As Brucie would say on my favourite show, it's nice to see you, to see you *nice*!
Rather in the style of Strictly Come Dancing, or even the dreaded and much publicised X Factor, I thought I'd give you this week's training update.
There is, in fact, nothing to report. Well, at least, nothing in terms of actual cycling. That's right; I haven't been on a bike ride since last Wednesday, although that was, admittedly, absolutely beautiful and is almost deserving of its own post; 25 miles of Sussex B roads and country lanes, lit by dappled sunlight and with fabulous company (not including the almost-argument about an apple...). It was one of those rides that makes you feel like you could just keep going and going, without aches and pains, until you pull away into the sunset as the camera behind you pans across the horizon.
And then it got dark. And we discovered that my back light wasn't actually working, the batteries having gone dead in the back of my bag. I'd never even used them! Oh, the indignity of it.
Since Wednesday, I haven't ridden, partly because it's been cold and wet and I've been a bit cold and wet too - I slept all day on Thursday, from 10am until 7pm, despite having slept 8 hours on Wednesday night. I had no problems sleeping on Thursday either, and on Friday, Nige and I got into our cars and drove in convoy "Up North".
Going up North means going to Darwen in Lancashire to see his folks. The reason we were going this particular weekend was because we found out on September 1st that Nige's dad, Jim Atkinson, has mesothelioma, an incurable form of cancer caused by exposure to asbestos, and Nige had decided to throw a party for his dad, to celebrate his life and bring the whole family together.
Since his diagnosis, Jim hasn't been well, and the week before last, he was admitted to hospital with a rare kidney disorder, the timing of which has unfortunately coincided with the cancer being diagnosed. A lot of uncertainty hung in the air, potent, about whether Jim would even be able to make the party, but the specialist doctor agreed that a 24 hour release from hospital wouldn't do any harm. The beautiful and ironic thing is that in fact, being out of hospital, exhausting as it was for Jim, actually had the tangible and positive effect of lowering his blood pressure, so thankfully he's been discharged from hospital and sent home for the time being, until he goes to Preston for his kidney biopsy on Friday.
Jim Atkinson is quite a legend. He's a renowned hill walker, and together with his wife Jenny, Nige's mum, they've climbed probably every worthwhile peak in the UK. Arran is their favourite place above all. However, Jim's expertise stretches well beyond walking: he used to sing Swing in clubs, and brought Nige up listening to Sinatra; he's a gifted handyman and has his workshop out the back of the house, where he straightens things out on every level; he has that inimitable ability to light up a room and get everybody laughing; he can talk the hind legs off a donkey (a heritable trait I'm utterly convinced); and, most relevantly, he used to be a fantastic cyclist and in particular, a monster hill climber.
Jim Atkinson would apparently simply tuck himself in on a bike and climb whatever incline lay in front of him, regardless of size or gradient. He could go for hours.
I've got a lot to learn.
It takes all my psychological strength and willpower to get to the top of a molehill on two wheels, and I get up there heaving and panting and sweating and gripping the handlebars for dear life. I get up hills but I do not do it gracefully. I have to psyche myself up, talk to myself before the ride, during the ride, on the hill, and congratulate myself afterwards. I hate it and that's why I'm determined to make friends with it, just like Lance said about the Tourmalet in his first book, "It's Not About The Bike". I want to befriend hill climbing because in cycling I see such parallels with how you live life. If I can learn to embrace hills....
For me, Jim is up there with the great hill climbers:
Mercxx, Indurain, Ullrich, Armstrong, Atkinson.
I will continue to cycle and attack the hills I encounter not so that I get a tighter bottom (although that will always be a bonus result), but so that I can honour this man who, without even knowing it, is the reason I am even on a bike at all.
A sceptic might doubt the logic of what I've just said, but stay with me here. If it weren't for Jim Atkinson, Nigel Atkinson would never have ridden as a boy and again as a man. If it weren't for Nige's enthusiasm and passion about the bike, passed on from his father, I would never have taken an interest. It would've simply been one of those things that Nige likes that I don't like. But somehow, one man's life lived in the depths of Lancashire decades ago has come to influence a girl from Putney's life in more ways than I'd ever comprehended before this weekend.
What I saw at the party this weekend was Love. Love isn't an invisible force. I saw it in action. It was there in the setting up of the room, in the people who came from all over the continent (yes, you read that right - guests travelled from Sicily and Ireland simply to be there, because of Jim), on the faces of people who hadn't seen each other in far, far too long. Love was present when Nige sang to his dad, when Jenny danced with her nephews, when Ju sorted out the buffet at the end of the day, when the girls working on the bar got tears in their eyes on hearing the reason for the party. Chris Boardman, Olympic Gold British cyclist, says in his book, "The Complete Book of Cycling", that his motivation is winning. I tell you this: my motivation is what I saw in that room this weekend.
Nobody knows what's going to happen with Jim. The doctors don't know. His family don't know. It's going to have to be a day at a time. I didn't get out on my bike today (cold, wet, grumble), but do you know something? Writing this, I regret that. Tomorrow, come rain or shine, I will go out. I'll do it for Jim.
Love,
Elloa x
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