Being a teacher (and a pupil)

I love my job. I often meet people who think I joke when I say this, more so in Greece than in other places, but hand on heart, I really do love my job. Yes, it's tough. Anyone who has spend more than an hour with 7 year olds knows that it's not a walk in the park. They are demanding and require massive amounts of energy, attention and love. It can be draining, sometimes at the end of the day my feet are killing me and my head is buzzing, but it is also uplifting and very very rewarding.

I have always considered myself lucky to be doing what I do and my job has really pulled me through this difficult time in my life. Kids can be selfish, they don't care what kind of day you are having. In a nutshell: the show must go on! Yet, still, they care and they too, give back to you in so many ways.

I feel happy to know that I am changing lives, the lives of young people who are the adults of tomorrow. But I feel even happier and privileged when I think about how they change me! Every class I have taught has always taught me something - almost every kid I have spent time with day in, day out for a year has given me an insight into the world. The girl who never gives up. The little boy who copes with the crippling reality of having a dozen allergies without so much as one complaint. The child who comes to school speaking hardly any English, yet makes friends and moves on.

Children are so resilient and they are a lesson to me, everyday. They are resilient because their life-force is so strong. Life is resilient. Resilient, yet flexible, bending along with the wind, yet standing up at the end of every day.

Today we had a 'clinic' for beginning triathletes, introducing them to this wonderful sport of ours and giving them tips for their first race. I look and find inspiration everywhere, and as with my other class, in this one too. I was surprised and in awe of people's ability to 'give it a go', to try something new, to leave their comfort zone. To try and swim 750 meters in cold water, to keep running when their legs screamed. I hope we gave them some help and tips for their first race, but, let it be known, I got a lot more back - lessons for life and sport, as well as the mixture of fear and excitement of getting ready for your first race.

Theory...

... and practice

On the back of all these thoughts I have had a very good week of training, that has left me hungry and tired every single night this week. On course for a solid 12.5 hours, as well as 40+ hours of work and 7 hours of training camp for with trigreece.gr (thank you Stelio and Christina!).

Good luck to Robbie, Spyro and Laura who are racing IMSA. Enjoy the race, guys!

Train, eat, sleep and be happy!

It's been a good week. I am feeling more like myself, I am happier, healthier and have even put some weight back on! Training has been, it feels like, very solid. My sleeping patterns have returned to normal and I have really enjoyed this week at work too!

So it seems life is good. Most of the time. Dark moments lurk where you least expect them and I find that I can change from one minute to the next, from happy to deeply sad. Like at the wedding we attended last night - full of happiness and excitement and I really felt happy for the couple. Yet out of nowhere tears came to my eyes and a heavy sadness when the bride danced with her dad.

I have had a lot of good advice and would like to thank everyone for it. I take a special kind of strength from people who have been there - their words have a special meaning to me and I welcome their advice. The most important piece of advice: be understanding with yourself and let yourself feel whatever it is. There is no right or wrong in grief.

And so I move forward, as I must, as my dad would like me to as well. I feel more anchored this week - it could be the training or just the full nights of sleep. It's also the new sense of purpose that the impending race has brought to my life.

Monday was a solid day of training, with a long swim that felt wonderful. It was full of glide and I felt almost 'slippery'. Good thing too, as it ended up being my one and only swim for the week - life got in the way! The swim was followed by 40 mins of weights and a run. I meant to keep an eye on my heartrate during the run, but running with others makes that hard, so I gave in and went with the flow. I know... not very useful as I am trying to build my base, but fun nonetheless. As much as aerobic capacity is a goal for my training, fun is higher on the list.

The rest of the week went smoothly, apart from our Thursday night mountain bike. Towards the end of the ride Duncan decided to do a few extra minutes, so I headed home, while he headed back up the mountain. I got home and made some tea, waiting for D to come back. After 30 long minutes I started getting worried, but I got even more worried when it got dark and there was no sign of D. I knew he had no lights and the mountain is pretty dark... I checked my phone, to find it was on silent and had two missed calls, yet when I tried to call him back his phone was out of order. I started thinking of the worst: Duncan with a broken leg, concussion, unconscious, abducted... you name it, it crossed my mind. Of course, it could have been something as simple as a flat... especially as I carried the pump...

