Lazy and beautiful

Lazy, that's me. Although I managed to post three times in the first five days of August (how very unlike me), I am still supposed to post an account of my July holiday, since, as one may guess, those did not stop to a few bike rides, no matter how steep.

I will use a trick, since (OK, let's start with the lame excuses now) 1. we are already August  21 and therefore July sounds a bit like something out of the Middle Age, 2. I am writing - well, trying to to be precise - from Austria, on an Austrian keyboard, which is nothing like the English nor the French ones and has all the letters in the wrong places and I am starting to feel very annoyed (but maybe should I instead be grateful, to have, this time, have an excuse for typos), 3. I am also already behind on telling about the August break.

That's where the beautiful comes handy. Pictures of beautiful mountains, that´s all you'll get. Oh, and a runner struggling up it for good measure, as we did not hike, just ran this year, since we figured that was the perfect way to spend time in the mountains doing something we liked while spending time with Malo. Like we needed an excuse to run where most people would find it difficult enough to walk AND breath...

Steep uphill running,

 Which will soon be followed by steep downhills...

... very fun indeed, if less friendly for the knees.

Sky running, wearing a skirt, but I felt I was going strong enough to pull it!

One can guess the trail behind what you will admit is a very handsome male

model, doubling, lucky me, as my husband.

Another day, another trail...
... the shortest way is a straight line. Up.

Forget the basics of photography: the important stuff here
is... the background.

Same comment
(and that's lucky actually: so much as foreground that it is not even on the picture
was a much narrower, very airy trail, bordered by a vertical backdrop, which I had to run
because I found it less scary than walking.

Could somebody please tell well meaning hikers thinking of themselves as photographers that
one should not cut people's feet when taking a shot of them, especially if they are RUNNERS.

Martin "icing" his knees after our 4 hour run.

On the way to our target, a 3000m+ summit at the border with Italy. That run/hike could also
have doubled as a sort of recce run, since a race is taking place here, which we would quite like to do...

 Running? Skiing? Skunning?

On our way down, happy bunnies marmots.

Back home, getting comforted if there was any need,
and then assisting Malo with some sporty activity of his own:

Swimming

Adrenaline sports

And finally getting used to waving to the crowd like a champion
(of what is what still needs to be decided).

Why? (A race report - or a psychoanalysis. You choose)

- "Well, I guess it will bring me luck", I say as as I am getting ready for the race and as I watch my now-dirty running socks, on which Malo has just decided to throw up part of his breakfast.

This is my first race since Malo was born. The last one I did with him in my belly, 5 weeks pregnant., but this time, he will be supporting with his dad, from the comfort of his Chariot.  And because chosing a local race would be too simple, I have signed up for a  21km trail race in the mountain part of Provence, four hours from home. We've planned to spend four days there, staying at a local campsite, racing (me), climbing (Martin),  mountain biking with the Chariot in tow (both of us) and wondering what the hell the parents think they are doing (Malo). As a result of this fun programme, the first challenge of the weekend was to try and load the car with two bikes, a Chariot, climbing gear, running shoes, cycling shoes, climbing shoes, Malo's folding bed and his rucksack. More often than not, it feels like having a truck instead of a car would be a smarter choice for us.

I leave Martin deal with a marathon of his own, i.e. making sure Malo's milk, organic courgettes, clean nappies, spare clothes, hat, sunglasses and whatever-else-he-fancies-stocking-up-at-the-bottom-of-the-Chariot, are ready in 15min, so that they can ride, Tour de France style, up the first uphill I'll have to run, and cheer me.

As for me, I get a ride to the start from our campsite neighbour. Last evening, Mister Neighbour looked at Martin in disbelief when Martin said that he was not racing, his wife was, and he would be looking after the baby.  Today, he quickly goes on to telling me he's hoping for a top 15 finish.  I guess the take-away message is: "I am so, SO good".  As for me, my only claim to fame is to have given birth less than 8 months ago, and altough the delivery was a marathon of some kind , I suspect it is one which is unlikely to tremendously help me today.  Well, I tell myself, the hills may be steep today, but at least I won't have to push the Chariot up them (I get comfort any way I can, as pre-race stress is building up).

