Why did the blonde run with the bike? It was going too fast for her to get on...
My completely mental Grandma once told me the story of the time my uncle came home from school one day in about 1973 and said, "Mum, you're such a blonde". Now, I realise everyone thinks their Grandma is a bit mental. Well, sunshine, my Grandma will see your Grandma and raise you a box of frogs. The cyclist is an extraordinary man, a bona-fide alpha male, and the only time I have ever seen him so scared that his face contorted with dread is when faced with my completely mental Grandma. And we've had the 'Darling, wonderful news! I'm pregnant!' conversation. More than once.
Anyways, as a kid my Grandma was always utterly fascinated by my blondness, as I am the product of strictly very dark-haired stock. And so it came about that I learned another definition of a blonde, albeit one I can't corroborate from any source. According to my Grandma, my schoolboy uncle had confided to her that a blonde, as well as being a dizzy sort of fair-haired chick, is also a woman of any hair colour whos bottom overhangs her saddle when she's riding a bike. And right now I'm pretty damn sure I could not be more blonde if I tried.
So bottom overhang to one side (as it were), how's the rest of me bearing up now I've been on my bike a few times?
Let's start with the legs. Have you seen 1987's Evil Dead II? Where Ash's hand is possessed by an evil spirit and he's forced to cut it off and replace it with a chainsaw? Well, not to be a drama queen or anything, but I think something not entirely dissimilar might be happening to my left leg. It has definitely developed a mind of it's own, and is certainly evil (I am terming the situation Malevolent Left Leg Syndrome, or MLLS, and am self-medicating with peanut m+m's), although I'm not sure what benefit a chainsaw replacement might be at this point, and am currently exploring other options. Seriously though, nothing, in the history of anything (and I am even including the first incarnation of Take That in the early 90's, before Gary Barlow was all suave and fit and that and he was an awkward 20-something songwriter looking distinctly embarrassed in a pair of red cycling shorts and a studded codpiece at the back on Top of the Pops who could not dance to save his chubbily self-conscious life) has ever been so off the beat as my left leg.
My right leg is fine. A touch heavier than I'd like, plenty of room for improvement etc, but capable of maintaing a rhythm. I am riding my bike and my right leg goes:
...push...push...push...push...push...
Which, as starting points go, is fine. Hell, eventually it might even manage a pull or two. But when you add my left leg into the equation the situation ends up:
...push.PUSH...push...PUSH.push..PUSH..push...PUSHpush
And then I get in a mood. And it would appear that there are few things in life less effective than getting in a mood with your own left leg. It gives you a headache and makes you be mean to your husband.
I've been (pleasantly) surprised at how tough on the arms cycling can be. I've always had silly weak T-Rex arms and looked jealously at hot women with toned arms (but not jealously enough to do bicep curls or anything). The only issue as far as I can tell is the likelihood of developing vibration white-finger from all the wobbling and juddering I'm doing.
And, oh! my worst enemy, my mind. I need to find the off switch, I really do, or a mute button at the very least (seriously, if my real voice is even a fraction as harpyish and irritating as the one in my head then everyone I've ever spoken to deserves a medal for not slapping me). I'll be going fine, actually riding my actual bike with my MLLS derived lopsided rhythm and then the little voice will start, usually with a shrill what the hell are you doing woman or you're going too FAST (I'm really not!) or a super helpful oh my god we're going to DIE and the self-doubt kicks RIGHT in and the wobblies start. And once the wobblies have started I've found it's quite hard to get them to stop.
Having shared space with my mind for a good long time, I have come up with a few ways of tricking her - she's basically not very bright. She can be distracted by shiny things, muted with music and is quite slow on the uptake early in the morning. And so I have been going out on the bike at silly o'clock of a weekend morning, which is helpful on a number of levels because as well as my mind yawning and pottering about drinking tea and generally leaving me alone, it means a) the roads are very quiet, which is good for my nerves, b) the impact of me disappearing out on the bike is lessened on the family and it doesn't disrupt the day too much and, most importantly, c) No-one sees. No-one seeing is hugely important at this time, because I am hyper aware of the fact that I look completely and utterly ridiculous. Not, you understand, due to the bike, or the kit; but because I'm a grown woman riding a bike incredibly slowly and wonkily, who suddenly starts wobbling dangerously for no discernible reason and is muttering to herself.
So then. Possessed left leg, wobbling weak T-Rex arms and self-sabotaging psyche. Black and blue and blonde all over.
Monday 30 July 2012
Sunday 29 July 2012
On The Road.
No matter, the road is life.
Right here right now I can go anywhere. Be anyone.
Everything looks so new in the soft apricot glow of the early morning light. The clean washed out blue of the endless watercolour sky. The mouthwateringly fresh greens of the trees and hedges, every possible shade from almost yellow to almost black.
Sunlight trickles through the leaves above and dapples the path ahead. The air is soft and lazy-still but for the gentlest and most welcome kiss of breeze on my skin.
There is only me in this moment. Everything there has ever been from then to now has been in anticipation of this. An entire universe, born of nothing an infinity ago for the express purpose of these - are they minutes? are they hours?
I am lulled by the hypnotic rhythm of my legs. The only sounds is the ticking of the wheels as they turn and the life of the landscape around me. The road slides past beneath me. She loves me; she loves me not. She loves me; she loves me not. Exhaustion. Elation.
The path is in turn smooth and rough - a slash of asphalt in the green, straight and solid and true in some places, gradually being reclaimed by the encroaching wild in others.
My mind is emptied of all conscious thoughts but one. Consistent. Insistent. Persistent.
My fucking arse is KILLING me.
Wednesday 25 July 2012
Tour de France wash up meeting.
Just how smugly correct were the cyclist's predictions...?
Can Wiggins win this?
