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Friday, February 26, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

Sure, I guess you could take it that way. Feel the wake and wind and the ocean spray, salty. Unmoored, that's what it seems like, backtrack, let's all give our pennies back. Streamline. Don't always assume assumptions wrong, the words of my heart are a doo wop song. False and modern, man, look at all the angles. Angelic.

I'm not going to smile, nor be apologetic. I get it, it's fetid, it's downright pathetic. But these rules weren't given to all in kind, you smile and sure as hell don't mind. I'm in a battlefield. I'm standing in the sun too long, screaming.

Goddamn, you never listen.

Long ambition, short con - you got 'em both wrong. I am the seething underbelly. I am the scared kid, quiver-jelly. Don't move, you're harder to track. And that's what happens, we always come back. Why?

Hell, ain't no place left to be.

Not one bit of peace, no, not for me. You can be my one true epiphany. And I'll smirk while you shirk all your self-righteous works. Sorry, I guess I'm just one of the jerks.

And you're just like me.

  1. MaderRap... I dunno how you do it... rhymes elude me, even more if I'd try to tell a story with 'em... but you do it... and you do it well.

    1. Dang! Mister Leland's right! You do it really well. It always makes me smile too. It's almost like an Easter egg, my brain lights up like a pinball machine when I stumble across word-play like that. Thank you. :)

    2. I'm going to have start calling you slimMader.

    3. It would not be a complete Friday without a bit of Mader Rap.

    4. Love it and sure, jerks love to shirk but not this time. :)

  2. The sun rose on a quiet landscape, long shadows grew shorter, and the man watched. His dog lay beside him by the creek, but neither of them moved a muscle. As the temperature warmed, a sliver of water ran over the ice in the creek bed, a whisper of a gurgle.

    The dog’s body tensed. He saw the mouse race, then stop, then race again to take a sip from the tiny rivulet of water. The man’s camera had been at his eye for an hour. His shutter finger was cramped, but ready.

    The hawk whooshed from on high, lifting the mouse into the heavens, and its transfiguration was caught for all time by a digital sensor and the memory of a dog.

    Do mice scream?

    1. I love this. The last line kills. The first paragraph could be from Louis L'Amour. At his best. Nice take on a pastoral premise.

    2. Poor little mouse. For a brief moment he probably thought he had just figured out that he could fly...

    3. Lovely snapshot! The imagery calls to mind Ansel Adams for me, rather than a writer.

    4. Ha! No wonder I'm bad at taking photos. Patience is necessary and this short piece nails it! Vivid!

    5. Thank you kindly... and Ansel Adams is one of my heroes!

  3. There is no spring in Big Spring. No tree, let alone an evergreen, in Alpine. But here, in Desolation, well, we let our town’s name speak its truth.

    When they took out the only stoplight last year, the tumbleweeds sighed with relief as they raced down the main street. And there are tumbleweeds, Lord there are tumbleweeds. Tumbleweeds and dust we have aplenty.

    You can stop checking your cellphone for signal. There ain’t none. You can use the computer at the library to check your email, but it’s dial-up, so plan on spending some time there. Not a bad thing, to spend time in the library.

    Mrs. Theiss, she knows every book there. She’ll know you’re a stranger, suggest you read The Story of Desolation, the approved history of our fair town. If you don’t read it, she can tell you the story by heart.

    How a young schoolmarm got off the train, looked around, and said, “I’ve never seen desolation such as this,” and how the name stuck.

    The official history may have been just a little sanitized from what my grandpa told me. It wasn’t a schoolmarm, but a madam who spoke the line, and she may have sprinkled a few four-letter words in there, too. I reckon Grandpa should know. That madam was his grandma.

    Mrs. Theiss will tell you about how the town has seen its share of booms and busts, and she doesn’t mean the kind of bust that women have. She’ll tell you about the ranches that used to be around here, about the oil wells now gone dry, and she’ll invite you to stick around for a while.

    And when you leave, realizing that the dial-up modem would take too long to download the latest cat videos or CNN news, you’ll hear her sigh just before you close the door. A sigh that speaks of the ages and the hopes that have passed through her life.

    When you get hungry, come on down to the Five-and-Dime. Mr. Peterson’s got a soda fountain in there, and he’ll use his new microwave to make you a decent hotdog. Thirty seconds! That’s if the electricity’s working. Sometimes the sandstorms cut clean through the wires.

    When you’re done eating, come on over to the church for evening services. Reverend Christensen’s been getting a lot of interest in his evening sermons, ever since young Patsy died. He thinks he’s got it all figured out, what killed her.
    He says Desolation has one more thing besides tumbleweeds and dust to worry about. He says we have a werewolf.

    1. This kind of reminds me of those old Twilight Zone episodes where it seems like an ordinary enough town...but ohhhh underneath there's a current of danger and an uneasy truce with the bizarre! I hope there's more!

    2. Intrigued... love the story of the town's name!

    3. Do you now, or have you in the past live in West Texas, perchance? You captured it beautifully and mentioned three locations out there.

    4. I've never lived there, but I've spent some time in west Texas... I hope Desolation isn't a real town...

    5. Really digging this one. You probably could have guessed that. ;)

    6. I'm glad my guess was accurate!

  4. In the closet, sliver of light from the cracked door - not as safe, but the darkness is too dark. The closet smells like moth balls and old shoes. It's quiet as all hell, and it better stay that way. The closet is the last safe place.

    There is an electric tension in the house. It's palpable. You taste it as it coats your tongue, it lives in cold sweat. The closet is no confessional, and it's not an escape tunnel. If anything, it's a trap. But it's better than what's outside.

    So, hide.

    The closet will change shapes over the years, different sizes, doors with mirrors. The closet will stop working, but there are other ways to shut out the light. They just cost more.

    In so many ways.

    1. oh yeah.... that closet is an expensive, painful place... and safety is vastly overrated. This is a strong piece, and it got a visceral reaction from me...

    2. "But it's better than what's outside." <<< that's when you know the trap's got a good hold on ya...

    3. What Leland said. So strong. So universal.

    4. Your ability to capture certain psychological "issues" without directly pinpointing the individual is fascintating.

    5. Where? Where should we hide? Made me sad but I smiled from the clarity.

  5. Do you see them? All the lines that connect everything that is and isn’t, all that won’t but could be? They’re all color-coded, reds and blues and white and greens and yellows like wires carrying power that isn’t electricity? They’re everywhere, but they’re soft, and they don’t trip you when you’re walking. Mrs. Cratchet she says I’m making it all up but how can I make up what I can see? Don’t tell anyone but I think she might be blind. Her breath smells funny sometimes, like mouthwash but stronger and I wonder if maybe she has really bad breath so that’s why the red line from her mouth to the drawer in her desk is really strong. There’s a big blue cable that connects her to the clock, too.

    And all the circles! They’re everywhere! Frisbees connecting yesterdays and tomorrows and maybes and nevers and spinning, spinning, spinning.

    I ask Mrs. Cratchet if I can go outside and play. She says no and all the spinning stops and I ask why and she says it’s too dangerous outside and that a boy with my condition might hurt myself and then I understand. It’s better if I don’t hurt myself. Better if I let her hurt me. Like she says, she’s a professional.

    1. Intricate depiction of "the Force" if you will, and what it takes to bring it low. You make me wonder if all teachers get into the profession to some degree to feed their own need to control.

    2. What does Cratchet know anyway!? Loved this but you probably know I love psycho-connectives.

    3. Dang, this one is fire. "They’re all color-coded, reds and blues and white and greens and yellows like wires carrying power that isn’t electricity? "

    4. I had not heard the term psycho-connectives before! Thank you for that! and as for teachers and control, I was blessed to have teachers who didn't give a rip about that for the most part... they set my mind free!

  6. It was a bad idea. And he knew it. From the furrow between his brows and his downturned mouth, she knew he would have preferred they go into town and have a cup of coffee instead of taking this trip back in time. But she slowed at the familiar corner and flicked the blinker. He leaned back in his seat and sighed. Brushing a hand through his receding hair, loosening the knot on a tie he rarely wore. “It’s probably gone,” he said, looking out the side window. She didn’t answer, because he was probably right, and she didn’t want him to be right. Despite her dress and heels and bad knee, she wanted, needed to lie in the grass and stare at the undersides of the oak tree, breathing in the oxygen it exhaled. But he continued. “The new owners probably chopped that thing down for firewood.”

    “Shut up,” she said.

    “It was already dying.”

    Her voice choked. “Shut UP,” she forced out.

    He tried to touch her hand but she jerked it away. What the fuck did he know, care? He walked from this place the second he was legally able and never looked back. He never talked about what happened there, and even when he had a few, it just made him quieter. Now she only saw him when he could make no other excuse to stay away. Not here, though. Never here.

    The house loomed ahead. Reconstructed. Deconstructed. Smaller than she’d left it. During the plane trip, she’d tried to remember the way the sun streamed through the windows, and if that happened in morning or afternoon. Odd to live in a place so many years and not remember if the sun rose in the backyard or the front. To remember so many insignificant details, like the shapes that the grouted rivers formed between the flagstones in the front hallway, the smell of the fresh towels in the linen closet, and not something as basic as where they were in relation to the earth, the sun. Maybe because she was small enough then to think the universe revolved around them, and the sun and moon and stars were like her Colorforms pieces, sticking wherever she pressed them.

    The house faced east. She saw that now. Actually, the rental car’s GPS system saw that for her, and part of her wanted to rip it out of the dashboard.

    He peered ahead. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.” He tapped restless fingers against a charcoal trouser leg. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do this.”

    1. and of course you know, I want more... want to know what and why... but your descriptions... they take me there... beautifully done!

    2. Wonderful use of the senses that gripped me from the beginning. I went with you--followed the blinker and the sun. Thank you for writing this journey.

    3. Man, there is something magical in the way you depict relationships of all kinds. It's like you have some kind of sense the rest of us don't. I could read on and on and on.

