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).

Hochicbachoc

There are so many things I don't like about the French (and, since I am one myself, I am fully entitled to b*** about them), I won't even try to start a list. However, you have to handle it to them, they know how to do things in style. Food, fashion, they are hard to bit. But what I myself did not know, which I discovered earlier this weekend, is that their fashion sense extends to running, too. Now, you tell men how stylish is that:

Now, I thought the guy was so classy that I had to overcome my shyness and walk accross the street to ask if I could take a photo. So here was I, standing on the pavement next to him, wearing only my swimsuit given we were about to go for our swimming session in the lake, standing next to Mr Top Class. And wondering whether, given that the classiest top I wear to go running may indeed be black but is nothing else than a technical t-shirt, I was at risk of losing my citizenship.  Or maybe, I went on thinking,  Ishould I try to emulate him, and give my banker's suits a new life, maybe adding a Hermès scarf as headband for an added French touch... 

Now, I know I will shatter all your illusions (as I sadly did mine, that day), but it actually turned out that Mr Top Class was going to a party. A hochicbachoc party. Although I have regained most of my French over the past two years, this did not mean anything to me until several hours later (must have been the cold water freezing my already not so numerous brain cells), when I woke Martin up: "hey, I got it now, he meant: "haut chic, bas choc", which would roughly translate into "chic top, in-your-face/unexpected bottom",. Athough clearly, with such a not-punchy translation, one may not want to have and organise the same party accross the pond. Which will I guess confirm my point: stylish running... you can only get it in France...

Losers

- "I think I may have forgotten my wallet at home", says Martin sheepishly.
- "but I did ask you minutes before we left if you had it and you said yes", I  say shout. " I mean, it is not like we often go out, this is silly."

This was us, a few days ago, getting annoyed, Martin with himself and me with Martin.

Fast rewind. For the past two summers, we did the most of the Annecy Lake. Last year, with Martin in full training for the Annecy triathlon and me expecting Malo and entering the last trimester, we were in the lake days in days out pretty much until Malo was born.  Martin discovered that, with training, he was actually more than decent at it (not a mean feat coming from somebody who was pretty much going backwards when we started swim training back in our London days). I discovered I enjoyed it, which is saying something coming from somebody known to have what we may call a slight bias towards running and cycling when it comes to endurance sports.

Full of beginners' enthousiasm, we vouched to carry on swim training in the pool during winter, and to start swimming in the lake as soon as weather would allow this year, and to act on it, two days after Malo's was born, I received a brand new wetsuit for my birthday. 

The swimsuit got used twice before I needed to store it because the lake had become too cold. Then any plans we had had of training at the pool got binned. We tried to keep evenings as a family time. Martin was working during the day. As for me, running and cycling were things I could do during the day with Malo, but swimming was not. Not that I was desperate to go anyway, as I find swimming in a pool akin to running on a treadmill, ie: dreadful.

Then summer arrived and we got all motivated again, except that, with Malo to be fed and put to sleep by 7.30pm, that did not seem to work.

Then last week we had a great idea: just as we occasionally do on Saturday mornings, we would splash out on a baby sitter some evenings during summer, bath and feed Malo, put him to bed then go swimming for an hour, and maybe even go for a pizza afterwards, like inthe good ol' times. That way, we would not have to give up spending time with our Petite Boule, would not have to feel guilty leaving him when he is awake, and would still get to swim and enjoy the lake.

So a few days ago, we got into action. We booked a baby sitter, I got our swimming stuff ready, Martin took the evening bath with Malo, I gave him dinner, and the minute we were sure he was asleep, we were on our bikes heading to the lake.

Then Martin realised he had forgotten his wallet at home. Oh well, no after-swim pizza then. Shame because, in all honestly, that may have had helped with my motivation to dive into the lake. 

We got into our wetsuits (not that it was cold enough to truly need them, but because we figured we could do with the added buoyancy).

Put swimming caps on. 

Then googles.

Googles? Where are my googles?

-"OH NO, I have forgotten my googles", am I crying to Martin seconds after having telling him off for being so disorganised we would have to skip dinner.

So that's how our first attempt of the year at getting back into swimming and enjoying the lake ended up. Martin swam 10 min  before giving up, feeling he had somehow forgotten how it worked between last year and this summer. I did not get to swim at  all. We both did not get pizza.

Just losers.

Just in case you are crying already, don't, as this story eventually got a happy ending. We booked the baby-sitter again for last night, decided not to cancel although it started pouring, got there with wallets and goggles, got our asses kicked in less time you need to read it, and came home home happy bunnies...

The way things go, Petite Boule, already in training, will soon swim better than his parents.

That's why we wait he's asleep to go training ourselves, pretending we're doing it for his own

good and to respect his sleeping patterns, but actually secrtetly hoping we'll still be a bit

stronger than him for a couple of years...

