Thursday 23 June 2011

You know you're a cycling widow when....

- you start to find his 'cyling tan' endearing, rather than just plain ridiculous.

- you automatically tell the loud american tourist in the sports shop that no, the red spotted jersey is not the "French team top", but the King of the Mountain jersey. doh?

- you actually know what the 'King of the Mountain' jersey is.

- you bought YOURSELF a cycling book, because you thought it looked interesting.

- you are used to him having smoother legs than you most of the time.

- you seriously consider buying a car (despite the cost and lack of need for one in a big city) as you realise it'd be much more convenient for getting to races and transporting bikes.

- you consider viable models by how much room they have in the boot, not by how cute they look.

- you buy a special hamper for 'bike stuff' to try to limit it taking over the whole flat.

- you give up thinking silly ideas like that would work.

- you take more care washing your other half's lycra than you do your own clothes.

- you make a 'special dinner' by buying a more expensive brand of pasta.

- you can differentiate his team mates in the peleton by their pedal stroke (granted, the bright orange strip helps).

- you know what a peleton is.

- you can convince yourself that it really is their pedal stroke that you notice, not their thighs. honest.

- you no longer think that men in brightly coloured lycra look like clowns.

- you are prepared for the communication black-out that will begin July 2nd, when he will be glued to the Tour De France coverage for 3 weeks.

- you realise you're actually looking forward to watching some of the Tour de France coverage.

- you think it's normal that you are taking two bikes on your summer holiday and your destination is planned around cycle routes.

- you have an argument with your other half when he's out of the country and you take YOURSELF to the bike track for an hour to calm down.

- you spend the hour thinking it really was time you bought drop handlebars if you're going to catch that bloody woman in front of you.

- you get sad on your way home when you remember that convenient bike tracks will be fewer and further between when you return to London.

- you realise you've been turned.

Merde.

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P.s - The Frenchman is competing in a stage of the Tour de France on 17 July and raising money for leukaemia research, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It's the French equivalent of 'Just Giving' and is very easy to donate, even from the UK!

There's only 24 more days to go and only 113 euros to reach his target!!!!!

Tuesday 21 June 2011

What happens when the subject reads your blog

I quick update today, as, in all honesty, I'm still in shock.

The following strange things happened last night:

1.  The Frenchman returned home in time for dinner
(well, he was only 20 minutes later than agreed, which, for the French, is almost unfashionably early)

2.  In one hand he carried a bouquet of long stem roses
(bloody women, all it takes is a bunch of flowers and we become a big swooning heap of jelly - and the well-practiced 'Where have you been??' rants are immediately forgotten)

3.  In the other hand he carried a bottle of wine
(cue a mental chorus of 'hallelujah!!!!' - my inner drunkard has been dying from dehydration whilst trying to be supportive of his recently self-imposed, half-pint limit)

4.  The words 'bike', 'race' and 'training' were not mentioned once in the evening
(theory to test next time: if it weren't for the wine, would he have ran out of conversation?!)

5.  He did not set his alarm at some ungodly hour this morning to train and instead we had a lie-in
(I'm not kidding myself that this one was difficult to manage, but I appreciated it all the same)

I'm not sure who this man is or what he has done with the Frenchman. 

It's safe to say that I could get used to having him around....

...but then what would I have to whinge about??

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P.s - The Frenchman is competing in a stage of the Tour de France on 17 July and raising money for leukaemia research, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It's the French equivalent of 'Just Giving' and is very easy to donate, even from the UK!

And with any luck, maybe this stranger will return when the race is finished! ;-)

Monday 20 June 2011

Here come the girls...

The Frenchman returned last night from a weekend away with his cycling club. 

This wasn’t your normal ‘lads weekend’ of booze, birds and toilet humour.  But rather 100s of kilometres, tonnes of pasta and hours of bike chat.

As usual, he returned exhausted, but elated and full gossip about his fellow cyclists on the trip.

...natter natter...  bike...  natter natter... hill... natter natter... carbon....

(starting to glaze over slightly...)

"OH MY GOD, you should SEE this guys thighs! I don’t get it, he's older than me but so much fitter! I'm completely rubbish in comparison........."

(yawn...)

"OH MY GOD you should SEE this guy’s bike... it’s soooo beautiful!  The frame!! And the wheels, my god, the wheels! I would kill for wheels like that."

Well that woke me up. 

Babe, didn’t you just buy new wheels?!

Pause.

When was the last time I said you didn’t need that new pair of shoes?”

Fair point.

