Friday, 18 July 2014

Björn LCM

Another year, another opportunity to dress up, have a drink, dance like a loon and have more laughs than you can shake a stick at.

Or a set of flares. Of the wearable kind, that is, not the distress ones.

Yes. The advent of that fabulous spoof Abba group, Björn Again.
Too much fun for any blog post to actually do justice to the event.


Suffice to say that even if you are the most die-hard miserable git with zero sense of humour, standing in front of the stage and singing along (loudly, off key), doing the dance moves, and having an absolute whale of a time is guaranteed to lift your spirits, have you toss all semblance of dignity aside and join in the overwhelming sense of fun that everyone is experiencing.


If you are having a crap day, I can highly recommend it.

If you are having a great day, this will be the total icing on the cake.

Fan. Tas. Tic.

So thank you for the music and groove on down baby!




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Friday, 11 July 2014

Le Tour de LCM

It's a funny world.

No sooner had I found myself actually drawn to watch a football match on TV (Germany vs Brazil, on mute, whilst doing some late project work on my laptop and talking to my parents on the phone - it made for an interesting email to a client, a flawed conversation with my mother, and a peculiar narrative to anyone else in the vicinity) than another far more deserving sporting event consumed the LCM household.

Yes, Le Tour.

That glorious, mad, painful and indecently Lycra-clad three-week event that even people with absolutely no interest in two wheels can appreciate. Witness the Yorkshire grand départ and subsequent legs with record crowds and franco-fied names of every pub, lane, hill and vale. There's an element of novelty, I'll grant you that, but, by 'eck the populace got stuck in and had a great time.

Now the LCM household is quite partial to cycling. With recent comments about our garage resembling a Halfords depot, it is hardly surprising that the level of competition has now been edged north a few notches with the TdF up and running.

Case in question: OH heads out early one recent Sunday morning to do a couple of laps of Richmond Park. Mr Man accompanies him - on the single speeder - and joins him for one lap, enjoying a muffin and drink while waiting for his father to complete his outing.

All fine and well.

Fast forward to the following weekend. OH heads out again for the same routine. Mr Man, channelling his soon-to-be inner teenager, claims 'tiredness' and opts to stay in bed. Into the fray steps Blossom, aged ten.

She proceeds to complete not one, but two laps of the park with her father. Also on the single speeder. Undaunted, she then comes home and says she "could have done another, I felt really energised".

I look at OH and catch his eye.

"Seriously?" I ask.

"That's nothing," he answers. "I was told off by one of the riders she overtook."

"How so?" I query.

"He wanted to know why I had gears while my daughter had none!"

Probably worried about the dent to his reputation, I reckon, being left in a child's wake.
Heaven forbid when Widget has his turn. The child is already a sprinter-in-the-making, forever out of his seat, making headway and racing to finish lines regardless of conditions. Mark Cavendish, Peter Sagan, Marcel Kittel, watch out.

The one saving grace is that he is - for the time being - so laid back he is virtually horizontal.
Unfazed by sibling competition.
No menace.
Yet.

Anyone interested in placing a bet for 2020?

© Presse Sports/B.Papon

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Thursday, 3 July 2014

I had a dream

Not a particularly enlightening one. Nor one that would lead to uprisings, civil rights movements and rectifications of injustices.

No. Mine was much closer to home.

I dreamt about the upcoming triathlon.

I was on site with plenty of time to spare, bike in tow, checklist to hand.
And then I realised I had forgotten my wetsuit.
"Not a problem," I was told. "It's warm enough to go without."

Excellent, I thought, relishing the thought of a PVC-free swim.

Then I realised I had forgotten my tri suit.
"You can wear your swimmers with a t-shirt," they assured me.

I had visions of discomfort, with not much material between my nether regions and the saddle, not to mention the running section which would see me regularly trying to stop my togs from riding up my bum. Not a pleasant sight. I was just grateful to have at least seen to the 'defuzz' issue in the lead up to the event. My race number might have had to be critically placed below my navel otherwise to cover my shame.

The dream continued. I racked my bike, one eye on the clock and the minutes ticking by.
Ohmygawd - where were my cleat in riding shoes? Forgotten.
I locate a spare pair and they fit. Saved.

Time to get ready for the start.
Hang on. Where are my goggles and ear plugs? WTF?
A race to the supply tent and a quick exchange of monies sees me set.

Countdown to the start...

Now you think at this stage I would either wake up or slumber on oblivious, correct?

Not so. I appear to fast forward through the swim and the bike section and am suddenly back in transition for the run.

Where the bloody hell are my trainers? How did I manage to forget those too? What the devil was I wearing on my feet when setting everything up?

I spot a pair of flip flops.

No chance. I opt to complete the race barefoot.

Of course, when I told the Moose this story during our training session this morning, he laughed. "You sound slightly paranoid, are you ready for the race?"

"Yes," I replied. "I am packing my stuff now."

It is only Thursday.
The triathlon is Saturday.
Don't think I will ever be more prepared.



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