When I get old

She stood there, barefoot in the surf shop, board under her arm, still in her wetsuit, talking to the shop owner about the rip that the storm had brought up. She laughed about her wipeouts, and how she needed to be braver.  I stood there, checking out the board wax, but actually checking her out, listening to every single word that she said.

When she finished chatting, she turned to go, saw me staring, smiled (because she knew). And then was gone.

I was awestruck. Gobsmacked. A little bit in love.

Not because she was some kind of model-esque beauty (although, in that moment, she was physical perfection, as far as I could tell) but because she represented almost that I hoped to achieve in my entire life. Which is odd, seeing as I never actually met her, and only saw her for about 3, 4 or maybe 5 minutes at the most. And this was years ago. Long before I met my husband. Long before I had children. Long before I was even brave. But what she represented has stayed in my belly since then. And I know that one day, I will be like her.

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Hot stuff!

Today we are talking hot stuff.

And by hot stuff, I don’t mean the weather. And I don’t mean your shiny gold hot pants, eh, Kylie!

No, by ‘hot stuff’, I mean HOT DRINKS.

Which is a bit weird because, surely, as you undoubtedly know, I am not against hot drinks. The odd cup of coffee (when you aren’t doing my detox, of course) is perfectly fine, and a nice cup of tea can be a lovely companion to toast and eggs at the weekend.

What I am talking about here is the super-mega-boiling stuff that some of you like to pour almost straight from the kettle, down your throat. You know who you are, so please don’t hide behind the steam billowing from your chai.

Why do I care so much about hot stuff like that?

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Don't let scales screw up your happiness

Let’s just imagine, shall we?

You are losing a bit of the weight that’s been pulling you down for a long time. You are getting fit. You are getting strong. You try on some clothes which you haven’t worn in years, and yes, amazingly, they fit. They don’t just fit. You + those clothes = FIT BIRD. You get admiring glances from those who get to feel that new body, and you get admiring comments from the friends and family who know how low you have felt being bigger than you wanted.

And yet, despite the pert buttocks, flatter belly, and hint of delicate muscles which are starting to grace your arms and the flood of sexiness which has turned your slumping gait into a catwalk sashay, you STILL jump on the bloody scales, see that you’ve only lost a pound, and instantly you feel deflated. And I don’t mean in a good way. Just in a crappy, ‘why am I doing this?’ kind of way.

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Why do cyclists and runners etc think it's ok to eat pap when they want energy?

If you like eating crap, purely for the energy, don’t bother reading any more.  If all you are after is energy, to get you faster and faster, again, this isn’t for you.

If you want to get energy, to get you faster, fitter and healthier, then please read this.  I am passionate about the fact that you don’t need to refuel with pap.

Why?  Because refueling with pap, over the long term, just leaves you with pap for muscles, pap for cells, pap for brains and hormones and pap for skin.  If all those things are pap, you are looking at long term health problems, injuries and generally, a big load of pap.  Why?  Because refueling isn’t just about energy.  And even if it were, why would you want to put pap fuel in?  If your body is your temple, or, say, your lean, mean cycling machine, why on earth do you want to put tractor fuel in it?  Or rocket fuel?  If you aren’t designed (or even aiming) to go to the moon, do you really need rocket fuel?  If you put rocket fuel into your Berlingo, you wouldn’t suddenly be able to get to the moon.  You would just end up with a car that didn’t know what it was.

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Sucked sewage? Read this if you surf in the Spring…

You know the feeling: happily surfing along, whistling as you ride.  A quick wipeout, luckily you come up for air….. right in the middle of a floating toilet, complete with lashings of poop, toilet paper and other nasty debris.

 

After politely informing all your surfing compadres by shouting ‘sh*t’ and texting the SAS sewage team (if you are in the UK), you might be pondering just how much of that sewage is lingering on, and in you and trying to guess which nasty illness you might come down with.

 

Even though surfing in pooh is never going to float anyone’s boat, there are a few steps you can take to reduce the chance of you getting ill.

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