Like swimming in beef Oxo and going after the wrong buoy -final episode

Now I would like to report that justice was done and I did indeed rise victorious from the water ahead of my rival in truly Ursula Andress style. But truth must prevail and the reality is that I got totally and utterly beat. Now, before I go on and you begin to suspect me of being some pathetic and weedy specimen who needs to invest in some swimming lessons (actually, that last bit might be true), I’d like to conduct a little experiment with you. Shimmy your way over to the store cupboard and run your fingers lightly over your condiment and seasoning section until you come to your stock of Oxo cubes. Select a couple of beef ones. Next, place a full kettle on the hob and bring it nearly to the boil. Crumble the Oxo cubes into your washing up bowl and add the hot water. Stir until the Oxo cubes have dissolved and top up with cold water until you get to a temperature of approximately 18 degrees. Test with your elbow, toe, nose or other suitable protuberance or equipment to make sure the temperature is correct (I don’t want to get a call from casualty followed soon after by a call from your lawyer). Finally having stuck your hair in a plastic carrier bag and secured it well and having donned a pair of swim goggles, snorkel mask (no snorkel) or other equally suitable eye protection you are now ready for the final part of

the experiment. Pivot at the hip, hold your breath and stick your face in the liquid. Open your eyes. THAT is what swimming in the River Tees feels like. (This suggestion is a humourous illustration.  Please DON'T really try this ....)

So, off into the horizon my opponent is swimming - right there in the heart of the pack and up with the kids and there am I treading water, my goggles slowly steaming up but that doesn’t matter really because I can’t see anything once my head is in the water anyway. And as I drag myself around the 3000 metres, being gently coaxed back in the right direction as I oft strike off at some obscure tangent, sometimes even in the wrong direction I imagine I see a glint of sympathy and I hate to say it, pity, from those handsome young men canoeists who less than hour before had played such an active part in my rescue fantasies. As I stalwartly finish the course I quietly reflect on a book called the Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner (Alan Sillitoe, 1959) and feel some affinity for the main character. But I stopped short of stopping short of the finish as happens in the film and consider a silver medal at my first British Open Water Championships more a study in managing not to drown than some heroic record breaking swim. I at least had strength enough to leave the water at the finish with some dignity (though fairly dazed – I wobbled right past my team-mate). But what I really remember when I look at my medal is the face of Ms X, age 46, height 5ft 6ft approximately. And I plot my revenge.

Like swimming in beef Oxo and going after the wrong buoy 6

Skins on, we followed the general stream of competitors downstairs from the changing room and out into the harsh light of day feeling rather exposed and a little chilly outdoors in our swimsuits and not much else. The briefing session had been thorough and nicely humourous. The impression it left us as we queued up to have our numbers written in semi-permanent ink on our hands and shoulders was that should we get into trouble and have to be dragged up from the depths of the skanky water into which we were about to throw ourselves and perhaps even resuscitated, then it would all be done with an obliging smile and a wry chuckle at the muddle we had found ourselves in. As I mused on the possible benefits of feigning drowning in the vicinity of one of the handsome young men at our disposal and enacting in my mind a rather elaborate fantasy of rescue, the whistle blew for the start of our race and before I knew it I was out on the far end of the pontoon really not sure about the wisdom of what I was about to do. Beside me, another competitor in my age group and whom I had spoken to briefly looked confident and relaxed and I took succour from her evident nonchalance. Clearly it couldn’t be such a big deal. And I was right at the head of the pontoon - essentially pole position. I would cruise through the race I told myself and arrive at the finish giving a relaxed and faintly regal wave to the photographers as I stepped from the waves a little like Ursula Andress in Doctor No. Having fired myself up with a pep talk and launching into a dive as the whistle blew, I found myself being soundly trounced by my neighbour as she swam straight over the top of me. As I came up gasping for air and vainly trying to orient myself in the water, I saw her swimming off in the direction of the first buoy. The first boy meanwhile was sitting in his canoe assessing me for possible damage.  But he wasn't quite good looking enough and damned if  I was going to sink at the first hurdle.  Striking off with retribution in my heart and madam in my sights I stuck my head once more in the water.  I had learnt my first harsh rule of open water swimming – there are no rules.

Like swimming in beef Oxo and going after the wrong buoy 5

Other than the sound of a teenager leaning out of her window and screaming at her boyfriend at 5am and the stark sound of speeding police cars with their sirens blaring we passed a quiet and uneventful night in Darlington. My car was still there in the morning and in one piece which I hadn’t entirely been banking on. As I left the hotel I made a mental note to erase both it and the pub next door from my mind for perpetuity.  Never again would I eat somewhere where the chicken in the chicken-burger was conspicuous by its absence and chips are cited as the ‘healthy option’.

