You Are What You Eat

Food has always played an enormously important part in our family life - and not always in a good way! The Husband, having pursued many, many years of weight training before his reinvention as a rower, has always been meticulous about the composition of his diet. He knows precisely what he has eaten, the percentage of protein/carbs/fat in most common foodstuffs, what to eat, and when to eat it for maximum benefit. Even when he lived at home (before he was let out and married me) his most excellent mother catered for his every nutritional whim to the extent of making packed lunches at 5am before he set off for work and popping to the shop to pick up extra gallons of milk for the protein milk-shakes if required. Bit of a shock then when setting up his own home to realise that a good diet required a great deal of forethought, effort....and money! Still, in those days we were both working, young(ish) and idealistic and as a couple still managed to hit the gym three or for times a week and eat a pretty healthy diet. Photos from our first foreign summer holiday together show us lean, toned and muscular. To be quite honest, we were pretty vain and narcissistic and probably bored the pants off everyone around us.
All that was to change with the arrival of our first child, a bonny bouncing thing who - having turned up with a bit of difficulty two weeks late - decided that sleeping was a Bad Idea. We became drawn, irritable and haggard and comforted ourselves with the thought that the second baby (who arrived placid and smoothly two years and two months later) could NOT POSSIBLY sleep less than the first.
How wrong we were! The Bright-Eyed Boy was not only just as bad at sleeping, but much worse, had some sort of hair-trigger motion-detector that sensed breathing three-foot distant and roused him in inconsolable wailing. Night and day this continued, one setting off the other in a constant round of baby-noise. Unsurprisingly NOTHING got done. I'd given up going to the gym as I was constantly shattered and, more than likely, somewhat depressed. The Husband still went occasionally as far as I remember (I'm not really sure) but when we had a major extension built on the house (cheaper than buying something bigger) he spent two years decorating and fitting stuff whilst I sat zombified and minded the babies. Pretty grim actually. The Husband looked like a skeleton, and I piled on the weight through exhaustion and an inability to care. At the same time the Bright-Eyed Boy developed some sort of digestive problem that made him throw up constantly: every night I'd have to strip off next to the washing machine, carefully pulling jumpers over my head that were covered in vomit. Just as the spewing got better he decided that eating was a Bad Idea altogether, and it was all we could do for a year to coax him to eat custard creams. This aversion to food persisted until he went (kicking and screaming) to nursery and saw that hey! Other Kids Eat! So he started to join in and although he still had quite rigid ideas about what he liked, he has got better and better and now at age 12 has a fairly sophisticated palate. I think the root of the problem is that he has an extra-sensitive sense of taste/smell so that what we would count as fairly bland and unremarkable flavours seemed to him outrageously bitter, sweet or sour, hence his insistance at age 5 on having a pizza that consisted only of the base and the cheese (I think they are now quite trendy and called 'pizza bianca' or somesuch) - absolutely NO tomatoes in ANY shape or form. The Daughter has always eaten like a horse and her diet as a rower needed only minor tweeks to make it fit for purpose (e.g.porridge for breakfast, lots of pasta, tuna, chicken etc.). Even the BEB, having taken up rowing this summer, has taken to eating more, although quite often this consists of attempted raids on the cupboard for chocolate biscuits before tea.
Anyhow, in our home food has gone in a complete circle: the Husband started really taking an interest in nutrition again when he took up competitive indoor rowing a few years ago (before 'proper' rowing was even a twinkle in his eye) and his interest rekindled my interest. Being told by the practice nurse that I had the beginnings of hypertension spurred me on to take stock and radically rethink and reform my diet. Drawing on all my former knowledge, which up until that point had been buried under the quotidien family crap that all families wade through, we decided to pull our socks up and Get Serious about nutrition.
Not that it's been easy - it's really hard to plan ahead for healthy dinners if we don't know who's going to be around at tea-time and who's got an activity organised. The slow-cooker is an absolute boon (thanks Sam!) allowing for stews, curries, pasta sauces, and chilli to be taken out as needed, but sometimes the best-laid plans fail and there is a certain amount of nutritional compromise. As I am the one who works on academic research from home, it falls to me to prepare the vast majority of the meals and although I am mostly OK with that, I have to admit that occasionally this particular worm turns. Hence fish and chips. But there was no excuse for my lunchtime lapse today when I am ashamed to admit I actually ate a Pot Noodle. I'd just come in from town, needed to fire up the computer for work and just could not be bothered to sort out something healthier. At least I know precisely how many evil calories I have ingested (392) and comfort myself that had I indulged my appetite with a panini, brownie and latte whilst out, the total would have been a great deal higher than that. On the upside, Friday night is sirloin steak night, eaten with mushrooms, salad, a few oven chips and a big glass of red wine. Food of the gods! And rowing training tomorrow to burn it all off....

