Monday 12 December 2011

Return of the Blog....

After a summer filled with sporting events, training plans, eating plans, and countless injuries (some mine, some the Frenchman's), you think I'd have had enough of fund-raising fun.

You'd be right.

But I also seem to be a glutton for punishment (chocolate too, but that's another story entirely) and it appears that a summer of hectic cycling training (the Frenchman, not me), early mornings (both of us) and pasta-induced-pot-bellies (unfortunately only I suffered with this, not him), did not teach me enough of a lesson about setting ridiculous goals in the name of charity.

And this time I'm going one further - I'm stepping out from the safety of the blog writing and taking on the challenge myself.  Merde.

In January, I'm attempting to climb to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro: that's 5895 meters, 7 days of trekking without running water, 30 anti-altitude-sickness tablets, 50 degrees disparity in temperature between the base and the summit, 5 immunisations (ouch!), and one pair of the ugliest hiking boots ever made.

Oh yes, and all of this with my dear dad who, depressingly enough, appears to be fitter than I am - at twice my age.

How the hell did I get myself into this one?!  

I can't deny I'm asking myself this question on a regular basis now: occasionally, when others who have climbed it remind me just how hard it will be, but, more commonly, at 6.45am when it's 2 degrees outside and I'm dragging myself out of my nice warm bed to pound the Bankside pavements to try and haul myself up to a decent level of fitness.

I'm not a natural sports woman (when I said pound the pavement, I did mean pound, I'm not in anyway shape or form a natural or graceful runner), I hate any form of cold (I'm writing this while wearing 3 layers with the heating on full whack) and, though I can spot a Chloe bag at 20 paces, I don't know my thermals from my waterproofs, my Colombia from my Craghoppers, or a walking pole from my Grandmother's white stick.

So why on earth would I choose to climb a mountain where I could lose my toe nails on the way down?!?

To cut a long answer to both of these questions quite short,  my father had prostate cancer.  We were lucky: he found it early, recovered well and has just received the all clear.  So we want to raise awareness. And a lot of money. This way, more families can have the same happy ending.

So in the grand scheme of things, missing a few hours sleep isn't the end of the world.  Also the exposure to the cold will do me good... I'm going to need to get used to shivering.

Not only is it insanely cold up Kili (we're talking minus 20 degrees), but also my dad and I are also going to spend 10 days, 24/7 in each others company (normally we can just about make it through the weekend without falling out over something), without a shower for 7 of them and whilst battling the effects of altitude sickness at the same time (cue awful headaches, nausea, dizziness and generally one hell of a bad mood).

Something tells me it'll be those difficult teenage years all over again, just condensed into 10 days.

Yes, I'm beginning to wonder why I didn't just have a bake sale too.....


I've now got 4 weeks left before we leave, some serious fitness to catch up on (sometimes sport and work don't go hand in hand) and a few extra pounds to gain to ensure I don't freeze into an icicle before I get to the top.

But I'm determined to get to the top.  If being a Smallwood has given me anything (apart from crazy hair... no wait, I'm the only one with that) it's a hefty dose of stubbornness.  

And also the awareness that my dad will kick my ass if I don't make it.

To keep motivated, I thought I'd dust off the ol' blog and track how I get on before January.  Though perhaps the Frenchman should be writing it this time: it's his turn to complain about being made to eating boxes of pasta, dragged on freezing runs first thing in the morning and negotiating the minefield that is reassuring a woman that zip-off hiking trousers really don't look that unflattering on her...

What did I say? 4 weeks, two days to go....?

Aaargh.

I fear I'd better make some cupcakes.  I've a hell of lot to sell if I'm going to make it to the £20,000 target...

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My dad and I are climbing Mount Kilimanjaro from the 4th January 2012 to raise money and awareness for The Prostate Cancer Charity.  It's the first of 5 challenges my family are undertaking over 2012 to raise £20,000.


If you would like to support us, please donate at:  http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserPage.action?userUrl=smallwoodfamily&faId=152633&isTeam=true 
It's quick, easy and you can gift aid it, so even more money goes to charity!!


