I’ve just married my best friend. Well, he’s more like an upgrade on a best friend – the deluxe version. He’s the front-facing table seat in quiet coach C on the Grand Central from Halifax – London… first class (of course.) He’s the 12mm luxury underlay as opposed to the 10mm more reasonably priced alternative (yes – we are currently shopping for carpets, and yes – we want the Gav quality “it’ll be like walking on a bouncy castle” option). He’s the Marks & Spencer’s weekly food shop, although admittedly, Aldi do some excellent fresh produce. (And £3.10 for a Pink Lady apple? It does come in a M&S protective polystyrene tray, although I’m quietly confident it would survive the 3-mile car journey home without.)
The last time I had a real best friend was in my teenage years. We did everything together, Jo and I. She’d get on my bus into town and we’d go shopping at Jean Junction for hooded tops; we’d trudge around Sainsbury’s for my Mum during school holidays and make a bee-line for the iced fingers.
In later years, that same trudge advanced to the dark and sticky route up and down the stairs between the Coliseum nightclub and Maine St, where she would patiently guide me with my frustratingly poor eyesight, as I chased Fit Rob around hoping he’d notice that I was both alive and available. (I never knew his surname; he had blonde curtains, and he never did realise that I was either of those things.) And then – selfishly – she went and got herself a boyfriend. “It won’t last… He’s from Down South… she’s still at school… what are they gonna do? Commute?** Ha ha ha just wait and see…” **They did exactly that, and 20 years later are happily married with 3 beautiful kids. Meanwhile, I was stuck with my latest Boyfriend of the Month eating pot noodles whilst swinging my legs on the bench under the slide at Warley park wishing I could find another best friend.
Two decades later… I did.
I’ve written about our romantic meeting – some bullshit excuse around him needing a new running club vest “I’m not sure what size, so I’ll take two just in case, and bring one back…”, and the rest – as they say – is history. We’ve melted together in the oppressive heat of the Dubai marathon, and hob-nobbed with Sir Mo whist altitude training in Font Romeu.
We’ve had four years of fun and belly-laughter that make the previous thirty look like tired old sepia photographs. Welcome technicolor! With filters! Life with my – now husband – Gav is X Pro ll on Instagram (it’s a bright one.)
And so our newly married adventures continue…
… he’s got a bike.
I repeat – he’s just got a frickin bike! This was as unlikely as Theresa May waking up one morning to discover that the Bags for Life residing under her eyes had miraculously disappeared (who’d take that job?) And this is a whole new chapter in our CulloDodd adventures. Yes – we’re still runners. That will always be a big part of our lives and our story, but just as the amoebas turned into fish, we are evolving into people who can – and will – choose to have new experiences in life. I’m back on the bus into town with my new best friend, and we’re off to buy a hooded (cycling) top.
And we went out for the first time on our bikes together, this week. Admittedly, I’ve had more practice on two wheels – my progress having been documented in recent blogs referencing jigsaw puzzles and painting by numbers. Gav was last on two wheels when he was chasing 6th form girls around town back in the early 90s with crooked teeth (Gav – not the girls. They’re straight now. Gav’s teeth – and also Gav, I’m happy to confirm.) So, as I flew off up the road ahead, Gav tried to take himself back two decades and remember the basics. “Just keep pedalling!” I shouted back to him. The advice has worked well for me.
I stopped and waited for him at the next suitable juncture, and saw his gormless* smile appear as he approached on his sexy, pristine new Orange Clockwork mountain bike. “It’s fucking ace!” He shouted, as I took a snap of him on his new toy, and we both continued on our 14-mile loop, up and over the beautiful Yorkshire hills from home. *I’m allowed to say this, as I tend to sport the same vacuous look – see Instagram.
And it’s a bloody good job we’re getting some cycling practice in, because for a honeymoon? Well, we’ve just signed up to cycle 460 km coast-to-coast across Costa Rica from the Pacific to the Caribbean in November. Really, how hard can it be?… and then we read the itinerary. Gulp. Shitbags. What the f*kc have we done? (Mind you, our impulsive decision to enter the 2016 Dubai marathon was at best questionable, and we did almost get lost whilst (ahem) “exploring” non-existent trails high on a mountainside in Font Romeu as we ran out of food, water, and daylight, but we don’t need to worry about those things just now.)
Meanwhile, running is coming back to me. More like my love of running is slowly returning after a long, injury-induced absence earlier in the year. So much so that bollocks – I’ve entered into a duathlon for October. Fuck it – what have I got to lose? I’ve even bought myself one of those fancy tri-suits and run the risk of resembling a toilet roll tube on a bike, but I’m flirting with the possibility that it was always meant to be this way. I was supposed to lose running this year in order to try out new adventures, and that’s exactly what I – and we – have done. I had to drop off the mile-chasing Strava Wanker scenario to see that I can still train without it. I needed to lose the races and the places to realise that it doesn’t define me, or my self-worth.
More recently I’ve tackled a couple of trail / light fell races, and I’ve deliberately put myself out of my comfort zone. Not to hone my off-road skills so much (which remain entirely shit) but to test my metal. Dare I go out of my road-running comfort zone? Trail running will never be my first love, but it’s still a worthwhile pursuit in challenging my fears. Skipping over tree roots at pace on a fast, slippery trail descent fills me with a terror I can only akin to the concept of playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey in the middle of the M62.
Our cycling adventures – the Duathlon and our planned Costa Rica bike ride – are exactly the same. Pushing ourselves, trying new things, seeing what we can do. And I love that my husband, Gav, is as up for the challenge as I am.
Now, just remind me. Where is Costa Rica again??
[Gav – we’d best do a Google search…]
*Oooooh you make me live
Whatever this world can give to me
It’s you, you’re all I see
Oooooh you make me live now honey
Oooooh you make me live…