As I let the tattoo heal, the plan was to bask in the warm glow that is winter training. Winter training is all the fun of training without the pressure of metrics. Long runs without looking at the watch, pool swims with games to keep it interesting and cycles on whatever terrain you fancy. Winter training is about building the most important training element ‘Consistency’. Yet, as December 2022 turns to January 2023 consistency has been dangerously lacking. A new job, new injuries, illness and holidays all played their part in disrupting any form of structured training. There is a thin line between reasons and excuses and as I write about the last three months I am still unsure which driving force was strongest.
With a new job comes new structures, requirements and expectations. The previous job had allowed me the freedom to adapt my work schedule to meet my training requirements. I could work from home on double days and go in early and leave early to have time to get longer sessions done. This luxury is not afforded in the new job. Now working for a large muli-national company, there are structures to be followed and it is my training that will have to adapt. As the new year begins, I am yet to settle on a routine that will not significantly negatively impact my training. Working around long days with long commutes is proving difficult. Arriving home late with it being dark and cold outside, excuses have been too easy to succumb to.
As the tattoo healed so did the knee injury. Yet as I began to venture outside there was a new obstacle waiting around the corner. On the first weekend in November Karen and I headed to Sligo. On the Saturday I went mountain biking in the new Coolaney mountain bike centre and on the Sunday Karen and I cycled to Strandhill for coffee and cake. It was an enjoyable weekend spent with family and as we drove home on the Sunday afternoon all seemed right with the world, or at least our small corner of it. Very quickly however, I started to feel unwell. By the time I reached home I had a temperature and a headache. It was just before 6pm and I went straight to bed, not waking until 9am the following morning. I woke up feeling worse than the day before and even before doing a test, I knew it had finally caught me. After nearly three years and three vaccinations I was beginning to feel I would never catch Covid, lying on the couch on that Monday morning I knew that feeling was misplaced. A test later that day confirmed my suspicions and another 10 days of training were lost. The worse effects of the virus began to ease after three days, however some symptoms lingered for a further 7 days. Leaving me tired and feeling unfit.
When the last reminisce of Covid finally dripped and sneezed out of my body, I went straight to the mountains. I love the pain and reward balance of mountain biking. The yin yang of the tough lung busting climbs followed by the single trail descents through forest and over rock and mud. I wanted to clear my head and could think of no better way than hitting the trails early and alone. I went to Ballinastoe early on a Sunday and headed up with nothing but a bottle of water on my bike. It was cold, harsh and wet. Exactly what I wanted. I went up and down new trails building confidence as I bounced and skidded along. I reached the top of the mountain for a second time and felt revived, ready to cycle all the way down and then drive home. The trail from the top ‘Bump and Grind’ is a twisty bumpy track that starts on top of the open bare mount and works its way into and then through the forest. It was as I entered the forest that I noticed I was hurtling down the mountain at an uncomfortable speed. I dragged the bike around a tree and over a rock giving myself a false sense of control. Hurtling towards the next obstacle too fast my bike hit something and stopped. I didn’t. I flew through the air before landing on my stomach, sliding as my face scraped along the ground. When I finally stopped moving I struggled to my feet and couldn’t catch my breath. With one hand, I dragged my bike off the trail and sat down beside it. I took my time getting back to my feet and ultimately getting off the mountain. Sore, bruised and damaged, it would be another two weeks before I could begin my training again.
As December creeped along and the latest injuries healed, I finally began to run, bike and swim regularly. I was not at Ironman levels yet but I could see light at the end of this bleak winter tunnel. A planned and welcomed interruption was to come in the form of a ski holiday. Karen and I had not been skiing since March 2020 and were excited about our return to the slopes. Our destination this time was Andorra and it would prove a memorable trip. I found Andorra to be a strange place. The absence of any Christmas spirit, no special food or any real marking of the occasion was disappointing and I found the locals to be disinterested in, well, everything. The skiing was very good and we made up for the lack of atmosphere by chatting with fellow tourists. In particular we became friendly with a couple from Portadown and enjoyed sharing stories of our daily adventures with them, every evening. The truly memorable moment came on Christmas day. We decided to ski to the furthest town in the resort. This involved four long ski runs and several chairlifts. The sun was shining and the slopes were quiet, it was a perfect ski day. When we reached the top of the last ski lift and skied to the top of the last slop everything changed. There was a gael bellowing down the last red run. I skied down it first and after about 15 metres stopped to look around for Karen to see how she was getting on. I was immediately blinded by the wind and pelted by the snow and ice that were being stripped from the slope. The slope was ripped bare and had become a carpet of ice. I couldn’t see anything and couldn’t bear to look up the slope for more than a couple of seconds. As I turned away I heard a shout and saw the whizz of Karen’s yellow and black jacket go by me. She was out of control and picking up speed, easily going more than 50 kph. I turned and went after her. At first it looked like she might ski out of it, She seemed to turn to the right and then begin turning left. Then she hit the ground. Poles, skies and snow went everywhere. The sight of the yellow and black jacket rolling and bouncing as it made its way down the slope was stomach churning. I was convinced Karen would be seriously injured. I got to her just as she stopped moving. By the time I had my skis off, astonishingly, she was sitting up. To everyone's further amazement, after taking a couple of minutes to catch her breath, Karen rose to her feet and clipped into her skis. It was only later that evening as we regaled others with the events of the day that we could truly digested the incident. It was remarkable that Karen was not badly injured but what was even more remarkable was the resilience she showed to get back up and continue to ski down the mountain.
Back at home, it seems life has settled down. There is an opportunity now to build some new habits and try to establish some consistency in my training. With that said, what I learned from last year is that by focusing on one race and sticking to a plan, the year became a bit bland. The last three months may have not gone to plan but they have contained stories that I will be thinking about and sharing for years to come. It has definitely not been bland.
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