Let me quickly get Dalkeith out of the way, as I haven’t written that up yet:

Stupidly early start leading to what felt like a bad swim (I felt sick all the way through it) but which was actually a PB by quite some way; fairly decent cycle in windy conditions, including one really hairy descent on which I nearly crashed doing the first lap and had to slow down some on the second to avoid doing that again; and a steady, uncomfortable run that seemed to take forever. Good organisation overall, despite the start being somewhat delayed. Decent nosh provision afterwards and good weather. Overall a PB by quite some way, so generally a good day and I had fun. Photos here if you’re interested.

The Edinburgh Sprint was a different matter.

Let me first make it clear that I had no intention of doing this race. We’ve got the Dumb Run next weekend, and that was my event for this month. But then the chap from Triathlon Scotland got up at the end of Dalkeith and asked us all really nicely to enter because it would show that triathlon is popular in Scotland so the ITU would be more likely to send more races here. It was the taster race for the main event — the European Duathlon Championships.

Fine. I entered.

First problem: cost. With the race briefing at 06:45 and the Dalkeith experience under my belt, there was no way I was going to be getting up at 4am to drive over there. So we had to find a B&B; in Embra for the Friday night. Immediately the cost of the race went from £35, which was a bit steep but just about do-able, to a whopping £99. That’s more than it would cost to enter a standard. Almost double what it would cost to enter a standard.

Second problem: registration was on the Friday. So I had to take the day off work. And we had to leave our bikes in transition overnight.

Oh, I can assure you Peregrine was not happy. I’m going to assume that’s why he bit me.

The expo was pretty good, mind. I spoke to John in The Bicycle Works stall and he packed me off to the shop where I finally bought the wetsuit I’ll need for the Loch Lomond Highland Games. I had ordered a hat from the Honey Stinger mob and it hadn’t turned up, so I walked up to the stall and said: “Where’s my hat?!” Stuart duly produced my hat without even asking who I was, the sweetie.

Dinner was edible: we went to the Italian restaurant closest to Pollock Halls, about five minutes walk from the Bicycle Works on South Clerk Street. Couldn’t tell you what the name of it is. Wouldn’t recommend it. Was funny seeing that about half the customers were all competitors, though. Sleep was disturbed by a bunch of rowdy pensioners outside in the corridor, who were most startled when a half-naked, intensely grumpy triathlete stomped out of her room and asked them to keep the noise down because she had to get up at 5 to race. They were very contrite, although one old bugger couldn’t stop staring at my legs.

There was no breakfast available for the triathletes staying over, as the race was due to start at 07:30 — coincidentally, the very same time that breakfast was served. Costa in the pool was supposed to open at 6am and didn’t. I managed to find half a banana that hadn’t been bruised to a mush in transit, but that was about it.

The weather was absolutely foul. It was raining and the wind was howling. I considered ducking out, but 99 quid for a DNS would have been worse than 99 quid for a race, so I duly went and got my transition set up. Peregrine was Not Amused.

The race briefing time had been changed, but every official I spoke to had conflicting information. No one could tell me for sure where it was or when it was starting. Oh, and then, to make matters even lovelier, I realised my period was starting. A week early. Rah. Thus ensued a mad dash round the various machines in the pool for the necessary just in case. Only nothing was working. I contemplated DNS again, but figured I had a few hours before it started properly, so we were back to the whole 99 quid thing.

Finally the race got underway at 07:40. Still nauseatingly early for that sort of thing. It was the crazy zig-zag swim again, and this time they made it even crazier by having between 2 and 5 people set off in each wave. AT THE SAME TIME. This was done in the insane idea that the swimmers would sort themselves out in the first length, so the fastest reached the end first and the slowest last. Only I run Sprints as a negative split, so I finish my swim faster than I start it. Usually. Other people tend to set off at a pace they can’t sustain for the full 750m. My time of 20 minutes (a full five minutes slower than Dalkeith) will tell you how successful this method of organisation was. The woman in front of me wouldn’t get out of the way no matter how firmly I grabbed her ankles, and every time I tried to get in front I was met by a charging pack of swimmers coming the other way. At least on NYD we were swimming only one way in the lanes and there was room to overtake.

