Collyn Ahart
Magical, folk-loric Charms & Disguises ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing’ chair by Jenny Ekdahl
I’m very glad to see a beautifully embellished tableware collection by Marcel Wanders… as I’m getting a bit tired of minimalist Scandiwegian and Burleigh… nice to see something embellished that feels modern and beautiful but not twee. For Alessi.
Some textiles inspiration… no wonder the Dutch are so damn good with colours. HT @tomharle
The lovely Strathcona Stockings first collection… created by my old school friend Ryley, hand-printed on Vancouver Island.
Shay and Yael keep knocking it out of the park… Plaid Bench by Raw Edges for Dilmos
3 Beaded Story Vases by Front, tell the the stories of five women living in remote South Africa. via @dezeen
How do you like them apples? Godmother of women’s MTB - Jacquie Phelan. She’s got apples.
And this is the WICKED email she sent me last week:
»> Your dad’s friend Karen Haire sez howdy
I got a call from her yesterday…she invited me out on a (GROOLING) ride with her friend Lori.We did about the tuffest ride in the Bay Area, took an extra hour to hang out and eat, blab etc., and
IF…..
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
’ Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And - which is more - you’ll be a Man, my son!
You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing you think you cannot do.
I get asked a lot - and I mean A LOT - by women what to wear on a bike in the rain. I’m probably not much better at it than anyone else, and there is probably no single answer to that question. Living in London and having somewhat limited time to get out on the bike (often relegated to the turbo for mid-week sessions after dark) means that in what time I do have, I want to make sure I can actually get out on the road with no excuses of not having the right stuff to wear.
It rains a lot here (no shit!) and the first thing I had to get over was that yes, if I ride in the pouring rain, I’m going to get wet. But hot summer water explosions often mean just a few minutes of wet, followed by several hours in which to dry off. But for this, I’m talking about how to dress to leave the house when it’s grey and miserable and looks like it’s going to tip down at any minute (and usually does). Temperatures anywhere between about 10C-17C. Not warm by any stretch. If you were going out in civvies you might make a mental note to wear close-toed boots, jeans, and some form of raincoat but you won’t be wearing a woolie cap. Possibly a light jumper under your jacket. And obviously an umbrella. So with this as our starting point, here’s what I wear to ride in the “Summer/Autumn” (British Summer) rain:
1. Start with a good merino wool base layer. Basically this is just a t-shirt made of super soft, lightweight merino wool. Good quality base layers (I like the ones from Howies), won’t itch and sitting right on your skin, will help regulate your body temperature, no matter how wet the other layers are. Whatever you do, don’t wear a cotton t-shirt as a base layer. You will regret it. Once I did this on a 127 mile sportive in the rain and the t-shirt got stripped off and left at mile 75. I was actually better off without it.
2. Good quality padded shorts. Might seem obvious, but still, comfort is king on a long wet ride and having slightly uncomfortable shorts can be a massive deal breaker. I have been wearing Rapha’s ladies shorts for about a year now and have difficulty wearing anything else. They have a nice high waist and designed so they don’t pinch around the stomach area (feel more like bib shorts than most standard shorts). They are longer on the leg than most women’s shorts on the market, but with a tiny bit of pulling and adjusting, sit almost perfectly at that sweet spot on my legs where I want to start actually showing skin (no one needs an eye-full of cellulite on a morning ride).
3. Smart-wool socks. Pretty much any make will do as long as they’re not too thick. Really heavy socks are sometimes good in the depths of winter, but if they’re too thick they’ll pinch your toes and cause that unforgiving dead-toe feeling after a couple of hours in the saddle. Smart wool (not cotton) because your feet WILL get wet. So it’s really just a matter of staying warm and comfortable.
4. Over-tights. A lot of men wear “knee” or “leg” warmers but I always find they pinch my legs in unfortunate places giving me a kind of sausage leg look; so I prefer to wear a lightweight pair of tights over my shorts. If it’s really getting cold (south of 10C) I’ll usually forego the shorts and just wear 3/4 length or full-length padded winter tights. But for summer rain, I often wear tights with just enough warmth and protection to keep my knees from too much exposure to the cold. Cold knees = painful knees on a long ride, so keeping them covered up is really important. I have a pair of Sugoi running tights which are pretty comfortable, although the jury is still out as their massive elastic band tends to be a little constricting around the waist.