  7. He shifted uncomfortably behind his desk. The hard plastic seat was hell on his bruised tailbone! He said "Hell". He liked saying "Hell". The grown-ups said it all of the time, and he was allowed to now, so he threw it into every sentence he could. This busted tailbone was not helping him sit still. He wiggled around again, trying to get comfortable.
    Mrs. Bates hated it when he "squirmed around like he had ants in his pants!" She said he needed to sit still, she said he was a distraction to the other students. She said he had a good brain in his head, but jumping beans in his soul. He smiled.
    She liked his stories. She liked the pictures he drew. But she didn't like the fidgeting. No sir. Not the fidgeting.
    He tried to be still. He tried not to be so loud and enthusiastic. He tried not to blurt out the answers before he was called on. He tried. It didn't always work.
    Hell, sometimes an idea was just too super duper not to tell everyone!
    Like the Eclipse! He couldn't wait to tell everyone about the Eclipse! Shadows and planets and moons! Day was going to be nighttime! He wasn't supposed to look at it though. He would go blind! But in a little while they, the whole class, were going to go out on the recess field to "Observe the Phenomenon". Still didn't make any sense to him. They weren't supposed to look at the Eclipse, but they were being ushered out onto a field to "observe" it. Even at seven years old, he knew this was a crazy idea. Kids were notorious for not doing what they were told! Duh!
    It was ok though. They had spent all week learning about solar and lunar eclipses and had even built viewers that were supposed to make viewing them safe. The same white poster board and black electrical tape that they had used to make a simple box camera that spring. He still couldn't believe that had worked!
    Teachers were crazy, they had all kinds of crazy ideas! And he loved it!
    His Grandpa said he would. His grandpa was really smart. He had told him that he should always listen to someone trying to teach you something, even if you don't like what they're saying. You just might learn something anyway. Then grandpa would tell him to go put his head in a bucket, just to keep things in perspective.
    Grandpa was gone now. They said he lived in heaven with the clouds. Clouds taste like ice cream! Grandpa had told him that too. He got really sad when Grandpa died. He overheard them saying "His heart exploded." That sounded really scary. Would *his* heart explode? Sometimes it felt like it when he ran really hard. He remembered he got sad, but the grown-ups got mad. His grandma and aunts and uncles were fighting over everything! Even Grandpa's bible! Grandma finally got so fed up, she threatened to tear it in half so they could all have a piece! She couldn't tear that! It was grandpa's!
    He shifted uncomfortably behind his desk. The hard plastic seat was hell on his bruised tailbone!
    His small fingers could feel grandpa's duck-call in his coat pocket.
    He should be at home with Bruno.
    He could learn more running through that back field with his dog than he could in this stupid classroom!

    1. aw, you took me back to grade school! this is very cool... and nice tie-in to the upcoming eclipse!

    2. "Jumping beans in his soul" is so accurate for children!

    3. Took me back, too. Eerily. Well played. I love the impact of: "Observe the Phenomenon" - perfect. (and I broke my tailbone once, that shit HURTS)

  8. You come out of hiding and blink rapidly.
    You feel dazed and there still seems to be a veil of haziness over everything but you’ll adjust.
    How long has it been, a day? a week? longer? No matter. You are here again, present.
    Drink tea by the open door and breathe the freshness of air.
    Throw on a coat and boots and start walking. Where to go? Just put one foot in front of the other and see where you end up.
    A bird squawks and startles you. You are jittery, every nerve jumping and straining but you keep on going.
    A car honks and your heart flips over, drumming in your chest and you quicken your pace to the sound bite. Pound the pavement one two one two, arms swinging to the steady beat.
    Blood is pumping to all the right places now and you feel breathless and stronger.
    Around the block. Then around again and again till you are back at the door. Only now you are smiling and the fog has lifted and you are panting steadily and it feels so good.
    What to do now? Write it down. Get that shit down on paper, use it, own it while it’s fresh.
    You catch sight of the mirror as you pass so you stop and stare but your heart soars when you see her looking back at you.
    I’ve missed you, happy lady, please stay this time.

    1. Those last two lines... brilliant... and they made me smile, too.

    2. Glad the fog lifted. Enjoyed the run.

    3. Leland's right. And I love the rhythm and roll of this one. So strong. I can feel it under my skin.

  9. She looked around at the boxes and totes full of crap. Oddly, it didn't seem like crap when it was unpacked and put away. It really didn't seem like crap when it was being useful. But now, when there was a shit-ton of it in the middle of an apartment, not moved, not moving, waiting to go downstairs then upstairs, then in closets and cabinets and under beds and on shelves -- well right now it was crap. And there was quite a lot of it. She picked up a box and carried it down the rickety stairs while she contemplated the viability of cloning herself.

    "Do you need some help?" a guy wearing black from head to toe asked. She considered kissing him.

    "If you don't mind, that would be great," she said. "My movers flaked, and I have to be out of here by tomorrow."

    "I've got some time, and some friends," the guy said. "We can get this knocked out in no time. I'm Brian, at your service."

    "Kathy, and I think I owe you my life, Brian," she said, trying to keep the emotion from her voice. Generally speaking, people didn't flock to help overly-emotional women. She knew this from experience.

    "Nah, just pay it forward when you can," Brian said. "Let's do this."

    1. An angel, without white or wings... and a cool snapshot in time! Thanks for sharing!

    2. You describe the mental tension of moving nicely. The nice guy in black is an appreciated tribute to the day, and a bright spot in what might otherwise be rather bleak action.

    3. Ooh, made me have trust issues because he wore black. I wonder if he was casing the joint and will come back later? LOL

    4. Man, I like this. But THIS: "Do you need some help?" a guy wearing black from head to toe asked. She considered kissing him. - this is fucking brilliant. Twisted my neck.

    5. <3 Perfect tribute to Man in Black Day. <3

  10. Cassie’s small fingers, slick with perspiration, tightened around the tube of lipstick in her coat pocket. It had been too easy. She saw it; she wanted it; she took it. Her heart sped up as the cashier lifted her thousandth tired smile of the day and swept her store brand milk, eggs, and bread into a plastic bag, took the last crumpled bills from her babysitting money, wished her a good evening, all without meeting her eye.

    And then Cassie had walked out. Head down, stomach melting.

    All the way home, chin still tucked toward her chest, Cassie warred with herself with what she had done. Half expected someone to be following her. A hand on her shoulder, a scowl, a reminder that there was something she hadn’t paid for.

    But no one was there.

    Regret weighed her limbs, but as she moved, the more distance she put between herself and the shiny, shiny racks of makeup, the higher she could lift her head, the faster her footsteps and rationalizations fell. Who would miss it? Who would care? If they cared, why would they leave them all out in the open like that?

    But as she approached the small house she shared with her grandmother, the more her guilt pulled her back to earth. Her hand shook; she shoved it into her pocket only to be met with the consequences of her decision, of her weakness.

    “Cassie, darling, is that you?”

    She took a deep breath as the footsteps approached from the kitchen; she’d tried to palm the cylinder into the plastic bag but her grandmother caught her in motion, the smile dropping a hair when her quick gaze found Cassie’s hands.

    “I got you something, Grandma.” Cassie held out the tube as if she’d discovered a new element.

    The quick gaze held a moment, then wavered, then crinkled with a slow return of the grin. “Well, aren’t you sweet,” Grandma said finally. “And like I always say, lipstick makes you beautiful.” She beckoned Cassie forward. “Come with me, honey. Let me show you how to put it on.”

    1. You, Laurie Boris, work magic... so much bitter and sweet in this tale of guilt and giving... and you got me in the feels...

    2. Karma has such an interesting way of making you squirm. Sometimes the guilt of 'not getting caught' is a lot worse than the guilt of committing the crime. Wow Miss Laurie, you got my innards all knotted up with that one!

    3. Yup. This is an uncomfortable piece in the best possible sense. Feel all squirmy here, too.

  11. "It makes you think, doesn't it?"

    "Of all the things that are haunted, how many exist because people believe in them?"

    "That's a frightening thought."

    "Isn't it, though." She paused a moment. "So, what do you believe in?"

    1. this gives me goosebumps... and I've wondered that very thing...

    2. You can do so much with so few words. It's pretty astounding. And I agree with Leland.

  12. "I know those knights back during the holy wars brought home all sorts of odd ideas, but this is one I am very thankful for!" Kate sighed as she slid further down into the tub, hot water sliding up over her shoulders.

    "They brought back those colors ladies put on their faces, too," her maid said softly as she poured the last of the hot water into the tub.

    "Don't remind me. I hate putting that mess on my face."

    "They also brought back henna," the maid said, shyly sweeping a hand across her own hair.

    "Yes, Sherry, they did bring back the henna that makes your hair shine so." She chuckled fondly. "And glass mirrors so that you could admire your hair without all that waviness of the old metal mirrors."

    Sherry blushed and turned to reach for an bath oil to add to her mistress' bathwater.

    "Don't forget the perfumes." The maid added just the right amount of the oil to lightly scent the bath.

    "Which some people sadly use in place of bathing. Hoo, can they stink! Then they try to be all charming as if they can not smell themselves!"

    In spite of the difference in their station, the two women laughed together comfortably.

    1. a fascinating snapshot in time... and I'd never thought about where makeup and mirrors came from... well told, and you taught me stuff besides!

    2. Like a snippet from a fairy-tale. I liked it.

    3. Yup. Totally agree. I love the snapshot flash.

  13. "My people do not write or read," she said softly. "We have a long oral tradition, like you land walkers had in the beginning. The telling of stories has always been popular among peoples who do not record things as you do. Our sagas tell of brave deeds, journeys to strange lands, and battles against foes and nature. They are used to teach the young and to entertain ourselves on long winter nights."

    "You have no music?" he asked, slightly horrified.

    "We have music, but not such as yours. The songs of the People, all of the different People, are beautiful. I enjoy the music walkers make, as well, though it lacks a certain quality of the voices of the sea."

    He looked at her, not as if trying to understand, but appreciating her fervor in her people's ways.

    "You are nothing like what I expected."

    "And what did you expect me to be like? A stupid peasant? A dumb animal?"