I don't drive, but even if I could a lot of the mountain is inaccessible by car. I couldn't get hold of anyone to come with me, so after a while I took my head torch and headed out back towards the mountain. It was dark and was getting chilly, but I had no option.

To my delight, 15 mins into my ride, I saw a yellow fluorescent vest bobbing up and down into my headlight. I could hear the clippety clop of Duncan's mtb shoes on the asphalt and after a while I could clearly see him running downhill, wheeling his bike alongside him. I was so relieved I started to cry, while he started shouting at me for not answering my phone. I didn't care at all and after a few minutes of silence he apologised. Tyre fixed we rode in the pitch black back home.

That night I felt happy to have him lying in bed with me, my legs tired from the ride, my lids heavy from another full day.

Second week of training was productive and I have left every workout wanting more. That can only be a good thing!

First week of training and the many faces of grief

Grief, I am learning, takes many guises. For some it's paralysing, for others it's a weight they carry around for a long time. I thought I was immune, or rather I thought that because I was prepared and because I had cried it would be mild for me, I would sail through it, a mere sadness, and come out the other side. I was wrong.

It has long been accepted that grief is not only an emotional response, but elicits physical, cognitive and behavioural symptoms. I neither knew that, nor was I able to accept it straight away. I found myself unable to sleep, tired throughout the day, wired at night. I was getting ill, yet continued on, because I felt it was all going to go away. I was getting anxious, I was getting physical symptoms and had nothing to attribute them too. Until I opened up and spoke of what was happening to me. I sought help and it came in the form of knowing that what I am going through is normal. That the stress I (and we as a family) have been through in the last year has been enormous. That my symptoms are not unlike Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. That to see your loved one die, day in day out, to hold their hand and be there for him, to lose them in the end, takes its toll, physically and mentally.

At first I got scared. I got scared of having to be like this - it's not a nice state. But then I accepted it - this too will pass. And strangely enough, accepting this state alone, has been healing. I am already better and I am finding more and more ways to help me cope. Harvesting the positive, keeping a routine, cherishing the good things, giving myself time.

So my first week of training for the huge feat I have taken on (it feels like that anyway), started last Sunday. In hospital, with IV antibiotics being poured into me. Glad to say that I was out and back on the (training) horse by Wednesday, with a very solid 2k swim, followed by weights. The distance again felt doable. The fact that I did not manage to sleep so well on Wednesday night unsettled me, but I hoped that Thursday would be better.

Thursday consisted of a wonderful mountain bike ride, on our old circuit, along with Duncan. It was a beautiful evening and we left the house around 6.30, when the sun was already low and giving out caramel highlights to everything around us. The mountain was good to us both, we returned exhilarated and unscathed. I slept like a baby that night.

Friday we had a run planned, but we had guests at the house. A couple of colleagues had come for coffee and as the conversation flowed coffee turned to dinner plans. Duncan and I wanted to run, but didn't want to appear inhospitable either. After tentative attempts to see if our guests would be happy entertaining themselves for an hour while we ran, we figured they'd be OK and headed out. My mother would be truly mortified!

Saturday came and the weather looked about the same, beautiful sunshine, 20 degrees. The wind had picked up, but I was heading out to do the first long ride of my training and I was not going to give up (so quickly...) After all I had just 90 mins of ride to get through. The training day started with a swim in some rough waters. I was pleased I could stick with Duncan and that my stroke felt strong. We did a couple of kms and I felt like I could have kept going, despite the cold water and waves.

Onto the bike (and D off to do his long run) I realised just how windy it had got. It was fine while the wind was head on or tail, but as soon as I turned and the wind came from the side I felt very unstable and tensed up. I had to concentrate hard, make sure my weight (of which there isn't all that much) was on my handle bars and keep my wits about me for any gusts. I am very proud to say I stuck it out, all the time thinking of the conditions I might have to face on race-day. It is a flat and fast course, but also very windy. I made it off the bike and onto a quick run, where I met Duncan and we ran back in together.

