Mustang Sally!

I got my Mustang!

 It's been a long year since I bought it, in Texas. I had it shipped to Atlanta, Georgia just in time for me to leave for the UK. By the time I got back to Atlanta the engine and gearbox problems had been identified, which meant it spent the next month being fixed. By the time it was fixed - guess what? Yes, I was back to the UK again. I shipped it to Savanna for the trip to the UK but - guess what? I got a job in California. No worries, I got the shippers to stop it before it got onto the boat, and arranged for it to go to San Francisco. Then the San Francisco job fell through and I intercepted it somewhere in the US. There was a rumour it was in Texas again when it was intercepted and turned around, back to Savanna. But then - guess what? The SF job was back on. Back on to the shippers, where's my car? No idea, sir, but we'll find out. And today, finally, 9 months after I last saw her, she's back with me. I've only driven it for 3 days, but after so much trouble, I feel very close to this car.

Tamas, the driver, contacted me last week to say he'd be dropping it off Sunday. We had a brief discussion by text of where's he could get the truck to, and we arranged to meet on Folsom and 7th, just off the I80 Interstate. 8:30AM he texts to say he's 15 minutes away and we were off. Bang on time, there was Tamas, a lovely guy who seemed as excited as I was. This is despite the fact that this is his job. Two week trips across USA in to monster rig, a week off at home and then back on the road.

Tamas told me the car was good, it started up first time (amazing considering its been lying idle all that time) and he really liked it. I told him the story of it following me around the US. "Ah" he murmured in a way that suggested he completely understood. "So the soup cost more than the meat?" What an excellent phrase. "Exactly" I replied. Tamas told me he'd just got back from dropping another Mustang over on the East coast ready for shipping to the UK. $35,000, he told me, but before I got too excited added: "But I don't show you picture; then you don't like your car so much!" I got his point. Pristeen, appraently, which mine clearly isn't. Anyway, I signed the papers and got in to drive it - with no tax, no insurance, no test, no registration, down The Embarcadero. It grumbled, bounced and shook its way along, the engine growling with more promise than power, but it felt great. And I didn't get nicked.

Home! it's sitting in the garage now, just like the horse after which it was named: sweaty, smelly, and leaking a bit, but much loved.

Numbers

I've been here in San Francisco for 6 weeks now, and I've been training pretty hard. But I've also been trying to be a bit smarter with it, planning my sessions and watching what I eat. I've joined a high performance coaching team, joined a high-end gym, and started taking swim coaching. I'm doing speed work for my running and proper brick sessions to improve my transitions. So it's fairly full on, although I am trying to minimise the impact on the family and I'm not doing multiple sessions in a day or spending long hours on it; I'm just taking it seriously and doing it smarter.

As an example, swimming technique and coaching: I should have done this years ago, instead of just repeatedly thrashing up and down a pool to try and get faster. I have had coaching, of course, with Perry, but that was mostly remote and I only gave him 12 weeks to transform me into championship material, which he did very successfully. But because it was remote, he couldn't help me much with technique; he concentrated on my training effort, and my morale. He kept calling me "Champ", and I felt great. Now, though, I'm doing technique and other lifestyle changes - what could Perry do with that material?

Anyway, back to the present. The Swim coach has assessed my technique and found improvement potential with my kick, body position, head position, stroke, recovery and breathing. When I achieve the improvements I'll take minutes off my 1500m time even without the actual speed training. And, of course, I'll also do the speed training. I've done similar with the bike: a computer analysis immediately showed the poor efficiency of my pedal stroke, and just by pointing it out I immediately increased it by 10%. Think about that. Do this, not that. OK. 10% improvement! There's more subtle stuff, and more training obviously, but it's only going to get better. I've done the same with the run, and although the big magic bullet isn't available there's still a noticeable improvement to be had if I work for it.