Soon after, we start. I have signed up for the short race: 21 kms and 850m positive elevation gain.   Not that the long one did not appeal to me (I am a mountain masochist after all, or at least claiming to be, but after my ordeal of a few years ago, I must remind myself that I-am-running-less-than-I-wished is better than this-time-my-ankle-is-f***-for-good-and-I'll-never-be-able-to-run-again).

After the start in the village's centre, we're soon up the first hill.  Only 3kms done, and 18kms to go, but I am feeling good, and can see the regular Mountain Masochist uphill training should pay off.  Martin and Malo are here to cheer me, although Martin almost misses me, later claiming that, because I am so short, he did not see me, hidden as I was in the middle of a pack of normal-size runners.

First downhill, and trouble starts: a stitch. Oh, no. I blame it on pregnancy, not having got my abs back, and feeling like my organs are playing the mambo-jumbo inside my belly. But I need not worry because soon enough, it's uphill again, and, if there should be only one good thing about it, it is that the stitch goes away.

Or is it that the stitch has gone away because I AM BLOODY WALKING.  So that my pride does not get hurt unduly, let say straight away this walking situation (at that point at least) NOT of my own volition. I just happen to be stuck behind some runners clearly shocked that they could be so many steep hills ,on a trail run, in the Alps. Shocked, and breathless, and with lactic acid up to their eyeballs.  Hence the walking. Hence my being stuck. With no possibilty to overtake, as the single trail is indeed very "single" , and bordered on  each side by dense vegetation.  And as I am looking at my feet to kill time, I realise I am about to lose the time chip, which would be a bummer.  After all, at this pace, I am set to cross the finish line in about 2 or 3 days, and that would be a shame not to have it made official, wouldn't it?

By the time the trail is finally (a tiny little bit) wider, allowing me to overtake, I realise I find it super hard  to get back in motion and find my rythm again.  Then I spot Martin and Malo waiting for me, and stop to give the little devil (the big one too, actually) a kiss.

 WHAT?... Is that what motherhood does to you? Stopping, on a 21km race, when you don't have to? When you should be sprinting taking advantage of a few hundreds metres of not-so-steep dirt road? After a couple of minutes (ie just the time for Malo to wonder who is this stinking alien with sunglasses,  funny socks on, and a big, black number on her t-shirt), I am off again. But the fact remains: I have stopped .  During a race. And not even because I was about to die, just because I felt like it. Can't one get jailed for this?

Starting again, I enjoy a few hundreds metres of flatter terrain, with stunning views onto Mont Ventoux, which I will ride up to as soon as I get the chance (it is long, it is windy, it makes you wonder why you  thought you had to leave your car at the bottom, what not to like about it?).  The road-runner in me wakes up: no more heavy breathing, no more stop-and-go, the legs are just flowing. But a few hundreds meters are a bit short to get in the Zone, and soon enough, we're running up a steep countryside road again.

Unfortunately, by then, whatever killer instinct I may have had in me has gone. I decide I don't like uphills (even tough I have done rather well on them while training - sometimes being light and short has some advantages) , I don't like roads (not very credible either for somebody who spend the first ten years of her running life pounding the pavement), and I don't like the idea of the 18-20% climb waiting for me after the water station, at km 14. Looking at the race's profile the previous week, the upcoming climb, the steepest of the race, looked 3.5-4km long, i.e. more than long enough to make sure it will hurt big time.  I figure there is no point then to rush up that road now, knowing what comes later.  And so I walk. Again.

Of course, the thought that I have RUN (as in: NOT WALKED) steeper stuff when training with Martin, does cross my mind at this point... no explanation there: I guess I am just a wimp.  A wimp not used to to running with hundreds of people, and to sometimes having to adapt my pace to theirs, because I am stuck on a bloody single, very single indeed, trail.

That's when a guy who has been running next to me for a few minutes starts talking to me.
- "you're the wife of the guy who has been cycling up all that dirt roads with the Chariot. Whoa, that's quite a challenge, and I should know, we have a Chariot too, and we never got it anywehere else than flat land: too hard." Was I complaining about not having any decent claim to faim? Well, here you go: I may be the one running up that gruelling climb, but what I'll be remember as is "the wife of the guy cycling up with the Chariot". Oh well.

Anyway, feeling sociable today (which makes me a sociable walking wimp), we start talking about kids, Chariots, running, life in a nutshell. If anything, that helps passing time, and a little while later, we at last reach the water station. Again with the hellish climb ahead in mind, I figure a couple of minute stop won't make a huge difference now, and given that I have not been able to eat much  in the morning, I desperately need to eat something anyway.