All in all (and considering the start of the week) it has been a good first week. It has done little to alleviate my fear for being prepared for the distance, but has shown me that with a bit of help and listening to my body I can overcome most things - from grief to Ironman training. The next few months will prove me right... or wrong. Life is a gamble.

Climbing a mountain - or 19 weeks to Challenge

Having a rest before we continue upwards, with Jenny.

Lovely spot we found in Evia.

It's been a bad "holiday". It started well enough, with my friend Jenny coming to visit and with Duncan and me having BIG plans for a romantic/active getaway, some sun, some sea, lots of sleep and time with each other. We went to Evia for a few days, enjoyed some peace and quiet and climbed a mountain.

Since then I have been ill. Temperature-doctors-tests-antibiotics - kind of ill. Unable-to-do-much-kind of ill. I have also been upset and tired, the frustration and tiredness and sadness of the last 9 months finally coming out. I even started feeling sorry for myself, which doesn't happen often.

And so I decided to do something crazy - to grab the bull by the horns and get busy. I entered Copenhagen Challenge. For those who are not familiar with triathlon, it is an Ironman distance race in August. I had a quick chat with Duncan along the lines of: "Do you think I COULD do it?" and then "Do you think I SHOULD do it?"... The decision was made and 10 minutes of electronic dealings later I was all paid up and ready!

I have been excited ever since and have been thinking about how wonderful it is to finally plan to do something I have been dreaming of doing for the last 6 years! I have been oscillating between excitement and fear, but I have decided both are good. I am embracing both - if nothing else I will need both to do the training before that start line.

So I googled "16 weeks to Ironman" looking for a vague idea of a training plan. Hmmm... Not much came up. Started to worry. "16 weeks to your first sprint" came up... Hmmm... Worry setting in, doubt gaining ground. "24 weeks to a Half-Ironman". Cold sweat... Have I bitten off more than I can chew (in the time given)?

"13 weeks to a 13-Hour Ironman". That was more like it! http://www.cluboceano.com/13.htm I liked what I saw (and could finally breathe out). There are others out there who think that you do not need 3 years to train for an IM!

I know that I am not looking at a good time. I am looking at a looooong day out there. Fine. I am fine with that. I know that 13 hours, as per the website above is very optimistic, I am fine with that too. But I also know that I want to and I can finish the race. So my journey back to tri has just taken a turn towards some sharp learning curves. I am ready to climb that mountain and I am very excited (and scared). Any ideas welcome!

Those who hold us up

Training together

Racing together

Finishing Athens Mountain Cup together

Once again I have been counting my blessings. I feel I have to when I have mornings like this, sun shining, pancakes and fruit salad on our stoep with Duncan...

But credit goes to those who hold us up. To those that in our darkest hours are there, not loud and asserting their presence, but discreet and ready to catch us if we fall. I have been blessed with friends who are "there", even when they are not physically there. With family who don't need to speak to communicate. With a husband who instinctively knows what I need - when to back off and when to stand strong next to me.

Triathlon, especially long distance, is like that too. Not just the training, but all the other stuff, essential to success. Duncan and I committed to doing Challenge Copenhagen together and doing it well. Only one of us will race on race day, but in the months before the race, we will both commit to achieving the result. It's been a tough year, with forest fires, accidents, financial worries, illness and death and I might not have been able to help him to the best of my ability.

Yet I look back and I can see that we have both achieved a lot. We have helped each other, held each other up in difficult times. And so committing to a "Challenge" is by far not the hardest thing we will have to do!

On a practical level I have been trying to help Duncan get all his sessions in (especially the swim - anyone who knows D knows swimming is not his favourite, to say the least). I have been trying to create a balanced diet for us - force-feeding him fruit salad to get his five-a-day in and making sure we get 5 good dinners a week. I have made sure to give him lie-ins after hard workouts and have even managed to give him the occasional sports massage (and D, if you are reading this, I promise I will commit to more of those).

And so I am bursting with pride that he did so well last weekend, clocking 1h22' for his first race of the season, a 20km run. I am proud of what he has achieved. Both in spite and because of me, as oxymoronic as that might sound.

Running in the dark

Life this last week has been like running in the dark. Every step feels uncertain - I know the ground is there, yet every time I hit it I feel relief. There is uncertainty, yet also faith that the next step will leave me still standing.

