Triathlon: Cyclo-Analysis (Saturday 19/08/2017)
Some offspring surpass their parents' achievements.
Others merely repeat them.
But pity those who fumble the transition, fall short of expectations and watch as the world overtakes them. They can only stare at their feet in embarrassment as the unrated outsiders surge past to snatch life's podium glory.
When I was young, I never doubted that I could be a medal hopeful.
Despite being the progeny of two less than towering forebears, neither of whom topped 5'6'', I fully expected to be long limbed.
The aquiline features would come in time, I assured myself, despite the freckled stoutness that seemed to beset my childhood years (and those of anyone else remotely related to me).
And there was no doubt in my mind that I would eventually possess the type of patrician brow that compels lesser men to scrunch their flat cap to their chest and tug forelock.
In short, one day I would grow up to be David Niven.
Thanks to my boundless optimism, I still haven't entirely lost hope but currently, the best I can claim is that in a certain light, with a good mirror and a trailing wind, I stand a shade under/over 6 feet, depending on whether there is a tape measure in the vicinity and I have had a haircut.
Sadly, when it comes to surpassing the achievements of earlier generations, I drew the short straw. My father flew fighter jets; my grandfather built and flew biplanes and in his spare time invented modern day essentials like the milk bottle conveyor belt and the atom bomb. Somewhere in the not too distant past, family rumour has it that Great uncle Hubert single-handedly took a German machine gun post and held it for 17 hours until the bullets ran out. Psychologically, had they been Steptoe and Son, life would have been so much easier.
So, I have been left with a challenging legacy to compete with and it has always left me slightly susceptible; firstly to the urge to prove myself; secondly to answer some of those difficult questions that are asked of you when you grow up in some else's shadow:
Was it really over-competitiveness that broke my nose playing giant bar Jenga in 1997?
Why did I persist at snowboarding, long after my limbs had all been snapped off and my brain detached from its stem?
For what plausible reason did I spend a whole decade in my twenties trying to drink Flaming Sambuca's at parties? What else, if not to prove to my ancestors that I could actually do something meaningful with my life, other than setting fire to curtains?
Ultimately, how else does the descendant of a long line of over achievers lay down a yardstick for his own children's neuroses? Where are the German machine gun posts when you need them most?
Perhaps, this is why I allowed myself to be talked into entering the Portishead Sprint Triathlon. In the darkness of the night, I swear that a shimmering, Wan Kenobi-esque apparition of my cloaked grandfather whispered to me. It was hard to catch but I am sure he spoke of his disappointment at my potential unfulfilled and the consequent need to seek his cryptic approval through acts of heroic endurance punctuated by inadequate preparation and poor time keeping.
Can it be that even from beyond the grave, the lovely old chap can lay on the Ghost of Christmas Past and play me like a cheap fiddle?
Happily, it turned out that five of my friends must have also received a similar nocturnal visit and, buoyed along by a wilful refusal to confront the horror of what lay in store, we each parted with the £56 entry fee; but the warnings signs were clearly there to be seen. In print.
Signing the waiver form as a condition of entry, not only absolved the organisers of all liability but also gave the less committed a large and unambiguous arrow pointing to the exit. After all, what is a waiver form but a document designed precisely for the waiverer.
Personally, I signed it without first turning over the page to read of the dire consequences of participation, otherwise known as the terms and conditions.
The hard work being done, it only remained for me to scour the internet, meet a shifty fellow in a darkened side street and thrust £3,000 into his hot hands. In return, I would doubtless receive a lighter than air bike and a pair of clip in shoes that didn't fit. Both would be of doubtful provenance, but in my world of increasingly wild self-delusion, this hardly seemed to matter.
To top off the ensemble, I would need to first acquire and then lever myself into some very bright but reassuringly tight and paunch restraining lycra and don a hat nabbed from the wardrobe department of an extremely low budget sci-fi movie.
And, for the pedants amongst you, apparently some training is advisable.
Others merely repeat them.
But pity those who fumble the transition, fall short of expectations and watch as the world overtakes them. They can only stare at their feet in embarrassment as the unrated outsiders surge past to snatch life's podium glory.
When I was young, I never doubted that I could be a medal hopeful.
Despite being the progeny of two less than towering forebears, neither of whom topped 5'6'', I fully expected to be long limbed.
The aquiline features would come in time, I assured myself, despite the freckled stoutness that seemed to beset my childhood years (and those of anyone else remotely related to me).
And there was no doubt in my mind that I would eventually possess the type of patrician brow that compels lesser men to scrunch their flat cap to their chest and tug forelock.
In short, one day I would grow up to be David Niven.
Thanks to my boundless optimism, I still haven't entirely lost hope but currently, the best I can claim is that in a certain light, with a good mirror and a trailing wind, I stand a shade under/over 6 feet, depending on whether there is a tape measure in the vicinity and I have had a haircut.
Sadly, when it comes to surpassing the achievements of earlier generations, I drew the short straw. My father flew fighter jets; my grandfather built and flew biplanes and in his spare time invented modern day essentials like the milk bottle conveyor belt and the atom bomb. Somewhere in the not too distant past, family rumour has it that Great uncle Hubert single-handedly took a German machine gun post and held it for 17 hours until the bullets ran out. Psychologically, had they been Steptoe and Son, life would have been so much easier.
So, I have been left with a challenging legacy to compete with and it has always left me slightly susceptible; firstly to the urge to prove myself; secondly to answer some of those difficult questions that are asked of you when you grow up in some else's shadow:
Was it really over-competitiveness that broke my nose playing giant bar Jenga in 1997?
Why did I persist at snowboarding, long after my limbs had all been snapped off and my brain detached from its stem?
For what plausible reason did I spend a whole decade in my twenties trying to drink Flaming Sambuca's at parties? What else, if not to prove to my ancestors that I could actually do something meaningful with my life, other than setting fire to curtains?
Ultimately, how else does the descendant of a long line of over achievers lay down a yardstick for his own children's neuroses? Where are the German machine gun posts when you need them most?
Perhaps, this is why I allowed myself to be talked into entering the Portishead Sprint Triathlon. In the darkness of the night, I swear that a shimmering, Wan Kenobi-esque apparition of my cloaked grandfather whispered to me. It was hard to catch but I am sure he spoke of his disappointment at my potential unfulfilled and the consequent need to seek his cryptic approval through acts of heroic endurance punctuated by inadequate preparation and poor time keeping.
Can it be that even from beyond the grave, the lovely old chap can lay on the Ghost of Christmas Past and play me like a cheap fiddle?
Happily, it turned out that five of my friends must have also received a similar nocturnal visit and, buoyed along by a wilful refusal to confront the horror of what lay in store, we each parted with the £56 entry fee; but the warnings signs were clearly there to be seen. In print.
Signing the waiver form as a condition of entry, not only absolved the organisers of all liability but also gave the less committed a large and unambiguous arrow pointing to the exit. After all, what is a waiver form but a document designed precisely for the waiverer.
Personally, I signed it without first turning over the page to read of the dire consequences of participation, otherwise known as the terms and conditions.
The hard work being done, it only remained for me to scour the internet, meet a shifty fellow in a darkened side street and thrust £3,000 into his hot hands. In return, I would doubtless receive a lighter than air bike and a pair of clip in shoes that didn't fit. Both would be of doubtful provenance, but in my world of increasingly wild self-delusion, this hardly seemed to matter.
To top off the ensemble, I would need to first acquire and then lever myself into some very bright but reassuringly tight and paunch restraining lycra and don a hat nabbed from the wardrobe department of an extremely low budget sci-fi movie.
And, for the pedants amongst you, apparently some training is advisable.
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