Every penny raised will help us put in the hours in training and dig deep on mountain when we're trying to get to the top!! Every little helps, no matter how small, so please, please, please give if you can!


It's Christmas after all!!



Saturday 16 July 2011

The Final Countdown.....

"Babe....what am I going to do when this is all over?"

Only one more day to go... but I think the Frenchman is more concerned about life after the race than the race itself.

Evidently, the months of serious training and living like a hermit are beginning to take their toll (he is getting grumpy that his fast food intake has been seriously depleted; I'm getting frustrated that our fun intake has been serious depleted).  However, despite this, I can see him alternating between excitement and fear of it all being over.

He has 'said' he will take a little break after tomorrow's exertions.  But what was originally going to be a month or so of no cycling, has steadily decreased to a couple of weeks, then a week and then just talk about new races.

You can take the man off the bike.  But you will never take the bike off the man.

They will just never let go.

I would almost go as far as to compare cycling to a drug addiction (granted, the health dangers are rather different, but people DO die from cycling :-P):

- it is the reason he gets up in the morning, the thought that gets him through work and his solice when his day has been rubbish.

- his life (and therefore my life) is organised completely around his next hit; whether it's the next training session, the next race or just a few hours 'for fun'.

- every spare penny (and even the not so spare ones) goes towards it.  Far gone are the days when there was a new shirt in his wardrobe most weeks and he owned more clothes than me (at least I no longer worry too much that he is gay). Instead, our flats are fast being overtaken by bike-related paraphernalia, faster than I can tidy it away, or at least buy new shoes to balance it out a bit.

If you ever wondered why cyclists eat so much pasta, its nothing to do with the carb hit and the ease of preparation - its because it's cheap as chips and they can then save the 3000 euros for the new wheels that are only a few hundred grams lighter than the last pair.

- it often causes friction between loved ones: he can't understand why I'd rather have a lie-in than cycling; I can't understand why he'd rather go cycling than have a romantic meal with me.  Life is about compromise, but when dating a cylist you just earn to give in, there's no reasoning with a man obsessed with a bike.  They just aren't normal.

- he will never have fully satisfied his desire for it - there will always be a bigger and better challenge to search out: a steeper mountain to climb; a longer race or a faster time to beat.

- going cold-turkey would leave him completely and utterly lost, bewildered and probably send him round the bend....  at least for a while, until he found a new challenge.

I have no doubt that he will get on the pedestrian wagon for a week, maybe two at a push (he's missing junk food too much not to.), but I know him well and I know he'll fall off again in a couple of weeks:  he's already started discussing the upcoming time-trial championships ("But babe, you don't even really like time trial?" ...... "Yeah, I know, but it's still cycling").

But this is all in the future.

First, we have the next 18 hours to get through.

Tonight, the pasta has been eaten, the bags and bikes are prepared and the alarms have been set for 4:45am.  Tomorrow there's 210kms, 5 mountain passes and 7/8 hours on a bike.

He can't train anymore and I can't do anything more then kiss him goodluck, put on his yellow jersey with his name printed on the back (in the hope that he sees me), scream myself stupid (in the hope that I see him), try to take a photo as he zooms past me for a single 5 seconds in 8 hours and pray for no injuries in the horrible rain that is forecast.

And. then. it. will. be. over.

maybe.....

I'm not holding my breath for a huge change afterwards, apart from hoping for a bit of a break and slight change in regime, but I am looking forward to the evening where we get rip-roaringly drunk, with the bottle of vintage bubbles I've been saving for months, and absolutely no pasta on the menu.
(Given his alcohol intake in the last few months and this lack of carbs, we will no doubt be on the floor after 1 bottle and probably in bed by 9pm...)

And the Frenchman?

All he wants is a McDonalds.

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P.s - The Frenchman is competing in a stage of the Tour de France TOMORROW and raising money for leukaemia research, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It's the French equivalent of 'Just Giving' and is very easy to donate, even from the UK!

He has trained his little French ass off for months, please give him that extra boost to get through tomorrow by giving anything you can!


à demain!

Tuesday 12 July 2011

Route to Nationals

“Straight ahead.”

On the roundabout.

