Good for May

From where I’m sitting May is shaping up to be a much better month than April. Probably has the edge on February too. (March is excused due to a lovely little week away in Florida.)

Last month was hard. It wasn’t supposed to be but it was. The very best thing about last month – and make no mistake, this is a very good thing – was that my sister finally caught a break and landed a sweet new job. And I mean FINALLY.

But enough about her. These pages are all about me.

Half way through April it dawned on me that many, many months ago I’d signed up to do a 130km bike race in May. Back when I entered I was much fitter and the thought of bashing out a few hours on the bike was no biggie. Fast forward to mid-April and I found myself recovering from a long winter of fatigue and illness followed by an early spring that featured a few hospital visits and even an ambulance ride. No fun.

The long and short of it is that I’d made it out on my bike for one measly ride since the end of 2012.

What to do, what to do.

I’d already booked and paid for the whole trip away so it made sense to have a crack at getting back into shape and then turn up at the start line and hope for the best. (The ‘hope for the best’ technique is a solid part of my arsenal and was used to great effect for the London Marathon a couple of years ago, Ironman South Africa and the Etape du Tour last year, and Tour de Lac attempts one, two and three over the past 3 years.)

With 3 weekends remaining before race day I sketched out a 3-part training plan and set about rediscovering my bicycle.

Part 1, weekend 1 – ride around Richmond park repeatedly until I’d clocked around 60k. Check.

Part 2, weekend 2 – ride out to Runnymede to meet Fran for a coffee, then ride home. Add extra mileage by navigating incompetently. Clock 90k. Check.

Part 3, weekend 3 – ride out to Dorney Lake to meet Andrew. Then explore some of the countryside together, aiming for a total distance of 110k. OhcrapItotallymismanagedmytimeandnowImsuperlateforsomethingelse * deep breath* ridecutshortat95kmmustrushhomeandpowershowerandgo. Half a check. It’ll have to do.

Thoroughly under-prepared I headed off to Scotland at the crack of dawn on Friday. It was a weekend full of magical good luck. I smiled and charmed an extra guest into the first class lounge at Gatwick. Then I smiled and charmed an upgrade to a mega 7-seater and a free extra driver at the Avis counter. We bagged one of the holiday cottages with a view (rather than the cottages with the view of the back of our cottage). I drove on the left hand side of the road, with a left-handed gear stick for the first time ever and didn’t crash or scratch or maim anything. I remembered to wish my mother a Happy Mother’s Day.

And I turned up at the start line, hoped for the best, and bashed out 130km on my bicycle in 5 hours, 47 minutes and 19 seconds. To put my time into context, Shona was about 40 minutes faster than me, and Charlie was about 40 minutes faster than her. It wasn’t fast. In places it wasn’t very dignified. But I did it.

I’d sort of forgotten how to do a long ride and I failed to eat anything more than a single gel and a few sips of water for the first 65km. I also skipped the first feed station so by the time I rolled around to the second one I was exhausted, hungry, miserable and being constantly overtaken. Fifteen minutes of scarfing down anything I could get my hands on put that all to right and I enjoyed the second half so much more. A nice climb up the big hill of the race, a lovely descent, some beautiful vistas, and at about the 85km mark at last a tail wind!

An atmospheric day in the Highlands

With about 30km to go I finally found my race legs. The people around me were tired and hurting. I was tired and hurting. It was time to make it count. I hammered it for that last hour, steadily pushing past people. I even picked up a few passengers on my wheel. Truly I was flattered. Then I turned the corner for the final stretch to the finish and heard someone shout out that it was just 700 metres and to go for it. I sprinted that last 700 metres as fast as I could, even overtaking someone right before the line.

Then I stopped and felt like I was going to pass out. A guy came up and tapped me on the shoulder. “Thanks,” he said, “you brought me home.”

Good for me. Good for May.

This is my sprinting face. Looking goooooood.

This story does not have a happy ending

This story does not have a happy ending.