A Clash of Antlers

The Husband has merrily trotted off down to the boat-house to meet up with some of the guys who were on his 'learn-to-row' course last May. He is extremely lucky in that he has found three other people who have taken to the sport of rowing with as much enthusiasm and commitment as him, and together they have made a reasonable - if somewhat unusual - quad crew. There! That didn't sound too anarchic,did it? And yet, the reaction in the club up until very recently was, if not actually hostile, then certainly very unhelpful. Having encouraged folk to learn to row, and very happily relieved them of a not-inconsiderable amount of cash to take up full active membership, there seemed to be an unneccessary amount of obstacles put in their way to prevent them doing precisely that which they were initially encouraged to do: row. I'm not sure how the women's squad runs things, but the men's squad seemes to be run along the lines of some minor public school, where the 'new boys' are made to jump hurdles merely for the amusement of the 'prefects'. Arbitrary training regimes were set up - and amended - on a weekly, daily or even (and I kid you not) hourly basis. It was initially a source of some amusement, and later despair, to receive emails all marked 'high importance' stating that 'the men's squad will meet at 6.30pm for a 3k run, then circuits' only to have that replaced by 'please meet at 6 for a 2k ergo test'. Programmes were sent out and then abandoned before the first date on the list. The whole set-up seems based on whim rather than solid training principles.

The Husband found the whole thing ridiculous. He'd always wanted to have a go at rowing but, like many people, never got round to it. Having taken the opportunity to learn, he was keen to give it his best shot and willing to put up with a bit of frustration and annoyance to fit in. But he came within an ace of packing the whole sorry mess up as he and his new colleagues were told that, yes, they could go out in doubles, oh wait no, you can't: singles only. No hang on a bit we're not going to be on the river tonight (what! it's beautiful out there!) - there's going to be an ergo piece...2k...note your times. And by the way lads - you won't be rowing as a quad together: we don't encourage private armies.
Okay, thought the Husband, keep the head down, don't antagonise the chief buck (who, by the way, is never seen on an ergo, in a boat and quits out of circuits to go home after one set of reps). Dutifully he did what was asked of him: circuits twice a week, 2k tests etc. etc. Even kept his frustration under his hat when beautiful autumn evenings went un-rowed.

The first head-race of the season took place about a month ago in north Lincolnshire. At less than 3k and on a river that is merely a big, straight drainage ditch, the Husband and his mate thought it would be an ideal first race to have a go at, and put it forward that they could enter in a double, not with any expectation of doing particularly well, but as a first-time experience, a bit of fun. This was greeted with much humming and ha-ing and prevarication until - hey presto! - the entry list was closed. Through gritted teeth this was accepted: we were down there anyway as Daughter #3 was racing in a double and then a quad. More frustration ensued:  more revised training schedules, broken coaching appointments, more reminding that the Husband and friends wouldn't be racing together at any point.

Imagine his surprise when he got an email (marked high priority, natch) with a boat-list up for the next head-race a week hence (on a notoriously bendy river) containing....yes, the Husband and his LTR chums. With less than seven days to practise for it. Never rowed as a crew.... Assuming that the mick was being taken, they rearranged their work commitments to squeeze in a few sessions on the water. And yes, you've guessed it, when they arrived for the first one, they were told they couldn't go out on the water that night....Well, an explosion was due, and it happened. A few home truths were delivered. And from that time on things seemed to get a bit easier. A second early morning practice session was arranged and encouraging noises made. The head-race itself was windy, choppy, nerve-racking, included a minor crash (at a bend - bow had only steered the quad twice!), but they came away grinning from ear to ear at the achievement and enthused beyond measure. And that's where they all are this morning, happily going up and down the river.

But why the stupid delays and aggravations? You would think that the club would want new blood to swell their ranks - particularly dedicated and enthusiastic blood. Not to mention the membership money! The problem, I believe, is the hierarchical nature of the set up. The junior section runs like an oiled machine, thanks to one person who gives up an unconscionable amount of time to organise it. Everyone knows what they're doing, when they're doing it, and with whom. The older rowers, the ones who have kids are fine, relaxed, helpful, keen to offer advice and even coaching. The middle section tend to be in their late twenties, early thirties, single, unchilded, and range from flint-eyed monomaniacs to swivel-eyed loons. There is a lot of testosterone about, a lot of competitive antler-butting and, as goes with the territory, an aversion to incomers - particularly those who just might - one day - end up as competition. I rest my case.