“Oh go right actually.”

…..

“Straight on”

On the junction.

“No left! Go left!”


“OH MY GOD! HOW HARD IS IT TO READ A MAP?? DO YOU WANT TO GET OUT AND WALK?!”

……

We were on our way to the French cycling championships.  But put one rather tired and hungover English girl in the driver’s seat, add one rather nervous French man navigating, and you are not going to have the most chilled out road trip.

This was in stark contrast to the night before when I’d tiptoed into bed feeling very well-prepared and pleased with myself, having even remembered to cook his lunch and pack the ‘feed bag’ after stumbling into the flat at 3am.  After mentally ticking off 10litres of water, a rice and pasta salad, 2 baguettes (those were for me), 5 cereal bars, 4 compotes, 3 energy bars, biscuits and a banana I immediately passed out feeling rather smug, well-trained and, obviously, not the remotest bit ill.

However, after 2 hours of convincing him he was not going to come last, whilst also trying to deal with a left-hand drive Fiesta, his late decision making at junctions, terrible French radio and my gag-reflex, it’s safe to say I might have been slightly tetchy.

Fast forward a bit further and I had to deal with guilt as well as a hangover.  Despite him telling me he felt ill, I’d been nagging him to eat something properly (i.e my lovingly prepared rice salad), until he nearly threw the feed bag at me. 

He looked positively triumphant when it dawned on us that I’d forgotten any form of cutlery.

Merde.

Luckily, he really did feel too sick to eat a bloody thing.

We are yet to decide whether this was a result of nerves or the impressive ‘race-prep’ diet he’s been on for the last week - taking 'carb-loading' to a whole new level.

One single dinner included, among other things, 450g of rice (to give this some scale – a recommended portion for a ‘normal’ person is 60g).  Even after this quantity of carbohydrates for lunch and dinner, 5 days in a row, somehow he’s still managed to lose weight. 

I though, am sporting a fetching little carb-tyre. 

But despite the early start, the hungover and unprepared girlfriend, the numerous wrong turns and arguments on the way there, the lack of cutlery, the nerves, the mental (and physical!) challenge of competing against the best in France and quite possibly the biggest hill I have ever seen (4 kms of 10% incline climbing)...something paid off.

He says it’s last week’s win that mentally prepared him to do well this week ("Nerves? I wasn't nervous!")

I, more realistically, think it’s the months of training and the well-fuelled and well-rested body (he's gone to bed at 10.30pm every night- unlike his unhelpful girlfriend) coupled with the good luck kisses and a familiar voice screaming encouragement every lap, that really gave him the edge ;-)

Whatever it was, it worked.  The Frenchman is now officially the 27th fastest man on a bike in the whole of France.

I was so proud I cried.

And it wasn't even the hangover.

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P.s - The Frenchman is competing in a stage of the Tour de France on 17 July and raising money for leukaemia research, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It's the French equivalent of 'Just Giving' and is very easy to donate, even from the UK!

There's only 5 more days to go!!!

Friday 8 July 2011

The Sunday Cycle

A typical Sunday afternoon in our Franglais household goes a little like this:

Stage one: The gritted-teeth smile when he finally calls.

"Hi babe...where are you?" 

"Umm…… did you get my message?"

Stage two: The sigh. The weary tone then begins - in anticipation of the usual excuses that I receive at this point - i.e. about 15 minutes before we need to leave to make our reservation.

"No. What message babe?"

“Ummm... Have you checked your blackberry? I explained….”

Stage three: I begin mentally composing the 'I'm so sorry, we're running late' message to our friends.

There's a picture message waiting. A man is standing in first place on a podium. Grinning like a Cheshire cat. Wearing a bright orange jersey.
 

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OH MY GOD!! YOU WON!!”

“Ha ha, yup!! AND I've got a huge bunch of flowers, just for you babe!!!”

I spent the next couple of minutes running round screaming my congratulations and bursting with pride. 

Then I noticed the clock.

Stage Four: The penny drops.

“This means you're going to be really late doesn't it??”

Stage Five: The squirming begins on the other end of the phone.