'Wiggins will win this by at least 3 minutes. Sky are going to boss the shit out of this, dominant to the point where people will start saying they ruined it. He could've won last year had he not crashed.'
And in the event, that's exactly what happened. Wiggins won, and by just over 3 minutes. What the cyclist didn't predict, what I think few prior to the Tour would have predicted, is that the winning margin separated him from a teammate rather than a 'rival'. The time gap back to Nibali in third was 6' 19". And Team Sky were a masterclass in bossing the shit out of it, dominant to the point where people started yawning loudly and asking how long it was 'til the Vuelta and saying things like 'UK Postal' and sniggering.
Can they (Sky) win both jerseys?
'No.'
They didn't.
Will they try?
'No. They're sending Cav home early for the Olympics. He's going for stage wins; my prediction - 3. The Green Jersey is not his focus for the season like it was last year. I'm sure he'd love another, but he wants the Olympic title more.'
Spooky, innit? Another 3 stage wins for Cav, phenomenal sprinter that he is. There were mutterings that Sky were doing the World Champion wrong. I'm not sure I would agree with that assessment - Sky always made it crystal clear they were all about a TdF GC win, and he only pulled two fewer stage wins than when he had the World's Most Awesome Sprint Train. I am so glad he stayed the course; I genuinely was expecting for him to pull out and go straight to an Olympics holding pen (the word I so desperately want to use is Gulag), but watching the Sky Team, Yellow Jersey and Norwegian National Champion lead out the World Champion for such a definitive win on the Champs Elysee really was pretty special.
Is Cadel a contender?
'He might podium, but he doesn't seem to have the edge he had last year, the edge that Wiggins has now.'
I'm sorry Cadel, I really am. Big fan of your work, like your style, and sorry you were laid low with some fairly obvious stomach trouble. And I thought the way you conducted yourself in the post stage soundbites you gave was admirable, especially when it became clear the race had slipped from your grasp. But you just didn't have it this year.
But has Brad peaked too soon?
'Don't be fooled. Just because he's so dominant and taking big wins doesn't mean he's peaked, it's just the level he's at. Another's 100% is his 95%. Cadel is secretly shitting his pants.'
The state of Cadel's pants is, of course, between him and his washing machine, but I think from day 1 it was pretty clear Brad hadn't lost any of the stonking form he's had this year.
Who's going to win Green?
'Sagan. He's clearly a fantastic rider, but he needs to learn how to conduct himself a little more professionally, he's in danger of stepping on toes. He needs to learn which battles to fight, he's taking the mick rather than making his mark. There's a lot of hype, and he's an awesome rider but he could quickly get too big for his boots. He needs to mix it with the big boys and show what he's got.'
Sagan was a bit of a revelation for me tbh - I wasn't sure how well he'd adapt to the unique pressures of the Tour. But adapt he did, and with some style. There have been some questions raised about his 'antics', of which I can say only this; if I was a 22-year-old Slovakian kicking ass and taking names in my first Tour de France, I'd be doing impressions of the Incredible Hulk and signing boobs too. And saying it once and owning it - I love Daniel Oss's hair.
And the Mountains?
'Samuel Sanchez. He'll win with consistency rather than fireworks.'
Our survey says - Eeee-Errrrr. Well, I suppose the cyclist had to get something wrong, he's been pretty scarily accurate up 'til now. Sammy Sanchez of course, crashed out Stage 8. King of the Mountains was instead decided by consistent fireworks - Thomas Voeckler riding his way first over 11 mountains to two well-deserved stage wins, and some dubious spotty shorts in the process.
Talk to me about the other contenders. Frank Schleck? Vincenzo Nibali?
'Both could top 5 and win stages, but neither can force an upset on GC. Even if they do manage to take some time out of Wiggins on the big climbs, which is going to be a big ask given the team support Wiggins has, Brad will more than make this up on the time trials. The time trials will be decisive.'
The time trials were, of course, decisive. Wiggins, who was never lower than 2nd on GC, took yellow on the second time trial and secured it on the third. In the event, no-one was able to take any time out of Wiggins on any climb, as Sky were so well drilled in the mountains. I , who know little about cycling, was surprised to see Wiggins seated in the mountains, rather than up and bouncing on his pedals like some of the others. I put this to the cyclist, concerned that this meant Wiggins was tired or struggling. He laughed. He told me the guy in the saddle, tapping out his rhythm was the one to be afraid of.
Frank Schleck. Diuretics. I simply don't know enough about the to make any sort of valid or informed comment. Please feel free to check out Anna Zimmerman's 150 Watts of Awesome post here where she explains it in college terms (this really is a very good blog - while you're there check out her Hypocrisy of Cycling Fans Post and her Brad Wiggins is a Total Prostitute one - in fact just get yourself a cup of tea and a couple biscuits and read the lot). I find myself hoping it's some sort of contamination issue, then wondering what the hell he was taking that got contaminated. The sorriest part of it all is that this has the potential to drag on and on until it becomes as confusing and meaningless to us mere fans as the Contador case. Depressing. Meh.
Do Team Sky have a plan B?
'To win it, no. I'm sure there are various plan B's in the event of a crash like last year; I expect they'd ride for stages and possibly the Mountains Classification for Froome.'
The answer is moot. Team Sky placed their faith in Bradley Wiggins as team leader, rode to that end, and secured victory. Chris Froome has proven beyond a shadow of a doubt he is a very real contender in his own right, and I trust that he, like Wiggins, will have the opportunity to lead the team to GC glory in the future - possibly as soon as the Vuelta. He deserves it. But this is the team sport where one man wins. Teams are organised with specific goals in mind, and riders designated roles. Things may change, out there on the road; but they change to the demands of the team, of the race and of the riders, NOT of the fans.