It has a happy beginning. In February I discovered I was 5 weeks pregnant. Relief mixed with excitement mixed with terror. We’d been beginning to wonder if it would ever happen for us and now it had.

I’d always thought that if I ever got pregnant I wouldn’t worry about the 12 weeks rule and I’d just tell everyone. But now being in the situation it just felt so precarious. I felt vulnerable. So I kept quiet, except for a select few people on a need to know basis, plus family.

Oh it was such fun to tell my parents. A skype call home and a casual, ‘hey dad, what are you doing on such and such a date?’

‘I don’t know’, he replied, ‘Having dinner with you?’ was his guess.

‘No’, I said, ‘you’re becoming a grandpa’.

Cue shouts of joy, tears and a moment where my mother thought she might have terribly misinterpreted the situation and was the excitement because I was getting a dog? (She was shaking as she asked this, having got so worked up about a baby and then worrying she’d got it wrong)

I grew up around medicine so I knew all the risks and the rules. I knew there was a high chance of miscarriage, so we were cautiously optimistic. But, I kept telling myself, there’s a higher chance of everything working out just fine.

On the weeks marched and how excited we were. The fatigue hit me from out of nowhere and I was unbelievably exhausted. I could barely make it through a working day. I stopped my evening runs and my weekend cycles. Evenings were for sleep. Weekends were for sleep.

I didn’t suffer any terrible nausea, just a persistent feeling of being a little bit ‘off’ and some funny food preferences. I treated myself to lots of chocolate.

And so the weeks ticked by. 6, 7, 8, 9. I had scan appointments coming up, we started lining up nights out with friends looking forwards to sharing the good news. I had my pregnancy app that told me each day how the baby was developing. Heart, fingers, brain, lungs.

Easter weekend we spent out of town with Andrew’s family. As Easter Sunday rolled around (10 weeks! Congratulations, my app told me, your little embryo has just become a foetus) and the family got ready to sit down for lunch I ran to the loo again (typical) and noticed just a little bit of spotting. Don’t panic. It might be fine.

I sat through lunch a little bit subdued, listening to innuendos about eating for two and starting to panic. Afterwards I told my husband, had a little cry and lay down for a nap. Something was wrong. I just knew.

The next day nothing had changed, except the spotting was looking fresher in colour. This was not good. We had a relaxed morning and ate a late breakfast. After breakfast I went to the loo again and the spotting was gone, replaced by bright red fresh blood.

I started to cry again. My sister-in-law gave me a hug and told us both firmly to just go to the hospital and get checked out. It might be fine. You don’t know.

So we went and spent April Fools Day in the waiting room of A&E.

A urine test revealed that yes, I was still pregnant. But a scan told a different story.

‘There’s nothing here that looks like a 10-week pregnancy’. It was a missed miscarriage. Yes, I’d become pregnant and the embryo had implanted. But shortly after it had died. I’d probably never made it past 6 weeks. My body, my foolish body, had continued to believe it was pregnant. It had dosed me full of hormones. It had grown a placenta in preparation for the imaginary baby. But it wasn’t real. There was no heartbeat, or fingers, or brain, or lungs. There was just a dead embryo in an empty pregnancy sac.

April Fools.

I’d been expecting bad news, but I hadn’t been expecting this. (We’d walked over to the scan unit with another couple in a similar situation. ‘Are you feeling positive?’ she’d asked me. ‘No’, I said.)

They made me an appointment to come back in a week and have a follow up scan, and then a minor procedure to clear out the pregnancy.

We went home exhausted and numb. I couldn’t eat. I managed to choke down an apple for dinner but that was it. I decided I wasn’t going into work the next day, I needed some time to come to terms with it all. I started the process of telling people that I wasn’t pregnant any more.

My phone buzzed constantly with messages of condolence and offers to chat. But I didn’t feel like chatting. I didn’t want to be bothered. I could barely summon the energy to reply to texts. I just wanted to lie in bed and cry.

And so, lying in bed and crying the next day my boss phoned for a catch up.