“Weeeeell.... The thing is they took aaaages to sort out the podium, and there's loooooads of traffic ........... but did I tell you they gave me flowers?”

“How late?”

“Half an hour. Honest. I promise.”

Stage Six: My voice goes up another octave whilst I resist the urge to yell.

“You know we’re supposed to be at the restaurant in half an hour, right?!?!"

“Yes, yes, I know, I know.  Don't worry, I'll be quick."

An hour later.....

Stage Seven: He runs in the door and takes the fastest shower in history whilst I'm screaming blue murder at him.
  
This is a typical Sunday.  I've checked what time he's due back from cycling.  We've made plans.  He is always late.  It always ends in an argument.

Although to be fair to him, the arguments don't usually involve him winning something ;-)

In an attempt to break the cycle, I tried to identify the contributing factors:

On my side:

1. I’m English and I like punctuality. 
OK, so , “I couldn’t find anything to wear” emergencies can be excused.

2. I’m one of the least patient people you’ll ever meet.

3. I like Brunch. On Sundays. 

He already seems to be at a considerable disadvantage.

But on his side:

1. He's a man.

2. He’s a man who hates wearing a watch. Unless it tells him how fast he’s going on his bike.

3. He's French. They have a psychological aversion to time-keeping.

4. He’s a cyclist.  Which means he spends a lot of time with other cyclists.  And if you put a group of cyclists together, they immediately forget there is a world outside of discussing last week's race/the great hill they found yesterday/how much their wheels cost/which shape pasta they like best/how much they hate Alberto Contador... etc. 

Who wouldn't miss the best brunch in Paris to discuss which brand of chamois cream causes less chaffing?

So, on second thoughts, this might be a pretty evenly matched fight.

As I’m a girl, I obviously started by trying to change his tardiness first, rather than deal with my own impatience (for those who might wonder why, I repeat: I’m a GIRL).

I tried reminding him to wear a watch, lying that reservations were earlier than I actually made them, adding at least an extra hour of 'buffer time' to his scheduled arrival before arranging a meeting time with friends and threatening to leave him behind the next time he’s late. (I realised early on that this last method would only back-fire on me.)

Evidently, I am not winning my battle. 

However, instead of doing the sensible thing and admitting defeat (again, I repeat: I'M A GIRL), I’m calling a temporary 'truce' until the Tour de France stage is over - beginning with the national championships this Sunday:

I'm not making any reservations with friends.

I'm taking a map as well as the satnav.

I won't make him wear a watch.

.... but I'm driving.

If anyone gets stressed at being late, it won't be me ;-)
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P.s - The Frenchman is competing in a stage of the Tour de France on 17 July and raising money for leukaemia research, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It's the French equivalent of 'Just Giving' and is very easy to donate, even from the UK!

There's only 9 more days to go!!!

Thursday 23 June 2011

You know you're a cycling widow when....

- you start to find his 'cyling tan' endearing, rather than just plain ridiculous.

- you automatically tell the loud american tourist in the sports shop that no, the red spotted jersey is not the "French team top", but the King of the Mountain jersey. doh?

- you actually know what the 'King of the Mountain' jersey is.

- you bought YOURSELF a cycling book, because you thought it looked interesting.

- you are used to him having smoother legs than you most of the time.

- you seriously consider buying a car (despite the cost and lack of need for one in a big city) as you realise it'd be much more convenient for getting to races and transporting bikes.

- you consider viable models by how much room they have in the boot, not by how cute they look.

- you buy a special hamper for 'bike stuff' to try to limit it taking over the whole flat.

- you give up thinking silly ideas like that would work.

- you take more care washing your other half's lycra than you do your own clothes.

- you make a 'special dinner' by buying a more expensive brand of pasta.

- you can differentiate his team mates in the peleton by their pedal stroke (granted, the bright orange strip helps).

- you know what a peleton is.

- you can convince yourself that it really is their pedal stroke that you notice, not their thighs. honest.

- you no longer think that men in brightly coloured lycra look like clowns.

- you are prepared for the communication black-out that will begin July 2nd, when he will be glued to the Tour De France coverage for 3 weeks.