'I wish Froome rode for another team' was a pretty consistent theme on Twitter during the Tour. I had wished Chris Froome didn't ride for team Sky either, for 10 minutes on the Friday before the Tour started, as I was picking my fantasy TdF team for the grudge match with the cyclist. You see, I'd come up with a fiendishly clever rule, which I was regretting immensely at this point - that you could only pick 1 rider from each 'real' team for your fantasy team. Having already bid a tearful, heart-wrenching goodbye to my beloved Cav at this point, I was in real agonies about letting Froome go, even though my heart was always with Wiggins; his name was on my list written in red pen and underlined twice with smiley faces over the i's. (I imagine this is a bit how Brailsford feels at times too.)
But let us not forget this is the Chris Froome who had offers tabled by, what was it, 8 World Tour teams following his excellent performance in the Vuelta last year, before signing a three-year contract with Sky. I'd say he'd made a pretty informed decision about who he wanted to ride for, wouldn't you? How exactly would he be better off elsewhere? He obviously didn't think so. And however impressive Froome was, I would also like to take a moment to mention the riders I was equally impressed by, Mick Rogers, Eddy Boasson Hagen and Richie Porte, who's combined efforts made Team Sky virtually untouchable. This was very much their Tour.
Sunday 22 July 2012
Wish me luck!
On your bike, sunshine...
I have not been up this early on a Sunday morning since I was last out this late on a Saturday night.
I have completed a Risk Assessment and a Method Statement. I have filled out my Equal Opportunities Monitoring Form. I have applied some chamois cream, and even did the face. I've got a 4th Cat Tattoo on my leg just from getting the bike out of the front room round to the back of the house. There really is nothing left to do but to get on the sodding bike and get out there.
Wish me luck!
I have not been up this early on a Sunday morning since I was last out this late on a Saturday night.
I have completed a Risk Assessment and a Method Statement. I have filled out my Equal Opportunities Monitoring Form. I have applied some chamois cream, and even did the face. I've got a 4th Cat Tattoo on my leg just from getting the bike out of the front room round to the back of the house. There really is nothing left to do but to get on the sodding bike and get out there.
Wish me luck!
Sunday 15 July 2012
To the bike shop!
In which our heroine spends a Sunday morning trying not to have a full on diva tantrum in a well-known bike shop...
I travel back in time in my mind. Like the way a certain smell from your childhood instantly takes you to a moment you can picture with such clarity it shocks you, the word 'Unisex' has the same effect on me. Without fail it transports me to 1991, the car park of St James Community Centre in Exeter, which on a Friday evening is the local youth club.
Picture the scene. My mother has procured from dubious sources a highly flammable shell-suit each for my younger brother and I. They are matching, and slightly too big. They are a colour between sky blue and turquoise (Pantone 0821-U), and have neon rainbows up the side. They are the very height of sophistication.
We had rocked up to Youth Club strutting like Huggy Bear (I had a side ponytail and everything), to find that Friday evening was a disco. I drew admiring glances in my get up, and was soon surrounded by a gaggle of other 12-year-old girls to discuss fashion (clearly I was quite the authority) and boys (not really much of an authority at all, but I wasn't going to let that stop me). My brother had, however, attracted a lot of attention for all the wrong reasons. Cornered by a large-ish gang of bigger boys (he would have been 8 at the time), demanding to know why he was wearing a girl's shell suit, all that could be heard was a plaintive wail.
'It's not a girls one. It's UNISEX.'
Yes. That told those bullies.
The cyclist has, of course, heard this one before. 'Unisex' has become a bit of an in-joke, particularly used to describe someone wearing something they ought not to be, that we suspect they have been conned into by a wily shop-person. 'Ah yes, sir, the full length leather coat. An excellent choice. And, of course, it's Unisex.'
And it is 'Unisex' I think of while in a well-known bike shop. I'm about to slag it off to hell and back, so we'll stick with the moniker of 'well-known bike shop' for now. And yes, I was expecting it to be a bit crap. And a bit crap it is. We have our reasons for being here, mainly the discounts available and range of stock. Although when I say range of stock, I should make it clear that I explicitly refer to the range of stock they advertise they carry, not that which it appears is available in the actual store. Additionally, the well-known bike shop is less than 10 minutes away, and there's a coffee shop next door.
I have come tooled up. I have with me a secret weapon, the cyclist and his list. The cyclist has been meticulously researching and detailing the replacements he needs following his crash, and along with this he was challenged to find me a bike and the associated bits and pieces I would need to get started myself. Following a number of 'musical differences', we have produced a final and definitive list of kit, chosen me a bike, and agreed on a 'reasonable' amount of replacement wheels for the one that he smashed (three for one, something to do with aerodynamics).
And if it wasn't for the list, I would be all at sea. The well-known bike shop appears to be staffed exclusively by morons and dimwits, determined to sell you whatever's easiest for them, not the stuff you actually want or need to buy.
The cyclist wants me to 'try on' my chosen bike in the shop to make sure it's right. We have taken a stab at frame size, which I'm confident is accurate, but he is right, I need to make sure I am sure. The very thought of putting my bum on a bike in a shop full of cyclists chills me to my core. The last time I sat on a bike roughly coincides with my brother's 'Unisex!' outburst. There will be wobbling. A lot of wobbling. In the event, I am saved from the indignity by the well-known bike shop's lack of provision for women. Despite my being a woman, and trying to buy a women-specific frame (by name and stock number), three times the shop assistant offers me the men's version. Unisex. Not only that, they want to charge us fifty quid (fifty quid!) to get the correct bike into the store for me to try (not cancelled, merely postponed) in a few days time. For fucks sake.
