Are you being served?

The great Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi (Mahatma to you and I) was a wonderful proponent of offering up salient and timeless quotes; pearls of wisdom, little nuggets of incisive, purposeful gold, life's truths, that resonate and hold true as much today as they did in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

One of my favourites was something I first came across when working as the Customer Service Development Manager for InterCity West Coast trains in the mid 90's.

"A customer is the most important visitor on our premises.

He is not dependent on us. We are dependent on him.

He is not an interruption in our work. He is the purpose of it.

He is not an outsider in our business. He is part of it.

We are not doing him a favour by serving him.

He is doing us a favour by giving us the opportunity to do so."

...and so to contrasting experiences in the past week or so.

1. 'The Ugly': The Post Office, St. Peter's, Worcester

We are in the process of obtaining Indonesian passports for Milla and Louisa, who are eligible for both British and Indonesian citizenship until they are 18, when the will be required to choose whether they wish to be British or Indonesian. Sounds complicated, it is.

This involves a fairly extensive round of form filling, passport photos and documents dispatched to the embassy in London.

So, laden with all the appropriate documents (x2) I visited our local post office in St. Peter's - a post office serving a community of a significant size. Indeed, St. Peter's has it's very own behemoth in supermarket form, Tescos; a place that is open from 7:30am - 12pm with the cash till ringing continuously. St. Peter's is big.

The lady behind the counter, a middle aged woman with a bookish face eventually looked up to realise I was waiting to be served. The only customer waiting. To say her manner was brusque and officious is, frankly like saying Colonel Gaddafi has been a 'little bit harsh' on his own people.

Our exchange was memorable;


Me; "Good morning. I'd like to send these documents to London please by registered mail and include a special delivery envelope, pre-paid so they can return them please."

(Mrs Postman Pat gets two Special delivery envelopes)

Me; "Er, I don't want 2 special delivery, but to send..."

Mrs. Pat; "Registered delivery is special delivery."

Me; "That's not what I meant, I just want to send it so they sign for it..."

Mrs. Pat; "Well, you need recorded delivery. Just fill in the address on the special delivery envelope....oh, if you can sort yourself out over there, so I can serve the gentleman behind you"

I moved over, filled in the address in 30 seconds , turned round and Mr. Gentleman-Behind-Me had about 8 big parcels, addressed to Ireland, Estonia and all over the globe. Which had to be weighed.

I wasted another 15 minutes of my life listening to old Mrs. Vinegar Knickers telling Mr. Parcels that "I can't lift them...I won't if they are heavy...I've just had an operation, so I am not lifting anything!"

Mr. Parcels.."But, but..what do I do then?...."

Mrs. Vinegar Knickers, "Just put them on the scales.!..oh, they are not heavy".

Each bloody parcel had to be weighed, stamps applied and passed through to the increasingly bored and exasperated Post Office Customer Service Assistant of the Year, 1862.

By now, blood pressure rocketing, veins on head throbbing in frustration, I was ready to explode. Aha! My turn again.

"I've filled them in. Do you have an envelope I can purchase to put all the documents and the special delivery envelope in please?"

Mrs. Postman Tw*t "No. We don't sell them here."

Me; "You don't sell envelopes!....but this is a Post Office....I need to send my documents...you haven't got any envelopes.....RIGHT! I'LL HAVE TO USE A SPECIAL DELIVERY ENVELOPE THEN!!!!"

Cue more address filling (but there was no way I was moving this time) and the immortal words;

"Just put your card in...no the other way up (idiot!)...that's £11 exactly please".

ELEVEN POUNDS of the Queen's money!! To send some documents, which were not valuable, but I needed to know were received in London. 11 pounds. £5.50 for each special delivery envelope. Ridiculous. But the fact I had to pay such a large sum of money is nothing to the fact that;

• The Post Office doesn't sell envelopes in a sub post office serving a community the size of metropolitan borough of London


• I had to endure the worst kind of officious, odious, arrogant, presumptuous and p**s poor customer service outside one of Stalin's gulags
  

I should have cycled there myself and delivered them in person.

"The Good": Church House Farm Campsite, Llangain, Carmarthen, Wales

Ying and Yang. Black and White, Shoddy Customer Service and Excellent Customer Service.

To quote Issac Newton's third law of motion; "To every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction."

For every Mrs. Postman Pat, selling stamps and dispensing gruff, obnoxious service, there are people like Mrs. Freeman.

In the planning for the cycle trip to Dublin, I am organising 4 campsites in Wales, Ireland and England in addition to a night in a hotel in Dublin.

The Internet is a wonderful thing. However for everything you need information on their is a vast quantity of ideas, suggestions, recommendations, together with contrary opinions, warnings and people giving their two penneth on anything and everything.

After a considerable trawl, I decided on a campsite just south of Carmathen in south Wales, the end of the first day of hard cycling in June. 114 miles over hilly and then mountainous terrain. We will need a welcoming, friendly place to rest our aching legs by the time we roll in to the campsite.

I rang the number and Mrs. Freeman listened to my request and informed me of someone else doing a cycling trip for charity who is going to stay on the campsite. She was genuinely interested and impressed at what myself and Oliver are going to do.

I enquired how much it would be for the night.

"Well, it's ok...because you are doing it for charity, I'll waive my fee, it would normally be £24...but there's no charge."

"We can camp for free?...That's really kind of you...I never expected that...thank you so much. We are really looking forward to coming to Carmarthen."

Amazing how different people can be.