- you realise you're actually looking forward to watching some of the Tour de France coverage.

- you think it's normal that you are taking two bikes on your summer holiday and your destination is planned around cycle routes.

- you have an argument with your other half when he's out of the country and you take YOURSELF to the bike track for an hour to calm down.

- you spend the hour thinking it really was time you bought drop handlebars if you're going to catch that bloody woman in front of you.

- you get sad on your way home when you remember that convenient bike tracks will be fewer and further between when you return to London.

- you realise you've been turned.

Merde.

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P.s - The Frenchman is competing in a stage of the Tour de France on 17 July and raising money for leukaemia research, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It's the French equivalent of 'Just Giving' and is very easy to donate, even from the UK!

There's only 24 more days to go and only 113 euros to reach his target!!!!!

Tuesday 21 June 2011

What happens when the subject reads your blog

I quick update today, as, in all honesty, I'm still in shock.

The following strange things happened last night:

1.  The Frenchman returned home in time for dinner
(well, he was only 20 minutes later than agreed, which, for the French, is almost unfashionably early)

2.  In one hand he carried a bouquet of long stem roses
(bloody women, all it takes is a bunch of flowers and we become a big swooning heap of jelly - and the well-practiced 'Where have you been??' rants are immediately forgotten)

3.  In the other hand he carried a bottle of wine
(cue a mental chorus of 'hallelujah!!!!' - my inner drunkard has been dying from dehydration whilst trying to be supportive of his recently self-imposed, half-pint limit)

4.  The words 'bike', 'race' and 'training' were not mentioned once in the evening
(theory to test next time: if it weren't for the wine, would he have ran out of conversation?!)

5.  He did not set his alarm at some ungodly hour this morning to train and instead we had a lie-in
(I'm not kidding myself that this one was difficult to manage, but I appreciated it all the same)

I'm not sure who this man is or what he has done with the Frenchman. 

It's safe to say that I could get used to having him around....

...but then what would I have to whinge about??

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P.s - The Frenchman is competing in a stage of the Tour de France on 17 July and raising money for leukaemia research, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It's the French equivalent of 'Just Giving' and is very easy to donate, even from the UK!

And with any luck, maybe this stranger will return when the race is finished! ;-)

Monday 20 June 2011

Here come the girls...

The Frenchman returned last night from a weekend away with his cycling club. 

This wasn’t your normal ‘lads weekend’ of booze, birds and toilet humour.  But rather 100s of kilometres, tonnes of pasta and hours of bike chat.

As usual, he returned exhausted, but elated and full gossip about his fellow cyclists on the trip.

...natter natter...  bike...  natter natter... hill... natter natter... carbon....

(starting to glaze over slightly...)

"OH MY GOD, you should SEE this guys thighs! I don’t get it, he's older than me but so much fitter! I'm completely rubbish in comparison........."

(yawn...)

"OH MY GOD you should SEE this guy’s bike... it’s soooo beautiful!  The frame!! And the wheels, my god, the wheels! I would kill for wheels like that."

Well that woke me up. 

Babe, didn’t you just buy new wheels?!

Pause.

When was the last time I said you didn’t need that new pair of shoes?”

Fair point.

Hmmm.... I don't like this strange role reversal.

But I must admit, dating a cyclist is starting to give me a bit more sympathy for the long-suffering male sex: as a group of cyclists bears an uncanny resemblance to a group of women.

A group of fashion conscious, neurotic women, with a dangerous spending habit.

For the prosecution:

1. They stare at better bikes the same way I look at anyone who walks past with a Chloé handbag: with desire, frustration and jealousy in equal parts. 

2. When they’ve won, they respond to praise with complaints:  how out of shape they are, how they really must train harder, how they wish they were a few kilos lighter, more toned and, obviously, faster.

3. They’re addicted to magazines: our living room contains more Velo magazines than Vogue.

4. They are the ultimate ‘clique’:  If you don’t have the right bike, you’ll be laughed out of town.  If you aren’t kitted out from head to foot in the latest ‘Assos’ lycra (no, apparently it’s not the same as the online clothes shop!), you won’t be taken seriously.  If you don’t cycle 6 days a week, what on earth would they talk to you about?