5. Arm warmers. A good pair of arm warmers mean you can make your jerseys work double-duty, effective during hot summer months and cooler ones as well. All Rapha’s women’s jerseys come with a pair of arm warmers so I seem to have acquired dozens, but as I have freakishly long arms for a little person, I’m still trying to find the perfect set.
6. A good merino jersey. I am a dedicated Rapha girl when it comes to jerseys. (Yes, I have been given a few, and cards on the table, I’m a little biased.) The classic women’s jersey is cut to be fitted in a way that is quite slimming, avoiding that annoying buckling in the tummy area when you’re on a bike. They aren’t *tight*, but just cut a bit like a really good blazer, they go in at the right places. Most importantly, they have plenty of pocket space, which on a long wet ride means plenty of room to shove a rain jacket, energy bars, air pump, wallet, phone, keys, extra gloves and cap.
7. Cap and (not too dark) glasses. NEVER underestimate the importance of these two features on a rainy ride. The cap will shield your glasses from most of the water and road-grime (especially if you’re going to be riding in a group), and the glasses keep everything else out of your eyes. These two things are SOOOO important for rain riding; even if there is just a hint of rain on the horizon I’ll make sure I’ve got a cap shoved into my back pocket before setting out.
8. Warm hat. This is to keep your ears warm on a slightly cooler day. I use an old Helly Hansen lightweight poly-something hat that I can put on OVER my cycling cap, under my helmet. If it gets too hot, I can take it off but still have my cap on for rain protection.
9. Over-shoes. These are a must, especially if it gets down around 10-15C or lower. Your feet will get wet no matter what you wear, but they will stay warm if you’ve got a good pair of over-shoes. I have a cheap pair of Endura neoprene overshoes, much loved and battered from the occasional spill or scuff. The challenge with overshoes is finding a pair that don’t restrict your legs. If you’re like me and have relatively substantial leg muscles, having a band restricting your lower legs does no favours in either the comfort or aesthetic territories. But there are hundreds of options out there and they’re never very pricey.
10. The rain/wind jacket. I am dedicated to my Rapha women’s wind jacket. I actually have two now, following the last sample sale. One in red and one in white. You need a jacket that is lightweight enough to not over-cook you going up hills and allow you to breathe, but has enough water repellency to wick the water off. The great thing about Rapha’s jacket is it also balls up nice and small for shoving in the back pocket of your jersey if the weather breaks and the sun comes out. There are two key features of the Rapha jacket which have ultimately been deal-breakers elsewhere. First, the wristbands are made of an elastic cloth instead of velcro. This means they fit really smoothly on your wrist, won’t cut in and won’t catch on any other clothing. Second, they are fitted appropriately for a woman’s body. Like their jerseys, they go in where they should go in so you’re not left with a bunched up mid-section. They fit around the arms perfectly with just enough room to move and not restrict you sitting in a forward position. They do all the other stuff you’d assume a rain/wind jacket should do too. My only suggestion is not washing them very often. Just gently rinse the mud off under a tap. Once you put it in the washing machine you’ll have to get a waterproofing sealer wash to re-seal the jacket again….
11. Light-weight full-finger gloves. Preferably not leather. I use a cheap pair of Specialized gloves that have just enough warmth to keep my fingers from going numb, but not too warm that they make my palms sweat. Again, you’re gonna get wet, so it’s a matter of comfort whist being wet. I will often shove a spare pair of gloves in a ziplock baggie (keeps ‘em dry) in my pocket to switch up half-way if I need a warm-up.
OK! That should just about do it. I also tend to ride with lights when I ride in the rain, but this is more of a personal safety thing than anything else and when riding on the windy narrow English country roads, can be an emotional placebo if nothing else. Better safe than sorry. And mud-guards. TOTALLY important. I have a cheap set of lightweight removeable mudguards I can take on or off super easily.
Now go get rained on!!
Every so often a list of “rules” surfaces about how to ride a bicycle. Which height of socks to wear. What length of shorts. What colour isotonic beverage. What exact shape of mud-guard. What kind of coffee to drink and almost certainly what to name your first-born son (higher points awarded for more obscure racing-legend dedications).
