I've gotten back in to rowing. Sculling, specifically, which is better for my back. I found a club near here (only an hour drive!), called Castle Dore Rowing Club, which is a recreational (ie, non-competitive) community fitness club, largely made up of middle-aged vets with busticated back. Perfect! (Or so I thought.)
For the past month or so I've been going out with them on a Sunday afternnon. The river is lovely (when there's water in it). It's always a scratch crew, made up of whomever shows up: men, women, novice, vets, whatever; we all get lumped in together. I was really enjoying myself, just pissing about on the water, not having to think about upcoming events, split times, or whether stroke could possibly go any faster up the fucking slide (Jesus Christ, Becky, it's not a race to the catch!).
And then something happened. I was in a crew with 3 blokes, all of them half-decent oarsmen. We set a rhythm. It wasn't shit. We pulled on it. The boat moved. We lifted the shell onto the surface of the river and heard the water bubbling cheerfully as we whizzed along. We moved. It felt fantastic.
And I was done for. The adrenaline all came surging back in time with the surge of the boat. I felt my heart pounding. I heard my quads say to me, "Oh yeah, we remember this!" I fell in love again.
The quiet, little, recreational club isn't enough any more. I want to go fast. I want to go fast now. I'm too young to be an allakadoo. I'm too young to be this old. I'm getting back on the ergo. I'm setting training regime, and when Pirate and I move away from Cornwall sometime this spring, I'm joining a proper boat club again. I want to win shit.
Showing posts with label rowing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rowing. Show all posts
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Out with a fizzle
Today was my last regatta. I am officially retired from rowing. If I find myself in a position (read: location) to take it up again, i probably will, but for the time being that's it.
And i got spanked. NOT how I wanted it to end.
The race in the quad was OK. It was a decent row, but we lost by 1/2 a length. They got up on us in the first 200, and there just wasn't room to come back. But we rowed pretty well, they were just better. It happens.
The double, on the other hand, was entirely my fault. I was just shit. There's no other way to put it. I was rowing as though we were fighting horrendous conditions like gale force crosswinds and whitecaps on the water, except we weren't. There was a steady tail wind and a few ripples on the canal, but I was tense and smacking the water (my blade work was shocking), and by the time I got myself together and began rowing properly it was too late. They had 3 lenghts on us by 200m, and the whole race was only 600m.
So there it was.
At least it was fast. The day, that is. I arrived, rigged the boats, launched the quad, paddled up, lost, got out, racked the quad, launched the double, paddled up, lost, got out, de-rigged, and left. All within the space of a couple hours. Today had all the joy and efficiency of a well-ordered execution.
And now I'm done.
And i got spanked. NOT how I wanted it to end.
The race in the quad was OK. It was a decent row, but we lost by 1/2 a length. They got up on us in the first 200, and there just wasn't room to come back. But we rowed pretty well, they were just better. It happens.
The double, on the other hand, was entirely my fault. I was just shit. There's no other way to put it. I was rowing as though we were fighting horrendous conditions like gale force crosswinds and whitecaps on the water, except we weren't. There was a steady tail wind and a few ripples on the canal, but I was tense and smacking the water (my blade work was shocking), and by the time I got myself together and began rowing properly it was too late. They had 3 lenghts on us by 200m, and the whole race was only 600m.
So there it was.
At least it was fast. The day, that is. I arrived, rigged the boats, launched the quad, paddled up, lost, got out, racked the quad, launched the double, paddled up, lost, got out, de-rigged, and left. All within the space of a couple hours. Today had all the joy and efficiency of a well-ordered execution.
And now I'm done.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Weeeeeee are the Chaaaam-peeyons, my Frie-ends
I was waiting to get some photos to put up with this post, but I finally decided that some things you simply Need To Know, immidiately, and so you will have to visualize this for yourself.
Henley Women's Regatta this weekend was a cracking success, the best I've ever had.*
Sal and I arrived on Friday afternoon, set up camp, rigged the boat, and hit the water. It was good to do a practice run, become familiar with the course and the circulation pattern (it was my steering that killed us at Reading, if you recall) and calm the nerves. The night was grey, humid, and drizzling. Everyone was walking around ashen-faced and focused on their own little world. Dozens of people scooted about like doozers, busily, but not energetically, minding their own business, not talking to anyone.
It was quiet, almost eerie. From the bank I heard the soft, rythmic swish-chunk of crews going down the river, a few seagulls, and metal clanking against metal as people unwrapped riggers and dropped them on the grass. There wasn't even the shrill shout of an amplified dwarf (sorry, "coxwain") to break the tension. Most of the crews practicing were coxless crews (who were, naturally, more nervous about the steering and circulation).
Pirate arrived in The Big Car, despite the weather. I mean, what better place to show off a classic Aston than Henley-on-Toffs?
Saturday we awoke at stupid o'clock, it being the soltice and the sun having come up at 3 am or something rediculous, the busy old fool. Pirate insisted no sex before competition. Grrr. So i scarfed some Nutrigrain bars (blueberry, in case you're interested), woke Sal up, and proceeded to pace nervously. We had time to kill.
We went through the registration and final equipment check, and then set off. Pirate and Sal's hubby -- let's call him 'SalMan' -- dutifully took our wellies at the pontoon and promised to bring them back to us after the race.
After a light warm up in a light drizzle we heard our number and got attached to the stake boat.
"Are you ready? Attention... GO!"
And go we did. Our start was a bit untidy, but strong. We were against Tyne United Rowing Club, a new organization and complete unknown. We had no idea what to expect from them. By the time we reached the end of Temple Island we were already leaving them comfortably behind. After a couple hundred meters, when it bacame apparent they didn't stand a prayer of catching us, Sal called half pressure and we took the rate down to 27 to conserve energy for the next round. We kept TURC a comfortable 2 lengths off our stern, which would give us plenty of time to respond if they made a push, and basically paddled down the course.
It wasn't a satisfying victory of a race well-fought, but it gave us the confidence boost we needed. It was, after all, the first thing of any kind we've won all season. Not bad to get your first victory in a Henley heat, eh?
After some malt loaf and Lucozade and a short rest it was back in for the second round, in which karma bit us in the butts.
We got Durham.
Those fucking lilac lycras. They instill terror into the hearts of all who see them. (Except Leander, with their baby-ass pink lycras. They do not fear the lilac.)
And basically Durham did to us what we did to Tyne United. Except instead of sitting pretty and conserving energy, Durham thrashed themselves all the way to the line. So did we, to be fair, but their auto-thrashing was much more effective than ours, and when they crossed the finish line they were so far ahead of us we didn't even hear the horn go off. *weeps*
They did go on to win gold in the final, though, so fair enough. We clearly got beat by the best. The coach from Exeter with the tiny tent said that they were GB under-23's, which makes them insufferable little upstarts as well as very good scullers.
Despite all that we didn't feel bad at all. Actually, we rowed a good race. It was genuinely our best performace ever. Once it became obvious (after about 4 strokes) that they were gone and we were never going to catch them, the pressure was off and we just set out to race the clock and do our best as we went past the crowds. Our start was messy, to be sure. The water was really bouncy and choppy from all the motorboat action, but after we got through that we settled into a strong rhythm at 30 spm, kept the ratio good and the lenght long and never deviated for the rest of the course. We were genuinely please with how we rowed. Durham were just better. (Jesus suffering fuck were they fast.)
The advantage to being knocked out Saturday afternoon and not advancing to Sunday is that you can start drinking a day earlier.
I'm starting to sober up now. I went on a bit of a 3-day bender, and polished off, well, it doesn't really bear listing, does it? But there was mead in there somewhere. By god was there mead. Mmm. *licks lips*
Now I'm back at work, life has resumed to normal (whatever the fuck that means), and for once, I have really happy memory of Henley. Nice to end on a high note.
Sal and I will keep going through the summer, but with a bit less intensity. We'll traing a couple times a week, go to some smally little local regattas and come home with lots of pots and medals. We're big fish, now. We gonna clean up some small ponds.
* Unlike 4 years ago where I was sabotaged by my coach and caught a fatal crab on the 4th stroke, or 2 years ago when all the women on the team quit and I was forced to do a 4+ with some enthusiastic and well-meaning novices who just weren't up to the senior level of competition.
Henley Women's Regatta this weekend was a cracking success, the best I've ever had.*
Sal and I arrived on Friday afternoon, set up camp, rigged the boat, and hit the water. It was good to do a practice run, become familiar with the course and the circulation pattern (it was my steering that killed us at Reading, if you recall) and calm the nerves. The night was grey, humid, and drizzling. Everyone was walking around ashen-faced and focused on their own little world. Dozens of people scooted about like doozers, busily, but not energetically, minding their own business, not talking to anyone.
It was quiet, almost eerie. From the bank I heard the soft, rythmic swish-chunk of crews going down the river, a few seagulls, and metal clanking against metal as people unwrapped riggers and dropped them on the grass. There wasn't even the shrill shout of an amplified dwarf (sorry, "coxwain") to break the tension. Most of the crews practicing were coxless crews (who were, naturally, more nervous about the steering and circulation).
Pirate arrived in The Big Car, despite the weather. I mean, what better place to show off a classic Aston than Henley-on-Toffs?
Saturday we awoke at stupid o'clock, it being the soltice and the sun having come up at 3 am or something rediculous, the busy old fool. Pirate insisted no sex before competition. Grrr. So i scarfed some Nutrigrain bars (blueberry, in case you're interested), woke Sal up, and proceeded to pace nervously. We had time to kill.
We went through the registration and final equipment check, and then set off. Pirate and Sal's hubby -- let's call him 'SalMan' -- dutifully took our wellies at the pontoon and promised to bring them back to us after the race.
After a light warm up in a light drizzle we heard our number and got attached to the stake boat.