I've had my threshold cycling power measured at 275w. I'm pleased with that, and it's a training baseline I can really use to improve further. I've had my body fat measured, at 10%, which means I'm in good, lean shape. I've got specific goals and targets for the short and long term, all measurable, all written. I've got a goal for the next triathlon - Santa Cruz in 4 weeks - and I've booked a weekend coaching with the high performance centre guys, at Santa Cruz next week.

Numbers, goals, targets. Just like being at work!

I've got a pal, a really special pal that I haven't seen for ages. Jason was my training partner for the European Championship effort, and was the foundation rock for two years. It was Jason who went to the very brink of friendship and risked the whole thing by telling me what a prat I was being at one point. I still remember the sting in my eyes as he told me, that I was destroying myself with the effort and the obsession, and that if I didn't make it, it wasn't failure and no-one would think I hadn't given it my best shot. And he added, that if anyone did, they would have to answer to him. Jason's approach to his sport is simply to enjoy it.he trains hard, he swims bikes and runs with aggression, but he enjoys it. He's competitive, but he enjoys it all. He's the same in victory or defeat, and we've had toe to toe battles trying to beat each other and always ending in a proper man hug. For him, he just loves the sport, the race, and the friendship. Me? I need my numbers.

So when I got an email from Strava telling me that "cyclist Jason Stott" was following me I immediately got on line. Now remember, Jason and I have been really, really good mates for ages. We've seen the good and the bad. We've shared stunning views and gorgeous rides, and we've huddled together in howling gales on top of Kinder Scout. So, maybe you'd think I was keen to know how he is, is he well, is he happy, is he OK? No, not a bit of it. Where's the numbers? How many rides, how many miles, what PRs? Sorry jay, I have no interest in your well being at all, but I'm really impressed by the numbers! Well done mate.
Below is the entry from my other blog about the Mission for the medal at the European championships that describes how I was feeling when Jason let me have that thorough, complete bollocking:

I've been in a dark place recently, and not enjoying my training at all. Friday I did a bike/run brick with absolutely no enthusiasm and felt really flat. Bizarrely, my run pace was just where I wanted it to be, at 42min/10k. This makes my target of 41 mins for the Bala triathlon very achievable. So you'd think I'd be happy with that. Wrong. You can use whatever cliche you want - "can't see the wood for the trees" fits quite well. "bloody stupid obsessed idiot" was Jason's preferred one, delivered while I was still weak from hauling my sorry ass up Blaze. We had set off for a ride that replicates the Helvellyn route, about 40 miles with 1200m of climbing. I probably wasn't very good company. I was riding OK though, and put a big effort in to reach our long-established power-bar stop. I was still gasping for oxygen when Jay let me have both barrels. I got a proper telling off, and stood there like a naughty schoolboy while he basically told me to sort myself out, have a word with myself and start enjoying training again, or just give up the mission. "you don't have to do this. Nobody is going to call you a quitter or a failure if you don't do it. I know how much effort you've put in, and anyone who thinks differently will have to answer to me. You don't have to destroy yourself. I'm saying this because I care" I know, mate. I know. The previous day, Rich had sent me a piece written by Charlie Spedding which discussed the beauty of sport. The current Mrs Stock was there for me, supporting me as ever, all through my bad spell.