So much for practising tumble turns under ropes.

The cycle was windy, wet, slippery and treacherous. I was a full 10 minutes slower than Vicky Begg, who finished first senior female. Partly this was a result of stomach cramps killing the power in my legs. Partly it was because I was absolutely terrified of coming off on wet leaves on the descent or being attacked by the swans. I still went past more people than went past me.

The run was horrid. I wish they’d said it would involve some off-road sections. I had no grip in my road shoes and was reduced to that weird flat-foot, scrunched-toes walk over some of it in an effort not to go flat on my face or my arse. Again, the run was slow. Just over 30 minutes. The final section involved a 1km long tunnel that seemed to take forever, plodding along trying to tell myself it wasn’t far to go without actually stating it using a negative (“not far now” sounds better than “short way now” but I’m assured that the latter is better for you) while the tiny dot of light at the end stayed tiny for far too long.

I felt pretty good at the end though — after the initial 10 seconds of gasping and I’d got my breath back, anyway. I didn’t feel like I’d totally shagged myself, like I did at New Year’s. Maybe this indicates I should have pushed harder, but given the way my lower abdomen was trying to tie itself in knots, I don’t think I could have done.

The results are here, and pretty shoddy they are too. Well, mine anyway. You can see the rest of the photos here.

Plus points: the marshals were great. Thanks to all of them for standing outside in the cold and wet for hours shouting at people to mind the turns. A big shout out to Agnes from Run and Become and Jenny. More practise, and it was right down at the bottom of my list of races at which to do well. I was substituting it for this week’s brick. And hey — I did it in the same time as I did the NYD tri, despite the swim being nearly twice as long. I now know I definitely need to do some hill work on the bike before Aberfeldy. And my period held off until I got home, which was great as we got stuck in the traffic trying to get over the bridge for about an hour.

Oh, and I picked up an Orca tri suit in GBR livery for a fiver!

Special thanks to Frood, of course, for all his help and support on the day and putting up with my training schedule; and big thanks to Mum and Dad who gave me a real boost by suddenly being there, unexpectedly, halfway round the cycle course, to cheer me on.

Look what you did to my finger!

I’m heading over this afternoon — in about two hours, in fact. I need to register today so Frood and I will be staying in Masson House tonight. Frood gets off work at six, and the opening ceremony should be over by then (not that I’m intending to go!) So if you’re around and fancy a coffee and a natter, and don’t expect me to stay out late cos I’ll turn into a pumpkin if I do, er…

I just thought of a flaw in this proposal. If you don’t already have my mobile number you’re going to have trouble getting in touch with me unless you drop me a note before I leave. Because I’m not nearly dim enough to publish it on the web (<Crank>Does it look like I got c*nt written on my head?).

OK. If you’re a Cakestop or Other Place or Clubhouse sort of a person, I’m sure someone like Munky can put us in touch. Somehow. Frood and I will be in the search of some Italian type feeding station this evening so I can carb-load on pasta or pizza. You can always come along and help us find somewhere decent.

Right now I’d better get on with packing my shit.

I’m competing in the Edinburgh Sprint Triathlon on Saturday morning. It starts at stupid o’clock so I’ll be done by about 9am. If anyone out there fancies stopping by to say hello, I’ll be at the Commie Pool probably until about 11. Then I’m going hunting for a large mocha and a wetsuit.

Was just checking the name of the dragon in Dragonslayer and am, having checked Wikipedia, the only person to have misspelled it.

Damn.

I’m sitting at my desk bewailing my lack of inspiration for this week’s writing assignment (said lack of inspiration resulting from the tired old Joseph Campbell cliché they want us to rehash).

“I am NOT writing Nibbly Pig Goes To The Moon!”

“Well if Nibbly Pig won’t go to the moon then the moon will have to go to Nibbly Pig.”

