How did it ever make it this far?

(Read time: 1 Greggs sausage roll, and an extremely ropey cup of takeaway coffee)

I like to keep you on your toes. You truly never know when one of my posts may drop into your lap, like a gift from above… or like a present from a passing seagull. You choose which it is!

It’s bloody Autumn. I know this, as apparently the duvet needs to be changed… not the cover, I’m no scumbag, I wash that at least once per month. I mean the actual duvet stuffed full of artificial, hypoallergenic fibres (I’m very sensitive you know!) that in the summer have kept me cool… and in the winter won’t. So look out anything that flies, I’m coming for your feathers and your 14 togs of lovely warm goodness, and a snotty nose from the allergies I will now almost certainly suffer from. I will miss summer. I know we’re in drought and destroying the planet with our air conditioning, but my god – what a summer!

Last Monday night, I stepped off the plane at Stansted airport wearing my shorts, and was greeted by an uncomfortable draft around my legs… some might say it was bloody freezing! Indeed, 6 celsius was something of a shock when only 5 days earlier I’d left and it was 18 of the finest ‘C’s’ even in the middle of the night. What happened… Autumn! Yes, you! Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if I’d been involved in the transition from 18 to 6 degrees, but having been absent it did come as quite a shock, not least as for the first time, I’d hauled my middle aged body (when I say, I… I mean Jess Glynne and her friends at Jet2 hauled my middle aged body – thanks Jess) to Ibiza.

Now, Ibiza… conjures many images of Club 18-30 style high-jinx, glow sticks and shots, shots, shots. And sure, you’ll find them if you look for them. But you’ll find that in any British town if you go looking for it – even Leamington Spa. (No offence Leamington Spa, you’re just the first place that came to mind) But that’s not the whole Ibiza story, and if you’ve not been, you really should go… even if you’re now Middle-Aged and ready for some ‘quiet time’… it’s got that down to a tee too… though frankly, if you’re 18 and heading out there, enjoy your party, but make sure you ‘pre-load’ on the prinks! Ibiza has a real quality to it. It’s nothing like Majorca or frankly any of the places I’ve been, not just around the Med, but let’s say the world. The airport works, the roads are like velvet, it’s clean and tidy and the food and drink is simply incredible. However, so is the price of… well, everything! The cost of the said ‘night out’ is a decimal place different to when I was 18, and even as an employed middle-aged man, it’s a privilege to be able to spend this sort of money on enjoying myself. So while I’m sure my body can’t handle a week of Ibiza, my wallet can’t either… so as the doctor may advise, little and often, might be good advice for Ibiza in the same way.

But don’t be put off. Having been and done it, at the ripe old age of whatever I am now, I am kicking myself that I’ve only just landed there. It is right up my street, and the obvious venues didn’t disappoint… Cafe Del Mar and Cafe Mambo have been on my to do list since my good friend Gareth bought me a Cream album entitled ‘Llegadas’ for my 21st birthday. I remember that album well, not only because of the gift… but also ‘Flowers’ (CD 2, I think track 4) and the portrayal of a sunny airport and the ‘Cream’ logo’s on the tails of the aircraft. So given that I loved it so much, and played a CD until I wore it out (I know you can’t actually wear a CD out, but perhaps the repeated scratching of putting it in and out of the stereo in my Ford Fiesta was enough to kill it off) I never got my bum on a plane to go and see the island that was the undoubted platform to the music that dominated my weekends at that point. Bizarre! I know I was busy investing all of the money I didn’t have in skiing at that point, but seriously… what was I (not) thinking?

[So… (a Scooby-Doo moment with the wobbly screen) there is now an elephant in the room, that wasn’t in the room when I started typing this blog… and how did it sneak in without me noticing? (Probably because it takes me so long to write these bloody blogs!) Since I left, Ibiza has been blitzed with some of the worst rainfall and flooding it’s ever seen. I can’t quite believe the images of Ibiza town marina, where there is that much water that the road where 2 weeks ago I caught a taxi, now blends in with the sea! It’s quite shocking. I’ve read some stats that blow my mind as to how much water fell… and the White Isle, now looks anything but white in so many of the images. It’s quite sad on one hand, but selfishly also good timing, as we were originally going to be there at the same time as the storms. So, was this karma punishing Ibiza for my earlier comments regarding our use of air conditioning? I doubt it… I think more reasonably we can put it down to you, Autumn!

Right – back to it… ]

One of the unexpected finds of my first trip to Ibiza, was that I actually quite like lane Swimming. You go to the party capital of the world (we can debate that, but it’s in the running) and come back with that as a conclusion? Weirdo!

Before this trip to the White Isle, the last time I swam was my 18th Birthday. I know – very specific – but I remember for a very specific reason. It was also the last day of school before I went to University. We were lucky as a school, as at the very far end of the school we had a 20 metre, 4 lane swimming pool… which while understandably was the source of much angst among pubescent teenagers in swimming costumes, also meant most of us could swim, a great thing when living by the sea. But it was also customary to hold a swimming gala on the last day of the school year, when the whole school would pile into the pool building and crowd around the pool (it was a small school) and the Staff would take on the Sixth Form in a series of races. While I remember the day – I can’t specifically remember what I swam in, though I’m pretty sure it was a relay, and I can only do Breaststroke without looking like I am drowning in a very splashy accident (as a lifeguard will attest who ran in to save me during a length of front crawl – no joke!) so pretty sure it was a medley relay. Anyway – unsurprisingly the Sixth Form won – but perhaps the ‘highlight’ was when one of the teachers, remaining nameless for obvious reasons, stood up in the shallow end having lost disastrously, with their trunks doing a very bad job of smuggling the budgie, with the budgie on show for the whole school to see. Cringe! But much laughter.