Blond Moment

A few nights ago... Thunder can be heard, clearly getting closer. The sky is between dark blue and grey, nice really. But also clearly promising rain. It is the moment I choose to go running, with Malo and the Chariot. Admittedly not your ideal moment, but I have not had a chance for a run all day, and am getting restless. 

And as one would expect, it starts pouring as soon as Malo, the Chariot and I are ready and getting out of the garage. Not that this, in itself, is a remotely decent reason to stop: I love running in the rain, and I can even be accused of being a bad mother for taking Malo with me, given that he  is comfortably chatting away in the dry comfort of his Chariot.

A while later and I am not feeling so cheerful anymore. Flat tire. To add to the fun, it  is still raining, only it is now a fully-fledged thunderstorm.  Oh, and I have pretty much reached the half way point of  today's route. Turning back or carrying on, it is not going to make any difference: I am far away from home indeed. I can't really think of one single time where I wished I had not gone running, but if such a thing could happen, it would be today.

Not so much because of the rain. Not so much because of the flat tire. More because I am standing in the rain next to a flat tire wearing a skirt.

And ridiculously bright shoes.

Running wearing stupid shoes and a skirt, although admittedly not quite that skirt...

Parenthesis: nobody, I mean, nobody, runs wearing a skirt in France. I only bought mine because, precisely, nobody else does, and because I decided I was fast enough not to be mistaken for a girly jogger (can't decide what's worst, "girly", or "jogger", but in any case, it is a pretty serious insult, isn't it?).  As for the shoes, just to avoid any misunderstanding, I did NOT buy these shoes because I found them cute. I bought them because stupid Asics, a few seasons ago, changed the shape of my dream shoes,and I have now gone through the entire stock of the old models I had so wisely stocked on. And now, the only model whose fit  is somehow close to my old ones is the Asics Noosa Tri. Now that I have mentioned "tri", you'll get the picture: the shoes needed to have the most "in your face" design you can come up with, to go with. And just in case this was not enough, they called the color "Harlequin/Glowing Tiger. Seriously. So now I hope this is clear: I bought these shoes because I HAD NO CHOICE. End of parenthesis.

So here was I, having to WALK, in my skirt and garish shoes, in the rain, back to our flat, more miles away that I would care to. No need to say I kept my fingers crossed the whole way (not that easy when they are simultaneously gripping the handlebar to push the Chariot, but I was desperate) that there would not be anybody else crazy enough to run under his weather and therefore able to see me. Walking. Pushing a Chariot with a flat tire. In my skirt. And ridiculous running shoes. 

From now on, I may still put on the Noosa when it is raining, in the hope that they will quickly get covered in mud (that works pretty fast with the Mountain Masochists, which are now a dull mix of beige and grey replacing their initial baby blue color). As for the skirt, I'll keep it for when I run alone, with no risk of flat tire, and ideally when I am en route for a sub-40 10K... That way I may manage to avoid another blond moment.

Tour de France style

Back from the first part of our holiday, and dare I say, they were close to perfect. OK, there were just perfect, no restrictions. 

No surprise as for the choice of location: the mountains. Now, one may think we could have just stayed home in that case. True, except for the following:

1. we were going to Serre Chevalier, in the Ecrins Massif in the Southern Alps, which, apart from being a stunning place, is close to my heart because that's where Martin proposed 4 years ago, after a wonderful, harduous, super long hike (how romantic), sitting in front of wine and saucisson (how less romantic).

2. this part of the Alps is just perfect for any outdoor sports you may think of: MTBing, cycling, running, climbing, hiking, you want it, you can have it. 

3. Last but not least, my parents have had the great idea, a few years ago, to buy a holiday place there, which means we could get to spend time with them, and use Granny's offer to look after Malo while we were doing our antics: no frustrations born from having to limit the amount or kind of sports would do, and no guilt from leaving him either, since we knew he was going to get more than his fair share of kisses in our absence.

This being Tour de France time, and this part of the Alps having more than its fair share of famous passes, cycling had to be high on the agenda for the holiday (as if I needed an excuse to be on the bike).

I start in style and with my Dad, climbing l'Izoard on Bastille Day, having been sent off by Malo wearing club colors.

 
What is best than a "hors catégorie" pass as a warm-up ride? That warm-up goes rather well, giving me comfort that I am not too rusty, despite a low-mileage season due to becoming a mum, which has followed a another low-mileage season due being in the third trimester of my pregnancy at the peak of the cycling season (bad timing, I know).  Most of my (very limited) cycling training this year has been done with the Chariot. On these days out, it was clear that Malo and the Chariot's combined weight did make any hills, no matter how small, pretty challenging and thigh-burning, but clearly a good training for serious hills. A little one in a Chariot, maybe that's what Armstrong forgot when planning his last Tour's training.  And maybe that what I should do: instead of soon going back to working in finance, dragging my sorry feet: set up a coaching service instead, boot camp style, where tough, big, guys will go for the ultimate training session, pulling my son up the steepest climbs around  Annecy.