There's something a bit surreal about getting a bollocking when you're stood on top of a mountain in the middle of the Peak District. It's difficult to look at your feet when you're surrounded by a million acres of beautiful countryside, and I was grateful for my shades hiding my eyes. Jason unleashed the full nine yards at me (incidentally, that phrase refers to the length of a Spitfire's bullet belt, so "the full nine yards" involved firing everything you'd got at the target) In this case, the target was me, and despite my wriggling, every bullet hit home. His killer blow was: "and you know all this" which of course I did. There's a massive amount of psychology involved in being a mate. There are many, many lines that "blokes" have to deal with. Some can be crossed with impunity, others never. Some reside on the margins. The "man badge" is one where the occasion often dictates the rules. Never, ever under any circumstances take over another man's barbecue, even if it is fully alight and threatening the neighbour's hedge. On these occasions you are allowed to say: "hey, mate, I think that might be looking a bit lively!" but no more comment is allowed. You can help your pal put out the flames later, if invited to do so. Your friendship will be intact, even if the house is gone. Pointing out your mate's foibles is fine. All the time. If your victim is feeling sensitive that's fine too, you just enjoy sticking the boot in. It's fun. It's what guys do. You can laugh out loud at their misfortune, and criticise their clothes or past girlfriends. Even criticism of previous cars can be OK under certain conditions. But having a proper, genuine go at your mate is dangerous territory. You have to earn the right, you have to have shared experiences, you have to have been together in high-pressure situations. You have to be a real, full-on, no-conditions-attached, mate. And even then, this only gives you the right to have the aforesaid "proper go" under the right conditions, under the right circumstances, at the right time, and in the right way. Get it wrong and it's all over. There's no going back. Jason knew where he stood on this, and was prepared to run the risk. He got it right. Were both still "blokes" and we're both still mates. And I'm back on an even keel. The ship is upright. Thanks Pal.

So, suitably admonished, I went on my way, down into the Goyt valley. Jason gave me some space, until we grouped up for the slog up from the reservoir to Long Hill. Turning onto Long Hill we saw a couple of Kenda team riders, and we gave chase. We scooped up one of them on a long left-hander. We had been doing through and off all the way down and we were motoring with serious intent. I was just sizing him up for a "make it stick" overtake when Jason came past me. I hooked onto his wheel and then went through just on the bend. 3 abreast! Fantastic. We kept the hammer down and the pace up, through and off, through and off. Hey, this was fun! I remember now, I can do it. I can have fun. It won't hurt, and it's still training. Finally, we slowed up to take the road off to Coombs reservoir, and our man was just behind. He apologised for hanging on our wheel, and we felt great. Big time, proper pro! How does that feel? Well, imagine Fernando Torres running over and saying: "great cross, mate, I'm sorry I didn't convert it. The quality deserved better"

We went on the long drag through the farm and up the steep hill out towards Coombs. Suddenly, Jason yelled something and was off his bike. I thought he'd punctured,but this was an over-reaction, surely? Then he was on his knees in the road, groping around like a man looking for his contact lenses. I thought he'd finally flipped, but then became aware that he was ushering 3 blind mice (homestly, I'm not making this up! You couldn't make this up) off the road! Somehow he'd spotted these little newborn baby field mice in the road, and there he was, flicking them gently like a furry tiddlywink game, getting them off the road. "come on, get into the side, that's it, in the hedgerow where you'll be safe." I thought I'd seen everything, but this was a first. In a week where all of England declared itself as a bunch of big bad looting bastards, here was Jason saving 3 blind mice. You couldn't write the script!

Further on, a mountain biker passed at a fair speed, gaily swooping down the hill. Shortly after that, we saw that his pal was trying to whistle him back. He'd gone the wrong way, and was going to have a long, difficult ride back up the hill. His pal was in fits of laughter at his friend's misfortune, rocking with unmitigated glee. See earlier man-badge paragraph for explanation. This is how it is, and we joined in the fun, looking down on the hapless chap and his long, long climb back. How we laughed!

A good day. A good ride. A good result. I'm not going to give up the mission. Not now. But I'm going to try and keep some balance. The beauty of sport, as Charlie Spedding says, is the uncertainty, the ability to perform beyond your level, and is what gives the ordinary man his hopes and dreams.

A golden evening

No apologies for the cheesy title: just look at this!

I went out cycling on Tuesday evening with a few of the guys from work, over the Golden Gate bridge and into the Marin Headlands to a place called Hawk Point. We all met up at my house, which is near to the seafront (Embarcadero) and close to the bridge.