As it was my 18th birthday, and the last day of school (forever), we weren’t quite done… my pesky mates had removed all of my belongings (including my clothes) from the swimming pool changing room and left me with only with a skirt and bra from lost property, that I had to wear to walk across the length of the school to get back to the sixth form block to retrieve my clothes. What a way to sign off from a pretty amazing time, I loved school. Again, weirdo!

Sadly, that is all really quite a long time ago. It should not make me sad, and it probably doesn’t, but every analogy an ‘elder’ ever gave me about ‘making the most of it’ and ‘time goes quickly, and get’s quicker every day’ is bloody right. And there’s no escaping it… I am getting older. Garmin reckons I have a body age 4.5 years younger than I am, but it doesn’t change the fact that I am not 18 any more. Sure, I am fitter than I was when I was 18, I can’t deny that, but other bits start working with less efficacy than they did… and it’s all rather frustrating at best, downright depressing at worst. I now spend more on moisturisers and supplements per year than on any subscriptions or memberships. I used to spend £10 per month on a nightclub membership just to jump the queue at ‘Quo Vadis’ and ‘Rhino’s (Those were the days! Or were they? Probably not!). This isn’t the price of staying young, it’s the price of denial and staving off the effects of the passage of time, and bodily abuse for as long as possible. Hair pigment has become pretty hard to come by, as has hair, so I guess I need to look after the rest of it as well as I can. Do I believe it all makes a difference? No. But am I willing to do nothing and see what happens, and then regret it? No. So L’Oreal will continue to do very nicely out of me. There’s still cholesterol to deal with, but I am not ready for a Water and Kale diet yet… nor are my family, who don’t need the effects of overproduction and consumption of crispy Kale hanging around the house, literally like a bad smell.

Since 2012 when I started becoming ‘only slightly’ obsessed with cycling, it has done wonders for my wellbeing (including my mental health – keep talking boys – if you’re not ok, say something). It remains a staple part of who I am, and physically, both from a circumferential perspective and also heart health, it’s got to be doing the business. I’ve not done as much over the last couple of years as I would like. Random tendonitis issues in my feet and ankles, from long walks (it’s dangerous on the footpaths and beaches of Norfolk, you’ve been warned!) and then a knee issue requiring steroid injections, that also came from nowhere though clearly linked to cycling. I’ve no idea what initiated it, I seriously thought my time on the bike was done. But, it’s not come back, though I’ve not changed anything in my seating, cleat positioning or anything else – weird. Since January, I’ve been upping the miles, and the stats, while they remain ‘not cool’, are improving – and moreover clothes are starting to fit that haven’t fit for 3 years (there’s one flowery shirt that I love, that I’ve never worn, that is my benchmark and I will ultimately get in it…). Moreover though I’m enjoying riding, cleaning and looking after my steed, and feeling like a cyclist again.

I got out on the road this weekend for the longest ride I’ve done in a long time. And I mean a long time… I think probably 2 years. It was an interesting experience, and I had totally forgotten what a difference repeated training makes, and also preparation. If I’m honest, I’d got a little bit (a lot) slack, and paid the price. My route was daft… with a ridiculous first stint to the coffee stop. Perhaps not so bad, but one bowl of granola before I left, and one banana in my pocket was not ‘fuelling’ or ‘sensible’. Unsurprisingly, I bonked. I’d also forgotten how horrible and uncontrollable (without fuel to hand) that feeling is. During the longest climb of the ride, my eyes started to feel like they weren’t working properly my legs my legs turned to jelly, and I started to argue with myself and my late father, whether I actually had the plague, COVID, or was having a more serious episode, or perhaps I was just too tired from all of the laying down I’d done the night before? It was the weird non-sensical argument that you have when you’re body is chewing anything it can find as you’ve not given it enough to do what you’re asking it to do – when you start asking the dead for guidance you’re in trouble. I ploughed on… continuing to argue with myself for the next ten kilometres as dad wasn’t much help. I eventually arrived at the embrace of an enormous Americano and several grams of glorious simple sugars and protein (I’m not telling you what I actually had as there was as much saturated fat as ‘goodness’…).

The journey home, all was good. No – a headwind all the way back. Just a naff return to distance riding that I had loved so much – but what I deserved and the punch in the face I probably needed.

I’d also forgotten what a battle of wills long distance cycling is. I’m not sure whether the battle was alongside or versus Wills of Wales, Will I Am or The Fresh Prince, but I do know that at times it felt like I had all three on the bike with me. This is a distance that during Covid I’d head out with two bottles of water, and a sausage roll in my pocket and arrive home having not seen a soul, and being ready to do the same again. And yet, here I was ‘bonking’ for the first time in years. I don’t have as much time to do these rides any more, so when I do, I need to make the most of it… and that means planning! And that ‘planning’ doesn’t mean just visualising the ride in my head when I go to bed with a belly full of steak. Lesson learned, for now.

So, while I am starting to look after myself better as I am getting older, my body is certainly not a temple, I enjoy life too much.

My body is more like the coliseum; Bigger than I’d like it to be, in a poor state of repair and requiring constant attention, holding many bizarre / unbelievable stories, that many look at it and wonder ‘how did it ever make it this far?’