the blank, dead-eyed stare of a mass murderer whenever you try to explain what went wrong in your race or why you didn’t complete your training schedule.
As an example, me and my mate Phil Richmond, who was also coached by Dave, turned up to a weight training session once along with a third lad called Lee, a notorious training dodger. Dave, who was already there slamming a medicine ball around in an agitated state, fixed me with his Gestapo stare and said, ‘What training have you done this week?’ I stammered out all the things I had done that were on the plan he’d given me, as did Phil when it was his turn for the anglepoise lamp in the face. When it was Lee’s turn, however, the real reason for this impromptu grilling emerged – Dave knew full well Lee hadn’t trained and he watched silently while Lee lied through his soon-to-be-missing teeth. At this point Phil and I edged our way slowly back out of the room, bravely abandoning Lee to what was coming, and began our warm-up outside on the running track. We left it a safe period before returning to the gym and an atmosphere you could cut with a cricket stump. Dave was hefting a massive kettlebell in one corner, Lee was tearfully packing up his kit in the other and me and Phil, anxious not to provoke further ire, utterly ignored Lee when he slunk away never to be seen again. It was some minutes before Dave spoke, merely to offer the word ‘Twat’ before putting us all through the session from hell. Thanks, Lee.
Another area of my life that cycling dominates is my evenings because being coached by Dave has led to me taking up time trials. If you are unfamiliar with what time trials are then let me enlighten you. TTs are basically bike races against the clock that take place most spring and summer weekday evenings across the UK. Although principally for cyclists, a growing number of triathletes have started taking them up because of the many training benefits that can be gained from being hunched over a low-pro bike on a blustery dual carriageway while adopting an expression that looks like a frowny face someone has drawn on to their scrotum. Time trials used to be the preserve of monosyllabic old men with knees that looked like haggis made of knuckles, who would nevertheless come flying past you once the race started. These days, however, time trials are the second most popular activity in lay-bys across the country, and innocent triathletes are constantly trying to decipher course codes and entry forms that look as though they can only be solved with an Enigma machine. For example the K10/10K, to use an example local to me, is a code for a particular ten mile course that harks back to a time when time triallists had to hide their illegal racing activities from the police lest they be given a clip round the ear by the local bobby or, for courses near London, kettled and then shot. Time trials are very different from triathlons in a number of ways:
• There is no inflatable finish line with crowds of adoring fans, a photographer and an energy drink. If you’re lucky you might get a chequered bit of wood and a windswept old bloke who looks like a campaign poster for neglected horses, who will sternly note down your time on a clipboard and then offer you a fondant fancy and a cup of tea so stewed it will strip the skin off your gums.
• The entry form is more complicated than a travel permit from the Stasi and demands that you not only remember all your previous results over various distances to the exact second, but the winner’s exact results, too. This is so you can be seeded to prevent drafting behind another cyclist, which of course never, ever happens in triathlons.
• On the plus side they only cost a couple of quid to enter and you don’t pay a fortune for a bag full of advertising crap.
• No matter how fast you think you are, there will be several people there who will finish in times that you cannot comprehend. This has been
As an example, me and my mate Phil Richmond, who was also coached by Dave, turned up to a weight training session once along with a third lad called Lee, a notorious training dodger. Dave, who was already there slamming a medicine ball around in an agitated state, fixed me with his Gestapo stare and said, ‘What training have you done this week?’ I stammered out all the things I had done that were on the plan he’d given me, as did Phil when it was his turn for the anglepoise lamp in the face. When it was Lee’s turn, however, the real reason for this impromptu grilling emerged – Dave knew full well Lee hadn’t trained and he watched silently while Lee lied through his soon-to-be-missing teeth. At this point Phil and I edged our way slowly back out of the room, bravely abandoning Lee to what was coming, and began our warm-up outside on the running track. We left it a safe period before returning to the gym and an atmosphere you could cut with a cricket stump. Dave was hefting a massive kettlebell in one corner, Lee was tearfully packing up his kit in the other and me and Phil, anxious not to provoke further ire, utterly ignored Lee when he slunk away never to be seen again. It was some minutes before Dave spoke, merely to offer the word ‘Twat’ before putting us all through the session from hell. Thanks, Lee.
Another area of my life that cycling dominates is my evenings because being coached by Dave has led to me taking up time trials. If you are unfamiliar with what time trials are then let me enlighten you. TTs are basically bike races against the clock that take place most spring and summer weekday evenings across the UK. Although principally for cyclists, a growing number of triathletes have started taking them up because of the many training benefits that can be gained from being hunched over a low-pro bike on a blustery dual carriageway while adopting an expression that looks like a frowny face someone has drawn on to their scrotum. Time trials used to be the preserve of monosyllabic old men with knees that looked like haggis made of knuckles, who would nevertheless come flying past you once the race started. These days, however, time trials are the second most popular activity in lay-bys across the country, and innocent triathletes are constantly trying to decipher course codes and entry forms that look as though they can only be solved with an Enigma machine. For example the K10/10K, to use an example local to me, is a code for a particular ten mile course that harks back to a time when time triallists had to hide their illegal racing activities from the police lest they be given a clip round the ear by the local bobby or, for courses near London, kettled and then shot. Time trials are very different from triathlons in a number of ways:
• There is no inflatable finish line with crowds of adoring fans, a photographer and an energy drink. If you’re lucky you might get a chequered bit of wood and a windswept old bloke who looks like a campaign poster for neglected horses, who will sternly note down your time on a clipboard and then offer you a fondant fancy and a cup of tea so stewed it will strip the skin off your gums.
• The entry form is more complicated than a travel permit from the Stasi and demands that you not only remember all your previous results over various distances to the exact second, but the winner’s exact results, too. This is so you can be seeded to prevent drafting behind another cyclist, which of course never, ever happens in triathlons.
• On the plus side they only cost a couple of quid to enter and you don’t pay a fortune for a bag full of advertising crap.
• No matter how fast you think you are, there will be several people there who will finish in times that you cannot comprehend. This has been
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