65 miles into 130, our motley crew of mix-matched kit, ankle socks, mud, bug and gel-smeared faces as the dewey sun beat down through rainbow shadowed trees, there were very few rules any of us cared about.
I remember my first jersey: a neon yellow so-called ‘gift’ from my father. I would wear it with baggy spandex shorts (no padding), complete with pink and black leopard print. All knees and elbows, they fit me about as well as I fit my old blue Raleigh racer with its seat post rammed down to its lowest millimeter. The obligatory peanut butter and jelly sandwich stuffed into my back pocket swung around to my side, which I systematically heaved back into position every 18 pedal strokes. Too small for proper cleats, my running shoes back then were purchased on their ability to become compact, laces tucked in, easily slotted into pedal cages.
Nineteen years ago this month I took off on my bike to ride the 11 miles into town by myself to celebrate my 10th birthday. I had to take a little break at the five-mile mark to eat my sandwich, stretch my legs and check my bike over. No punctures! There was no cell-phone … I was free! I was celebrating a double-digit birthday! I was almost a teenager! When I finally arrived in town, I learned the first rule of cycling.
While the days of pink leopard print are far behind me, the only rules that matter haven’t changed much:
1: Tell your mother where you’re going and what time you’ll be home. This applies until your 18th birthday and over every family holiday for the rest of your life.
2: Pack a sandwich. Nutella is an option resulting in extra points.
3: Bring a friend. They will inevitably eat half your sandwich, which should be cut down the middle for ease of sharing.
All other rules are variable.
The first thing I learned working at a fashion magazine was that an abundance of rules are for those lacking in confidence. White after labour day? Totally an option. Spots and stripes?… clashing can be a good thing. Pink and orange… have you seen any Jil Sander lately? The most influential people live above the rules. They know their bodies and they challenge the norm. They know what’s appropriate but refuse to be slaves to the dress code. Looking good doesn’t require rules… it requires confidence.
5,000 miles into my year and the only rule I have now about what I wear when I cycle is that if I have to think about what I’m wearing, I’ve failed. If the shorts cut into my legs, I’ve failed. If I’m too cold or too hot or too wet, I’ve failed. If I can’t get anything into my back pockets, I’ve failed. But everything else is just me.
A few months back I got an awesome email from the guys at Rapha asking me to be one of their “brand ambassadors”… blogging, helping make their women’s products better, helping them understand and boost the culture of women’s cycling a bit. It was one of those flattering (beyond belief) emails that made me wonder ‘Why me?’ I’m not a particularly good cyclist. Mediocre at best. But it’s exciting! I’m so excited to be working with a brand like Rapha, who really want to make the world of women’s cycling a better place.
Like most women cyclists, few and far between, it’s often hard to find riding partners, other girls who understand that falling over drunk has a time and a place (usually in December), and that the sisterhood you find on the road is one of the very best kinds.
So, let’s go ride! Don’t worry about not being a member of a club… Thursday nights there is usually a small-ish group of girls who do laps of Regents Park, meeting at 6pm at the South East gates by the Royal Physicians College. If you’re a Dynamo, there’s also a lot of us who ride in Richmond Park on Saturday mornings, leaving at 8:30 from the middle of the park Penn’s Pond parking lot. On Sundays, I often go out to Surrey Hills or up into Epping, Cambridgeshire, or somewhere else out of North London… so gimme a shout on twitter @collynahart if you fancy a riding partner or three. We usually ride fairly slow on Sundays… and every ride usually involves tea.
This weekend is, @islandbicycles’, (my dad) 65th birthday. I used to tell him he wasn’t old until he hit 60, but despite the years, I still think he looks 50… tops. I’d like to attribute his daily cycling to this, and hope a bit of it is genetic.
Last night I got thinking about fathers and daughters, and despite the scientific evidence suggesting they perhaps should feel otherwise, how men so often say they prefer to have sons. And why? Apparently so they can do sports and take them cycling and go hunting and do “boy things”.