3. The Bad / So-so / OK, but wait and see.

Jury is out on this one. I have had some t-shirts designed and printed and two cycle jerseys printed for the trip. They cost a lot of money, which Oliver's company has kindly provided us the money for in sponsorship. They look really good. The t-shirts are a stand out red with a cool design on the front. I'm really happy with them.

The cycle jerseys look good too, but I have a gripe. The name and SCOPE logo on my shirt are wonky. Sloping at an angle of 25% upwards, whereas Oliver's is spirit level flat. Perfect. Is it that difficult to get something as critical as my name and the charity's name straight? Especially when they cost a lot of money.

I won't name and shame as I will be returning to the shop tomorrow to ask them to put their mistake right.

I hope they will take Mahatma Gandhi's words of wisdom and apply them to me. I expect to have my customer status respected and reaffirmed and the problem rectified without fuss. I do not expect the antithesis of Gandhian principles as displayed by Mrs. Postman Pat.

We will see. Come on Gandhi!

Frozen Meat & Two Veg...That's Why Tony Goes To Iceland

So, I've set my legs on cycling to Dublin and back in June; a summer which will be full of bright, sunny, warm days and long, blissful evenings.

The only downside to this is having to do my training and get the miles in the legs during winter.

Winters blues and pinks.

This winter in the UK has been one of the coldest since records began. An arctic spell of weather in December left nearly 2 feet of snow, temperatures down to minus 18C and a paralysis of anything remotely connected with transportation. Since the turn of the year the temperature has 'warmed up' and has been around 3C or even up to the balmy heights of 7c.

But not yesterday.

The overnight thermometer dipped to a reading of minus 8c. Despite this, I awoke with the intention of going out for a training ride - a routine spin for an hour or so around the lovely villages of Worcestershire.

Children safely off to school and with time to get a decent ride in, I changed into 'winter cycling' apparel;

Helmet with cycling beanie underneath

Sunglasses - for 'twas a bright, sunny day

Sleeveless cycling gillet, long sleeved winter jersey, cycling jacket

Long fingered winter cycling gloves

Winter cycling socks with under socks

....and of course

a pair of cycling shorts (in bottom hugging Lycra) and thermal tights (Helly Hansen, which have been to the summit of Kilimanjaro).

Job done. Toasty warm and ready to face the elements.

What's that over there...aha, it's a brass monkey!

I should suspected something was not right when, after 2 minutes on the road, I turned back and rode home, teeth shivering, cheeks freezing and breath turning into ice crystals.

I hadn't given up - I'm tough me...either that or immensely stubborn and not a little stupid.

I collected my 'buff'; an all purpose piece of expensive cloth that can fashion as a headband, neck warmer, bandanna etc. I used it to cover my chin, mouth, cheeks and nose. Now I was ready.

Off I went.

Let me digress for a moment.

Sunday night viewing on BBC2 is a liberal dose of 'man telly'. Top Gear and it's petrol soaked presenters. 50 years old, going on 5. Motoring - fast cars, silly challenges and taking the mickey out of anyone not English. This week it was the Australians. Harmless stuff and entertaining for an hour.

Following Top Gear at 9pm we have 'Arctic - with Bruce Parry'. Bruce Parry, a man who has lived with the most remote and isolated tribes in the world, survived hallucinogenic initiation ceremonies that left him in an intoxicated trance for 3 days etc etc. The guy is made of strong stuff.

This series he is spending time with the remote communities living north of the Arctic circle in Canada, Greenland, Siberia etc. It's enlightening and considering the location, extremely warm! Where's the chilly, frostbitten faces peering out of reindeer skin Parkas in minus 40C...oh, I see, this is during the Arctic summer...24 hour daylight and the midnight sun. He hasn't looked cold once.

Back to my ill-fated training ride.

I fear Mr Bruce Parry would have winced and then balked at the idea of cycling for an hour in the cold conditions I faced yesterday.

It was probably around 0C when I left at about 9:45am. However, although perceptible, the cold didn't penetrate through the layers and my exertions were warming me nicely.

Unfortunately at about mid point I began to notice a mild, stinging pain emanating from one particular region of my body.

Man Bits

There are many expressions to cover which part was hurting. Let me run through a few. (Apologies in advance)

Willy, cock , knob, John Thomas, little man, trouser snake, dick, wanger, schlong, penis (too clinical) and my favourite from Indonesia - 'burung kecil' or 'little bird'.

Forgive my coarse language.

Yes, it was hurting. Just a mild stinging at first, then an increasingly painful stabbing, stinging, burning sensation. Too painful to ignore. Usually my mind is occupied with pain coming from my backside due to saddle sores...but none of that this time. Comfortable, like riding sat on a pillow. But the pain from John Thomas was excruciating.

What the blazes was this? A quick run through of possible causes of such pain in said area...

1. Caught in a zip. No.

2. Scolded by a very hot shower. No.

3. Excessive personal pleasuring. No. (Honest).

4. Syphilis. No. (How very dare you suggest such a thing!)

5. Frost nip / frost bite.....could be...oh, no.

Regrettably, the insulating qualities of my thermal leggings are best experienced when used as a base layer, UNDER other layers of clothing (as on Kilimanjaro).

As for the thermal properties of Lycra...well. you'd be better off taking a 2 ply roll of toilet paper and wrapping it around to create a soft, strong, but not very warm pair of Andrex shorts.

I was experiencing a loss of blood to my little bird. He was freezing...literally. You may be laughing right now, but I wasn't. It was pain that I haven't felt since I was at school and had to take part in our weekly Sunday parade (it was a military school), playing the euphonium in the band, in 3C, without gloves. Sitting in the chapel after parade, the blood slowly flowed back into my fingers and I cried through the hymns and gently sobbed through the sermon.

