Wow, May 2017 and my first blog of the year.  That’s really bad.  Let’s say I’ve had other things on my mind.

Well, under my own definition, I can no longer call myself a triathlete.  It’s quite sobering.  For what it’s worth, my definition of a ‘triathlete’ is someone who has completed a triathlon, of any distance, in the last 12 months.

That’s not me.

So it hasn’t been the easiest of years.  I’ve documented struggles with balancing triathlon training against my real-world responsibilities as a husband, father and Vice President of a fast-growing company.  But lately I’ve been feeling pretty positive.  To some extent, I refound my mojo and I’ve started to (whisper it quietly) enjoy training.

My original title for this blog was “Warning: Grumpy, broken triathlete”. But it’s a fair reflection on a sad state of affairs that right now I can’t even call myself a triathlete. To be a triathlete (in my book), you actually have to race!.

Last Sunday saw the last race of the Wessex Cyclocross league and, despite a near-fatal bout of man-flu (is there any other kind?!), I wasn’t going to miss the season finale; partly because it was the last race, partly because it was on my doorstep and partly because I needed the points in order to be ‘gridded’ for the start of next season.