And don’t even get me started on the leg shaving.  If you turn up with unshaved legs, you might as well walk around with a neon flashing “TOURIST!” sign on your forehead.

When the Frenchman started shaving his legs (despite me voicing rather loud and strong opinions to the contrary), I was told on no uncertain terms that he cared more about what his fellow cyclists thought than his own girlfriend.  The threat of never shaving mine again had absolutely no effect.

Ladies, there’s a scary new breed of females out there – except they’re meaner, leaner and even more obsessive than the rest of us.

But the worst thing?

They can eat as many carbs as they like and never get fat.

Bitches.

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P.s - The Frenchman is competing in a stage of the Tour de France on 17 July and raising money for leukaemia research, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It's the French equivalent of 'Just Giving' and is very easy to donate, even from the UK!

And it'll provide me with some consolation as to why his legs are smoother than mine ;-)



Wednesday 15 June 2011

Broken Shoes

CLACK......CLACK.......CLACK......

Hmmm.... those are very slow footsteps after a ride. Definitely not normal Frenchman behaviour...

The saddest face I have ever seen came around the corner. 

"My shoe, it's.. it's...it's broken...!"

He forlornly sticks out his foot.  Sure enough, the clasp on his cycling shoe is broken.

He looked like a little puppy who has had his favourite toy taken away.
and has lost his mother. 
and is stuck outside in the pouring rain in a thunderstorm. 
and it's the middle of winter. 
etc etc etc.... you get the picture.

I was waiting for the whimpering noises to begin any second.

Ok, so these aren't just any shoes, these are brand new, carbon, specially-moulded, stupidly expensive cycling shoes that my lovely parents bought him for his birthday (my dad always did want a son to indulge with pricey sports gadgets - the Frenchman and my sister's boyfriend benefit well from his bad luck with genetics).

So, broken shoes. At least for once this is something I could sympathise with - if anything happened to my Louboutin's... nope, not worth going there.

But there's such an intense look of bereavement on his face, that I'm having to do my best not to laugh: No, I'm sorry, it doesn't look like we can fix the shoes ourselves babe. Hey hey hey, chin up!! They're faulty, so we'll just send them back and we'll get you a new pair next week.  I promise. Yes, I know a week is a long time but we'll find a way of coping, Ok?

No tears, brave little soldier.

And this was just the shoes - can you imagine if anything happened to his bike?! Maybe I should find a counsellor's phone number to put in my blackberry. 

Just in case...

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p.s - The Frenchman is competing in a stage of the Tour de France on 17 July and raising money for leukaemia research, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It's the French equivalent of 'Just Giving' and is very easy to donate, even from the UK!

And it'll help keep his chin up through these dark, non-carbon cycling shoe times ;-)

Tuesday 14 June 2011

Pasta, pasta everywhere and not a bite to eat...

So it's the end of the bank holiday weekend, which means back to work.

Which also means back to widow duties.

Which means yet another pan of pasta on the stove.

There's an unwritten rule in this 'modern' Franglais household - I do the cooking, the Frenchman does the ironing. Probably due to the fact the he can't boil an egg without detailed instructions.

It's safe to say, I don't wear a shirt to work very often either.

Granted, pasta is the one thing he is able to cook by himself. But unless I want to eat plain pasta every day for the foreseeable future (and give myself an early coronary from the vast quantities of butter and salt that are included if he's left unsupervised in the kitchen), I am in charge of the cooking.

I find it impossible to comprehend the sheer quantity of pasta the Frenchman can ingest in one sitting, twice a day (I vetoed cooking pasta for breakfast, I have my limits) and not be the size of a house.

For example, this weekend I headed out to a hen do, after cooking two enormous pans of pasta on Saturday morning: one for a girly picnic (to line the stomachs of 7 hungry girls in preparation for a alcohol fuelled weekend) and one for the Frenchman's dinner. He promptly text me afterwards to tell me he was still hungry and could've eaten twice that.