The scene was set after about 3 minutes when we got into Fort Mason park. There's a short, sharp climb from the front up into the park. It features as a segment on Strava, called "The Fort Mason Climb" - see what they did there? its 0.1 miles and rises 73 feet at 9%. Not much, but at 46 seconds my time is down at 1576 in the rankings! It's not easy to be so beaten in such a short time. Anyway, so every cyclist - or runner for that matter - hits it hard, every time. Oscar, naturally blasted off while I tried to do a more controlled effort with some consistent power. Sure enough, Oscar began to slow and I caught him about halfway up. "That all you've got bigshot?" probably was a bit cocky on my part, as Oscar dug into the red and blew me away. I tried to force him wide using a convenient pedestrian, but it made no difference. Victory was his, and we had a good laugh at the childishness of it all. It wouldn't be the last bit of childishness that evening!

The climb up from the bridge was tough, and we all fell into our own rhythm. We reached the viewpoint from where that beautiful picture was taken, and regrouped. Chloe came in a little bit back, but given that she's on the equivalent of a butcher's bike, wearing trainers on flat pedals and was carrying a rucksack that's probably allowable! The ride continued like this, with stunning views, great swooping hills and a lot of laughs. When we got back across the bridge onto the long flat straight Oscar wanted to do something that sounded like "punt and grunt" or "rasp and gasp" I can't remember what, but he essentially meant: "Let's race up here" I had to take him on but he just strongarmed me out of the way. The rest of us were in his wake and he loved it. We finished off the evening with another race up the hill outside my house, Oscar wobbling all over the road like Mark Cavendish in a Tour de France finish. His crank came loose with the effort, and Chris cruised up past him to take a hollow victory. Hollow maybe, but it was all that was on offer with "the beast" on such form. We all giggled like schoolkids, but what a terrific ride out, and I was home in time for tea! Special.

Runnin' with the hood

I met up with a guy who used to work for me here in SF this week. About 3 years ago he took me running over the Golden Gate Bridge and we kept very loosely in touch since. He invited me to go out with his running club, which I did today: SFRRC has a really great ring to it - the San Francisco Road Runners club, very exotic. I'm going to have to join, if only so I can put it on an entry form back in the UK sometime. I can picture it now on the Pie and Peas run entry: name Pete Stock; age group 55-59; club San Francisco Road Runners! I've also got a friend who is in the Golden Gate Triathlon club, so I can see that on the Buxton Tri entry!

The SFRRC is a big club, and at the meet up Saturday morning at 7:45 there's a line of pace placards. 7:30 / 8:00 / 8:30 and so on. A guy holds one up, and you collect around him and then go off at that pace. They do longer distances, a bit like the wilmslow Sunday outing, so if you want to do less you have to drop off, as I did, and make your own way back to The Sports Basement. The Sports Basement is a huge shop, as big as Decathlon, where the club is based. Outside of those differences though, it's a runclub like all run clubs all over the world. Runners are runners: we all complain about our times, our training, our knees. We all compare distances run, times achieved, forthcoming races, and SFRRC, despite it's exotic name and location (Sports Basement is right by Golden Gate Bridge), is an ordinary run club with ordinary people. Sure, they'll have their share of Rob Downs's and Damian's, but they also got a version of Chris, Sharon, and the like! So I felt instantly at home, and I enjoyed the run, and the company. The only real difficulty is the translation from miles to Ks and back. You do a conversion and say "I ran this pace" and there's shock, until you realise you've miscalculated and suggested you are indeed a Damian, when your running has given the impression of a Trevor! I enjoyed it today, but it really made me miss good ol' WRC.

Flying!

I just had a great run session, with Oscar and Chris, in what has become a regular Thursday night kilometre rep effort. This is down on the Embarcadero 

which is a busy place and not the sort of place I'd normally choose to run. It's flat, which is good, but it's mostly concrete so it's not a good surface for your joints. I should get away with once a week though. My other routes round here can be on more varied terrain, so I'm mixing it up.

