Taking Stock: July

The end of July always feels a little bit sad to me. While May and June hold the promise that the best of summer is yet to come, July is the subconsciously ideological peak. And though August is usually a lovely month in the various counties I've inhabited in the northern hemisphere, there is no denying that it is the month that heralds the beginning of the end.

So I'm trying to remain chipper as I do my round up of the month and prepare to make the leap from 7/31 to 8/1 (or 31/7 to 1/8, depending on which side of the Atlantic you live). July has flown by in a blur of manic training: I trained more than I've ever trained in my life in the past month. I have taken the last few days off to eat a lot, drink a lot and sleep a lot in preparation for heading into the Pyrenees for what I am now dubbing to be col-bootcamp. I started to add up my hours of training over the last four weeks and abandoned it when I kept getting different numbers at the end of each week's sub-summary; so let's just say it was a lot. I averaged around 25-30 per week. In terms of bodily changes, I dropped 4 kilos by restricting my carbohydrate intake at non-exercise times of the day, and restricting alcohol intake. Then I gained one of those kilos back in the last week, which may not be such a bad thing. No muscle soreness or fatigue to report, but a definite desire to sleep more.

Before my body decided it's time to take another nap (it keeps happening very suddenly), here's recipe of the month:

Vegan Banana Bread:

    3 ripe bananas
    2 tablespoons olive oil
    2 cups flour
    3/4 cup sugar (or 1 ts stevia, and add a little extra flour)
    1 teaspoon salt
    1 teaspoon baking soda
    1/2 cup coarsely chopped walnuts

Directions:

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease a loaf pan. Mix the mashed bananas and oil in a large bowl. Stir in the flour, vegan sugar, salt, and baking soda. Mix in the nuts. Pour the well blended batter into the greased pan and bake for one hour. Remove and let cool.

This recipe is so easy and so good, and I found that it allowed me to take a post-lunch siesta for just the right amount of time to allow it to bake and when the kitchen timer went off, it was time for mid-afternoon coffee and banana bread. Speaking of which, I'm now ready for a nap.

It's a good life.

Getting out of town as the world (or at least, the rest of France) arrives

I am suddenly beginning to understand why those who live in the south of France do not stay in the south of France for the month of August. I'd been warned and now, before the 1st of August has even rolled around, it's started: le monde arriverais (literal translation: "the world is coming"; figurative translation: "a lot of people are on their way").

It started about a week ago when I noticed an increase in the number of cars (and worse: camper vans) on some of my favourite bike routes between here and the beaches. I'm talking about bumper-to-bumper traffic that came out of nowhere. Then I noticed a swelling of patio furniture and bottoms seated therein in the normally peaceful square with the tranquil fountain below my apartment's windows. I suddenly can't hear the fountain anymore. And then my favourite fruit and vegetable stall down at the market sold out of local melons two days in a row before I got there. All of this points to the inevitable truth which, in spite of the warnings from locals, I was hoping would not come to pass: France is going and holiday, and they are all coming here.

It's well known that this nation takes the month of August off. It's also well known that the French like to vacation in their own country. But France has only so many beaches and a large number of the least spoilt beaches are right here. So my little piece of protected paradise is about to be invaded and I'm feeling irritated that unspoilt will be spoilt for the next four weeks, but also validated by the knowledge that others want to be here, too. It's just a few too many others, all at the same time, for my liking.

So I'm doing the sensible thing and high-tailing it out of Narbonne and into the mountains for the first week of August (I have no idea what I'll do to survive the other three; but an emergency solution was needed). I've booked a week-long trip in the Pyrenees that, for some, would meet their own definition of holiday hell: I'm going to ride my bicycle up the major cols of the Tour de France. Seven days, six cols and four star accommodations that are never more than spitting distance from a lake or pool, and that will hopefully cater to a very hungry little vegan.

Besides the pertinent objective of escaping the emerging fracas here, the other obvious objective is to continue to build my strength on the bike. And if climbing 9,000 meters in seven days doesn't do it, I'll be convinced that nothing ever will.

Summer Fêtes

Watching the vines fill out and noticing that the grapes are burgeoning week by week has reminded me that summer is advancing. August is right around the corner, and as with all good passages of time, I don't know where the last few months have gone. Around Narbonne, the red blooms of poppy fields that danced with the faintest breeze in early summer have been replaced by fields of sunflowers that stand tall and and intent, heads following the sun's orb from morning to night with a delightful earnestness.

And the summer fêtes are well underway. The idea seems to be that each weekend, a different village around here throws their fête, and everybody from the other villages descends on that village to turn it upside down. The following weekend, it's somebody else's turn. I'm not too sure what we are celebrating other than it's summer, there's a lot of wine around, and this is France. Last weekend, I traveled out to Tousan in the heart of the Corbières, a moody appellation that stretches from just west of Narbonne to the foot of the Pyrenees and produces some of the darker and bolder reds of the region. Normally a sleepy little village containing one café, a couple of auberges and a post office, Tousan pulled out the stops and welcomed five hundred people into it's streets and cellars for an all-night, all-singing, all-dancing wine fest. I'm no longer surprised to see that five-year-old children outlast me at French parties; I laid down my arms at 3am on the village-square-come-dancefloor and quietly faded into the auberge with some excuses about training for an Ironman.