Despite trying in vain to make him eat a balanced, healthy diet - he can be a very fussy eater (unless it contains, sugar, salt or saturated fat, he's not really interested) and it's taken me years to make him try certain vegetables. He doesn't really know the difference between proteins, carbs, vegetables and fats, and he really couldn't care less. I'll never forget the confused look on his face when I informed him that croque monsieur wasn't exactly a healthy meal: "what about if we add the fried egg and make it a croque madame? that's better right?" 

So in order to make him eat enough of the right stuff to sustain him through training, I often have to give up and resort back to my old trick of hiding vegetables in a pasta dish.

Now, I like pasta as much as the next girl not on Atkins, and I can be an inventive cook - but even I am fast running out of ideas for spicing up a bit of fusilli (unless you count the inappropriately shaped pasta I found during the hen do excursions this weekend).

I'm also aware that pasta isn't expensive. But as I'm going through a box every two days, I'm going to need to take out shares in Barilla to start making a return on this expenditure. When you add in the cost of the vegetables, meat and fruit etc I'm trying to get him to eat… this cycling malarkey will end up bankrupting me.

But as a reward for the numb tastebuds and extra inches on my waist, the Frenchman has promised me a pasta-free week after the race (yes ladies and gentlemen, a WHOLE WEEK!) and the very thought of it is making me salivate.

So now the count down is now on with a vengeance - only 33 days and about 16 boxes of pasta left to go…

But in the meantime I'm very open to dinner invitations.

Unless you're going for Italian.

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p.s - The Frenchman is raising money for leukaemia research through his race, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It's the French equivalent of 'Just Giving' and is very easy to donate, even from the UK!

And the more you donate, the easier all this pasta will be to digest ;-)

Friday 10 June 2011

Hidden Benefits?

Yes I whinge about the Frenchman's obsession with cycling.

A lot.

But I can't deny there are moments that make me realise all the training and sacrifices are starting to pay off:

Recent moments of pride, in ascending order of levels of girly 'swooning':

1. Watching him zoom past me at the speed of sound


(just before I start screaming along the lines of "ALLEZ Move your lazy ass! What the fu*k is this, a warm up?!" - he says it's quite motivational, honest!)

2.  Seeing him smile with a medal around his neck



(He can be forgiven for placing "only third" (his words, not mine), given the poor thing does have to wear bright orange as his team strip, a handicap by itself....)

 
3. 'Accidentally' observing the morning fitness regime.....











he he he he

Maybe it's not so bad being a cycling widow after all..... ;-)


p.s - The Frenchman is raising money for leukaemia research through his race, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

And I get to make the most of 'Mr Muscle' for the next 37 days ;-)

Thursday 9 June 2011

I realise I'm turning into my mother..

There are various problems in dating a cyclist.

The one that often drives me to distraction is their inability to understand that, to "normal people" (and by that, I mean anyone who doesn't go to bed dreaming of carbon), there are appropriate times and places for cycling in their lives. And not-so-appropriate times and places.

OK, so I admit I am not a particularly patient person (understatement), but I defy Mother Theresa not to have wanted to chuck the bike out the window at some point in the last 2.5 years.

I imagine that living with a cyclist is perhaps like living with a toddler - a particularly large, messy toddler who won't eat their vegetables, would have a tantrum if they didn't get to play with their favourite toy and leave you constantly walking 3 steps behind them, clearing up the trail of destruction they leave in their wake.

"Oh my god, I'm so sick of picking up your sh**!" is the most common phrase out of my mouth on normal sleep-deprived mornings.

To the Frenchman:

- a bedroom is the correct place to store a bike
(what did I say about a love triangle?)

- the sofa is the obvious place to discard sweaty lycra
(because everyone loves the smell of stale sweat when they eat their dinner)

- the lounge is the perfect place for bike pumps, tool kits and chamois cream
(X-Factor has nothing on the 'tweak the bike' show)

- any available surface is the ideal spot for half eaten cereal bars and empty energy drink bottles
(Note to self: do NOT buy the chocolate ones again, they melt in his team jersey…and who do you think has to try and wash that afterwards?!)