Oscar is fiercely competitive, and a "crit racer". For those of you familiar with bike racing this will tell you everything you need to know. Criterium racing is city centre bike racing, where the cyclists complete 30 or so quite short laps round a tight circuit populated by sharp corners, street furniture and variable terrain often including cobbles and stuff. The racers ask for, and give, no quarter. Elbows are as well developed as cycling legs, and the whole thing usually ends up in a balls-out sprint for the line. So you don't need that much endurance, it's mostly about the ability to sprint out of corners and duke it out at the end. That's Oscar. He's built like a 50s miner. Chris is young fit and fast, but (I'm happy to report) inexperienced. At the moment, I'm able to outwit Chris or use my pacing experience. I don't expect that to last too long. Oscar is a few pounds overweight right now, so I can hold him off as well. It's going to be a different story when we go out on the bikes.

Tonight's session was, as normal, hot, sunny, and busy. We ran east along the Embarcadero towards the AT&T stadium, which is where the San Francisco giants baseball team play. 1 K take you to just alongside a pub where we stand puffing and blowing while being watched by relaxed drinkers no doubt all thinking were crazy. Then it's sync Garmin / Timex / Samsung, 3-2-1 and off. Next stop is the stadium: puff, blow, sync, 3-2-1 back to the pub, repeat back to Ferry Building. Repeat the whole thing, sprint finish and away. This week, the sprint finish was very interesting. I was flying all night, light on my feet and feeling good. My garmin packed in, but I was on 4:05 pace or better and feeling like I had more to offer. Oscar was suffering - partly from a couple of recent heavy bike sessions, partly from the extra pounds he's carrying, and partly from a belly full of last night's beer. But his competitive drive was keeping him in touch, about 15 metres down on Chris. Chris was heavy-legged as well (I doubt there's anything to do with bad living, he's far too clean for that. I think he's just getting his fitness back into focus. Anyway, I can still keep him at bay. The last k though, is a different story. Once again, Chris tried to take me down but I could hear his feet slapping down on the concrete so I could monitor him even though I couldn't see him. In any case, I knew he be trying. So I cruised as easily as I could, waited until I figured he would be about to give it a go, and just put in a small injection of pace. There was no way he was coming past, not with me feeling this good. I was reasonably sure I'd seen him off, but stepped it up once more with 150 to go, then all out for the last 40-50. I looked back as soon as I crossed the "finish line" and Chris was done. As soon as he'd realised he wasn't going to get past me he slowed. Oscar didn't! Oscar was practically on tip toes trying to sneak past, and Chris didn't see him till it was too late.

Age 2; youth nil. A good evening indeed!

World champion - for a while!

There are those who don't like Strava, and I really do understand why. Like all these social media sites, it tries to take over your life. "Give me your contacts" it entices you; "tag your photos"; "publish your profile". And before you know it you'd be all over the web. I don't knowingly do this, although I did find some pictures of me out there in the ether. One of them was disturbing: it was definitely me alright, I recognised me. And anyway, it said "Pete Stock" underneath. I was racing, and in my GB trisuit, so I felt pretty proud of that. Out there, in the world, for everyone to see. Pete Stock in his GB Team colours. 15 minutes of fame. But wait a minute! That's not my bike I'm riding! I examined it closely, and it wasn't any bike I'd ever owned and actually, when I looked really, really hard - it wasn't me. Wrongly tagged. OK, no problem there, and no harm done. But what if the wrong tag showed me doing something less worthy? 

But I'm here in San Francisco and I'm without my friends. Friends that have been there with me through the highs and the lows. Friends who understand. Friends who have witnessed my frustrations, anger, despair, joy and every other emotion, and who have put up with me at my worst as well as experiencing the best I can be. You don't get friends like that overnight, so I want to keep in touch and this blog is part of that. Then Strava announced a linkup with Garmin that meant I could automatically download my Garmin data to the Strava site and everyone could take a look. Perfect, and I jumped at the chance. I expected Chris to ignore it because he doesn't really do the data logging / tech thing. Just get out there and run, that's Chris. I thought Rich would enjoy it - he likes a bit of gadgetry - but he didn't want to be involved with the "taking over your life" aspect. Well boys, you missed my bit of history. After Sunday's brick session I uploaded the data to my Garmin site, as normal. I took a look at the results and was really pleased. Good quality session. Then the web demons took over, and transported my data to Strava. Next thing I knew, I had a Red Flag disputing my World Record Half Marathon time and various other Championship leading efforts. It seems "Bike to Run Transition" in Garmin defaults over to "Run" in Strava!

