Water Baby

“Somewhere behind the athlete you’ve become and the hours of practice and the coaches who have pushed you is a little girl who fell in love with the game and never looked back…. play for her” 

Mia Hamm

In the Maternity ward of Perth Royal Infirmary, on the 6th May 1986, Lynora had just given birth to her first daughter. High as a kite on gas and air, she told her husband Dave to “go away and herd the sheep” to which he replied “WE DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKING SHEEP”. Their baby girl was then placed on the pillow beside Lynora who looked at her in horror and said “she looks like a frog!”.

“She’s not a frog, she’s my baby” was Dave’s reply.

Charming, mum.

It seemed that this supposed hallucination was not entirely inaccurate. While I may not *look* like a frog (I hope…) I was certainly destined to become amphibious.

I have no memory of my first swimming lesson. Because I was 3 months old, in a pool in Oman with my mum and her friends as we attended “baby swimming lessons” aka “Navy-mum’s have a bit of a chat while the babies splash about and float and stuff”. What was clear to my mum was that I loved the water. And so it began…

I vaguely remember learning to swim crawl (Freestyle) in a manky pool attached to our school in Vienna, Virginia in the early nineties. I remember the feeling of imminent drowning and then noticing a dead frog on the bottom of the pool and forgetting about the drowning.

“Don’t get dead like the frog. Just keep swimming…”

My swimming came into it’s own once we moved to Brussels. The school team was fantastically well coached and I progressed to being quite the champion swimmer. 50m and 100m Freestyle, 50m Butterfly and 100m Individual Medley were my strongest events. Somewhere in my parents house is my box of medals and ribbons. We think they are in the Spider Cupboard. The spiders in that house are the size of my cat so they can keep the medals….

1996 Brussels Dolphins (sorry guys) 

Young Bean recovering from another win. 

In 1998, we moved back to the UK where I joined the Kinross Otters. I continued to show strength in sprinting but my love of swimming began to dwindle, possibly fuelled by having to attend meets at Olympia in Dundee which, back then, was a shitehole…

By 15 I’d hung my cap up for the last time and took to the sofa for the next 12 years. I would look back on my swimming “career” with nostalgia, and frequently wanted to revisit it, but social life, boys, part time jobs, uni and then grown up jobs got in the way. 

It wasn’t until I began my fitness journey that the scent of Chlorine began to whisper to me once again. 

My first swim in 12 years actually happened in Fort Augustus on my 28th birthday. In a 10m pool. I was all alone and decided to try Fly, Free and tumble turns. Surprisingly I didn’t die. But I knew I wanted to get back into it. 

Over the next two years I dedicated time to swimming again and it felt amazing. I stuck to crawl because breastroke is for grannies and fly is for showing off. I joined an adult swimming club to give me some structure and my form began to return. 

Since day dot, I’d always been drawn to water. So I bought a wetsuit and began venturing into lochs. The sense of freedom and serenity that I get from swimming in open water is like nothing on earth. After the initial cold shock dissipates, I am home. 

I finished my first triathlon swim well up the pack and began entering open water events, pushing myself to go further and faster. 

A wise friend encouraged this behaviour and offered his advice and coaching to help me improve once I hit a rut. 

“If you want to get faster, you need time in the water” are the words that stuck. And the proof is in the pudding. Or data. 

Today, as I studied data from my latest pool swim, I was shocked at the improvement over 12 months. I have worked hard. I have worked consistently. I have balanced three disciplines relatively well and despite several back injuries and a persistent shoulder injury which occasionally chucks a spanner in the works, I have been able to shave nearly 10s off my average time per 100m for a standard endurance session. 

Back in February, I remember saying that if I could get my CSS (critical swim speed) into the high 1:40’s I’d be delighted. I had no idea I’d be sitting here in July with a CSS of 1:41/100m. 

I remember 1:55/100m feeling like actual death. Now 1:43/100m feels steady. 

Can we have a moment for that total distance? RIP my social life…. 

With under 4 weeks until The Big Fuck-off Swim, I am getting nervous and actually a bit emotional. Stuff running marathons, this is going to be a monumental effort. My longest open water swim this year (3km) had me panicking about my body temperature, which refused to recover for 24 hours. What the feck is 10km going to do to me? 