A Test of What? Patience, Most Probably!



Indoor rowing at Manchester Velodrome



The weather is absolutely beautiful, unseasonably warm and almost making up for the dismally wet summer. You would think, then, that the rowing fraternity at our local club would be eager to take to the river as quickly as possible during the sun-balmed evenings. Apparently not!
I have noticed a distinct tendency, very akin to that which I noticed as a former air-sports instructor, to stand around and talk about the sport rather than actually get on and do it.

This is particularly true of some of the more experienced crews: they certainly look the part standing round in flip-flops and faded splash-jackets and gazing distantly downriver, but I could count the times I've actually seen them rowing on one hand. The Husband is distinctly aggravated. Not only does the 'training programme' (and I use the term loosely here) change literally week by week (actually, none of the proposed sessions have been fulfilled), but he can never tell if, when he turns up at the boathouse as instructed whether there'll be anyone to coach him, even if he's gone to the trouble of arranging a coaching session. What tends to happen is that he arrives (along with his new rowing buddies) and finds that, despite it being perfect weather, no-one is there, or that there's been a gym-session declared, or that by the time everyone's got their arse into gear it's getting too damn dark. But - hey - they've had a splendid time standing round talking about what they would have done.
Last night he turned up promptly from work hoping to get a good hour plus on the water only to find that everyone was expected to do a 2k erg test. Even the poor guy who'd just returned, unwarned, from holiday. Fortunately the Husband wasn't too bothered - he's competed in the British and English indoor rowing championships and is currently following a Concept2 training programme at our local gym in order to compete again in the spring - climbed on his erg and did an easy sub-seven. Didn't push it, had something left in reserve and  recovered quickly. This caused some consternation amongst the men. Husband is a total novice, so wasn't expected to perform well, yet he beat most of the squad with ease. There seems to be a mystique to the erg that 'real' rowers like to bang on about, as if it's some dreaded instrument of torture that they love/loathe simultaneously but that 'non-rowers won't understand; etc. etc., but in reality all it gives is a basic indication of stamina and cardio-vascular condition.
It's not rowing. There is no point to it until you've got the technique sorted out - you'll never use the fitness it imparts unless you can row well enough for it to make a difference, and the best training for rowing is rowing itself. And as for using it to determine who gets a place in the best boats....well, that had to be quickly rethought!

Autumn Break Point

I have actually ground to a halt. My best intentions to write 500 words per day for my thesis are foundering in slack-jawed apathy. The dissertation is growing - in fact, it's probably growing too much. My latest chapter (so nearly completed!) is now over 52,000 words, and it's going to need some heavy pruning before submission. But it's nearly one-thirty on Friday afternoon, and here I am blogging - not doing academic stuff, carelessly frittering the remains of the day away.
My elderly parents came round this morning and regaled me with tales of their holiday in the Italian Lakes and I started to feel restless and very twitchy. I need a break, preferably abroad for a few days, but I have a feeling that just ain't going to happen this autumn. It's the financial climate, I guess. That, plus the rowing club fees are due for all for of us (and NO direct debit facility - ridiculous!), Daughter #3 wants to go on a residential school trip, the car needed taxing, new school uniforms, birthdays...the whole routine. Nor did we manage to get away this spring either as Daughter #2's second baby was due near the half-term holidays and I was on standby for minding the delightful Bouncing Babba #1.
It really aggravates me how hotel prices shoot up in half-term holidays (cynical or what?) but we are practically threatened with excommunication if we take the kids out of school in term-time. I did think about going to Rome for the weekend, taking them out of school for the Friday and claiming it was a pilgrimage. Well, it would have been - to the Tazza d'Oro coffee shop near the Piazza Navona as much as to go to St Peter's!
The weekend looms with all its usual activities. I just can't imagine what 'normal' (i.e. non-rowing) families do. Just lately, Saturdays consist of the rowing-convert Husband cycling off to the rowing club for 8am, hopeful of calm conditions, and me walking into town later to meet him for a much-needed latte and listen to his exploits.
Sundays usually start early again with me accompanying him to rowing and helping him out with the boat, boating up etc., or with me arriving an hour later (9am) with Daughter #3 and the Bright-Eyed Boy for the junior rowing training session, where I'll either coach singles from the riverbank (trying not to slip on the goose-shit and fall into the water) or cox a quad (getting noticeably chillier by the day).
Last Sunday the river was high, so the Husband and his cronies opted to stay in the gym (ffs!). The juniors put them to shame by blithely boating up and paddling off, although it was a bit 'exciting' on occasion, judging where to land etc. This again is followed by a welcome hot drink, coffee and rowing chat at the local Costa, which I surely must have shares in by now (that's probably where all the money's gone!).
Both Saturday and Sunday afternoons see us two adults (and occasionally children, too) down at the recreational gym near our house (much nicer than the boathouse gym), trying to fit in the weights sessions that we have failed to do during the week (more correctly the guilt-wracked Husband has failed to do - I'm a goody two-shoes and get there most days before I start my work). Into this we must fit the usual colossal school/work clothes wash and iron, prepare and cook food, homework (for the Husband too, sadly), and shop for the forthcoming week's packed lunches etc. Housework and gardening doesn't get a look in, not that I'm really that sorry, but I'm increasingly aware of disapproving glances at the fluff-wads and overgrown grass and weeds. Sunday night and we're knackered -slumped with a pile of food and glass of wine having a marathon sport-watching session of stuff we've recorded whilst out.
So yeah - I could do with a break, a complete break from the routine. We're going to tot up the air miles again and scan RyanAir and EasyJet. I seriously doubt it'll be on the cards...and if it is the only cards it'll be on is the Mastercard. I might have to live with that. Seize the day etc. Autumn on the banks of the Tiber....lovely!

