A pair of sportives; on solitude

The rugby World Cup has been playing in the background these last few weeks - of course for some people it is very much in the foreground.  The football season must also have started, as I made the mistake of cycling past the City ground last Saturday just as the crowds were getting some last minute refreshment to sustain them through the next couple of hours.  The tiny Spanish bar had a swarm of red shirts outside that blocked the pavement and quite a lot of the road, and the supporters' public rejection of the Green Cross Code forced me to cycle with care.
I stepped into the bike shop, and entered an island of cycling adrift in a sea of football.  The staff were watching a replay of the world championship from the previous week and they wanted to show me how all the riders were so pleased for Peter Sagan that they all came over and slapped him on the back and threw their arms round him.  I suggested that this was one of the great things about endurance sports; despite the competition everyone appreciates each other's skills and efforts.
Some people just seem to be team people, others prefer lone sports - that definitely applies to me.  I just don't enjoy the pressure of team sports, or understand the partisan nature of going out in a group to watch others play.

The Sunday before I had set the alarm for an un-Sabbath-like hour, thrown the bike in the boot and picked up Heidi for the Bristol 100 mile bike ride.  It was freezing when we got there and we danced around getting ready, shivering and laughing, itching to get riding in order to generate some warmth.  There were plenty of riders around us as we rolled under the gantry and onto the road; still no warmer. The sun was low, causing the riders in front to be silhouetted in metallic greys; breath misting across the road.  The peace of the early morning was framed by the gentle rolling of the tyres, with the occasional gear change or comment between riders causing a counterpoint to the shared silence.
As the hours spread out across the day, Heidi and I chatted to each other and occasionally to other riders.  The sun slowly stripped the chill out of the day, and in the warmth we bowled along quite happily, the miles clicking off.  A good number of stops punctuated the ride, with Heidi's parents meeting us twice, the first time to offer sandwiches and mugs of tea filled from a thermos.  We stood in a poky little layby, roll in one hand mug in the other, as riders came past, waving.
The day proceeded in this way, chatting, enjoying the scenery, connecting with some of the other riders, until we rolled into Blaise and the finish.
A celebratory hug and tub of ice cream, and we flopped onto the grass to watch the other riders freewheel across the line or walk to the car park in that bent style cyclists have.  Families filled the park - children, dogs, queues for refreshment, the  slightly damp ground offering a base for just watching people go by.

The following Sunday brought another 100 mile ride - some similarities some differences.  The morning was every bit as cool as the week before; this time the morning clung onto the low temperature by shrouding us in fog.  There were far fewer riders, only 35 for the 100 mile ride, and we all started together, riding through that strange muffled atmosphere that fog brings.

 The first climb from Priston up into the Mendips started the inevitable distancing of riders, and by Cheddar, I was on my own.
And there I was, a solo rider - barely in an event.  One rider overtook me in Wells and another two joined me at Evercreech only to disappear after the King Alfred's Tower food stop.  That was at forty miles, so the next sixty were spent almost entirely on my own.  Signs guided the way as long as I kept my eyes open for them, and I cruised through villages and countryside unknown to me but welcoming further exploration one day.
Up over Salisbury Plain, and I saw three riders in the distance but they were so far ahead I couldn't catch them - actually they weren't in the event, so I couldn't have stayed with them.
Without company my attention was drawn to the mileometer and the painfully slow increase in completed miles.  Without anything else to distract me this developed into an obsession, until I had to ration my glances.
The last twenty miles were an uncomfortable grind with increasingly tired legs - not dramatically so, but without stimulation tiredness became a focal point.  I rolled into the ride HQ, third finisher, an hour faster than last week although I suspect still feeling the effects of the previous ride.

What do you do when you get home from an event like that?  There must surely be an air of exultation and the need to chatter about the day.  But what if there is nobody there to share it with?  I was grateful to recieve Heidi's text asking how it went, it gave me the opportunity to feed back at least a tiny part of the day.  Karin would always ask me how it went - as she got more ill she locked into the one functional phrase, 'well, how was that?' for all my little adventures.

But these events couldn't be closed.  The sealing lid couldn't be placed on the day - I finally understood why people stand around talking after a ride or a run; they need to talk the day out of themselves. The week before I had suddenly felt the need to buy a bottle of prosecco and toast Karin; she would have been an integral part of the ride just by being the recipient of a recounting of the day's exploits.  The second ride found me doing the same thing, missing her.
I started to recognise the social nature of solo events; that odd contradiction showing that we humans need both solitude and company.  We spin between the two.  And, of course, I now realise that other people who may not even have attended the day's events are an integral part of it as vicarious recipients of an experience.  Even lone sportsmen need people.

Thanks to  Bike Events and Somer Valley CC for the sportives, and Nic Meadows for the photos

Bristol Half Marathon 2015 in memory of Karin, and raising money for the hospice

Who, or rather, what am I?  A trite question currently struggling to be answered.  Runner?  Not really, given the prognosis of my degenerating cartilage.  Husband and partner?  Yes, but only as a historical artifact rather than a practice.  How about communicator?  Possibly, whatever a communicator is.
Running the Bristol Half Marathon was familiar in that I have run it a good number of times, and a Sunday of competing as part of a huge crowd is hardly a novel experience for me.  What was different was the layering of an emotion on top of that - rather than just running for fun I was running to remember Karin; I was running in order that as a group we all come together to remember her; and I was running to promote the work of the hospice and telling our story so that others can benefit from it.