Then, as I am refilling my camelbak, one of the girls at the station cheerfully announces that respite is soon there and we have only 1.5kms more to climb.  WHAT? I don't know how I got things so wrong, but in any case, it suddenly, it feels very, very stupid indeed to have stopped to refuel with only such a short uphill portion to go. Plus, a girl who is being paced by her boyfriend has just passed without stopping, and that, cannot stay unpunished (I just don't approve of pacers). 

So here am I, running full of energy again... only to have to stop a few hunderds metres further, because the climb may be shorter  than I thought at this point, but flatter it is not, and again, I am stucked behind this long queue of runners. Frustrating, but nothing to do about it, and partly my own fault anyway.

I eventually reach the top of the climb, and soon after, start the descent towards the village and the finish line. It is a super narrow, super steep, super technical, this is where I thought I would waste time, and I am flying.  WHOA, THIS IS FUN! The last km is run on the road, and again, the road-runner in me wakes up: I am picking up the pace again, things are feeling smooth. I sprint to the finish line with a huge smile on my face, and soon Malo in my arms.

I finish 16th woman, and 10th in my age group (nothing glorious here: it just means that 6 Vets were actually faster than me).  Not bad, given I have done only 3 trail races before (one of them pregnant) and most of all given what a poor race I did in view of my training. Maybe that's my claim to fame then: "the girl who is the wife of the guy cycling up with the Chariot AND runs much better and faster when she is training than on actual race day".

Then, as the awards ceremony gets started, the organiser announces that he wants to apologise, the course has been modified at the last minute, and he forgot to mention it at the pre-race briefing. The course was 1050m of elevation gain instead of the stated 850m, the water station had been moved further. than initially  intented, and instead of rollinh hills, we got a solid 10km-or-so climb. So the climbs were as  steep and long as they feel then. Well, that's a relief, for my mind if not for my legs. And my strategy of stopping for refuel would have been the right one had the station not been moved.  Still not  an impressive performance I gave, and still does not justify the walking, but it makes me feel marginally better about my run.

As I am walking back to the campsite later that day, I can't help wondering why I raced, and whether I did enjoy it. After all, there is no shortage of super nice trails on which to run back home, and more importantly, on which NOT to get stuck behing other runners.  And I don't need  races to push myself so I did not do it  either because I needed some kind of goal to train.  Instead, I feel rather frustrated with myself:  I finish in a decent time and at a decent place, but definitely not by pushing hard enough, which means I should have finish in a better time, at a better place.

But then... I have somehow enjoyed the race too...  I enjoyed the superb scenery (granted, I spent more time looking at my feet in an attempt to avoid the falls than admiring the mountains, but I am sure there were amazing). The friendly chats (even though they made me feel like the "wife of", and did not do any good to my speed). The bliss of managing to see my husband and son on no less than 4 points of the race (even though one should never waste time by stopping to kiss people - even ones son - on a race).  Oh, and I enjoyed the strategies devised post-race to improve my performance at the next race.

Oh yeah, because I have signed up for another one. Which means that if I walk the uphill sections of this one too, I will end up walking the entire race, because it will be a 23kms, 1500m elevation, climb, no flats, no downhills. Go figure.

Did I say Masochist?


PS - I think I have just managed a PB of some sort: that of the longest, most boring post. Actually, cross that out: nothing that long and rambling could be called a post. 
Self-inflicted flagellation maybe.
Or an online psycho-analysis.
Or a probably very successful attempt at using once and for good my few readers.
Or all of the above.
End of "post".

Mountain Masochist

Getting in training mode for upcoming trail races, I realised I needed new shoes. I got my (all very legitimate) excuses lined up: my current pairs were either comfy but not responsive enough, or perfect in snow and wet conditions but not ideal on harder terrain. Or too wide. Or giving me blisters. Or the wrong colour. 

Whatever. I just needed new ones.

And so I went hunting, and found...  the PERFECT shoes.

 

They are called MOUNTAIN MASOCHIST.

Now, Martin is, not very fairly it lust be said, claiming that I bought them because I just love that name. OK, fine: I just love that name.

