were recalled after the immediate jottings so it is missing my 30 minute rumination on whether any adaptations would be required to turn a horsebox into a cowbox and the analysis of Irish etiquette (all swear words are fine in any company but burping was not).
So the next 7 posts are extra-curricular reading, they will not count towards the end of year party qualification exams. The only relevant details are 415.5 miles cycled over 4 days and 3 hours at an average of just under 12.5 miles per hour. The rest is pure self-indulgence.
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