Then there was the recovery lunch the following day. I was lucky enough to be invited to attend a luncheon at a domain on the outskirts of Tousan that has been handed down from father to son for generations (note to self: when in France, it's a good idea to make friends with domain owners where possible). Back in Canada, we sometimes barbecue with cedar planks because, well, we have a lot of cedar on hand. Here in the heart of France's largest wine producing region (recently acquired fact: one in ten bottles of wine produced in France comes from Languedoc), they barbecue with - what else - old vines. You have to see it to believe it, and I'm kicking myself for not having the wherewithal to take a picture of the old knotted vines that fueled the old tin barbecue and gave the Merguez sausages a delicious slightly smoked, earthy flavour (so I'm told - I munched on pasta salad while 'forcing' more rosé down).

I also somehow managed to force myself out for a long trail run during the course of the weekend. How often to you get to ask a domain owner, 'do you mind if I run through your vines?'

And thankfully somebody else had the wherewithal to photograph me:

It's good to have some moments of summer captured as they pass.

What Two Days of Rest Can Do

There's a saying in the triathlon club, a sort of inside joke, that is called out by individuals who are feeling particularly sprightly at the start of a long group ride:

'J'ai le feu dans les jambes aujourd'hui!' ('I have fire in my legs today!').

It took me a while to work out the context, and now I understand that it essentially means that one is feeling good today and the rest of the group better watch out. A contrary joke has evolved in accordance with the fact that there are three doctors in the club: this one is often called out in the back half of a long ride when one is not feeling so good:

'Est-ce qu'il y a un medicin dans le peloton?' ('Do we have a doctor in the peloton?)'

Needless to say, the latter was becoming a favourite of mine - until today. After collecting my bike from the repair shop this morning, where it had spent two days getting the handlebars straightened out after Tuesday's crash while I spent two days icing my hip and picking gravel out of my skin, I headed out for a hill training session to see how things were functioning. I was pleased to see that my bike now rolled in a straight line, and even more pleased to feel that the two days of complete rest did wonders for my fitness. I truly had fire in my legs; although out at my lonely hill training spot in the heart of the vineyards, I had no one to tell it to. I banged out five-by-five hard gear repeats into a noteworthy headwind, before making my way over to the pool where I found that my shoulder is still a little lacking in mobility and swimming in a straight line proved to be a bit of a challenge, but I was otherwise the fastest fish in the water.

I think I might incorporate some forced rest into my training cycle more often, only without the high speed body-slam on a wet road.

Fragments of My Week

I started several good posts in the last week, and successful finished none of them. Now they've all become fragmented bits of old news, so I'm scrapping all of them and serving up some bits and pieces of what's come to pass in the last week in my world:

I just wrapped up a serious week of training that included several high intensity bricks, back to back rides of 4 hours and 3 hours, a 4km swim continuous pool swim, a few open water swims, a 2 hour trail run, and an unscheduled 1.5 hour mountain bike ride that I threw in while trying to catch a stunning sunset over the Mediterranean on Sunday night. While I was doing that, Chrissie Wellington smashed the previous female Ironman world record at Challenge Roth, Germany, with a time of 8.31.59, and she did it all with her usual enigmatic smile that belies any pain or suffering. Up in Saint-Fargeau, Mark Cavendish won his fourth Tour stage with the grimace of an athlete giving everything he's got to the finish line. I lost three kilos and gained one back, then took a break from my no alcohol rule to celebrate my first Fête Nationale July 14th in a flurry of champagne accompanied by red, white and blue fireworks. I discovered that heritage tomatoes (in season right now) can be very neatly scooped out with a melon baller and stuffed with all sorts of things that are good sources of plant-based proteins, like lentils, quinoa, garbanzo beans or amaranth, along with a medley of fresh herbs from my terrace (or mixed with my homemade vegan pesto sauce - currently in the lead and a definite favourite for recipe of the month), before baking to aromatic perfection. I bought an electric fly swatter and can't remember the last time I had so much fun with a purchase under $5. The heat carefully built to what even the locals called opressive levels until last night, when the heavens opened and the rain came down so hard that the shutters on my windows shook to wake me from a deep sleep at 3am. Yes, sleep returned to me this week and I'm clocking a good six hours at a time, torrential downpours notwithstanding. In the slippery aftermath of the storm, I crashed on my road bike on a lonely stretch of road in the early morning and am now having trouble lifting my right arm over my shoulder. It doesn't seem to be anything more than bruising and I expect it to pass in a few days, although I'll be sporting a nice road rash at the pool for the next few weeks and will then have to work hard to re-tan some of the surface on the right side of my body. I learned how to say 'what an idiot I am' (je peux être bête!) and how to conjugate the verb 'souffrir' (to suffer, or to be in pain). I'm working on finishing one of the three books I'm reading and expect the lack of shoulder mobility, combined with the otherwise low-volume training week coming up, might help with that. Maybe I'll also do a better job of finishing my blog posts in a timely manner.

