25th June. Camping Pylone & The Bad Burger.

"You can get a burger for €2.50 over the road trumpets the Otter, I vote we eat there."

"There's never anyone sitting there, you don't know what you're eating, I don't want to be ill."

When they say Burger at the Camping Pylone restaurant they mean burger only, a big brown thing nestling on a bed of fries, no bun.

Just around the time of the dawn chorus I could feel the In-House Pylone burger sitting like I'd eaten a lump of Uranium. "If I try not to think about it I'll be alright", mind-over-stomach sort of thing.

Isabelle had gone to ablute when I turned over and my eye fell on her pizza box from last night or was it the night before that, anyway it acted like a vomit trigger.

I caught the eye of the Swiss German over the way as I discharged what looked very like cocoa flavoured traditional porridge through the unzipped tent flap.

"Didn't you hear me?" I asked of the Otter

"No."

20th June. 7 Days Till D-Day.

Only a week to go and I'm looking forward to Ironman France about as much as wading ashore on Omaha beach.

Completion of the race will give 2 simultaneous category wins.

1st overall with one kidney.

1st overall with steel framed bike.

 

19th June. Endless Moan About Ironman France.

What with getting Mother cremated and so on, not to mention the continual financial effort keeping body and soul together, the 30 week Ironman training program has suffered.

Meanwhile The Otter continues to eat huge meals and have a lot of sex whilst claiming to never run out of breath, it's pretty much a foregone conclusion like the latest result at Stirling a +2min victory reduced to a -4min defeat in the space of a year. (Bastard).

In fact I'd like to take issue with the Fink program in its entirety - "Follow this to the letter and you'll be competitive?" 

Willhehellaslike!

I  feel about as strong as a kitten with M.E. True I've been knocked down with the latest cold virus but all the same...

"It's all in the taper" promises The Otter. 

To the uninitiated the taper consists of doing very little in the last week (apart from eating and having a lot of sex, no change there) then we can reap the rewards of all that training (yawn).

8th June. Your Cremation. FAQ's.

"See it'll be quite a small coffin, we make them to measure, isn't it?" said the very Welsh undertaker.

"Chipboard?"

"Yes, veneered."

"Plastic handles?"

"Yes, you see all that goes."

"Yeah?"

"Well it's the fans, isn't it? forced draught..."

"So what are the ashes that are left?"

"Well, basically that's just the bones, isn't it?  They go in like a tumble dryer with heavy steel balls and that crushes them, see? Will you be wanting the ashes?"

"She wanted them scattered on the Mersey. So what happens to the stainless steel? She had a replacement knee and a hip."

"Well, I'm coming to that bit, see. There's this new EU regulation we have to offer the stainless steel parts to the relatives, isn't it? I don't understand it myself but can you sign here?"

"Well I was wondering about polishing it up and mounting it, sort of a conversation piece."

"I don't think that would be a good idea, would you? No one's ever asked that before."

My brother chips in - "I wanted to ask you if it's true or not, a few years ago I was on holiday and there was a bloke who was a Funeral Director,  he said so long as you've got a Death Certificate you can take the body up to the Crem in the boot of your car and they'll do it for fifteen quid is that true?"

"Well, technically yes but I don't think that would be a good idea isn't it?"

1st June. Gone.

"Gone." was the only word my brother said when I answered my mobile, referring to Mother of course. 

This was actually in a dream I had  a few weeks ago.

In reality the conversation followed much the same lines - "passed away" - a slightly more long winded version of "gone'.

Yes so Mother is finally away to demand to see the manager in the sky.

1915 - 2009

23rd May. Care Home Latest.

"I don't think she's going to come out of it, to be quite honest." says my brother during tonights pre-arranged phone call about Mother's  recent stroke.

 

That's life? as they say.

 

22nd May. Public Liability Claim.

"In all the years I've had the bike shop I've never known anyone to get a penny out of the council for damage from going into potholes." says our man as he spins my wheels each one with a pronounced dent at one point in the rim. "i can't see them taking any notice until someone's been killed!"

I limp out of the shop as fast as possible so as not to miss my appointment with Dr F.