Full Stream Ahead: Again!



The view from the boathouse

 Our river, the Yorkshire Ouse, is a ridiculous river. Having spent most of the summer at such a low level that we were practically scraping the fins through the silt boating up, we are now in overnight flood season. The levels go up and down like a 'bride's nightie'. A couple of weeks ago I had the pleasure(?) of coxing the J15 boys upriver in against a stream so rapid that it took them all their time to make any progress at all. Again this week after a torrential thunderstorm on Friday night (both in York and up in the feeder hills), the levels rose steadily. Sunday morning at the juniors training session, the tow path was covered, annoyingly only by two or so inches of water, which made boating up a real problem. If the levels are higher it's fine to plop the boats in the water just at the bottom of the boathouse steps -the fins and rudders won't catch. But because there wasn't quite enough clearance under the hulls, we had to (very tentatively) paddle through the water and put the boats out just past where the towpath ended. Very cold, especially for those without wellies. I had my Crocs with me, so I wasn't too bothered about the getting wet, although the getting cold was a bit unpleasant! Some of the juniors, who hadn't been out during such conditions, were a bit phased about taking their shoes and socks of and paddling about, but that's what seperates ruffty-tuffty rowers from ordinary mortals (as I pointed out to them). Because there was a fair bit of stream on the river (but not too bad) the younger ones went out in quads and the older in doubles. I had a crew of J13s - quad scull novices - including my own Bright-Eyed Boy (some quad experience under the belt) and one lad who'd never been in a quad before.
It was a bit optimistic asking them to warm up in pairs 'arms only, body lean, quarter-slide' etc. Feeling the flow of the river I swiftly called for full slide and asked for a bit of a squeeze to get us through the arch of the railway bridge where the venturi effect was evident. Rounding the corner to St Peter's Straight, the onslaught eased a little and we made reasonable progress upriver until we reached the turning point before the next bridge. Spinning the boat was a doddle: just paddling a bit on bow allowed the current to drift the boat round and we easied (well actually, we didn't, we had to keep backing down slightly to remain 'stationary') as the coach shouted out instructions to me. Start rowing, then stern pair (the slightly more experienced pair) to square blades, then back to feather, then bow-pair (including the new boy) to do the same. It was the usual rocky old business, although I did (briefly) get all four on to square blades . Spinning the boat for the upriver leg by the boathouse wasn't easy: we had to turn earlier than we would normally and even then there was a bit of a hairy moment when we drifted slightly sideways nearly under Lendal bridge.
Another circuit, same stuff. The new boy coped, and kept up, remarkably well given that everything in a quad scull happens much faster than in the single tracers that theclub normally starts them off in. As they were true lightweights, and the river was high, their session was a bit shorter than the normal one-and-a-half hour's stint. Landing the boat was rather tricky too - I couldn't quite see where the edge of the tow-path was, and not wanting to damage anything, had to shout to a rower in wellies for directions. I was a bit worried about plunging off the invisible edge of the path on getting out too!
All safely landed, I had to co-opt the Husband to help carry the boat up the steps and, after washing it, help slot it back into its rack. The little guy at bow just wasn't tall enough to be able to half-turn it without dragging the gates on the floor. Aww! My feet, which had just got wet again were freezing - I felt that I'd never deserved a steaming latte and sticky-toffee muffin as much.....

