Packing for triathlon - the fourth discipline
WEDNESDAY, 1 OCTOBER 2008
It’s been a hectic 10 days but we fly at 11am tomorrow.
I admit I’ve had my head down, planted very firmly in the sand. I have been running around, being entirely selfish and taking care only of my own needs. I’ve been concerned with bikes, bike boxes, equipment, getting my last training sessions completed, seeing my coach, nutrition and working my final week at the hospital, ticking off the 43 things on my ‘to do list’.
I’m now packed – the bike looks safe, but I will still worry about it all the way. I have actually packed a lot of my kit in the bike box and asked my husband if this was ok – what if it all goes missing? He said “Lets face it – if your bike goes missing you won’t be having much of a race!” - wanna bet?
The kids have packed themselves and I haven’t checked what they have. I did observe though, that the younger child had my biggest Tupperware box filled to the brim with Lego which took up half his suit case! The 20 comics he wanted to pack were declared a bad idea by his very sensible mother! As long as they have a change of underwear I’m happy.
It is 9.50pm and my poor husband still has to pack his own holiday gear, but first he is out in the freezer filling some chilli bins for the people who are running our market stalls while we are away. He has had to do everything non-ironmanish this week including ensuring the meat business, the house and the farm all continue to run smoothly while we are away. Last week was a killer for him and he had over ‘100 things to do’ his to do list. He has only managed one exercise session for himself. He did butchery work till last thing most nights, set up the farm so our friends could ‘farm sit’ for us, he ran a meat curing and smoking course for 4 people, he went to Rotorua one evening to pick up pigs (back at 1am), he popped to Raglan to drop off a Cumberland and Chorizo sausage order for Zaragoza, a newly opened restaurant, chaired a Hamilton Farmers Market Meeting (have you seen the sign in Victoria Street?) and he has collected his passport (today!!! – talk about last minute!) . Anything else?
My husband is a quiet, patient and steadfast guy. He has stuck by me for the last 18 months supporting me every step of the way without complaining once. If roles were reversed, I’m the first to admit I’d be moaning a bucketful every time I got the chance. As we near the end of my Ironman journey though, every time I look at him I spy a little neon sign growing over his head – which says something along the lines of “18 months of brownie points are coming my way pretty soon”
It’s been a hectic 10 days but we fly at 11am tomorrow.
I admit I’ve had my head down, planted very firmly in the sand. I have been running around, being entirely selfish and taking care only of my own needs. I’ve been concerned with bikes, bike boxes, equipment, getting my last training sessions completed, seeing my coach, nutrition and working my final week at the hospital, ticking off the 43 things on my ‘to do list’.
I’m now packed – the bike looks safe, but I will still worry about it all the way. I have actually packed a lot of my kit in the bike box and asked my husband if this was ok – what if it all goes missing? He said “Lets face it – if your bike goes missing you won’t be having much of a race!” - wanna bet?
The kids have packed themselves and I haven’t checked what they have. I did observe though, that the younger child had my biggest Tupperware box filled to the brim with Lego which took up half his suit case! The 20 comics he wanted to pack were declared a bad idea by his very sensible mother! As long as they have a change of underwear I’m happy.
It is 9.50pm and my poor husband still has to pack his own holiday gear, but first he is out in the freezer filling some chilli bins for the people who are running our market stalls while we are away. He has had to do everything non-ironmanish this week including ensuring the meat business, the house and the farm all continue to run smoothly while we are away. Last week was a killer for him and he had over ‘100 things to do’ his to do list. He has only managed one exercise session for himself. He did butchery work till last thing most nights, set up the farm so our friends could ‘farm sit’ for us, he ran a meat curing and smoking course for 4 people, he went to Rotorua one evening to pick up pigs (back at 1am), he popped to Raglan to drop off a Cumberland and Chorizo sausage order for Zaragoza, a newly opened restaurant, chaired a Hamilton Farmers Market Meeting (have you seen the sign in Victoria Street?) and he has collected his passport (today!!! – talk about last minute!) . Anything else?
My husband is a quiet, patient and steadfast guy. He has stuck by me for the last 18 months supporting me every step of the way without complaining once. If roles were reversed, I’m the first to admit I’d be moaning a bucketful every time I got the chance. As we near the end of my Ironman journey though, every time I look at him I spy a little neon sign growing over his head – which says something along the lines of “18 months of brownie points are coming my way pretty soon”