Running away from the mums' race

It's school sports day season. That anxiety filled time for every headteacher (pray it doesn't rain), every sport hating child and every slow running parent.  

I'm the latter and I'm afraid of the mums' race.

To make it worse, I'm a slow runner with a bit of a competitive streak.This competitive streak doesn't come out very often but recently reared its ugly head at a wedding.

The ladies were asked to discard their stilettos and run towards the camera. I guess the aim was to bring some 'movement' to the picture and get the already-slightly-drunk ladies laughing. It was hot and whilst most of them were wondering if we'd ever get the spindly heels back on to our (already swollen) feet, I seemed to be taking the running request a bit too seriously. The picture is below and I don't think I need to tell you which one is me.

 

Anyway, back to the sports day.

Last year Dad went, son won one race, Dad exited before the parent's race took place. Dads can get away with that but I'm unable to leave anywhere quietly. So this year I'm going and I decided to test the importance of participating in the Mums' race, by asking my six year old.

It went like this:    

Me: Do you think I should go in the Mums' race on sportsday?
Son: Mummy (giggles) you are a really BAD runner
Me: Yes I know that (!), but would you rather me sit on the side while all the other mummies run, or take part for fun?
Son: Please don't go in the running race Mum.

  

So I simultaneously jumped for joy and died just a little bit inside. Yes a get-out clause, but damn my child is ALREADY ashamed of me. It's not really the speed he's embarrassed about, it's definitely more the way I run. I play rugby and he doesn't laugh at the scrum cap or the comedy tackling, yet he always laughs at the idea of me trying to run for the line with a ball (so does my coach).

So what to do? Well I can't think of a good enough excuse not to participate (embarrassing my son doesn't count, that's a requirement). So I now need to decide whether I run as fast as I possibly can and risk looking like I'm trying too hard; OR I quash my competitive spirit and just do a slow jog - which is about the same speed as my sprint, but more casual looking.

My only saving grace is that the fastest mum has the same name as me, so if they publish the results,  I'm a winner anyway :)
 

History repeats itself

I promised myself I wouldn't brainwash my children the way my Dad brainwashed us. It was all Man Utd and the Beatles. If we weren't watching football we were singing along to his guitar.

I want my children to make their own choices about football teams and music. I want them to support the local team through highs and lows. Rugby even (!).

To be fair to my Dad, United were in the old second division when I was born and we used to sit in crowds of twenty-odd thousand. They were our nearest major team. Ish.

But still,  I want my kids to find their own way. Find their own sport. Support the underdog.

Yet last weekend I found myself here, with my big sister (also brainwashed from a young age), my son and her two boys.

History repeating itself.

Gold medal mojo

The Olympics, they make me feel 13 again.

I can’t sit and watch every minute of every hour like I did then, but it turns out that my thirty-something self is still capable of forming Bieber-esque crushes that turn me into a squealing mess, leaving me searching the internet for hours for glimpses of my heroes.

I’ve got a girl crushes on Rebecca Adlington and Gemma Gibbons. A big brother crush on Bradley Wiggins and a poster boy crush on Mark Cavendish (phwoar). I want to invite Mo Farah for tea and I’ve got a growing ginger obsession with Greg Rutherford.

And after four Olympics I still desperately hope to marry Ben Ainslie.

I spend my evenings sobbing with joy and my sleeping hours dreaming of relationships I will never have.

I'm out cycling with the wind in my hair, enjoying the sunshine, looking stylish in lycra (is that even possible?). When I hear the whirr of the wheels behind me, feel someone coming up close, almost feel the breath on my neck. It’s Cav.....that cheeky boyish smile and mean determined stare....... We lock eyes....

.......and the alarm goes off, I change my baby's nappy and head off to work at the council.

You get the gist. After a summer of sport, we’ve all got a spring in our step, we’re proud to be British. And thanks to the poster boys I’ve got my Mojo back. :-)

mmmmmmm Cav.....

(And when I grow up I want to be Clare Balding, with Denise Lewis's body. That's all.)