Who my parents were

I had a trip home the other weekend. I pulled the car up onto the drive and looked at the lounge window to see Mum and Dad waving me in, just as they always do, even when I arrive late. Mum had made some multi-grain bread and a fruit cake, as she has for the past 4 visits, all stemming from an off the cuff remark about quite liking them 5 months ago (my Nan did the exact same thing with Welsh cakes for a decade). Dad is eager to show me his new iPod and is grateful for me posting him the software to get it up and running on his computer. He hasn't quite grasped the magnitude of what 80GB is though, bless him, as he has only put 2 or 3 songs from each of his 16 albums as he 'doesn't want to fill it up with rubbish.'

I settle in with a cup of tea, and we have an hour or so of chatting about how I've been getting on at work and what the family have been up to. My parents both show smiles and flashes in their eyes as they talk about how much 'the boys' - my nephews - have grown up. Myles (my 5 year old nephew) had apparently seen me running the London marathon the previous week, which was a surprise, as I had been severely hungover in bed at the time it was on. He had seen a tall blonde guy (I later worked out to be the American Ryan Hall) and had decided that it must have been me. I'm happy with this, as have recently been compared to Peter Crouch (again) and Johnny Rotten (oh dear), both of which are a level down from America's premier distance runner.

Anyway, I digress.

Dad had made a new collage of photos in the study. He does this quite a lot. There are collages of my holiday photos, my sisters wedding, and old family photos scattered all around the house. He has made a photo area under the stairs, and there must be 50 pictures there, so tightly packed that its hard to take them all in. Dad once found a picture of his mum when she was in her 20s, taken just as she was about to tee off from the 18th hole of their local golf course in Bathampton. The next week he was up there pulling the same pose, on the same tee, but some 60 years later. The next Christmas all of his siblings got a framed version of both pictures, which dad just couldn't smile enough at as he gave out.

The study collage is a little more interesting though. It's old photos of my mum and dad. There are a few photos of their wedding which I've seen before, but some new ones of them camping, my dad surfing, and playing the guitar. In an age of waterproof digital cameras and several attempts, I've never got a photo of me surfing that is as good as this one. Maybe its the black and white, maybe i can, or would like to see shades of myself in my dads youth, but they're the most interesting photos I've ever seen.

In one, my mum and dad are sat having a BBQ by the sea, which is my favourite ever pastime. My dads car in the background with the boards on the roof is the coolest thing I've ever seen. There is one of dad in a garden, with his sister and his old 8ft Bilbo fibreglass long board that I can just remember being in the loft when i was a kid. I remember stories they have told me which are suddenly more real with these pictures to illustrate them. I start to see pathways through their life to mine; memories of being a kid, sitting on the work bench while my dad fixed the car and told me every step of what he was doing - he probably learnt those skills on the car in the picture. My mum is unrecognisable, with long brown hair, looking away from the camera, probably a bit shy. It reminds me of my group of friends camping, and some of the girls being shy of a camera - I wonder what my mum was like at this young age. The photos are long before me or my sister came along, long before there were the pressures of parenting and paying the mortgage. They're just a young couple on the beach, but the same young couple who went on to become my parents, who made me, who moulded my character, to who I owe everything that I am.

I think about these pictures a lot over the next few weeks. I think about how I'm much older now than they were at the time, and what, if anything this means. I think about how much older they are now - my dad is 60 next year - and try not to think about how frail and old they currently looked with a picture of their prime to compare to. Most of all I think about the fact that they wont be around to ask me about work, or bake me multi-grain bread forever and I vow to make more of an effort to make them happy and proud.






To Mum and Dad, I love you

Voilà la conversation dans le camping

The memories of having a BBQ on the beach, with a sunset and friends stood around, nobody quite able to imagine quite how nice the moment is, will be the overriding memory of the trip.


There was lots of wine, of course, and several downpours that tested the smiling resolve, but certain hours in a holiday, and in your life just stand out from the rest.

The campsite was deserted, with maybe as few as 15 of the 200+ pitches taken, and 6 of those were filled by the tents we had just about managed to squeeze into our rucksacks. The beach was a 2 minute walk away, and unlike Le Grand Plage in Biarittz that we later visited, there were no other tourists around, so miles of golden sand in either direction was ours. We spent the days eating baguettes on the beach, trying out our school book French (much like Ant) that we remembered from Tricolore 1. We walked or bussed to a few different beaches and took in steaks and mussels, complete with miniature crabs, in some restaurants far too posh to be wearing sandy board shorts.