Boss: Hi, how are you?
Me: Fine, how are you?
Boss: Are you in the office?
Me: No.
Boss: Oh, aren’t you working today?
Me: I was supposed to, but I was in the hospital yesterday so I’m not going in today.
Boss: Oh no, are you okay? What’s wrong?!
Me: I was pregnant but I’ve miscarried (starts to cry)
Boss: I’m so sorry. Please don’t worry about work. Take more than just one day off. Don’t come in the rest of the week. The office will survive. There’s nothing you need to worry about. Okay?
Me: Okay.

My boss is a very, very nice man with a good set of priorities.

And so I lie there weeping a bit more. The theme of my thoughts – It wasn’t real. There was never a real baby. Somehow my husband finds this comforting, that it’s just a collection of cells that never got anywhere. I find this worse. I feel like a fraud. Like I wasn’t really pregnant. Was all that tiredness real? Was I really that irritable? Did I actually HAVE to have that cheese & onion sandwich? Or did I imagine it all? And now I’m riding that hormone train in reverse as they slowly subside.

So here I am with a fat ass and nothing to show for it.

Anyway, life goes on and we had theatre tickets for tonight. In an effort to cheer ourselves up we decide to press on. At 3pm I drag myself out of bed and have a sit down shower. I still can’t eat anything much but I manage a pear. And shortly after 5pm I meet my husband around Waterloo. We slowly cross the bridge and try to choose somewhere for dinner. I honestly don’t care. I don’t feel like eating anything so I tell him to pick anywhere he likes.

The bleeding has picked up and it now feels like a proper period. I take some ibuprofen.

We go into pizza express and I manage to choose something to eat. Some olives arrive and I manage one. Then a tomato and mozzarella salad. I’m so tired I can’t even cope with cutting it into pieces. I ask my husband for help, who patiently indulges me and cuts a piece of cheese and a slice of tomato into finger sized pieces, which I slowly get down.

I don’t feel well so I go to the bathroom. I’m alarmed to see that I’m bleeding quite heavily – a steady stream like when someone has left the tap on just a little. The cramps are getting steadily stronger too.

I go back to the table, sit there for 2 minutes and feel worse. Back to the bathroom. I tell my husband I’m taking my phone because I might be a while. It’s all worse. A big gush of blood comes out and the cramps are becoming nearly unbearable. I feel a pain episode coming on.

I text my husband that I think we might not make the theatre.

I try to work through it, calming my breathing and telling myself not to panic. It’s no good. I start to hyperventilate and the pins and needles take over my arms and face. It occurs to me that this is not a good situation. This is not regular period pain. I am bleeding too much too quickly. I am in too much pain. So I text again: Too much blood and pain. Ambulance please.

Reply from my husband: Oh shit.

And then I’m on the floor, panting and groaning. Trying to find a comfortable position. Not particularly caring that it’s filthy, that I’m filthy. My body is turning numb. My husband comes crashing through calling out my name. I manage to unlock the door and he jams his foot in to keep it open. He tries to roll me on my side; I refuse. He tries to rub my back; I shout NO. He tries to give me water; I tell him to fuck off.

Eventually the paramedics arrive, and right on cue I start to throw up. Funny because I’ve barely eaten anything since breakfast 36 hours ago. But there it is – that April Fools breakfast, barely digested.

They manage to get me up the stairs and wheel me across a busy street into the waiting ambulance. They are calm and nice but I don’t particularly care. I feel slightly better, perhaps as a result of the ibuprofen kicking in. They offer me nitrous oxide. I say no. Then they offer again and I say yes.

It’s actually quite nice. It calms me down and makes me focus on my breathing. And then, we arrive at the hospital. I’m wheeled in and quickly transferred to an A&E bed, in a little curtained off room.

They set me up on a drip and give me some painkillers and some fluids. I almost instantly start to feel better and I calm down a lot.

Andrew updates my parents. (I had told him not to, earlier in the ambulance, not wanting to worry anyone). I think he calls my mom at one point and she cries.