"Are you ready? Attention... GO!"
And go we did. Our start was a bit untidy, but strong. We were against Tyne United Rowing Club, a new organization and complete unknown. We had no idea what to expect from them. By the time we reached the end of Temple Island we were already leaving them comfortably behind. After a couple hundred meters, when it bacame apparent they didn't stand a prayer of catching us, Sal called half pressure and we took the rate down to 27 to conserve energy for the next round. We kept TURC a comfortable 2 lengths off our stern, which would give us plenty of time to respond if they made a push, and basically paddled down the course.
It wasn't a satisfying victory of a race well-fought, but it gave us the confidence boost we needed. It was, after all, the first thing of any kind we've won all season. Not bad to get your first victory in a Henley heat, eh?
After some malt loaf and Lucozade and a short rest it was back in for the second round, in which karma bit us in the butts.
We got Durham.
Those fucking lilac lycras. They instill terror into the hearts of all who see them. (Except Leander, with their baby-ass pink lycras. They do not fear the lilac.)
And basically Durham did to us what we did to Tyne United. Except instead of sitting pretty and conserving energy, Durham thrashed themselves all the way to the line. So did we, to be fair, but their auto-thrashing was much more effective than ours, and when they crossed the finish line they were so far ahead of us we didn't even hear the horn go off. *weeps*
They did go on to win gold in the final, though, so fair enough. We clearly got beat by the best. The coach from Exeter with the tiny tent said that they were GB under-23's, which makes them insufferable little upstarts as well as very good scullers.
Despite all that we didn't feel bad at all. Actually, we rowed a good race. It was genuinely our best performace ever. Once it became obvious (after about 4 strokes) that they were gone and we were never going to catch them, the pressure was off and we just set out to race the clock and do our best as we went past the crowds. Our start was messy, to be sure. The water was really bouncy and choppy from all the motorboat action, but after we got through that we settled into a strong rhythm at 30 spm, kept the ratio good and the lenght long and never deviated for the rest of the course. We were genuinely please with how we rowed. Durham were just better. (Jesus suffering fuck were they fast.)
The advantage to being knocked out Saturday afternoon and not advancing to Sunday is that you can start drinking a day earlier.
I'm starting to sober up now. I went on a bit of a 3-day bender, and polished off, well, it doesn't really bear listing, does it? But there was mead in there somewhere. By god was there mead. Mmm. *licks lips*
Now I'm back at work, life has resumed to normal (whatever the fuck that means), and for once, I have really happy memory of Henley. Nice to end on a high note.
Sal and I will keep going through the summer, but with a bit less intensity. We'll traing a couple times a week, go to some smally little local regattas and come home with lots of pots and medals. We're big fish, now. We gonna clean up some small ponds.
* Unlike 4 years ago where I was sabotaged by my coach and caught a fatal crab on the 4th stroke, or 2 years ago when all the women on the team quit and I was forced to do a 4+ with some enthusiastic and well-meaning novices who just weren't up to the senior level of competition.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Hot Toddy
Here's how I make my hot toddies:
Juice of 1 entire lemon
Equal amount strong booze (at least 40% abv) such as brandy, cognac, scotch, or bourbon
Almost that much honey
Top up with hot (NOT boiling! you'll evaporate the alkyhaul) water.
Drink.
There's enough acid and alcohol in that concoction to disinfect a front-line hospital. On Sunday night when I had a sore throat it worked a treat -- by Monday morn my throat was better. But at the same time my sinuses got worse.
Now, on here on Tuesday night, my sinuses are still plugged, my throat is hurting again, and it's moved south into my chest. That's the really worrying bit. I can race with a plugged nose (i breath through my mouth anyway) and i can cope with a sore throat, but chest congestion makes racing impossible. You just can't get enough oxygen in to power the muscles. I'm getting really worried. This is the same thing Sal had, and she was down with it for almost 2 weeks.
I've been to Henley twice before, and both times I've been fucked by my team. Once I was sabotaged by my coach (yes, I know that sounds paranoid, but I think he was getting me back for throwing up on him, unrepentantly, at training camp), and the second time all the senior women in the club quit and my only hope was in a coxed 4 (an inherently shit boat, as it has the worst power:weight ratio of any racing craft) with 3 keen but inexperienced and unfit novices. Then last year I lost the whole of the spring season to my back injury.
This was my year. This was the year for the glorious come-back. I got screwed by my club YET AGAIN (i'm not bitter, i swear), but managed to find a fantastic partner and get it together in a double scull.
AND NOW I'M SICK.
Honestly, there does not exist in this world an angstometer of sufficient capacity to measure my frustration.
So today I bought a coloring book to color. Like you do.
Juice of 1 entire lemon
Equal amount strong booze (at least 40% abv) such as brandy, cognac, scotch, or bourbon
Almost that much honey
Top up with hot (NOT boiling! you'll evaporate the alkyhaul) water.
Drink.
There's enough acid and alcohol in that concoction to disinfect a front-line hospital. On Sunday night when I had a sore throat it worked a treat -- by Monday morn my throat was better. But at the same time my sinuses got worse.
Now, on here on Tuesday night, my sinuses are still plugged, my throat is hurting again, and it's moved south into my chest. That's the really worrying bit. I can race with a plugged nose (i breath through my mouth anyway) and i can cope with a sore throat, but chest congestion makes racing impossible. You just can't get enough oxygen in to power the muscles. I'm getting really worried. This is the same thing Sal had, and she was down with it for almost 2 weeks.
I've been to Henley twice before, and both times I've been fucked by my team. Once I was sabotaged by my coach (yes, I know that sounds paranoid, but I think he was getting me back for throwing up on him, unrepentantly, at training camp), and the second time all the senior women in the club quit and my only hope was in a coxed 4 (an inherently shit boat, as it has the worst power:weight ratio of any racing craft) with 3 keen but inexperienced and unfit novices. Then last year I lost the whole of the spring season to my back injury.
This was my year. This was the year for the glorious come-back. I got screwed by my club YET AGAIN (i'm not bitter, i swear), but managed to find a fantastic partner and get it together in a double scull.
AND NOW I'M SICK.
Honestly, there does not exist in this world an angstometer of sufficient capacity to measure my frustration.
So today I bought a coloring book to color. Like you do.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Angst. With a headcold. And sunburn.
Why is that you only ever get sick at The Most Inconvenient Time Imaginable?
I'm sick. Henley is in less than a week and I'm sick. Shit bugger wank balls fuck damn arse shit fuck.
And because I'm sick, I feel like crap and therefore can't be bothered to give you a long, drawn-out, delightful narrative of the weekend's spankings. There were two. I shall sum up.
Saturday:
Competing in the double scull. Was so nervous I was nauseas for 3 days leading up. Got attached to the stake boat, nearly blew my cookies, had a really mess start (holy fuck that stream was strong!!!), and rowed a line like a fucking sine curve. I was all over the river. Even so we only lost by a length. I figure if you factor in all the extra distance we did on account of my fucking steering (or lack thereof) we actually went about 100m farther, and therefore won. Too bad the judges don't see it that way.
The Mother-in-law came as well, bless her M&S socks. All that way to watch us lose. (Twice.)
Had a nice picnic anyway. The weather was good. There was a lovely irish wolf hound who befriended me and got belly rubs out of the bargain. I got dog hairs on my wet lycra.
Sunday:
Racing in a quad scull with a seriously strong crew. Scratch crew. We'd only had 1 outing together prior to racing. It was just for a lark. But the Bristol women who swore up and down that they didn't want to race a quad scull and thereby effectively threw me out of the club (remember that?)... THEY ENTERED A QUAD AGAINST US.
Knife in back: TWIST.
Holy fuck were we out for blood. We wanted to win it. BAD. Rarely in my life have I wanted anything so badly. I wanted their heads on platters. With little bits of parsley garnish sticking out of their eyeballs. The cunts.
We had an awesome start. After a few strokes we were already clearly ahead. Poor Weybridge didn't stand a chance. (I should clarify here that we were actually racing Weybridge. The Bristol quad got knocked out in their first round, but we wanted to win the whole event just to demonstrate our obvious superiority. It would have been nice to meet them in the final, but they got eliminated by New South Wales.) We were going to decimate them and go on to the final.
Until Sal crabbed. Massively. And then, utter genius that she is, her reflex was to use both hands to try to recover her blade, and so she let go of the second one! Aaaaaahhhh!
So that was us done. We made a valiant effort and came back well, even managing to close the 4 lenghts of open water between us and come in contact with them again, but then we ran out of river and they crossed the line first. Had we had another 200m of water we'd have gone right through them, but it was a short course and there just wasn't time.
Weybridge were really friendly about the whole thing and we cheered them in the final. They lost to UL, poor dears.
But we decided the quad has sufficient potential that we will carry on racing it through the summer, because we're confident we can win shit. And the weather was perfect, so that was nice. And I got to pet a 12-week old beagle puppy named Donut, who was an absolute little doll. And there was chocolate cake in abundance, which also helped. But i'd gladly give all that up and more to have won that race in the quad.
Yeah, AND I got sunburn on the top of my head where my hair was parted.
And now I'm sick, one fucking week before Henley. Frustrating ain't the word.
I'm going back to bed now.
Nighty-night.
I'm sick. Henley is in less than a week and I'm sick. Shit bugger wank balls fuck damn arse shit fuck.
And because I'm sick, I feel like crap and therefore can't be bothered to give you a long, drawn-out, delightful narrative of the weekend's spankings. There were two. I shall sum up.