I also had my new compact camera, which when combined with my waterproof bag-type-thingy enabled me to get a few OK shots of some of the locals ripping the waves apart.


Then before long it was time to head back home to the inevitable post holiday blues, and sit in my room wondering if I should give up my job and go travelling. Writing this a few days later, I'm back in the groove and happy again, but it is slightly concerning how rapidly I flit between states of mind.

Similarly, the girl situation has become more complex. I had hoped that the Biarittz trip would consolidate or rule out things with The Twin, but neither has really happened, and for a variety of reasons I’m not sure where we stand, and if that place is even in the same country as to where we should be standing. I think my eyes have been opened to the fact that I’m probably not ready for a serious relationship – but I’m unsure as to whether that means its OK to keep seeing the Twin every two or three weeks, or if it would be a better thing to do to call time on it.

Anyway, this isn’t supposed to be a tribute blog to Adrian mole, so onwards we go. I’ve got the small matter of an Ironman-distance swim this Sunday which I feel hopelessly under prepared for, but am looking forward to seeing family and friends back in the homeland. June has arrived – not one minute shall I waste.

A Bientot.

Much like my Blog: crap name, good content.

Off to see Them Is Me tonight. My cousin who used to sing in the band Reef has started writing again with the Bass player Jack. Theyve got the drummer from their final albumn, after the original guy left Reef and is now in Kubb. The guitarist has also played with lots of cool people, so heres hoping they can put some good tracks together.

Like this!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7fIDbk8--js

Ill be singing this while im on Holiday next week!

Porno Pants: Episode 6

I’ve just set off on the swim and my left goggle is filling up with water. I swear at the goggle for leaking and at myself for risking changing the lens before the start. I do a length with my eye shut and wonder if I can carry on like this- its only 12 more lengths to go. Then the goggle becomes completely full and looses all semblance of suction with my eye socket. They come off my face but are held onto my head by the grey swimming hat im wearing. Soon the drag of the goggles pulls my hat off and I have to grab them both with my right hand. I try to swim with them in a clenched fist, but it doesnt work so I have to try and open open a few fingers to get some grip on the passing water.

It is not going to be a good day.

About 18 mins later and, ive made it out onto the bike leg. I’ve been cornering well and have overtaken a few guys just by not breaking so much on the bends. I go down a steep hill and see a yellow ‘Caution Cyclists! Bend’ sign some way before the bottom. I slow down and easily make it around a modest corner, and curse the organisers for warning me, slowing me down, for a nonexistent danger. A few more K’s past and I am hooning it downhill again. A ‘Caution Cyclists! Bend’ sign flashes past, and I half heartedly apply a little pressure to the brake. Then, all of a sudden, there is a very sharp bend. I force the break-pads onto the front rim, and begin to slow down, but with every turn of the wheel I am getting closer and closer to the verge. When I reach the apex of the corner my brain has made some complex calculations based around the rate at which im approaching the verge, the curve of the corner and the rate at which I’m decelerating. It has come up with the conclusion that im fucked. I get an unfamiliar sense of resignation to my fate, and I close my eyes and brace for what is about to happen.

I open my eyes and Im laying on my back, in a ditch, my head facing up the hill. I hear a groan while I wait for my senses to deliver a damage report. Nothing comes in. I stand up, see my bike lying in the road about 5 metres away, and suddenly panic that there will be other cyclists coming down the hill wanting to use the bit of road that my bike currently occupies. I walk out and get my bike, which seems, much like my legs, to be in good working order. I feel my left shoulder, which has a slight ache, and my hand returns with a few thin lines of blood on its palm, but nothing major. I decide to carry on, so clip into the pedals, wonder how they became unclipped in the crash, and pedal on up the road. Two cyclists overtake me, and I start removing bits of grass and mud from my brake levers, water bottle holder – my water bottle is missing – and front derailleur.


(My shoulder grazes this morning)

Another 10KM done now. I’m not hurt from the crash but my brain whirrs through the possibilities of what might have happened. The adrenaline in my system and gratefulness for another chance to race combine to give me extra momentum and I force the pedals round and round, zooming along the flat. The final hill looms large in front of me and I grit my teeth as I get out of the saddle to get it over and done with. Then disaster. A horrible "CRACK" and I look down to see my rear derailleur and chain having an untidy party where they shouldnt be in amongst my back wheel.