My dad didn’t have the choice. He got me. So he gave me a boy’s name and took me cycling. I have a lot to thank him for. Never once have I thought I couldn’t do something because it was something “girls didn’t do”… and the world is a far more interesting place for it. I went through a princess phase just like every other little girl (hell, I might still be going through it), but at the end of the day, I was perfectly happy to go fishing (notoriously in a miniskirt) and cycling and get inappropriately bad tan lines from it all.
So I beg of you new fathers, take your daughters cycling. Let them get muddy. Teach them how to ride through a deep puddle. Show them how to gut a fish and hook a worm. Take them camping and teach them to build a campfire. They want to know! Let them go hunting (if that’s your thing), or make sure they know how to kick a ball. These things will only do them good, and if you’re lucky, you’ll still have someone to ride with even when you hit your 60s.
Dad and (fat) me after last summer’s Seattle to Portland ride.
On my 10th birthday I rode my bicycle, alone, the 11 miles into town. As a precocious only-child (to say the least), I didn’t tell my parents I was going to do this. It was a mild precursor to the day I kayaked (again, alone and unannounced) at age 14 the 12 miles along the coast into town (to clarify, I grew up on an island). I think I took great pride in giving my parents grey hair and these days were potential highlights in the war I was waging against their follicles. Mom and Dad, I’m really sorry… sort of.
Older and likely no wiser, heading out on the road unannounced and unaccompanied is one of my favourite things to do. The pace bumbles along while my heart rate (if I even know it) usually follows suit at about 135 bpm…
Doing this sort of thing largely depends on a state of mind wherein it’s not necessary to tell people where you are and what you’re doing (constantly)… it’s dropping into a friend’s house unannounced, it’s taking a sneaky iced lolly at the top of a hill and not really caring who sees, it’s wearing kit your boyfriend disapproves of and getting tan lines in all the wrong places. It’s the anti-status-update.
Of course, it’s usually a lot more fun to ride with other people… but riding alone has a clarifying effect. Much of my best thinking happens on these rides. Epiphanies usually happen in the company of oneself.
As the weather in London has warmed to unseasonable good temperatures, I’ve taken to disappearing mid-week, out into the hills, racing between shadows and finding the crystalline light at the crest of each ascent. It’s a good kind of lonely which keeps me company, abandoning my music for the bass line hum of wheels and the melodic chirp of invisible friends.
These rides probably don’t make me very fast. Mediocre at best. But they have an uncanny knack for healing my soul after it gets battered in the company of a Tuesday evening social.
They’re the sort of rides with no regard for finish lines or lactic thresholds or aerodynamics or recovery times. Every pedal stoke heals.
Go slow. Find a rhythm. Find a balance. No one knows you’re here. No one needs you to keep up. No one thinks you’re too slow.
These rides quickly turn from 70 miles into 100. The extra distance doesn’t matter. No one cares when you’ll be home.
There’s so much pressure to be social… “it’s the new hygiene”… sometimes we forget our ability to be lonely. Lonely is healing. Lonely is simple. Lonely is pure. Lonely is a long and winding road. And that’s the thing… every road is a lonely one… and sometimes they’re just the best company.
I’ve just completed my first ever bike race. 10 laps of the Thruxton F1 Circuit, about 40km. It took us just about an hour. Whatever I thought bike racing was, I was wrong. No amount of park rides or slamming up 18-grade hills or pumping out 200 miles in a day of sportive riding could have prepared me mentally for what happened today.
Two laps in, the elite girls shot off the front and we all held our pace, I knew where I wanted to be, just off the front, maybe 5-6 people back, in the thick of the pack. And of all miracles, I was there. But with every turn, the wind cut into us, the pack, like a shoal of fish, slowed right down. Way down. Easy stroll in the park down. The headwind pulled us around, and a few of the AW girls shot missiles off the front, followed close by one of the girls from LMNH. But we stayed in formation, pulled them back in. Another break, this time only 2 or three girls. Gone. Turning the corner onto the second leg of the circuit, the wind was at our backs, a slight downhill, and the rush took hold. Just hold on, I thought. You can do this if you can just hold on.
I looked back. Where did everybody go? Half-way through the race and I’d found myself at the back of the pack.
How did this happen?! I cannot be dropped. Two feet became 10. 10 became 20. 20 became 50. Where was I going? This isn’t how you race, Ahart! Find the pain and go for it. Find it!