Saturday:
Competing in the double scull. Was so nervous I was nauseas for 3 days leading up. Got attached to the stake boat, nearly blew my cookies, had a really mess start (holy fuck that stream was strong!!!), and rowed a line like a fucking sine curve. I was all over the river. Even so we only lost by a length. I figure if you factor in all the extra distance we did on account of my fucking steering (or lack thereof) we actually went about 100m farther, and therefore won. Too bad the judges don't see it that way.
The Mother-in-law came as well, bless her M&S socks. All that way to watch us lose. (Twice.)
Had a nice picnic anyway. The weather was good. There was a lovely irish wolf hound who befriended me and got belly rubs out of the bargain. I got dog hairs on my wet lycra.
Sunday:
Racing in a quad scull with a seriously strong crew. Scratch crew. We'd only had 1 outing together prior to racing. It was just for a lark. But the Bristol women who swore up and down that they didn't want to race a quad scull and thereby effectively threw me out of the club (remember that?)... THEY ENTERED A QUAD AGAINST US.
Knife in back: TWIST.
Holy fuck were we out for blood. We wanted to win it. BAD. Rarely in my life have I wanted anything so badly. I wanted their heads on platters. With little bits of parsley garnish sticking out of their eyeballs. The cunts.
We had an awesome start. After a few strokes we were already clearly ahead. Poor Weybridge didn't stand a chance. (I should clarify here that we were actually racing Weybridge. The Bristol quad got knocked out in their first round, but we wanted to win the whole event just to demonstrate our obvious superiority. It would have been nice to meet them in the final, but they got eliminated by New South Wales.) We were going to decimate them and go on to the final.
Until Sal crabbed. Massively. And then, utter genius that she is, her reflex was to use both hands to try to recover her blade, and so she let go of the second one! Aaaaaahhhh!
So that was us done. We made a valiant effort and came back well, even managing to close the 4 lenghts of open water between us and come in contact with them again, but then we ran out of river and they crossed the line first. Had we had another 200m of water we'd have gone right through them, but it was a short course and there just wasn't time.
Weybridge were really friendly about the whole thing and we cheered them in the final. They lost to UL, poor dears.
But we decided the quad has sufficient potential that we will carry on racing it through the summer, because we're confident we can win shit. And the weather was perfect, so that was nice. And I got to pet a 12-week old beagle puppy named Donut, who was an absolute little doll. And there was chocolate cake in abundance, which also helped. But i'd gladly give all that up and more to have won that race in the quad.
Yeah, AND I got sunburn on the top of my head where my hair was parted.
And now I'm sick, one fucking week before Henley. Frustrating ain't the word.
I'm going back to bed now.
Nighty-night.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Getting Spanked
Never in my life have I had so much fun losing.
On Saturday of this past weekend I was at Metropolitan Regatta at Dorney Lake. Sal and I were entered in a double scull.
We got our asses handed to us on a very wet platter.
To be fair, it wasn't our fault. I know that sounds like a cop-out, but hear me out. Poor Sal was sick as a dog. When she picked me up in the morning she couldn't get any air through the gallons of snot and mucus filling her sinuses. Her breathing sounded like a kid blowing bubbles through a straw into a chocolate milkshake. So really, we never stood a chance.
The only reason she even got out of bed was because I had mentioned that my in-laws were driving all the way down from Preston to watch. 4 hours in the car just to watch me splashing about in a boat for a minute! (Pirate was playing cricket that day. They didn't drive 4 hours to see him play. Ha!) I thought it was rather heroic of her to even make the effort.
Here we are after our humiliating defeat. See what good losers we are?
We had a good start. We went off the blocks at 40 spm, our best start ever. But Sal couldn't get any air into her lungs and so couldn't get any power out of her muscles, so I basically pulled us down the course. We stayed well in the thick of it for about the first 500m, at which point we looked at the sign reading "500" and simultaneously (we established later) thought "Fuck, is that all?! I thought we were coming up on the 1000!"
At that point 4 of the 6 crews pulled away and we were left fighting with the crew in lane 3 to not finish last. We were neck and neck with our co-losers for the middle thousand, after which I got a massive cramp in my left forearm, a consequence of having a death-grip on the blade, and couldn't hold my oar. The harder I drove with my legs the harder it was to hang my weight on the oar. Without wanting to I found myself letting up on the pressure and the crew in lane 3 got the better of us. We limped across the finish line gasping, moaning, not moving at all together and looking very novicey indeed. Which was, naturally, the point at which my in-laws saw us. Wank.
So we drank some Lucozade, shrugged it off, declared that we'd done our best in impossible circumstances, and got on with the serious business of picnicking with the in-laws in the shade by the lake. And it was an utterly lovely afternoon.
An added bonus was bumping in to a good friend of mine from Manchester that I haven't seen in several years. I wasn't expecting him to be there and suddenly there he was in front of me. What a treat!
Eventually the in-laws dropped me off at the train station in Reading so I could make my way home, where the Pirate and I met up with the other Bristol rowers for a curry dinner, which was fun, and then went to see the new Indiana Jones movie. (I'll put up my review tomorrow.) A great day all around. Never mind the utterly spectacular, catastrophic defeat. *shrugs* Whatever.
On Saturday of this past weekend I was at Metropolitan Regatta at Dorney Lake. Sal and I were entered in a double scull.
We got our asses handed to us on a very wet platter.
To be fair, it wasn't our fault. I know that sounds like a cop-out, but hear me out. Poor Sal was sick as a dog. When she picked me up in the morning she couldn't get any air through the gallons of snot and mucus filling her sinuses. Her breathing sounded like a kid blowing bubbles through a straw into a chocolate milkshake. So really, we never stood a chance.
The only reason she even got out of bed was because I had mentioned that my in-laws were driving all the way down from Preston to watch. 4 hours in the car just to watch me splashing about in a boat for a minute! (Pirate was playing cricket that day. They didn't drive 4 hours to see him play. Ha!) I thought it was rather heroic of her to even make the effort.
Here we are after our humiliating defeat. See what good losers we are?We had a good start. We went off the blocks at 40 spm, our best start ever. But Sal couldn't get any air into her lungs and so couldn't get any power out of her muscles, so I basically pulled us down the course. We stayed well in the thick of it for about the first 500m, at which point we looked at the sign reading "500" and simultaneously (we established later) thought "Fuck, is that all?! I thought we were coming up on the 1000!"
At that point 4 of the 6 crews pulled away and we were left fighting with the crew in lane 3 to not finish last. We were neck and neck with our co-losers for the middle thousand, after which I got a massive cramp in my left forearm, a consequence of having a death-grip on the blade, and couldn't hold my oar. The harder I drove with my legs the harder it was to hang my weight on the oar. Without wanting to I found myself letting up on the pressure and the crew in lane 3 got the better of us. We limped across the finish line gasping, moaning, not moving at all together and looking very novicey indeed. Which was, naturally, the point at which my in-laws saw us. Wank.
So we drank some Lucozade, shrugged it off, declared that we'd done our best in impossible circumstances, and got on with the serious business of picnicking with the in-laws in the shade by the lake. And it was an utterly lovely afternoon.
An added bonus was bumping in to a good friend of mine from Manchester that I haven't seen in several years. I wasn't expecting him to be there and suddenly there he was in front of me. What a treat!
Eventually the in-laws dropped me off at the train station in Reading so I could make my way home, where the Pirate and I met up with the other Bristol rowers for a curry dinner, which was fun, and then went to see the new Indiana Jones movie. (I'll put up my review tomorrow.) A great day all around. Never mind the utterly spectacular, catastrophic defeat. *shrugs* Whatever.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Shattered. but in a good way.
Well, mis amigos, things are moving along nicely. Sal (sculling sal, not blogging sal) and I are moving together well and we did some good, hard sessions this weekend.
Saturday we did 2 x 1000m time trials. We were both having a bit of an off day, in her case because she didn't sleep well the night before, and in my case because i skipped breakfast, so neither one of us was at our best. Even so we did 4:36 against the stream and 4:13 with it. That was only 4 seconds slower than their senior men's 4-. We gave them some serious shit for that. 4:13 was the best time in a double she'd ever had, and was significantly better than her best time with her previous partner. Not bad, considering I'm coming off 18 months half-assed, injury-recovery training and the number of outings we've done togehter we can still count on one hand. I feel like I've finally justified my existence after the crash last Wednesday.
What's really great though is that on Saturday and Sunday I trained to exhaustion. Complete and total collapse. Got back both days and fell in to be for 2 hours. Just couldn't move.
You may wonder why I'm so happy about this. I'll tell you. Up until now I haven't been able to train to that level of exhaustion becuase I've had too much back pain to puch myself that hard. And now? NO BACK PAIN!!! No pain in the boat, at any rate.
When I get out I'm stiff, but not in pain. I can't stand up because my muscles are so fucking tight, but I don't hurt. So a bit of gentle walking, a few minutes with the massage pad, and a good long stretch and I'm good as gold and ready to go again.
I have noticed that as I get older my recovery time between training sessions is getting longer than it once was, but I guess that's natural. (Unless you're the immortal, unconquerable Herebe.)
So I've finally reached the point where I can get on with some serious training and really push myself as hard as I can. Thank fuck.
Saturday we did 2 x 1000m time trials. We were both having a bit of an off day, in her case because she didn't sleep well the night before, and in my case because i skipped breakfast, so neither one of us was at our best. Even so we did 4:36 against the stream and 4:13 with it. That was only 4 seconds slower than their senior men's 4-. We gave them some serious shit for that. 4:13 was the best time in a double she'd ever had, and was significantly better than her best time with her previous partner. Not bad, considering I'm coming off 18 months half-assed, injury-recovery training and the number of outings we've done togehter we can still count on one hand. I feel like I've finally justified my existence after the crash last Wednesday.
What's really great though is that on Saturday and Sunday I trained to exhaustion. Complete and total collapse. Got back both days and fell in to be for 2 hours. Just couldn't move.
