7th February. The Cone Police.

"They cones belong tae the site!" says a council worker in a Hi-Vis jacket all accusatory.

"I seen you takin' it, what were yer daein' wi' it like?"

I offer up a feeble excuse, in fact the only possible ready explanation, that I'd put it by the back of the trailer in case someone else was reversing into the space by the Inert Waste skip.

I don't think Hi-Vis is buying it but walks off, together with the recaptured cone.

I mean the alternative explanation seems even more unlikely: that someone would bother to nick a single traffic cone. 

6th February. The Big Event In June.

Mr T. tells me the Big Event is in June. "That's not long I say."

"Hah, don't remind me!"

This big event isn't Ironman France, which coincidentally is now only 20 weeks away but a far more grueling Ultra-Marathon that will test human endurance both physical and mental to the upper limits and beyond...

Mrs T. is expecting a baby. 

1st February. Ramsay's Round.

"I've actually found something in life I'm good at" trumpeted the Otter about the recent enthusiasm for hill running.

"You mean besides eating Fruit Allsorts and drinking Tennent's lager?"

"I don't think it would be for this year though...although I was planning to do all the Mamores one Sunday afternoon" he said squinting at the official website.

56 miles, 24 or even 28 Munros with 28,500 feet of climbing - The Classic 24 hour Scottish Challenge, a feat performed by only 52 mad people to date.

"Although no one has ever yet completed 30 Munros in under 24 hours...mmm..." ponders The Otter.

"What? You must be effing joking." 

30th January. DIY & Ultrasound Therapy

In the absence of an NHS Physio appointment less than a month away the Bosch PSS 230 orbital sander can do double duty for enhancing the recovery rate of damaged tissue usually present in an injured area.

If memory serves, the orbital sander can also bring a woman, fully clothed, to orgasm in less time than it takes to bring a kettle to the boil.

 

29th January. Three Weeks In A Fucking Limbo.

To be honest I couldn't care less if I never saw another chimney again or listened to another woman's concerns about "How it's going to look when it's finished."

Course if I'd had a properly boring career with an index linked final salary pension I could now be choosing to take early retirement and a golden handshake.

In fact now I do feel like I've retired.

Isabelle says we should go away with SAGA for my 50th. 

  

26th January. Heart Rate Training.

I hear The Otter is warming to the Heart Rate Monitor concept of training as per The 'Rat' Fink.

"I can't get beyond 120 on the bike."

That's hardly surprising with a big floppy pulse that until recently only quickened at the sight of anything Chinese, Beefy and crispy. 

When a sprint finish would be the first plate of the All You Can Eat Buffet.

22nd January. The Flipper Police

The 'Rat' Fink is a strong advocate of training sized flippers for a variety of swim drills, which would be a relief for the shoulder problem.

However it was likely with the level of Health and Safety fascism operating at the Leisure Pool flippers would be outlawed.

Tonight with only two public lanes operating the rest of the training pool was taken up with some sort of junior swimming club with piles of associated gear including flippers.

"D'you mind if I have a shot of your fins?" I said to some teenager in lane 3.

"Sure no problem."

I managed one length before the flipper police came in.

"NO FLIPPERS ALLOWED! NO FLIPPERS ALOUD!"

Aw fuck off.

 

 

21st January. The 'Poof's Way'.

The latest medical setback has of course had an unexpected softening side effect: a grudging acceptance of the importance of Gradual Adaptation or the 'Poof's Way'.

Too much 'proper' exercise of the injured joint in question will result in about a years recovery time, not enough and I'll be stuck with a painfully frozen shoulder probably for another year.

Similarly, completing the 112 mile bike section with a brutal no-train approach fuelled by fortified wine and a manly diet of sausage rolls for the marathon would probably lead to further medicalizations.

The 'Poof's Way' shares a basic element with the Franklin 'Way of The Termite' ie tiny mouthful by tiny mouthful until the house collapses.

 

20th January. Time Efficient Training.

E.H. appears to have dropped The Otter like a hot potato following the results of the inaugural sunday morning training session.

"Alarm issues."

The Otter's tendency to lie a-bed after a few stiff whiskies the night before apparently didn't sit well with E.H's time efficient scheduling - no room for dead weight.

I am now, despite all the various physical handicaps, attempting to adhere to Don 'Rat' Fink's 'Ironfit'  program, follow it to the letter and success is more or less underwritten. 

The 'Rat' illustrates the science with profiles of successful acolytes, one chap has two kids and works 60 hours a week with a 2 hour commute as a high flying investment banker with Lehman Brothers...

Yeah well, talking of crashes, the demands on his time must be not inconsiderably reduced.  

19th January. Like a Diseased Salmon In The Shallows.

 A welcome return to The Leisure Pool - 'where summer never ends', (yeah right) at 7am.

Eschewing the  activity in the 'fast lane'  I head for the opposite side labelled SLOW.

I float about at the shallow end not moving much like a migrating salmon that can't make it up the fish ladder at Pitlochry.  

18th january. Poirot Draws A Blank.

In the Insurance based 'Mysterious Case of The Man in A Ford Granada Scorpio' last night's return to the scene of the crime exactly a week later revealed rien de tout!

There was a car parked in the right place but this proved to be a car that never moves anywhere.

Then an idea!  Au millieu de la nuit!

Un homme dans ses annees soixantes avec un chapaeu 'Trilby'  et un manteau de voiture 'camel', peut etre  il ya un personne qui allez regularement a l'eglise local Church of Scotland toutes les Dimanches?

Certainment!

Je dois conduire ce matin immediatement a Auchterarder et passez un bon inspection des voitures a cote de chaque eglise.

Un coup de genie!

Mais.

Rien de tout... aussi...

Zut alors!

   

17th January. Outta The Game?

Last week I was down and out of the running because that knoboscoposcopy thing was going to reveal half a pound of cancer in my cum gland.

The week before that God had forgotten to give me two kidneys, an Ironman in the Sud de France would be certain death from dehydration and so on.

This week condemned to swim with one arm for life I'll be lucky to ever front crawl more than 20 metres in a heated pool for pansies let alone 2.4 miles in the sea.

But these are just additional challenges! to be overcome on the road to reaching one's personal goal! of becoming... an IRONMAN!!! Of course! 

And to think for a while I thought about shutting myself in the hen house with the Buell fired up just because I wasn't ever going to be 'right' in the shoulder department! tch tch tch...

 

16th January. Orthopaedic Shakedown.

Dr B. is scrutinizing an X -ray of a left shoulder which looks exactly like something off the Internet for the purpose of illustrating an Acromioclavicular joint separation.

"Once that scars up you should have full range of movement but there are some cosmetic concerns..."

"You mean I'll never look good in a little black strapless number?"

14th January. "A Lot of People Have It."

'How's it going with that pissing blood thing?" said Dr F. - not in so many words, as he greeted me from behind his desk. I had to bring him up to speed on the latest medicalization.

"Ah yes AC Joint Separation, had one myself playing rugby years ago before I was a Doctor, a lot of people have it" he said raising his left hand cheerfully above his head to show full restoration of mobility. "Creeks a bit." he added.

"I don't think it was as bad as yours though." he said, feeling the degree of prominence on my left shoulder.

"The thing is, d'you think I'm fucked for life?" I asked, not in so many words.

"Well when it heals the scar tissue is more subject to wear and tear."

"Aw fur fucks sake!" 

 

13th January. How Triathlon Ruined My Life.

Swimming's out, so is cycling, so is running, all that's left is walking.

Even that's proved a bit crippling, especially downhill, the bike must have stopped but not me -  still glued to the pedals.

Now we're into Last of The Summer Wine sad old spazzy git territory hirpling 13 miles for a cup of tea and a chat, maybe a digestive biscuit, if you're lucky.

No longer 'In training' for anything, no longer 'in work', what the fuck AM I doing? 

Hell I'm IN RECOVERY.

 

12th January. The E.H. Fan Club.

"He'll need to get that bike time down."  relayed  The Otter from E.H. 

 (The Otter's intentions with regard to E.H. are beyond the scope of this blog.)

I don't actually know E.H. apart from as a blaze of winsome Lycra passing me on a carbon bike.

As a finisher of Ironman France this is advice based on her own experience.

So there we are, I slam into a Ford Granada at speed in the dark.

I'm not worthy. 