Everybody is very attentive, but nobody seems particularly concerned about my bleeding. They haven’t asked me about it and I haven’t said anything. Maybe I should have? I get these strange gushing sensations and I start to wonder if I’m wetting myself, or if it’s related to the drip somehow. I lift up the blanket and see that blood has soaked through my jeans and I’m lying on a bloody patch of bed. At one point I’m asked to give a urine sample so I get up to do so. When I sit on the toilet a huge burst of blood gushes out. It’s such a strange sensation.

Eventually the doc comes around and asks me how many pads I’ve soaked through. I don’t know. I haven’t been given any pads. I’m just lying here bleeding on myself. I’ve bled through my jeans, I’m bleeding on the bed. He sends a nurse in to give me pads and to change the bedding. Another nurse comes by a bit later to ask if I’m still bleeding. Yes, I tell him, great big gushes of it.

They are waiting for someone from gynae to come see me before they decide if I need to be admitted. The doc comes by again. Gynae are in surgery, so he’ll have to look at me himself.

He is surprised to see how much I’m still bleeding. He can’t get a clear look at my cervix since so much blood and enormous blood clots are coming out.

Something about this physical exam triggers a lot more pain. Suddenly I’m back to ground zero, in huge amounts of distress. Groaning and shaking and hyperventilating. I keep hitting myself on my head. My husband tries to stop me but I need something to focus on other than pain and it’s the only thing in my armoury.

No more messing around. They are getting me morphine and I’m being admitted.

My husband is told I’ll be spending the night. He calls my mother to tell her, who starts to cry again.

The morphine is instantaneous. It goes straight to the brain and I calm down immediately. But it doesn’t last long enough and by the time they’re wheeling me to the ward I’m in pain again.

I hit my lowest point in the ward. It’s dark, there’s nobody around and we’re waiting for a doctor. I don’t think I’m hyperventilating any more but my entire body has pins and needles. My face, my legs, my arms, my chest. My stomach starts cramping as well and the pain is intense. I can’t lift my arms.

My husband is begging for more pain meds for me but they don’t yet have the full A&E records so they can’t administer anything until they know exactly what and when I’ve been given stuff.

The doc arrives. She tells me she needs to do another exam, and that it won’t hurt me any more than I’m already hurting. This isn’t true. She uses a speculum to crank open my cervix, which is a whole new type of pain, and a pair of tongs to fish around inside my womb. I don’t last very long before I tell her to stop, to take it out. She does, and then very calmly explains to me that something is stuck in my cervix. It’s dilating it, and my body is trying to ‘birth’ it out but it can’t. This is why I’m bleeding so much and why I’m in pain. She wants to try to pull it out, but I need to let her have another try. If she leaves it there I’ll be in pain all night.

Okay, try again. This time I’m ready for the pain and I manage to stay relaxed. After a minute or two I hear a quiet ‘got it’ and she pulls out an enormous lump of mangled tissue.

The pain relief is as instantaneous as the morphine hit.

My bleeding also slows down immediately.

This mangled thing that she pulls out is sent off for testing. It’s not recognizable as anything but it’s all been squished together. It’s large – about an inch and a half in diameter and 3 inches long. I’m guessing it’s the entire pregnancy sac.

By this time it’s nearly 1:30am. My husband finally, exhausted, goes home to grab a few hours sleep.

I’m kept in the ward and fed another drip. I’m told ‘nil by mouth’ in case I need an operation in the morning. Every hour or so I’m woken to have my blood pressure taken. At one point I’m swabbed for MRSA – nostrils, throat and genitals.

In the morning I’m taken in for another scan. It seems I’m through the worst of it. There’s still some tissue and blood to pass, but nothing more major. I can be discharged.

Eventually, a few hours later I go home. I shower, I sleep. When I wake up later that day I feel a bit better. I tell my husband that it’s like the sad has been knocked out of me. Having something to focus on, this big, bloody, painful episode, has helped with the grieving. I’m still sad but I’m not quite as heartbroken anymore.