You may wonder why I'm so happy about this. I'll tell you. Up until now I haven't been able to train to that level of exhaustion becuase I've had too much back pain to puch myself that hard. And now? NO BACK PAIN!!! No pain in the boat, at any rate.
When I get out I'm stiff, but not in pain. I can't stand up because my muscles are so fucking tight, but I don't hurt. So a bit of gentle walking, a few minutes with the massage pad, and a good long stretch and I'm good as gold and ready to go again.
I have noticed that as I get older my recovery time between training sessions is getting longer than it once was, but I guess that's natural. (Unless you're the immortal, unconquerable Herebe.)
So I've finally reached the point where I can get on with some serious training and really push myself as hard as I can. Thank fuck.
Friday, May 09, 2008
I may have spoke to soon maybe
or, How the Bitch Got Her Mojo Back
See, with no prospect of racing on the horizon, the training of rowing is just fucking miserable. It has few redeeming qualities.
But when there's a goal, well, that's a different story, see?
So I've hooked up with this chick from Another Cunting Rowing Club (ACRC). We've been training in the double scull.
Our first outing showed some promise. Then she got ill and I got busy and we didn't do much for a while.
Our second outing was brilliant fun, this past weekend. Pirate came down to the boathouse and went for a jog. We got in the double and did some race starts. The resident waterfowl were out with their small fuzzy offsprings, and they saw that it was good.
Monday morning, same story. Although 2 training days in a row left my back a bit stiff, we got on just fine. We're starting to think there might be some real potential here. So we're racing at the ACRC regatta on 17 May. We're entered in both Senior3 and Senior1. This race will be the litmus test; if we do well, it's full speed ahead to Women's Henley!!!
And then came Wednesday.
I can't steer for beans, let's make that abundantly clear right now. So what did I do? I crashed. Into the men's double. While we were both doing full-pressure pieces. Result: 2 bent riggers and an oar to my lower back like getting bludgeoned with a baseball bat. Ow.
Again I say unto thee: ow.*
But the weather was glorious and sunny and sultry and hot and steamy, and the fuzzness of the duckylings was exceptionally fuzzable, as were the swanlings, with the grey fluffness and the tiny peepness, and the leafness of the trees was bright and green and the sun glinted on the still Avon waters. The pieces were strong and swift and I could hear the bubbles gurgling under the bow as we sliced through the river: the boat was singing to us! Sing, boat, sing!
Yeah. I'm back.
*Great excuse to go to Argos and buy a giant heated, vibrating back massager. Tonight I will try sittin on it for variety. I expect it to be excellent.
See, with no prospect of racing on the horizon, the training of rowing is just fucking miserable. It has few redeeming qualities.
But when there's a goal, well, that's a different story, see?
So I've hooked up with this chick from Another Cunting Rowing Club (ACRC). We've been training in the double scull.
Our first outing showed some promise. Then she got ill and I got busy and we didn't do much for a while.
Our second outing was brilliant fun, this past weekend. Pirate came down to the boathouse and went for a jog. We got in the double and did some race starts. The resident waterfowl were out with their small fuzzy offsprings, and they saw that it was good.
Monday morning, same story. Although 2 training days in a row left my back a bit stiff, we got on just fine. We're starting to think there might be some real potential here. So we're racing at the ACRC regatta on 17 May. We're entered in both Senior3 and Senior1. This race will be the litmus test; if we do well, it's full speed ahead to Women's Henley!!!
And then came Wednesday.
I can't steer for beans, let's make that abundantly clear right now. So what did I do? I crashed. Into the men's double. While we were both doing full-pressure pieces. Result: 2 bent riggers and an oar to my lower back like getting bludgeoned with a baseball bat. Ow.
Again I say unto thee: ow.*
But the weather was glorious and sunny and sultry and hot and steamy, and the fuzzness of the duckylings was exceptionally fuzzable, as were the swanlings, with the grey fluffness and the tiny peepness, and the leafness of the trees was bright and green and the sun glinted on the still Avon waters. The pieces were strong and swift and I could hear the bubbles gurgling under the bow as we sliced through the river: the boat was singing to us! Sing, boat, sing!
Yeah. I'm back.
*Great excuse to go to Argos and buy a giant heated, vibrating back massager. Tonight I will try sittin on it for variety. I expect it to be excellent.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Announcement: I'm quitting rowing
(I think.)
I've had it. I've just had enough.
I work and work and work and work and get fuck all back. In the last 4 years I've been in 6 races, only 1 of those in the past 18 months. And now I have no prospect of racing this season.
I train and train, but don't get any closer to my goals, because my goals are competitions and I don't have the chance to compete. Even losing would be better. At least if I lost I would have had a fighting chance. As it is, I don't even have that much. And now there is no prospect of racing in the future.
Fuck it all.
There is still the slightest chance I may yet find a doubles partner for Women's Henley Regatta, but that is becoming slimmer by the day.
So I've told Bristol to put it where the sun don't shine, and I've joined a local club. They're friendly, and they have some nice equipment. I will pass the summer paddling around the Bristol docks in a single, and hopefully enjoy some summer sunshine, keep myself in shape, and maybe get a bit of a tan.
And come the end of the summer, September, the wedding, and all those other life changes, I will hang up the blades for good. I will not look for a rowing club in Plymouth. There is one, but it's crap, the water is crap, and there's no good competition down that way. So it would just be more the fucking same, and I can't face that.
When I get to Plymouth I will attempt something I've always wanted to do: martial arts.
I've had the chance to take karate lessons a few times over the years, and I always wanted to give it a go, but I've never had the time. I was always committed to my rowing schedule. So now I'm going to give myself the time. I'll try to find a decent karate or judo or tae kwan do studio. It will help keep me in shape, it will be new and exciting, it will be good way to work out aggression and frustration (a mental health benefit rowing has always provided me which is a key to my sanity), and I like the idea of an activity where I get to beat the crap out of people. That has a lot of appeal right now. A lot of appeal.
It's been a difficult decision. I never thought I could turn my back on something I love so much. It scares me that I'm capable of that kind of mind-shift. But it doesn't feel like i've turned my back on it, it feels more like it's turned its back on me.
But of course, as an athlete, you have it drummed in that winners never quit and quitters never win. I'm not a quitter. I'm a winner. I don't quit. Ever. I don't give up. But how is this not giving up?
Shouldn't I be more determined than ever? Shouldn't I go to Plymouth and start my own club, if that's what it takes? Shouldn't I do everything in my power to keep going?
When does that cross the line into stupidity? When do determination, commitment, and perseverance become shouting at a brick wall?
How can I quit and still face myself in the morning?
But how can I keep going, when it's ceased to be a joy and become nothing but a burden? When does it all stop being worth the constant mental and physical struggle? How can I walk away and keep my self respect?
I've had it. I've just had enough.
I work and work and work and work and get fuck all back. In the last 4 years I've been in 6 races, only 1 of those in the past 18 months. And now I have no prospect of racing this season.
I train and train, but don't get any closer to my goals, because my goals are competitions and I don't have the chance to compete. Even losing would be better. At least if I lost I would have had a fighting chance. As it is, I don't even have that much. And now there is no prospect of racing in the future.
Fuck it all.
There is still the slightest chance I may yet find a doubles partner for Women's Henley Regatta, but that is becoming slimmer by the day.
So I've told Bristol to put it where the sun don't shine, and I've joined a local club. They're friendly, and they have some nice equipment. I will pass the summer paddling around the Bristol docks in a single, and hopefully enjoy some summer sunshine, keep myself in shape, and maybe get a bit of a tan.
And come the end of the summer, September, the wedding, and all those other life changes, I will hang up the blades for good. I will not look for a rowing club in Plymouth. There is one, but it's crap, the water is crap, and there's no good competition down that way. So it would just be more the fucking same, and I can't face that.
When I get to Plymouth I will attempt something I've always wanted to do: martial arts.
I've had the chance to take karate lessons a few times over the years, and I always wanted to give it a go, but I've never had the time. I was always committed to my rowing schedule. So now I'm going to give myself the time. I'll try to find a decent karate or judo or tae kwan do studio. It will help keep me in shape, it will be new and exciting, it will be good way to work out aggression and frustration (a mental health benefit rowing has always provided me which is a key to my sanity), and I like the idea of an activity where I get to beat the crap out of people. That has a lot of appeal right now. A lot of appeal.
It's been a difficult decision. I never thought I could turn my back on something I love so much. It scares me that I'm capable of that kind of mind-shift. But it doesn't feel like i've turned my back on it, it feels more like it's turned its back on me.
But of course, as an athlete, you have it drummed in that winners never quit and quitters never win. I'm not a quitter. I'm a winner. I don't quit. Ever. I don't give up. But how is this not giving up?
Shouldn't I be more determined than ever? Shouldn't I go to Plymouth and start my own club, if that's what it takes? Shouldn't I do everything in my power to keep going?
When does that cross the line into stupidity? When do determination, commitment, and perseverance become shouting at a brick wall?
How can I quit and still face myself in the morning?
But how can I keep going, when it's ceased to be a joy and become nothing but a burden? When does it all stop being worth the constant mental and physical struggle? How can I walk away and keep my self respect?
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Allow me to clarify
I wasn't taken out of the boat because my back was acting up and they considered me a liability. My back didn't start hurting until Monday, and the Henley decision was announced on Sunday night, shortly after my coach admitted that "the quad is going more quickly than I expected."
The decision to put a coxed 4 in Henley rather than a quad had nothing to do with my condition. It was based on the fact that in the coxed 4 category there is an "Intermediate Division," whereas with the quad sculls the lowest division you can enter is "Elite." Coach wanted to put our boat against the softest available competition. That was the ONLY reason, never mind that it just happened to fuck over one of the longest-serving and hardest-training (by his own admission) members of the squad.