11th January. Bloody Annoyed.

According to Young Doctor at A&E what I'm suffering from is an Acromioclavicular Joint Separation. 

Basically the force of shouldering a Ford Granada driver's door at about 25 mph has resulted in the damage of, according to the x-ray and Young Doctor, about 50 to 70% of the ligaments that attach the shoulder blade to the collar bone.

"Is this one of those things that will end up as something that will never be quite right?"

"Well you'll probably always have a bump on the shoulder but it shouldn't be weaker."

"It'll take at least a month to recover."

"A month!!"

"Jeezuz H.!"

"Yes  you have to rest the arm in a sling then come back to the fracture clinic in a week."

It's gonna be GREAT!!

 

10th January. And Then It All Goes Horribly Wrong - Again.

Like an Israeli missile on course for a cellar full of Gaza residents or a suicide bomber who just pulled the pin, what was going to happen was going to happen, it was written.

Frame by frame the final moments before impact past with enough time to think 'This is going to hurt.'

Crash, Bang, Fuckit, what a fracture!

Immediately after the event instead of an assortment of virgins there was an older male saying something about how he HAD been looking for lights. This was presumably after performing a U-turn in his Ford Granada, not before.

Yeah well he hadn't seen me on the Raleigh Team Banana, the head torch lay on the wet tarmac of Auchterarder High Street still shining like the bright light of an endoscope...???

5th January. The Cystoscopy Challenge.

"Have you had this procedure before sir?"

"No."

" Leave your socks and shoes on, trousers and pants off, gown on, ties to the back and dressing gown on." says the first nurse.

Then a second more attractive nurse appears, dark-haired, 20's, might have been in Gray's Anatomy, her job is to effectively be chatty and hold the patients hand on the operating table whilst Mr H wields the Cock-o-Scope or Prickviewer, whatever it's called.

"Most people say it's not as painful as they imagined." smiles the attractive nurse leading me to the operating theatre.

"Well I'm about to find out" I reply, glancing round at the high tech gear - everything you need to take a person to pieces and hopefully put them back together again.

Anyway if you've seen anything like a Steven Seagal movie involving a S.W.A.T. team, the device in question bears more than a passing resemblance to something that can be poked through a room ventilator to look for terrorists.

In this case Mr H is going to be having a good look round the inside of my bladder.

I put it to Mr H. when he's about halfway there if he's ever had the procedure himself?

"Not as such." 

(Quite)

Chat turns to running and triathlon as the attractive nurse warms to the task of directing the patient's attention away from the fact that a middle aged bloke is shoving something the diameter of a Suzuki petrol pipe up the inside of the patient's knob.

"Nothing wrong" is the verdict from Mr H. when it's all over and nothing on the CT scan, apart from the fact there's only one kidney.

"Was it as painful as you thought it would be?" says the attractive nurse leading me back to a world without bladder cancer.

" To be honest I didn't really want to think about it."

2nd January. I'll Never Be Able To Keep Up.

"I'm actually quite hungry." ponders The Otter as we approach the "Specials" blackboard at the Glen Clova hotel after a mere couple of hours of sub-zero cycling.

You've got to admire the boy's digestive organs.

Two family sized steak pies washed down with fifteen cans of Foster's all in the previous afternoon and no doubt a half bottle of some cask aged Malt as a wee nightcap.

And yet that strength paradoxically can so easily (and in fact did) become a complete corruption leading to Physical Weakness.

On the other hand those of us who suffer from that bugbear of the aspiring endurance athlete; Natural Weakness are completely self-limiting when it comes to food intake.

As we mount up and pedal off I try not to be sick leaning on the ridiculous Tri-bars over a stomach bloated with homemade macaroni cheese.

1st January. New Year's Day Triathlon.

First of all a happy new year to anyone that continues to read this, I was going to say drivel, but verbal diarrhoea might be closer.

Talking of bowel movements I think it might have been a record for pre-race ablution yesterday and that was with a complete abstinence from Hogmanay 'Value' chicken wings in acid reflux style sauce.

It was a CONCLUSIVE WIN  in the Otter Series as The Otter picked up a DNE which is one up from DNS which is one up from DNF. 

It was all going to be too much to sacrifice supping on Your Other National Drink... diddums.

A sub zero air temperature was masked by the stillness however there was quite a current of moving air on the downhill section from Arthur's seat.

The decision to not bother with gloves made the application of the brakes difficult with two blocks of Wensleydale for hands and might have proved fatal for dogs, pedestrians etc wandering about on the road, especially by the third lap.

On the whole the result was Fairly Shit, which is better than Completely Crap. 

No tomato juice visible from the Old Man yet and I think I was first in the One Kidney age group category.

However it does seem unlikely I could ever complete an Ironman. 

28th December. The Couloir.

"It just makes a mockery of the whole route." comments the next guy in the queue on the ledge for the first pitch as some cheeky chappie comes waltzing down the frozen snow unroped, facing out, as the spindrift races across the sky above.

"How do you arrest the fall of the other person if we move up it together?" I pose the question to K, who in effect knows more than me about faffing about with tangled up rope and belays.

"I don't fancy dying" says K, "We'll just pitch the whole thing."

Eventually we get going.  Of course technically it's a doddle but a 150 metre plus cartwheel wouldn't look good on 'Reporting Scotland'.

25th December. Chick Bothy -Latest.

"I much prefer Clint Eastwood to George Clooney.  I don't like cute, like Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise." said Isabelle over a starter of Scallops with beetroot risotto and a pesto sauce.

"Yes but they're men, it's different when its a woman."

"If I was a man I wouldn't fancy her."

"Pah."

"Her nose is too small and her mouth. She's cute and she knows it."

Later...

"Her name's  ______ and I think she's English."

"Boyfriend???  Did you tell her you've got a wonderful friend she should meet!!?"

"Isabelle says she's too cute and her mouth's too small..."

There followed some unwholesome oral reference from the hormonally charged Otter.

 

24th December. It's Gonna Be Great!

My Xmas from the NHS  came: a camera up my Jap's Eye on the 5th of Jan, unless they find something more obvious when I get injected with penetrant dye on the 30th of Dec and a CT Scan.

They certainly didn't hang about, it's not like waiting for a hip operation, I've got a serious medical problem you know.

Am I bothered?

10th December. Happy Sad Auld Gitmas.

"We could eat out for Christmas" I said, "What about The Trough ?"

"I'm not eating at The Trough" replied Isabelle. 

(Clearly not up-market enough.) Pah!

"What about The Bothy?" was her suggestion.

Of course! 

And there would be the added interest of trying not to stare too much, whilst chewing on turkey, in the direction of the bar.

Unless the 'chick that works in the Bothy' will have been spirited off back to Bratislava or wherever for the duration.

"I wonder if they'd let her take time out from washing glasses to spoon christmas pudding into my mouth?"

Or sherry trifle...

8th December. Another Classic Case.

"I think that looks like Loch Ericht down there." I say peering through the general whiteness of sky and land,  "We must have come down the wrong side of the hill."

Of course in whiteout conditions it pays a handsome dividend to stick closely to whatever compass bearing from the summit points the right way.

Fooling around on snow slopes with a complacent attitude, putting the compass away along with the ice axe, blethering on and also not being able to find the map pertaining to the second half of the route in the first place can exact a hefty penalty, up to and including one's life.

"It's all about sensitivity to initial conditions, like a rocket on a launch pad, a tiny bit off course and it ends up at Saturn when it was supposed to be going to Jupiter."

"We can cut across that way and back over but what time is it anyway?" I say, sensing a decrease in light levels.

"If it's 3pm I won't be happy." says the Otter... "3.15"

I begin to wonder if the way we are now going, struggling up what feels like the hill we've just slid down from, through fairly deep snow, can possibly be the right way. That is,  apart from a short cut to an early grave, because it's now going to be dark in about 20 mins.

"Maybe we should just head down anywhere, we don't want to be stuck in the dark up this high."

A BIT LATER...

"Look! lights! Civilization!" trumpets The Otter.

"OH NO! that's Ben Alder lodge but it's on the other side of Loch Ericht, I'm pretty sure there's no path on this side and it's about eight miles back to Dalwhinnie."

It's quite a long Loch as lochs go, and known for it's remoteness, in fact it's hard to conceive of a worse locale to find one's self lodged beside on a December night. 