It was something real. It was a real pregnancy and it ended in real style.

We re-book tickets for the show we missed, paying a stupid amount to get the last few seats left in April. We want to get back to normal and this is part of it.

I’m tired, and I’m subdued. I’m re-setting my expectations for the next few months. The pressure’s off our home renovation plans. The pressure’s back on an 80 mile cycle race I was expecting to gracefully bow out from. I cancel all my pregnancy appointments. No, I don’t need to reschedule thanks.

And life goes on.

Where are you from?

I’ve been going to a lot of business meetings lately. In fact, I’ve been working hard. The good people who I work alongside for my agreed three and a half days per week seem to regularly forget the fact that I’m not in every day. So when I disappear somewhere like Hawaii for a week they happily fill up my diary with meeting after meeting, every day of the week.

Last week I worked my first ever five day week since January 2011. I know. It’s tough. You all feel sorry for me. This week the MD of the business was away in Japan. And once again he happily filled my diary while I was sleeping in a different timezone. It’s okay, eventually it’ll even out. I’ll bring my average back down to 3.5 days per week by going on more holidays.

But, like I said, I’ve been going to a lot of meetings. And invariably the people I’m meeting notice that I don’t sound British. So they ask. Or they guess. Where am I from?

Sometimes they guess right. Sometimes they guess American. You know what? It doesn’t matter. If they get it wrong they are usually very apologetic. I’m always quick to reassure them that as a mild-mannered Canadian I don’t get offended easily. Or I agree and tell them that I’m from the 51st state.

Who are these mythical Canadians that go around getting cross when people can’t quite place their accent? I’ve never met one. With a population that’s about 10 times larger than it’s northern neighbour, guessing ‘American’ is a good guess. If you’re Canadian,  you come from a small country. Get over yourself.

(Future post: Things that annoy me about Canadians. Example: thinking that a stupidly firm handshake is impressive. “Oh look how hard you can squeeze my hand, let’s do business and I’ll give you some money.” Next future post: Things that annoy me about Brits. Example: their insistence on allowing parking and two way traffic on roads that are only wide enough for a single car. Implement a fricken one way system, people.)

I’ve always identified myself as a Canadian, a Vancouverite, a West Coast girl. But there was a moment, several years ago in fact, when I realised I was also a Londoner. My parents were visiting and we were meeting at Covent Garden after work one evening. The tube was delayed and I was late.

When I finally arrived I was in a foul mood, fuming about the delay to my plans. “How late was the tube?” my mother wondered.

“SIX MINUTES” I snarled.

Then I paused.

And I thought about how ridiculous it was to be cross about a six minute delay.

Except it’s not. Because that particular line runs every one to two minutes during rush hour. So if it’s six minutes late, then you have three to six times as many people trying to get on at every stop along the way. You can’t squeeze in. So you wait for the next one. And the next. And so on.

This morning I had a moment of pure rage when the man in front of me was too slow about taking his seat on the tube. He walked slowly. He fidgeted with his briefcase while settling in. He was blocking the way to other seats. Short of shoving him aside (which I actively considered) I was stuck behind him, waiting for him to sit down. And while I waited, dozens of people streamed in through the other set of carriage doors and raced to grab a seat as quick as they could. Fast and aggressive, like proper Londoners. Stupid, stupid man getting in my way and preventing me from getting a seat. I hated him for that six minute ride.

I’ve lived here for over 9 years now. I have a British passport. I have a British husband. I like marmite.  In the winter I find that a room temperature beer goes down rather nicely.

I’m also still a West Coast girl. I love hockey, and the smell of the ice. I recycle. I’m nice to waitresses and I tip taxi drivers. I say tomayto.

Off the grid

I’ve been in Hawaii for the last week. I’m still here. I have to leave soon but hopefully will be back again in a couple of months.

This trip has been the first in many, many years where I haven’t had a functioning blackberry or iPhone, or regular and reliable wifi. Instead I’ve been picking up the occasional very slooooow wifi signal at the local coffee shop and have been clunking out a text or two on a loaner phone with limited connectivity. A few days ago my micro-sim slipped inside the phone and it stopped working altogether. Oh well.

