Apologies for the brief hiatus in the blogging....where does the time fly?
Since the last post (sounds a touch ominous and sombre) the winter has finally shed its bitter coat and turned gloriously into spring. An unseasonally warm April with this Easter bank holiday not spoilt by a cold, windy, overcast and wet spell of weather, but basking in 25 degrees of heat and wall to wall sunshine. Cue 20 mile tailbacks on the motorways and newspapers with 'Phew, what a SCORCHER!' headlines and photos of scantily clad lovelies splashing in the sea off Bournemouth (hotter than Nice and Athens!).
I have recently returned from that most salubrious of British holiday destinations - Blackpool. We went for a few days to celebrate the 5th birthday of my daughters, Louisa and Milla and glory be, Blackpool's sun had got his hat on...hip,hip,hip, hooray. 3 days of lovely sunshine
Blackpool is undergoing a much needed face lift with the whole of the promenade being dug up and redesigned (Reconnecting With The Sea - that's what the construction signs say anyway). The whole place is in a state of chaos, rubble strewn everywhere, thick-set males in hard hats, with every inch of flesh tattooed roaming the streets with wheelbarrows and shovels, casting lairy lustful looks and wolf whistles at 'I'm not a girl, not yet a woman' (thanks Britney) females bedecked in, well, bedecked in very little. A pair of flip flops or Ugg boots and a muffin top, a 2 inch layer of fake tan and make up and a ubiquitous fag hanging out of the corner of the mouth. Nice.
My good friend Siamak spent a number of months commuting weekly (weakly more like) up and down to Blackpool from near Cambridge, in order to work on the construction project (he's a civil engineer...it's his fault, blame him). I can honestly say, Siamak would NOT EVER choose to go to Blackpool on holiday, such are his impressions of the place. In fact, mention Blackpool and he gets flashbacks, traumatised memories and PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder that makes him rush out and buy a bag of chips and parade around with no shirt on and his belly sticking out - not forgetting the rolled up trousers, socks with sandals and knotted handkerchief on his head.
But Blackpool will look...how do I put this delicately?....a lot better than it used to or does now when the work is finished. The seafront will be transformed and the trams will run once again (they are sadly resting at the moment); but the kiss-me-quick hat and souvenir shops, the myriad fish 'n' chip shops and the dominant presence of the Tower will remain. Actually, the Tower looks a little like the Olympic torch at the moment, swathed in scaffolding and its top wrapped in blue tarpaulin.
The funny thing is, the work is not due to finish until September. They'll roll the last section of tarmac, polish the metal hand rails and unveil their glittering new promenade - and there will be no-one to see it. All the tourists will have gone home. The whole of the summer high season and Blackpool will be full of stag and hen weekends and dust and pneumatic drills. The traffic there is horrendous in the town centre too...as for parking, you'd be better off swimming from the Pleasure Beach back to your Promenade front Hotel -it'd be quicker. Shot themselves in their flip flopped foot have the Blackpool Council on that one.
Things I noticed from our stay in Blackpool;
1. Don't bother with credit or debit cards. This is the land where cash is king. Car park pay stations, restaurants and other places (ok, chip shops) wouldn't accept cards...in fact looked quizzically at me with an 'er, what is a debit card?' expression as if to say 'what the 'eck's wrong wi a bit o' brass?'.
2. The place may have gone downhill, but the people are nice. Despite the ravages of the economic crisis, the hordes of tourists flocking to Marbella and Magaluf, the lack of investment over the years, Blackpool still attracts a fair number of visitors. Mostly elderly with knitted cardigans, soft shoes, perms and an amiable friendly character; always cheery with a smile and a hello, a ruffle of the hair for the children and content with nowt more than sipping a cuppa overlooking the sea.
3. Entertainment is still as awful as it ever was. Tacky, tasteless and talentless. If Britain's Got Talent changed its name to Britain's Got NO Talent, The Hoff, Amanda 'Botox Makes Your Cheeks Stiff' Holden and Michael 'Who are these plebeian oiks....oh, this is the NORTH...I disdain your malodorous presence' MacIntyre would strike gold. Elvis impersonators, cabaret acts and fortune tellers abound. Our hotel even had a children's disco right under our room until 10:45pm. Don't kids up north have bed time limits? 10:45? Outrageous. The bloody DJ was a 'Cheese-meister' and I am sure it was 'Ray Von' out of Phoenix Nights...'Coming up now it's a bit of a do, it's Agadoo!'.
4. Sunsets are as magnificent in the UK as anywhere in the world (you just might need an extra layer or two and a warming flask of tea). Three nights and three gorgeous sunsets; the sun dipping slowly into the (radioactive - trust Sellafield) Irish Sea, a glowing orb of reds and yellows. Marvellous. Who needs to go to Hawaii. (Well, if you're offering).
5. It's a long way to Blackpool and the M6 is a pig of a road. I hate the M6, always have. Ever since I had to drive up and down it every weekend for 5 months when the children were born and had to stay in hospital in Liverpool, I have come to loathe this ghastly stretch of tarmac. The feeling, evidently, is mutual. Roadworks, traffic jams and godforsaken service stations. Charnock Richards wins the prize for the least attractive and most unhealthy. A soulless bridge over the M6 twinned at either end with your food of choice...Burger King or KFC. A haven of fat. (Not just the food; the size of the customers and you'd like to think they'd put weight restrictions in place to ensure the bridge doesn't collapse. 'Excuse me, what size are you? Size 20. And your weight? 23 stones....Get out, you're barred...here's your complimentary salad and sesame seed roll. Now bugger off tubby.
