birdw0rds

New Birdw0rks pseudosingle: “Head Messing”
Listen here.
Pod subscribe here.

Rhythm loops include a snippet of manically-laughing Chumplick, Fleecie saying “thibbit” (or something), me eating a cheese and onion crisp on the banks of Loch Fyne, and the clang from an East River barge.

“Measuring by steps that are ornament or
Ensnared by the words that were said in vent and
All in all and all and a measured ‘snap’ and
I’m struck and I’m dumb and I’m gone

Poking with fun at a babbled breath we
Measure with a gun what of the mind that’s left
If the instinct’s wrong, then I’m already done and
I’m light and I’m rushed but I’m gone

Messing with the heads deep in the water and sun
Looking at the world through a mouthful of gum
I’d like to run around but now my feet have just shrunk and
I’m hit and I’m stunned and I’m drunk

Running face down and holding on for skin, you see
The physical trigger was bigger than this
If the instinct’s right then I’m gone past gone and
I’m smacked and I’m cracked and that’s that

(All said and done, we walk away
We’re sad and gone in every way
But, in a part of us it still remains
To linger on this same refrain)

Measuring by steps that are ornament or
Ensnared by the words that were said in vent
All in all and all and a measured ‘snap’ and
I’m struck and I’m dumb and I’m gone

Taking on a look and then the wink is passé
A position for a passion that’s gone beyond fey
Once again, the truth is that I’ve nothing to say
I’m corked, I’m balked, I’m done.”

First off, a new episode of Birdw0rks Radio is fresh off of the mangle.
Listen here Subscribe here

Primary Nectarines:

Sounds from the Ground: Blink
Pitch Black: Freefall
Ladytron: Weekend
Long Range: Just One More
The Fiery Furnaces: Single Again
Shpongle: Mentalism
Paul Hartnoll: Please
Sundial: Azure Aquarings
Plaid: Sincetta
Coldcut: Sound Mirrors
Prometheus: One Cell Short of a Brain

Following a fat few months of procrastination, there should be a new Birdw0rks pseudosingle out soonish, n’all.

On the leggage front, a bleeden torn calf muscle has put pay to any recent mileage. That’s what middle-aged gits get for playing footie with twentysomethings (the mind is willing and competitive, but the legs are obviously past their prime - after all the hours in the past chasing balls, ’tis a sad moment of decision that the footie-playing days are probably gone for good…). Hence, half marathon and bike century cancelled for this fortnight, and probably won’t be able to start re-training for another 3 weeks yet, at least. Which in all reality puts pay to the NYC triathlon for this year too. All bleeden frustrating (not to mention expensive).

Injury also means that the regular about-Gotham bird bike behaviour is on hold. Caged and angsty and limping, innit.

Birdw0rks Radio: Coffeenemix.

New episode of Birdw0rks Radio is here.

Primary Sauces:

PITCH BLACK: Electric Earth (DC Mix)
ZERO ONE: malfuNctionN
LADYTRON: I’m Not Scared
BLOUSE: Oh Me Oh Myra
SUPERGRASS: Whisky And Green Tea
PHUTURPRIMITIVE: Hyper-Sence
SOLAR FIELDS: Blue Moon Station
OTT: 382 Seaside
MYSTICAL SUN: Deeperworlds
LONG RANGE: Vultures Over Croydon
BOB MOULD: The Silence Between Us
DANIEL PEMBERTON: Original Peep Show Theme
SUNDIAL: Morphia
THE MIGHTY BOOSH: Eels
SNUFF BOX: Snuff Box

Infect your Pod with Birdw0rks Radio.

The mileage munky calculates that since mid February, the bird legs have chubbily jogged over 260 miles and the birdbike has been spun over 800. A good chunk of the latter was eaten this weekend just gone.

First off was a second 10K around Central Park - the birdlegs coming in a few seconds slower than the last one:

Then, the day after: following a blearly-eyed 3 AM start, a ride through the dark to Penn Station, and breakfast with a few hundred other nutter cyclists to catch the train to the start of the Montauk Century in Babylon. Right out of the blocks at Bablyon, T’s new saddle fell apart - she’d a screw loose, you know…. A queue and a fix by the kindly resident mechanic in the car park and the off for proper. First 40 miles were splend: bright sunshine and coolish temps., a decent pace, and easy riding.