So rusty I don't seem to be, and certainly less so than a lot of guys I overtake on the way up (admittedly some of them old enough to be my dad... oh wait, it was my dad).  Some of them are clearly pissed off ("what, a woman overtaking me, how dares she?"), some of them very gentlemen about it, greeting me by a "going strong, Madame", as I passed them... On a side note, I will never get used to being called a madame, even at 37, even married, even now a mum. Girl, maybe, madame... brings images of pearl necklaces, strict suits (yes, I know, in another life, I used to wear those), and most of all, boring sensible behaviour, ie not exactly me. Anyway, Madame or not, I must admit: it is a great ego booster to overtake guys on a "hors categorie" pass, and one I shamelessly enjoyed.

Icing on the cake: the photographers posted in the middle of the road as you are about to reach the top, who make you feel like you're just about to win one of the Tour's stages...  until you go on their website to realise that to purchase the proof of your stellar performance, you need to fork 12€, quite a rip-off, when, surely, they should be the ones paying to get a shoot of my butt, shouldn' they?

The view from the pass is stunning, but you'll have to take my word for it, given that I forgot my brain and my camera that morning. On one side of the mountain, luxurious green, a forest and flowers everywhere. ON the other side, a desolated and stunning landscape, all jagged ridges, camel colors slopes and nothing else. Stunning, and the main reason why I wanted to climb up there. No disappointments here, and I won't ask for my money back.

After the satisfaction of reaching the top comes the ride down. I can't say I have ever, ever, enjoyed that bit. As much as I love the hard effort of a steep climb up, I am absolutely terrorised by the downhills, and if I say I actually regularly manage to go faster on the flat than on the downhills, that will probably say it all. I can try to find good excuses, such that I am really short and therefore my bike slightly too long, making for a not-super-comfy riding position on the way down, when it comes down (down... ah, ah) to it, let's face it, I am a wimp.

A few days later, and to carry on with the Tour de France theme, we go up the Lautaret and Galibier. The great thing with Galibier is that it is hard. 15%-steep hard in some places, preferably towards the end of the climb. And the next best thing about it is that here is no way round it: no matter which side you chose to climb, you need to ride up another pass before you can tackle this one.

I have started early in the morning to avoid getting insanely hot, as we're right in the middle of a heat wave,  Early morning or not, it is already boiling, and, as, having arrived at the Lautaret, I am waiting for my Dad to start the Galibier climb together, I feel weird: not tired at all, but my eyes do not seem to accommodate anymore. I fear for a moment that I may have to bail out from climbing Galibier, which would not been good news since we delayed our returning to Annecy so that I could do it.  So I set off again as soon as my Dad arrives, and, strangely enough, I can see normally again after a  couple of minutes,  and conveniently before starting the steep bit and the hairpins. Maybe that was just the confirmation my body is not designed to stand still. 

 
Once again, I overtake several guys on the way. No girls, unfortunately not because they were faster than the guys, but because there are no female cyclists... Plenty of women driving cars to meet their partners, who are cycling, at the top, but no female cyclists. Now, what's that about? I know cycling shorts are not the most flattering, I know cycling helmets are not designed to keep freshly blow-dried hair all nice and neat, I also know only too well downhills are scary (but let me tell you a little secret; a lot of guys find them scary, too), but come on, surely I am not the only one not to care...

Once again and more importantly (for my soul if not for my ego), the view, radically different from that of Izoard, is also stunning, the Ecrins Massif and its overhanging glaciers seemingly only a few inches away from my face. Can't get enough of it and find it a real shame the climb does not last longer. Note to myself: maybe I should just cycle slower, next time.

 
My bike computer having chosen that day to run out of battery, I never know how steep it is, and, not feeling like I am making a huge effort, I keep wondering if the hardest parts are still too come. But then comes the very steep last km (which many cyclists may have wonder in despair why they needed to climb it, since it  you can avoid it with a tunnel taking you to the other side of the pass), and I can claim my moment of fame in front of the "Col du Galibier" sign. Although, to be fair, I can't help being slightly disappointed: after all, this is supposed to be one of the hardest passes in the Alps, and I was expecting hoping, to suffer a bit more...

But the truly fantastic part of the ride is that, this time, there is no need to suffer torture on the way down,  for I have been cute.  In a purely altruistic way, I suggested Martin drives up to meet me at the pass and do the super scenic mountain bike ride down to the valley, while I forget for once my love of cycling downhills, and put my bike in the car to take it back to the flat. Aren't I just the perfect wife?

So here it is, I have tackled three of the most famous French passes, and can tick the boxes. Now, since they did not feel that difficult, and since it is always nice to have a new challenge, I guess it means I have no excuse not to do them again next year, with then-2-year old Malo in the Chariot, to add to the fun, and to the weight! Unless, of course, I have by then rented him out for somebody else's training.