They haven't got any women's cycling shoes in my size for me to try (I actually even wore matching socks), these will have to be ordered too. I try on helmets and make a selection (the one with the colour scheme to match the bike, obviously, and women-specific again - it's got a gap for a ponytail) - shallow little cow that I am I am hoping I will look a little less like Mrs Mushroom Head in it once I'm in the proper kit and on the bike rather than jeans and t-shirt in a shop. And I gulp, and can put it off no longer. To the fitting rooms go I, like Anne Boleyn to the executioners block, with a pair of bib shorts (the only pair in the entire huge shop for women in my size) and two jerseys to try on.
The bib shorts fit fine, they don't even look too shocking (they do feel like I'm wearing a nappy, but I think I'll have to get used to that). There is the suggestion that beneath the lycra my body has been inexpertly fashioned from grey play-doh, but given the amount of exercise I have been doing recently (er - none), it's the very least I was expecting. The first jersey, a reasonably tasteful black and white one, looks terrible and is enormous. The second, a lurid purpley-pink I am not expecting to like, actually looks ok and fits well. I choose some socks (I'm not prepared to get into the sock debate here, contentious issue that it is) and some gloves, hand the shorts and jersey to the cyclist, grab the kids and get out of his hair. It's his turn to talk to the dim assistant about the stuff he wants to order (none of which they carry in store, obviously).
And so we shall return in a few days time, to see whether any of the stuff they are getting in on our behalf is actually the stuff we asked for, or want to buy.
I travel back in time in my mind. Like the way a certain smell from your childhood instantly takes you to a moment you can picture with such clarity it shocks you, the word 'Unisex' has the same effect on me. Without fail it transports me to 1991, the car park of St James Community Centre in Exeter, which on a Friday evening is the local youth club.
Picture the scene. My mother has procured from dubious sources a highly flammable shell-suit each for my younger brother and I. They are matching, and slightly too big. They are a colour between sky blue and turquoise (Pantone 0821-U), and have neon rainbows up the side. They are the very height of sophistication.
We had rocked up to Youth Club strutting like Huggy Bear (I had a side ponytail and everything), to find that Friday evening was a disco. I drew admiring glances in my get up, and was soon surrounded by a gaggle of other 12-year-old girls to discuss fashion (clearly I was quite the authority) and boys (not really much of an authority at all, but I wasn't going to let that stop me). My brother had, however, attracted a lot of attention for all the wrong reasons. Cornered by a large-ish gang of bigger boys (he would have been 8 at the time), demanding to know why he was wearing a girl's shell suit, all that could be heard was a plaintive wail.
'It's not a girls one. It's UNISEX.'
Yes. That told those bullies.
The cyclist has, of course, heard this one before. 'Unisex' has become a bit of an in-joke, particularly used to describe someone wearing something they ought not to be, that we suspect they have been conned into by a wily shop-person. 'Ah yes, sir, the full length leather coat. An excellent choice. And, of course, it's Unisex.'
And it is 'Unisex' I think of while in a well-known bike shop. I'm about to slag it off to hell and back, so we'll stick with the moniker of 'well-known bike shop' for now. And yes, I was expecting it to be a bit crap. And a bit crap it is. We have our reasons for being here, mainly the discounts available and range of stock. Although when I say range of stock, I should make it clear that I explicitly refer to the range of stock they advertise they carry, not that which it appears is available in the actual store. Additionally, the well-known bike shop is less than 10 minutes away, and there's a coffee shop next door.
I have come tooled up. I have with me a secret weapon, the cyclist and his list. The cyclist has been meticulously researching and detailing the replacements he needs following his crash, and along with this he was challenged to find me a bike and the associated bits and pieces I would need to get started myself. Following a number of 'musical differences', we have produced a final and definitive list of kit, chosen me a bike, and agreed on a 'reasonable' amount of replacement wheels for the one that he smashed (three for one, something to do with aerodynamics).
And if it wasn't for the list, I would be all at sea. The well-known bike shop appears to be staffed exclusively by morons and dimwits, determined to sell you whatever's easiest for them, not the stuff you actually want or need to buy.
The cyclist wants me to 'try on' my chosen bike in the shop to make sure it's right. We have taken a stab at frame size, which I'm confident is accurate, but he is right, I need to make sure I am sure. The very thought of putting my bum on a bike in a shop full of cyclists chills me to my core. The last time I sat on a bike roughly coincides with my brother's 'Unisex!' outburst. There will be wobbling. A lot of wobbling. In the event, I am saved from the indignity by the well-known bike shop's lack of provision for women. Despite my being a woman, and trying to buy a women-specific frame (by name and stock number), three times the shop assistant offers me the men's version. Unisex. Not only that, they want to charge us fifty quid (fifty quid!) to get the correct bike into the store for me to try (not cancelled, merely postponed) in a few days time. For fucks sake.
They haven't got any women's cycling shoes in my size for me to try (I actually even wore matching socks), these will have to be ordered too. I try on helmets and make a selection (the one with the colour scheme to match the bike, obviously, and women-specific again - it's got a gap for a ponytail) - shallow little cow that I am I am hoping I will look a little less like Mrs Mushroom Head in it once I'm in the proper kit and on the bike rather than jeans and t-shirt in a shop. And I gulp, and can put it off no longer. To the fitting rooms go I, like Anne Boleyn to the executioners block, with a pair of bib shorts (the only pair in the entire huge shop for women in my size) and two jerseys to try on.
The bib shorts fit fine, they don't even look too shocking (they do feel like I'm wearing a nappy, but I think I'll have to get used to that). There is the suggestion that beneath the lycra my body has been inexpertly fashioned from grey play-doh, but given the amount of exercise I have been doing recently (er - none), it's the very least I was expecting. The first jersey, a reasonably tasteful black and white one, looks terrible and is enormous. The second, a lurid purpley-pink I am not expecting to like, actually looks ok and fits well. I choose some socks (I'm not prepared to get into the sock debate here, contentious issue that it is) and some gloves, hand the shorts and jersey to the cyclist, grab the kids and get out of his hair. It's his turn to talk to the dim assistant about the stuff he wants to order (none of which they carry in store, obviously).