Fuck.

Fuck fucking fuck.

I get off and have a closer look. There is no hope - the rear mech has snapped in two.

(My rear mech this morning)

I try to push the bike, but it won’t even roll along because of the chain in the wheel. I can’t run in my cycling shoes, so take them off and clip them into the pedals. Then I put my bike on my shoulder and run up the hill. I get to the top and realise my bare feet are hurting from the tarmac, and I ask some spectators how far they think it is to the finish. The general consensus seems to be 5 miles, which I consider running with my bike, but my bare feet, and the state they’d be in for next weekend’s Half marathon make me realise my race is over. I swear again, not wanting to concede defeat and sit on a wall, deflated. A spectator offers me a lift back to the start and I gratefully accept – what a generous man – thank you. He drops me off at my car which I break into (my key is in the sports centre) and put the bike in.

That leaves a 200 m walk up the road to the race transition area. As I approach, the race stewards and two policemen come running over and ask me if im ok, and if ive been mugged for my bike. I explain that Im OK and have just crashed out. They ask me where I crashed and I say on a bend at the bottom of the hill with the Caution Cyclists – Bend sign, but they don’t really catch on to my irony. I walk back through the crowds in the race village and see people tapping their friends shoulders and point at me. I look down and see im bare footed, bleeding from my back and have red scratches and grazes on my left leg and arm. I go to the organising tent and tell them what happened, then get my stuff out of transition and buy some lunch.

‘Chalk it up to experience’ my dad says later that night. And I have.

What is right, wrong, complicated and simple?

Its difficult to say sometimes. It feels like only a few weeks ago that everything was rosy with The Twin. I made a special trip into town to buy new pants and condoms- a trip that occurred rapidly after a

"Hey are you coming down this weekend?"

"Yeah ill come Sat night and stay..?..?" conversation.

Then a few weeks later and not much is happening. The holiday to Biarittz is looming and the novelty and spark remains present, but the distance our homes are apart often makes the spark difficult to see, or at worse, even notice it is there.

Plus, there was another girl incident.

I went to a BBQ with AnnE, the new housemate, which turned out to be a good laugh, a few too many beers and a lot of things to think about. I set out to only have a couple of drinks, but quickly found myself getting through 6 cans, and AnnE began supplying me some of her bottles. Then there were a few shots, and we set out into town. AnnE had touched my shoulder a few times early on, made some eye contact during the BBQ, but at the time I put it down to her being friendly; looking after me as I didn’t know anyone there. Then the contact got more often and more obvious, leaning on me in the hallway while we waited for the others, an arm through mine as we walked into town, grabbing my hand as we entered the club. I was reasonably drunk by now, AnnE had drunk a few, and the other girls were ‘Mortal’ as the Geordie among them so amusingly described. It soon became obvious, even to me, that AnnE was directing the touching and laughing to end in a kiss. A few times she put herself right in front of me and gave me the look, but I broke away, surprised, flattered, confused. She asked me about The Twin- is she my girlfriend? I replied that she wasn't - that I wasn't sure what she is, or was. With hindsight, I should have said that yes she was, as it probably would have made it a more straightforward evening. I didn’t, of course, and the looks carried on to the point where a few times I had to kiss her on the lips then make a point of it only being a peck, with no hanging round waiting for tongues. The dancing and flirting continued and reached a point where I thought I have to either kiss her or tell her not to do it anymore. I pulled her off the dance floor and said something along the lines of,

"I really like you, and part of me wants to go for it, but there are some reasons why me and you kissing here in Jesters (the nightclub- rough as a bag of spanners) tonight is not a good idea. I’d really like to kiss you now (pause, smile) but I don’t think it’s a good idea. We live together, and I’m not really sure where I stand with The Twin, or what’s right and wrong here."

(if only there was a transcript of what actually came out of my mouth so I could compare!)