Blinked and Missed It

I did, in fact, blink and miss the tour go by yesterday. Something popped up at work that required my immediate attention, just as the stage was kicking off in Cap D'Agde, and I made a decision that, with hindsight, indicates that I have not fully assimilated into French life: I stayed home and worked as the Tour passed by. I kept one eye on the live coverage and felt a pang of regret when I heard the sound of the broadcast helicopters drone by in the distance, but consoled myself today by going out for a long ride on the same route that Lance was on yesterday. I'm now plotting a way to watch them in the Pyrenees, which could prove to be more exciting anyway if I can position myself on the side of a mountain with the other two thousand people.

This week is an intense training week; and combined with the elimination of some of my favorite things (namely, bread and wine) and restricting the consumption of all simple carbs to training sessions, I've already dropped almost a kilo (about two pounds, North Americans) in six days. I'm finding it interesting to see how my musculature has changed with Ironman training, only I didn't know how much it had changed until I started to drop the layer of subcutaneous fat that I hung onto for too long after the harsh Swiss winter (which, of course, required copious amounts of bread and wine to endure). I'm now discovering that I have muscles in places that I didn't have muscles before: in particular, I have a set of forearm muscles that startle me a little every time I look down (from the swimming, one would assume). I've always had a fairly petit upper body and narrow wrists, so this is taking some adjustments in my self-perception, and to my horror is making my non-adjustable watch feel tight. I also spotted some abdominal muscles on the sides of my trunk; also a new phenomenon, and there are two lines that define where calf muscles are, rather than just the one I had previously, which I have mixed feelings about.

But all superficial preoccupations aside, my energy levels are going from strength and strength and I've got my biggest weekend of training yet planned to really put things to the test. Stay tuned.

Blink and You'll Miss It: The Tour Passes By

Simultaneous with, or perhaps a contributing factor in, my blossoming interest in becoming a better rider, Tour de France fever has been slowing building across the southern provinces. Somewhat unremarkablably for France, it seems to be perfectly acceptable behaviour to finish work early, or not go to work at all, to watch the Tour. Every man, woman and child takes an interest in what is more than just the country's oldest and most prestigious international sporting event; it's a national pastime spectator event and the best fodder for small talk down at the market. And like all contentious topics in France, everybody's got an opinion, which they don't mind sharing, on who's doping and who's not - and these opinions change on an almost daily basis. It's hard to keep up.

Today, the Tour passes by little ol'Narbonne. It's a fast and flat 196km stage that takes some of the vineyard routes that I now consider to be 'my routes'. I am heading out shortly to carve out a good spectator spot in one of the smaller villages outside Narbonne, where I am then going to try very hard not to blink and miss them fly by.

For those who are watching live coverage in Europe, and for those who watch the highlights in other time zones, I'm outfitting myself in a white t-shirt with a denim miniskirt in a blatant attempt to catch Lance's attention as he goes by. Look out for me.

A Time for Research and a Time for...

Every now and then, I become acutely aware that I am using the word 'research' as a euphemism for procrastination. So after a solid week of 'research' (although to be fair, I did consult with a host of people whose opinions I value when it comes to triathlon training - you know who you are!), I am ready to make the following changes to my training program:

1. Overall increase in bike volume: I am lengthening all my sessions somewhat and am adding a fourth session on the bike which will be a steady-state session with a transition to run.

2. Overall increase in intensity of mid-week bike sessions: I will continue with one weekly session focused on hard-gear hill training and one session focused on flat accelerations and go as hard as I can on both. While I had already started to move my training in this direction, others have now confirmed that it is absolutely the right thing to do and I just need to be patient to see the results.

3. Keep the Sunday sessions with the club to strictly endurance sessions: in other words, no racing with the boys allowed, and let myself be pushed if it means saving my legs for harder mid-week training.

4. Lean out some more: while I did a good job of leaning out in recent months by cutting back on simple carbs (most notably for me, and quite the personal sacrifice while living in the south of France, wine and bread), it can't hurt to carry less kilos in the saddle still. So I have cleared my social calender of evenings out until the end of July, and have set a goal of dropping 4kg (yes, in addition to occasionally dreaming in French, I have started to think in kilos). I'll write more about how I'm safely doing this later.

5. I will quit worrying about why I am sleeping less and in the absence of any negative effects, will use the extra time to train more.

So now that the time for research is over and the time for action is here, I headed out to a particular favourite hill-training spot yesterday and upped the anti on my hill repeats under a hot midday sun. It's a remote spot on a narrow road amongst some of the older chateaus; the domains that flank the road look like they are small-scale production from old and knotted vines and there's not a welcoming degustation sign in sight (classic old chateau behaviour). Cars rarely pass out here and the cicadas are so loud that they drown out my heavy breathing. The hill itself is really just a gentle slope, although it doesn't feel like that after eight seated reps in my highest gear, all of which made me quite suddenly miss doing the research.