And so we shall return in a few days time, to see whether any of the stuff they are getting in on our behalf is actually the stuff we asked for, or want to buy.
Friday 6 July 2012
A difficult weekend.
Our cyclist wrestles the NHS while our heroine wrangles das kinder...
Wednesday.
The difficult weekend actually began on a Wednesday. The Wednesday the cyclist was to report to what shall henceforth be referred to as The Hospital to get plated up like the 6 Million Dollar Man (a bit like the 6 Million Dollar Man).
We had been told that if his operation was in the morning, he would be out of hospital the same day, and if his operation was in the afternoon he would be carefully released back into the wild the next morning.
By 10am he was going out of his mind, mainly due to the fact that the hospital was going to call him to tell him where to go and when, and our phones get the crappiest signal imaginable at home. We sling his overnight bag into the car and take a jaunt to Starbucks - he can have black coffee til 11, but nothing to eat. I disloyally demolish a muffin in front of him. I am a terrible wife.
It gets to half 11. The cyclist gives up and rings the hospital. Oh yes, can you come in now please?
So we take him straight in. He is bedded (not like that), has pages of questions asked and is given a sticky wristband to show he is now property of the hospital. I take his wedding ring. Bella is climbing all over him, so after half an hour we leave him to it.
We spend most of the day texting back and forth. No news, no news.
Eventually he is told his operation will not take place that day, instead he will be on Thursday's list. Yes, definitely Thursday's. No, they don't know whether it will be morning or afternoon. No, he'll be staying in tonight. An hour later; actually, yes, he can come home.
Thursday.
We don't know what time they want him in - yet again they are going to call him. So in the meantime I drive him to the office. This time he is allowed no food or drink in the morning. These people obviously have no idea what happens when the cyclist misses a meal.
He calls the hospital at about 9.30 to see if there's an update. Ah. Yes. No, his operation will not be today after all. It will be Saturday. Definitely. Absolutely Saturday. Yes, he's definitely on the list. No, they don't know if it'll be morning or afternoon, those lists haven't been released yet.
I can hear the exasperation in his voice, but he keeps his temper in check and maintains civility and politeness. It's not like he's looking forward to the operation. He just wants it over and done with, so he can get the process of recovery started. I cannot imagine the frustration of the anticipation and the let down.
He is starving - we wander down the hill into the town and get a McDonalds breakfast. Double sausage McMuffin, Hash Brown and a Latte. Could be worse.
Friday.
Friday's not too bad. A pretty normal day. The calm before the storm.
Saturday.
Oh, this is where the fun starts.
A phone call at 8.20. Can you be here for 9?
A flurry of activity to mobilise everyone to the car. Yes, Bella, you need to put your trousers ON.
The tiny triumph of dropping him at the door for the Main Entrance as the clock in the car ticks to 8.57.
A quick kiss, a squeeze of the hand on his good arm. I love him and I need him, and in all this busy maybe I've not let him know that properly. After all, he is about to be knocked out, cut open, re-broken, drilled and screwed and hammered and sewn back up again. He walks in to the atrium, out of my view, and I turn the car around.
The supermarket. The school Summer Fete. Distract the kids with doughnuts and donkey rides, balloon animals and bouncy castles. The day is full of busy.
And all the while I watch my phone. Texting to and fro all day, the cyclist goes quiet at quarter past 2. The assumption is he has gone into theatre, finally. Now for the rest of the day.
And oh, I have made a rod for my own back. Big time. The Gods of Organisation pour scorn upon me, for this is the dread weekend of Bella's dance show. I agreed to this months ago, not fully realising just what it was I was agreeing to. Bella attends a half hour dance class once a week. I say dance class, but it's really just a group of chubby 3 and 4 year old girls running round squealing in tutu's. They have been practising two 'dances' for weeks now, 'ballet' to the theme song from Disney's Tangled, and 'tap' to The Bear Necessities.
So far, so very, very cute. But this is not the toddler presentation to the mummies and daddies and doting grandparentals that I was expecting, this is an End Of Year Dance Revue. With capitals. The adorably podgy toddlers not really getting it very right and waving at their mummies from the stage while they pull at their skirts takes up about 8 total minutes. This show will be over TWO HOURS. So that is an additional hundred and twelve endless mindnumbing minutes of watching other peoples precocious pre-teens, in fluorescent get-ups pole dancers would dismiss as being 'too much', grinning and gyrating to Katy Perry songs, a fraction of a beat out of time. On a Saturday night, when I could be at home in the bath with a rum and coke. Imagine the horror, if you dare; if this is not one of the very circles of hell itself, the Devil has missed a trick.
Oh yeah, and there are 2 performances.
Had Matt had the operation on Wednesday like we were expecting, or even Thursday, he would be out of hospital and hopefully up to either coming with me or staying at home with Oscar, either way evening the odds; two of them, two of us. That was the plan; my plan, anyway. But as it is, I am herding the 2 kids Lone Ranger style, with nary a Tonto for moral support.
We have to be in Bolton for 6, the Saturday show starts at 7. The kids usually go to bed sometime around 7-ish and don't wear tired well, thus I am primed for 2 meltdowns of epic proportions to kick off out of the clear blue sky at about twenty past 8. I have an escape strategy planned; I have identified the exits like a nervous flyer on a 747. The bags of gubbins we have brought with us - costumes and colouring and snacks - are roomy and drawstring and will go over my shoulders, and I can tuck a wriggling and inconsolable child under each arm and run like hell til the adrenaline runs out. All the doors are double hinged - I can just shoulder-barge my way through. As escape plans go I am very aware it lacks finesse, but balls to it, I figure it'll get me the hell out of there fast as long as I start running before the kids hit defcon 1 (cocked pistol).