I looked behind me. Empty road. GO! They slow down in that headwind, you have the legs to hold it. GO!
Every demand fell short. I wasn’t going to have that sharp-shooter-off-the-front effortless, natural racer sort of day.
Take some water. Breathe. It’s not over.
And then it turned. The headwind came back. I found a wheel. Somewhere between the 6th and 7th lap, I also found my legs. The nerves were gone. Heavy breathing gives way to the compounded heartbeat of every girl in the pack. A sonic boom.
Where were we? Two and a half laps to go and something had to happen. No one wanted to move, to pull the front. Our pace dropped, and then it snapped. Incomprehensible hand signals between matching jerseys, and flush of red across your eyes…. BREAK. Another missile. And then they came back.
These girls were sprinters.
What the hell are you doing out here Ahart? You’re a distance girl. You can dance up the hills. But this? This is absurd. You don’t have the legs to sprint.
Another missile.
2 laps to go. All back together… and I was near the front again.
Anything can happen. It’s not over.
Find Chloe. Find Jess. Find Louise.
They were right behind me. Good. All of them in our mis-shapen formation. They seemed to know what was coming.
I didn’t.
Breathe, Ahart. You’ve had harder rides than this. Your turbo makes you sweat more than this. Every pedal stroke came quicker, felt easier… more relaxed. They’re right behind you, right where they should be. You’re at the front, right where you should be.
Then, from the deep, the sounds, the gestures… we were on it. The last lap. The last few miles. This was where this race would happen. And POW, off the front, more missiles.
Pull. Just pull. Let them use you. They have the legs for a sprint, you don’t. Just pull.
You don’t notice the silence of a race course while you’re on it. Just the steady sonic boom from your heart. Everything else disappears. You forget the hills you just climbed, you forget the wind. Just grey insoluble silence.
Little acts of bravery and one gallant act of courage: that’s how you do this.
The final turn came, and I wanted it. I didn’t know if I wanted it for myself or for the team or both. I just wanted so badly to feel the fear of the front.
But before I could even steady myself I was absorbed. My wheels with everyone’s. My heartbeat in the sonic boom. I wasn’t out in front any more. I was at the back of the pack. At the finish line.
As the racing season kicks off, I’m discovering something wonderful I’d forgotten about since my days rowing: the teammate.
I’m riding with the most awesome group of girls at London Dynamo, and I just wanted the world to know who they are, and to look out for us!
Tracey, TC to the world o’ bike, is our madam, our master and our mother hen. Amazing doesn’t do the girl justice… she’s the type of teammate who you know will never let you down, who will keep you in check and then give you the power to kill it at the end. Kirsten doesn’t know how good she is. Antonia can always make you smile. Detta is pure inspiration and motivation; Helen is the ex-rower who makes me eat my humble pie every day; Lucy is our rock of consistency and good humour; Louise is the one who’s always just a bit faster than you on any hill; Jess will never let me down; Sarah is my sister; and Chloe is the humble racer… the one kicking your ass without even breaking a sweat.
These girls inspire me every single day…
Come Saturday morning, they’re getting me out of bed, they’re making me drink that second glass of water, they’re making me get a good night’s sleep (until they aren’t), they’re the ones who I want to be there for at the crack of inhumanity’s dawn because I know they’ll be there too. They’re the ones who keep me humble, they’re the ones who keep me fast.
This is gonna be an amazing season…
Most people who’ve been training and competing on any level sport above that of pure recreation have told me it would happen at some point. A time would come in my life when I’d get injured and have to heal.
Apparently, my time is now.
I’ve never been injured like this before. I have a strain in my ankle somewhere, the culprit being over-training and not an overt accident. I didn’t crash. I didn’t fracture anything. I simply have been doing something wrong, too often.
About 9 years ago I fractured my ankle during a spill I took racing, but a couple weeks of taking it easy meant I was back in form pretty quickly. But that’s the kind of evil I can handle: it has a name, “fracture”. It has a cause, “Collyn tripped over her own feet”. It’s an evil I can see and thus an evil I can manage.
But this unknown creeping pain is something new, and I don’t like it one bit. One day I’m gunning it around Richmond Park with the boys and the next I can’t jog to the bottom of my street.