I was in a dilemma.

I had to keep going, to get home and get warm. In the meantime, I was trying to think of how I could alleviate the pain.

The options were limited;

1. Stop, get off and rub it.

What would you think if you were driving and saw a cyclist at the side of the road, with his hand inside his shorts, rubbing furiously? It wouldn't be long until the Boys in Blue were enquiring 'Is this your bike Sir? and 'Could you please explain why you were 'choking the chicken'...down the station please....oh, and 'come quietly'. Ha ha ha...cue music to 'The Laughing Policeman'.

2. Keep cycling and get blood flowing back - 'Think sexy thoughts!'

It's freezing, wind chill sub zero, juggernauts thundering past, I'm in agony and you want me to conjure up a mental image of something titillating and sexy? You are having a laugh.

In the end, I made it home. My lovely wife Rini asked happily 'Are you OK?', expecting a cheery 'Yes, I'm fine thanks'. When I said 'no'...she thought I'd fallen off the bike or had a set to with a lorry driver.

On discovering the truth, her expression was one of bemusement, genuine concern and concealed hilarity.

Thankfully, full feeling resumed after a hot, if painful, shower and, so far, no evidence of frostbite has been observed. Well it hasn't turned black and dropped off...but it's early days yet.

So, I would seriously caution anyone thinking of cycling in freezing cold weather. Don't worry about black ice, freezing fog, or sleet and snow.

Make sure you do what cyclists the world over do in such situations.

Either stuff the Sunday Times down your shorts (newspaper has excellent insulating properties) or stay at home, put the kettle and spare a thought for the 'numb nuts' who decided it was a lovely day for a ride.

Potholes and Pain

They are back. Fact. No denying it. No avoiding them - regrettably.

The cyclists worst enemy. Not dogs, not great big juggernauts trucks whizzing past 50 cm's away from your elbow.

POTHOLES

As a geography graduate, I learnt and fully understood the principle of 'freeze thaw'. Water penetrating cavities in rocks, which then froze and expanded, widening the fissures in the rocks.

The sad fact is that 'freeze thaw' is alive and well in the roads of Great Britain. Not even a year has past since the last major 'big freeze' crippled the transport networks of Britain and left our local authorities with a huge headache in the form of roads broken apart with cavernous potholes. The coffers of the council road budgets were bled dry repairing the myriad holes that sprung up in January 2010, during the last big freeze....but then nature decided it would reopen old wounds, so to speak, and a month long Arctic freeze saw the roads split apart as if sat on the San Andreas fault during a 7.6 Richter scale earthquake. Poor local authorities.

Not to mention the poor motorists caught unawares and plunging into huge holes with a mighty crrrrack! Damaged wheels, suspensions, body work, wings and sills all adding up to a mammoth insurance claim, a heap of misery and a shock as the next premium from the insurance company rose by 56%.

But for the humble, green, environmentally friendly cyclist, the potholes are a treacherous scourge. We have already forsaken the relative safety and evident comfort of our cars to try and save on fuel, reduce congestion, keep fit and do our bit to help the planet. Noble and satisfying actions indeed. In our daily cycling activities we face a host of dangers, not the least of which are potholes. In fact, I have compiled a top 10 of dangers for the cyclist;

Coming in at number 10; DOGS

Vile, loathsome beasts that unsettle (and often unseat) cyclists. Unpredictable, snarling animals that think nothing of scaring the living daylights out of you with a vicious growl, a thunderous bark and a lunge at your freshly shaven calves.

A non mover at number 9; PEOPLE

Always ready to leap out from a pavement just as you are within 'I can't break or swerve' distance. Deaf to the sound of a hastily rung bell, or in another audio world as the MP3 blasts JLS in their ears. People also have the habit of 'filling' a cycle path by walking down the middle of a shared cycle / walking path and then shouting insults as you remind them it is actually a cycle path they are on.

A climber at number 8; RUBBISH

Broken glass, bottles, plastic bags that clog your spokes, uncollected bin bags piled up at the side of the road, ripped open by dogs and rats, cans of fizzy pop ready to puncture your wheels. Rubbish is everywhere and it is...rubbish.

Down this week at number 7; FELLOW CYCLISTS

Not the respectful, traffic light obeying cyclist. No, the 'I ride a BMX without a seat, I nicked from outside Tesco' chavster....and 'I'll ride on the paths if I want, run red lights and put everyone in my way in grave danger.' Idiots.

At 6; TREES

Trees? You may laugh, but the random twig or branch sticking out of a bush or tree can leave a nasty scratch along your cheek as you zoom past at 20mph....hence the reason to wear sunglasses too...which brings me on to....

In at number 5, a new entry for; FLIES and assorted INSECTS

Lung bursting climbs necessitate an open mouth, air gulping facial expression...the open cavity is a magnet for flies and other insects to hone in on, nestling at the back of the throat, causing immediate coughing, gagging and retching and an inevitable swallowing of our 6 legged friends. Horrible.

Up 3 places this week at number 4; CAR / BUS / TRUCK HORNS

You are happily cycling along, minding your own business, when some kind soul, frustrated at the fact they can't pass you for at least 50 metres and has to sit behind you at 20mph, oggling your Lycra clad backside, decides it is a good idea to snap you out of your reverie with a loud blast on the horn. This inevitably makes you jump out of your skin and a terrifying duel ensues to prevent you wobbling all over the place, taking a tumble and eating tarmac for lunch.

