Good news, I am injured!

Little by little, I am getting back to training. Not as much as I used to, not the way I used to, but it is still training. The proof of the pudding: I am injured.

And in some ways, this feels good.

It is not like I stopped exercising when pregnant. In fact, my last run was only 3 days before I gave birth - no specific correlation here, the time had just come! And I even diversified my sports portfolio when expecting, going for instance swimming in the lake days in days out for the last trimestre. But one thing I could not/did not want to do while baking the little one was to get myself in the red. In other words, to push the limits. And man, did I miss it!

Malo's birth late August was also followed by a couple of months of relative inactivity: I went walking, and swimming as soon as I could, but running had to wait a little longer: the emergency C-section involved among other sweet things the gyn-obs playing butcher with my transverse abs, and running was not what he and the midwife had in mind when talking about recovery.

Sure, the silver lining of my being reasonnable was that I did not get injured for some whole 12 months... But, no matter how you slice it, you'll have to admit: reasonnable IS boring.

Now, things are slowly but surely falling back in place (although what would I give to get my super flat tummy back!): I am back into running, spinning, alpine and cross-country skiing, and bouldering at the gym on the rare days the Petite Boule is not under my care.


As a result, my ankle, still stiff from an operation 3 years ago., does not feel too good again. This bad news, but then, as I normally only feel it when I am running above a certain pace or past a certain time, I guess it means I can call myself a runner again, and surely that's good news, right?

I also fell while cross country skiing, stretching the knee ligaments. Bad, but as 1. it means I got to play, and 2. it does not hurt too much unless I fall again or sit on my knees while playing with Malo, it is worth the pain, because, let's face it, pain makes you feel alive, don't you think?

Oh, and I also managed to slip on an icy patch while running, stretching a finger and bruising my entire side, had a close encounter with one of the bouldering gym's holds, resulting in yet another bump and bruise, meaning that anybody who does not know Martin could think I live with a wife beater. But who cares: when I am not wearing a running or skiing outfit, you'll find me in jeans spotted with Malo's mess, so the bruises are well hidden anyway. Oh, and they make me look tough, and I like tough.

So it is all good really: my body starts being a mess again, and, as long as the mess stays remotely under control, it means my spirits are sky-high!

Free Solo

Nothing beats some free solo climbing to celebrate the entry in my nine months of pregnancy 2 weeks ago (here at Mont Charvin, in the Aravis Massif, on the way back from a very nice - and steep - 5-hour hike and some superb views on Mont Blanc)...

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.