The roads were quiet at 9am and with my trusty ‘Nicnav’ in place, we headed out eastwards along the A66 to Stockton and our destination – the river Tees. The sun was shining and the sky a blue we hadn’t seen in some time. The race, a 3 kilometer open water event held at the Castlegate Quay in Stockton-upon-Tees was a first for both me and Nic in terms of destination (though not Nic in terms of open water competitions) and whilst that made it exciting, not knowing what or who we were up against, it also made it more nerve racking. Not least because for this event we weren’t allowed wetsuits and it was very difficult to gauge in advance what the temperature of the water would be. My training session in the lake at Bosworth Waterpark the week before was swim in a very respectable 18.2 degrees. Positively balmy by UK standards. But having swum outdoors in Namibia earlier in the year in water that ripped the breath from my body and gave me a headache for the first 100m I remembered what it might be like and mentally braced myself. Having struck off early from Darlington and after an easy twenty minute drive we were almost the first to arrive and parked up in the car park of the local Mecca bingo hall. I figured that if I got laughed off the start line then at least I could go and console myself with a couple of rounds of bingo with ladies who might remind me of my grandma. That made me recall an actual evening out with my grandma at her local bingo hall in Peterborough when I was in my twenties. A tad overconfident on arrival at the venue, I hadn’t expected to be surrounded by competitive eighty year olds with the minds of a super-computer and the steely resolve of a group of mafia dons fighting a turf war. Needless to say I came away battered and bruised. And skint.

The administration of the race was impressively organised by individuals in suitably official attire who wandered around carrying clipboards with what looked like very important details on. This bolstered my confident somewhat. So did the number of watersport club members who had pitched up ready to assist in case of problems in the water and who were busy launching kayaks and gliding off in a stately manner to key positions around the course. Having been furnished with our competitor numbers on white latex hats, Nic and I retired to the changing rooms to put on our ‘skins’. These are a bit like those Trinny & Suzanna magic knickers but in a fetching (I jest) neck to knee combination. Skins sure do hoik you up and suck you in and there have been moments when I have considered wearing them under my attire of an evening. Unfortunately they also flatten your chest and as I don’t want to be mistaken for Jamie Lee Curtis - though I have a lot more hair and there’s never been any rumours about hermaphroditism for me – I’ve given them a miss. So far at least.

Like swimming in beef Oxo and going after the wrong buoy 4

Having established our expectations of the pub to which we intended to retire for the evening and having then seen our hotel room, we downgraded those expectations once more. We seemed to have hit Darlington via some hotel time-warp circa 1983. At least that’s about the last time I think the rooms were decorated, the bathroom maintained and the net curtains hung. One of my first jobs was to repair the toilet. Now this was not quite what I expected to be doing within the first five minutes of dumping my bag but given Nic and I were sharing a room I fingered it was quite essential. If I’d had my toolkit handy I may well have done a few more jobs and then requested a discount but unfortunately it was one of the few things I hadn’t actually packed. It’s not the first time my plumbing expertise has come in handy. At the Country Living Christmas Fair at the Business Design centre in Islington last December being able to fix one of the toilets in the ladies loo got me bumped past a very long queue of women waiting to answer the call of nature. Being a practical gal definitely has its advantages. It was not quite seven o’clock but being keen to spend as little time as possible in our room we headed straight next door to the pub. I wasn’t entirely sure they’d let me in because I had by anyone’s reckoning had a bit of a brain meltdown while making my wardrobe choice for the journey and I looked like I’d just wandered up from the local diddicoy camp. Devoid of makeup, hair which would have had Medusa calling her stylist and some old fatigues that really had seen better days did not produce an entirely pleasing result. Catwalk glamour this was not. Unfortunately, other than a change of underwear and lots of swim suits, towels and other swimming accoutrements, I’d packed little else in the way of clothes. As I perused my reflection in the mirror, I was at least safe in the knowledge that I’d not be bumping into anyone I knew and I was quite prepared to give a false name and address if the style police caught up with me. It was a very short walk from the hotel to the pub, a mere 30 second stroll and it was a warm and pleasant evening, at least for the north of England, and lots of people were sitting outside seemingly happy to be soaking up the fumes and particulates from the stream of traffic passing about six feet away. I decided I preferred my food without the free carcinogenic seasoning and suggested we sit inside which was also largely full. Nic headed off to secure one of the few vacant tables and I headed to the bar where I stood, increasingly impatient, for fifteen minutes. I couldn’t work out whether the bar-staff had the attention span of a goldfish and so couldn’t remember the order in which people came to the bar or whether they didn’t serve members of the ‘traveling community’ and were strategically ignoring me hoping I would go away. I began to purse my lips and drum my fingers on the bar top and when one too many customers had been served before me I was no longer able to retain the spirit of warmth and goodwill that I try to embrace in such situations and so asserted myself. Somewhat to the surprise of the barmaid who looked at me as if I had materialised out of nowhere. The bloke who had pitched up at the bar ages after I had and was ordering two mega-portions of some cholesterol-soaked artery-furring triple chocolate mousse cake for him and his wife would have to wait. Anyway, I was doing him a favour in at least delaying his inevitable heart attack and as the barmaid rang through my order I began to run through the principles of CPR in my head just in case fate took a hand and he keeled over just as he finished his last mouthful. Nic had stuck with her plan and ordered a steak. I, whose common sense had obviously deserted me in the time I had stood at the bar opted at the last moment for a double-decker Tex Mex chicken burger and chips. Seduced by the description on the menu and ignoring the ridiculously cheap price of £4.69 all in, as soon as I placed the order my instincts told me I had made a terrible mistake. Back at the table and perusing the menu once again, I realised just how cheap the food was. Glancing round at the punters, most of whom would have benefited from having their teeth wired or a gastric band fitted it dawned on me that we were in junk-food hell and I had just jumped into the burning fires in an entirely voluntary capacity.