When I do manage to get on the grid I haven’t bothered to try to load up my work email. It’ll take too long. I have no idea what’s going on. It’s nice.

Unplugging has been a luxury. Nothing is creeping in to worry me or bother me. I’m living the island life in a big way. Swim time, coffee time, beach time, nap time, cocktail time. It’s so mellow here. I feel loose and unhurried.

My excuse for this trip was to watch my friend Laura race at the World Ironman Championships. It was great to be part of it all – from the underpants run on the first morning I arrived through to whizzing around to cheering points on race day – I had a blast.

Before and after all the race excitement there was plenty of time to relax at the keiki beach, drive up a volcano, swim in the sea and go on a super fun snorkelling boat cruise. (There was a big slide and high jump on the boat. Mega, mega, awesome super fun.)

On my last night I finally spotted a little guest book in our condo and flipped through its pages. Lo and behold, there were all the details for super fast wifi in the room. Looks like I could have plugged in all week. But I’m glad I didn’t.

Tonight I start the long trek home with the first of two red-eye flights. That’ll be two more days off the grid then.

Aloha, aloha

In just a few hours I’ll be waking up, taking a taxi to the airport, and then flying for pretty much the whole darn day. But at the end of it I’ll be in Hawaii. Good times.

It’s just a quickie trip – there and back in a week.

My friend Laura has nabbed a slot in the Ironman World Championships and ages ago I promised to come cheer her on should she get in. Maybe ‘nabbed’ isn’t the right word. She has trained bloody hard and had some amazing results. She has earned this fantastic opportunity.

I very nearly flaked out on my promise to her. I was worried about the cost of flying there, about how busy things were starting to get at the company where I’m working. Meetings were filling up my diary. October seemed to be disappearing. I wasn’t sure I could make it happen.

We were chatting and I told her about all my worries and why it might not work. She reassured me that it was okay if I didn’t make it. Of course she’d love me to be there. Of course she understood about real life. And then she said  ’but if you do come you’ll never regret it.’

Ding. Lightbulb moment.

Somehow I’d started to get busy and was in danger of letting the good stuff slide. She’s right though. I won’t regret it. I get to go to a beautiful bit of the world, spend time with great people, and cheer on a friend as she takes on the World Championships. Plus there’s a 1k fun race that we’re going to run in our knickers. How cool is that?

Pie time

This weekend is Canadian thanksgiving. I’ve been invited to both a lunch and a dinner (both hosted by fellow Canadians) and have volunteered to bring pumpkin pie to both. It is THE classic dessert.

I’ve been getting ready. On Wednesday I sliced and roasted a medium and a small pumpkin. Today I spent hours baking pies. Pureeing the pumpkins. Grinding up gingersnaps to make a delicious crust. I’ve used 2 whole pumpkins, 10 eggs, 3 tins of condensed milk, 3 packets of ginger biscuits, 1/2 bag of brown sugar and more butter than I care to think about. I am ready. I have baked 4 delicious pies.

Then, I got a little text: “Hi, we’re eating dinner. Are you coming?”

(Side note – I’m heading out tonight to a different party and since dunking my phone in Lake Geneva I’m on a loaner with no address book.)

Thinking this was tonight’s pal, I texted back that I was having dinner at home but would be on my way shortly.

Then another text: “Okay, what time does the pie arrive?”

What pie? Did I say I’d bring a pie tonight. I said I’d bring a pie tomorrow night to. . . oh crap oh crap oh crap. The dinner. It’s TONIGHT. I’ve ruined thanksgiving. I have seriously considered paying a car service to come and pick up a pie and take it an hour across town and drop it off.

Or I can try to eat 4 pies tomorrow.

Tour du Lac: Take 3

I went for a nice long row this weekend. Five of us paddled a coxed quad (4 rowing seats, 2 blades each + one steering seat) around Lake Geneva. At 160km it’s the longest inland rowing race in the world. This year was the race’s 40th anniversary and my 3rd attempt.