It felt a good deal longer contouring along the steep hillside above the water through heather, snow, wet rocks and birch woods in the dark for 5 or 6 hours. The only relief was falling into endless burns running down to the Loch, constantly slipping and an occasional snack of Chopped Nuts "For cooking purposes." 

For a while I thought I was going to go mad, or at least lose the balance of my mind. 

If only there would be a track soon? I began to feel like we were starring in one of those made for TV re-enactments of something that went horribly wrong: "With only a tub of chopped nuts etc..."

There never was a track but luckily there was half a moon, somewhere behind the cloud, which gave just enough light to see the loch stretching for miles ahead...

13 HOURS AFTER LEAVING THE CAR...

"Is the car still there?"

"I think so."  

30th November. The Chick That Works In The Bothy.

"I can't stand the tension anymore." says The Otter turning on his heels and heading for the Way Out of The Bothy.

Course we'd all been hanging around in vain whilst Isabelle paid for her dessert at the bar simply to catch another glimpse of The Chick That Works in The Bothy.

Junior alluded to the notion of Sad Old Gitdom.

"Well, It's only the second time we've been here specifically for that reason... and that was really just for your benefit." said The Otter directing his comment to Junior.

"She's a Total Babe, like. But you could never speak to her".

"A lot of these really attractive women are actually very lonely. They don't have boyfriends because they seem unapproachable and everyone assumes that they must already have a boyfriend because they're so beautiful." mused The Otter. "Well that's what I want to believe."

"Bullshit" says Junior.

THE NEXT DAY.

"I was thinking about the chick that works in The Bothy" . That was the first thing to come out of Junior's mouth in the morning...

28th November. I'm Not Normal (Official).

The ultrasound produces an image which makes 1950's black & white telly look like HD but to the trained eye they can generally tell if your baby's got two heads.

"I can't seem to find your left kidney" announces the operator.

"How d'you mean like?"

"Well it's not there."

"What?"

More rolling around of the ultrasound thing with gel.

"Where is it then?"

"You've never had one."

"You mean I've only got one kidney?"

"It looks that way."

Jeezuz H. Christ!

Maybe I've only got half a brain and I've always been half-hearted.

Dear oh dear.

Isabelle says I'm abnormal on the inside as well as the outside.

Apparently only 1% of people have this exclusive form of Natural Weakness.

(You can't hit me, I've only got one kidney.)

More tests of course Yippee!

And meanwhile I can join The Single Kidney Club.

Meet single kidney singles in your area now!

27th November. The X-ray Factor

Tomorrow I've been invited for afternoon tea at the Radiology Dept maybe I'll see into my own kidneys, (drink a litre of water or tea if you like an hour before).

There has been a suggestion that if one of them's a bit knackered it could be sold to China "Needs slight attention. Unfinished project. A good holiday kidney," something on those lines.

I'm beginning to wonder if walloping into the tarmac of the old A9 in July has anything to do with it?

26th Nov. The SeX-Factor.

The Otter has a hot date hillwalking (hillwalking?) with some woman that works out at that Health Club for pansies and can wear Lycra.

"Attractive?"

"Second only to the chick that works in The Bothy"

Pah! I find that hard to believe, as the 'chick that works in The Bothy,' who of course cannot possibly be from Scotland or even any part of the Uk, is so beautiful as to be accepted as THE Gold Standard of Attractivity.

Although she may actually be computer generated.

"How can I stop the Hormones?" wails the Otter.

This is good news for The Series as The Otter will be preoccupied and may go silly or even lose the plot and forget all about training for Ironman France or anything else.

His Libido will be shorted out directly to Earth with an almighty BBBBBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!

24th November. The Medical Blog.

"That's my pee" I said to the woman behind the glass screen at A & E.

The urine sample had the appearance of tomato juice.

"Oh"

How can you run 21k last weekend and have normal pee then run round the block while the tatties are boiling and produce such a shocking result?

"Take these Antibiotics" says Dr X.

Waste of time if you ask me because I don't feel ill In fact my theory is that wearing Isabelle's sister's cross country skiing pants stopped my 'tackle' from walloping about during the half marathon.

However running round the block in long johns that hardly stay up not only creates a spectacle but offers no support, and something has come unscrewed or cross-threaded, to put it in engineering terms.

It's either that or Cancer.

"I see you're down for more tests...that's good."

17th November. Sprint Finish - To The Nearest Bushes.

A pee would equal losing.

Thirteen point two miles with a full bladder or probably not full, just feeling full.

The Otter claimed at the halfway point he was just jogging along to keep me company.

There was no chatting during the second half though, the Otter sighted a young woman's Lycra'd ass up ahead and tried to maintain pace.

I kept level with his feverish pursuit, knowing the race could still be lost on the incline of the last mile when he'd be pulling out all his hill climbing stops.

We entered the crowded stadium neck and neck for the final two laps to the finishing line, well actually a sodden field at the back of the Primary school with most of the other entrants finished and standing around.

The Otter didn't seem to have any sprint finish and claimed afterwards that the other wins weren't deliberate wins, it just happened that way.

So it was a win but not by much of a margin.

4:2.

15th November. Half-Arsed Marathon.

Preparation for tomorrows half marathon thing has been limited.

Something not quite right in the waterworks, it may be just cancer.

Later in the week there's something else to look forward to: report to the Radiology department with a full bladder.

Having sat cross-legged for an indeterminate period and kitted out in one of those gowns I expect to be tortured with Ultrasound and x-rays whilst trying to avoid any involuntary stirrings if it's a nurse under the age of... I don't know?

Back to tomorrow.

The Otter is fit again but untried over the distance he may go out with tendonitus.

I don't mind wetting myself if I was going to win.

11th November. How Mad Are You?

What I mean is really: How mad am I?

"Horizon' BBC2 explored the difficulty in separating the nutter from the non-nutter by observation alone.

When is a character trait just a character trait and not a symptom of a more serious malaise?

Take pessimism for instance, you don't have to be depressed to be pessimistic.

But do you have to be happy to be optimistic?

Can you be optimistic about the future if you live in the Maldives (nothing more than 2 metres above current sea level)?

Optimism strikes me as a symptom of a far more serious delusion or just plain ignorance.

Or am I mad?

Imagine being depressed and optimistic, that's a good one - things can only get better!

Wanna Bet?

10th November. Knobbled!

Only one week to go to the next event in the Otter/Walrus Series, a nice half marathon.

"There's something in the British psyche that loves an under-achiever." ( In fact I see myself as quintessentially British.)

Actually I don't think I've ever won anything apart from the first Otter/Walrus event, from then I've clearly been the Eddie The Eagle of Triathlon.

Now in a sudden twist of fate the Otter has suffered an injury, more drink than sports related, I hear, something involving vast amounts of Tennents Lager and a staircase.

Tch Tch Tch...

Mind you It's not the winning that's important... errr....?

2nd November. Ya Wee Feartie!

Now that insect life has gone into winter recess, more or less, it's quite possible to ride with one's visor permanently up.

This was a boon due to both the inside and the outside being rendered opaque from salt spray.

The external being the salt on the roads and the internal the air drying of copious nose waterings.

Despite being able to see about as clearly as present eyesight will allow I found my ability to keep up with the rest of the FEMCC hampered by dark imaginings centred on greasy tarmac and larch needles.

It's just another aspect of Natural Weakness.

Like the inability to eat your own weight in black pudding after 15 pints of 'Best' the night before without a trace of heartburn.

Talking of Natural Weakness, on the way down Glen Lyon I spied the Otter's car parked at the side of the road, whilst he was away flogging himself up the side of Cairn Mairg,

Probably with just a bag of out of season strawberries for the day, it's all part of training up for the next event.

Ladbrokes aren't taking any more bets on the Buchlyvie Half Marathon, I hear.

1st November. F.E.M.C.C. Latest.

I can't believe we're supposed to be going away on a motorcycle piss-up trip today.

I'm feeling a bit under the weather due to the common cold virus and the actual weather is -0.2 degrees. Perfect.

These Failing Eyesight Club runs seem to be getting later and later in the year. I mean a few short weeks and it could have been a 'Turkey & Tinsel' run taking advantage of a cheap inclusive deal between Christmas and New Year.

David, needless to say has some sort of plug-in suit reliant on resistance heating like a giant electric toaster.