And as for my back, it gave me problems purely because training camp is an extra-intense training environment. I hadn't been on the water in a few few weeks (because the university was on spring break), and though i'd been doing a lot of land training (cycling, hill sprints, etc.), my back objected to going from no rowing to rowing 3x a day overnight with no buildup. I predicted that would happen, and so was not surprised. I was surprised by the cascade of other problems it created.
After I got back from camp I went to see my chiropractor ("Miracle Mike"), who massaged out my hip flexor properly, put things back where they belong, and within minutes I was fine. The next day I was back to fighting fit. So I'm fine, it was just a case of over-doing things a bit, and I'm back to training. But not back in the boat, of course.
I'm currently in the process of looking for a partner to double with me at Henley. Tonight I'm going on the water with a woman from a neighboring boat club who is also looking for a doubles partner. We'll see how it goes.
The Bristol Uni boat club may have effectively thrown me off their team, but I am determined to make that THEIR loss, not mine. Bristol uni can go to hell.
The decision to put a coxed 4 in Henley rather than a quad had nothing to do with my condition. It was based on the fact that in the coxed 4 category there is an "Intermediate Division," whereas with the quad sculls the lowest division you can enter is "Elite." Coach wanted to put our boat against the softest available competition. That was the ONLY reason, never mind that it just happened to fuck over one of the longest-serving and hardest-training (by his own admission) members of the squad.
And as for my back, it gave me problems purely because training camp is an extra-intense training environment. I hadn't been on the water in a few few weeks (because the university was on spring break), and though i'd been doing a lot of land training (cycling, hill sprints, etc.), my back objected to going from no rowing to rowing 3x a day overnight with no buildup. I predicted that would happen, and so was not surprised. I was surprised by the cascade of other problems it created.
After I got back from camp I went to see my chiropractor ("Miracle Mike"), who massaged out my hip flexor properly, put things back where they belong, and within minutes I was fine. The next day I was back to fighting fit. So I'm fine, it was just a case of over-doing things a bit, and I'm back to training. But not back in the boat, of course.
I'm currently in the process of looking for a partner to double with me at Henley. Tonight I'm going on the water with a woman from a neighboring boat club who is also looking for a doubles partner. We'll see how it goes.
The Bristol Uni boat club may have effectively thrown me off their team, but I am determined to make that THEIR loss, not mine. Bristol uni can go to hell.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Back early
If the point of training camp is to experience pain in places you didn't know you had places, then this one was a cracking great success. On every other level, it must be said, it was a pathetic and agonizing failure.
It started out well enough. On Sunday I took my single out in the morning and racked up 16k before either the double or the coxless 4 managed the same distance. I felt good. In the afternoon I went out with the quad scull. God it felt great to go fast again! My back was pretty stiff, but I still managed a good outing with some race starts. By the end of it, though, my back had gone into complete spasm and I couldn't move. Coach O had to carry the boat for me.
That night it was announced that the top crew boat the club would be racing would be a coxed 4. That would be the Henley crew. This is fine, except I can't row in a coxed 4. A coxed 4 ("4+") is a sweep-rowed boat, not a scull. And because of my back problems, I will probably never sweep again. I am now, and for the rest of my life, a sculler. So what it boiled down to is I had just been thrown out of the Henley crew in my final year at Bristol and my last ever year to row competitively at Henley. "Heartbroken" doesn't begin to describe it. I was devastated. I sat in my room alone all night and cried.
Monday morning I was still crying, and had a chat with O. He understood how felt, but had to make decisions that were best for the team, and he thought the team stood the best chance of winning in a 4+ (never mind the fact that we don't actually have a coxwain, that's just an insignificant detail!), and it was a shame that a, I had been left out of it and b, that I train the hardest out of anyone on the crew. He promised me that if I could find a doubling partner from another club that he would do everything he could to help us with training and drive us and our boat to practice regattas. I personally am of the opinion that it's absolutely SHIT that
a, I have been with Bristol for 3 years and now, at the end of my career, i have been effectively abandoned by my squad. There is no more racing for me with Bristol.
b, participation is not a factor in selecting crews. When I was an undergrad it would have been inconceivable that someone who spent 3 years on the squad and did all the training would be denied even a chance in competition.
c, apparently all the hard work and painful physical therapy I've put myself through since I ruptured my disk back in November of 2006 has been for JACK. SHIT. All that effort, and here at the end I get NOT. A. FUCKING. THING. The only thing I got was screwed.
After having this out with O (who is, goddamnit, a really nice guy and yelling at him is like kicking a puppy; i just can't do it), I was still a bit stiff, but took my single out again. I could only do short distances and had to come back to the pontoon frequently to stretch. I tried to do some short pieces to burn off the aggression, but only succeeded in pulling my left hip flexor. By Monday evening I was not only discouraged, I was in serious pain. Sitting in a chair, I was unable to raise my left knee off the floor. I could not walk up stairs. Another night passed crying alone in my room.
Tuesday morning I was somewhat better for a bit of rest, but I was still stiff and sore. I tried going out in the single, and actually went in circles. I had lost at least 30% power in my left leg, maybe more. The strength just wasn't there.
(Now, you have to understand my relationship with my legs. They are huge. They are like tree trunks. They are not attractive, but damnit, they work. They work hard, and they have never, ever let me down. They take everything I throw at them, and they give as good as they get. They are the one bit of my body that I can absolutely, unequivocally depend upon. To be betrayed by one's own body in the pursuit of one's dream is traumatic at best. To be betrayed by my legs is like, well, imagine if Pirate left me and married my sister. That kind of betrayal. I have never been so angry at my own body. It's difficult to know what to do with that kind of anger.)
After 2k of trying to compensate by sculling primarily with my right leg, I had a massive knot in my right lumbar spine, at the top of my glut. I came back in and rang my chiropractor, Miracle Mike. He said he could fit me in Thursday morning.
I announced to the rest of the crew that I was leaving camp early, quitting the Bristol boat club, and they could all please go fuck themselves. With a pineapple. Sideways.
The End.
It started out well enough. On Sunday I took my single out in the morning and racked up 16k before either the double or the coxless 4 managed the same distance. I felt good. In the afternoon I went out with the quad scull. God it felt great to go fast again! My back was pretty stiff, but I still managed a good outing with some race starts. By the end of it, though, my back had gone into complete spasm and I couldn't move. Coach O had to carry the boat for me.
That night it was announced that the top crew boat the club would be racing would be a coxed 4. That would be the Henley crew. This is fine, except I can't row in a coxed 4. A coxed 4 ("4+") is a sweep-rowed boat, not a scull. And because of my back problems, I will probably never sweep again. I am now, and for the rest of my life, a sculler. So what it boiled down to is I had just been thrown out of the Henley crew in my final year at Bristol and my last ever year to row competitively at Henley. "Heartbroken" doesn't begin to describe it. I was devastated. I sat in my room alone all night and cried.
Monday morning I was still crying, and had a chat with O. He understood how felt, but had to make decisions that were best for the team, and he thought the team stood the best chance of winning in a 4+ (never mind the fact that we don't actually have a coxwain, that's just an insignificant detail!), and it was a shame that a, I had been left out of it and b, that I train the hardest out of anyone on the crew. He promised me that if I could find a doubling partner from another club that he would do everything he could to help us with training and drive us and our boat to practice regattas. I personally am of the opinion that it's absolutely SHIT that
a, I have been with Bristol for 3 years and now, at the end of my career, i have been effectively abandoned by my squad. There is no more racing for me with Bristol.
b, participation is not a factor in selecting crews. When I was an undergrad it would have been inconceivable that someone who spent 3 years on the squad and did all the training would be denied even a chance in competition.
c, apparently all the hard work and painful physical therapy I've put myself through since I ruptured my disk back in November of 2006 has been for JACK. SHIT. All that effort, and here at the end I get NOT. A. FUCKING. THING. The only thing I got was screwed.
After having this out with O (who is, goddamnit, a really nice guy and yelling at him is like kicking a puppy; i just can't do it), I was still a bit stiff, but took my single out again. I could only do short distances and had to come back to the pontoon frequently to stretch. I tried to do some short pieces to burn off the aggression, but only succeeded in pulling my left hip flexor. By Monday evening I was not only discouraged, I was in serious pain. Sitting in a chair, I was unable to raise my left knee off the floor. I could not walk up stairs. Another night passed crying alone in my room.
Tuesday morning I was somewhat better for a bit of rest, but I was still stiff and sore. I tried going out in the single, and actually went in circles. I had lost at least 30% power in my left leg, maybe more. The strength just wasn't there.
(Now, you have to understand my relationship with my legs. They are huge. They are like tree trunks. They are not attractive, but damnit, they work. They work hard, and they have never, ever let me down. They take everything I throw at them, and they give as good as they get. They are the one bit of my body that I can absolutely, unequivocally depend upon. To be betrayed by one's own body in the pursuit of one's dream is traumatic at best. To be betrayed by my legs is like, well, imagine if Pirate left me and married my sister. That kind of betrayal. I have never been so angry at my own body. It's difficult to know what to do with that kind of anger.)
After 2k of trying to compensate by sculling primarily with my right leg, I had a massive knot in my right lumbar spine, at the top of my glut. I came back in and rang my chiropractor, Miracle Mike. He said he could fit me in Thursday morning.
I announced to the rest of the crew that I was leaving camp early, quitting the Bristol boat club, and they could all please go fuck themselves. With a pineapple. Sideways.
The End.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Off to camp
to bust my balls* for a week, rowing 3 times a day in 50 degree rain. Arse. I will be back late next Thursday night, and I will be working all next Friday, and Pirate will be coming over Friday evening, and we won't have seen each other for 2 weeks at that point, so unless I have internet access at camp, I won't be posting again until Saturday April 19. See you then!