A little recap of previous years

2010: We made it about 70km before one of our crew became so ill that we had to pull out. It poured with rain the entire time. Several other crews either pulled out or sank. Unfinished business.

2011: Made it around! Calm and sunny, we should have whizzed around the lake at great speed. Instead we navigated the first half badly, tucking into every nook and cranny along the shore and almost certainly going much farther than the advertised 160km. The second half was even worse as we chucked our GPS into the lake just as the sun was going down. We were several hours behind the winning women’s crew, crossing the line 17 hours and 42 minutes after we started. I was sure we’d lost hours of time from poor navigation.
Unfinished business.

And now onto 2012

Wet and windy. Thankfully the boat prep day was dry and warm. Boat prep is nearly a full day’s activity of constructing seaworthy additions out of ‘to let’ signs, duct tape, broom handles, plastic sheeting and shoe laces. There’s sawing and measuring and all sorts of fun stuff going on. It is a slow task and cannot be rushed. Get it wrong and if the weather turns you’ll surely sink.

You then prepare your seats and strategically fill your boat with hand tape, a first aid kit, food & drink, dry clothing, lifejackets, emergency flares, boat lights, head torches, a pump, and the all-important GPS.

Once all this was completed it was time for the race briefing and weather report. They told us it would be rainy (it was) and that a strong north wind would pick up at 5pm, creating some spectacular waves (it did). They also announced that subject to the wind, the race would be an out and back along the Geneva shore rather than a full circumnavigation of the lake (it was). Oh, and we’d be starting one hour earlier so as to give us as much time as possible of ‘good’ weather.

And so to bed. Once again we were staying in the local nuclear bunker. Our particular dorm consisted of two sets of triple bunk beds, 7 abreast. That’s 42 beds. Although not filled to capacity, I’d estimate there were 30 people in our room. Try to imagine the body heat, the sounds and the smells wafting off 30 bodies in a room about the same size as your average master bedroom. It was sweltering. Even with earplugs I could hear the snoring of one man – so loud I think people in the next dorm over were being kept awake. It’s not my favourite place.

I was almost grateful to hear my alarm clock at 5:30am and escape the bunker into the cool morning air. We wandered back to the boat house in the dark to complete our final preparations. Filling the water bag, checking the pump, re-checking the splash deck, taping hands, having a morning coffee. And then, all of a sudden, it was time to go.

Onto the water and with a bang the race was off. Our plan was to go slow and steady, maintaining a pace of at least 10km per hour. That would put us on track to finish in about 16 hours. We’d start with 30 minute rotations – 2 hours rowing and then 30 minutes to steer/rest/pee/eat/re-tape hands – and then might switch down to 20 minute rotations later in the day depending on how everyone felt.

The first 4 hours it rained pretty solidly. A few days before the race I had purchased a non-breathable, totally waterproof jacket. Thank goodness. It might have been a bit of a sweatbox but at least it kept me warm. My legs were totally soaked within minutes, and despite strategically draping waterproof trousers over my shoes, within a few hours they’d shifted and my feet were wet too. But my upper half was warm and relatively dry. Total bliss.

During the next 3 hours the rain was lighter, on and off. Sometimes sprinkling, sometimes raining. At some point during this stint we started to see boats heading back in the other direction. Surely they hadn’t reached Montreaux and made it back this far already!? (Last year it took us 9 hours to reach Montreaux. This year we were on pace for under 8.) I was convinced that they were turning boats around early. The latest weather forecast must be ferocious.

Sure enough at the next checkpoint our safety yacht signalled for us to turn around. Oh relief. Oh gratitude.

At this point we all had a little debate as to how far we’d actually come. Our GPS was only set up to show us checkpoint to checkpoint so we weren’t totally sure, but as we’d been rowing for 7 hours at a little over 10km per hour we estimated it was at least 70km.