Right now, I’m on the verge of tears, wallowing in self-pity and defeat. Putting on the mental straight-jacket to stop myself from heading to the local grocer for a chocolate fix… all I want is to put on my trainers and go for a run. I’d even settle for a walk that didn’t hurt.
The worst part of it all is my instruction to wear hiking boots and sensible trainers for the next few weeks. BAH! Who are they kidding? I like my heels, my tottering wedges, my support-less vintage Nikes, my no-bridge brogues. Annnnddd…. I’m starting to see a pattern.
I’ve been trying to have it all for a while now. I love fashion, and I love cycling and running. But as I sit here with my foot soaking in an ice-bath (out of which my cat is taking a drink - as if the shame wasn’t bad enough???), I’m starting to re-think my wonder-woman capabilities. It’s only in Hollywood that butt-kicking bad-ass women can run for miles wearing nothing but a catsuit and their trusty Louboutins. Even Lara Croft and Trinity wore boots with a mother-fucking 4-inch heel. Us mere mortals apparently have to deal with stress fractures and tendonitis and achilles strains.
I often wonder why we do it to our bodies… not the training bit. I can understand that. But the fashion… I’ve suffered many nights out where my feet go through the pain barrier straight on to that numbness in the ball of one’s foot which doesn’t subside for two whole days. Our bodies can only take so much.
But nor am I really buying the Fitflop “fashionable and orthopaedic” bullshit. I doubt it’s good for your body, and I’d rather gouge my eyes out than even sit in the company of a pair. Don’t you dare try to convince me otherwise. They’re hideous. As are the craptacular MBT or MTB or whateverthefucktheyrecalled. Vintage Nikes are about as casual “orthopaedic” as I go. A good pair of lace-up wedges, even better.
So here I am, facing down the gauntlet at a couple weeks in hiking boots and feeling the weight of the world come crashing down upon my shoulders. There goes your on-a-roll training, your newly-found six-pack, your “hello, I’m now a size 8” butt. There goes months of dedication and self-control. I turned down WHAT to do this?? And adding insult to injury, I have to do it all looking like a lumberjack.
Okay. Lumberjacks are cool. I have nothing against lumberjacks.
It is, however, making me re-think why I’ve been doing all this. Yeah, I’m super competitive and need an outlet. I love the rush and the lactic burn and the adrenaline as I hit a turn and can see that hill on the other side ready to be tackled. But at the beginning, I think I also did it because I was becoming a bit of a lard-ass and wanted to feel better about myself. I got to buy new clothes! New, skinny little ankles meant new shoes to show them off! And it was great while it lasted.
A new-found sense of purpose over the last couple months has made me realise I’m actually quite happy in the same-old jeans and jumper; having resorted recently to throwing on a lumpy blue hat and sunglasses, a big coat and doing the rounds through numerous American Apparel t-shirts. I guess I’ve been holding out on shoes, not fully able to commit to the impending sense of responsibility towards one’s body that’s supposed to set in around the age of 30.
So, perhaps it’s time for a new fashion rule. Unless I’m being driven, my feet are more important than my effing vanity.
Talk to me in a week. My lumberjack bottom-half may have changed its mind.
And no, I’m not giving up the training… if anything, when I get back in the saddle properly in a couple weeks, I’ll be all the more focused. If I’m giving up heels, you can sure as hell bet I’m going to want some effing medals.
Right, maybe not quite this minimal. But I am a sucker for any forward-thinking concept design.
I am, actually, looking for a relatively minimal shoe. I’m thinking I’ll go with the Nike Free, regardless it’s probably not a genuinely ‘minimal’ shoe per-say. It will be a huge step from what I’ve got now (Brooks stabilisers), which are more like running in very well supported wooden clogs now that I’ve actually corrected my gait and foot position. I’m just glad I never took advice from one of my old tri teammates who tried to convince me the proper foot position was heel-to-toe… she’s subsequently had multiple knee surgeries and can’t compete anymore. The remarkable thing I’ve found, since upping my run-training, is that with correct foot placement, my knees and legs are actually feeling great. 10k used to cripple my knees, even with the more supportive of shoes. Now I’m doing 15k at what used to be my 10k pace, and every step feels good.