    "Actually, no. I had no real preconceived notions. I've met numerous individuals from cultures all over the world, and I suppose they gave me a concept to begin comparing you to."

    She looked at him with growing admiration. "You are a strange man, but one I think I will like."

    1. Oh, man! I want to know more! :)

    2. I'm always fascinated by the oral storytelling tradition... I am not good at it, but I admire it greatly... thanks for the reminder that there ARE other ways to tell stories.

  14. First-date-speak bores me. Really, is it any wonder I’m 47 and single? The very pretty, very nicely coiffed lady sitting at my table has uttered “more than just a project manager,” and is staring at me. “And what about you? What do you do?”

    “I grieve.”

    “That’s not my official title, but that’s what I do. I grieve.”

    “Well, isn’t that interesting.” Her eyes wander over the other patrons in the restaurant. She hopes one of them will sense her discomfort and rescue her. They won’t.

    “I work at a veterinary clinic. I’m a vet tech.”

    “Oh. I see.”

    “Every day, I’m asked to help put dogs and cats and birds and lizards out of their misery.”

    “Mmmm hmmmm.” She’s shifting in her chair now, like she’s going to say she has to go to the little girl’s room.

    “And after every damned one of them dies, I cry.”

    “That must be very difficult.” She’s now touching everything she brought to the table, making sure it’s all still there. “Would you excuse me for just a moment? I need to powder my nose.”

    I knew it would end this way. It always does. I signaled to the waiter for the check while she was gone. He arrived with it at the same time she returned.

    “You’re back?”

    “Of course I am! You didn’t think I’d let you go without seeing pictures of my little Fluffy, may she rest in peace.”

    And the pretty lady shoves her cellphone in my face and tells me about Fluffy and we cry together and laugh together.

    Maybe dating isn’t so bad after all.

    1. Disrupting expectations ingrained by a selfish society in a shared experience and a sad smile. Nicely done!

    2. “That’s not my official title, but that’s what I do. I grieve.”
      That's pure gold. So real, I can almost taste it.

    3. That first 'I grieve' hits like an atomic bomb. So good, Leland.

    4. Oh, I love this. That line. And then the ending.

  15. Hard to believe there had been riots here only last summer. The street seemed so ordinary. The pavement still carried the sheen of an earlier rain squall, but was now trickster-bright under the great dome of our planet's sky. A city street, with towering glass buildings, random nodes of pedestrians, and a blossoming line of Japanese maples every fifteen metres or so.

    She hailed a cab but no cab stopped. She'd lost her phone in the park, after those one-armed boys had chased her, so Uber was not an option.

    A crow on a streetlight glared at her and screeched "cunt!" just once.

    She flinched and bowed her head. Tried to recall the transit map in her head. Bus or skytrain?

    Maybe she could walk. She only had to go a couple blocks. Or wait, was it two miles? She couldn't remember.

    The pulsating sun was turning yellow-orange and crimson, swirling like a candymaker in an emerald sky. A man emerged from the knots of passersby, stretched his neck and whole face toward her, looming like a thing from perdition's carnival, and spat in her mouth. She tasted spoiled mackerel and she gagged, vomiting out a small dead rodent on the fur-lined sidewalk along with the pitiful remains of her lunch, a soft taco.

    "Help me," she said, although not loudly, and kept walking.

    "Cumbucket," said the crow.

    A woman laughed in an alley. A rusted old Chevy sedan slowed and kept pace with her. She couldn't make out the driver, seeing only a silhouette that suggested a misshapen head far larger than a man's. Ponderous, untamed, hirsute, bovine.

    She heard distant music to the west: French horns, glockenspiels, bassoons. As if some ghost parade had been carried on the storm, had become unnerved and had left for the coast, was fading as it passed over the inlet and the edge of the wide Pacific, gathering in its heartbroken wake only the good things of the world.

    Crying seemed appropriate, but she resisted.

    "Suck me," offered the crow.

    The car tracked her every move; she even stopped to test it. After a minute or so of this dance, something made her suddenly brave, and she opened the passenger side door. An immense shriek so loud it cracked windows and stripped blossom from the maples blared from inside the vehicle, and a voice that sounded like something malignant being boiled alive said, "Get away. Close the door. We will chew off your limbs. We will obliterate everything you love."

    She recoiled and collided with a younger woman, who hissed at her and made a sign with her fingers. "Are you here?" the young woman asked. "Is anyone here? Am I here?" Her eyes rolled into her skull and instead of whites, the orbs were without light and colour, darker than the underwings of the sleek and ribald crow.

    "Goatfucker," suggested the crow.

    The air was filled with cherry blossom and their fragrance was cloying.

    She tried to answer the woman, but her throat was coated in something sweet and gluey. Her mind filled with a roomful of mewling fetuses, their stick limbs waving and clutching like tiny tentacled ocean things, pellucid amphibian eyes mostly sightless, dark stilted beings looming and striding among them and plucking morsels as they trod.

    What is all this? What happened to me? she thought, a moment before something impossibly vast and inconceivably dark dimmed out the world and everything truly went to hell.

    1. Gulp. Another Friday night of sleeping with the lights on. You scared the crap out of me. And I know that crow is real...

    2. Awww this is wicked and I love it!
      So many juicy details and textures.

    3. Beautifully twisted. I'm gong to have to read this again a few times.

    4. Damm crow! Seriously sick in a good way--the candy maker sun gave me hope but alas...

    5. Holy shit, dude! This is so fucking scary. And so good. And for some reason, the line that got stuck in my brain: She hailed a cab but no cab stopped. - light brush strokes, so perfect.

    6. Dittohead here. Scary and brilliantly twisted and the crow.

    7. No time to comment on everyone's pieces this week, but I read them all and as usual can't say enough good things about them.

      And thank you for your comments on mine, you good people.

      Dan, it's weird. I don't know if we're allowed to like our own phrases but that line was one of mine. I like how you characterize it here.

      What's wrong with me? Another nightmare! o.O

  16. He deserved this.
    He knew what he had done.
    He deserved whatever punishment they handed out for crimes such as his.
    Each morning was the same.
    His eyes would pop open ages before he wanted them to, and with that, the aches and pains began too.
    He slowly dragged himself out of bed and found his simple sack-cloth habit.
    He dragged that over his balding head and ancient beard, bones cracking and creaking as he raised his arms to slide it on.
    Then he had to tie on his soulless sandals. That meant bending over and performing amazing feats of contortion.
    That meant raising your head again, and waiting for the world to catch up.
    If he was lucky there would be some 'meal left over in his bowl. He never knew just what it was they ground up and fed him, so he resigned to calling it 'meal.
    (It wasn't too smart to start thinking about what they might have put in there. Spiders and nightmares most likely...unborn dreams and maggots for sure.)
    They called him Sissy-Fuss and he didn't know why. They made jokes about "No moss gathering" as he walked by. They spat on him and sneered with wicked laughs and hateful eyes. They despised his very existence, and they made sure he damn well knew it.
    His penance was a simple task. It was a method employed for centuries to break one's spirit, to teach one that they CAN and WILL be broken.
    He found that task exactly where he had left it the evening before.
    At the bottom of that whoreson of a hill.
    Hard and so cold. Unyielding and unforgiving.
    Round, yet flat on all sides.
    An impossible improbability brought to life by his own refusal to accept the fates that the Gods had given him.
    He braced his shoulder against it. He felt the old familiar pain in his back and neck squawk in vacant protest. His body knew as well his mind that this was what his life was now, and this is what it would always be. He'd already been doing it for a 100 years or more. It's hard to keep track after a few decades slide by.
    He just KNEW that if he could get this bastard up to the top, up to the top and keep it there, that this would all be over. He could finally rest.
    So he pushed his rock.
    And he measured his progress with a stick in the sand. 6 inches forward today, 7 inches back tomorrow.
    Some days he despaired and begged the Gods, "How long? How long must I wage this war with the hill and the rock?"
    They never answered.
    And then one day, a lesser god took pity on the old man. He was young and impulsive, which often to led to him finding himself in front of the Council getting a stern reprimand for his childish behavior.
    He had heard the old man's cries and couldn't stand to hear his agony any longer.
    "Silly old man. Don't you know?"
    Sissy-Fuss was so startled to hear another's voice that he let go of his rock and watched it roll back down to the bottom in dismay. So much progress lost. Today might have been the day too. Today he would've made it to the top for sure.
    "Know...whaaat?" The old man struggled to find his voice. He had never been good with conversations.
    "The choice is yours. It always has been.
    You can leave as soon as you learn to quit trying to push that damn rock up the hill. You will be free when you learn to leave your rock behind, and just...*walk* up the hill."
    The old man laughed as he dropped to his knees. The irony was just too much for him to take. And the weight of it broke his heart...and he was free. Free to walk up the hill and finally see what's on the other side.

    1. If Aesop had retold this tale, he would have been hard pressed to carry it better. "One must open one's eyes to truly see."

    2. What a wondrous interpretation. Very enjoyable to read and with an unexpected twist too.

    3. Agreed. And Spiders and Nightmares? Whoreson? Really good use of language. I dig this one a lot.

    4. I agree... really good language, and the twist is brilliant.

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  18. I think this is the start of something bigger:

    The minivan pulled to the curb, and for a moment, Delia leaned back against the seat and let the scent of her mother’s perfume fill the empty, dull spaces in her mind. She had pretty eyes, blue like distressed denim. Why hadn’t Delia really noticed that before? There were a lot of things she hadn’t noticed.

    “So, last chance,” her mother said, mouth pursing. Delia almost expected her to reach over and brush the hair off her forehead, like when she was little and had a fever. “You’re still sure you want to do this? We could just, I don’t know, go to the mall or have a nice lunch or something?”

    Delia shook her head. “I’m still in.” She clicked the door button and it slid back neatly. “They said it takes about an hour, but I’ll text you when I’m done.” She began to step out, but braced her hand at the doorframe and dared a look at her mother’s face. “Thank you,” she said.

