The Cycling Widow

If you've read my blog before, you'd know that my husband is pretty awesome.

If you know me IRL, then you might have also met my hubby...and chances are, you've seen for yourself what a top bloke he is.

My other half is funny, kind, sweet, smart (some might say a smart a#$e), intelligent, sensitive and thoughtful. He always remembers my favourite things. He brings me little presents, just because. He looks after me.

He makes sure he is home for dinner with the family every single night. He puts the kids and me before everything, every time. (Before you start thinking the man is a saint (or worse, a doormat), he knows full well how to stir the pot too...he knows exactly how to wind me up!!)

Despite not being a 'pet' person, he happily took on Ernie when we started dating. (I knew Ernie was a good judge of character already...he had completely dismissed the guy I dated before Christian. Smart cat.) When I came home from a day of Christmas shopping with my Mum, and told Christian I had seen a kitten that had "Mine" written all over it, he told me to go and get her. That was how we adopted Bella (and how Christian fell in love with the tabby kitten who adored him at first sight!)

When I decided I wanted a puppy....well. Let's just say it didn't take long for Daisy to join our growing family. And I'll be honest, when our friends' dogs had a litter of pups, I never expected Christian to acquiesce to my pleas for another doggy. Seriously, I thought he would draw the line at one dog and two cats. But since Archie is now fast asleep and snoring in his bed, it would seem that there is nothing my husband will deny me.

I know how lucky I am. I realise how fortunate I am to have such a wonderful husband. Add to the fact that my darling boy doesn't drink or smoke, and in fact his only vice is good coffee, I reckon I've got it pretty good.

However.

My hubby is an avid cyclist. At our wedding, the story of how my mother met my husband was told. In a lycra-clad nutshell, before we started dating, my mum had an enormous huntsman in her car, and flagged down two men on bikes to help her. One of those gallant men was Christian, who was very embarrassed at his first "meet the parents" dinner since my mum had met him in his bike shorts. Since Mum was equally embarrassed about the whole incident, they agreed to laugh it off...and then the squirming began all over again at our wedding reception.

Since we got together in January 2003, I have had to learn all about the world of cycling. Now, we're not talking BMXs and Malvern Stars here. Oh no. My beautiful spouse is completely and utterly obsessed with road bikes and cycling...and as a result, I have heard tidbits about bike parts and famous cyclists on a daily basis for over eight years. Do you hear that, people? A daily basis.

All three of our children learned from a very early age to associate Daddy with bikes. Jack and Phoebe would point to cyclists on the telly, or on the road during the day when Daddy was at work, and would exclaim every time, "Look! It's Daddy!" (And when Jack pointed at Cadel Evans on the box racing his little heart out and called him Daddy, I think Christian nearly burst with pride!)

We can be driving past a cyclist on a busy road, doing 80kmh, and my hubby will be able to tell you every detail of the components on that bike, and who made it, and whether it's any good, and how much it cost. I'm not joking. The man is a walking encyclopaedia about bicycles.

So I suppose it's inevitable, really, that during the three weeks of the Tour de France every year that I am a cycling widow. Being a European event, the nightly coverage of the race begins at 10pm. Depending on the length of the stage, it can go until 2, or even 3 in the morning.

It is not unheard of in our house for Daddy to stay up to watch a particularly exciting stage, with the telly turned down low. When Jack was only 10 weeks old, Christian got so excited watching the Tour in the middle of the night that he yelped. Loudly. Do I need to tell you I wasn't the happiest camper?

Even though he records the footage every night, there's also a daily recap at 6pm. We record that, too. So basically, for 21 days in the middle of winter, every year, my house is hijacked by cycling mania. The Tour magazine is consulted each day to see the degree of the incline being climbed, or the road map of the team time trial. The possible winners of each stage are discussed, and then reconsidered in light of poor time trials or injuries.

It is completely insane. And I love it.

I love the fact that my husband is so passionate about his cycling. I love the fact that he is infecting our kids with his passion, so that they see sport as a positive, fun element in their lives. I love the fact that we watch the race as a family. I love that not only are we seeing bikes, but there is also the gorgeous French countryside and ancient Gallic towns as the cyclists zoom through them. I love that Christian tells me and the kids about the history of the Tour, and stories of how riders in the olden days had to fix their own bikes, and ride lonely journeys up the mountains.

I love the fact that this is being woven into our family's fabric. That our children will grow up feeling the benefits of something that makes their Dad happy. That this might be something they can do with their Dad when they are older.

Even though I call myself a cycling widow, secretly I love it. My husband calls these three weeks "The Festival of Christian". I think that's fairly apt. And I'm fine with it.

In fact, I'm currently planning my own festival. Just like the Tour, it will run for three weeks. Just as a working title, I'm calling it "The Festival of Sal Reclining On A Banana Lounge In A Tropical Destination With A Rather Large Cocktail In Hand And An Enormous Paperback Without Any Interruptions Whatsoever". What do you think?