If anyone has any experience with minimal-ish shoes, please let me know what you’d recommend (but NO, I won’t wear VFFs, they’re too ugly).
My awesome dad and his many many bikes! Some of you will know I grew up, literally, in a bike shop. My Dad’s little shop, Island Bicycles, is the best and only shop on San Juan Island (others have come and gone). My dad, well into his 60s, rides almost every day, and is in better health than most 40 year olds I know. GO DAD! These are some of the bikes he’s built for himself over the years. He’s the only shop in the area to built Waterford bikes, (like the sweet little baby I ride as a training bike,) custom builds which make some of the most comfortable, best distance-shreading bikes around. I’m really looking forward to Christmas when I get out there and get put in some good island miles.
If you’re ever out on the island, check the shop out! Love ya dad!!
I went out on Monday night, had ONE amazing cocktail, and managed to wake up the next morning with a cold. Bugger it. So I stayed in bed most of yesterday (after an early, pathetic run on the treadmill), nursed Lemsip and (Paleo) chicken soup, sweating it out, and managed to wake up this morning with virtually no cold! YAY! But still taking it easy (read: off) as I feel like I’m walking on the precipice. I could fall off the edge if I’m not super careful.
I’m pretty sure I haven’t been over-training as I’ve had loads of energy, so it’s likely I just happened to spend too much time (like a bus ride) with some evil sick person. Why is it that people insist on going out in public when they’re ill? Seriously. Stay in bed. Get better. It only takes a day or two and you’ll be back on your feet and NO LONGER CONTAGIOUS YOU SNIVELLING SICKO. I’m always amazed at the lack of hygiene in this city. The worst are the people who sneeze on the back of your head in a bus. ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING. Sorry about the rant. They just piss me off.
Keeping well seems to be one of the biggest challenges of training. It requires maintaining that annoying mindset of “the rest is as important as the training”…. fingers crossed the rumours are true that eating a paleo diet reduces illness massively. If only there were some Paleo version of Lemsip… I’m thinking perhaps (for next time), capsuled paracetamol and a heated lemon, ginger and honey drink. Ugh, you live you learn.
I’ve recently embarked on a challenge to completely and fundamentally change the way I eat. When I first discovered the Paleo diet it wasn’t exactly called the Paleo Diet. Joe Friel included a chapter on eating like a caveman in The Triathlete’s Training Bible I read back around 2001; long before Hunter-Gatherer societies and barefoot running clubs emerged as the latest hip young thing, the world of multisport was learning the art of palaeolithic living. But I wasn’t at the time… now I am. Something about discipline and old age. In a nutshell, the Paleo diet is simple. No grains, no dairy, no processed foods including most sugars. Nothing that requires sustained agriculture. Ie. No potatoes, no rice, no legumes like peanuts or lentils. Bread and milk have always gummed up the works a bit, so it was a pretty simple solution to bid them goodbye.
It’s been about 2.5 weeks now, and I wanted to capture some of my first impressions. I love it I love it I love it. No more painful bloating, no more food gut after a meal, no more heavy legs at the end of the day, tons and I mean TONS of energy. Noticeably reduced body fat (ALREADY!!!!), better focus, my skin is clearing up, my head is clearing up…. and the best part is that I feel almost no cravings for naughty foods like cheese. But this hasn’t been completely straight-forward. There are a few favorites I’m learning to love, and possibly depend on.
1. I live next door to a raw vegan restaurant, which sells to-go raw flax seed and red pepper dehydrated crackers. This has solved my cravings for cheesy savoury snacks mid-afternoon. They’re not cheap, at about £2.50 a box, but they’re worth it.
2. Steamed kale. It’s filling like no other. A little drizzle of good oil and some ground black pepper mixed in and I’m a happy camper.
3. Venison, slowly stewed. My parents are expert chefs when it comes to cooking venison… unfortunately I lack this skill. Luckily, a few veggies and a few hours later, venison is best cooked slow and low. It’s so tender and luscious this way… but I’d still like to figure out how to cook venison steak without it being super tough.