In Full Flow



Not our river!



Monday morning came around, as I knew it would, and I had to sit down at my desk and look with intrepidation at my thesis. Not a word has been written since the start of the school holidays (mid/late July) and, having made a commitment to submit 10,000 words for scrutiny in early October, the pressure was on. One thing I have learned over the course of my doctorate is that slow and steady wins the day: "It is quite possible" said my supervisor during one of our first meetings nearly three years ago " to get a PhD by sheer application and getting enough words down."
I'd originally had some fancy plan about strolling through the groves of academe and reading for - ooh! about a year - and then putting down the fruits of that intellectual indulgence in a pure stream-of-consciousness argument of profound depth and cogency, but he had other ideas. "Write" he said "from day one. If the words are down, you can make something from them." And that turned out to be excellent advice, and the thesis has grown and grown (in size, if not in quality) like a piece of knitting grows even if you only knit two rows per day. So with approximately four working weeks to knock out the ten thousand, that's 4 lots of 5 days, 2,500 words per day, 500 per day: eminently achievable. Except of course, the actual writing is the easy bit, the quick bit. What takes the time is the reading, the formulation of ideas, the cross-referencing, bibliography and checking back for logical progression. And all the time in the background is the mantra of business guru Steven Covey 'The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing'. There is endless scope for fascinating digressions and if you're not careful you can end up several light years from where you should be!
Coupled with this return to academic activity has been the loss of rowing activity. Having 'persuaded' the Bright-Eyed Boy to have a crack at rowing this summer, I've been accompanying him (and Daughter #3)down to the club up to five mornings per week in an effort to get him up to speed and feeling confident about the whole thing. It seems to have worked and he has progressed from tracer up to a fine(ish) boat, had a go in a quad (where he's held his own quite nicely) and, as of today, a double with another J13.

I've got a real glow from seeing his confidence and satisfaction increase and hopefully he will soon be as competent and confident as his sister who started rowing two years ago. I am, however, feeling distinct withdrawal symptoms both from coxing and coaching the beginners from the riverbank. I'm still trying to get down once midweek and once at the weekend, although the oncoming darker evenings will soon put paid to the former. Actually, Daughter #3 was supposed to be at a regatta in the West Riding today, but it was cancelled due to unfavourable weather conditions: I didn't need much persuading to go and cox the J15 boys. We had a fabulous trip: our river was calm and, accompanied by the coach in a single alongside, we went 6k upriver at a low rating, working on balance with me calling for single strokes, two strokes, five strokes....they just got better and better, and we glid along magically under the willows, silent, balanced....

The Husband, who has also taken up the sport, has had a less happy time. Being 6' 6" tall and 18+ stone (all muscle), it's been a struggle to find a boat he finds comfortable and confident in. Eventually the club decided to rig up  a heavier weight one that's been hanging from the rafters for a couple of years. He's been going down as often as humanly possible (and crikey! that's been tricky in the family/dinner stakes!), but it's been a bit frustrating. It's not unknown for coaches to fail to turn up for arranged training sessions which leaves the novices frustrated as they can't go out unsupervised and things are, in general, slightly chaotic although friendly enough. Additionally, everyone keeeps giving him different advice about EVERTHING - even getting in and out of the boat - and generally bewildering him to such an extent that he's came within an ace of chucking it all in. This was crowned the other week when he turned up for a training session, was dispatched DOWNRIVER, along with another novice, by the coach who told them he would 'catch them up in the launch'. Well, he never did! The Husband fell in about 1k from the boathouse, breaking the sax-board of the tracer he was in. He eventually managed to get back in (don't forget, he's a BIG guy), cold and slightly shocked, and made his way through the heavy river traffic, gradually taking on water because of the breached upstand and other boat-wash.

Arriving at the boathouse, the coach had apparently buggered off without even venturing out on the river, leaving the two novices get on with it! Fortunately, I'd just turned up and managed to help him out with the boat and explain what had happened to a club-member whilst he took a warm shower and changed. Not good. I guess, at base what it really needs is someone to volunteer to shoulder the burden of organisation, but as most members work full-time this is not practical.