Then T. drove over a 13-inch nail and imploded her Slime-filled back tube. Green, greasy sputem all over the shop. Unprepared gits don’t carry all the right sized inner tubes, it seems. Leaving me to ride ahead 10 miles or so to pick up a new one, and back again for T. to remove the splattered guts of the old tube and replace. All of which put us right at the rear of the pack and an hour or three later than we would have liked. Best slice of the ride was just about to come, however: along the beachfront west of Westhampton and the speed up and down and over of Ponquogue Bridge:

With temperature and rain drizzle starting to drop, T. took the handy opportunity, and no doubt sensible decision, to hop on the Bail Out Bus at Official Mile 70 (which, it transpired, took her on a pointlessly circular tour chasing a mad, lost, bike lorry driver) and I continued at a fair clip through the worstening Wet. A few miles from there, the odothang clicked over my very own personal century for the day, and there was Much Rejoicing:

There are no doubt breathtaking views of the rugged coastline on the way into Montauk and the end of the terminal moraine that is Long Island, but all I saw was grey splatter in the worstening downfall. The only real hills on the Century are conveniently placed right at the end, just as one’s knees are feeling the miles in the rain. Finally pedalled into the inn that is the finish line to find a lack of food, drink, or dry clothes (forkers), and a zoo of milling centurians and grumpy waiting staff.
Here be the full route spun:

‘Tis fun to wheel it out to the extremities of NYC. Forraha change, the birdbike headed out and around the Bronx this PM: bike paths are generally pretty sound in the northern boro’, if a tad disconnected. Ended up in the nubbins of City Island, heaving with miserable-looking minivans shoved full of dutiful sons and daughters “treating” their mothers to the rather ropey looking fish restaurants that appear to be the only thing to head to at the extremity. I honestly expected something better than a tatty, jumped-up chippie at the end of the pedal out to the isle’s end given the 4 or 5 mile queue of S(tuid) U(nneccessary) V(ehicle)s lining up to get there.

The ododouffa said it was about 25 miles one way out there from Yorkville:

I *think* that 13.1 miles is probably the furthest the bird legs have been in one trot…
Grand cool running weather in Coney Island. Traveled at a gentle pace with a slightly slower-moving mate. Still just about hit the 2 hour goal, mind.

Run for the Parks reeeesult:

1090/5863 bods (19%)
954/3054 blokes (31%)
372/1107 thirty-summat blokes (34%)

More w/e mileage decently completed. A 60-mile spin to and from Rockaway along the Gateway NRA paths in the cold-but-bright-n-sunny, pretty much following this route, albeit with a detour south to the Coney Island boardwalk on the way down, and a alternate route east and north from Fort Greene up through Williamsburg and Greenpoint and the over the Queensborough. Almost constant bastidd of a headwind on the way back north burnt the nebb and worked out the calves.

Sunday was the first jog event: the Scotland Run around Central Park along with about 7,000 other trotting bods. A chance to give some loose idea of where the fork I am after a month n’arf of ‘proper’ training compared to other chubby, middle-aged git runners. Aimed for a max. of 9 mins. per mile of the 6.2 around the ring road and official timing looks a bit better than me own and was nicely below that target. 7.4 mph is about as fast as my arse goes over any kind of distance. Looks like I was in the top half for my age and gender class which is good enough ferme.

1916 out of 6936 runners (28%)
1509 out of 3645 men (41%)
645 out of 1394 30-39 year-old men (46%)

Enforced inactivity worked wonders and removed the Blightylag accordingly coupla weeks ago. Following w/e 7 miler was comfortable, and a decent 35 mile bike sprint through the fog in 2 1/2 hours around the Manhattan periphery followed on the Sun. Then a full week of plodding again, including the first of what are apparently known as ‘brick’ days - swim, bike, run combos. First one last week was in grim, cold, drizzling greyness; yesterday’s much more comfortable in the albeit-still-winterlike sun. Birdlegs definitely feel the pinch by the end of those. Made it up to 9 miles for Saturday’s long jog without much trouble, and the Fleecieone and I wheeled it over to Joysey and completed a 40 mile round ride via some reasonably steep Pallisades hills on Sunday. Since mid Feb., the little mile tracker indicates about 115 miles on foot and over 200 miles on wheels in total (around 20 and 35 mpw). Ave. jog speed at around 6.6 mph - maybe sluggish, but decent enough.

Sometimes your body knows better than your brain. Stewpid brain. The bird training plan has been going swimmingly, although mainly runningly, and occassionally bikingly, since mid Feb. Today at the junction between jog mile 2 and mile 3, however, the body decided that it was spent. “Out of petrol, mate”. It took a mile to convince the stubborn brain, by which time there was a literal ringing in the ears and a tingle in the fingers. Knacked, innit. One limped the last mile or two and staggered towards an injection of power bar from the Garage on 96th St.

Message received.

Recent schedule meant that the only two ‘rest’ days were spent in transit first to Blighty and then back again. Hardly proper recuperation from the cumulative mileage. Having laid down for half an hour, felt like there were lead weights pulling on the limbs from the centre of the earth. Not a completely unpleasant feeling to be truly fatigued for the first time in yonks, but a clear signal to take a day or two off and rearrange things a little.