4. Papaya. My new favourite fruit. Relatively low in sugars, very juicy.
5. Abel & Cole salmon. It’s the best. Order it. That’s all.
6. Liver and onions. I know I know, this is supposed to be gross, but I love it. Not to mention my cat loves it too. High in all the good stuff, low in all the bad stuff, I can get a box of organic free range chicken livers for £1.99 which, between me and the cat, lasts about a week, so that’s a bargain. Makes up for the expensive seed crackers.
7. Super dark chocolate. Ok… this technically isn’t part of a Paleo diet, but a tiny square of chocolate is the perfect way to end the evening and is just decadent enough to make me feel like I’m splurging on something. Hey, it’s a centimetre square of cocoa. It’s not a half pot of Cherry Garcia. That, to me, is a small but jubilant success.
Overall, the one thing I like best about this diet is it doesn’t limit how much you eat. In that sense, it doesn’t actually feel like a diet. It just feels like I’m listening to my body. Milk and bread never felt good to eat. So I don’t. I stop when I’m full and if there’s good, Paleo food around when I’m hungry, I’ll have something to eat. That’s it.
My biggest caveat, however, is that I’m following Friel’s advice for athletes: some complex carbohydrates before, during and immediately following exercise. I won’t be separated from my precious Clif Bars, Clif Shot blocks and…
8. Wheat-free granola with unsweetened apple sauce. The perfect pre-training food for those 4 hour+ rides when I need more than some fruit and eggs for breakfast. Even for people who aren’t doing anything out of the norm, I would HIGHLY recommend trying this. I’ve been a long-time fan of yogurt and granola, but have discovered not only does this modified version taste better, I feel better after eating it.
Perhaps it has something to do with rowing for a few years when I lived in Montreal, but I have an inhuman bent for repetitive indoor training. I like it. I even like it when the weather is nice. This makes me a little bit crazy, but I’ve accepted those circumstances.
Okay, this is a little unfair. I like indoor training more than no training at all. And even in good weather, on long, bright days, an hour indoors is sometimes all I can muster. It’s better than nothing.
So when the nights start closing in prematurely, (at like, noon), my inner gym rat starts to get a bit excited. Especially in these months before the new years’ resolutions start taking up space on the gym floor, the gym is like a little private island of earnestness in a sea of ironic detachment. NB to English readers: this is actually a good thing. It’s the only place where taking yourself seriously, albeit not too seriously, is actually appreciated. (I’m starting to make up theories of why the English are typically so tragically out of shape…) It’s hard to look “like it’s just a bit of a laugh” when you’ve loaded another 10 kilos onto the bar and you’re hoping it doesn’t come crashing down on your neck paralysing you before you’ve completed your umpteenth set. My point being, I get to feel like an American when I go to the gym. And this… I like.
Last night I went to the gym for my first strength training session in, um, a couple years. I forgot about this bit. Apparently triathletes are meant to strengthen their core muscles and all the muscles up the back side of the body. The back, hamstrings, bum, shoulders, triceps, etc… that lot. It’s meant chiefly for injury prevention, but also for balancing out the muscles that get worked, constantly, on the front side of the body. As yet, I’m unconvinced, but, as they say, trust thy coach and thy next timed results.
And now I’m a broken woman. I can barely stand up. And I know it’s bad when I have to brace myself by clumsily doing a triceps bend to lower myself onto the toilet. Pants around my ankles, and minor shrieks of agony as I whimper to bend my knees. I managed my run this morning, but that was before the pain set in. The thing about strength training: you can actually trick your body into thinking it’s fine if the next workout is first-thing the following morning. It’s like a deep cut that only hurts once you’ve seen it. It only starts to hurt once you’ve tried to exercise again.
And boy does it ever. A wimpy couple of sets with really low weights and I was toast last night. I could feel it on my second set of lunges: that forgotten spasm on the back of my thigh, whispering in my ear, “and you thought you could ignore us forever, hiding here under this cellulite… think again Fatty.” Oh the agony. And the only thing to do is drink loads of water, stretch and hope to hell that the “damage-the-muscle-so-it-rebuilds” schtick is actually true.
But I will persist. I know this feeling only really happens the first time, and it gets easier, not to mention more rewarding. The pain goes away, replaced by the gold dust that is a new vein, dropped body fat, and… um…yes, balance.
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