Looking at these little snippets of history has just made me more determined for that little girl who used to kick so much ass in the pool. Like “annoying female soccer player” (Friends reference anyone?) Mia Hamm says – “play for her” 

And I will. 

Thank you for taking me swimming all those years ago, mum and dad. 

Love, your Frog x 

Iron [Keyboard] War

Before I start this, I have an apology to make. I made a huge error in my previous blog. Catastrophic, in fact. I referred to my pal @ironpugsley as a mere four-time-marathoner, marathon swimmer, ultramarathoner, two-time Ironman and soon to be swim-runner. I neglected to mention Alcatraz Escapee. Sincere apologies for my devastating oversight, Ironman. 

So…… Back to business. 

140.6 miles. That’s the distance from my house in Not Fife almost to Wick. Which is basically the top of Scotland.  Which is essentially the North Pole. 
It’s a distance that, over the last 3 years, has become the epitome of Awesome to me. I idolise Ironmen and those who can push their bodies and their minds to complete a race of such a punishing distance. 

I respect the distance. I aspire to be the level of Nails required to complete a race that encompasses everything I have come to admire about the sport of Triathlon. 

Recently, with the inaugural Ironman 70.3 race in Edinburgh, it’s brought Triathlon newbies out in force. Let me just preface this slight rant by making the point that this is a very good thing. Triathlon is marvellous. It teaches you so much about yourself. Technically I am still a newbie, having only done a single tri. 

But. 

Much like the fact that you wouldn’t swan into the office on the first day of a new job stating that you take your tea with just the right amount of milk and that the office temperature must always be no more or less than 21 degrees…. you wouldn’t call yourself an Ironman for finishing a 70.3. Would you? Oh, you would. Well. I’ve watched Grey’s Anatomy religiously for well over 7 years now, can I just go ahead and start practising medicine? Call me Dr Bean. 

Ordinarily, something like this wouldn’t bother me so much. People call themselves stuff every day. But…… Sometimes, something just means too much to you to let the Internet tarnish that significance. Let me explain why I took offence to the remarks of a fool in a forum. 

To me, there is currently no achievement that I want more than to be able to cross a finish line at the end of a 140.6 mile event. It’s a goal that will require sacrifice, commitment and the type of drive that’s taken me 3 years to realise I may actually possess. 

In one Facebook group, I saw someone announcing that as of Sunday evening they would now be calling themselves an ironman. 

What a fucking liberty. 

The keyboard warriors destroyed them but it really stuck in my head. I managed not to engage, having already had The Debate with some good friends who had, despite the grotesque conditions, each done an incredible job at finishing the race. 

Having sat on this for a week, I wanted to take a minute here to think about why that is such an audacious thing to do in my mind. 

First let’s have a history lesson. John Collins et al held the inaugural Iron Distance race in Hawaii in 1978. It was a combination of the 2.4 mile Waikiki rough water swim, a 112 mile Round-the-Island bike race and the Honolulu marathon. It was a competition, following a booze fuelled debate amongst talented athletes in each individual discipline, to see who was toughest. Who could complete this gruelling race first? Surely he (or she) would be the epitome of athleticism. 

John Collins famously said the words “whoever won that ought to be called Iron Man”. And so the race was born. 

Note: not 70.3. 

History lesson over, let’s take a step back and look at the bigger picture, shall we?

I must point out that I am not discrediting the toughness required to complete a 70.3 race. I’ve done one. It was hella tough. I trained my ass off and still hold that finish line feeling as one of my greatest memories and achievements. So if you’re sitting there sucking your teeth and calling me bitter, kindly swivel. Because I’ve been there. I know What’s required. I didn’t have an easy ride, either. Injury, illness and niggles all tried to derail me. I didn’t blag it (which you can do, if required) But I made it. In 6hrs43 mins. I did it. And it was phenomenal. 

Unfortunately for my tired legs, it was never going to end there. As soon as I crossed that finish line and located the nearest Big Mac, I knew I had the bug. I’ve dreamed of doing a full iron-distance tri for years. I wanted more. I wanted to push harder. Go further. But I knew I couldn’t yet. I wasn’t ready. 

To me, 140.6 miles is an unparalleled achievement. It may not be everyone’s cup of tea and, at the moment, I am receiving two reactions. 1) OH THATS AWESOME! And 2) Ummm, you’re gonna do what?

I hold it dear to my heart. I feel like it’s something I have to respect and do justice. I feel like, after being mentored by my IronBuddy that I owe it to the race to do the best I possibly can. 