"Another cycling related injury I'm afraid."

"Let's have a look then... yes... these will all heal up and the tightness in the calf should go, if any of the wounds become infected come back in. That's it all recorded, left forearm, left hip, left knee, left ankle and left calf muscle"

Dr F. continues...

" Hit a loose manhole cover caused £600 worth of damage to the car, took a photo with my phone and wrote a letter to the council... received a cheque for the whole amount."

Well, you don't know what to believe, but we shall see.

11th May. Bute Balls Up.

Thanks to the wonders of modern technology Strathclyde Police can easily ascertain the status of any vehicle.

" That's £60 for each offence sir,  payable within 28 days. Failure to pay will result in a report being sent to the Procurator Fiscal, Do you understand this?"

"Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you... blah blah...etc etc"

The Bute Triathlon was turning out to be one of the most expensive events so far, possibly more than Ironman France but we shall see.

I came in with a creditable 1hr 12mins, one minute faster than the Otter, at the same time apparently finishing 2mins 45 secs behind the Otter.

To put it in very simple terms, it's either a warp in the Time-space continuum or something to do with ladies and stopwatches? 

9th May. All Aboard For Bute.

Another chance to show that ex-lard arse exactly how to run a proper race as the ex-holiday isle of Bute welcomes competitors once again.

It'll be a different story of course halfway through the swim in the choppy chlorinated waters of the local swimming pool. 

Thoughts will inevitably turn to  "What's the point of all this."

This is nothing more than a symptom of our old friend Natural Weakness. 

 

 

3rd May. The Nettleman.

Fink recommends entering a Half Ironman at the end of week 8.

Hence "The Nettleman" a 'race' held locally, with only one other competitor. 

Then the 'other' competitor who was, by all accounts, enjoying the fruits of a new romance first thing, turned up halfway through the bike, promptly broke a spoke on the first incline of the Ballbreaker, then disappeared to the cycle shop.

The Other competitor reappeared an hour and a half later at the start of the run, managing to break off from txting long enough to get under way. We met Isabelle coming down from the bus stop who made fun of the gay sports apparel.

The 13.1 mile run route followed a clearly defined path according to the Ordnance Survey of 1973 possibly 1957, inevitably the 'path' petered out on the banks of the Tay. The run degenerated into a farce involving bare legs, new season nettles, old brambles and getting lost amongst a swamp of bullrushes.

"This river don't go to Aintry.

You boys done took a wrong turn.

See, this here river don't go nowhere near Aintry."

26th April. Know The Game - IT'S FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE.

Thought For The Day:

There's about as much chance of completing Ironman France before the cutoff time as winning the National Lottery when you've never bought a ticket.

That's defeatist talk though.

I am a defeatist.

Therefore IM France could be a life changing experience, maybe a life ending experience.

Logically, finishing can mean one of two things:

Either there's going to be a huge improvement in the remaining 9 weeks of the Fink training programme or

it's going to be very, very...

PAINFUL.

23rd April. Futureshock.

My brother is busy with one of those rows of seven clear plastic boxes with the flip up lids that your GP will give you when you get a bit older, filling each one in turn with the same number and variety of pills that look like Smarties and Tic-Tacs.

"Is that your 5 -a- day?" I ask wittily.

"No,  7-a-fucking-day."

22nd April. Speech Therapy III. - Pitch Variation.

"Brad and Angelina are splitting up" says Isabelle

"No way!" I reply 

or rather "No

                       way!"  

 

21st April. A Test Of Faith.

Going by the latest, The Otter seems to have succumbed to the "More must be better" maxim popular with the average masochist.

It's an attitude, looking back, that certainly paid off handsomely with spicy chicken wings and the like.

But not according to Fink.

It has been rumoured that The Fink just wrote that book with a lot of easy training schedules just to boost sales by giving every Tom Dick and Harry the idea that they too could complete an Ironman.

And of course still fit in a three hour commute to Lehman Brothers, three kids an 'understanding' wife and a live in mother-in-law to boot. 

And it doesn't really matter if you've had an injury most of it's mental anyway.

Well

Fucking mental anyway.

19th April. Fink Not Think?