Into the Top 3 now, pop pickers...at 3; TRUCK DRIVERS

Call it skill, call it great judgement, call it downright impatience and stupidity....your average road haulage lorry driver is a carefree chap who gladly passes you on a narrow stretch of road at his requisite 56 mp/h, with barely 10cm of clearance. He's so close you can smell if he has cleaned his teeth or not (usually not) and see which CD is in the CD player (usually Barbara Streisand or Liza Minelli). If you are really lucky, he'll toot his air horn for that extra scare factor.

Just missing out on the top spot this week at number 2; CARS, THEIR DRIVERS etc

Here is a box, a box on wheels. Take normally mild mannered Joe Average, a man who would not even look at a goose, let alone say boo to it. Place him behind the wheel and press 'go'. Instant maniac. Aggressive, pumped up, adrenaline fuelled speed freak who cares not if you are on the road. This is the man who'll pull up level with you, wind the window down (presuming it is an electric window or if he has an obliging passenger) and hurls a mouthful of expletive ridden abuse. "F**kin' cyclists, shouldn't be on the f**kin roads, get out of the way you stupid t**t!".

Our hero returns home to a home cooked roast dinner, a hug for his smiling wife, a kiss for the 2.4 children, a browse of the evening paper, a glance at the weather forecast and a calming cup of Horlicks.

Meanwhile our cyclist is still reeling from the encounter with the grey suited salesman in the Mondeo road bully and shaking from the near collision caused by the driver who aggressively overtook and immediately slammed on the brakes.

....so now, the moment we've been waiting for, a new entry, straight in at number 1;

POTHOLES

They are everywhere. From the list above, it is obvious how much concentration is needed just to stay on your bike. Add to that mix, tiredness, hills, wind, rain, darkness, cold, heat, sweat, numbness, saddle soreness and it is a wonder anyone cycles at all. The last thing the cyclist needs is to be extra vigilant for potholes.

Potholes are not mere cracks. They are wide holes, 6 inches deep and 12 inches across. They don't just let the cyclist pass over with an ungainly bump and a heavy landed on the seat which damages the already numb and saddle sore 'love spuds'.

Potholes are graveyards for bikes. The road equivalent of a Ray Mears animal trap, lying in wait to ensnare the cyclist who takes his eyes of the road for a second.

Avoiding potholes is a fine art, and one that needs a lot of practice. Uphill avoidance is not difficult. The problem is on the flat and more significantly on the downhills. If you spot a pothole at the last moment, you are faced with two stark choices.

1. Accelerate and hope you can ride over it; that your momentum carries you over without the front wheel plunging in and cartwheeling you over the handlebars;

2. Swerve and pray you don't swerve into Joe Average overtaking you or unbalance and cause a disastrous wobble that sees you picking bits of road out of knee, thigh, elbow and bum grazes.

Until you have hit 40mph on a long steep descent, riddled with potholes, you haven't experience sheer terror and nerves frayed like an old rope. Your knuckles turn white, your grit your teeth until they are caked with dead flies and when it is all over, you change your Lycra shorts for a clean pair.

So, please Mr County Councillor, I would ask you to think of us cyclists. The people who free up the cities from traffic, reduce pollution and reduce the NHS budget through a healthy, active lifestyle.

STUFF THE BUDGET; ACT NOW and FILL IN THE POTHOLES!

If you don't do this one act, then you may find the cycling community post sweat stained and pube laden chamois pads from our old cycle shorts to County Hall.

As my old history teacher used to say in encouraging the boys to play the perfect cricket forward defence - 'You must sniff the leather'...(of the ball as it strikes the bat, your nose pressed down towards the willow in your hand).

Please fill in the potholes or you may be required to do the same.

Cricket, Snow & Biscuits

Welcome to the 2011 Frobiland Blog.

Happy New Year. 2011 is here and like many, my New Year's resolution has been made. Mine is simple; to see less of me and be a slimmer, faster, healthier version of myself. What's yours?





The most common question asked of me these days is;

'How are you?

It is not a loaded question, a question to trip me up, but one that usually demands only one answer 'I'm fine'. But at the moment I have three answers;

Answer Number 1

'Tired, but ecstatic

I'm tired, but ecstatic. For the last 7 weeks I have been setting a punishing schedule of 'burning the candle at both ends'. I have been sitting up into the small hours, getting to bed around 2am and then struggling to get up at 6am. Why?

To be honest it hasn't been a struggle. It has been a joyous, wonderful pleasure to watch in amazement as the England cricket team have humbled, humiliated and completely thrashed Australia, in Australia - for the first time in 24 years. Records have tumbled, superlatives have been exhausted, the English fans (the Barmy Army; a legendary force of fat, bald 30 / 40 something men, roasted pink in the scorching sun, sozzled with beer from 10:30am onwards every day, and singing 'til they are hoarse in support of the England team) in dreamland and disbelief and a nation, once meek and feeble in the face of the old enemy, now proud and dominant again. Marvellous.

The cricket has been the best, most sustained and exciting period of sport I have watched for years. The 2005 series in England was incredible, but this series was unsurpassed in how England played and how they 'took it to the Aussies' who, in the words of Dad's Army, 'didn't like it up 'em'. Australia's heads are hung in collective defeat, embarrassment and disappointment. I shouldn't gloat, but it doesn't get better than this. Actually, after the misery of the last 24 years, I should gloat, gloat until there is no more gloat left in me.

Answer Number 2

'COLD!'

I am cold. The whole country is cold. It has been cold for as long as I can remember...I am thinking hard to the last time I felt warm...er, no, sorry, I can't remember.