Damn him for making it sound so reasonable.

Spiderman 3.

Turgid torpid festering nauseating chundering shitey fuckwank bollocks extruded from a goat’s anus and forced through a twisty straw.

Jee-zus. What a pile of crap. And I’m a Marvel fangirl.

I don’t know where to start with how bad this film is. No, really. But let’s try beginning with the wasted 2 hours and 20 minutes of my life, for which I paid premium seat prices (I have a bad back) and will never get back. Two hours of this shite comprises needless, pointless maudlin crap about Peter Parker and MJ, none of which was remotely interesting. Even when he turned “bad” the best they could do was to put eyeliner on him and make him look like Pulp’s Jarvis Cocker. Only less attractive. And more cringe-worthy.

I came so close to walking out of this movie, and stayed only out of stubborn determination to hang on for Venom, who turned up right near the end and wasn’t even particularly well done. Wasted. Utterly wasted. I was praying for someone to kill Spidey just so I wouldn’t have to think about yet another sequel in which Parker spends most of the film being an utter twat who needs his ass kicked. I so wanted one of the other Marvel characters to turn up and throw down on his angst-ridden butt.

What makes Spidey worth reading is the badinage. Only there was none. There was some horrendous David Brent style posturing, which I suspect was meant to be funny. There was the Jarvis Cocker sequence. There was the obligatory boo-yah, NY hearts Spiderman crap and lots of swinging around. Too much plot. Too much emotional crisis. An enormous lack of good old-fashioned Marvel ass-kicking.

Spidey teams up with Green Goblin Jr and ends up crying over the way circumstances can force good men into terrible deeds with the Sandman, who moments before had been a 3 storey tall dustmonster and who was responsible for killing his uncle? Puh-lease.

The biggest crime was turning what should have been a special effects action movie into a soap opera. The best bit was Bruce Campbell reprising John Clease’s French waiter role from The Meaning of Life. And that’s not saying much.

Someone PLEASE take Sam Raimi’s budget away. Please. He doesn’t work well with a big budget.

I hated this film. I can find good things to say about Ghost Rider but Spiderman 3 had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. None. Nada. Zilch.

While it was not helped in the slightest by the three lads drunk on vodka and jeering for half of the movie before walking out in disgust, I can see their point.

A couple of years ago my lower left wisdom tooth decided to make an appearance. Several years late, but still.

Many people told me I would have to have it removed. What with wisdom teeth being necessarily EEEEEEEEVIIIIIL! I told them where to stick it. My bloody wisdom tooth and I’m keeping it. So there.

It hasn’t all been pleasant. I don’t have a huge mouth. I had to have a couple of teeth removed when younger for lack of space, and there’s a slight overlap of the teeth at the bottom on the front because the jaw isn’t really big enough to have them all crammed in there. But me and that wisdom tooth, we’re doing okay. We’re getting there. It’s taking it’s own sweet time about it, and when I last saw my dentist she tapped it and said: “Partially erupted. There’s not really enough room for that in there.”

I argued for its preservation, on the basis that it wasn’t giving me any trouble (I didn’t tell her about the aches or the occasional swelling and bleeding or the strangely good sensation of my jaw stretching to accomodate, which feels like scratching an itch inside the bone). My bloody tooth. I’m keeping it.

Only now, guess what, well beyond ‘fashionably late’, the lower right wisdom tooth has decided to join the party. I’ve felt it crawling about and wriggling over the past few years but didn’t think it had the balls to go for it. Last week I noticed a sly corner poking out right at the back and a quick exploration with a finger revealed that yes indeedy, there’s another tooth coming through there.

If there was insufficient space for the left one, there really isn’t any room at all for the right. There is going to be trouble. I can tell.

After watching Stitch Has a Glitch.

“I need one of those sheets so I can colour it in to show how good I’ve been.”

“I’ll make you one. You can laminate it and use a whiteboard marker. Do you want me to bother with the ‘good’ square?”

I’m not bad, I’m fluffy!

Is it wrong to identify with a mutant koala?