I grab a passing expert-looking eleven year old and give her grips and bobbles - and sure enough within about 6 seconds Bella's enormous and mental mane has been tamed into perfect BalletGirl hair. Yet again I am left wondering what it was I was doing when everyone else learned this stuff.
Oscar is ensconced in a chair, head down, tapping away madly on a videogame. He's happy as Larry. Bella and the other BalletGirls are playing and colouring and sharing sweets waiting for their time to go on stage and be adorable, no-one is even close to a meltdown. Except maybe me. A watched phone never texts.
I try to call the cyclist a few times, the call just rings out. I get the number for the ward, and after a couple of attempts I get an answer. Yes, he's OK. Yes, he's had his operation. Yes, it went fine. No, he'll not be coming home tonight, he'll be let out in the morning. Yes, she'll let him know I rang.
I relax slightly, the operation has finally taken place and at least we're not going to have to drop everything and rush to the hospital to get him now. I can focus on getting the kids and I through this evening.
By 9.30, the last few bars of Take That's 'Never Forget' are ringing through the auditorium, signalling the end of the finale. I'm like a coiled spring; the bags are packed, Oscar has his shoes and coat back on and is Ninja-ing imaginary foes across the corridor, I have my car key in my hand. I grab my daughter, wide-eyed as she comes off the stage, and we go go go.
A final exhausted wail; 'I miss daddy'.
Sunday.
Here we go again.
The kids take pity on me, and sleep in.
I spend the morning crashing round the place, doing the standard household blah that needs attention on a weekend, all the while waiting for the phone to ring. I expect at any moment a nurse will practically beg me to come to the hospital to collect the cyclist and free up the bed. In my head, the doctor will see him about 9, tick him off the list and he'll be packed off at about 10.30. We'll be back home for 11, a cup of tea, a spot of lunch. He probably won't fancy the Dance Show (and I won't blame him), but won't mind overseeing Oscar playing on his Wii and snoozing on the sofa while I take Bella to performance number 2, the Sunday Matinee.
But this is of course not how Sunday plays out.
Waiting, waiting, always waiting, texts back and forward. No news. The cyclist is going out of his mind with boredom and frustration. And it's getting close to the time when Bella needs to be back in Bolton. Everyone back in the car.
On Saturday I had been able to park practically outside the theatre in a free spot, but there was to be no such luck in the town centre at Sunday lunchtime, it was the multi-storey for me. I had never actually parked in a multi-storey car park before, the very thought making my palms sweat, mainly due to the fact that I have a serious dose of bad car-park karma owed to me from a shameful episode a number of years back that left not a tell-tale mark on my car, but quite a few on someone else's (I know, I know). There are large warning signs everywhere, the car park shuts at 5 on a Sunday it will be locked after this. Ah, just what was missing from my life right now. The element of danger. The suggestion that should the show overrun I will be stranded in Bolton town centre with 2 screaming kids, the car trapped behind a locked-down Debenhams until Monday morning. That will round the weekend out nicely.
Once in the theatre, the afternoon progresses pretty much identically to the evening before. An identikit eleven year old (it may even have been the same one) takes over Bella's hair for me, the BalletGirls play between dances, Oscar sits so quietly you wouldn't realise he was even there. And my phone never leaves my hand. No news, no news, no news.
We make it back to the car in time, no car-park karma has come my way, and we head home from the show. I am pretty much on top note by this point, tired and frustrated, my inner control freak going totally mental at the lack of information.
We fall out of the car. I am yelling at Oscar for some small misdemeanour I have massively overreacted to, probably a seatbelt infraction. I am holding the kids Sunday Dinner - the drive thru Happy Meal each I have picked up for them on the way home. My 3-year old is still wearing her stage make-up. I have what can only be described as a bit of a stressed-out sweat on.
My mother-in-law is sat in her car on our drive, waiting.
My mother-in-law is a lovely, kind person with a great sense of humour, but I am uncomfortably aware that this tableau is not portraying me in the light of serene glory in which I would rather she saw the mother of her beloved grandchildren. She has been down from their place in Wales to babysit our niece, and has called round to check on her adored son.
She offers to take over the kids bedtime routine - I practically sag with relief, hand the kids over and rush back to the car, back to Bolton, to visit the cyclist and hopefully bust him out of the joint. This is the first time I've seen him since I dropped him off on Saturday morning. Oh, he is not a happy boy. He looks like shit. Predictably, he appears to be on the weirdo ward, populated almost exclusively by old men who seem to spend the entire day leaning to one side and growling out farts. His is beyond exasperated, has no idea what's going on or when they will let him come home. He is sore and tired, and suffering the effects of the anaesthetic hangover. His fractured ribs are still uncomfortable. And he has been stuck on a narrow bed for 36 hours, lethargy and ennui are taking their toll.
I find a nurse. She can tell me that the cyclist will not be going home tonight. She has no idea why not, neither do we. This was an (in the great scheme of things) incredibly minor op, the cyclist is fit and healthy and desperate to leave. The nurses are bemoaning the lack of beds available on the ward. Him still being here is utterly ridiculous.
I have to leave; there are things to do, things to organise if he's not coming out tonight. For reasons I will maybe go into another time the cyclist has shit to do on Monday, and if he's not available to do it, then I need to be. I get home as quick as I can, and throw myself on my mother in law's mercy (she has plenty, there's not really a risk here). Fling some stuff in a suitcase, God knows what, and get the kids out of the beds she put them in not 10 minutes ago. They are going for an impromptu visit to Matt's parents. They are thrilled. We swap the car seats in, I kiss the kids and they leave.
I get a drink. I need a drink.
NOTES
They finally let the cyclist out of hospital at 4pm on Monday. He never did see a doctor after his operation, and we have no idea why he was kept in so long.