    Her mother’s lower lip quivered for only a second, but it held firm. The words were so faint the purr of the engine nearly swallowed them up. “Happy birthday.”

    A purple-haired girl was sitting at the counter. A man stood behind her. He’d been showing her something on her computer, but when Delia came in, he stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Bill. “Kind of a cool sweet sixteen your parents are giving you,” he said. “Do you know what you want? You want to see some designs?”

    Delia glanced out the window, making sure the minivan was gone. She’d promised to make sure the place was reputable, in exchange for her mother and father letting her do this alone. “I heard you on the radio,” she said, her voice catching. “So they really…what you do…for kids who used to cut or whatever? It covers the scars?”

    He nodded toward the purple-haired girl, and she put out her forearm. The ink was beautiful, and she looked so proud of it. Two red roses wound from her wrist to her elbow. “Unless you get, like, microscopically close, you can’t tell.”

    “And you don’t have to, you know, report it or anything?”

    Bill slowly shook his head. “Only that you have their permission to get a tattoo, which we already have.” He glanced down at her arms, encased in long sleeves even though it was late June, and under his scrutiny, she crossed them over her chest. “We don’t want to make anyone live with a constant reminder of something bad that’s not who they are anymore. The memories are enough, right? So, we turn it into art.”

    She grinned, letting her arms relax. “Do you have daisies? I like daisies.”

    1. Oh, snap. This better keep going. You can't leave us with the daisies. Love this.

    2. This is amazing... and a wonderful healing... I know someone who did this, and I think it's a great idea... yep, please keep going!

  19. The Child was kicking me again, sightlessly hitting out and making my belly bulge. I'd seen the ultrasound several weeks ago but it was still a blob to me. I couldn't imagine it as anything other than a malign creature, growing inside me like a huge black toad, curled up on itself, waiting to be born to the world so it could torment me from the outside. Other mothers had said I'd grow to love it, that the hatred was a passing phase and that I'd become infatuated with it once the nurse wiped it free of my blood and handed it to me.

    I couldn't imagine that ever happening.

    The Child had been loved once. At least for a few days. I'd mentioned the positive test to Harvey and he'd seemed reluctant at first, suggesting it might be a false alarm and that I'd missed a period before.

    I hadn't. I'd said I had once before when he seemed a little distant for a few weeks but that had passed and we'd been as close as ever for a while. He'd even booked a weekend away for us, saying it was a reward for my not saying any more about it, having told me it was bad luck to talk about it until I was in my second trimester. But even that passed and then we just sort of flat-lined, his attention drifting until we inevitably split.

    And then I found I was really pregnant.

    1. She's sure to love it,as I have enjoyed reading about it.

    2. Really interesting perspective, Mark. Well rendered as usual. You put something very complex into relatable language. Impressive.

    3. I admire you, taking on this one... it's hard for me as a male to understand pregnancy well enough to write about it, but you did it beautifully...

  20. Discussing Trivia with an Unbalanced Friend
    Eve Gaal

    Why are you pointing at that dog?
    Snoopy is supposed to be a Beagle.
    That’s weird. I never knew that—
    Picasso loved doxsies and so did Mad King Ludwig of Bavaria.
    I bet it’d be cute to have a wiener dog in a castle.
    I like terriers, like Toto.
    They’re sweet too.
    Did you know Dorothy’s last name is Gale?
    No. Who cares?
    You should care. Her house flew away in a gale storm—and it’s like your last name.
    Never thought of that-
    Don’t forget we’re all connected. Anyway, be careful.
    Like that guy who wrote Wizard of Oz.
    You mean Baum?
    Yeah, means tree in German.
    Don’t you get it? Branches? And Schultz—I looked it up, means headman or mayor.
    Peanuts was great.
    Yup, he was the head of all cartoonists for a long time.
    What about Stan Lee?
    I need to find out whether Stan Lee was related to Harper Lee. I’ll Google it later.
    Doubt it. I liked Disney and Chuck Jones too.
    Darth Vader was played by James Earl Jones—see? Disney castles, princesses--it’s all connected.
    Jones is a common name.
    Kind of like that rich author, King—who sells enough books to be dubbed a king.
    It’s only a name but I see your point. Do you think he owns a dachshund?
    Corgis’ like the House of Windsor. (Long pause) And then there’s you.
    Don’t point! What about me?
    Your first name—everything’s your fault.

    1. This is a really cool piece. I like the playful language - hard to pull off, but you make it look easy.

    2. so good, with all the connectedness... it's like six degrees of separation only better... and poor Eve.

  21. Not flash fiction, and it took more than two minutes to write — but I'm a rebel. ;)

    ‘Rebel’ may not be the term that springs to mind when someone meets me. In most respects, I certainly don’t fit the mold. But in the current political climate, I am truly a rebel — a rogue, a maverick, a revolutionary.

    I’m a moderate.

    And at some point in recent history, ‘moderate’ became a dirty word.

    Today's polarized, hyperbolic society shunts moderates into the shadows. We are dismissed as being milquetoast, spineless, namby-pamby. We’re told we don’t have the courage of our convictions. Indeed, some of our more vociferous critics treat us as pariahs.

    Ask Jeb Bush. Or Hillary Clinton. One pushed out of the presidential race, the other pushed to the left just to hang on. The irony is, neither of them has ever been a true moderate. They’re just a little more reasonable, more pragmatic than others in their respective parties.

    But amid a political landscape rife with #berniebots* and #trumpeteers, reason and pragmatism have come to be considered vices, not virtues. This shift occurred with astonishing speed. A mere seven months ago, Bush topped most of the Republican polls and Clinton was considered a shoo-in for the Democratic nomination. The biggest question in the presidential race was who would win a Bush-Clinton matchup in the general election. Now the biggest questions are whether anyone can beat Donald Trump for the Republican nomination and if Bernie Sanders can pull off an upset among the Democrats.

    *For those Sanders supporters who don’t embrace the term “berniebot,” here's a quick litmus test: If you bristled at it, perhaps even muttering something to the effect of, "How dare she?" under your breath in an appropriately outraged tone, you probably are one. If, however, you shrugged and thought, "Yeah, some of them are pretty extreme," you probably aren't. No such test exists for Trump supporters; they are ALL extremists.

    It’s time for moderates to band together and rise up out of the shadows, to make our voices heard once again. What we need is a best-selling book to spell out our plans and inspire people to follow us. I have a couple of title suggestions: “Profiles in Compromise” and “The Audacity of Pragmatism” — but I could be swayed if someone has a different idea.

    Of course I could. It comes with being a moderate.

    1. Great closing line. And great piece. Someone get the soapbox!

    2. Good politicizing! A writer's job is to tell the truth and you did it! well done!

  22. I don't want to wade through the muck of your quasi-absolutions. It's a morass, and this ain't hip hop. This is hot sweat swamp and gators and mosquitos like jet fighters. You'll see.

    I'll keep writing and you'll keep biting, cause that's what bitch-ass poseurs do. The real irony is that you picked the wrong monkey to ape. There are faster guns than me, and they paint this landscape.

    Was it something I said? God, I'd like to see the inside of your head. Not your thoughts. You don't have many that are original. I mean brains, motherfucker, staining the sidewalk like watermelon pulp.

    I concede. You do what you need. Me? I'm gonna keep chewing you up and spitting out seeds.

    1. gators and mosquitos like jet fighters... I like that line a lot.

  23. I remember the feel of his hands, always dry, rough like sandpaper, gentle enough to tie a fly, strong enough to keep a sap close by.

    I always wondered about that sap. Brown leather round iron, and I could HEAR the skull crunch. And it never fit. Not in those hands.

    They wouldn't hurt a fly.

    But I'd pull it from the drawer, feel its weight, wonder. Maybe there are some stories you don't tell your Grandson.

    It's strange to trip through memory, and I wish you were here. Although I'd still never ask about it. But you would have liked to see my hands and the things they can do. I've learned a lot since twenty three.

    And now you wouldn't be the only one who calls me JD.

    1. I like this, and even though I don't know who it's about, I can feel the longing and remembrance... and I'm glad he called you JD.

  24. Lemon drops like a twisted subwoofer; it hurts my tongue young gun. I don't want to swallow any more. Keep the bullshit on the floor. Stall. You've got plenty of time and I got mad fucking words to rhyme.

    Penny for your thoughts? Sorry, punk, mine cost a dime. Not the kind I'm gonna drop on you. Not the kind slick-handshaked from your shoes. Two cents, that's no kind of recompense. That's nothing. That's minimal effort, and I'm not impressed.

    Pack up your shit and hit bricks like the rest.

    I'll take the fucking lemon. You can have the zest.

  25. Jake was feeling pretty miserable. There he was at the top of a ladder in the freezing cold cleaning windows for a living. If that wasn’t bad enough he was up to his eye balls in debt.
    He knew it was his own fault but he also thought Barry should take some of the blame. It was Barry who had mithered him to go to the damn casino so he definitely had a lot to answer for.
    On the first night Jake had won a hundred quid. He was elated by that and I guess you could say it was the beginning of his spiral into gambling addiction.
    He spent his wages every week on the roulette but every week he lost the lot. The more he lost, the more he felt he had to try and win it back but of course he never did. His numbers just never came up.
    He borrowed off his mum and family then when they realised they wouldn’t be paid back they stopped lending him money. He was feeling desperate but felt sure sure his luck had to change real soon.
    The previous night he dreamt he had bet on red 7. He watched the wheel spinning as his palms grew sweaty and his heart rate went up ten notches. Round and round it went while he watched, mezmerised as the wheel gradually slowed and the silver ball jostled to find it’s slot. It landed on red 7. He woke himself up shouting, yes! It was an amazing dream but he knew, in fact he could feel it in his bones that it was a sign. Red 7 was the number he had to play but he didn’t have a penny to his name.
    He couldn’t stop thinking about his dream but on the way to work that morning an idea struck him.
    He normally cleaned the houses with even numbers and Barry cleaned the ones with odd numbers.
    This suited him fine because he had some of the easiest windows as the house were slightly smaller on the even side. Also he usually got an eyeful of Margo Miller who liked to walk around tidying her bedroom while he was cleaning her windows. She would prance around, her boobs jiggling in her low cut top and she always gave him a cheeky wink as she bent over smoothing out her duvet.
    Today though he asked Barry if he would swop sides, just for a change like and enticed him with Margo Miller to seal the deal.
    He knew that old Mrs Flannagan kept her life savings in a drawer in her bedroom. He knew that because Barry had told him. Barry had tried to talk her in to putting her cash into a bank for safe keeping but she had adamantly refused, saying she didn’t trust banks, besides which only Barry and her daughter knew about the money so it was safe enough. Barry had mentioned it in confidence to Jake out of concern for the old lady.
    Mrs Flannagan always opened her upstairs window slightly when the boys came to clean them and she made them a cuppa every week.
    Jake was up the ladder at her bedroom window when she asked if he would like tea or coffee.