A couple of days ago, my little, size 3,  masochists, arrive, and  I immediately start feeling some itching in my feet:  it is time to prove that I deserve them. That it is not just a I-baught-these-shoes-because-I-like-that-stupid-name purchase, but that I am a true mountain lover. Or a true mountain masochist. Same thing.

So here am I, planning where to go and treat them promptly to their first serious run. Which obviously needs to be on a mountain. And ideally a rather steep one. Add rain and a lot of slippery mud for good measure. On  my lunch break, meaning I get neither lunch nor a break. And, in case this does not make for a true masochist experience, I add a cold, runny nose and a sore throat for good measure

Man, what a great run!

The run starts next to a cemetery, and less than 30 seconds later, I catch myself thinking it may actually turn out to be pretty convenient, because I am positively dying. Then for the first mile, the slope averages 16%: who needs a warm up when you can feel like puking instead?  After a few hundreds metres, I just cannot breath anymore, and start questionning whether I am right claiming that a good run is the best cure against a cold.  5kms and 500m elevation gain later, alternatively plodding through deep snow and mud, and I am not questioning that claim anymore: by now it is all too clear this was a very stupid thing to say indeed.

Top reached. That felt hard. That felt good.

The Mountain Masochist and I have handled our first mountain run together rather well. And since they deserve it, I'll probably treat them to another outing rather soon.   The only thing I felt very let down by, is their colour. I mean, BABY BLUE? What kind of colour is that for a masochist?

The runner, the Hen and the Baby

- "boc, boc, boc, I am the Mother Hen" says Martin in an impersonation of, well, me, as we are having lunch.

I look at him, my mouth start quivering, and I burst into tears.


I miss my baby boy. He is in day-care today, while I am job hunting.

He is in day-care, and I miss him so much it is aching.

Not that he seems unhappy there. Not, not at all. Unless babbling and smiling away is a sign of unhappiness. No, nothing wrong with him. It is just me. Aching, and bursting into tears at the sound of a mother hen.

What, is it me talking? Like, the "me" who, only a few days before we produced Malo, was actually still wondering whether she had it in her to be a mother. The "me" who was convinced she herself had been produced without maternal instinct, whathever that meant, because I had no idea.

- " Hard to believe you were actually not that long ago wondering whether you would be able to love him enough", Martin carries on as I, briefly, stop crying. If asked, I would obviously vehemently deny having ever had such an inadmissible thought, but the fact and the matter is, I did.

Pregnancy was OK. I mean, I didn't especially like looking like a whale, - a small one, though, as Martin would always kindly remind me - but I managed to stay active, and therefore sane . Or at least as sane as I could be expected to be, which may not be saying much.

Throughout these nine months, I carried on running, cycling, hiking, swimming, in a nutshell doing all this "ing" things for which we had moved away from London and into the Alps. I even surprised myself being able to cope (and, sometimes, oh surprise, even enjoy) doing sports in a chilled, as opposed to it-does-not-have-to-be-fun-to-be-fun way. Sure, it was sometimes rather frustrating to have to hold back, especially when Martin was triathlon training, and, for the first time, doing his runs faster than me (how did he dare). I also enjoyed beyond saying feeling the "Petite Boule" kicking inside my belly, and not only because that gave me hope these early manifestations of intense activity were the sign of a future athlete in the making.

So there I was, a, on the whole, pretty happy pregnant chick. Pretty happy, but also super scared. What would our life be after his arrival? Somehow, I had the feeling, since then confirmed, that there would not be a lot of night departures to the nearby peak because we feel like a mountain run in the snow, the cold, and the dark. Or last minute decision to go for a 100 -mile bike ride. Or, or , or... And it scared me to death that I might resent my baby for preventing us from doing all this stuff.

But here I am, 6 months after he was born, sitting in my kitchen and crying out all the tears in my body because he is in day-care and I miss him.

Sure, life has changed. Sure, there is no more midnight runs or last-minute 100-milers. But we're still doing plenty of our beloved "ing things". Just differently. We take turns. I devise cute strategies so that my turn comes back more often that Martin's. We plan runs and rides around breast-feeding times. We've discovered the Holy Graal, which goes by the name of Chariot, and going running with the little one provides the double whammy of a harder work-out pushing the stroller and the joy of seeing him laugh when he realises we're getting ready for a run.