I hear The Otter didn't completely drop dead at the end of his first marathon, unlike that  Greek fella.

Decided to forgo this indulgence of chasing E.H. round the shores of Loch Linnhe, well actually I didn't decide anything, it's just not in The Fink's training plan.

In fact I don't have to think at all,  just follow blindly on and have Faith in Fink it's a bit like joining The Moonies except I'm damned if I'm spending a penny on anything to do with Triathlon.

"Special"  shoes specifically for Marathons  £85  or whatever? 

Mmmmmm....

14th April. Know The Game - Wanker!

I'm not too bothered about being beaten again as it was by 2 mins, luckily this still seemed to worry The Otter - "The differential has reduced" he moaned, ie from 4 mins.

It was P.J. a long term Cyclehead who informed me that "Triathlon is the last refuge of The Wanker." 

I judged this a little harsh, at the time I was wondering how exactly to justify to Isabelle the buying of a carbon bike but then I'd never have come to know this new and excellent game! 

There's a lot of sport to be enjoyed with Wanker! as no one else would be seen dead on a Raleigh, even the Otter favours the Loctite/Carbon Special-ized.

The game consists of gaining on someone out of breath from the swim, needless to say on an expensive bike, the more expensive the better, then sprinting past them.

One young chap on a brand new full carbon Kuota complete with aerodynamically shaped helmet fought back uphill choosing from one of god knows how many gears bleating "You're embarrassing me!"

...Only to be immediately taken again on the crest of the downhill!

Wanker!  

11th April. In With A Chance.

The Otter has been deliberately enjoying a couple of weeks of self-abuse just to rub my face in the fact that despite  "blah blah blah..." come tomorrow he'll still manage to beat me by whatever number of minutes.

I have, on the other hand, been following the Fink training plan to the letter and also ate an Avocado last week, which in my book, counts as a 'healthy' diet as part of a '5 -a-week' fresh fruit regimen.

I must say though I've never been quite right in the bowel department since a macaroni cheese on the Calmac Ardrossan to Brodick ferry about a month ago. 

Apart from that I've got everything going for me.

Losing tomorrow may be simply mental weakness or feeble-mindedness, if you like.

 

5th April. Endorphins? What Endorphins?

I hear The Otter is on a natural high and looking for sponsorship from Loctite after the success of gluing that "Carbon" bike together.

Talking of Carbon bikes,  I've realized one of the few things in life that seems to release any discernible endorphins is passing someone else in a race, especially if they're on a more expensive bike and younger or bigger.

Being passed, especially by women, older men or the formerly obese conversely causes a black cloud to cover the sun.

4th April. The Ballbreaker- 2 Laps.

Having been lambasted for only cycling on the flat the time had come to step up and as The Fink puts it "Make friends with the hills."

Which is a bit like saying make friends with Ian Brady or any other recognized Psychopath.

The new loop unremittingly goes down or goes up, Greenbank Rd was about the only level 200 yards  and there the temptation to call in at "Young" Alistair's for food of any kind was strong, one slice of bread with marmalade had proved inadequate. 

At the start of lap 2 in a fine Scots Smirr, I could feel myself wilting like a post-coital penis and there I was hard up against the 12% hill back up to Glenfarg.

I don't know if I'm man enough for the hills behind Nice.

E.H. successful in last year's Nice event, is either a woman made out of Kryptonite and I'm Normal or she's normal and I'm just Naturally Weak...  

3rd April. Betty's Elixir.

Betty, a remarkably fit looking OAP, made a move to the shower at the end, the one that everyone says "NO That's Cold!" to any Leisure Pool newcomer before they press the button, which peversely also has a red dot in the middle of it.

Betty gets the full force.

"What's with the cold shower?" says E. languishing under a comfortingly hot shower. 

E. is quite fit looking too but probably only about nineteen, another early morning health fanatic type. 

"I'm meant to stay under it till it goes off but now there's a lot more pressure than there used to be."

"Let's have a go!" I say and step manfully under and press the red dotted button.

After about  five seconds I have to emit a shriek like an even younger girl. 

"aaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!"

But you do actually feel great afterwards.