So to hear and see people throwing that Iron Title about defending their choice because Ironman is a global brand, just rubbed me up the wrong way. It didn’t start as a brand. It BECAME a brand. It is about so much more than a title. It’s about being so mentally robust that you can push your body past the point of pain and giving up.  These races don’t allow outside assistance. You do that shit alone.

I can’t bear to see people devalue the status of being Iron. Being Iron is something to strive for. To aspire to. Not a term to be chucked about haphazardly. 

I’m not one to take such grave offence at the remarks of keyboard warriors, especially those with no understanding of the history of the race they try to lay claim to. But this was different. 

The fuss has died down now and hopefully the absence of Paul Kaye shouting “YOU ARE AN IRONMAN” at the finish line was enough to drive home the point that they are not now in fact an ironman. 

The biggest issue I have with this whole ‘pavlova’ (hi, Tucker ❤️) is that they are detracting from the incredible achievement that is finishing a 70.3 mile race.

Don’t simultaneously stomp all over my dreams while crushing my sense of achievement, you pests. 

In the mean time, I continue to fuel my excitement for the unbelievable challenges ahead. I’m inspired and focused and it feels amazing. It won’t last, so I’m making the most of it! 

Busy, Busy Brain.

It’s been a week since I entered The Lakesman, and what a week it’s been. There is something wonderfully empowering about finally believing you’re capable of training for a 140.6 mile race.

I’m doing this. OMG. 

It’s been a week of excitement, fear, negotiation (with myself) deep thought, planning, organising and surfing the net for higher spec bike components! (Any excuse, but the prospect of 1000’s of miles of training requires unquestionable use of n+1 and Stella needs to feel loved as well……)

Don’t worry, my friends. I shall not be breezing past you, as you sip your pint outside the pub, clad in cycling skins and a sperm hat with a disc wheel whirring away. No. I leave the marginal gains to the pro’s. I’m pretty down to earth with this stuff, but my faithful Stella has done many thousands of kilometres already. With a carbon fibre frame, she needs plenty of TLC. I’m also not the smallest of athletes so she needs good components to make up for my somewhat un-dainty frame.

I digress.

It’s also been a week of reflection: I’ve come an awfully long way from the naive, clueless lass that decided to get fit by entering a sodding marathon. The fact that I’ve made it to the point where I feel I can commit to training for an event like Lakesman makes me feel incredibly proud. Even if the wheels fall off and I end up unable to do it, I know I made it this far.

So aside from bike browsing, welling up every 15 minutes at inspirational YouTube videos and also buying a very exciting new swimming costume which will likely make me look like a misshapen potato, I have been squirrelling away at excel spreadsheets, putting the bare bones of a training plan together. I am gonna be busy.

I’ve spent hours poring over race blogs, tips and life-hack posts to try and stand myself in good stead for the huge amount of adjustment this training is going to require.

My buddy @ironpugsley penned this blog just before tackling his second Ironman. It is the very best advice that I could have in my arsenal as I begin to start piecing together this massive puzzle. As a two-time Ironman, four-time marathon runner, ultra-runner and marathon swimmer, I can think of no one I’d rather take advice from when it comes to this stuff. Mostly because he’s a) a normal human with extraordinary grit, b) did these things while juggling normal life stuff and c) likes beer.

Every night this week I’ve gone to bed buzzing with ideas and excitement and apprehension. The race is a long way off in many ways, but not that far away in many other ways. I am relieved that I’ve got GSS and Dramathon to look forward to and occupy my legs and my mind. I just have to not get broken…

I’ve caught up with friends, started planning routes for rides and even found one which incorporates cake at my bestie’s house:

Check that view!

I’ve had fun inspiring/bullying new friends to take up endurance sports, setting challenges and generally mucking about on bikes beside lochs and up hills… 

It’s been a much brighter few weeks. 

It feels good to have finally taken the plunge and signed up to Lakesman. The last few months have felt tough. I’ve been all over the place inside my head. Huge highs and crushing lows and sustained periods of darkness had left me feeling empty, dulled and numb. Over the past few weeks my sparkle has started to return. I have a focus and I’ve regained my drive to not only tackle this next obstacle but have the most fun I possibly can in preparation.

 
It’s like someone has turned on a light. And I’m so ready to feel light again.