If the current drain proves too much for his battery he can be just left to die of hypothermia at the roadside on the moors between Bridge of Cally and Pitlochry.

Tonight it'll be a 'few beers' at a wayside inn similar to The Cock & Prostate, followed by a 'Full English Coronary Breakfast'' in the morning.

Although a 'Full Scottish' is similar just with a higher fat content.

I wonder what organ will fail next?

30th October. Effing Fruit.

I've felt ill ever since I started liquidizing that fruit in the morning.

A churning stomach and an excess of acid by about 11 am.

The other morning I was bent double over a flat pack chest of drawers from Argos which was making me feel nauseous to start with and I could just feel all that fruit frothing around.

First I thought it was the Passion fruit so I cut that out, then maybe it was the bananas? so I gave them the body swerve;

In the end there'd be no fruit left.

So what's the point of fruit if it makes you feel ill?

None.

28th October. Literally Another Arse Up.

Subject to an unspeakable violation this morning at Glaver Street.

"We'll have to have a look at your tail-end" which is Dr F's own choice of euphemism I suppose.

It might have been a different experience if instead of being a middle aged blowke with glasses Dr F. was a 29 year old blonde with 36DD boobs and was wearing outrageous heels and a pleated tartan mini-skirt.

As it was I just had to 'Think of England'.

Dr F. pronounced my Prostate to be 'normal sized', that is, according to the Internet like a walnut.

Yeah but maybe mine was only like a Brazil nut when it was normal.

Thinking of England, a good name for a rural pub with one of those Inn signs, where local worthies meet up, could be

The Cock & Prostate.

With a cross-sectional diagram out of a medical textbook on the sign.

26th October. Like Rocky - Sort Of...

Even the Government, and of course Tesco, say you should be eating 5 pieces of fruit a day.

What happens if you don't like fruit?

The Cancer Research 'scientific' 10k run time calculator asks: Do you eat five a day? as well as age, smoking, drinking etc.

There's no getting away from fruit and The Otter positively thrives on it, a winning combination of air-freighted, out-of-season, exotic, tropical, berries, citrus - whatever.

This fruit thing cannot be ignored as a factor in bladder function too.

First thing in the morning instead of cracking eggs into a jug, the answer is to drop fruit into a liquidizer and get it over with, just gulp it down like Rocky, in a one-er.

Is it working though?

A bit early to say but my poo flops out as easily as a monkey's afterbirth now.

22nd October. Dr. Oetker Writes...

"Blood in the urine is indicative of a possible Urinary Tract Infection possibly caused by being a dirty bastard, if you'd changed your underpants more often this would never have happened.

If the symptoms still persist after a course of antibiotics I wouldn't be surprised if you've got prostate cancer from sticking your head in one too many sooty chimneys, that's all down to career choice.

Either way I've no sympathy.

You may only have a couple of months."

21st October. Welcome To Urinary World.

Monday night my piss looked like a cross between liquidized pumpkin and a pint of Caffreys, running made me want to stop for a pee every 100 yds.

It's true that Mrs G. gave me two plates of Pumpkin Risotto for lunch, does it colour your urine?

but pissing every 100 yds and nothing coming out?

What would Dr Oetker say?

Could it be too much wanking... Dr?

19th October. Loser Loser Effing Loser! 4:1

An early lead quickly resulted in oxygen debt, the Otter drew level at the first km then gradually the gap widened.

Maybe the race was over?

It's possible that a ceiling exists to performance that no amount of training can raise, hence the theory of Natural Weakness.

However Sports Psychology points to the benefit of a positve attitude. Instead of asking 'Why am I so bloody slow?' one should re-phrase; 'What can I do to run faster?'

But it was hopeless, a Personal Best of 47 mins 1 sec just wasn't good enough.

"What was your time?" I gasped.

The Otter hadn't seen the large digital clock at the finish due to a gaze transfixed by some young woman's ass running directly in front.

Maybe the Otter was 5 seconds ahead more likely 10, we'll never know.

Junior came in at a creditable 1 hr 3 mins for someone who exercises about as much as 'Tiddles' the cat.

After race analysis consisted of me repeatedly interjecting into a conversation about the shape of women's asses that 'I should have won'.

18th October. A No Win Fun Run Situation.

The Otter has been training in secret having completed a couple of 10ks during the week and seems to be hinting at some downloaded program that aims at a future sub 30 min time.

However he may have neglected that all important rest period and by the sounds of it is suffering from some bronchial trouble or common cold.

If I win the bets are off because it's not a fair contest, if I lose it'll be a total humiliation, a bit like the opponent having one hand tied behind his back and still coming out tops.

16th October. Tesco Fatties 10k Facesaver.

In the current Otter Series the scorecard has been marked up as 3:1 to the Otter, although the last defeat was frankly mechanical.

This Sundays race against Cancer (although apparently marathon running actually gives you cancer), presents another opportunity to save face.

The Otter has undergone gait analysis with some woman and will be pre-occupied with whether his pelvis is going forwards when it should be going backwards, or vice-versa and just how much damage, permanent and otherwise the act of running will be doing.

Junior is coming along, although without any training whatsover should be down with the fat ladies.

With the perfect physique for running I should be well ahead...

13th October. In Memorium.

As the nights are drawing in I decided to invest £8.30 or thereabouts in the glimmerisation of the rear of the Raleigh.

The advent of the LED came too late for Dicky S. the celebrated local Pyromaniac who came to an untimely end riding without lights on the B935 several years ago.

It was the recollection of this event that hastened me to Halfords before following the same route as there is a long dark road ahead if there's to be any chance of completing 180kms on a scorching day in the Sud de France.

12th October. Running Uphill Through Cow's Skitters In Sandals.

There's no way an ordinary human being can complete Ironman France without a strict training regimen.

Frankly we're into uncharted waters here with a divergence from the usual half-arsed minimum effort approach.

But really it doesn't seem right at all.

I mean, I see myself finishing in the top ten, the only training will be the long casual cycle down to the south of France on Eddie Webb's dad's bike I bought from David for a fiver in 1973.

Anyway this is all fantasm I tell myself heading up the Wallace Road ankle deep in bovine excreta and general gutters, luckily I was wearing clarks sandals for this 20k "training" run.

Well it was really 2 x 10k broken by tea with toast and jam at Alistair's who needless to say has little or no interest in endurance sport.

"I'm going back to Los Angeles, to go flying again"

"How can you possibly justify that?"

"It's my only hobby"

"Yeah but its kind of an expensive one compared with..."

"Stamp Collecting?"

"Well if you like."

11th October. The Earnman.

"An opportunity has arisen to do the Earnman swim tomorrow" read a late communique from the Otter.

Course it was a different story standing by the side of the black waters of the loch at four in the afternoon with a fresh westerley breeze.

"I just can't imagine swimming that far" I said peering down the lochside to some point miles away.

"It's bloody miles away!"

"Well it is - two miles exactly,"

"It'll be dark at this rate."

"Well I'm not that fussed about doing it at all, I'm quite hungry actually, what benefit is there to be gained from doing this?."

"It was your idea!"

"Yeah but think how nice it would be if it was flat calm."

"It's not going to be flat calm in the sea at Nice."

The question is what to think about during what amounts to an isolation tank experiment, the earplugs, the misted up goggles and the gradual numbing of the entire body.

Uppermost in my mind was 'It can't be far to that bloody fish farm' or 'Where is that bloody fish farm?'

The fish farm smelt pretty fishy, so that sense was still operating.

On arrival at the end point a bit past the fish farm I couldn't stand up being more hyperthermic than the Otter. Then had difficulty steadying one hand to get the key in the car door.

In retrospect it was maybe a bit late in the season for open water swimming.

9th October. Fish Man.

"Endless repetition" the Otter claims, is the way to improvement in swimming.

I set myself the goal of swimming 120 lengths, which is roughly equivalent to 150 lengths of that overheated paddling pool for the pampered that the Otter frequents.

After God knows what distance I feel like a creature that is coming up to breathe like a fish in water rather than a fish out of water.

I celebrate with a whole fish supper rather than just the medium.

7th October. The Glimmer Man.

I'd have come in for a bit of criticism if the Otter had come LED fell running tonight, re route finding.

To be honest trying to find a way from East Dron Hill To Culteuchar Hill is like searching for the North West Passage, instead of pack ice there's ranks of Sitka Spruce not shown on maps.