December was the coldest on record since records began. We had snow on the ground for 2 weeks. Not just a pathetic 2cm, but a whole foot and a half (45cm). Of course the country ground to a halt; roads, railways, airports all shut down - even the biggest shopping centre in the UK closed its door...armageddon for a month. And still we persist in the notion that we don't really need to do anything differently....oh, don't worry about fitting winter tyres on your car, you won't need them...never snows in Britain.

We have very short memories in the UK. By the time spring arrives, the Arctic sub zero conditions will be pushed to the back of peoples' thoughts and the planning and preparation for next winter will be forgotten...until we are snowed in again in November (winter is getting earlier each year...we'll soon be putting the Ugg boots and ear muffs on in July).

Cycling has not been a good option for a few weeks. The bike was covered in a foot of snow and the roads were totally lethal skating rinks. There is nothing more certain in life than this - cycling on an icy road will end in a painful heap on the floor, usually after 2 metres of cycling.

Even when I have been able to get out on the bike, it has been so cold that you need to be dressed like Michelin Man or Mr. Blobby to be able feel any protection from the windchill. How on earth do people live in Greenland or Northern Siberia?

Answer Number 3'

'Hungry!'

5 months from now, I will be in final preparation and packing for the 'Le Tour de Trois Nation'. 650 kilometres of stunning scenery, energy sapping climbs, painful, aching bodies and litres of sweat. Cycling for a week from Worcester to Dublin and back. Mountains, mountains and more mountains. I can't wait, but my legs are less than enthusiastic about it. They'll come round to the idea.

5 months to get back into shape, tone up and as Steve Miller, our genial host for 'Fat Families' on Sky1 says...'Melt that lard'. Not that I am anyway near overweight, despite the Christmas and New Year festive season. I was restrained as to my chocolate intake this Christmas - knowing that what I put in I would have to burn off come January and that would mean extra miles on the bike or extra miles pounding the streets jogging.

That said, the Frobisher waistline could do with shedding a couple of inches and as my lovely wife Rini points out (regularly), the only leftover from the Christmas turkey is on my neck, and sagging towards my chest.

With each of my challenges, I embark on a strict diet that consists of the following restrictions;

• A biscuit ban. Did you know that 1 chocolate covered digestive contains 3.9g of fat, which is 6% of the RDA (recommended daily allowance)? Me meither, but I just read it on the packet. Food for thought, literally.



• I am allowed 2 biscuits on a Saturday and Sunday - boy do they taste good.



• Chocolate limitations. Yes, my old friend Mr C.H.Ocolate and I are having a trial separation....we briefly reunite at the weekend for a salutary / solitary Mars Bar, before a tearful Sunday departure.

Deprivation. Self imposed this time. It is a bit like being at boarding school and leaving for at Exeat (mid term weekend) break, leaving the Draconian cloisters of the school dining room, stringy meat and lumpy egg, a clear broth tea, powdered milk (I think it was Daz Automatic) and chickory coffee [I jest not], going to my grandparents in Eastbourne for a feast of Viscounts, Clubs, Taxis, cake and superb dinners and the long fateful, depressing drive back to Slopsville, Dover.

• Less on the plate, less in the tummy, less on the scales
  

Bob Marley once sang, "Dem Belly fully, but we hungry"...appalling grammar, but the lyric is a powerful indictment of the rich, greedy few at the expense of the poor, hungry and weak in society.

Although not as socially insightful, I have found recently 'My belly full, but I'm hungry' to be a recurring feeling. As part of the 'Get Fit to Ride' diet, I have actively sought to cut portion sizes down, resist second helpings and - most importantly - learn to ignore the hunger pangs and cravings for sugar in the evenings.

I remember someone saying it is not a bad thing to go to bed feeling a little hungry - better than stuffing yourself with sandwiches and biscuits 20 minutes before your head hits the pillow. Not only that, I learnt a blindingly obvious snippet of information last night.

Drinking water is good for you...but it also helps you lose weight by making you feel full and not hungry.

I don't recommend a 'water only' diet; that would be silly and something only found in 'The Self Help Guru Guide to Becoming Size Zero in 2 Weeks' (published by Claifornian Fad Publications, written by A.N. Idiot). However, I would suggest something not entirely new....3 reasonably sized meals, a healthy intake of fruit and veg (I rarely eat meat, so this is not a problem), cuttting out the snacks and biscuits and drinking 8 glasses of water a day, plenty of exercise and Bob's your thin uncle. Not rocket science, so why haven't I heeded this advice before?

One word - sugar. It pervades everything. Sugar is everywhere and it is addictive. Like most English people, I have a sweet tooth and a tooth dead from root canal treatment in 1996 caused by too much sugar in my diet.

To quote Lord Alan Sugar...'It is with regret, Sugar, ...you're fired'.

So that's it. Together with the cycle training, jogging and weights, Tony's recipe for a slimmer, muffin top free body. The only thing left to do to reduce weight is to shave off all body hair....could be at least 5kg saved. Where are my clippers?

Don't forget to sponsor me in my efforts to raise £4,000 for SCOPE, the UK's leading cerebral palsy charity. Thank you.

www.justgiving.com/tonyseverestchallenge

Frozen Bits and Frosted Peaks...The Malvern Hills Biathlon Challenge

Friday 26th November 2010...Malvern Hills Biathlon Challenge

...and so my big day had arrived. I'd been getting ready for this for some weeks now. I was excited, keen to get going and eager to test myself. Little did I know how tough it was going to be....