  26. “A cup of tea would do nicely, love, I’ll come down and drink when I’ve finished your windows.” Jake smiled at her and as soon as the old dear was out of the room and off to make tea, he nimbly climbed through the window and headed straight to her tallboy.
    Heart pounding and pushing down his guilt, he opened the old biscuit tin and helped himself to a fat wad of cash. There was easily a couple of grand in the tin and he reckoned he had grabbed a grand of it. It only took a few seconds to do the dead and he scrambled back out onto his ladder without being seen by anyone.
    Jake was grinning from ear to ear and he began to whistle cheerfully. It was usual to clean half the window then move the ladder in order to clean the other half. However Jake was so invigorated by thoughts of playing at the casino that night that he held on to the top of the open window and leaned across to clean the other side. It was quite a stretch and against Barry’s safety rules but Jake felt invincible today.
    He had almost finished when suddenly the window was flung open and Mrs Flannagan said, “ Did you say you wanted tea or coffee, dear?”
    Jake held tight to the window frame but it was already too late. Hanging on just made the window open wider and as Jake tried to steady himself the ladders fell backwards taking Jake with them.
    He landed heavily smashing his head on the concrete path, it was all over for Jake. If only he had survived, he would have seen that the ladders had knocked over Mrs Flannagans mail box. The big red decorative plate bearing her house number which was number seven was spinning round ond round on the path beside him.
    Jakes dream had been a sign of sorts after all.

  27. It was a strange phone call to make but she was invested now. She’d offered herself. She’d made a fool of herself doing it too. Would Brenda even know how to respond to such a request? She’d been nice when Sydney worked for her on that project at the NY Historical Society. Photographing objects for their archives and a catalog for their exhibition had been tedious work but it paid well, and if she were honest with herself, Sydney would have to say it was relaxing. But it had been several years since they’d had that relationship and their camaraderie rarely ventured into the personal when they did.

    “Hi I’m trying to reach Brenda Thompson.”

    “This is she. Who’s calling?”

    “Brenda, it’s Sydney Tarr.”

    “Sydney? Sidney Tarr. Wow, it’s nice to hear from you.
    It’s been ages. Are you working for the Gaten agency and the Historical Society again?”

    “No, Brenda. I actually ventured out on my own just after you left New York. I’ve developed a sizable roster of really good clients and I’m blessed to be working steadily.”

    “That’s wonderful Sydney. I wish I had someone with your skills here in Atlanta. You really do beautiful work. It’s a gift to have such a good eye for details. I’m glad to hear that you’re still using it so successfully.”

    “Thank you Brenda. That means a lot coming from you.”

    “So you’ve peaked my interest, why the call out of the blue?”

    “I’m sorry about that. I just don’t know that many people I can talk to about this – that know me and might understand… and who…well, whom I respect.”

    Sydney paused for a breath. She could almost see the inquisitive look on Brenda’s face through the phone wires. But Brenda said nothing, wisely waiting her out, knowing eventually the proverbial shoe would drop.

    “Brenda, with my job and my life the way it is I’m trying to figure some things out. I’ve been going in one direction for so long and now I don’t know. I was hoping you could give me some advice. I don’t know whether I’d make a good mother.”

    She wished she could say Brenda immediately found the magic potion to reduce the anxieties that had crept up and scaled the tight muscles in her back, neck, and shoulders whenever she thought about this. And since there’d been little else on her mind for several weeks it felt like she was already one stress inducing thought from a hailstorm of a tizzy.

    But no, Brenda did something much less calming than anything Sydney would have expected her to do or say.

    Brenda laughed.

    1. Ohhh....what an intriguing story, and what an ending!

  28. A jay sits on the fence crying out for some final showdown. Armageddon. Or he's hungry. Maybe he's preaching. Makes more sense than most of the sermons I've heard. Preach on, pretty bird.

    There's a bruise on my chest the size of a nickel. Deep and black. I remember those bruises, but no one poked me in the chest this time. I don't know what the hell is up with that. The jay don't either.

    Conspiracy theories are created by the CIA. Wrap your brain around that. Then convince me that the world is flat.

    I had a falling dream once. Used to have them all the time. This time, I didn't wake up in time. Sat up gasping and dying. Scared the shit out of Josh. And it sounds crazy, but it happened. I was sore for a week.

    I scratch at the stubble on my face and the only thing I can think is: Shit, when did this happen? I didn't use to have to shave my ears. Days and days add to years and years.

    I want to write something beautiful. Something true. Something like the first electric kiss. I wonder if Suzy remembers. I sure do. Suzy. That was her name. No shit.

    Life. I came into this world malleable. And then injustice. And some victories. And sadness. Then darkness and desperation and joy and living and trying not to die. Sometimes trying just FOR that. No rudder.

    I once drank Jack Daniels mixed with lighter fluid. And that's not half as stupid as some of it.

    Yet, I am not babbling. My organs work. I am not sick. I am not sad in the same world-swallowing way that I used to be. And I can't say I wouldn't do it all again the same way. Because, you know, it's not always easy. Sometimes, it's downright gut-wrenching. But I have walked many roads. And there are so many who need direction.

    Who would have thought. Not me.

    I just wanted to be a bird.

    1. Ah.... you are an eagle, and you don't even realize it. This line, " am not sad in the same world-swallowing way that I used to be," is so good... so real... as are you.

  29. My Dad always carried a black plastic comb. I don't carry a comb. I carry an inhaler, a phone, eye drops, a pocketknife. Got no need for a comb. I don't think I ever did, even when I had hair.

    But I'd like to have that black comb for a second. To pluck the plastic tines against my thumbnail. I can feel it. Still.

    And it's not about anything. I don't know why my brain held onto it. There were more important things. Hell, half the time I get my daughters' birthdays wrong and the lady at CVS judges me. I try to tell her about me and numbers. I want to tell her that a date doesn't mean shit. I love my daughters. I remember the day, not the date. Enough. I don't want to protest too much. CVS lady ain't even here. She might not be real. The whole place might be owned by Disney and the FBI.

    They probably sell black plastic combs there.

    I'll probably never buy one.

    1. What an awesome memory... the best ones were hard rubber... and they made cool sounds...

Please leave comments. Good, bad or ugly. Especially ugly.


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Monday, 23 November 2015

How to win races.

How to win races.
Written by Jez Cox, 2015

This is an article for cyclists, runners and du/triathletes who care about being  better (even if they wouldn't admit it to others) and it's particularly aimed at those who start races (and may have done for years) without ever considering the concept of winning.

Okay. So maybe not everyone can and will win a race and it's critical to say that maybe not everyone wants to win a race but one thing I'm absolutely set on is that everyone should try to win a race.

Do bear in mind that 'winning a race' could mean being the first in your age category or race category. Categories are there to give you a level to aim at so take aim and here's how to move closer to winning:

1) Find your niche.

"Only dead fish go with the flow"

If I ask any one of the cyclists, triathletes and duathletes I work with why they compete in the sport at the distance they do they often struggle to tell me and then, upon digging deeper I tend to find that they started because friends had or they knew someone that encouraged them to. This is never more common than with triathlon since it's boom between 2000 and 2010 and then likewise road cycling in its current 'sportive' explosion. Very often, the reason for ending up doing what they are doing is along the lines of 'Well, everyone was getting into it and so I thought I'd see what it's all about'. Now that's a massive generalisation and of course the fact that so many who have recently 'converted' have actually transitioned from quite a sedentary lifestyle is something that should be celebrated. I certainly do just that. It's kept me in a job these past few years for one thing!

My point is, having got started, bought all the gear, done your first event and become 'one of us' it's then very easy to drift and simply either stick doing the same thing or just do the same as everyone else. As I say, only dead fish go with the flow.

Now, for some, doing just that will be fine, for others, they may actually have stumbled upon their niche straight away and started doing really well, winning events maybe but even then, how would they know?

I'm always quick to rubbish talk of, for example, Roger Federer being the 'greatest tennis player that ever lived'. He's awesome, don't get me wrong, but if you'll indulge my thinking still further, the greatest tennis player that ever lived almost certainly never held a tennis racquet. You just don't know. And in a way, stumbling into a particular sport and finding that you love it is as much half chance as having the genes that oddly enough make you potentially, (physiologically) the greatest tiddly winks player that ever lived.

Yes. It could be you.

Of course, not everyone wants to win.
Not everyone even wants to find out how good they could be and that's fine too. Sport and recreation can offer so much more beyond just winning but it's quite possible you're different to the masses. You're reading an article which I have deliberately titled in a very specific way. Chances are you're curious about your potential and I want to help you think about how to exploit that.

It starts with being prepared to be selfish and do things for yourself which may actually grow you away from where you started. It often involves having to go back to being bad at something again and when done correctly it should involve plenty of failing because failing is how winning is done. It's the only way you learn. Eventually, through a process of elimination and reckless experimentation you should start to find your niche and then you can start to think about winning.