Darkness fell, the drizzle continued, I found myself in a ravine plunging through saturated grass and banks of nettles in shorts, which it has to be said still retained a surprising amount of sting despite being so late in the season.

A pheasant broke cover surprised by the glimmer of the three LEDs I half expected to meet a shooting party, how would one begin to explain oneself?

For the same reason, once clear of the rain forest and running down a sloping stubble field towards the lights of a farm house I put the head torch off to avoid creating some sort of UFO spectacle or perhaps moving target.

The lasting effect is similar to having rubbed well in some brand of Very Extreme Deep Heat from the ankles to the knees.

It looks to be a restless night.

6th October. Team Banana.

Now awaiting delivery from eBay by Parcel Force of a race replica 531 Raleigh Team Banana frame, I kid you not.

The logic is, if it was good enough for the pro racer of the late 1980's surely it's good enough for the likes of me.

I hear the Otter is set on spending up on some sort of alloy/carbon machine eschewing the choice of handbuilt steel for the work of Robbie The Far Eastern Robot.

Anyway following yesterday's one legged cycling revelation I have begun a program called the Uni-leg Method, another string to Dr Oetker's bow.

As the nights are drawing in, this drill has to be executed by the LED glimmer of a headtorch in the dark

5th October. Duathlon Disaster- The Otter Cleans Up.

A touch of ground frost saw the Otter rigged out in woolly hat and gloves.

The field soon strung out, I could hear a characteristic burping somewhere behind and then a bit later the sound of fleet feet coming past with the inevitable lapping on the third lap by the front runners.

The Otter was behind but still in contention that was, until after Transition one. I had the new secret weapon of the E bay wheels...

Going well and pulling a higher than normal gear, stripped down to the bare Lycra for full aerodynamics, the mountain bike mounted Otter was left virtually standing.

Passing some other riders I was already composing a blog based around Triumph! or Victory! until...

BANG!

Without warning, whilst standing up on the pedals for maximum effort uphill, the right hand pedal had managed to unscrew itself, naturally the sudden loss in balance with the other foot still attached to the left pedal resulted in a close encounter with Tarmac of the A907.

To cut it all short the thread was a bit mangled so the pedal wouldn't go back on the crank and the Otter came passed assured of another automatic win.

The only plus point was the realisation that a few miles of one legged cycling is an excellent drill for improving pedalling efficiency.

2nd October. 10k run/40k bike/5k run. " The Facesaver."

E bay has provided an upgraded pair of wheels in time for the next event in the Walrus/Otter Series - The Stirling Duathlon.

No water involved on Sunday, just cycling and running.

The Otter is compromised by:

1. No swimming.

2. No women in Lycra probably only shorts to chase after.

3. No road bike, having to make do with mountain bike tyres on the road.

4. No-train week due to a bad case of shellfish bottom, unless it was a mouthful of effluent in last weeks Jobbie Aquathon.

29th September. Me 1. The Otter 2.

Third in the Otter/Me Series of events saw defeat in the Jobbie Aquathon by two and a half minutes.

The Otter's swim time was compromised by gagging on the saltwater but not compromised enough apparently.

"Where else can you see fit birds in Lycra - outside?" announces the Otter "It's the outside bit that gets me."

It's becoming apparent that the very real improvement in run time is driven simply by chasing after attractive women in skin tight clothing.

27th September. To Infinity And Beyond!!

Had to draw down funding from the Otter to make sure of entry into Ironman France 2009.

Dear oh dear. Of course without endless weeks of training the result will be no result - just DNF or even DEATH.

The Otter is confident of finishing even at this stage of the process although probably not if the event was tomorrow...

Tomorrow the event is the Tampon Jobbie Hyperdermic Aquathon offshore of Leith, an early start.

"Phone me at 6.30" says The Otter "I'm not very good at waking up."

The grey waters of the Forth promise a rude awakening.

24th September. The Otter's Lost The Plot.

This blog appears to have degenerated into nothing other than guff about Triathlons.

Now the Walrus/Otter has lost it completely after receiving that award, signing up for every available upcoming event remaining on the calendar.

Aquathons, Half Marathons, Duathlons, 24hr Mountain Biking (Eeee Gads!) needless to say I feel compelled for some strange reason to follow suit.

I've just paid thirteen quid to wallow in and swallow no doubt the grey waters of the Firth of Forth just along from Leith.

What springs to mind is sanitary towels and worse making their way down the estuary still it should all be over in a matter of fourteen minutes for me and much less for the Otter.

Then there'll be an opportunity to save face with the following 5km sprint to a photo finish?

What are Ladbrokes offering ?

What takes the biscuit though was the announcement of the Otter's fully paid up entry into Ironman France 2009,

Really who could be arsed?

21st September. I'm a Failure - The Walrus Picks Up An Award.

"I don't know why you carried on and went up The Ben, I'd have gone to the Pub." said the victorious "Sea Otter" formally known as The Walrus.

The early dip in Loch Linnhe just opposite Morrisons gave the Walrus/Otter a head start, despite frittering away about 8 mins in Transition 1 pfaffing around with base layers.

Then as predicted, more or less, my Big Ben Nevis Triathlon unravelled with automatic failure due to Natural Weakness and a complete breakdown of the No-Training Policy particularly with respect to the hated Mountain Biking.

"Take those last two off and put them on to the run they're five minutes past the cut off point for starting the fourth lap." said the Big Chief indicating me and some other hapless weakling.

So that was the end of the Mountain Biking, three laps instead of the four, to be quite honest I was getting a bit cheesed off with the 90km of two wheel hell by this point.

Well I thought it's all over now what's the effing point? so I stopped for a cup of tea with some of the marshalls at the foot of the tourist path to Britains highest point before pressing on.

A harsh reality check - I was going to be robbed of even the satisfaction of properly completing the race let alone vanquishing the formerly obese, I'd be simply marked down as DNF. DNF!

I'd only gone on about quarter of a mile further when who should come trotting up behind but the Sea Otter, with completion of the requisite four laps and a now guaranteed victory in hand.

This was of course, barring some chance fracture or knee dislocation during the hell-for-leather descent back to the town centre.

Anyway the awards were dished out later in the Ben Nevis Inn.

"...And each year we like to present a special prize... this year to..."

Yes, you've guessed it ... basically

A prize for not being fat.

There is loud applause.

13th September. Big Ben Nevis Tri - You What?

I'll have to kill myself if The Walrus beats me.

Then I probably won't have to because I'll have already killed myself in the process.

This is nuts and I hate Mountain Biking as for running up Ben Nevis at the end, honestly who could be arsed.

Not me.

"Why don't you do the half one?" he says.

"What so I can preface everything by saying but The Walrus did the whole thing?"

These extreme events eh?, one weeks training and a pair of Clarks sandals, that should be enough d'you think?"

8th September. Haddington Sprint Triathlon.

I actually pass three people during the cycle, maybe I'll break the 1hr 20 barrier.

I quiz a man in the white van with a lap top where all the various wires end up from the timing apparatus.

"1 hr 22 mins"

Christ! after ten triathlons this year I've maybe gained a whole minute but hold that result - the cycle route was 0.1 of a kilometre shorter.

In other words virtually no change.

I may have reached the ceiling of the no training necessary policy.

1st September. Another Pointless Exercise.

“I could stand here and discuss it with you all day but we’re not taking anymore registrations.”

So the third Llanwrst Triathlon will be memorable for being a virtual triathlon.

I stand as a non-participant watching some of the early morning slower competitors emerging from the pool.

“Christ! Ed, are you still here!” banters one of the Marshalls with a Senior Citizen struggling with his socks in Transition 1. “D’you need a hair dryer Ed?”

Then as he wheels his bike to the starting line:
“Hey Ed?”… “Ed?”
“What?”
“You forgot your sandwiches!”

25th August. Wild Boar BBQ

To be fair, alcohol, bonfires, boiling fat, petrol filled nightlights, pre-schoolers and small boys stripped to the waist running around brandishing firebrands to a background of Iggy Pop raises a few Health and Safety questions.

And let's not forget culpability in a court of law setting.

Ooh errr...

One child hits another on the head with a burning apple, probably soaked in petrol, it's all going a bit William Golding.

The children are thankfully taken away or put to sleep.