Like swimming in beef oxo and going after the wrong buoy 3

Forty-five minutes later and now one hour behind a schedule which was meant to be so finely tuned and in reality was now blasted to smithereens I had picked up Nic and turned the nose of my not-very-environmentally-friendly but oh-so-reliable Toyota Landcruiser northwest. Towards Leicester and the M1. The M1 was Britain’s first full-length motorway (I don’t count the Preston Bypass), it opened in 1959 and was considered at the time to be ‘unbelievable’ due to its three full traffic lanes, no speed limit (!) and its flyovers and bridges. It still is unbelievable in my book because at times it grinds along at the speed of a 1959 Hillman Minx going uphill with the wind against it. However, a Toyota Landcruiser is hardly known for its aesthetic charm and wind tunnel-like streamlining and unless I want to see the petrol gauge going south at an alarming rate - and at 109.9p a litre of diesel nobody would want that - I tend to keep to the speed limit. So past Nottingham we trundled, noting the signs to Doncaster come and go, making small talk and idle chit chat (at least that’s what I am telling you. In fact Nic and I were hatching a plan for world domination via the ASA. They are so poorly organised they’d never know they’d been infiltrated and by that time it would be too late). Then, about 90 minutes into the journey we had the excitement of tacking onto the M18 to cut across eastwards to pick up the A1. There were still no signs for Darlington or Stockton which I started to query and when my plaintive bleating about the distance had gone on for far too long Nic broke the news that Darlington was actually beyond Scotch Corner. I hadn’t had to go that far north in a very long time. The sun was shining though, the traffic for a Friday afternoon strangely quiet and my bag of snacks emptying at an alarming rate. The good thing about playing a sport and training hard is that you can pretty much eat what you like. But that Friday afternoon, I decided that really, there had to be a limit. After a stressful week, a fitful nights sleep and a late get-away my left hand was dobbing in and out of the snack bag with alarming regularity. Finished were my favourite Japanese black sesame rice cakes, my Jaffa Cakes (are they cake or are they biscuit. Views please), a banana and an apple. I decided extreme measures were called for. Picking up the bag I launched it backwards through the car into the boot. Unless I mutated into some Doctor Who-like creature with particularly extensive and flexible limbs, then my snacking was done until dinner. But boy, did I miss that steady rhythm of hand to bag to mouth and back again. Comfort eating at its best. Nic had been in charge of booking hotels and informed me that there was a pub right next door to where we were to be staying which at least gave me something to focus on (other than the driving that is). As I could no longer force-feed myself like some goose getting fattened for Christmas I indulged instead in that happy game of ‘what do you fancy eating tonight’. Now, as it was a pub doing food and this being ‘The North’ I did not set myself up ready for a fall. We may have hit the highs of Gastropubs in middle and southern England but in all but the most cosmopolitan and happening northern cities (Leeds, Manchester, Harrogate), the culinary delights in your average northern pub were not destined to have us reaching for the pen to recommend a visit by Michael Winner. Steak then, seemed to be the answer. Steak, chips, peas, onion rings, grilled tomato and... some kind of sauce. Black pepper sauce, forestiere (ok, I forgot, this was Darlington), mushroom, spicy tomato. Any of them. All of them. Together. The length of this journey was really starting to get to me. We eventually arrived in Darlington, sanity just about intact, and noted how beautifully looked after and clean the town centre was. Perhaps my soft southern(ish) prejudices needed to be re-evaluated. My illusions were not to be shattered entirely however. As we pulled into the hotel car park having to run a slalom across the tarmac to avoid the piles of green cubed glass from a number of smashed windscreens, a small red hatchback came careering into the car park, administered a textbook hand break turn and left the way it came – with a swerve and a wiggle of its back end. And all to the eardrum splitting beat of some trance album track. Had the Paris – Dakar rally a new starting point I wondered. Was it now Darlington – Dakar? We grabbed our bags making sure nothing was left on display and wandered over to the entrance of the hotel. What I saw first and Nic didn’t clock at all was a large double fronted glass fridge full of beer and chocolate. Oh, our brains work in such different ways. Blocking off any thoughts of an early evening snifter and a chocolate fix, I took our keys and headed for the lift to the second floor. We had 3k to swim the next morning and I wasn’t intending on wasting any energy.