"Far greater it is to dare mighty things to win glorious triumphs even though chequered by failure than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much for they live in a grey twilight that knows not victory nor defeat"

Theodore Roosevelt

One of the greatest strengths of Great Britain's recent surge to the top of world cycling has been the insistence from the coaches on their young academy riders riding as many different disciplines of cycle sport as possible and indeed mixing them up. Until recently in fact, academy riders under the age of 18 were not allowed to specialise in one discipline. Experimentation and 'being bad at something' (relatively) was therefore something to be celebrated and in fact there were a whole string of academy riders who found their way into unexpected modes of cycle sport through this very approach of what I'd like to call 'niche mining'. It's a terrible term, I know, but go with me.

If you consider yourself a road cyclist, try mountain biking, if you're a track cyclist, try BMX, if you're a triathlete, try cycle speedway (yes, cycle speedway).

Play, experiment, fail. (Repeat). Learn.

Stop being such an adult and get back to being far more childlike. Attack what you are trying as new and fun and embrace being bad at it at first. Only afterwards when you've tried it should you analyse your performance.

Watch young children trying new games and sports for the first time and you'll usually find them living completely in the moment, focusing on what they are doing rather than on how they are doing. 'Present restrospectivism', as I'd like to coin it is a disease of adulthood and should really be fought if you're to find your niche. The best vaccine I've found thus far is that age old elixir called 'fun'.

Get back to trying new things and remember, when you do,

Then analyse.
And go back for more fun.

2) So I've found my niche.  How do I win!?

I was blessed in that I stumbled across the sport of cycling by accident at the age of 12 when my parent's next door neighbour, my good friend Tilman Marsh, bought a mountain bike and allowed me to try it. It was about 1992 and the mountain bike boom was just catching light. It was a rigid steel Scott with Deore DX and Onza ski bar ends. I loved it.
Once I had ridden a permanent figure of eight track into his lawn I was immediately hooked and cycling, through mountain biking, cyclocross and then road racing became my sporting obsession and then by way of hard work and blessings, my career.

- BUT - It took me a full 6 years to win a race despite racing lots. In retrospect, I now see that long wait as a big part of the reason why I'm still involved with the sport and why I carried on racing and then went on to win so much.
When I think back to my earliest racing experiences in my first races in the London Cyclo Cross league in the winter of 1992, I was being beaten soundly in every race by a good number of other youth riders. Of course, as so often happens with these things it was the same people every time and picking a winner was pretty predictable. 4 years later, only one of those regulars was still racing. And his name was Roger Hammond.

At the time, I could never have imaged that of these incredible riders who were seemingly destined for greatness and were without doubt light years better than me, hardly any of them were still racing (let alone winning) by the time they were 20.

I'm a firm believer that you need to learn to win but you'll learn nothing from winning.
Every time you don't win there's always something to learn.
I'm lucky in that, once I found my niche (Duathlon) I won 81 races but that wasn't the lucky bit. The lucky bit is that I came 2nd 50 times and those 50 times were why I won 81 races.
I learnt so much from those that beat me. Guys, if you're reading this, (You know who you are!), thank you for the lessons.

I now have friends who have children that have started racing, a couple of whom have started winning and winning lots and it's a great thing but because they've started winning so early it means that they haven't actually learnt much yet. All they're learning is that they're good (what ever that means).  The ones that they are beating week in week out who have the perseverance to hang in there will learn lots and eventually that bank of knowledge will pay out in those that work for it.
The problem is that if you don't have that bank of experience in being beaten, when it does happen and the young regular winner suddenly doesn't win, there's very little to fall back on. That's the stage when so many drop out.

So; got a talented youngster?  Find a way to keep them coming 2nd, 3rd and 4th (or lower) and you'll be paying into their longevity bank all the time. It can be tricky though if you have an early developer but there's usually a way.

Having said all that, and moving on from childhood now, you need to be ready to win. That's key. As you approach a point where you feel capable of winning I would strongly advise taking some time out to visualise it and see it from your 'mind's eye' with all its visceral quality and feel.

Conceive (in the imagined)
Believe (in your subconscious)
Achieve (between the start and finish lines)

It's important groundwork to make sure you're ready.
Once I'd worked my way through a few years of my lovely Mum driving me to cyclocross and mountain bike races in order for me to take a good roasting I was lucky enough to have generous enough parents to encourage me to try yet another discipline and so I had a wobble around on my first road bike, a Graham Weigh in Columbus Thron with Campag Mirage. Yes, those that know me well, my first road bike did indeed have Campagnolo. I'm sorry.

I was lucky in that I started road racing in my late teens at the time when West London converted from using a road encircling Pinewood Studios as the go to 'cycle circuit' to the now massively popular Hillingdon Cycle Circuit. Sure enough,  I lined up there for my first in a long series of kickings but crucially this time I started to see that I was finding my niche. All of a sudden, my deficit in technical skill and recklessness as an off-roader didn't hold me back. Generally, fitness and hard training started to pay greater dividends and as it did, my mountain bike began collecting dust.

Of course, on the road, I still learnt lots by being beaten lots but somehow, in my distracted teenage life I had the forethought to do turbo training sessions in front of endless of recordings of the 30 minute channel 4 Tour de France coverage.
As I did, those 30 minute programmes provided me with the chance to 'race' each stage, including, as it's climax, sprinting to the finish line. That meant of course that although my VHS player depicted that Richard Virenque had won the mountains points, Big Mig has won the TT and Abdu had cleaned up in the sprint (and in green again), in fact, they hadn't.
I had won all those stages.

Now that I've gone through my sports psychology training (and studied the works of my guru Dr Dennis Wadeley) I can see that what I was doing was in fact 'positive mental pre-play'. I had lived the moment of winning in my mind over and over again and so when it came, I was ready for it.

So that same summer I crossed the start line of yet another Hillindon circuit race, the format of which don't happen anymore sadly. These were irregular ones where all the riders used to start together and then after a set number of laps the 4th category (lowest ranked) riders would sprint to finish, then a few laps later the 3rd cats would too, leaving elite and 1/2s to finish off after them.

Something happened that day, I timed my 4th cat sprint perfectly and won by about half a tyre's length. What normally happens then is that the 4th cats drop out but I wanted more. This is not allowed but hey, I was on a roll. I hung in and also sprinted again with the 3rd cats, coming second in that race. I still refused to drop out and at the age of 17 went on to take 5th in the E12.

These were my three best road race results to date and they all came on the same day! Knowing what I now know about rules and so forth, what I did should have probably seen me suspended from racing but the organiser was my mentor and I'm thankful that he understood that I was having one of 'those' days.

Do you know what I mean?

I hope so.
I'd say they happen maybe once a year - if that - and they nearly always fall when they do on a training day or a recovery day but once or twice in an athletes life they'll fall on a day when you just happen to be stuck between two white lines with a bunch of other loons trying to outdo each other and you need to be ready for that. Lots of people aren't and that 'snapping cranks' / ' go harder and it just feels easier' moment passes them by because they'd never seen themselves winning.

So guess what, they didn't.

Of course, following my mentor's guidance, as soon as I'd won I needed to move on and up and keep trying to learn. And learn I did. I didn't win at Hillingdon again for another 5 years while I was abroad and expanding my road racing repertoire but all these years later I am proud of now having won a race there in 5 different disciplines : road race, time trial, duathlon, cyclo-cross and road running. I coach there now as well and get to watch my charges trying to do the same. If you're one of them, don't be hard on me for doing what ever I can to hold you back and stop you winning too soon. In the words of Rocky Balboa,

"It's how winning is done"

3) I've found my niche; I'm right at the sharp end but still can't win.

This is when you need to build your tactical repertoire.

Try to list 5 different ways someone  could win your event (or category) and have a plan for how you might execute each one in an average race. Then, as you approach race day, about a week out, choose 3 of them that are most appropriate for that event. An hour before the start, take in the conditions and the competition and decide on 2 of those 3. Settle on one as your plan A and one as your plan B should plan A fail or become impossible.
It sounds formulaic and not much fun doesn't it?
Well, winning is fun, trust me. Or it is in the 10 minute aftermath. I'm yet to meet an athlete who, after those 10 minutes isn't thinking "what's next' and planning ahead.

So, what kind of tactics?

I'll give you an example of 5 based on a runner trying to win their local off-road 5k race.

5 Ways:

1) Pick the person who you perceive as most likely to win (based on past performances)  and try to run calmly on their shoulder for the entire race, ready to jump them with 50metres to go.

2) Start much harder than usual and do everything to then calm down and maintain position.

3) Surge hard with 1500m to go to get clear and then maintain form and do not look back.

4) Spend the entire race simulating being over tired and unfit to the other racers by breathing hard when close to them. Then apply numbers 1 or 3 to catch others off guard.

5) (Practice this often in training for it to be anywhere near effective) Once settled into a good quality group, try to aid the group in bunching up and running as a pack. With 3000m gone start surging hard and then easing and repeat this as many times as you can until the right selection has been made. This will only work if you have practiced this in training and others haven't. That's the whole point.

Of course, you've got to have the fitness and form to apply the above and get the win but that's the point : everyone trains their body but very few prepare their mind in line with it. Dear old Dr Dennis Wadeley's positive mental pre-play was something that worked for me as I prepared my mind for the expectation of winning and whilst doing so I built a handy toolbox of ways to win.

4) I won! What next...?

As I said above, unless the victory is a career defining (or even career ending one) the majority of athletes won't take long for their thoughts to turn to their next race, next challenge or next chance to win. Hence, (as I've been saying all along) why we don't learn much from winning.

Note that I say much and not nothing though.

The most important lesson that you can learn from winning is that you can win and actually, for most people that's quite a revelation.

So the next step is key. Repeating a win in similar conditions and with similar competition is actually something I'd advise trying. You'll learn more from dealing with the pressure of being a past winner and having others watching you more closely and you'll be forced to cook up even more tactics in order to deal with just that.
If you're able to repeat the win (and it might take a long time) then once again it's time for some zoomed out thinking and some honest self talk : Are you ready to kick on and find some even tougher competition (if there is some) or perhaps it's simply your time to dominate and look to rack up even more wins.
Of course, if you're both super talented and a winner you may not have any higher to go.
My advice? Don't be afraid to win and win lots but try to find a way to keep pushing yourself.
In order to do this I'll prescribe what I do to so many triathletes and multisporters in particular:

Race more.