In all, a pleasant trip to as one friend called it, 'The Land of the Loo at the Bottom of the Garden'. Good title for a film / book that. The problem with going on holiday as an elite (!) athlete, is that you eat rubbish, do no training and feel a touch guilty when you get home. You've missed training and put on weight. And all for a bit of sea, sun and a bag o' chips. (But they are reet tasty lad).
Bob The Aussie Goes Climbing
I need to get a road bike. A proper road bike, light as a feather, with tyres the width of a hair. A speedy two wheeled Pegasus that will propel me uphill with ease and make my legs sing for joy, not scream out in agony.
My current hybrid road bike is a good bike. I like it, it is sturdy, yet quick and does the job nicely. It's just that it isn't in the same league as a drop handle road bike.
I know this after an enjoyable ass kicking (mine) at the hands of my good friend Bob Whitelaw.
Bob and I have spoken throughout the long cold winter of the desire to go out together. You know, take in a film, cosy restaurant, back to his for coffee.....ON THE BIKES, OK!! I know what you were thinking. So, a couple of Fridays ago we went out on a 25 mile circuit of some of Worcestershire's loveliest countryside. I say lovely, I meant hilly.
Bob is an Australian. Nothing wrong with that. He is an Aussie by way of English heritage (born in London) and something to do with Germany...Oh, I don't know. He is an AngloGermanAustralian. He is a '10 things you need to know in bed' type of guy. Cosmopolitan. He is also a bloody good cyclist - as I found out.
I have coined a new name for Bob. Bob 'MG' Whitelaw. MG? Super car..Small, light, powerful engine, climbs well and nimbly, keeps going forever. No MG as in mountain goat...as in small, light, climbs well and nimbly.
Bob has a nice Specialised road bike. Much lighter than my Trek hybrid. On the flat I held my own - just. Legs pumping like pistons but a reasonable turn of speed. On the first hill, I felt a breath of wind and was passed by a vision in black, with a pair of tourist sunglasses (haven't got any cycling sunnies mate), a curious 1980's style helmet and a whiplash of curly hair. Bob shot up the hill as if it wasn't there, leaving me pushing away against Mr. G.Ravity as if someone was holding on to the back of my cycling jersey. Bob can climb.
Why? What's the reason?
1. Weight. My bike is heavier than your bike, ergo, it will take more effort to get up a slope.
2. Weight. My body is heavier than your body. Bob is approximately 60kg. I am approximately 83kg. You do the maths. Small, light, compact body versus heavier, taller, more wind resistant body and there's only one winner. I can't even blame age as Bob is older than me. Damn.
3. Nationality. I'm British. Give it my best shot, keep going, stiff upper lip old boy. You'll get there in the end. The plucky Brit, though rarely a winner. The underdog.
Bob's Australian. I'm gonna kick your Pommie arse and make you pay for sending those convicts to a hot and dusty hell on earth, that you all now want to go and live in. Fighting spirit, never say die attitude and guts and determination to get there first (especially when there is a pub at the end). We're Aussies, we hate losing, most of all to POMMIE b**trds. Fair go ya mongrel.
The ride out was enjoyable and although it was me who picked the route to deliberately include lots of hills, by the end I wished I had chosen a wee ride around the race course by the river. Pancake flat and not a hill in sight. I was knackered at the end, but it was a good work out and an even better wake up call. Get a road bike Froby, you know it makes sense.
We broke the ride at the Talbot pub at the bottom of Ankerdine Hill, a 17% Leviathan as featured in previous blogs posts. My idea was for me to wait at the top of the hill (we approached it from the opposite direction to descend it first), while Bob cycled down and tested himself riding back up it. I knew what to expect, so wimped out this time (I was in no fit state). I also secretly wanted to see Bob suffer, let the Pom's get one over the Aussies for a change. Ah, jingoism isn't finished.
Off he went and off I went, to wait. And wait, and wait. I thought there must be something wrong and eventually set off down the hill to find out what was up. Up being the operative word. As I whizzed down, white knuckles approaching 40mph and pooing myself (it is a scary descent), I saw Bob struggling (YES!) up the steepest section. I shouted out and as he turned and saw me, he keeled over to his left and collapsed at the side of the road in a heap with a line of 4 cars behind him.
I couldn't stop and got to the pub in a fit of hysterics, eagerly waiting for Bob to arrive. He did, looking a bit sheepish, (no Aussie wants to keel over in front of a Pom do they?). He explained that he tried to go onto his small chain ring for lower climbing gears and the gears had stuck and he couldn't get a gear. Hence the reason he came to a standstill and then fell over. The fact I witnessed this was just great timing and coincidence.
Broken gears or a feeble excuse? I'd like to think it was the latter, but, regrettably, I know it was equipment, not human failure. In the words of Dick Dastardly, 'Drat, drat and triple drat!.
I'll get you next time MG Bob...but I'll be on a road bike.