*and if you think for a second that i don't possess balls, you're obviously new to this blog.
*and if you think for a second that i don't possess balls, you're obviously new to this blog.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Here I am!
I know I need to work on my finishes. They're not strong enough and my recovery is crap (I'm starting up the slide slowly and accelerating toward the catch. That should be the other way around.) Also I'm not squaring up my blades soon enough. That said, it's not too shabby.
Monday, December 17, 2007
zero degrees
Did you notice how warm it wasn't this weekend? I cycled to training and back on both saturday and sunday. Saturday was OK. I got to the boathouse, got out the scull, did my 12k, and got home just as the Pirate was waking up. It did take him a solid 15 minutes of massaging my ass to warm it up and bring it back to life, but overall I felt fine. (Alright, fine; after a 15-minute ass massage i was a lot better than "fine." But i did genuinely need it -- my ass was ice to the touch!)
Sunday was a different story. The smashed potatoes I had for breakfast didn't last me the day, and I committed the dual fatal errors of A) underestimating how many calories my body would use up just keeping warm, and B) forgot to pack extra food.
After 9k of hard work (no paddling about, me) I was ravenous, and I knew I had a long, hard bike ride to get home. Oh, and fatal error 3: no cell phone to call for a rescue! So i hauled off the water early and got on Ye Olde Velocipede and headed back to the Pirate's: 15 miles and most of it uphill, including a 2-mile constant uphill stretch. (And keep in mind it was only 1 degree out.)
By the time I got to the bottom of the A4 and I had 3 possible routes. Normally I take the most safe route, traffic-wise, but that also happens to be both the longest and most difficult. It includes extra hills and a super-long climb that is hell, but the road surface is in much better repair, there are no lorries, it's straighter so what few cars there are go well around me, and the scenery is spectacular in places.
Normally when I reach the point at which I decide on a route I think, "Which way is safest?" Sunday when I left the boathouse I thought, "Which way is easiest?"
By the time I reached the place where I had to make a decision I was so cold and weak I asked myself, "Which way is the best for walking?"
I got off and began pushing my bike up the long hill. At least the sun was shining. But I was trudging. My back hurt so much I was crying and trying to dodge traffic through the tears.** For miles and miles I walked. No, I'm not exaggerating. I walked the last 4 miles.
When I finally reached the topmost bit of the hill and the plateau where the Pirate resides, I tried to get back on the bike to ride the remaining few hundred meters. I swung my right leg up and only succeeded in kicking the rack and knocking the bike over. Brittley I bent over and picked the bike up and tried again, with all my effort. I got my leg up higher, but the movement destabilized me, and without the strenght to control my balance, I fell over.
Yes, I fell over trying to get back on my bike. I was that fatigued. I had been in the cold, freezing temps for 5 hours at that point, and I was done.
I stumbled through the door, and collapsed on the couch. Pirate, in his usual cheerful manner, asked how was training? *perky perky perky* "I'm proper fucked," I feebly explained. Within minutes I was covered in blankets and eating a giant bowl of banana slices in hot custard. Mmm! Goopy, simple sugars! Just the thing. Sadly, the hot water heater in the house wasn't working, so the hot bath I so desperately needed was not on the menu. No problem! Pirate packed me a bag, bundled me into the car, and drove me to his gym, where the showers are awesome.
If that ain't lurve, ladies, gents, dogs, and other collar-wearers, then I durn't know what is.
**I couldn't figure out at the time why my back was in so much pain, but in retrospect I think it was that the muscles that normally support my spine and compensate for the fucked disk were so exhausted that they weren't doing their job, and the disk was compressing without my muscles to help hold everything up.
Sunday was a different story. The smashed potatoes I had for breakfast didn't last me the day, and I committed the dual fatal errors of A) underestimating how many calories my body would use up just keeping warm, and B) forgot to pack extra food.
After 9k of hard work (no paddling about, me) I was ravenous, and I knew I had a long, hard bike ride to get home. Oh, and fatal error 3: no cell phone to call for a rescue! So i hauled off the water early and got on Ye Olde Velocipede and headed back to the Pirate's: 15 miles and most of it uphill, including a 2-mile constant uphill stretch. (And keep in mind it was only 1 degree out.)
By the time I got to the bottom of the A4 and I had 3 possible routes. Normally I take the most safe route, traffic-wise, but that also happens to be both the longest and most difficult. It includes extra hills and a super-long climb that is hell, but the road surface is in much better repair, there are no lorries, it's straighter so what few cars there are go well around me, and the scenery is spectacular in places.
Normally when I reach the point at which I decide on a route I think, "Which way is safest?" Sunday when I left the boathouse I thought, "Which way is easiest?"
By the time I reached the place where I had to make a decision I was so cold and weak I asked myself, "Which way is the best for walking?"
I got off and began pushing my bike up the long hill. At least the sun was shining. But I was trudging. My back hurt so much I was crying and trying to dodge traffic through the tears.** For miles and miles I walked. No, I'm not exaggerating. I walked the last 4 miles.
When I finally reached the topmost bit of the hill and the plateau where the Pirate resides, I tried to get back on the bike to ride the remaining few hundred meters. I swung my right leg up and only succeeded in kicking the rack and knocking the bike over. Brittley I bent over and picked the bike up and tried again, with all my effort. I got my leg up higher, but the movement destabilized me, and without the strenght to control my balance, I fell over.
Yes, I fell over trying to get back on my bike. I was that fatigued. I had been in the cold, freezing temps for 5 hours at that point, and I was done.
I stumbled through the door, and collapsed on the couch. Pirate, in his usual cheerful manner, asked how was training? *perky perky perky* "I'm proper fucked," I feebly explained. Within minutes I was covered in blankets and eating a giant bowl of banana slices in hot custard. Mmm! Goopy, simple sugars! Just the thing. Sadly, the hot water heater in the house wasn't working, so the hot bath I so desperately needed was not on the menu. No problem! Pirate packed me a bag, bundled me into the car, and drove me to his gym, where the showers are awesome.
If that ain't lurve, ladies, gents, dogs, and other collar-wearers, then I durn't know what is.
**I couldn't figure out at the time why my back was in so much pain, but in retrospect I think it was that the muscles that normally support my spine and compensate for the fucked disk were so exhausted that they weren't doing their job, and the disk was compressing without my muscles to help hold everything up.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Weekend musings, part II
Saturday
Saturday was the UBBC Head, a head race on the Avon river sponsored and organized by the Bristol U boat club.
It was also my first competition since Fours Head last november when I ruptured a disk in my spine. Almost a year to the day, and I was finally competing again.
Neither my coach nor captain wanted me to do the race. They didn't feel I was ready. I felt that ready or not, if I didn't at least give it a go I would explode with frustration. I finally went over my coach's head to Head Coach Big G, who told my own coach that I could do as I bloody pleased and if I wanted to race it was his job to make sure I was entered. Big G is mostly a giant prick, but when push comes to shove he does get your back.
The compromise was that I would compete in a single scull. I much prefer crew boats, but we all know that if I'm in a crew boat and my back starts to crumble i will actually kill myself before I stop rowing. The First Commandment of Rowing is: Thou shalt not let they team mates down. In a single, though, if it all went tits up I would allow myself to stop and be rescued without the worry of ruining someone else's race. So a single it was.
There were only two of us in the W Champ 1x division: myslef and my team mate, C. Pirate was there to lend support (translation: abuse hurled at me from the last bridge) and rescue me if need be. The weather wasn't great, but far better than it could have been. It stopped drizzling just before we arrived and didn't start up again until after everything was over. The temperature was barely above freezing, but there was no wind at all, so I didn't get too cold up at the start marshalling.
I was the very last boat of the day, which sucked. I didn't have anyone baring down on my stern to push off of, which is too bad. It's a big psychological boost when you are out-running someone. Being last also meant that by the time I came heaving by nearly all the spectators were gone, so there was no one left cheering except the Pirate and my coach. Otherwise the banks were silent. It reminded me vaguely of a description I once wrote about the last woman in the Athens Olympic marathon, but only when I thought about it later. At the time, I coudn't hear the silence over the sound of my own breathing and my blades popping in and out of the water.
I did finish, and finished strongly, but not quickly. I was under-rating. I didn't have a stroke-coach on board, and I was shooting for a rate of about 25-26. (Not ambitious, I know, espeically for a 3.5k head, but remember I haven't done this for a year, I'd done hardly any training in the last 3 weeks owing to my cold/flu things, and before that, I had been unable to do any difficult training pieces without suffering serious consequences. Hence the reason my coach didn't want me out there at all.) Basically, my goals were to scull a strong, steady rhythm, keep the power on but not kill myself, take good line down the windy bits of the course, and cross the finish line withoug a career-ending injury.
Actually that's complete and total bullshit. Who are we kidding here? My goal was to fucking WIN. End of. All that crap I just said was what my goal should have been, and if it had been, I might be a lot happier today, having achieved all of the above. But no. My goal was a very unrealistic gold medal. But who gives a shit about realism? goals aren't meant to be realistic, they're meant to be hard. And there's no fucking point in racing if you're not in it to win.
Hence the reason I was so crushed to have had the slowest time of the day. Bah. Sheer stubbornness should be able to overcome circumstance; that's what it's for. Next time, damnit, next time. And tonight I have a 5k erg test to murder.
Saturday was the UBBC Head, a head race on the Avon river sponsored and organized by the Bristol U boat club.
It was also my first competition since Fours Head last november when I ruptured a disk in my spine. Almost a year to the day, and I was finally competing again.