Hmmm.... I don't like this strange role reversal.

But I must admit, dating a cyclist is starting to give me a bit more sympathy for the long-suffering male sex: as a group of cyclists bears an uncanny resemblance to a group of women.

A group of fashion conscious, neurotic women, with a dangerous spending habit.

For the prosecution:

1. They stare at better bikes the same way I look at anyone who walks past with a Chloé handbag: with desire, frustration and jealousy in equal parts. 

2. When they’ve won, they respond to praise with complaints:  how out of shape they are, how they really must train harder, how they wish they were a few kilos lighter, more toned and, obviously, faster.

3. They’re addicted to magazines: our living room contains more Velo magazines than Vogue.

4. They are the ultimate ‘clique’:  If you don’t have the right bike, you’ll be laughed out of town.  If you aren’t kitted out from head to foot in the latest ‘Assos’ lycra (no, apparently it’s not the same as the online clothes shop!), you won’t be taken seriously.  If you don’t cycle 6 days a week, what on earth would they talk to you about?

And don’t even get me started on the leg shaving.  If you turn up with unshaved legs, you might as well walk around with a neon flashing “TOURIST!” sign on your forehead.

When the Frenchman started shaving his legs (despite me voicing rather loud and strong opinions to the contrary), I was told on no uncertain terms that he cared more about what his fellow cyclists thought than his own girlfriend.  The threat of never shaving mine again had absolutely no effect.

Ladies, there’s a scary new breed of females out there – except they’re meaner, leaner and even more obsessive than the rest of us.

But the worst thing?

They can eat as many carbs as they like and never get fat.

Bitches.

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P.s - The Frenchman is competing in a stage of the Tour de France on 17 July and raising money for leukaemia research, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It's the French equivalent of 'Just Giving' and is very easy to donate, even from the UK!

And it'll provide me with some consolation as to why his legs are smoother than mine ;-)



Wednesday 15 June 2011

Broken Shoes

CLACK......CLACK.......CLACK......

Hmmm.... those are very slow footsteps after a ride. Definitely not normal Frenchman behaviour...

The saddest face I have ever seen came around the corner. 

"My shoe, it's.. it's...it's broken...!"

He forlornly sticks out his foot.  Sure enough, the clasp on his cycling shoe is broken.

He looked like a little puppy who has had his favourite toy taken away.
and has lost his mother. 
and is stuck outside in the pouring rain in a thunderstorm. 
and it's the middle of winter. 
etc etc etc.... you get the picture.

I was waiting for the whimpering noises to begin any second.

Ok, so these aren't just any shoes, these are brand new, carbon, specially-moulded, stupidly expensive cycling shoes that my lovely parents bought him for his birthday (my dad always did want a son to indulge with pricey sports gadgets - the Frenchman and my sister's boyfriend benefit well from his bad luck with genetics).

So, broken shoes. At least for once this is something I could sympathise with - if anything happened to my Louboutin's... nope, not worth going there.

But there's such an intense look of bereavement on his face, that I'm having to do my best not to laugh: No, I'm sorry, it doesn't look like we can fix the shoes ourselves babe. Hey hey hey, chin up!! They're faulty, so we'll just send them back and we'll get you a new pair next week.  I promise. Yes, I know a week is a long time but we'll find a way of coping, Ok?

No tears, brave little soldier.

And this was just the shoes - can you imagine if anything happened to his bike?! Maybe I should find a counsellor's phone number to put in my blackberry. 

Just in case...

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p.s - The Frenchman is competing in a stage of the Tour de France on 17 July and raising money for leukaemia research, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It's the French equivalent of 'Just Giving' and is very easy to donate, even from the UK!

And it'll help keep his chin up through these dark, non-carbon cycling shoe times ;-)

Tuesday 14 June 2011

Pasta, pasta everywhere and not a bite to eat...

So it's the end of the bank holiday weekend, which means back to work.

Which also means back to widow duties.

Which means yet another pan of pasta on the stove.

There's an unwritten rule in this 'modern' Franglais household - I do the cooking, the Frenchman does the ironing. Probably due to the fact the he can't boil an egg without detailed instructions.

It's safe to say, I don't wear a shirt to work very often either.

Granted, pasta is the one thing he is able to cook by himself. But unless I want to eat plain pasta every day for the foreseeable future (and give myself an early coronary from the vast quantities of butter and salt that are included if he's left unsupervised in the kitchen), I am in charge of the cooking.