Please don't think either the cyclist or I have any problem with the NHS or those employed in its service. Circumstances just combined to create a perfect storm.
The Bear Necessities tap routine was, of course, a TRIUMPH.
Wednesday.
The difficult weekend actually began on a Wednesday. The Wednesday the cyclist was to report to what shall henceforth be referred to as The Hospital to get plated up like the 6 Million Dollar Man (a bit like the 6 Million Dollar Man).
We had been told that if his operation was in the morning, he would be out of hospital the same day, and if his operation was in the afternoon he would be carefully released back into the wild the next morning.
By 10am he was going out of his mind, mainly due to the fact that the hospital was going to call him to tell him where to go and when, and our phones get the crappiest signal imaginable at home. We sling his overnight bag into the car and take a jaunt to Starbucks - he can have black coffee til 11, but nothing to eat. I disloyally demolish a muffin in front of him. I am a terrible wife.
It gets to half 11. The cyclist gives up and rings the hospital. Oh yes, can you come in now please?
So we take him straight in. He is bedded (not like that), has pages of questions asked and is given a sticky wristband to show he is now property of the hospital. I take his wedding ring. Bella is climbing all over him, so after half an hour we leave him to it.
We spend most of the day texting back and forth. No news, no news.
Eventually he is told his operation will not take place that day, instead he will be on Thursday's list. Yes, definitely Thursday's. No, they don't know whether it will be morning or afternoon. No, he'll be staying in tonight. An hour later; actually, yes, he can come home.
Thursday.
We don't know what time they want him in - yet again they are going to call him. So in the meantime I drive him to the office. This time he is allowed no food or drink in the morning. These people obviously have no idea what happens when the cyclist misses a meal.
He calls the hospital at about 9.30 to see if there's an update. Ah. Yes. No, his operation will not be today after all. It will be Saturday. Definitely. Absolutely Saturday. Yes, he's definitely on the list. No, they don't know if it'll be morning or afternoon, those lists haven't been released yet.
I can hear the exasperation in his voice, but he keeps his temper in check and maintains civility and politeness. It's not like he's looking forward to the operation. He just wants it over and done with, so he can get the process of recovery started. I cannot imagine the frustration of the anticipation and the let down.
He is starving - we wander down the hill into the town and get a McDonalds breakfast. Double sausage McMuffin, Hash Brown and a Latte. Could be worse.
Friday.
Friday's not too bad. A pretty normal day. The calm before the storm.
Saturday.
Oh, this is where the fun starts.
A phone call at 8.20. Can you be here for 9?
A flurry of activity to mobilise everyone to the car. Yes, Bella, you need to put your trousers ON.
The tiny triumph of dropping him at the door for the Main Entrance as the clock in the car ticks to 8.57.
A quick kiss, a squeeze of the hand on his good arm. I love him and I need him, and in all this busy maybe I've not let him know that properly. After all, he is about to be knocked out, cut open, re-broken, drilled and screwed and hammered and sewn back up again. He walks in to the atrium, out of my view, and I turn the car around.
The supermarket. The school Summer Fete. Distract the kids with doughnuts and donkey rides, balloon animals and bouncy castles. The day is full of busy.
And all the while I watch my phone. Texting to and fro all day, the cyclist goes quiet at quarter past 2. The assumption is he has gone into theatre, finally. Now for the rest of the day.
And oh, I have made a rod for my own back. Big time. The Gods of Organisation pour scorn upon me, for this is the dread weekend of Bella's dance show. I agreed to this months ago, not fully realising just what it was I was agreeing to. Bella attends a half hour dance class once a week. I say dance class, but it's really just a group of chubby 3 and 4 year old girls running round squealing in tutu's. They have been practising two 'dances' for weeks now, 'ballet' to the theme song from Disney's Tangled, and 'tap' to The Bear Necessities.
So far, so very, very cute. But this is not the toddler presentation to the mummies and daddies and doting grandparentals that I was expecting, this is an End Of Year Dance Revue. With capitals. The adorably podgy toddlers not really getting it very right and waving at their mummies from the stage while they pull at their skirts takes up about 8 total minutes. This show will be over TWO HOURS. So that is an additional hundred and twelve endless mindnumbing minutes of watching other peoples precocious pre-teens, in fluorescent get-ups pole dancers would dismiss as being 'too much', grinning and gyrating to Katy Perry songs, a fraction of a beat out of time. On a Saturday night, when I could be at home in the bath with a rum and coke. Imagine the horror, if you dare; if this is not one of the very circles of hell itself, the Devil has missed a trick.
Oh yeah, and there are 2 performances.
Had Matt had the operation on Wednesday like we were expecting, or even Thursday, he would be out of hospital and hopefully up to either coming with me or staying at home with Oscar, either way evening the odds; two of them, two of us. That was the plan; my plan, anyway. But as it is, I am herding the 2 kids Lone Ranger style, with nary a Tonto for moral support.
We have to be in Bolton for 6, the Saturday show starts at 7. The kids usually go to bed sometime around 7-ish and don't wear tired well, thus I am primed for 2 meltdowns of epic proportions to kick off out of the clear blue sky at about twenty past 8. I have an escape strategy planned; I have identified the exits like a nervous flyer on a 747. The bags of gubbins we have brought with us - costumes and colouring and snacks - are roomy and drawstring and will go over my shoulders, and I can tuck a wriggling and inconsolable child under each arm and run like hell til the adrenaline runs out. All the doors are double hinged - I can just shoulder-barge my way through. As escape plans go I am very aware it lacks finesse, but balls to it, I figure it'll get me the hell out of there fast as long as I start running before the kids hit defcon 1 (cocked pistol).
I grab a passing expert-looking eleven year old and give her grips and bobbles - and sure enough within about 6 seconds Bella's enormous and mental mane has been tamed into perfect BalletGirl hair. Yet again I am left wondering what it was I was doing when everyone else learned this stuff.