I end the evening holding fast to the toilet, coincidentally calling for Piggy and Ralph.

20th August. What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger?

Still in the recovery phase from the so called Middle distance Triathlon, if anything I'd say the effect on the knees has been one of strengthening rather than ruination.

Of course I put that down to Dr Oetker's running method which means lightweight shoes with zero shock absorption and no heels.

The same cannot be said of the calf muscles which received the workout of their life.

I hear Slim Boy Fat is seeking medical advice for one of his knees in preparation for that Ben Nevis Nonsense but still adheres to the conventional cushioned sole and refuses to accept the wisdom of Dr Oetker.

By his description it sounds very like one of Mother's knees but he still has approximately 35 years before the NHS can put one patella in the bin and araldite a proper stainless replacement joint in.

17th August, Aberfeldy Middle Distance Triathlon.

The onboard hydration unit, needless to say, failed before it was even connected on account of a non standardisation of plastic bottle threads.

I didn't allow that small set back deter my efforts in the waters of Loch Tay (12 degrees C.) The water was a bit peaty but fairly clear so I decided to hydrate by drinking a fair amount of it during the warm up.

Although a longer course, the swim proved less hellish than the Jellyfish Triathlon (see previous).

The cycling was, frankly, rubbish with competitors who were really hopeless in the loch catching up and passing me in a most demoralising fashion and that was after following the advice of Slim Boy Fat to eat a date every few miles.

My piss stayed clear then I ate a Snickers bar from one of the roadside 'feeding stations' the hills were steep I may have done irrepairable damage to both knees, then after reaching transition 2 after 90 kms the leaders were coming in from the run, incroyable!

The 'run' was only a half marathon.

I don't even want to go there but you could imagine.

All in all what can only be deemed a pathetic performance of something not far short of seven hours.

14th August. Half Ironman Full Bladder?

I'm afraid it's impossible to complete the Aberfeldy Half Ironman without gagging on 'Gatorade' or some other electrolyte replacement sports drink.

A length of plastic tubing connected to a water bottle on the bike should enable a near constant supply of fluids.

I stopped short of performing an experimental self-catheterisation with another length of the same pipe.

Isabelle pointed out a female competitor relieving herself during an Olympic cycling event whilst in the saddle so to speak, this must be the accepted norm?

4th August. Mountaineering in Clark's Sandals.

"I don't care what you do on your own you're not coming up a mountain in those." was OJ the guide's verdict on my wearing of sandals as far as the snowline. "I'm sorry mate."

In fact if you could have fitted crampons to them I'd have continued as far as the Bertol Hut.

By the time we'd actually got round to the climbing of the Dent Blanche, the weeks main objective, OJ had pretty much relented on the sandal innovation but probably as some kind of punishment I ended up carrying the rope as well as my boots.

It was all on account of the motorcycle and knee incident of the previous week but with hindsight it seems pointless to walk all the way in and out in rigid soled boots.

To make a point I ran down the last few thousand feet of the thirteen and a half hour climb from the hut to the top and down.

"You'll miss the tea and cakes..." I say to OJ when he appears at the car half an hour later.

No comment is forthcoming.

2nd August. I Shat On The Aiguille De La Tsa.

With the words ringing in my ears "There's an easy way up round the back" I set off for this improbable looking pinnacle at 5 am. This had been the pronouncment a couple of years ago from Dave "The Camel" K, the diminutive guide who never needs to drink.

The Bertol hut and been full to bursting but from the distant lights of the head torches all the other occupants were making their way under the starlight across the snowy wastes towards Zermatt.

Once round the corner there was just me, the vastness of the Swiss Alps and the twinkle of snow crystals underfoot like so many pointless camera flashes at a Robbie Williams concert.

As the sun began to rise behind the Dent Blanche I suddenly felt an urge.

The queue at 4.30 am had meant that normal ablutions had proved impossible.

Squatting down with an incredible view across to the Matterhorn turning gold in the dawn I thought this is probably the most memorable poo of my life.

30th July. Armchair/Wheelchair Mountaineering.

Grating one knee on tarmac is hardly the best preparation for Alpine Mountaineering or glacier travel in general.

It really is a Total Arse Up.

However a couple of days walking up to the Bertol Hut and back to acclimatize will provide an excellent indication for the week ahead or even years ahead.

Unless there is wheelchair access?

See link.

http://www.cabanebertol.ch/gallery/hiver-2008/hd/16.jpg

27th July. Complete Arse Up.

I knew for certain that I was just going too fast to get round this particular corner under a railway arch on the old A9.

It had somehow slipped my memory that it's sharper than it looks, which was academic and after the fact.

Such a nice day too, bone dry, with a temperature in the mid-twenties, too hot to be wearing anything more than light jeans because "I'm not going to fall off anyway."

So if anything crossed my mind it might have been "this is going to hurt."

It's ironic that not half an hour before I'd been discussing with a prospective client now an ex-climber about the irreversible stretching of knee ligaments etc

Anyway nothing broken according to A&E, apart from the right footrest.

20th July 2008. Loch Ore Vomiting.

Junior came along to zip up my wet suit and tell me how he really wouldn't want to be swimming in Loch Ore on a sunday morning.

The trouble was I couldn't actually find Loch Ore and time was going on for registration I had to stop and ask a battered looking Ex-miner.

To be honest they've made a lovely job of the former coal tip.

And then I'd forgotten to bring my bike helmet. No helmet no race as they say.

However once underway the waters proved to be like a warm bath compared to the jellyfish experience of the previous week.

I'd decided to go all out and so ended up throwing up coming through Lochgelly of all places, too much muesli maybe?

Overall fairly crap about halfway up or down the field depending whether you're a glass half empty or half full kind of guy.

14th July. Swimming With Jellyfish.

"This is MEN-TAL!" states a member of the Tyne and Wear fire services in a north-east accent as we wade en-masse into the waves of the North Sea avoiding stepping on the masses of dead jellyfish on the beach.

It's a daunting prospect, waves, wind and cold water. The few spectators look cold and they've got several more layers of clothing on.

The worst thing is having to do two circuits. The idea is that you wade back out again through the jellyfish, round a pole stuck in the sand then repeat the whole thing again. Why?

"To check that you're still alive!"

I'm in the second wave, that is, the more naturally old and weak.

After about two minutes of trying to swim into the onshore swell, catching glimpses between the peaks and troughs of the rest of the field getting ahead with one goggle leaking in brine, my weaker self is getting a bit panicky and gaining the upper hand.

"Really two laps of this with a time constraint on the first one? it's all too much, head for the shore IMMEDIATELY, it definitely is mental you can't do it. This is pointless"

10th July. "It's a F****ing Miracle!"

" I may need you to take me to hospital..."
says the distant voice of The Bulk from a roadside mobile phone call.

I set off with the trailer to pick up any wreckage of the recently run-in Honda motorcycle.

Rounding a corner I see the new-look slimmer Bulk kneeling before two uniformed Police like in some Latin American execution of street urchins.

However this position is something to do with suspected broken ribs from a ploughing match conducted up the grass verge.

The other vehicle involved was nowhere to be seen since it had passed that way completely on the other side of the road.

The explanation could be a jet lagged Continental convinced they were still on another continent or simply a case of mental abberation.

6th July. Chicken Reanimated.

Aileen had clearly not only lost her job but her mind as well, evidenced by the contents of the Bosch Fridge freezer.

When the electricity had been cut off she must have hot-footed it back to her mother's but that was about three months ago.

A variety of meats had liquified in the freezer and a cooked chicken, barely recognisable, had as it were been brought back to life in the fridge.

Luckily it was bin collection day in the High Street so I was able to distribute these and other foodstuffs around peoples wheelie bins.

"Your losing something out of that bag." said an elderly man following me down the pavement.

Sure enough there was a tell-tale line straight to a group of bins like footprints in the snow. Luckily it turned out to be salt or sugar rather than a trail of putrefaction.

2nd July. Springwatch Blasting.

Rolling up the C's drive I was met by a dead body in the grass the victim of a fatal shooting last night, stiff as a board.

"I see there's a fox in the driveway" I said to Mr C. Snr as the kettle spilt over the top of the Aga which fizzed around like Sodium reacting with water, "Was that you?"

"Say again"

"A DEAD FOX IN THE DRIVEWAY" Mr C. snr is a bit hard of hearing probably from years of shooting at things.