So, still standing, shaken, numb and with a huge gap, we carry on.

Duncan and I are making up for lost time and I feel a huge sense of anticipation for all that is to come. Yet it has been so long we have been in this sense of limbo and uncertainty. All plans have been suspended for so long that we have no plans. Still, I go to sleep dreaming of races and training sessions on days when the sun is shining and the footing is sure.

Figurative speech aside, I have been running in the dark in the literal sense too. Monday night was the trigreece.gr team run up on Immitos. I took the beginner's run, yet I attacked it with such hunger, that it left the inexperienced runner I was leading gasping for air. I needed the speed, I needed my heart to beat fast and the cold air to hit my face. I needed to feel alive. After we had finished our short 4 km together I turned around. I ran with guys briefly, then left them behind as they were doing a leisurely recovery pace. I ran alone, in the dark, on the mountain, no music, just my footfall to guide me. It was a holy moment, a prayer to a distant god, a thought for my dad and for me, still alive, still standing, still running. And time stood still. And I was peaceful.

Fishing days - to my dad

My dad passed away yesterday, leaving his hurt and wasted body. Today, Duncan and I went to run a race. It was not planned. But as we left the hospital and drove home, empty, crying, trying to find the words to tell my mum her beloved husband was gone, it dawned on me. Which act is more defiant of death, what is more diametrically opposite to the darkness of death than movement, than sport.

I am not going to sit at home and mourn my dad. I will mourn him out there, living my life to the full. Starting today, because there is no time to waste: there is never enough time. Someone (wise) said that the motivation to get up in the morning every day is death. If it weren't for death, if we were immortal there would be no art, no monuments, no impetus to do great things. We live our lives in defiance of the darkness.

My dad suffered greatly in the last 8 months. His body withered and wasted, his legs became motionless, yet there was something that woke him up each morning and drove him to fight. He spoke of fishing every day - it was his light at the end of the tunnel. His motivation, his drive. When he first got ill he went to see a friend of his. She spoke to me a few days ago and was saying how my dad did not seem down. In the contrary, he had the look of a man who had won the lottery. He had realised what the important things in life were: his family and fishing. He said he would stop running around with pointless things and would just go fishing. That was his dream. That was what got him up in the morning.

A week ago, a week before he died he said it for the last time. I had told him about our kayak outing and he told me: "Tell Duncan to be patient. As soon as I am out of here I will take him out fishing". He showed such patience and was never defeated.

Today we took a fishing day. We did what drove us. At 6.30 this morning that is what got ME up and out of bed. And we vowed to take us many "fishing days" as we can, because life is short!

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In terms of race preparation this was a "how not to do it". Training? Last time I ran that sort of distance was 2007. Having been injured and only recently back I have been taking baby-steps with both distance and speed... let alone terrain. Nutrition? After a week of being in hospital and severe emotional strains my stomach was in agony. I had not eaten a square meal in days and the most calorific thing I had consumed was a couple of glasses of sweet wine and half a cookie. Hydration? I had not drunk much at all - apart from aforementioned alcoholic beverages. Sleep? Aside from sleeping on hospital chairs for the week and intermittently at home I managed a not too solid 5 hours the night before the race. Taper? The day before I hiked/ran 1hr 39m on the same mountain and had difficulty walking up and down stairs.

Yet the most important thing, my heart, was in it! I would trust in that, in my dad and my husband to get me through it. And so we got up, laced up and off to the races we were.

I have never enjoyed a race more than this one. It was a beautiful run on the mountain, up and down very steep trails, on mountain roads, past ancient churches, under a lead-grey sky. Duncan had agreed to stay with me all the way - our first ever race together as a couple (the last race was Ironman 70.3 Switzerland in 2007 where we met) and we had agreed on the only option in terms of strategy: a 3:1 run:walk ratio that sounds incredibly slow, but in fact worked a treat given the up-hill/down-hill nature of the race. It also gave Duncan and I a chance to chat all the way round the course, to look at the wild-flowers, to see a great view of Athens (or the "coral-city" as D very aptly put it).

And so we finished, holding hands. And we celebrated being alive the best way we knew. That was the first of our many fishing days.