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.

Friday evening (not running, nor climbing, nor Malo and definitely NOT ROMANCE related) conversation

Martin: "What are you doing?"
Me: "I am sending a text message to Bénédicte. How come you're asking, since I have told you I would 2 minutes ago?"
Martin: "No, I am sure you did not".
Me: "Yes I did. You even said "oui" when I told you."
Martin: "I can't even remember saying "oui""
Me: "I cannot believe we're having this conversation... married less than 3 years, and you're already not listening to me anymore"
Martin: "But still, you have to admit it is really cool I can now say "oui" in French so naturally I don't even notice it. Plus, if I had said "jo", in Austrian, you would have realised much faster I was not listening."
Me: "This conversation is so useless I think I have to write a post about it."
Martin: "cool idea: that will be your first ever SHORT post....
...you're not really going to blog on this, are you?"

Macho

Like many people, I regularly buy magazines, wishing, as I soon as I start reading, that I had not wasted money on such nonsense. It goes for female magazines (are we really paying to read ads?) but, to be honest, running ones are not always (read: "almost never") much better.

Sometimes though, you get lucky, and come across very interesting reading. Such as this recent special issue of a French trail running magazine.

That issue focused on training for trails, and I had bought it thinking it may give me million-dollar tips on how not to get frustrated when stuck behind walkers on a single trail, or how not to be such a demotivated wimp.

I was just starting to think that, once again, I would not learn anything new and had rather saved a few euros to go towards a technical T-Shirt for SeaLegsGirl, when, on page 16, came the unexpected, the answer to all questions, even those I never asked myself.  In a nutshell, a pure gem.

The Gem goes under the title of: "Husband and wife, and training partners".

Technically, Martin and I are not strictly speaking training partners:  1. he is not training for anything, 2. he's been stuck at home for two weeks with a lumbago, making it impossible for him to walk, let alone run (and incidentally resulting in me having to deal at home with two boys unable to walk). Still, we are husband and wife, and occasional running partners, so I feel entitled to read on.

-" You married a woman who likes sport, and that may be one of the reasons why you were attracted by her". Oh, Oh... Clearly, as a reader, I am of the wrong gender. Now, that's interesting. Could it be that I have not realised it yet, but am the only female trail runner in the whole country?  Now, that would be cool: it would make it easier to finish first of my category, wouldn't it? Of course, only a few weeks ago, I seem to have seen other women racing against me, but who knows, maybe they were all foreign (hoping for a good place because they may have heard before I did that no French women run on trails).

I carry on reading, hoping that this potential scoop will be either confirmed or denied.

"If you are training together, running at the same pace, you, sir, will be running comfortably below your lactate threshold, whilst your partner will be close to collapsing, because she will be running well above her comfort zone. In the end, you will have done too easy a training session, whilst she will have run at high intensity."

Now, even more interesting:  I never realised when running with Martin that he was having it easy while I was close to dying. Maybe it is because I was not paying attention, focusing on dying at the front, whilst he was having it easy 50 metres behind me. Or because I was not concentrating enough on the fact that I should be feeling like dying, too busy that we were, chatting along while running side to side on a mountain trail.

I read on, hoping that, after having brought me the scoop that I am, have to be, a much weaker and slower runner than my husband, they will tell me what to do about it.  And they do.

Or rather, they tell Martin, who, as The Man, is the true runner, while I am... well, not sure what... a wannabe dirt-road-power-walker, perhaps... So, to carry on doing some real training whilst still running with your wife, they tell Martin, "you must sometimes train by yourself". In bold, because it is damn important he does not jeopardise his potential as a trail runner by feeling he must always run with me. "Then", the article carries on, "when you and your wife run together, you run easy, while she uses that run as her tempo run."

Whoa, what an eye opener that reading was!!! I should be slower than Martin, then. I have to be, since I am a woman. Now, what the article does NOT cover, is what I should  do to address the situation if I am faster than my husband. Because clearly, you don't want that, do you? That would be going against nature, and must be acted on. But, what am I thinking?  Of course the article does not cover that option. I am not a man, therefore can't be a real runner, therefore should not be reading this magazine in the first place. Maybe there was even a warning on the front cover,  a "men only", that I did not see. 

So, as a woman, I have to be slower than my husband. Which makes me wonder: until when do I get away with being faster than my son? Better make the most of the last few months where he is not walking yet, is my guess...

Turning into my (grand) mother

They say that a woman's worst nightmare is to turn into her mother. Well, I am not sure whether it better or worse (not that I think it would be such a bad thing to be like my mother anyway,  bar the fact she prefers playing tennis to going running. Oh well), but I think I am about to turn into my grand mother.

The doubt had been creeping in my head since I became a mum 8 months and a half months ago, but I got official confirmation this week.