She seemed fine with this, and although probably a bit embarrassed, a weight of expectation was lifted from us and left us to enjoy the night a bit more. We danced to The Killers, drank a few more, had some banter with the locals and watched from the sidelines as her friends got tagged by the young guns of Union Street. Then we were walking home, holding hands. Then she pulled my hand and arm up around her shoulder. At home we sat on the balcony for a bit and I threw a prowling cat some dog biscuits. There were plenty more opportunities for a kiss, we were close and comfortably so. The boundaries becoming blurred once again. I thought in my head that I still didn’t think anything should happen, so I stretched a bedtime yawn and headed upstairs. She came over for a last hug before bed, and I gave her another brief kiss on the lips, not letting anything more happen. It was goodnight, then the next thing I knew I was awake with a hangover that bent my spine.

My other housemate, DPsyc, and me were heading out at midday to watch the start of the Artemis Transat - a single handed sailing race from here to Boston. AnnE had been out playing squash, but joined us later and there was a slight awkwardness as she came over and sat down. I asked her if she had made it up for squash, even though I already knew that she had. She confirmed what I already knew, and said she wasn’t hung over, just tired. I’m not sure if she means to include the extra meaning included in this statement.

I decided not to tell DPsyc about the nights events, as I’m not entirely sure what he’ll make of them, and maybe AnnE would feel better without me gossiping. I don’t feel like I’ve done anything wrong - in fact I'm quite pleased with myself for both having a girl like AnnE throw herself at me, and for me doing the ‘right’, or if not, sensible thing of not sleeping with her. Later in the evening we sat down and watch Indiana Jones cheese it up in the Temple of Doom, but there is no mention of the previous evening's activities.

There has been complete radio silence with The Twin for 6 days, which does leave me with a lot to think about.

I think I did the right thing. But you never really know until hindsight has taken a good look, do you?

I went out looking for prawns and came home looking like a lobster

So yeah, I did the classic British thing of losing the T-shirt at the slightest sign of sun and got roasted. Good fun day; catching prawns for my friend’s project, lunch on the beach and a quick snorkel. It was a shame the water was still a tad nippy for comfortable head holding under, but i did manage to see my first ever Greater Pipefish in the wild, which was a surprise as I thought they were a bit more tropical. They look like a seahorse that someone has straightened out:



I need aftersun.

Fun in the Sun

I haven’t ridden my bike in anger since the Plymouth Triathlon all those months ago. The tyres still have a mud coating from that day which reminds me of the wind and rain that howled past my ears on that so-called summer day of July last year.
A late entry to the Taunton Triathlon in two weeks, and a few more race entries for June and July have pushed the motivation to train on my bike up higher than the level of continuing the Band of Brothers marathon I was enjoying 40 minutes ago. I pump up my tyres, fix a hand pump to the frame and throw a spare tube, some pound coins and a nutri-grain in my little bag that sits under my saddle. I take the front door key off my bunch and wrestle the bike down the stairs, through the doors and out onto the street.

I’ve never really been a natural on the bike. When I lived in Lancaster I once vowed to do a whole year of riding to work, and managed it, often swearing under my breath the whole way in as I battled the rain, snow and howling wind. That year of riding at least five times a week definitely made me feel stronger going up hills, but in races I’ve never felt confident I can compete as well on two wheels as I can in the swim and the run. On days like to today though those competitive thoughts get left behind, and I settle into the saddle, enjoy the sun and cool air and let the smiles take over I as eat up the concrete. I catch the ferry over to Cornwall and set off up a huge hill which doesn’t reach the top of the local land until 15Ks are showing on my computer. I pedal round this clifftop road for a bit and stop once or twice to take in the view of Whitsand Bay and Mount Edgecombe. My thighs ache with the new strain put on them, but I feel alive and enjoy the hurting. Eventually I feel the need for speed and head off in direction of the downhill. My destination, the sea and ferry is visible way out in front of me, all bathed in glorious May sunshine. I race downhill trying to push the numbers on the computer up above 60 km/h. On a steep open section, where I can see there are no cars or corners coming up, I get them up above 70km/h - genuinely exciting stuff - and I try not to think about what would happen if I fell off.

I get back on the flat and quickly after that back to the flat, put my bike in the dining room and wobble upstairs to change. I put on some running shorts and trainers and hobble downstairs and try to get into a jog. My legs are still in cycling mode, so it’s hard to get a long, straight stride going as my muscles still want to go round in crank sized circles. After a few Ks they’re just about being normal again and I head back home.

Really enjoyable day out in the sun. It feels like summer already. Tomorrow I’m making the most of my job and having a fieldwork day at the beach. Life is once again sweet!