More tea!

It's Sunday afternoon here in SF - and its hot! The sun is beating down, Jo and Katy are on the deck sunning themselves, and everywhere people are out, enjoying the sunshine. I'm probably the only person in California who's having a cup of tea right now, but I don't care. It's lovely. Just the right shade of orangey brown, just the right strength, just the right amount of milk (in first, of course, so it can form the emulsion that is the difference between just a cup of tea, and a "right good cuppa".) Which is what I'm enjoying now, in a proper cup and saucer of course. Bliss! 

But added to the joy is the fact that I've earned this. Properly earned it, with honest sweat and toil. Well, you might argue with "properly"; I mean, I haven't done a shift down a mine or anything, but I have done a solid 4 hours of triathlon training. Chris and Chloe, from work, came. Oscar was supposed to be there but didn't show, probably because he's had a dodgy stomach all week. That, or he was on the town last night as Chris suggested.

We met up at mine, and rode up to Golden Gate Park to the Polo fields. Jo and Katy had gone in advance to set up transition, so we rode in and immediately ran off for an effective T2. That was the purpose of the day: transition training to help the legs get used to swapping from bike effort to run effort. The Polo fields are absolutely perfect for this. Round the field is a bike track. 1K in length, flat and smooth tarmac. Then about 25 metres outside that a running track, just over a K and a little bit rough underfoot but nothing drastic. So I'd prescribed up to 5 sets of a 6K bike followed by a 2K run. 5 sets would give you the full olympic distance taking into account the ride there. Jo and Katy were also acting as security for the bikes: locking and unlocking them wouldn't have facilitated a good transition and I wanted to replicate the speed and pressure of a race transition.

Chris is fast and showed me up on the way to the park, drifting away effortlessly from me on the hills while I huffed and puffed behind. He's a good runner too (see a couple of blogs back where he tried to take me down) No respect for his elders that boy! Chloe is tough and strong despite looking and talking like a gentle soul. On bike one they both went away, but I nailed transition and got away first. We more or less came back together for set 2, but again I sailed through transition and was gone. I'm good through transition, as proven last year at the British championships where I was faster through T1 and T2 than Professional triathlets, Elites and age-groupers. It was only the swimming, biking and running that let me down. After that, it was every man (or woman) for themselves, and I slogged out all 5 sets for a full olympic distance. It felt good. I felt strong, and I was reasonably fast, keeping to a 4:20 / K pace on the run and a decent pace on the bike. What felt best of all was that I was in control. Tired, yes, but controlled effort all the way to the end. Just like I would like to achieve in a race. When I uploaded the data to the Garmin site, it confirmed everything I felt. Consistent on each lap, consistent on each set. HR steady all the way through.

Perfect! Just like me tea!

Tea

I had a great run rep session yesterday; 1K reps along the Embarcadero with a couple of the guys from work. Its busy, and you have to dodge a few of those damned tourists (my god, they are everywhere, gawping at the bridge, or the piers, or riding their stupid rental bikes in a totally random manner) but its flat and that's a rare commodity round here. The plan was for 8 consistent threshold reps, but a bit of competition developed. Initially it was the traditional "not acknowledged" type but then Chris and I started to discuss the pace and how we were responding, and got a bit faster  - you know how it goes. On the final rep, Chris said it, out loud: "wanna race?" Damned yankees; what could I do? I might record, at this point, that Chris is just over three decades younger than me, a fit young triathlete. So I knew it was going to be a bit tough. I got off to a good start but I could hear him behind me, step for step. I nudged the pace up; still heard the steps; nudge a bit more but I was redlining. Still heard the steps but I guessed he hadn't got much left either. I judged his pace from the earlier reps at about 4:10 per K. I was on 3:59 at this point, and then he came past. I didn't panic, but I was on the limit so if he went away, he'd do it. But he didn't. I held him at 3-4 metres and watched. I guessed that was pretty well all he had so I waited and then, with about 250m to go, went past him. Breathe easy, no glance, no rocking shoulders. And then, a kick. 10-20 metres, another kick, and he was as good as dead. It felt good. Those 30+ years might have taken the edge off my performance, but there's no substitute for experience! If you want to take me down, boy, you're going to have to get up pretty early!