The sporadic and ever-changing nature and quality of the coaching has been a a bit of a let-down and is a real shame given the truly excellent nature of the junior set-up where the kids can train seven days a week, 363 days per year (if they so desire) and be assured of good, safe, coached rowing whenever the conditions permit.
Which they nearly didn't last Wednesday when I turned up to cox.

The river was really high: the tow path had disappeared and we had to quickly boat up from the steps - seven boats out, one after the other in rapid succesion. We headed upstream accompanied by a coach in a launch. The stream and wind were incredible, and I had all on to steer it through the tricky 'S'-bends one and a half kilometers up. We just had to keep going: any 'easying' was rewarded by the bow swinging round, so we just kept plugging away. Once upriver we spun the boat (pretty rapidly) and headed back down doing pyramids of 10, 20, 30, 40 light and firm strokes, keeping up with another quad who'd also been due to race this weekend. I needed all my concentration to cox, not only steering and calling for adjustments for current and wind, but counting down into the firm pieces whilst keeping a tally of what we'd done/had left to do, and looking out for logs the size of alligators that the river likes to disgorge during its periods of flood. We got back early, unsurprisingly given the speed of the stream, and managed to spin the boat and land at the steps without too much drama.

And do you know what? I found it the most marvellous and relaxing experience: having spent the day wrangling with grammatical features of the hellenistic Greek language, my mind was purged by not being able to think of anything that was going on except the rowing.

Marvellous!

I just cannot believe how long it's been since I last posted on this blog - nearly six whole months!
I guess life just got in the way....
Things have been moving on apace: my return visit to the practice nurse for a blood pressure check involved her telling me that I had, in fact, lost a stone in weight (wahay!) and that my BP was righting itself quite nicely (Woop woop!).
Spurred on, I resolved to stick with my new regime and, lo and behold, I am now more than two stone lighter than I was in January.
Am I pleased? You betcha!
There was some minor inconvenience as I found myself having to purchase a complete new summer wardrobe (nothing from last year fitted - none of the trousers would stay up) but that was trumped by being able to wear a bikini (yes! a bikini!) without shame on the beach, for the first time in nearly a decade and a half.
I've actually impressed myself with my tenacilty, and to be absolutely honest I just had to put my head down and get on with it. I initially started by swimming everyday, working up from 15 minutes a go for the first few days and working up to sessions of half an hour/forty-five minutes. Into this I added three sessions a week of weight-training, divided into back/biceps, chest/triceps, legs and shoulders. After a few light sessions, I worked up the weights and concentrated on deadlifts, bench-presses and squats, with additional curls and pushdowns for the arms. After Easter I brought in some abs and core and ergo (rowing machine) work and, finding I enjoyed it, fitted in a session every day (40 mins on its own or 20 mins post-weights) and dropped the swimming to a relaxing post-workout role, along with a steam or a sauna.
I did all this by leaving for the gym as soon as the children were on the school bus at 7.30 in the morning, busting my ass, and then making sure I was at my desk working by 9.30 every day.
I daren't think about it too much - I just made it part of the daily routine and found that no matter how tired I was at the start of a session, by the end I was buzzing with endorphins and feeling totally energised and WELL!
So the hard work has indeed paid dividends - I bought (and fitted into) some size 10 super-skinny jeans last week and have no intention of letting this slip.
One of the major motivations was starting to cox the junior rowers in April.....no-one loves a fat coxswain although, as I told the kids in the early days, they should look on me as resistance training, much as athletes occasionally train with a car-tyre chained to their waists. I work on the premise that, having trained with me on board, a race with another junior coxing will be a piece of cake!
Much to my surprise, just before the summer holidays, the Bright-Eyed Boy finally capitulated and agreed to give rowing a go. Actually it was a bit of a stand-off: I told him I was not prepared for him to waste another summer holiday on the XBox and that I wanted him to try it out until the autumn at least. He agreed surprisingly quickly (maybe he'd already been considering changing his mind from his earlier outright refusal) and said that 'Maybe it would be quite fun'.
Well, he hasn't looked back: since his first tentative captive-rope outings in mid-July accompanied by the Husband (I was away at a conference, godddamit!), he has taken to it like a duck to...er...water, progreesing over the holidays into a fine single sculling boat and making a pretty decent quad-crew member, keeping up in the firm pieces with boys a year older than himself.
Proud or what? Even better when I get to cox them...
And now the summer is practically over. Daughter #3 (who has had a pretty happy regatta and rowing season herself) is back to school for a year ten orientation day tomorrow, and the B-E B returns on Monday. So that's it for the daytime training: back to after-school sessions, which will get gradually curtailed by the earlier onset of dark.
I could feel quite melancholy, as is my usual September wont (see previous years' posts), but I have way to much to do. WAY, WAY too much, with the thesis due for submission in March!
But that's a different story.....
 

