Memoirs Of An Insignificant Tuesday

Inspired by fellow athlete and long time collaborator Clayton Fettell’s superlative documentary, and showing a flagrant disregard for blatant conceptual plagiarism, I present to you a day spent plying my trade. The day detailed is Tuesday of this week, bearing no particular relevance or significance aside from the idle ruminations dictated forthwith. Hardly a day bereft of training, however I felt the detailing a recovery day spent wearing boxer shorts around the house and eating peanut butter from a finger dipped straight in the jar was best left to a future pictorial. 

The alarm goes off at 4:45, and I commence what I envisage is planned in my head as a neat Commando Roll off the bed, but what in execution probably could be more accurately described as a Wounded Commando Roll. I clutch a sore calf, grumble at my tired arms, and rub the sleep out of my eyes and check the window, which reveals a spectacular day in our preeminent Brisbane climate. I briefly revisit my suspicions that my roommates have swapped my window for a photograph of a pleasant horizon, a hunch founded by getting rained on 5 minutes into many rides whilst wearing sleeveless jerseys chosen due to the view from my ‘window’. Either that, or my housemates still wonder why I claim ‘It’s nice out!’, whilst looking at a painting.

A perfunctory ingestion of some toast and coffee, and I jump in the Falcon, or The Gurgler as it’s more infamously hailed, a car whose history deserves a blog post all of it’s own. It’s front bumper is currently fastened by the use of a google strap and an elastic shoelace, derived from some ingenuity and on-the-fly maintenance fashioned in a tight spot. The petrol alarm protests the distinct lack of unleaded in the tank, and I briefly entertain the thought of giving it a can of Pepsi Max from the fridge to get me to the pool, but fortunately sanity prevails (It’s sugar-free, no fuel anyway...)

I sneak in a quick post-metal track on the way to the pool, so by the time I’m on deck the blood is starting to flow, and I’m ready for the two pre-swim rituals of a little dry-land work, and annoying my training partners. So a few activation exercises and a few pokes of Boxy with a broomstick, and by 5:30 everyones ready to swim. We’re hosted this morn by the Lawton swim squad, headlined by Aussie Open Water juggernaught Trent Grimsey. Today’s set is a 6km kick/pull set, much to my chagrin, as my kick is about as useful as a steak-knife at a vegan’s dinner party. And so I spend a few k’s getting thumped, then pull back a few ego points by giving a reasonable account of myself for the pull segment of the session.

Back in The Gurgler, and once again the petrol alarm squeals, and my hand strays to a Powerade bottle, but I resist the temptation and kid myself that I’ll get up 5 mins earlier tomorrow to fill up. Over a hearty breakfast of fruit, yogurt, cereal and coffee, I check a few emails, watch the ABC morning news, and, lacking any triathlon-related ruminations, tweet a unconvincing pun instead. After one last coffee, I assemble my riding paraphernalia, forgetting my powerbar, sunscreen up, and have one more coffee for good luck. Quickly checking the starting lineup for the Celtics NBA game, I’m confident my favorite team can shut down the Wizards, providing Rondo provides strong perimeter defense on John Wall. So, after another cup of coffee (just in case) it’s just before 10 am and I mount my trusty steed and roll out to meet my fellow comrades of aerobic endeavor. Due to personnel situations containing varying degrees of fiction, it’s a small bunch, with only Drew Box and Emma Jackson signing on. It’s windier than a bathroom at a Baked Bean convention, and we head towards Bribie Island, and swap stories at first, and then turns on the front with Boxy as we punch out a solid pace out to Bribie and back. It’s over 30 C, and I’m sweating like a claustrophobic in a closet. 4 hours later, the watch says 2 pm, the SRM says 124 km, my brain says ‘That’ll do Wilson’, my legs nod in agreement, and satisfied with the majority vote, both brain and legs stop cycling and put the Cannondale to rest for another day. 

Note: File Photo, that is neither Boxy nor Jacko. I was sucking wheel the whole ride though. 

I politely greet my housemates as I enter the house, but in my fatigued state it comes out as “Whgnd hsunt dotnn!’, and, failing to explain myself further, I cleanse myself expeditiously and morph into a Consumer of Mass Destruction, laying waste to a previously well stocked fridge. I allow myself a fist pump as I read news of a Celtic victory, and indulge in a second fist pump as I see Australia has bowled out India on Day 1 of the 2nd Test. By the time I’m nourished to my satisfaction, I postulate that my body could use some TLC, and so I throw some music on the headphones, and spend some time making faces, much to my housemates amusement, whilst in various states of trigger point. Once my body has been absolved of tight areas, I poorly improvise a few riffs on the guitar, stare at the pantry with far too much thoughtfulness, and then let out a small yelp of surprise when I realise it’s 4:45 pm, and time to catalyse my running preparations.

There’s a few efforts on the agenda for the afternoon, so my soundtrack on the Shuffle gravitates to a fartlek staple of Spite Extreme Wing, music it’s impossible not to run (or at least attempt to) fast to. The session I’ve subscribed to is an hour with 2 x 8min efforts, and in the interests of warding of velocity induced depression, I turn off the Garmin’s speed sensor, and make heart rate my cynosure. Given that my legs initially feel as heavy as a Amish toolkit, this might prove to be a wise choice. However, with a little more warm up, and some extra help from Spite Extreme Wing, the legs start to emulate my mind, and I punch out some decent efforts at around 170 BPM, then cruise home to clock off for a solid day ‘In the Office’. 

Gratified with the knowledge I had made surfeit of dinner last night, thus affording myself the night off cooking, I grant myself one last fist pump for the day, but get busted by my housemate, and make a feeble attempt to disguise it as scratching myself. Slightly embarrassed, I eat a quick meal, then retire to savor an episode of delightful political satire, courtesy of the Brits behind In The Thick Of It. Then, absolutely shattered, I hit the lights at the stroke of 8:43, and quietly fade out for the night to sound of the greatest album ever recorded, Neurosis’s The Eye Of Every Storm

The Stats:

Time Training: 7 hrs

Swim: 6 km

Bike: 124 km

Run: 14 km

Fist Pumps: 2.5

Petrol Left In The Gurgler: 100 mls

Coffee: Surplus

...and that’s a normal day. What else would you rather do for a living?

Take care friends,

Willy