Welcome back friends, to the second perpetuation of this humble blog. Firstly, thanks for all the kind words relating to the inceptive post, the amount of positive feedback received is humbling, and usually only associated with slick, power-selling Ebay accounts. The shrewder among you have noticed my association with another, now-long dormant blog involved with the activities of my triathlon club. Sadly disbanded for the last 18 months, those of you nostalgic enough to have an insatiable appetite for now-outdated doggrel may wish to wander across to sample the wares on offer. I believe it can be accessed through investigation of my profile.
Now, formalities once again dealt with, let’s draw our focus to the crux of this post. This week I’m pontificating on a somewhat abridged illustration of preseason training. The base phase of the season involves getting back into shape after a end of season break, typically spent consuming industrial quantities of peanut butter and pursing idle recreations that hold less meaning than Kim Kardashians wedding vows. The base phase of the season consists largely of what I call ‘stupid training’, i.e. not too many intricate, specific efforts at certain paces for certain durations- this begins later in the season for specific race preparation. Nay sir, at this time of the year, a typical sessions protocol may be - ride bike out front door, commence pedaling, five hours later, cease pedaling. Big, plain and regular - not unlike a large packet of prunes. And so, the months prior to christmas have become embodied with a certain ritual.
Rituals habitualised in December over the last few years have consisted of two things. The first, is that I have no idea who I am supposed to buy a gift for in my family’s secret santa, and the second, is that I will have little chance to purchase such a gift, as I will be on a training camp down at South Golden Beach (SGB). In the interest of keeping topics largely germane to my audience, this column will focus on the latter, although suggestions alluding to the former will be appreciated, and can be emailed to danwilson1985@hotmail.com.
SGB has been the destination of choice since 2006. The riding here is nothing short of transcendent, as the roads are void of traffic and feature bountiful hills, rising like overly yeasted bread in a hot oven. Intentions for this time of year revolve around creating a solid base with which to build the foundation for the season to come. Thus, activities on camp include, long, banter-filled rides, deep, dream-filled naps and large, cheese-filled meals. Below are a few of the stories accrued during my time at SGB, and paints an admittedly vague, yet colorful picture of life on camp.
Whilst much of typical day on camp is spent in various states of aerobic endeavor, the idle moments between sessions present as much opportunity for leisure as fatigue allows. Due to such aforementioned fatigue, most pastimes have the express goal of expending as little energy as possible. Popular recreations include a lazy swim at the beach, coffee, fishing (which I loathe), or heckling people who are fishing (which I love).
Keeping with the spirit of keeping amused yet stationary, the playstation has become a mainstay of the camps at SGB. However, having upwards of 5 competitive athletes gathered around a device designed to pit people against one another has it’s consequences. Thus, it’s not uncommon to have heart rates much higher during a particularly spiteful game of Call of Duty, than the preceding 5 hour ride. Rivalries ensure, and one thing led to another of few years back, and a round robin competition was designed to satisfy a household crying out for arbitration on clear winners and losers. Cut-throat competitions have since become a SGB staple. Past winners have clinched bragging rights, sound justification for being overly smug, and one year, the atypical luxury of having Dane Robinson as a personal slave for a day. Losers have obviously been dealt with derision and ridicule, but also been subject to a diabetics nightmare of chugging up to 500 ml of Maple Syrup, and one year, the bona fide humiliation of having Dan Wilson as a master for a day.
Naturally, such an environment lends itself to some classic banter, which typically precipitates the beginning of further gags. Methodology to such larks have involved such stages as, a mask from the movie Scream, a darkened room, a surreptitious approach, a deafening bellow, and a terrified Emma Moffatt. Another included some procured car keys, a night-time vehicle relocation, and an agitated Wilson convinced of car-theft. Drawing the line can sometimes be a matter of shrewd judgement, a classic example of overstepping the mark involved 2 irrepressible athletes, 3 well-filled water bombs, 1 unsuspecting coach, and, somewhat predictably, 1 set of marching orders back to Brisbane.
Now, as my typewriter is in danger of overheating, it looks like this post will draw to a close with actually mentioning too much about triathlon in general, or base-training in particular. So, the obvious solution is to turn the SGB post into a two-parter! And with that Prison-Break like cliffhanger, be sure to check back next week for the conclusion to the synopsis of base training and life on camp.
Take care friends,
Willy
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