I find it impossible to comprehend the sheer quantity of pasta the Frenchman can ingest in one sitting, twice a day (I vetoed cooking pasta for breakfast, I have my limits) and not be the size of a house.

For example, this weekend I headed out to a hen do, after cooking two enormous pans of pasta on Saturday morning: one for a girly picnic (to line the stomachs of 7 hungry girls in preparation for a alcohol fuelled weekend) and one for the Frenchman's dinner. He promptly text me afterwards to tell me he was still hungry and could've eaten twice that.

Despite trying in vain to make him eat a balanced, healthy diet - he can be a very fussy eater (unless it contains, sugar, salt or saturated fat, he's not really interested) and it's taken me years to make him try certain vegetables. He doesn't really know the difference between proteins, carbs, vegetables and fats, and he really couldn't care less. I'll never forget the confused look on his face when I informed him that croque monsieur wasn't exactly a healthy meal: "what about if we add the fried egg and make it a croque madame? that's better right?" 

So in order to make him eat enough of the right stuff to sustain him through training, I often have to give up and resort back to my old trick of hiding vegetables in a pasta dish.

Now, I like pasta as much as the next girl not on Atkins, and I can be an inventive cook - but even I am fast running out of ideas for spicing up a bit of fusilli (unless you count the inappropriately shaped pasta I found during the hen do excursions this weekend).

I'm also aware that pasta isn't expensive. But as I'm going through a box every two days, I'm going to need to take out shares in Barilla to start making a return on this expenditure. When you add in the cost of the vegetables, meat and fruit etc I'm trying to get him to eat… this cycling malarkey will end up bankrupting me.

But as a reward for the numb tastebuds and extra inches on my waist, the Frenchman has promised me a pasta-free week after the race (yes ladies and gentlemen, a WHOLE WEEK!) and the very thought of it is making me salivate.

So now the count down is now on with a vengeance - only 33 days and about 16 boxes of pasta left to go…

But in the meantime I'm very open to dinner invitations.

Unless you're going for Italian.

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p.s - The Frenchman is raising money for leukaemia research through his race, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It's the French equivalent of 'Just Giving' and is very easy to donate, even from the UK!

And the more you donate, the easier all this pasta will be to digest ;-)

Friday 10 June 2011

Hidden Benefits?

Yes I whinge about the Frenchman's obsession with cycling.

A lot.

But I can't deny there are moments that make me realise all the training and sacrifices are starting to pay off:

Recent moments of pride, in ascending order of levels of girly 'swooning':

1. Watching him zoom past me at the speed of sound


(just before I start screaming along the lines of "ALLEZ Move your lazy ass! What the fu*k is this, a warm up?!" - he says it's quite motivational, honest!)

2.  Seeing him smile with a medal around his neck



(He can be forgiven for placing "only third" (his words, not mine), given the poor thing does have to wear bright orange as his team strip, a handicap by itself....)

 
3. 'Accidentally' observing the morning fitness regime.....











he he he he

Maybe it's not so bad being a cycling widow after all..... ;-)


p.s - The Frenchman is raising money for leukaemia research through his race, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please take a little bit of time to sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

And I get to make the most of 'Mr Muscle' for the next 37 days ;-)

Thursday 9 June 2011

I realise I'm turning into my mother..

There are various problems in dating a cyclist.

The one that often drives me to distraction is their inability to understand that, to "normal people" (and by that, I mean anyone who doesn't go to bed dreaming of carbon), there are appropriate times and places for cycling in their lives. And not-so-appropriate times and places.

OK, so I admit I am not a particularly patient person (understatement), but I defy Mother Theresa not to have wanted to chuck the bike out the window at some point in the last 2.5 years.

I imagine that living with a cyclist is perhaps like living with a toddler - a particularly large, messy toddler who won't eat their vegetables, would have a tantrum if they didn't get to play with their favourite toy and leave you constantly walking 3 steps behind them, clearing up the trail of destruction they leave in their wake.

"Oh my god, I'm so sick of picking up your sh**!" is the most common phrase out of my mouth on normal sleep-deprived mornings.

To the Frenchman:

- a bedroom is the correct place to store a bike
(what did I say about a love triangle?)

- the sofa is the obvious place to discard sweaty lycra
(because everyone loves the smell of stale sweat when they eat their dinner)

- the lounge is the perfect place for bike pumps, tool kits and chamois cream
(X-Factor has nothing on the 'tweak the bike' show)

- any available surface is the ideal spot for half eaten cereal bars and empty energy drink bottles
(Note to self: do NOT buy the chocolate ones again, they melt in his team jersey…and who do you think has to try and wash that afterwards?!)