- 6.30am on a Monday morning is the best time to wake up your partner and discuss this week's training schedule
(oh, I wish I was joking)

- any romantic dinner is the time to discuss their competitor's performance in the last race
(don't mistake that fiery look in his eyes for passion- he's thinking about how to beat the other guy, not what knickers you're wearing)

- any free time on a weekend is the ideal opportunity to search for that extra bike gadget
(after a while you learn to realise this isn't "the last thing I need, honest")

and, my particular favourite from the other night:

- 11pm is the perfect time to start fixing new pedals on a bike, when he's going away on business at 5am in the morning

"I'm guessing I'm doing the tidying up and packing again right?"

Yep, you really don't need kids to realise you turn into your mother sooner or later.


p.s - The Frenchman is raising money for leukaemia research through his race, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It'll make it worthwhile living with my toddler ;-)

Wednesday 8 June 2011

The Countdown Begins...

I am in love with a Frenchman. The Frenchman is in love with his bike. The bike and I have a love-hate relationship. It's an interesting love triangle that occasionally causes a few minor potholes on the otherwise smooth cycle route to 'happily-ever-after'.

He's always been a cycle addict, first VTT and now a roadie (given it can be slightly hard to find decent mountains in Paris), but over the last two and a half years I have seen a serious hobby develop into full blown passion. He lives for his bike a bit like I live for shoes. Amazingly, even with a penchant for Choos, my passion ends up being cheaper (no, really).

And now, on 17 July, the Frenchman is competing in a stage of the Tour de France in his home region of Auvergne, from Issoire to Saint-Flour. For the uninitiated, that's 208kms, 5 bloody big mountain passes and one rather exhausted frog at the finish line.

Obviously this means a bit of preparation is required. This also means that passion has transformed into an addiction and I now have to organise my life around a bike.

Over the last few months, the weeks and weekends have disappeared into a flurry of training sessions and competitions. I don't remember the last weekend he wasn’t racing, or the last morning he had a lie in. He now finishes work early, trains, works late into the evening and gets up early again in the morning. The lazy frog that would once sleep in until midday has gone - it's quite inspiring, if not mildly scary.

Now don't get me wrong. I love that he has such passion, that there's something that makes him so happy (ahem, APART from me), it's good for him - and, if you saw him on a bike, it's hard not to be impressed.

And I'm nothing but supportive (most of the time).

In the spirit of "if you can't beat them, join them" I bought myself a bike and I now get up at some ungodly hour every other morning to join him training (although I do a measly 3 laps of the cycle track and I whinge about it the whole way there).

I've given up holidays to take him to races, twiddled my thumbs by myself for hours in order to cheer him on once every 10km loop, been there to congratulate him when he places (and console him when he doesn't), put up with the grumps when he's just missed out on a medal and learnt to talk about crank sets, cleats, and carbon like I had the foggiest clue (read: interest).

Without really realising I've turned into head cheerleader, nutritionist, masseuse (when asked very nicely), psychiatrist, coach and yes, cycling widow.  Or maybe mistress is more appropriate. The wife is the bike, the one he will never ever leave, no matter how much lingerie you buy!

In fact I'm lucky - he could be MUCH worse. He could do this for a living - although something tells me he would prefer this (!). I know that sometimes he makes a conscious decision not to get on the bike and instead spend his precious free time with me. However, I've also listened to him complain about how much better X or Y is, as they don't have any distractions (read: demanding job, demanding girlfriend, i.e. A LIFE) and therefore have more time to train . Sometimes I realise I'm the only thing stopping him turning into a man obsessed - although I don't know whether he thinks that's a good thing or a bad thing ;-)

So, in 39 days time, the dearest Frenchman will attempt the hardest challenge of his cycling life so far. Something tells me this might be a long 39 days for me too (it's almost like Lent, but without the chocolate eggs at the end) - and instead of taking my frustrations out on him when I can't stand to hear the word "bike" any more, I thought I'd start writing it down - my own little journey to the arrivée at Saint Flour.

Because after 17 July we can stop talking about bikes, right?

Ha ha, one can always dream…….

p.s - The Frenchman is also raising money for leukaemia research through his race, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It also means I can add 'Head fundraiser' to my job description. Or maybe I'll just put "Saint" ;-)