I woke up at 5:30am and fortified myself against the impending freezing cold of the coming day with a mug of tea and a bowl of porridge. For some reason, I had ended up deciding that today would be the day I set off to attempt the Malvern Hills Biathlon Challenge. The details of which were:

____________________________________________________________________

Worcester Cathedral - Bromsberrow (17 miles cycling to south end of the Malvern Hills)

Bromsberrow - Malvern Link (8 miles hiking end to end Malvern Hills)

Malvern Link - Worcester Cathedral (8 miles hiking)

Total Number of Entrants: 1

Total Number of Support and Organisation Staff: 1

Total Number of Finishers: 1

____________________________________________________________________

Not the biggest field ever assembled, but I was guaranteed to finish first (unless I failed to complete the challenge).

I was supported, as always, by Simon Whitton, my best friend spanning over 30 years. Simon is a man of many wonderful attributes, one of which is a tremendous capacity to be patient whilst waiting for me to drag my weary backside over hills, mountains and many a mile on foot or bike. He passes the time frequenting the charity / book / map shops of whichever region we happen to be in. But he is ever present, ready with a supportive word, a puerile joke and a cup of something warm to keep me going.

Simon had arrived the previous evening from Cardiff bearing a 2 litre plastic carton of goats milk. Not your normal gift, but there you are...actually the poor chap has a dairy intolerance and has to now forego butter, cream, cheese, cow's milk, cake, biscuits...I swear he is getting thinner by the day.

I'm waffling a touch...on with the day;

I left the house at 6:45am to cycle to the cathedral...the traditional start and end point of my challenges. As soon as I left and cycled down the hill, I realised it was not going to be a pleasant ride that morning.

The air temperature was a refreshing (!) -3 degrees Celsius...that's MINUS not 'dash' THREE Celsius. Add the wind chill factor and we were talking minus 7 C. Almost immediately I put on an extra jacket and wrapped a scarf around my face.

I enjoy cycling in Lycra shorts, feeling the wind whistle between your legs. Not today, On top of the shorts were thermal leggings and I had on 4 top layers, 2 pairs of gloves and 2 pairs of socks, thermal hat and helmet.

It was so cold. The coldest conditions I had ever faced on a bicycle.

I reached the cathedral and commandeered a passing council bin man to take my picture, before pressing start on my stop watch and heading off across glorious Worcestershire, through the villages of Callow End, Hanley Swan and across Castlemorton Common to the south end of the Malverns.

It was bitter, but I was well insulated, except for two regions...my toes and, how do I put this delicately, my little man, John Thomas, my trouser snake.

"Bloody hell my toes are like ice....and why the heck didn't I wear that Willy Warmer?"

I stopped for a few pictures of the beautiful autumnal sunrise, though the rising sun didn't really raise the temperature, but it helped raise my spirits.

Eventually I found the start point of the walk along the Malverns, a quaint hamlet called Bromsberrow. But where was Simon? No sign of the old boy. 5 minutes went by, then 10, then 15. He must have been taking a bit too long over his weetabix and goats milk. No answer on his phone......I was really freezing now that I had stopped pedalling. Then I got him on the phone and he was a minute away.

Now for the real test. I can cycle all day, I like the fact that the climbs are rewarded with descents and flat roads you can rest and recover on. Hill walking is different. The climbs hurt, but so do the descents - particularly if they are steep; your toes kick the end of your boots, your knees jar and you trip and stumble over rocks, roots and dead sheep.

The Hills Are Alive....

Off we go then. 8 miles up and down, up and down and repeat. The first hill was a gentle introduction to the second - a real steep beast of a hill. Ragged Stone Hill. I ploughed on feeling remarkably hot with the effort of climbing steep gradients and then descended off Midsummer (oh, the irony with the nut numbing cold of the air) Hill....and promptly got lost.

How can you get lost when all the Malverns are, are a saw tooth ridge of prominent hills? But I did. Into a dark forest, no signposts or indications where I was. The map I had was useless; or maybe it was me. I trudged along forest tracks, many of which were flooded and frozen solid. I even lost sight of those bloody great big hills I was supposed to be walking along.

I had a vague feeling I was going in the correct direction, but there was a sense of something eerie in the forest. I was afraid the Hillbillies of Malvern were tracking me and waiting to jump out and ambush me, in a homage to that superb 1970's adventure thriller 'Deliverance' -with Burt Reynolds, John Voight and Ned Beatty. If you are unfamiliar with the film, it is infamous for the scene in which Ned Beatty (a large, chubby American actor) is taken hostage, made to remove his clothes and is assaulted by a particularly unpleasant Hill Billy (and I don't think he had washed that morning either).

"You got pretty little ears boy, you take off them clothes, I gonna ride you like a pig.....SQUEAL PIGGY, LOUDER BOY"....The first time I saw this film I thought, "Bugger me!"....

I quickened my steps as I could see and smell wood smoke nearby and closed my sphincter tightly in anticipation of being told to 'Squeal like a piggy...louder boy'.

For this reason I now scrambled up a very steep slope and found my way back on to the main path along the ridge. There was a party of teenagers on a school trip inspecting the Clutters Cave (not a euphemism - thankfully); a cave close by the Roman settlement of British Camp; my lunch rendezvous location. They all politely bade me Good Morning and cleared the path for a slightly wild-eyed and dishevelled lone hiker, puffing and panting with over exertion, who had emerged from below the ridge and out of the forest. No wonder they looked worried.

Lunch. British Camp car park.

A few hastily made sandwiches, a mug of coffee and the second Mars Bar of the day. It was nice and warm sitting in Simon's car and I could easily have closed my eyes and gone to sleep; except for the fact that I was against the clock, people had sponsored me to do this and day light would be disappearing in a few hours time. Better crack on. Out into the Arctic winds of Worcestershire once more.