- 6.30am on a Monday morning is the best time to wake up your partner and discuss this week's training schedule
(oh, I wish I was joking)

- any romantic dinner is the time to discuss their competitor's performance in the last race
(don't mistake that fiery look in his eyes for passion- he's thinking about how to beat the other guy, not what knickers you're wearing)

- any free time on a weekend is the ideal opportunity to search for that extra bike gadget
(after a while you learn to realise this isn't "the last thing I need, honest")

and, my particular favourite from the other night:

- 11pm is the perfect time to start fixing new pedals on a bike, when he's going away on business at 5am in the morning

"I'm guessing I'm doing the tidying up and packing again right?"

Yep, you really don't need kids to realise you turn into your mother sooner or later.


p.s - The Frenchman is raising money for leukaemia research through his race, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please, please, please sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It'll make it worthwhile living with my toddler ;-)

Wednesday 8 June 2011

The Countdown Begins...

I am in love with a Frenchman. The Frenchman is in love with his bike. The bike and I have a love-hate relationship. It's an interesting love triangle that occasionally causes a few minor potholes on the otherwise smooth cycle route to 'happily-ever-after'.

He's always been a cycle addict, first VTT and now a roadie (given it can be slightly hard to find decent mountains in Paris), but over the last two and a half years I have seen a serious hobby develop into full blown passion. He lives for his bike a bit like I live for shoes. Amazingly, even with a penchant for Choos, my passion ends up being cheaper (no, really).

And now, on 17 July, the Frenchman is competing in a stage of the Tour de France in his home region of Auvergne, from Issoire to Saint-Flour. For the uninitiated, that's 208kms, 5 bloody big mountain passes and one rather exhausted frog at the finish line.

Obviously this means a bit of preparation is required. This also means that passion has transformed into an addiction and I now have to organise my life around a bike.

Over the last few months, the weeks and weekends have disappeared into a flurry of training sessions and competitions. I don't remember the last weekend he wasn’t racing, or the last morning he had a lie in. He now finishes work early, trains, works late into the evening and gets up early again in the morning. The lazy frog that would once sleep in until midday has gone - it's quite inspiring, if not mildly scary.

Now don't get me wrong. I love that he has such passion, that there's something that makes him so happy (ahem, APART from me), it's good for him - and, if you saw him on a bike, it's hard not to be impressed.

And I'm nothing but supportive (most of the time).

In the spirit of "if you can't beat them, join them" I bought myself a bike and I now get up at some ungodly hour every other morning to join him training (although I do a measly 3 laps of the cycle track and I whinge about it the whole way there).

I've given up holidays to take him to races, twiddled my thumbs by myself for hours in order to cheer him on once every 10km loop, been there to congratulate him when he places (and console him when he doesn't), put up with the grumps when he's just missed out on a medal and learnt to talk about crank sets, cleats, and carbon like I had the foggiest clue (read: interest).

Without really realising I've turned into head cheerleader, nutritionist, masseuse (when asked very nicely), psychiatrist, coach and yes, cycling widow.  Or maybe mistress is more appropriate. The wife is the bike, the one he will never ever leave, no matter how much lingerie you buy!

In fact I'm lucky - he could be MUCH worse. He could do this for a living - although something tells me he would prefer this (!). I know that sometimes he makes a conscious decision not to get on the bike and instead spend his precious free time with me. However, I've also listened to him complain about how much better X or Y is, as they don't have any distractions (read: demanding job, demanding girlfriend, i.e. A LIFE) and therefore have more time to train . Sometimes I realise I'm the only thing stopping him turning into a man obsessed - although I don't know whether he thinks that's a good thing or a bad thing ;-)

So, in 39 days time, the dearest Frenchman will attempt the hardest challenge of his cycling life so far. Something tells me this might be a long 39 days for me too (it's almost like Lent, but without the chocolate eggs at the end) - and instead of taking my frustrations out on him when I can't stand to hear the word "bike" any more, I thought I'd start writing it down - my own little journey to the arrivée at Saint Flour.

Because after 17 July we can stop talking about bikes, right?

Ha ha, one can always dream…….

p.s - The Frenchman is also raising money for leukaemia research through his race, a cause very dear to his heart - so if you read this, please sponsor him at http://laurettefugain.alvarum.net/teamrondy2011. Every little helps.

It also means I can add 'Head fundraiser' to my job description. Or maybe I'll just put "Saint" ;-)