The hospice seemed very excited at my presence - I was immediately drafted into photographs and radio interviews and I attempted some lucidity and analysis - although I am not sure that was what was needed on a warm morning filled with noise, restless bustle and nervous anticipation. Still, it is what I do.
The sun started to excise the cool out of the air and there wasn't even the hint of a breeze; perfect conditions for a run.  Perfect conditions to clear the roads of traffic, strip the urban machine-noise out of the air and celebrate life.  A life, our life.

There wasn't time to go through the normal over-preparation, so I managed with a banana and a hurried pee before we slipped into the restless crowds on the start line.  And off.  The first few miles floated away through the oddly muted atmosphere of hundreds of running shoes in a car-less environment; punctuated by clusters of relatives and friends clapping and shouting.  The portway was a genuine pleasure, no cars just a gorge rich with trees and water - runners padded along, some talking; a few came up to me and commented on the picture of Karin on the back of my vest.

A starnge juxtaposition, the solitary experience of thinking about the loss of Karin, sat right in the middle of a hugely public act. 15,000 runners around me, all thinking their own private thoughts while engaging in the collective worship of humanity.  Crowds lined the streets the whole distance, shouting and clapping, there were samba bands and a man playing the bagpipes.  What were we celebrating?

Returning to Bristol for the second half was equally easy.  I left Jenny and tried to keep up the efficient cadence I have been practicing; given extra energy by the number of people I knew that were shouting for me. It was hot so at every water station I took a bottle, drank half and then poured the rest down my neck and face.
As we returned there were two flows of runners, those heading back into the city, and those still running out; I placed myself in the eddying middle so I could give a shout to anyone I knew; there were also a number of runners wearing the yellow hospice vests that received a fraternal yell.  There were also plenty of people I knew both in the race and beside it;  Natasha was prominent in her wonder woman outfit; I saw the distinctive white vests of Bristol AC runners and there was Andy, trying to focus his ipad camera and watch the race at the same time: but I really wanted to see Ingrid and Francine, at the back and purely there for Karin.  There they were, so far back that they were being followed by a van, wearing big smiles and waving, leaping round in an unfocessed and energetic way, connecting with everyone.  How like Karin that was.

The end of Portway provides an excellent viewpoint for spectators and Mum was there along with Mark and various other people.  The shouted support always provides a boost, but oddly as I left that area, all I could hear were shouts that were eerily like Karin.  She often stood at that point to urge me on so maybe I was expecting to hear her voice, or maybe women sound similar when shouting, but it really did sound like her.  Somewhat dislocated by this experience, I continued, succumbed to a hated sticky energy gel and prepared for the tough bit round the city centre.  My focus was very much on the unaccustomed discomfort and how many miles I had left to go - a steadily diminishing number.
Past the Hippodrome and I was pretty tired, boosted by the thought that no matter how hard it feels it isn't as hard as having terminal cancer, and anyway I could always slow down; you can't step away from cancer, there are no days off.  The constant daily presence of the illness as well as the prognosis must have been a terrible pressure.  I know that because at the end she just wanted release from the relentlessness of discomfort.

I had yards to do; I urged my neighbouring runners to give it one last push, round the corner and under the gantry.  I was met by ecstatic hospice workers who already wanted me to be interviewed but made my excuses and wandered off as wave upon wave of sadness enveloped me.  There was nowhere to sit - runners were streaming through and barriers prevented me from leaving the route.  I perched in the corner on a bend, blinking back an overwhelming sense of loss and absence.  I was circling the whirlpool, whipped round and round by the current which threatend to drag me into a place I wouldn't be able to escape from.  Jenny arrived, clearly in a similar state, and we clung together, wet and sweaty, in a bleakly honest and animal way.  Deep breaths, wiped faces, allowing ourselves to be distracted by water, medals and t-shirts, and we were back.  Back to the excitement of the event and back to the hospice publicity team asking me how I felt about being interviewed by local TV.  I felt OK; well I didn't feel OK but could still function.

I spent a good amount of time that day talking to reporters and presenters and having my photograph taken, all of which was carried out by my parallel persona, the professional one.  The person who was intimate with Karin was wandering around in the background, unsure of what to feel.  What to feel became less of a problem when the race actually started - I knew what to do, I was in my place, and this was easy.  This comfort ceased when the race finished - all of the stored confusion and sadness spiralled to the surface and I had to take a good while to recover my composure; added to by Jenny finishing and clearly feeling exactly the same.

Back to my house; my house not our house, a close-knit group of people united in our connections to Karin had a commerative glass of prosecco and some snacks.  As people drifted away, I was left with a sunken feeling - the race was over; we ran it to remember Karin, and now we have finished there isn't anything.  I just sat, nursing glasses of cider, all evening.  What was there?  Just her absence. Not even a race any more.


On its own, I can handle the loss of my personal relationship with Karin - but I struggle to come to terms with the threads of communication and connection with other people, the public side of losing her. It is so much bigger, and forces consideration of how she and I interacted with countless individuals.  Karin's connections with others extended in all directions and in her absence these connections are now flapping around like untethered ribbons.

So where does that place me? Runner? I ran the half in 1:38, nearly 20 minutes slower than previous times and firmly in the realms of casual runners.  Unsurprisingly, given my knee and my lack of training, but not me:  I run fairly fast. Communicator?  Well, I certainly linked with people in a way I never have before, both in terms of sharing the day as part of a group and also being interviewed.  Husband?  Spouses do things together, and this we can't do any more. No, I am not a husband because that is a state of being and I can't be that.  Perhaps I should focus on the day; a great day where I felt part of something, much more than normal.  Crowds came out to watch us, to support us, the hospice made us feel welcome, so we were part of the inside of the race as well as the outside.  A powerful day.