Still, 3pm and already halfway done! How marvellous! And despite the rain the fabled wind and waves were nowhere to be seen. So on we rowed for another two hours. Everyone still in high spirits. Fran confidently predicting we’d be back by 10pm. (As the only novice in our group we all had a good chuckle at that.)

Shortly after 5pm we were still in good cheer and almost certain that the forecast was wrong. We were holding a steady pace and even managed to overtake a crew that had gone off the start much faster than us.

Then it started to get a little choppy. But that’s okay. We had a fantastic splash deck. We had a pump. And besides – we were tideway rowers.

On we rowed.

Then it started to get a lot choppy.

On we rowed.

Then big rolling waves.

Still, on we rowed.

Next it was some fairly significant swells. Our boat was rolling from side to side and water was crashing up against our rather marvellous splash deck, sometimes right over into the boat. Our little pump was being called into service fairly regularly. I began to feel a little queasy.

At one point we had an argument over whether to stay out and take a straight line to the next headland, or tuck in and try to get some shelter from the waves. We tucked in but quickly realised that the waves bouncing off the seawall were creating an even worse churn. Back out then.

And on we rowed.

The water was bad but we were riding a fierce tailwind and so still kept on pace. The kilometres started ticking down. We were still doing 30 minute rotations (2 hours on, 30 minutes off) and had a reasonable sense of how far to go, so could start to figure out what was left to do. I was in the 3 seat and knew I had a coxing rotation to come, then would spend 2 hours in the stroke seat before ending up back at bow. I knew I’d finish the race either coxing or in the bow seat.

Near the end of my penultimate 2 hour shift I went into a dark place. I hurt. I was tired. I felt queasy. I. was. not. having. fun. I had a little chat with myself in my head. Emily, I said, do not EVER enter this event again. It is awful. You are wet and cold and sore and miserable. You are not having any fun. Your backside hurts so much it’s nearly unbearable. Your wet kit is chafing in places you never, ever, ever want to have chafed. Remember this. Remember this later and do NOT enter next year’s race.

Then, it was my turn to cox. Oh sweet relief I got to sit on a pillow. Oh joyful, joyful cold pizza it tasted so good. Oh heavenly blue powerade was so delightful it was almost transcendental. And suddenly all was right with the world again.

During my last 2 hour rowing shift I was absurdly positive. Just break it down into manageable chunks. I can row 2 hours. Sure I hurt a bit but it’s not too bad. I’m having a grand time.

Everyone in the boat managed to find some positive energy for the last couple of hours. We cheered every kilometre that ticked down. We praised our magnificent splash deck whenever we were battered by a particularly tough wave. Even when we realised we’d miscalculated and there were actually 6km to go, not 0.5km to go, we were fine.

On we rowed.

Suddenly we could see the finishing line. Around the final buoy, across the harbour and a BANG from the finishing gun and we were done.

146km in 14 hours, 55 minutes and 14 seconds.

We staggered onto dry land, laughing as we realised nobody could stand up straight. Friendly spectators helped to lift our boat out of the water. Warm showers, sports massages and a hot meal made it all seem worthwhile. And at last, to bed.

The next day we did a rapid boat break-down and tidy-up, largely thanks to my husband’s foresight the night before. While we were showering and having massages he pumped the water out of our boat, found and threw out as much garbage as possible and took out all our wet stuff and hung it to dry. That meant that we had the relatively simple task of breaking down the splash deck and bow hutch, and then giving the boat a final wipe down. We were finished in a record-breaking 30 minutes.

At the awards ceremony we discovered we were only half an hour slower than the winning women’s crew. That’s a tiny margin over 146km. That’s just a pip on the rate. Apparently they went hard out and then faltered on the second half, whereas our steady pacing throughout meant that we were rowing them down. We might have had them over the longer distance. And considering that none of us really trained for it (I think 2 x 30 minutes on rowing machine plus one 30 minute paddle in my single doesn’t really count as training) we had a remarkable result.

Already the talk was onto winning it next year. I really think we can do this.

Unfinished business.