You train to race, peak to race, try to put everything in place to race well and so I still can't understand why so many triathletes only race 3 times a year. Some less.
The chance of everything going right across all three disciplines, not to mention the painfully long build up is actually quite slim.

"Too expensive" you say?

Then, going back to the start of this article: don't do what everyone else does. Use a definitive 'all races' race calendar online ( is the most complete) to find the best races that suit you at the best price. If you enter the races that all your mates are doing and that are all over the magazines and web then that's what we call hype.
Hype costs money which someone will have to pay for.  So dig deeper and you'll find some real gems and in turn you'll be able to afford to race more.

I came from a background as a road cyclist where as an elite I did two seasons of an incredible 72 and then 75 races in a year so that helped ingrain me in that culture. Without doubt I carried that into my life as a duathlete where I worked my way though short course, long course, drafting, non drafting and then cross and trail duathlons. My regular racing saw me racking up a lot of wins across the 10 years in duathlon.

Don't get me wrong, among them were some races which I won easily but there were bags of others that nearly killed me as well.
Because I raced in a relative minority sport which has two defined seasons a year I employed a simple tactic : race everything I possibly could.

I was lucky that I had the time to and I was also quite clever about usually trying to squeeze a free entry to a subsequent event from most organisers of races I'd won so that way entry fees weren't really a major concern.
Either way, the penultimate take away point on your journey to the winners enclosure is : Race More.

Reading of my successes I can imagine it would be easy to think I am a super talented athlete and it was only a matter of time before I started winning but genuinely, it couldn't be further from the truth.

I don't feel I have any particular physical attributes that make me any better than average and that played out for me early on at school. I'm just determined and insightful. Every single person that was beating me I could learn from and trust me, I was a very very average junior and youth athlete.

And I'm glad I was.

In my roles as a coach and also as a GB team manager I regularly meet athletes over the age of 70 who wish they'd started when they were 15 rather then 65 but I see in them that same dogged determination to become 'world champion'.

World Champion!?

World champion of themselves, in this time, with these life constraints and with their body. Even if that just means in their local race.

Some of them have gone on to become actual ITU World Champions while others have smashed PBs, times and race positions beyond what they ever thought possible.

My point is, and to conclude with this, don't be constrained by doing what others do. Be a freak. Dare to be believe in your ability.

Conceive, Believe. And if you are tickled to put what I've said into practice then remember this:

One race will be your last ever. You may not get to chose which one it is.
In fact, it may have already passed.

There's a lot more important things in the world than racing, not least in our current world climate, but when you do next find yourself between those two white lines, believe it is everything.

Don't accept limitations that others or past experience put on you and greet failure and elated success the same because you are part of the 1% of society for whom mediocrity just won't do.

<><><><><><><> Jez Cox 2015 <><><><><><><><>

If you have been inspired by this article, why not book a 121 with me where we can sit down and work out your road map to finding out how good you could be?
I also specialise in motivational speaking and team leadership. If you think I can help you with either of these, just drop me an email to:

Thursday, 19 November 2015

The history of Duathlon : 7 Classic victories

In a sport that is still so young and which doesn't benefit from the coverage or funding of the Olympic sport of Triathlon it's vital that we remember and record the history of Duathlon which is being written every day.

Here's my pick of some classic victories from the early 'noughties', highlighting great athletes who wrote their names indelibly in Duathlon's growing and glowing history

 1)    World Championships 2003.  Affoltern, Switzerland.
Athlete in focus: Edwige Pitel (FRA) Female elite winner

The 2003 worlds were being billed as the hardest ever with the course zig-zagging its way up and down the Mountainous valley sides stretching their way out of the idyllic Swiss town of Affoltern. The womens’ race in particular was being billed as a clash of the bikers and with the likes of France’s Edwige Pitel, Switzerland’s Karin Thurig and Britain’s Vicki Pincombe all close as they headed out onto the bike leg there began a series of vicious attacks and counter attacks in the pouring rain which had rendered the course a virtual skidpan. Pitel and Thurig, having distanced Pincombe both tried in turn to drop each other but to no avail. Exiting T2 Pitel appeared to deliberately ease slightly and allow Thurig to surge in an attempt to drop her. No sooner had she done this than Thurig began to suffer a number of painful cramps over the final run as Pitel kicked away to victory before later admitting that she had seen Thurig cramping towards the end of the bike leg and it was then that she had hatched her plan. Interestingly both have now forged careers in pro cycling. Thurig has been double world time trial champion and Pitel remains one of the world’s oldest professionals at the age of 42.

2)    European Championships 2004. Swansea, Wales
Athlete in focus: Jurgen Dereere (BEL) Male elite winner.
Those who watched the European championships around the ever twisting and meandering dock side will remember the Mens’ winner Jurgen Dereere of Belgium as the king of the surge.  Coming off the draft legal bike leg which had made its way up and down the seafront stretching out to Mumbles Bay things were still predictably close. Dereere set about using the twisty and narrow quay-side run to his advantage by repeatedly surging out of the corners and turn points and visibly easing back to recover having done so.  It was a tactic that Britain’s Tim Don and the Netheland’s Armand Van Der Smissen couldn’t quite live with. Were it not for his countryman, the late Benny Vansteelant,  Dereere might have added many more illustrious titles to his name and so it was on the cobbled quayside of Swansea that in Vansteelant’s absence Dereere used his relentless surging to take his place Duathlon’s history books.

3) World Long Course Championships 2005.  Barcis, Italy
Athlete in focus: Benny Vansteelant (BEL) Male elite winner.
The 2005 World long course championships will be remembered as the day when Benny Vansteelant confirmed his undeniable status as the greatest Duathlete of all time. His performance on the day resembled more closely a ritual humiliation of the competition and his tactics simply confirmed what many had thought for some time –he only had one: Go harder than anyone else for the entire race.  By the end of the first run he was alone and out onto the 80k bike leg he simply continued to ride away from the chasing pack to build a 10 minute lead going into the final run. Such was his regal superiority that he spent much of the first half of the final 11k run waving to the crowd and hand-slapping as he cruised along before turning on the afterburners to finish still 5 minutes ahead of Marcel Zamora of Spain in 2nd place. Benny’s death following a road traffic accident in 2007 robbed the sport of not just its greatest ever champion with 9 world titles to his name but of a likable character with a smile that transcended sport.

4) Powerman World Cup 2001.  Venray, Holland.
Athlete in focus: Benny Vansteelant (BEL) Male elite winner.
No Duathlon roll call would be complete without the greatest Duathlete of all time, the late Benny Vansteelant. The Dutch round of the Powerman world cup illustrated perfectly what many had thought for some time –he only had one tactic: Go harder than anyone else for the entire race. And it worked!  By the end of the first run he was alone and out onto the 75k bike leg he simply continued to ride away from the chasing pack to build an unassailable lead. At the age of 25 Vansteelent had already won 3 world championships of the 9 that he would win go on to before his untimely death following an accident while out cycling. The sport was robbed of not just its greatest ever champion but an infectiously effervescent character with a smile that became the sport’s iconic image.

 5)    European Championships 2006.  Rimini, Italy
Athlete in focus: Vanessa Fernandes (POR) Female elite winner.
The seafront in the Italian coastal resort of Rimini can claim, alongside Geel in Belgium to be one of Duathlon’s spiritual homes having been host to multiple World and European championships. The 2006 event saw a much anticipated showdown between the World’s finest female Duathletes and the hottest new prospect in women’s Triathlon, Vanessa Fernandes of Portugal.  By September that year she had already won 7 Triathlon world cups in one season.  Amazingly, she hadn’t competed in Duathlon at a world level since winning the junior World title in 2003 and after the results she had already achieved that year she could have been forgiven for ‘sitting in’ in the pack and looking to take control on the final run. Instead, in what was remarked by many as being a ‘Benny-esque’ performance she set about demolishing the field from start to finish to hold a two minute buffer over Spanish Olympian Ana Burgos who finished 2nd.

6) European Championships 2007. Edinburgh, Scotland.

Athlete in focus: Catriona Morrison (GBR) Female elite winner.
Having won Silver Medals in both World long and short course Duathlon championships in 2005 and 2006 the tough Scottish athlete had stamped her mark as one of the Worlds finest Duathletes.  By June the 16th 2007 Morrison already had one eye on an eventual switch to long distance triathlon and the Ironman circuit (where she is now flourishing) and at the foot of Arthur’s seat with a home crowd baying for Morrison to take the title under the leaden skies and intermittent rain she lined up with the heavy weight of expectation on her shoulders. By the end of the first run she was comfortably away In a lead group of 4 but it was on the second accent of the brutal Arthur’s seat that Morrison moved into a solo lead. Local knowledge of the tricky climb and decent will no doubt have helped her but anyone who was there will surely never forget the entirely partisan crowd draped in sodden macs cheering for her to bring the title home as she rounded the corner by Holyrood Palace for the last time.

7) Benny Vansteelant Memorial World Cup 2008.

Athlete in focus: Joerie Vansteelant
It seems entirely fitting that our 7th pick of classic Duathlon wins should bring us full circle. The summer of 2008 saw a brand new world cup on the ITU calendar and it was held in the fairly ordinary Belgian town of Torhout. Nothing out of the ordinary seems to happen there. It’s no different to any other small Belgian town really.  Except, that is, for the fact that it is home to the Vansteelant family and seemingly every living inhabitant is a member of the Vansteelant fan club along with all their relatives and pets. During his years of world domination Benny Vansteelant had a band (in the musical sense) of supporters who came and banged drums and blew trumpets with ‘Benny’ painted across their foreheads and so it was that on the day of the anniversary race to mark Benny’s sad passing the stage was set around the tight town centre course for his younger brother Joerie who was already a world champion himself by this stage to win what was probably the most emotional race of his life. That’s not to say that he was gifted anything. With world cup points and substantial prize money up for grabs he was pushed all the way to a tearful victory.