Neither my coach nor captain wanted me to do the race. They didn't feel I was ready. I felt that ready or not, if I didn't at least give it a go I would explode with frustration. I finally went over my coach's head to Head Coach Big G, who told my own coach that I could do as I bloody pleased and if I wanted to race it was his job to make sure I was entered. Big G is mostly a giant prick, but when push comes to shove he does get your back.
The compromise was that I would compete in a single scull. I much prefer crew boats, but we all know that if I'm in a crew boat and my back starts to crumble i will actually kill myself before I stop rowing. The First Commandment of Rowing is: Thou shalt not let they team mates down. In a single, though, if it all went tits up I would allow myself to stop and be rescued without the worry of ruining someone else's race. So a single it was.
There were only two of us in the W Champ 1x division: myslef and my team mate, C. Pirate was there to lend support (translation: abuse hurled at me from the last bridge) and rescue me if need be. The weather wasn't great, but far better than it could have been. It stopped drizzling just before we arrived and didn't start up again until after everything was over. The temperature was barely above freezing, but there was no wind at all, so I didn't get too cold up at the start marshalling.
I was the very last boat of the day, which sucked. I didn't have anyone baring down on my stern to push off of, which is too bad. It's a big psychological boost when you are out-running someone. Being last also meant that by the time I came heaving by nearly all the spectators were gone, so there was no one left cheering except the Pirate and my coach. Otherwise the banks were silent. It reminded me vaguely of a description I once wrote about the last woman in the Athens Olympic marathon, but only when I thought about it later. At the time, I coudn't hear the silence over the sound of my own breathing and my blades popping in and out of the water.
I did finish, and finished strongly, but not quickly. I was under-rating. I didn't have a stroke-coach on board, and I was shooting for a rate of about 25-26. (Not ambitious, I know, espeically for a 3.5k head, but remember I haven't done this for a year, I'd done hardly any training in the last 3 weeks owing to my cold/flu things, and before that, I had been unable to do any difficult training pieces without suffering serious consequences. Hence the reason my coach didn't want me out there at all.) Basically, my goals were to scull a strong, steady rhythm, keep the power on but not kill myself, take good line down the windy bits of the course, and cross the finish line withoug a career-ending injury.
Actually that's complete and total bullshit. Who are we kidding here? My goal was to fucking WIN. End of. All that crap I just said was what my goal should have been, and if it had been, I might be a lot happier today, having achieved all of the above. But no. My goal was a very unrealistic gold medal. But who gives a shit about realism? goals aren't meant to be realistic, they're meant to be hard. And there's no fucking point in racing if you're not in it to win.
Hence the reason I was so crushed to have had the slowest time of the day. Bah. Sheer stubbornness should be able to overcome circumstance; that's what it's for. Next time, damnit, next time. And tonight I have a 5k erg test to murder.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Halloween
The day began well enough with a light boxing session. I like waking up in the morning and beating the crap out of people. What a great way to start your day. Sooooo much better than coffee!
Then on to rowing: I got soft and got a lift to the boathouse instead of cycling the 11 miles each way like I usually do, and had a light outing in a scull. Only did about 9k owing to recovering from Sunday's disasterous back pain, but on the final leg i hollered to my team mate "Oi! Wanna race back to the pontoon?!" So we did. It was only about 700m, but I kicked her ass and that felt good.
Concluded the day here, with Pirate and good friend, Welsh Cake. I don't think Pirate enjoyed himself very much -- not really his thing apparently -- but the Cake and I had a good time. And hey, there was free ginger cake. What's not to love? So no candy, no dressing up, and no trick-or-treating, but ghost stories by candlelight in a medieval crypt (with ginger cake). Not a bad trade-off, really.
How was your Halloween?
Then on to rowing: I got soft and got a lift to the boathouse instead of cycling the 11 miles each way like I usually do, and had a light outing in a scull. Only did about 9k owing to recovering from Sunday's disasterous back pain, but on the final leg i hollered to my team mate "Oi! Wanna race back to the pontoon?!" So we did. It was only about 700m, but I kicked her ass and that felt good.
Concluded the day here, with Pirate and good friend, Welsh Cake. I don't think Pirate enjoyed himself very much -- not really his thing apparently -- but the Cake and I had a good time. And hey, there was free ginger cake. What's not to love? So no candy, no dressing up, and no trick-or-treating, but ghost stories by candlelight in a medieval crypt (with ginger cake). Not a bad trade-off, really.
How was your Halloween?
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Total Hydraulic Failure
Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow.
Ow.
OMG the pain. I started training in earnest again this week for rowing. I am officially back in action. YAY!!! After a summer of core stability exercises, pilates, and cycling 50-100 miles a week to visit the Pirate, my heart and legs are in pretty good shape but the rest of me needs serious work.
It began Monday morning with boxing. I love boxing. But I'd forgotten how much you use your abs, lats, and lower back to stabilize yourself while you're punching away. Ow the first.
Tuesday was 3x15 mins on the erg, r18-20, best split we could pull and record the meters at the end. This is not a significantly strenuous workout. As erg workouts go it's maybe half as hard as what we would consider a really really really good workout, but by the third set I was in splinters. Ow the second.
Wednesday morning was more boxing. (Notice that up to this point it's only been one training session a day. That's light. Normally we do two. This is to ease us back.) Whee!
Wednesday afternoon was a water training session. I cycled to the boathouse (50 min reasonably quick ride), did 12k on the water in a double scull at UT2, and cycled home again. (That's a total of 4 hours of exercise in one day, amigos.) When I left for the boathouse on the glorious, sunny, amber autumn afternoon that was yesterday the pain of boxing still hadn't caught up to me yet. It's a bit like drinking beer before liquer; the absorbtion rates are different and it all hits you at the same time. You know how you feel when you drink a few pints of lager and then move on to the tequila? Yeah, that kind of trainwreck. Ow the third.
By the time I got home I couldn't bend over. Not because I was so stiff, but because the muscles in my lower back were so fatiuged and exhausted that if I started to bend to, say, pick up a cup from the coffee table, I coudn't stop myself mid-bend and I just went all the way down to the floor. And then found myself unable to stand up straight again without using my arms to "walk" up a wall or piece of furniture. Pirate described it as "total hydraulic failure," and that's exactly what it was. By the third time it happened he was doing "robot death" sound-effects -- you know the kind.
I decided I should probably take today off.
In preparation for the 2k erg test I have to do tomorrow evening. Stay tuned for "Ow the Fourth."
Ow.
OMG the pain. I started training in earnest again this week for rowing. I am officially back in action. YAY!!! After a summer of core stability exercises, pilates, and cycling 50-100 miles a week to visit the Pirate, my heart and legs are in pretty good shape but the rest of me needs serious work.
It began Monday morning with boxing. I love boxing. But I'd forgotten how much you use your abs, lats, and lower back to stabilize yourself while you're punching away. Ow the first.
Tuesday was 3x15 mins on the erg, r18-20, best split we could pull and record the meters at the end. This is not a significantly strenuous workout. As erg workouts go it's maybe half as hard as what we would consider a really really really good workout, but by the third set I was in splinters. Ow the second.
Wednesday morning was more boxing. (Notice that up to this point it's only been one training session a day. That's light. Normally we do two. This is to ease us back.) Whee!
Wednesday afternoon was a water training session. I cycled to the boathouse (50 min reasonably quick ride), did 12k on the water in a double scull at UT2, and cycled home again. (That's a total of 4 hours of exercise in one day, amigos.) When I left for the boathouse on the glorious, sunny, amber autumn afternoon that was yesterday the pain of boxing still hadn't caught up to me yet. It's a bit like drinking beer before liquer; the absorbtion rates are different and it all hits you at the same time. You know how you feel when you drink a few pints of lager and then move on to the tequila? Yeah, that kind of trainwreck. Ow the third.
By the time I got home I couldn't bend over. Not because I was so stiff, but because the muscles in my lower back were so fatiuged and exhausted that if I started to bend to, say, pick up a cup from the coffee table, I coudn't stop myself mid-bend and I just went all the way down to the floor. And then found myself unable to stand up straight again without using my arms to "walk" up a wall or piece of furniture. Pirate described it as "total hydraulic failure," and that's exactly what it was. By the third time it happened he was doing "robot death" sound-effects -- you know the kind.
I decided I should probably take today off.
In preparation for the 2k erg test I have to do tomorrow evening. Stay tuned for "Ow the Fourth."
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Driving Miss Crazy
Spent the weekend (as normal) in the charming company of the Pirate, who graciously agreed to give up cricket for 2 days so we could hang out in Henley-on-Thames and watch/cheer for the biggest regatta for women in rowing. Bristol entered an 8, a 4, and 3 single scullers. Alas, the 8 and the 4 got knocked out on Friday in the qualifying event, so by the time we got there Saturday at 11 am they had all gone home and were not to be seen. The first of our scullers was eliminated Saturday a.m. as well, so missed seeing her. The next two scullers were eliminated at noon and 1 pm, respectively. And thus it was all over for Bristol. Not one of our women's crews won a single heat. Bah.
So a big disappointment there, but we had a lovely picnic by the riverside (Pirate even surprised me by buying me a whole bottole of Pimms just for me!!! (pretty generous for a tea-totaller -- i guess he really isn't upset about the whole drunken vomitting episode)) with sandwiches and strawberries and pineapple and lovely things to eat. AND we managed to avoid getting rained on all day. So not a total loss. The mud was of Glastonbury proportions, which bothered us not as we had donned appropriate footwear (wellies for me and combat boots for him), but we had great fun laughing at the women in sundresses and cute little high-heeled shoes with bows on them. (Shadenfreude!) Oh, and I bumped into some old team mates from Manchester, which in itself made the day worthwhile. For me, anyway.