This week will be remembered as The Week When Malo Who Was In No Rush Of Having His First Tooth Suddenly Decided To Get Two In One Go. Concomitantly, he straight out refused to eat both his 4pm and his evening meal two days in a row, and did not do much better the third one. This coming from a baby who has always eaten liek there is no tomorrow and is so round that, when seeing Martin, Malo and I together, people think we either adopted, or stole the little devil, because there is no way the two of us could have produced such a plump little one.

Obviously, as mums do (especially when they double up with being congenitally worried), I freaked out. Immediately a picture of Petite Boule so skinny that he would need to be renamed, built up in my mind. Nothing would deter me from feeling devastated at the sight of my son refusing to eat. Not Martin reminding me Malo had two little hams in place of legs and could handle two days with only 2 meals.  Not my own mum saying that, obviously, his teeth were bothering him and surely things would shortly get back in order (and reminding me she spent all my childhood trying to convince me eating is not overrated).

This not eating episode also brought back memories of the only day, when Malo was only 2 month old, where I briefly thought I had not enough milk to breastfeed him properly. At the time tough, a call to  My Hero (ie the wonderful midwife who listened to, and assisted me with the list of my worries and failures as a mum in the first weeks post partum) sorted everything out: this was normal, I should not worry, nurse my baby as often as necessary to stimulate lactation, and things would quickly get back to normal, which they did.

This time tough, things are different. I don't have the comfort of telling me milk will soon be back in stock, or that, if worse come to worst, I can always bottle feed him, since he does not want to eat.

And here comes my grand mother. Mamie, my grand mother, comes from a generation for which being fed properly was not always a given. She lived in poor Brittany with 9 siblings and her Dad a sailor cruising the oecean to bring back home a tiny amount of money. A young adult, she experienced the war, food shortage and vouchers. She then worked hard to provide for her two daughters. Putting good food on the table was a matter of pride. And love.

As kids, spending the holiday with her, we would be treated to pancakes, cakes, French fries, or whatever else she knew we kids loved. The more butter involved in preparing those treats, the better. Growing into a weight conscious teenager, I became fussy and was asking for my vegs steamed, and she would reply that "vegs without a bit of butter, are tasteless, just like water". I guess the main problem was that, to this day, we have a very different opinion on which quantity of butter is involved when talking about "a bit". 

Unlike Mamie, food does not have a huge importance in my life. I like eating, and, as an athlete, care about eating healthily (oh, and before you ask, I'll justify my huge daily chocolate allowance by that fact that I seem to lack magnesium these days). But the only time when I made an effort trying to come up with fancy receipes was when Martin and I started seeing each other and I felt the need to impress.  This stopped as soon as we both felt we had found "the one", which was about three days after our first meeting.

But it looks that this may have changed with Malo's arrival in my life. In the very few weeks he did not sleep through the night, I enjoyed waking up, taking him against me to nurse him, and feeling him fall asleep a moment leter, satiated and content (granted, 6 weeks after he was born, I also enjoy immensly not having to wake up at night any longer, and have not been looking back since then).

I breastfed until a few days ago,  because I liked so much the sensation and because it was such a great feeling to think he  was growing thanks to what my body produced for him. This coming from somebody who, two days after she gave birth, thought she would only nurse for a couple of months because she felt she should, and was telling her husband she did not want to feel like a "milking cow" for too long.

I also worry if he seems not to be eating as much as he normally does. I am pleased to tell people he is such a great eater, and bore anybody who cares to listen about how many pieces of vegetables went into his purée.

And now that he is weaned and eating "real" food, I actually enjoy preparing his daily meals, and before you ask, no, I am not talking about putting formula milk in a bottle. I am talking  carefully selecting organic vegetables, trying to offer a different mix each day, caring about him discovering new tastes. I even bought and cooked fennel for the first time in my life, for crying out loud. Granted, I stole the idea of the receipe for a young mum friend of mine, but still, buying fennel for the first time in my 36 years on this planete, doesn't that say something about how much I care? How much I love him?

 Satiated and content...

Because that was it is about.  Love. Showing it with cuddles, kisses, shared laughs, time together, sharing daily runs. And food. Why, I can't really explain. And probably neither could my grand mother.

A Present for SeaLegsGirl: my running song of the day (OK, 2, actually)

OK, this is not truly speaking my running song of the day, because I don't do music when I run (too busy listening the sound of my own inner voice, or, more often than not, trying to make that inner voice shut up).

But because I have something to be forgiven for by SLG, here is my attempt at bribing her... And at giving the others some motivation for 4-or-so extra minutes of running, while I am at it.  Oh, and at being forgiven by everybody for my horrendously long last post (which Piccola was probably the only one to have read anyway, adding a annoying-blog-reading PB to her 1/2 marathon one, the former being probably even more impressive than the latter).

"Running up that hill"... can't beat the title, hey?! And it does not hurt the song is pretty cool, too...

And there is a more "meditative" version for those, like me, who use running as their daily (or not quite daily these days) meditation...

Maybe I should try it myself, in case it helps shutting up the annoying innner voices...