Oscar is ensconced in a chair, head down, tapping away madly on a videogame. He's happy as Larry. Bella and the other BalletGirls are playing and colouring and sharing sweets waiting for their time to go on stage and be adorable, no-one is even close to a meltdown. Except maybe me. A watched phone never texts.
I try to call the cyclist a few times, the call just rings out. I get the number for the ward, and after a couple of attempts I get an answer. Yes, he's OK. Yes, he's had his operation. Yes, it went fine. No, he'll not be coming home tonight, he'll be let out in the morning. Yes, she'll let him know I rang.
I relax slightly, the operation has finally taken place and at least we're not going to have to drop everything and rush to the hospital to get him now. I can focus on getting the kids and I through this evening.
By 9.30, the last few bars of Take That's 'Never Forget' are ringing through the auditorium, signalling the end of the finale. I'm like a coiled spring; the bags are packed, Oscar has his shoes and coat back on and is Ninja-ing imaginary foes across the corridor, I have my car key in my hand. I grab my daughter, wide-eyed as she comes off the stage, and we go go go.
A final exhausted wail; 'I miss daddy'.
Sunday.
Here we go again.
The kids take pity on me, and sleep in.
I spend the morning crashing round the place, doing the standard household blah that needs attention on a weekend, all the while waiting for the phone to ring. I expect at any moment a nurse will practically beg me to come to the hospital to collect the cyclist and free up the bed. In my head, the doctor will see him about 9, tick him off the list and he'll be packed off at about 10.30. We'll be back home for 11, a cup of tea, a spot of lunch. He probably won't fancy the Dance Show (and I won't blame him), but won't mind overseeing Oscar playing on his Wii and snoozing on the sofa while I take Bella to performance number 2, the Sunday Matinee.
But this is of course not how Sunday plays out.
Waiting, waiting, always waiting, texts back and forward. No news. The cyclist is going out of his mind with boredom and frustration. And it's getting close to the time when Bella needs to be back in Bolton. Everyone back in the car.
On Saturday I had been able to park practically outside the theatre in a free spot, but there was to be no such luck in the town centre at Sunday lunchtime, it was the multi-storey for me. I had never actually parked in a multi-storey car park before, the very thought making my palms sweat, mainly due to the fact that I have a serious dose of bad car-park karma owed to me from a shameful episode a number of years back that left not a tell-tale mark on my car, but quite a few on someone else's (I know, I know). There are large warning signs everywhere, the car park shuts at 5 on a Sunday it will be locked after this. Ah, just what was missing from my life right now. The element of danger. The suggestion that should the show overrun I will be stranded in Bolton town centre with 2 screaming kids, the car trapped behind a locked-down Debenhams until Monday morning. That will round the weekend out nicely.
Once in the theatre, the afternoon progresses pretty much identically to the evening before. An identikit eleven year old (it may even have been the same one) takes over Bella's hair for me, the BalletGirls play between dances, Oscar sits so quietly you wouldn't realise he was even there. And my phone never leaves my hand. No news, no news, no news.
We make it back to the car in time, no car-park karma has come my way, and we head home from the show. I am pretty much on top note by this point, tired and frustrated, my inner control freak going totally mental at the lack of information.
We fall out of the car. I am yelling at Oscar for some small misdemeanour I have massively overreacted to, probably a seatbelt infraction. I am holding the kids Sunday Dinner - the drive thru Happy Meal each I have picked up for them on the way home. My 3-year old is still wearing her stage make-up. I have what can only be described as a bit of a stressed-out sweat on.
My mother-in-law is sat in her car on our drive, waiting.
My mother-in-law is a lovely, kind person with a great sense of humour, but I am uncomfortably aware that this tableau is not portraying me in the light of serene glory in which I would rather she saw the mother of her beloved grandchildren. She has been down from their place in Wales to babysit our niece, and has called round to check on her adored son.
She offers to take over the kids bedtime routine - I practically sag with relief, hand the kids over and rush back to the car, back to Bolton, to visit the cyclist and hopefully bust him out of the joint. This is the first time I've seen him since I dropped him off on Saturday morning. Oh, he is not a happy boy. He looks like shit. Predictably, he appears to be on the weirdo ward, populated almost exclusively by old men who seem to spend the entire day leaning to one side and growling out farts. His is beyond exasperated, has no idea what's going on or when they will let him come home. He is sore and tired, and suffering the effects of the anaesthetic hangover. His fractured ribs are still uncomfortable. And he has been stuck on a narrow bed for 36 hours, lethargy and ennui are taking their toll.
I find a nurse. She can tell me that the cyclist will not be going home tonight. She has no idea why not, neither do we. This was an (in the great scheme of things) incredibly minor op, the cyclist is fit and healthy and desperate to leave. The nurses are bemoaning the lack of beds available on the ward. Him still being here is utterly ridiculous.
I have to leave; there are things to do, things to organise if he's not coming out tonight. For reasons I will maybe go into another time the cyclist has shit to do on Monday, and if he's not available to do it, then I need to be. I get home as quick as I can, and throw myself on my mother in law's mercy (she has plenty, there's not really a risk here). Fling some stuff in a suitcase, God knows what, and get the kids out of the beds she put them in not 10 minutes ago. They are going for an impromptu visit to Matt's parents. They are thrilled. We swap the car seats in, I kiss the kids and they leave.
I get a drink. I need a drink.
NOTES
They finally let the cyclist out of hospital at 4pm on Monday. He never did see a doctor after his operation, and we have no idea why he was kept in so long.
Please don't think either the cyclist or I have any problem with the NHS or those employed in its service. Circumstances just combined to create a perfect storm.
The Bear Necessities tap routine was, of course, a TRIUMPH.
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