Wednesday, 18 November 2015

Getting started and training for Duathlon ( including a free training program)

Duathlon differs from tri in that it takes a run/ bike / run  format.  It has been around as long as Triathlon and has in the past been labelled as ‘triathlon for non swimmers’ but the sport has developed into so much more than that over the last 25 years to the point where there is now an established world series and world championships at both short and long distance.
The UK has a great number of sprint Duathlons which start at around the 3k/20k/2k distance and beyond this these are the ‘classic’ distance races which are 10k/40k/5k.  Those who want to try something longer will be attracted to the Powerman world series which is effectively Duathlon’s version of Ironman and these are usually around 15k/60k/7k in distance.
Duathlon has it’s own stars and a growing number of professionals who race exclusively in ‘Du’s’ but it is also becoming increasingly popular with triathletes. British Elites Tim Don, Paul Amey, Catriona Morrison and Michelle Dillon have all won world titles in Duathlon and the GB Age Group teams have consistently been the worlds best over the last few seasons.  Duathlon’s appeal does not stop there though- every year throughout his 7 years of winning the Tour de France, Lance Armstrong competed in off road Duathlons as part of his preparation.  Those who have completed a triathlon will know the feeling of starting the final run can be likened to running with a bear on your back. Well, with Duathlon, because you have already run prior to biking the effect is greater. This time the bear has his mate hanging on to his back and he is liberally pouring treacle over your shoulder for you to run through. The feeling does go though – trust me!

 Duathlon can form a highly beneficial part of any Triathletes training. The fact that the first run is a mass start will mean that there is a greater chance of athletes being drawn on to faster times by running alongside others. This contrasts greatly with Tri where athletes are commonly spread out and may feel like they are ‘hanging on’ during the final run.  The fact that Duathlons are run throughout the year means that they can be used as a vital racing trial in the build up to triathlon goals and they also help to extend a triathletes season by allowing competitive racing in the spring and autumn when tri’s are scarce. Triathletes who have been competeing in spring Du’s tend to enter the tri season much better prepared.  Many first timers find the final run of a Duathlon harder than in a tri and it is in overcoming this that triathletes can build their confidence in their ‘off the bike’ running which will transfer nicely into faster running in triathlon.  Of course, there are also a growing number of triathletes who try a Duathlon and never look back. The sport is now at a stage in the UK where it provides a full season in it’s own right.  Offroad duathlons with a cross country run and a mountain bike leg are now growing faster than any other area of the sport due to their simple and safe format where they are often held in closed rural settings which are devoid of traffic and these provide an excellent cross training benefit along with the additional bike handling skills to be gained from racing off-road.

As Du’s tend to be organised by clubs and associations who also organise Tri’s in the warmer months it is no surprise that the majority of events are in the Spring and Autumn. However, over the last 5 years more organisers have been putting on summer Du’s and are finding they are well attended. That said, Autumn is a particularly popular time for them being when most athletes are at their fittest after a summer of training and competing and it is the time when some of the best known UK Duathlons are held.

The kit needed for Duathlon is not that different to tri. Most events will allow any type of bike to be used so long as it is road worthy and then of course a hard-shell helmet is essential. Clothing for Duathlon can be a bit more relaxed than tri as it doesn’t have to stand up to a swim as well so many Duathletes will go for the added comfort of a pair of cycling shorts with extra padding and on top of this, most will wear socks for the entire event.   For those using clipless pedals on their bike the most common practice is to have a pair of run shoes with elasticated laces and a pair of bike shoes with velcrow straps which can be quickly changed in transition. However, some Duathletes prefer the slight time saving gained from wearing just one pair of trainers and using toe clips or a devices known as ‘platforms’ which are essentially a rigid plastic plates with a strap across them which sits on top of your pedals and when wearing trainers simulates the feel of a rigid cycling shoe beneath the foot.  Most Duathletes will, of course, fit and then remove their helmet either side of the bike leg. There is however one well known English Duathlete who likes to save a few seconds by wearing his helmet during the first run. Although this is allowed it has to be said that he does receive a fair bit of ribbing for it!   From a training perspective one of the most important aspects is preparing an athlete for running as strongly as possible ‘off the bike’ and this involves completing ‘brick’ or back to back training sessions which will simulate the feeling of the second run. Like most effective training they are no fun at all at first but as always – hard work before the race makes the race so much more fun and they will go along way to reducing the size of your Bear(s).

My pro tips:
1) Try to run off-road on soft varied terrain as much as possible. This will not only go along way to helping prevent injuries from the jarring associated with tarmac but it also helps to simulate the heavy legged feeling often associated with the second run.

2) Whenever you can when returning from a bike ride try to pull on a pair of trainers and just run. Even if it’s to the end of your road and back. 3-8 minutes is sufficient.  Eventually it will be something that your body simply expects.

3) Most people start a Duathlon far too quickly and many then fade on the first run as a result. Pace out your effort over the whole event and try to look around you for other athletes who are following a similar sensible pace.

4) A lot can happen in 3 legs! Duathlon, just like tri, is an adventure in itself and you can and will find yourself going through bad patches. Very often, if you stick these out and keep going, trying to relax and be positive you will recover and end up feeling better. I recall the Scottish national Duathlon champs where I competed in 2005 and ran so poorly on the first run around Arthur’s Seat that I walked into transition in about 20 place ready to pull out. I suddenly thought “no- I’ll see what happens” and out of the blue I felt great on the bike and rode my way up to 3rd before running really strongly to finish on the podium. There’s a lot to be said for keeping going!   Obviously in the case of injury or illness it is always best to stop.

4 Week training programme:
I use the terms 1. Easy 2. Steady 3. Tempo 4. Hard 5. Max
DAY                Beginner  (5-7 hrs)                                      Intermediate  (8-12 hrs)

Run 40 mins Easy. Off-road is best.
90 minute steady cross country run.
Bike 30 mins Easy and then 20 mins Steady before warming down.
Bike 90 mins steady with 4 x 8 mins tempo/2 mins easy in middle.
Gym- Conditioning and core work.
Gym- conditioning and Core work.(run there if possible)
1 hour of continuous 10 min bike, 5 min run repeats all at easy pace.
90  mins of continuous 10 min bike , 5 min run all at steady pace after a 20 min easy Bike warm up
1 hour steady Run.
1 hr Steady Cross Country Run
2 hr steady Bike followed by a 40 min/  1 hr steady Run. Eat / drink well when riding.
2 hr Steady Bike ride with a 10 min Easy run straight after.
3 hr steady ride with the middle hour being ridden seated using only 3 biggest gears.
Gym – Conditioning and Core work
90 min cross country run concentrating on technique
1 hour Easy Run with 3 x 5 mins Tempo/ 2 mins easy in the middle.
Gym- Conditioning and Core work.
1 hour Bike with 10 mins easy and tehn ride every 5th minute hard for the whole minute. Continue up to the hour.
Run 20 mins steady before 20 mins at tempo, then Bike 20 mins tempo and 20 mins steady. Warm down well.
45 minute steady ride with 20 mins tempo, seated in the middle. Run 10 mins steady straight after.
1 hr steady ride with 4 x 8 mins hard/ 8 mins easy in the second half and then run 10 mins tempo straight off the bike. Warm down.
Ride 30 mins steady on a rolling circuit and then ride 30 mins in a big gear staying seated and turning smooth pedal circles, then run easy for 40 minutes in a hilly area concentrating on relaxed but fast downhill running.
 90 minute steady Ride which includes 8-15 seated Hard hill repeats on a steep climb in the middle. Then return home and Run steady for 1 hour concentrating on maintaining an even, steady pace.
2-3 hr ride. Easy for the first hour and then steady. Eat and drink well.
2-3 hrs bike with the last 15 mins of each hour ridden at tempo (race pace) aim for 3 of these efforts.
1 hour steady run focussing on good technique
1 hour incremental run: 10 mins easy, 10 mins steady, 10 mins tempo, 5 mins Hard, 5 mins Tempo, 5 mins Steady, 5 mins easy and warm down.
 40 min Run with 20 mins of 20 secs hard, 40 secs easy running in the middle.
90 mins – 2 hour Bike in racing position. 30 mins easy and then ride for 1 whole hour using only your 4 biggest gears and staying seated on a rolling (not too hilly) circuit. Try to maintain a steady pace and turn smooth pedal circles. Run 8-10 mins easy straight after.
1 hour ride with 8-12  seated hard hill repeats on a steep climb in the middle and then a 20 minute steady run in which the first 8 minutes are run tempo (race pace)
1 hour steady Run with 6 x 100m max efforts spread out throughout Then, on bike, Ride for 15 mins easy in a low gear and every 5th minute ride the entire minute in your lowest gear trying to spin as fast as possible while seated.
Gym- Conditioning and Core work
Gym- conditioning and core work
Simulated Duathlon – warm up and then complete 20 mins tempo run on road, 45 mins tempo bike on road and then another 20 mins tempo run off road.
Simulated Duathlon – warm up and then complete 30 mins tempo road run, 50mins tempo bike and then 20 mins  tempo run with the last 5 mins as hard as possible.
2-3 hour sociable ride with friends
2-3 hour sociable ride with friends
25 min easy Run on grass practicing perfect run form
40 min ride with 4-6 x  1 min hard 1 min easy in middle and then 20 min run with 4 x 30 secs hard/30 secs easy in middle.
40 min easy ride with 6-8 x 1 min hard 1 min easy in middle and then 20 min run with 6 x 30 secs hard 30 secs easy in middle.
40 min easy off road run focussing on relaxed, light and upright running
40 min easy off road run focussing on relaxed, light and upright running
1 hour easy Ride with 5 second sprint accelerations out of any corners/bends.
1 hour easy Ride with 5 second sprint accelerations out of any corners/bends.
Rest.- check over all race gear and chill.
Run 20 minutes with 3x 10 secs hard spread out.
Bike 40 mins easy with 3x 15 secs hard and Run 20 mins with 3x 8 secs hard spread out.

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