It had barely gone above freezing the whole day and the bright blue sky and beautiful sunshine of the morning had evaporated to a low cloud which spat a few flakes of snow at me as I set off on a very familiar stretch of the Malverns. I had walked this section many times, but this time there was one huge difference. My speed.

I was going so slowly up the steep inclines. Hills I would normally skip merrily up and down were agony. I was overtaken by a couple in their 60's, wearing matching red Kagools, soft shoes and the fixed grins of the hard core rambler. I shuffled along, pausing for breath every few steps...I don't remember being this exhausted on Kilimanjaro.

Maybe my slowness was due to the early start, cold weather and low energy reserves (mars bars and cheese sandwiches cannot sustain an endurance athlete).It could also have been down the painful knee I was nursing after stupidly falling off my bike two days before the challenge.

Two nasty grazes on my right knee and a spot of bruising to the knee and hip. Maybe it was just age, but my knee was starting to whinge and moan, just like other bits had done on the cycle ride that morning.

I reached Worcestershire Beacon, the highest point on the Malverns and began the descent to North Quarry car park at the north end of the Malverns where I would again meet Simon and pick up my bike for the return ride home. It was a fairly uneventful descent, despite a couple of slips on the icy paths. I was relieved to see the clock tower on West Malvern Road and ready to get on the bike and get home. By now, every bit of me was sore and my sense of humour had been left somewhere in the Hill Billy forest.

A quick cup of tea and some dextrose energy tablets, a change of clothing and footwear and I was off on the 30 minute ride back to Worcester. Of course, there was a sting in the tail...or rather the face. Coming out of Malvern you shoot down the A449 past the fire station and through Malvern Link for a good 2 miles, reaching speeds of over 30 mph (and therefore breaking the speed limit - on a bike!!), before the road flattens out.

Combine 30+ mph and sub zero temperatures and you get a stinging, eye-watering, painful, frostbite causing windchill. I thought I had been cold, but nothing compared to that descent. I fixed my scarf around my nose, mouth and neck, adjusted my sunglasses, pulled the hat and helmet down tight and created a reasonable impression of a 'two-wheeled terrorist' (with backpack) as I sped down through and out of Malvern.

30 minutes later I was exchanging pleasantries with the traffic of Worcester and leap frogging the 'school run jams' to arrive safe, cold, exhausted and hungry at the cathedral. For the third time that day I waited for Simon and the ubiquitous photos that mark the end of another successful challenge.

It took slightly longer than I had expected. 7 hours 31 minutes. But factor in the cold, the terrain, age, injuries etc I did it in a reasonable time. I was satisfied with my achievement and of course, very happy that I had again been able to complete a challenge and raise vital money for SCOPE.

As I collapsed at home with a warming cup of tea and a hug from Rini, Louisa and Milla (Louisa said 'Well done Daddy for cycling') my thoughts turned to June next year and the daunting prospect of my next challenge - Worcester to Dublin and back by bike.

I am sure that after that challenge, just like at the end of the Malvern Hills Biathlon I will be in a similar state to Ned Beatty in Deliverance. Buggered.

If you can sponsor me and help SCOPE continue their excellent work in help people with cerebral palsy, please click the link below. Thank you.

http://www.justgiving.com/tonyseverestchallenge

To see pictures of the challenge click the link below

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=253490&id=717335212&l=67979b6d84

A right old pain in the neck

Picture the scene...

A couple of months after banging my head on the car while putting my daughter's child seat in the back and hearing a very audible 'crrruuunch' in my neck, I am sat in front of my Doctor with an irritating, at times uncomfortable, clicky neck.

After a cursory examination (lift your head up, now down, to the left and now the right...mmm, aha) my doctor waived away my concerns as follows;

"You're what..er, 42 now. Well, you know, you're getting older. Joints are allowed to click..knees, elbows, necks. I don't think you need worry..it's just age. But come back in a month if it is not any better.

Reassuring. You're old, get over it and stop whinging.

A put my nagging doubts to the back of my mind and started thinking about resuming fitness and stamina training...cycling, running etc. I then came down with the first of two bouts of the common cold (the second of which I am still recovering from). The common diagnosis for this is;

MAN FLU

Cough, chills, sore throat, viral laryngitis and loss of voice, headaches and general lethargy.

Anyway, I recovered enough to decide to venture out for a run. Big Mistake!

I ran, well plodded, my way around a 4 mile circuit and then went off for a 45 minute cycle ride. Lots of exercise, calories burnt and a happy glow of satisfaction. The 'happy chemicals' - endorphins - whizzed around my body and all was good with the world. Until I woke up the following day.

I woke with a stiff neck, not just your usual 'I must have slept funny' stiffness, but a constant throbbing ache and an inability to turn my head to the left or to raise or lower it without a searing, sharp shooting pain - as if I was being held in a slowly tightening vice.

The day went on, the pain worsened. I was doing a fine impression of Frankenstein's monster, minus bolts.

I took myself off to the doctor for an appointment Monday morning, still stiff and in a lot of pain. A word to the wise....it isn't a good idea to cycle or drive when you can't look over your shoulder.

After a more thorough examination, my doctor (a different one this time) informed me that he was referring me for 'URGENT physio' and would value the opinion of the physiotherapist as to whether I may have a prolapsed / slipped disc in my neck.

I did a very stiff double take..."Er, so it could be a slipped disc in my neck?" Great.