Spring is Sprung

The cherry tree in the back garden is covered in the most beautiful palest pink blossom, a sign that spring has come at last after a February that was grey, dank and dull. The extremely wet weather has caused all the grass of the lawn to be replaced by moss, which the remaining guinea pig Albino Seal-Point Arthur seems quite unimpressed by. Not much to nibble on I guess.
Last week also saw the last of the season's timed head-races, for which we bored and chilled riverbank spectators raise a stifled, but heartfelt, cheer.
Unfortunately, Daughter #3's crew did not acquit themselves terribly well and the rest of the day was spent in grumpy discontent, compounded by her getting the push from her latest (imaginary) rock-band and it being nearly 'that time of the month'. There was a lot of flumping about and dramatic expostulation and a few tears, which the Flame-Haired BF did very well to cope with, given that he, too, is only fourteen.

Regatta season is just round the corner, a far better prospect for all concerned, shorter courses, better weather, visible action, obvious results. She is looking forward to the prospect as she reckons she is more of a short-burst athlete and is gratifyingly taking her training far more seriously since her coach took her to task for her lack of application earlier on in the year.
I am even considering the possibility of offering myself to train as a coxswain, given that I have already lost a stone on my new exercise regime (so wouldn't necessarily get stuck in, or sink a quad) and would love the chance to shout bossily at people in a good cause.

Death and the Guinea Pig.

(right: Albert in former days)
Despite the fact that there is now some glorious sunshine pouring down from the blue (ish) sky I am definitely feeling a bit low today.
This is largely due to lack of sleep (Daughter #3 had a rowing 'head race' which necessitated a 4.30am wake-up to get us over a hundred miles distant for 8am start) which was compounded last night by being woken with a start at a loud noise (drunkards down the street) and an inability, it seemed, to get back to sleep fully.

Coupled with this, I went out to the guinea-pigs' hutch at bedtime and found Albert, the littlest fellow, inert and cold.
This wasn't totally a surprise: he had been failing gradually since before Christmas. I'd been bringing them both in faithfully every night and ensuring that they both had plenty of fresh greenery in their diet (g-p's, like humans and unlike many other creatures, cannot manufacture their own vitamin 'c') and keeping their quarters spotlessly clean. Alas, to no avail! Sometime whilst we were in Lincolnshire he shuffled off his mortal coil and headed to the Great Clover Patch in the Sky.

As usual, I got quite weepy (I don't even manage to dispose of the deceased goldfish without a snivel) and called upon the Husband to prepare a suitable grave under the back lawn, where so many other Small Creatures lie.
Albert was still reasonable flexible, and his little head lolled over my wrist as I lay him gently in the ground. I had to leave at the moment of inhumation itself to comfort a sobbing Bright-Eyed Boy who had just been made aware of the situation, and to dab my own eyes.
It's very strange but even had Albert still been warm, it was obvious that he was quite dead - there is something that leaves the body at the moment of death that is perceptible even if your were not a believer in the soul. It is a life-force that exits, a vital spark that seems to be more than just the sum of biological processes. The essence of Albert himself had left the building.
Alfred, big, daft, pink-eyed and pinked lipped ('like a woman, m'lord') appeared agitated. When I put him out in the hutch on his own this morning (life must go on, even for guinea pigs) he snuffled about where the body had been laid before retreating to the bed-department, no doubt to have a little weep of his own (anthropomorphism). I shall feed him spinach for his tea to strengthen and sustain him in his loss.

Pigged Out

Well, tomorrow it's one week of from receiving the hard word from the practice nurse concerning my raised blood pressure.

How is it going, I hear you say?