With no one from Bristol competing on sunday, and with the P having cancelled his cricket match, there was no need to stay overnight in the B&B we had booked in Maidenhead, so we came home and went back to the Pirate's house for the night.
Sunday was a long, long, loooooong lie-in (crawled out of bed at noon), but we both really needed the sleep.
And then we had the whole day to do whatever we pleased.
This happens so rarely we really didn't know what to do with ourselves. There were no household chores to be done, no projects to be completed...
but I've been asking P for a while to re-teach me how to drive a manual transmission.
Oh Dawkins. What was I thinking???
He was happy to teach me, and so we hopped in the car backwards from our usual seating arrangment. He threw me the keys. I buckled up and turned the ignition.
Let me begin by stating that I havn't driven a manual transmission in 11 years, and then it was only for about a month, to school and back, a trip of roughly 3 miles and speed limit of 40. And I never got all that comfortable with it.
So you can imagine how pleased I was that I pulled out of the driveway very smoothly, with no difficulty switching between the clutch and the accelerator.
It was all downhill from there.
High points include:
- running over a curb with the left front tire because i was afraid of on-coming traffic (fucking narrow british roads) and hugged the left shoulder too closely
- sitting through a light through 5 cycles because every time i tried to pull away i stalled and i only had time to make one attempt with each green light. the person stuck behind me was amazingly patient and never honked once. thank you, whoever you are.
- not being able to find the gear I wanted half the time, and not remembering what gear I was in the other half.
- a hill start. between the three pedals, steering wheel, gear lever, and hand brake, that SIX items to coordinate. For fuck's sake, i've only got 4 limbs!!! That was the moment I decided manual transmissions should simply be illegal. They are dangerous and unnecessary and a hazard and I hate them i hate them i hate them i hate them i hate them.
- being told that everything I was taught by an instructor in driving lessons in America is actually wrong and illegal here and will cause me to fail my driving test so i have to unlearn and re-learn everything i have ever been taught about driving. Aaaaaargh!
After 30 minutes we went home, me in tears and Pirate white-knuckled in the passenger's seat. He said, "I could see you getting more and more frustrated, and I didn't think you could take much more of that."
"I don't think you could take much more of that!" I spat back, spraying snot and tears all over his shirt.
He was a reasonably patient teacher, but I think he would have been much better had it not been his gear-box that I was grinding.
Now, I am a reasonably intelligent person. (Exhibit A: PhD)
I have good large motor skills. (Exhibit B: butt-kicking rower)
I have good fine motor skills. (Exhibit C: I type 80 words a mintue w/o looking at the keyboard)
And I am a good driver. (Exhibit D: I have been driving for 12 years and I have a near-perfect record (one speeding ticket). I even worked as a professional truck driver in downtown Boston, Massachusetts (famous for being the WORST city in the USA to drive in) and never once had an accident or collision. I can park anything anywhere.)
I thought this would add up to me being able to master a stick shift without over much difficulty. Far dumber people than I can drive the blasted things, after all. Surely it can't be that hard!
Man, did my ego take a blow. I have never felt so incompetant in my life. I was absolutely humiliated. That was the worst of it. I was still crying 30 minutes after we got out of the car. When Pirate asked me what was wrong I was forced to confess, "It's just that I'm used to being perfect!" It was only half an exaggeration. I've never encountered anything before (with the notable exception of organic chemistry) that I was unable to do. I felt stupid and frustrated and angry with myself and my own inability to learn what ought to have been a simple task.
"What do you want to do now?" asked the P, hugging me.
"Something I'm good at!" I muffled into his shoulder.
90 minutes later when we got out of bed we decided to take a long walk in the woods and enjoy the cool, green, dampness of the forest. we made note of where the blackberry patches were blooming the most prolifically (with the intention of going back for the berries in 6 weeks' time). and P made some more very suggestive (but non-committal) statements about our future, including our (future) garden and (future) children.
One-year anniversary is coming up in a couple weeks. We'll be celebrating with a repeat of the ball that was our first date, and I'll be in the smashing new black gown he had made for me for my birthday last winter. Stay tuned for details!
Thursday, March 22, 2007
How CB got her groove back
Yesterday was a big day. I went sculling.
Not just some little 15 minute, pissing-about piece of entertainment. Proper sculling. (Well, almost.) I did a 9 k piece on the Avon, and it was glorious.
After I hurt my back I rested for a while, but not nearly long enough. I went to training camp (waste of friggin mulah), and was only able to scull for 10-20 minutes, and with no pressure, and I was in pain anyway.
So I went back to resting, and continuted to do a lot of cycling and cardio stuff in the gym to keep my heart and legs strong and in good condition for the great, long-anticipated moment when i would Return like a bad Hollywood sequel.
That Moment, fellow bloggers and bloggettes (bloggettes? sounds like cheap french bread) has arrived. Rather than the sloppy, floppy, wet-noodle, fucking ineffective sculling I did in Spain (on training camp), yesterday was light, but controlled. I thought about suspending my weight, the position of my back, the pressure of the blades on my fingers. I thought about the tapdown and clean extractions, soft entrances, felt the blades engage. I feathered in my fingers, like rolling pastry dough. I thought about all the things I'd been taught, and I didn't get lazy. I squared up early, and the boat ran beneath me. Beneath me and the yellow sun ran the boat on the river, the river that was filled with placid ducks and blue silence.
It's good to be back.
Not just some little 15 minute, pissing-about piece of entertainment. Proper sculling. (Well, almost.) I did a 9 k piece on the Avon, and it was glorious.
After I hurt my back I rested for a while, but not nearly long enough. I went to training camp (waste of friggin mulah), and was only able to scull for 10-20 minutes, and with no pressure, and I was in pain anyway.
So I went back to resting, and continuted to do a lot of cycling and cardio stuff in the gym to keep my heart and legs strong and in good condition for the great, long-anticipated moment when i would Return like a bad Hollywood sequel.
That Moment, fellow bloggers and bloggettes (bloggettes? sounds like cheap french bread) has arrived. Rather than the sloppy, floppy, wet-noodle, fucking ineffective sculling I did in Spain (on training camp), yesterday was light, but controlled. I thought about suspending my weight, the position of my back, the pressure of the blades on my fingers. I thought about the tapdown and clean extractions, soft entrances, felt the blades engage. I feathered in my fingers, like rolling pastry dough. I thought about all the things I'd been taught, and I didn't get lazy. I squared up early, and the boat ran beneath me. Beneath me and the yellow sun ran the boat on the river, the river that was filled with placid ducks and blue silence.
It's good to be back.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Egad! It's been a while...
Sorry for the radio silence, peeps. I got kinda busy there for a few days. By way of apology I'm going to post a photo of Bluto in all his furry, seed-munching glory. I love how my moblie phone and hairbrush completely dwarf him in this pic. Heehee.
In the news:
The Pirate is now in India, spending 2 weeks living in 5-star hotels and playing cricket. Lucky bastard. So I'm back to being lonely and blathering on about the P to anyone who will listen, but I must confess I'm getting loads done now that I have my weekends back.
So that's what's going on. Given the current state of the world, expect some more political diatribes in the near future.
In the news:
- On Wednesday the Pirate came over for dinner. I fixed a nice meal, NOT because of VD, but because a, I hadn't done it in a while; b, he gave a very successful presentation at the office on Monday and I wanted to recognize that (a grand poombah slapped him on the back afterword and said, "That was bloody good, Pirate, bloody good indeed!); c, I had just bought the new Jamie Oliver cookbook (yes, I adore him. sue me.); and d, he was scheduled to leave for India on Friday and I knew we wouldn't see each other for a few weeks. It was a lovely evening, as are all evenings with my Pirate.
- Since the Pirate wasn't going into the office on Friday (he was packing and leaving for India), I told him that if he wanted he could come over thursday evening and stay the night and have one last shag before setting off for the subcontinent. He had a lot to do before he left and said he probably wouldn't have time. "No worries," said I. Then on Thursday I'm sitting and listening to a paper about indexing marginalia on all British-produced manuscripts from 1375-1509 when i get a text: "See you in an hour." Guess who couldn't get on a plane without his farewell shag? I had already agreed to go to the boatclub Valentine dinner, so I phoned the hostess and asked if I could drag the P along. "No worries," she said. So we went and had fajitas with the boat club, and then had our farewell shag. So thursday was good.
- Then I was at a 2-day conference on Medieval studies on Fri and Sat. I didn't give a paper, but I hosted a couple sessions, and had a really good time. It was a small conference and everyone was very chummy. On Friday I got a free meal at an Italian restaurant out of the deal, so even better.
- Sunday (and this is the good bit), I cycled down the boathouse with R, who also has a buggered back, and we took the double scull out for a light paddle. R and I move really well together, and we get along well as friends, so she is my favourite co-paddler. We did 6 k (which sounds like nothing but is huge progress for both of us), and had a really nice time. And guess what? No back pain! So I'm going to beging slowly reintegrating myself back into the club when work and time permit. Whee!
- Sunday afternoon (and Friday morning) I spent making huge strides in my research, as Flatmate B is teaching me how to write software programs in Basic that I can use to do computer-aided linguistic analysis of medieval texts. We've written a couple programs together, and I'm getting more comfortable with some of the concepts. After I get the hang of this it will increase the quality and scale of my research by orders of magnitude. For the first time in months I feel really really good about my work and where it's going. (And yes, Sal, after I get the hang of Basic I am going to move on to Python. We're already hitting the limits of what Basic can do.)
The Pirate is now in India, spending 2 weeks living in 5-star hotels and playing cricket. Lucky bastard. So I'm back to being lonely and blathering on about the P to anyone who will listen, but I must confess I'm getting loads done now that I have my weekends back.
So that's what's going on. Given the current state of the world, expect some more political diatribes in the near future.
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