Luckily, I was able to see the physio after only a couple of days and the diagnosis was more favourable. It wasn't a slipped disc, but I had 'instability' in my neck. Instability? You mean my head is about to wobble all over the place and could fall off like a Lego person?

What it means is that , because of the blow to my head, I have put the muscle into misalignment. Therefore the muscles in my neck are not working efficiently, or as they should, causing inflammation and consequent stiffness and pain.

It's almost 2 weeks since the pain and stiff neck occurred. Thankfully, I have more movement now and slightly less pain - but the nagging pain is never far away. It still hurts a lot to turn my head to the left. Two sessions of physio have helped and I have some exercises to do to try and stretch and strengthen my neck muscle., They hurt too. Honestly, being a physio is a job for a sadist. Their instructions are usually along the lines of;

"OK then, put your head over to the side, now try to turn it as I push against your head with the power of Hercules and The Hulk combined...and relax...oh, sorry, did it hurt?"

So, I am currently suffering a little. The man flu is annoying, but I'm over the worst now. My neck hurts and movement is restricted, but it should be right in a few weeks.

In the meantime, as the wind and rain, cold and fog envelope the UK and we plunge headlong into Winter, I am a week away from dragging my slightly out of condition backside off the sofa and setting off on a 6 hour biathlon. 25 miles cycling and 9 miles walk / hike / jog along the length of the Malvern Hills

.

It's going to hurt...it already hurts. But.....there's no buts. I can, and 'inshallah', I will,

Wish me luck.

Cricket vs. Cycling....a tough choice.

In a few weeks from now, one of the great sporting contests gets underway - The Ashes. Cricket's ultimate enduring rivalry. England take on Australia in Australia over 5 Test Matches, in front of a partisan, enthusiastic home crowd fuelled on beer and sunshine; eager to 'bash the poms' and armed with a sackful of witty barbs and searing insults for the closest English cricketer in their vicinity.

Proper sport. Bring it on.

What has The Ashes got to do with my upcoming cycle challenge? How can a game of cricket possibly be connected to me struggling up mountains on the way to Dublin and back?

The answer is that the Ashes are going to seriously impact on my training schedule. Given a choice between plonking myself in front of Sky Sports 1 at 3am with a fortifying cuppa and a bowl of porridge oats for five days running or getting on my bike for a 25 mile (40km) training ride in storm force winds, pouring rain and freezing temperatures, I am very worried that temptation will see me bleary-eyed at 8am and in no state physically or mentally to don the Lycra shorts and head for the hills.

Why is Australia so far away? Why do they have to play the games at such a ridiculous time (10 hours ahead of the UK)? Unfortunately, this means that the die hard England cricket fan who hasn't remortgaged their home, sold their Grandmother for medical experiments or held up the local post office in order to fund a 3 months drinking tour of Australia's finest hostelries and 25 days of test match cricket, has to struggle to stay awake in a vain effort to watch every ball bowled.

It's not as if there will be much else on the TV to keep you awake during the tea interval (about 3:30am UK time)....it's all Infomercials for stuff you don't need and Abdominal work out machines that get you ripped in 3 days with only 5 minutes gentle exercise a day. (Mmm, only £99.99...where's my credit card?).

You may inadvertently stray to channel 965 between overs whilst checking out every one of Sky's multitude of channel choices and come across some large lady, bereft of clothing, wiggling her huge jugs and looking as bored as hell waiting for some sad bloke to pick up the phone and spend £5.99 a second to talk to her. (Mmm, only £5.99 a second...where's my credit card?)

The only answer is for England and Australia to play the Ashes matches at a location midway between our countries and in a time zone that is more conducive to the daily habits of all armchair supporters. A brief glance at the map leads me to the conclusion that Kazakhstan is a strong favourite.

There has been a recent penchant at Twenty20 matches for scantily clad dancing girls on podiums to dance manically at the striking of every 4 or 6 or the fall of a wicket. A match played in Almaty, Kazakhstan could have the same idea. A collective group of Borat lookalikes in mankini's leaping into a merry jig as the ball hits the boundary rope...and their balls hit the advertising hoardings.

I apologise to my friends from Kazakhstan. I actually do have friends from Kazakhstan; former students of mine who I taught English. They are all lovely people, very genuine and kind, nothing like Borat's stereotype of ignorance and stupidity. However, they are all bemused and angry at Sascha Baron Cohen's depiction of their nation. One of my students said to me during a lesson on the 2nd Conditional (for imaginary or hypothetical situations)...

"If I met Borat, I would kill him". My response..."Er, thanks Dmitry, excellent use of the second conditional, perfect grammar...well done and I hope this remains hypothetical and you do not ever meet him". From the steely monotone and cold look in his eyes, I believed him.


Back to the cricket. It's inevitable that the cricket will get in the way of my training. It is going to be hard to tear myself away to go out for a ride when Kevin Pieterson is at the wicket, 125 not out, or Stuart Broad has Ponting's men reeling at 65 - 5. But, I have to be serious and take the opportunities to train when I can.

I will have to forsake the odd session live and catch the highlights. I will have to pass on the insightful TV commentary of Botham, Bumble and Warne for the mellifluous tones of Aggers, Vic Marks and Sir Geoffrey Boycott on Test Match Special on the radio.

I will look out the window and remark that 'the weather looks rubbish', but will force myself to get out on the bike and put the miles in.

I have to. Cricket or no cricket, 410 miles / 650 km is a long way to cycle. I need to be fit and ready for this challenge, the toughest one I have set myself. As someone once said;

'Fail to prepare, prepare to fail'. There are too many reasons why I can't allow that to happen. And I'll even try (I said try) to tear myself away from the Ashes. Promise.