Anyway, that's all well and good. The real plus point is that a fine young chap has been witnessing my haunted look as I survey what our US cousins regard as "tea". You just can't get a decent cup of tea round here. I bought some "English Tea" the other day but should have worked out that its heritage might be questionable when I noticed the Scottish Tartan packaging. Don't they know England and Scotland have a bit of history? English tea in tartan packaging - that's fight-starting material! So, this fine, upstanding young man bought me this:

Life in San Francisco / Blackpool seafront

I’m settling into San Francisco life well enough, and it’s very different in so many ways. We are right in the city, and it couldn’t be more of a change from Wilmslow: it’s noisy, you can’t go to the supermarket without passing a few homeless people, and there are tourists everywhere. Clearly, I don’t class myself as a tourist – I’m a resident! The homeless are quite disturbing; they are literally everywhere. It’s rare to go past a bus shelter without the now-familiar heap of blankets, sundry bags, shopping trolley and often a run-down bike. They pop up in some strange places as well, sometimes simply on the pavement – literally as if they were walking along one minute and then the next just lay down and went to sleep. Maybe they did; a lot of them are clearly ruined by drugs, and these are often distinguished by talking to themselves animatedly. You have to ignore it; I don’t have any other plan.

From a lifestyle viewpoint, SF has a lot to offer.

There is lots to do, cultural or otherwise, and people-watching takes on a whole new perspective. The mix is unbelievable. There are leftovers from the 70s in various states, most of it not good. Some have worn pretty well but others look like they have had a lifetime of self-abuse. Probably because they have. Then there are those who aren’t from the 70s but look like they are – or should have been. They are distinguishable by looking less raddled, but things like long hair, moustaches and – yes, flared trousers - are fairly common. As you come back towards the present there is just plain weird. Middle-aged bloke going to work on one of those kids scooters, or a skateboard? Doesn’t even get a glance. Device that looks like a cross-trainer but moves like a bike? Sure, why not? I saw someone yesterday, not sure what but probably a female, dressed in denim hotpants and wearing a facemask. He/She had legs like the Williams sisters but a face like Frank Bruno. I nearly fell off my bike but nobody else took any notice. I guess I’ll get used to it.

The language presents a few challenges, and I find myself struggling to explain some concepts that we have such a good UK phrase for. Try explaining “putting somebody’s nose out of joint” – this is something I’m doing a bit too much of. Mobile phones become cells, shop becomes store, crisps are chips, chips are fries, “please could I have…” becomes “can I get….”. Those are easy, but don’t even think about encouraging someone by telling them to “keep your pecker up” – you’ll be in jail very, very quickly.

And sport. Loads. Every weekend there’s an event along the Embarcadero. A couple of weeks ago it was the SF marathon, Sunday was a 12K fun run which was something to do with saving the environment.  I live within 5 minutes of a special bay area marked out permanently by buoys for open-water swimming. I’ve got no excuse now, I’m going to have to do it! I went past the other day, and there were dozens of triathletes there. I stopped to chat and they were all really friendly and helpful so maybe I’ll overcome my irrational fear of open water. After all, the bay is only a nursery for sharks, hardly any big ones at all. My house overlooks Alcatraz; it doesn’t seem that far. Entry ballot for “Escape from Alcatraz” triathlon is 1st September.

The weather is generally good, so no more slogs down the bypass for me in the dark and the rain. My regular run route is a glorious mix of seafront terrain: some sand, some pavement, some grass. Seagulls and sea air, so if I close my eyes I am back in my home town of Blackpool. If I open them I am treated to views of many, many beautiful girls. I smile at them but they ignore me, lost in their iphone world. Hey ho!