We-e-e-ll, actually not too bad! I've adopted a far healthier eating pattern: bowl of low fat cereal first thing, 100cal snack mid-morning, lunch consisting of a pitta stuffed with salad and a dessert spoon full of houmous, 2 portions of fruit, mid afternoon cup of tea with low fat/low sugar snack and dinner consisting of two pittas stuffed with salad and a can of healthy eating tuna with some sort of dressing. I'm allowing myself a postage-stamp size portion of any dessert that's going, 2 squares of 85% cocoa-solid chocolate when desperate for a treat, and a regular sized of red wine with my weekend evening dinners. I've taken to power-walking as and when I can (for example, into an out of town, a good 20mins either way), and I've rejoined the gym (at vast expense, but I don't, as I've said before, want to have a stroke), more of which anon.
I'v also purchased a RespErate breathing coaching machine: it's supposed to reduce your BP by encouraging you to breathe more slowly thus causing your heart to slow and your blood vessels to relax. In fact, after the initial session today my BP registered at a very healthy 145/82, a good ten points down on both readings! Most encouraging! It's also recommended for relaxation and stress-relief too, so a bonus there - I'm aiming to do two 15 mins sessions a day.
It's going to be quite tricky to fit everything into my new regime, which includes a number of academic new-year's resolutions, and keep on course with writing up my thesis. Extra organisation will be required to make sure no one project slips, but when it comes to organising I'm as happy as a pig in what's-its-name!

The Weight of the World

....a a and...you're back in the room!

Re-emerging after the Christmas hiatus, I am pleased to note that it all went a lot better than expected. Silly of me to have been so gloomy and pessimistic, I think: I have decided that it's not Christmas that I dread, but the prospect of Christmas.

The Husband took the week before off work and threw himself into emptying and re-organising the cupboards and replacing worn-out and clarty pans and baking tins . I was so impressed by his dedication and the quite staggeringly rapid improvements that I was enthused enough to down lap-top and join in on a mini pre-Christmas spring clean. The result was a tidy, smear and dust-free house, and with a little bit of co-ordinated effort, it has remained thus, despite the vagaries of wrapping paper, extra stuff everywhere, Christmas dinner and more food and bodies around than usual. I have to say my mood was much improved to see it all so pristine: maybe we really should consider getting someone in for an hour or so each week to maintain the standard once both our noses are firmly back at the grindstone. For morale's sake.
We generally slobbed about a lot over the holiday, eating and drinking, which for me has come to a sudden halt as a visit to the doc confirmed that my blood pressure was still higher than desirable. Two alternatives were unequivocably given: a formal diagnosis of hypertension and tablets thereafter (possibly for the remaider of my natural) or some life-style modifications.
It's a no-brainer really - I know that being sat on my arse all working week in front of a computer screen and eating what and when I like will inevitably end badly. I am pretty lazy by nature and I don't like exercise much, never having found one that I didn't get bored with. Running?: hate it! Boring, boring, boring! And it hurts my dodgy hip. Swimming?: takes too long to dry off - and that smell of chlorine - phew! (also boring). Cycling? Er, no thanks!

Trouble is, there's no way (or time) to fit an hour's power-walk into my daytime routine, so I'm pretty much looking at joining the gym again so I can go and do something in the evening.

It's just got to be done: I'm overweight, and at my age it just ain't going to miraculously disappear. Measures have to be taken, and that invloves (duh!) eating less (and more healthily) and exercising more. End of.
I absolutely don't want to have a stroke/heart attack or get vascular dementia. Nightmare.

The awful thing is, I know exactly how to go about it, exactly what exercises to do (and how long for), exactly what proportion of carbs to protein to fat is optimal. I know because I used to be well-fit (though I say so myself, ahem!), in my thirties pursuing a regime of restrained body-building that made me lean and toned and lighly muscled. I have photos from the year before Daughter #3 was born , but I don't tend to look at them.
The arrival or Daughter #3 and soon after, the Bright-Eyed Boy, changed all that.
As an 'elderly' multigravida mother (the B-E B was born when I was 41) I didn't cope very well with the tiredness and didn't lose the weight I put on during the pregnancies. I did make a couple of attempts to start training again, but lack of time and exhaustion took their toll and I just gave up. Looking back at pictures of me then when the children were small, it would have been relatively easy to get back into shape, but I just lacked the impetus.
Starting on a degree course absorbed any energy I had and meant that I no longer defined myself in purely physical terms (no bad thing really). It gave me a different sort of pride in myself, and as I have always enjoyed food and wine I unconsciously (Ithink) allowed my appetite full rein, eventually becoming rather dismissive of those who spent any time exercising (jealousy?).
Well, I am now reaping the harvest of that lazy gluttony, and it serves me right too.

At the end of the day, it might all be to no avail - my dad has high blood pressure for which he has to take daily medication, so it could be hereditary and I make no impact.
Nontheless, I am going to give it a proper go: eat less, exercise more. Groan!
I have 4-6 weeks to get my BP a bit lower, and I am damn well going to do my best and use the knowledge I have to make a difference.