" Oh no that was Mike! there's a lot of them about."

Mike's sole purpose seems to be reducing numbers of wildlife in the immediate area.

Personally I'd have welcomed that fox and given it carte blanche to 'legitimately' reduce the numbers of fowl chez nous.

1st July. Hey Joe?.....Pardon?

The fallout from this years Blues festival was that Isabelle came away with a DVD entitled The Paul Rose Rock & Blues Guitar Tutorial then bought a replacement for the missing top E string of my Stratocaster copy, missing since about 1990.

"It doesn't sound like Paul Rose's guitar is it a Fender?".

"Well he relys on volume as the main effect like Hendrix, the amp's not turned up enough."

This is going to be a difficult phase, not just for the budgies who've never heard the likes but for everyone else as well including the neighbours.

23rd June. Chester Triathlon II.

At one point my hand goes into something gooey in the water, the body of one of last years competitors?

No, I have veered off almost at a tangent into the mud of the riverbank, in the choppy grey water.

The weather is unseasonable but in a different way from last year, we seem to be experiencing the equinoxial gales on midsummer"s day.

To add emphasis, by midday a tree has been blown down near the bandstand next to the swim starting point.

A couple of hours earlier and the results might have had a new reason for DNS (Did Not Start).

17th June. I Avoid The Eyes of The Dental Assistant And The Dentist.

"It's not going to be as bad as Marathon Man is it?"

"Well if you've coped before you should be ok."

We all seem to suffer memory loss when it comes to pain was my conclusion as I began to question the bravado of teeth drilling without a gum injection.

"Just this back one now."

I look between the two faces at the bright light.

The trick is to relax a bit.

But not too much that you forget not to flinch.

That would be worse than Marathon Man.

AAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIYYYYYYHHHHHHHHHHH!

16th June. Cycling - You Are The Weakest Link...

"How much advantage is there in buying a bicycle for £3000" I quizzed a fellow Triathlete who had the look of a seasoned competitor.

"Well there's very little difference between a bike for £3000 and one for £1000 but there's a big difference between a £1000 bike and one for £500."

I am consistently annoyed by the numbers of people who leave me behind during the cycling all of whom have expensive bikes.

I went straight down to the local bike shop keen to part with wads of money.

£74.95 for a pair of those funny handlebars that make you look like Superman and offer reduced wind resistance, a saving of £925.05.

"That bike in the window - the Kuota, has a carbon fibre frame and everything state of the art." says the friendly local bike shop man, "Old Neil Whatsisname bought one for his birthday last week, he was ninety-three."

"!"

15th June. Ayr Open Water Triathlon.

Stopped off at Kilmarnock services for breakie at the Clinically Obese Chef, I had a coffee whilst Isabelle tucked into a bacon omelette with hash browns and baked beans.

She needed to build her strength up for the long walk to the shops in Ayr town centre.

Competitors in rubber suits out numbered the swans which hung around like a group of neds just beyond the mouth of the river Doon.

The water was a balmy 14 degrees C. and things went well enough in the mass thrashing around although visibility was poor.

More so after being booted in the eye by someone in front.

This compressed the goggles like a sink plunger, one eyeball felt like it was being pulled out of it's socket which caused the further reduction in visibilty.

12th June. Swanning Around.

I felt it was time to force myself not only into a rubber suit but also the River Earn as some element of training for the forthcoming Ayr Open Water Triathlon.

The initial five minutes were about as hellish as I remembered, maybe more so.

Then just as I was getting comfortable, out of nowhere this swan appears.

Course the swan had never come across a man in a rubber suit before in it's own stretch of provincial backwater.

And I'd never really had a pond skaters eye view of a swan either.

Then it starts giving it all that with it's neck and hissing and flapping, taking off and landing.

There could be a nest somewhere but they're agressive like that anyway swans.

By the time my goggles have misted up I'm gettting paranoid about the swan.

Put me right off my stroke.

When I can't see it I'm thinking where the hell's that bloody swan is it about to go for me?

10th June. The Headless Chicken.

"One of those new chickens is dead." I remark.

The new chickens were thriving quite well until one had mysteriously become headless.

The body was there but the head had disappeared completely from the crimescene.

By a process of elimination there could be only one suspect with the strength to decapitate the hapless youngster, no matter how improbable...

Step forward, Mother hen.

9th June. A Climbing Accident.

"Mountaineering is inherently dangerous." as O.J. had put it.

The same could be said of Motorcycling.

Combining a round trip on two wheels of several hundred miles with a couple of days of rock climbing would serve to only magnify the risks?

Returning home without a scratch I find that, against the odds, Isabelle has been injured whilst climbing.

Climbing into the hammock.

There was a loud crack as one supporting piece of tropical hardwood split and with the principal action of a miniature Trebuchet dealt a firm smack to the side of one knee.

It could have been worse though as Isabelle had chosen to climb without a climbing helmet.

6th June. £300 To Be Shouted At.

"FIGHT IT!" shouts O.J. from above out of sight as I twirl around suspended in space, " I KNOW you can do it!"

I think I might have reached the present limit of climbing ability with the appropriately named 'Muscle Crack' graded at E1 5c.

"Have a rest then get back on."

Eventually I haul myself up like a beached whale onto a sloping rock shelf.

"I can't reach that 2nd Friend it's below me"

"WHY IS IT STILL THERE!!!?"

In the beached whale manouvre I didn't seem to have a spare hand to extract the camming device that the rope had gone through for protection.

"If I hold onto that sling I can lean over the side and probably reach it."

Mercifully I manage to yank the offending gold anodised device out of the rock thus saving a considerable amount of shouting.

3rd June. "Is It Safe?"

"Have you been flossing? Probably not? I'll need to book you in for a half hour appointment..."

"Oh gawd!"

The fact is I've kept my teeth longer than any previous member of my family be a very long margin.

Mother had them all whipped out in her twenties due to gum disease, likely from a combination of smoking and obsessional cleaning.

Father was struggling with heavyweight porcelain teeth at the age of twenty-one, after having all the nerves drilled out in some failed pre-war dental experiment.

Lucky they've got those white fillings now though.

Drill on and don't bother with that numbing injection, I hate needles.

1st June. The Walrus And Lycra.

The Walrus ended up disappointed to some extent, largely I think because Stirling decided to run everything in reverse order, ie Fastest first instead of slowest.

This new policy meant that the fittest were away and gone whilst the less fit (him and me) were still pfaffing around getting changed.

This led to the conclusion that I had misrepresented the sport of Triathlon vis-a-vis the numbers of 'fit' available women in Lycra.

The Novice event which ran last was largely female made up of not so yummy mummies, some of whom must have had difficulty hauling themselves out of the pool.

He showed little sympathy for these brave souls - "I'm worse than a reformed smoker."

31st May. I am The Eggman.

Da-da-da dah!

Da-da-da-da dah!

It's The Final Countdown.

I must say while the Walrus has been force feeding baked potatoes for carbohydrate loading, I've eaten quite a few eggs.

Not for any science in sport reasons more because there's a helluva lot of eggs at the moment.

Coo coo kachoo ka coo coo kachoo. ...

30th May. Ironman.

My secret weapon arrives for The Sunday Showdown from ebay in a padded envelope, an article that looks remarkably like an edwardian bathing suit, bearing the logo IRONMAN.

This device should pay a handsome dividend of up to a saving of one whole minute in Transition 1 by dint of emergence from the water straight on to one's bike without recourse to additional garmentry.

"What d'you think?" I ask, modelling in front of Isabelle, who is reclined in front of 'The One Show.'

"I can see your bits, it's not meant to point that way surely? You can't go about like that!"

"The cold water will cause a certain amount of shrinkage." I reply.

More Rubberboy than Ironman.

27th May. Showdown Mental Prep.

"You've no pride" admonishes Isabelle as we drive into the town, referring to the results of my recent attempt at shaving but perhaps implying a more general character trait.

"You look like Hitler with those hairs you've left under your nose."

It could be true.

Coincidentally I could do with taking a leaf out of Hitler's book.

I need all the puffing up I can get for the coming showdown on Sunday, a bit of Egotism could do me no harm.

Sporting performance is all about mental attitude, an exaggerated estimate of my own abilities allied with a soupcon of arrogant assumption of superiority ought to do it.

