I'd rip your eyes out for one. And then I'd eat your eyes. More protein, don't you know.

As I turned onto the final straight before the final climb of an all bike day here's what I spied glittering in the gutter:



I swear to all that is good and sickly sweet, I almost stopped, picked it up, and scoffed the fucker there and then. I'm pretty sure it was unopened. And if it wasn't? So fucking what, it's been thirteen days since I last tasted chocolate and yet somehow I am still not 67 kilos. I didn't stop and I now sit in a puddle of sweat and regret.

We shall speak again of my manorexia, but lest you get too excited, here's what I did today:

Warmed up for the 7am LT interval spin with a fast Rosie hammer through town. Clock says it's 10.77k. It took me a shitty 27 something minutes. Into a wind and without a warm up is the excuse.

The way home is apparently only 10.51 and it took around the same despite my being constantly forced to stop by weird speeding hunks of metal piloted by fat lazy buckets of blubber. Here's an idea for a Green Party initiative: bicycles (no, electric bikes do not fucking count) always have right of way. Always. Even when they've just done a drive by macing on some cunt in an Audi. Especially when they've just done a drive by macing on some cunt in an Audi.

Repeated in the evening except with Jesus Killer the fixie and an extra 15 minutes of intervals. Hammered on the commute when the opportunity presented itself. My rough estimate for the day comes in at 77k, a good chunk of it tough. I'll take my fucking creme egg now, thank you.

The wheel what Marcin built

Marcin is my new best Polish friend. Stop pronouncing his name incorrectly. He works in Think Bike in Rathmines and occasionally does my spin. He built Rosie a new wheel. Isn't it lovely? Isn't it wonderful? Isn't it precious? Less than two weeks old!

Me and Marcin, Marcin and me. We went for a leetle climb up Three Rock at the weekend. This lacked any pleasantness on the way up and was testically embeddingly terrifying on the way down. The fastest I went was 51km/h. I am a total, new brake pad needing after every descent, pussy.

But it was all okay because Marcin told me I was 'Strong like horse!'. This still makes my ticker tick a little quicker.

Sigh.

Lactate threshold this, motherfucker

A tempo run in the roaring rain, could there be anything more romantic?

The idea is to bang out two 1.5 mile intervals at a 'comfortably hard' half-marathon kind of pace. I have no fucking clue what my half-marathon kind of pace is, not having run one in five years, but I decide that 6'40 minute miles are doable and close enough to my goal pace for the next race to be acceptable.

Forced into a 7.30am drop off at a southside garage by the National Cunt Test, it seems logical to Jesus Killer it up to the UCD track and set to work there. Given the torrential downpour, it seems even more logical to crawl under a bush and have a little sleep. But fuck it, I think, it's in the diary, it's gotta be done. Next week I'm going to write 'be from Glenageary and win the lotto'.

I am very, very wet and pretty fucking cold by the time I arrive. Bastard buses, cunting cars. I peel off the jeans, pull on the shorts. Start the slow jogging, two laps. Move up to a run, four laps. I don't time them, just try to take it easy. Not so easy though that I am not hyper aware of hungry headwind on the back straight eating the legs off me, even at the easy pace. But I'm warm now, and ready to go. 6 x 1'40 laps. 2 minuntes recovery. Repeat.

I like this terror as I set off at what I can only guess is the right pace. It's the legs, the lungs, muttering, 'You think you can hold this? You cannot hold this. Not without hurt, you cannot hold this.' First lap down, a glance at the clock tells of 1'30. Fuck. It's good news but it's bad news. I try to ease back, but to keep it tough. I think I almost remember how to do this. Next lap, slower, but still a little quick. Maybe I can just keep this pace. I'm confused. I couldn't be this strong already. I go, and so it goes. 9'23. Take the break. Go again. Again I start with the 1'30 lap. Focus keeps slipping, always on that galling back straight. I run a hideous fifth lap, kick it right up for the last and still only come out with 9'36. Only. The target was 10'00. I am a happily panting little runner.

Allowing for the not quite mileness of four laps, my pace works out at 6'18 and 6'27. I have to run 6'23 to get what I want in the May 17 five miler. I suddenly believe that I can do it. And I dare to dream that I might, in six months say, be as quick as I ever was.