Vegas - that's the way I roll now!

Off to Las Vegas, just for the day! Now that's crackers by anybody's standards.

 I went to meet someone, on business. I flew there, met the guy for two hours, and flew back. It doesn't really make sense but it does here, because everyone is so far away. In the UK most people are a drive away. For London maybe a train is needed. But here, it's a flight. Las Vegas is in the next state, Nevada, and it would take a day to drive it. So I'm going to have to get used to flying places. Even my staff are all over the place. I've got a team in Denver, one in Portland, Oregon, one in Austin, one in New York. I've got individuals who work from Ohio, Texas, and Lake Tahoe. I have to communicate by video conference, or a skype-type of thing called Fuze, or another one called Blue Jeans. Very "California". I'm trying to get used to the culture here. The developers stand up at their desks, on "standing mats". One guy asked for a special chair thing that I can only describe as like a space hopper on a desk chair. He said it was because he had a sore lower back. I told him to "f*** off". It didn't go down well. Apparently you don't do that sort of thing here.

As far as training goes, though, this place is sound. You can do anything, usually for free. There's a place to do open water swimming, marked out permanently with buoys. A running track, free to use anytime. It used to be the San Francisco 49ers football ground, so it's an American Football field, surrounded by a synthetic track. Fantastic facility, and better than many people in the UK have any access to. And the biking is just tremendous, up into Marin county. Right across from my house is a steep hill (in fact, across from most people here, there's a steep hill!) that is perfect for hill reps, although you do get some odd stares from the locals. I live two blocks from the Crookedest Street (Lombard, not Wall Street) so there are often tourists puffing and heaving their way there while I'm doing my apparently pointless reps. I went for a great run Sunday morning with dog Georgie and in just 45 minutes I went past Boudins, the famous sourdough place, Pier 39 and Fishermans Wharf, the Maritime Museum, the turnaround point for the Cable Cars at the bottom of Hyde Street, Fort Mason, Chrissie Fields and up to the Golden Gate. That's just about the full monty of tourists spots that people come to see! I was back home for breakfast. Despite all this opportunity though, I am still doing hill reps on my own street and "Stairmasters" on the fire escape at work. "Stairmasters" is an informal competition amongst a few of the staff here. We run up 11 flights, get the lift down and repeat 10 times. On the last Thursday of the month we do it for an hour - that's 15 times for me. We go from floor 5 because we don't like McKesson, who occupy that floor, and up to floor 17 because its vacant. I know some of the smarter among you will have figured out that is 12 floors, but there's no floor 13! So when you're suffering as you toil up, you get a free floor between 12 and 14. It really does make a difference, believe me. Again, despite the availability of all of California, I'm thinking of getting a turbo trainer to use in the garage. This is for two reasons: first I can't always get away for the amount of time I'd need on the bike; and second, I need some concentrated and disciplined sessions that only a turbo trainer can deliver. My biking has not been great recently, and I've entered the Santa Cruz triathlon which is next month. I need some pace, and soon.

I met Michael Johnson the other day in Bloomingdales. He's been a real hero for decades, and I visited the scene of his great 200m and 400m double Olympic triumph in Atlanta recently. He was with his son, and I really didn't want to interrupt, but I excused myself and had a brief conversation. He was exactly as you'd expect, and it was a real privilege to meet him. I told him I thought his book was one of the most honest sports books I'd ever read. He seemed pleased with that!
So that's my life at the moment. Some bits are constant (training, work, home life) and some are massively different (location, training facilities, culture). Overall I'm loving the new challenge and the all the new stuff but missing some bits as you'd expect. Particularly friends and - perhaps surprisingly - rain, but its generally going really well. We have an internal "rule" that anyone visiting from UK HQ has to bring PGTips, Marmite and Hobnobs to keep all us ex-pats happy, and that works well.