The Walrus will be defeated and then - we invade Poland!

26th May. "It's Not Really A Race"

Despite running up mountains with only a bag of fruit to go on as part of a last ditch training programme, the 'Walrus' claims it's "Not really a race."

Well it's an event,. a competition with ankle mounted timing chips, the times measured to the nearest second and the results published on the internet.

Barring some remarkable draw, one has to be faster than the other surely?

There's probably nothing that can be done physically now, all that remains is the mental discipline, the psyching up to Win?

This New Agey "Not really a race" thing is all part of the Walrus's strategy.

Och it's not really a race at all! I'll just take it easy, in fact if I did win I'd have only won because he let me win, so to be polite I'll just let him win after all that effort losing the weight, it's only fair.

24th May. Shame About The Face.

There's not much in the way of Eye Candy in our tour group not withstanding Isabelle and the rep who Isabelle says "Has really no idea when it comes to foundation -poor girl."

The rep is "Still waiting for Mr Right." apparently.

Logically some long sighted gent who refuses to wear reading glasses out of vanity would answer quite well.

Anyway after another boat trip with strict instructions to be back on the bus no later than a quarter to four, we are all back on the bus.

The rep walks up and down the bus in her patent high heel boots doing a head count but after several attempts concludes that two people are missing.

"It's never happened to me before!" she admits with her perfect diction. "Does anyone know who it is?"

Turns out the face lift woman and her husband are unaccounted for.

The minutes go by with the bus engine continuosly running.

Eventually a phone rings, They are at the local hospital!

Dear oh dear.

"Maybe her face fell off." suggests Isabelle.

22nd May. Moto Guzzi.

We take a convoluted trip via boat and train to visit the Moto Guzzi factory.

It seems unlikely that there could be a factory making motorbikes here in such an area of scenic grandeur right at the foot of some fairly impressive mountains and next to Lake Como.

I keep an eye out as the train pulls into the supposed town, what I'm looking for is a large modern factory covering a couple of square miles.

From the platform you can see a red sign emblazoned Moto Guzzi, "That can't be it right in the town centre it's too small."

We walk around a bit and have an argument, "Well, that has to be the factory then."

20th May. The Tolkien Express.

We are marshalled on the platform awaiting Europes highest non rack railway train along with the face lift woman and sundry trolls, smurffs, hobbits, dwarves, and wombles, in fact a broad cross section of the British retired classes.

The Little People chatter excitedly as the train wheels screech steel on steel with every twist of the ever climbing railway line, a monument to Swiss engineering or insanity.

They all seem happy enough snapping away at the increasingly Alpine landscape through the open windows.

Happy enough until the party is disgorged at some considerable elevation onto another platform covered in fresh snow which is now turning slushy.

"OOOH! I don't mind looking at it but not walking on it!" cries an ageing Hobbit woman, probably fearing another hip replacement.

18th May. On Ageing.

"That woman coming towards us has definitely had a face lift." says Isabelle of one of the other members of the tour group, this with a mix of disdain and pity, "You can see the scars behind her ears."

A woman can employ any amount of products in the life long battle against skin ageing but it seems that 'going under the knife' signals a note of desperation to other women.

Now the world doesn't really know whether she has the face she deserved or not, perhaps it's worse?

Either way there's no going back now.

17th May. How We Create A Narrative.

"They seem to be all Italians in here, locals," I say as we walk from the pissing rain into the first small restaurant down from the hotel.

The fact is the human brain is nothing more than an explanation machine and creating explanations, jumping to conclusions, is the default setting.

After half an hour with a ham and mushroom pizza it transpires that the "Italians" turn out to be a large family group of Spanish staying at the Grand Hotel down the road, an Australian couple, and the rest are English, in fact the only Italians are behind the bar.

You just can't stop it can you? "making sense" of everything, sense which in reality is nearly always nonsense.

16th May. Showdown Latest

The Walrus gave me a few pointers on swimming that he'd gleaned from some 'professional' coach at Gleneagles, otherwise it's all going to be a one horse race.

The fact is I suffer from Natural Weakness which manifests after 5 lengths in a small pool at what is deemed the right sort of pace.

However tomorrow Isabelle has pre-arranged a week in Italy for her 40th, where coincidentally the hotel is rumoured to have a pool.

"Try to get an hour in every day" says the 'W'.

To be honest it won't be easy fitting it in with all the eating I'll have to be be doing,

Still I should be alright for carbohydrate loading/bloating given the main constituents of the Italian diet.

14th May. Born To Be Tired.

"I don't understand it, it must be a mental thing, there's nothing wrong with your quads" queries the Walrus waiting at the side of the road, as I gratefully freewheel to a halt feeling more or less knackered.

This cycle pacing idea worked for about 10 kilometres, then a slight headwind and I soon lost sight of the walrus's back wheel altogether.

I'm reminded of a particular admonishment about my Fluid Mechanics course work during the college years from Mr Fiddler - "Your usual minimum effort."

Another one from J.B. Main - "Some of you lads just seem to have come in here to get out of the rain!"

Somehow I need to metaphorically work out what's going to be in the 'exam' this year then write some Dynamics formulas on jam pot labels and stick them on the back of my Commodore calculator.

12th May. Another Case of Bad Planning.

With David's words "I wouldn't ride any faster than walking pace if I was you" still ringing in one ear I set off from the Loch Aorta Hotel.

It was only about seventy miles to one of the two bike shops in the West Highlands, Charlie would be following at a discreet distance to clear up any resultant mess if or when the back tyre exploded.

It must have been the additional weight of Isabelle and her face creams combined with the raw power of the vee-twin that had worn the until this morning still legal rear tyre through to the canvas in a single afternoon.

In the other ear the words "We shut at twelve on a Saturday" seemed to be in clear opposition.

The destination drew closer, the tyre wore thinner, the deadline fell nearer, the speed crept up, the nerves became more racked...

Then the "Welcome to Oban" sign came into view.

"It'll be a hundred and fifty pounds fitted."

Forget it, I think I'm going to shop around a bit.

8th May. F.E.M.C.C. Mystery Tour.

A total of 7, 8 or 9 are signed up for tomorrows departure on this mystery two centre holiday, including Isabelle, a change in the lads weekend format.

This change is unlikely to pass unnoticed unless there has been severe macular degeneration since last year.

Isabelle normally wears contacts and is therefore eligible.

Due to a limited carrying capacity, I imagine the biggest headache will be rationalising day and night skin care products down to a manageable rucksack size.

4th May. Glasgow Triathlon.

A disappointing 1hr 29mins after being successfully nobbled by the Walrus on the pretext of a shared swimming and running training exercise yesterday.

It's widely held that the day prior to an event should be one of rest.

Och! but the cycling - just rubbish, after passing everyone in my swimming lane the effort was wasted on the never ending 4 lap bike course.

The 'Showdown' result is going to be bike dependent which comes down to just how massively overdeveloped ones quadriceps are.

Underdeveloped in my case,

The legs of the Walrus have had years of supporting the equivalent of twice my body mass.

I have some arduous weight training ahead.

2nd May. MOT.

The Lord Provost will be there along with the local press, a photographer from The Courier, family and friends, I don't know if my brother will make it up but his thoughts will be with me I'm sure.

The presentation may be televised on Reporting Scotland, naturally they'll want to interview the garage proprietor. Jonathan or David Dimbleby may want a few words, then the inevitable round of daytime chat shows will follow, Richard & Judy, The One show...

The whole drama may be given the Hollywood treatment, once the screen play has been written, it'll be called THE TEST, a typical homily of one mans triumph over adversity, inner sill corrosion siezed handbrake and a front disc imbalance, either Tom Hanks or Morgan Freeman.

1st May. The Walrus Is Looking Dangerous.

Way back then it all seemed a bit of a joke, half man half Fruit Allsorts, nothing more strenuous than searching for the DVD remote and a life threatening BMI.

I didn't even need to train as it wouldn't really be a race because he'd have to stop for a high calorie snack during transition 2 before walking round the running section, that's if he'd got out bed in time for the registration.

Now the Walrus is breathing down my neck, no longer the underdog, the daily trips to the gym are paying dividends and he doesn't even need to eat, fuelled by an aggregate of spicy chicken wings and 'All You Can Eat' Buffets.

My results from this sunday will be scrutinised for obvious weakness, which is, everything.