And there are all these other things which have nothing to do with sports, sweat, or pain, and yet are - and now, this is a surprise - so much, SO MUCH fun. Witnessing Malo's first smile. That, too, made me cry, proof I guess that Mrs Mother Hen, aka me, is becoming emotional with no hope of redemption. Singing him songs which remind me of my own childhood. Changing nappies (yes, this is fun, too). Getting the bathroom wet from floor to ceiling while playing in the bathtub. Getting peed on while giving him a baby massage (this one never fails). Or maybe are these so fun because they are "ing things", too?

Anyway, gotta stop now. The hell with day-care, the hell with trying to fit a short afternoon work-out: I miss my son and I am getting him back home. Right now.

Little Whale is gone, welcome The Hen.

Isn't it just stunning?

View of the Annecy Lake from Tournette... I can think of worst places to have 2 minutes from home...

Ready for exile?

So, this was it. The decision had been made. After twelve years of living in London – and swearing I would never leave, let alone to go back to France - this is precisely what I was about to do. Moving back. To France. And not only to France – I mean, after all, Paris would still feel like a smaller and somehow more insular version of London. No, I was taking the plunge, and sending myself, Martin, my running shoes and my climbing gear to Annecy, a small, provincial town nested in the French Alps. Was this really happening to me, the city girl who spent her entire adult life in London? Let get something straight here: I am not the food-obsessed, tick-accent, Paris-on-Thames, type of Frenchie. Until a few years ago, I would even swear to whoever would listen that I so disliked the French and their habit of continuously complaining and hating everything – thereby being very French myself you will tell me, and I will agree. But anyway, things changed, and after all these years, here I was ready to move on, and go… home? Well, it did not feel quite that way. In fact, I was… scared.

Sure, I wanted to leave London. Sure, I may have been until recently a city girl. Sure, I loved shoes, brunches in Notting Hill, feeling like a jet setter courtesy of EasyJet, ending up not doing anything at night because there is just too much to chose from. Still, the runner-cum-climber-cum-cyclist in me has always won against the city-girl and banker, Mrs Jekyll overpowering of Mrs Hyde. And, let’s face it, if your idea of a great weekend is to wake up early, jump on your bike, go for a 6-hour ride, come back, take a shower and go for a two hour session at the climbing wall before your evening run, London is just NOT the ideal place to be. Annecy, on the other hand, had everything it takes, at least on paper. Beautiful mountains, clean air. Check. A flat three times the size of our London pad for half the price, AND a garage big enough for our 6 bikes, mountaineering gear, skis, a small climbing wall, boxes full of summer flip flops and winter boots: re-check. Trails on your doorstep for those off-road runs, so much more fun than running on pavements? Still check. Dive in the Annecy Lake’s pristine water on a hot summer day that beats a London pool full of chlorine and screaming kids any day? Check again. Little winding roads especially designed for weekend cycling rides, or, even better, short lunchtime or weekday after-work sessions (how decadent)? Check, always check.

Not that the “after work” bit was of any relevance to me, mind you. And that’s where the scary bit started. Because I may have been happily giving up the London rat-race and the City job, I was still not ready to become a French version of your average desperate housewife. I only gave up to married life because, let’s face it, when the perfect man comes along and is reckless enough to think he can survive being married to me, it would have been crazy to turn him down. But between being a wife and being ready to add the prefix “house-” in front of it, was a big, very big, step I was not sure I was ready - or wanted to - take. Although I had no second thoughts about leaving Europe’s largest city to become a provinciale, the prospect of also being a chômeur, a jobless, and buying my beloved running shoes not with my own, hard won money but with that of my husband, was a different ballgame altogether!

And then, there was, of course, the issue of the French. Because, everybody will no doubt agree with me, they truly are a piece of work. And I should know, shouldn’t I? In London, it used to be at best funny – of the bittersweet kind – to admit it. But what was I supposed to do now? I could hardly complain to the French themselves, or they would probably try to send me back to where I, no doubt, in their mind now belonged, the visceral enemy: England. Still I figured that, if I learned to shut up even when really annoyed (not easy if you know me, I must admit), I should just about be able to deal with it and not being sent back from where I came from.

So that was it. The decision was taken. Martin’s thesis and my bonus in the bag, we would make our farewell to London, and head off to Annecy. Oh, via Thailand, as one does.