Gaby Book 16 - Sweet Sixteen

“When’s your birthday?” Steff asked Friday lunchtime.
“You know when, a week on Sunday.”
“Really?” Nena exclaimed, “I thought it was weeks away.”
“So you doing anything for it?”
“Mum usually does a big dinner or we’ll go out.”
“Must remember to get a card,” Bridg put in.
“When do you get back from England?” Con enquired.
“Tuesday I think, I’ll ring when I know.”

The last week has been a lot calmer, it’s after half term that it starts getting busier, in fact as things go I’d call it quiet. No dramas at cheer, only a couple of mocks and homework now consists of revision, revision and more revision.

“You packed, Gaby?” Mum demanded when I got home from Garde.
“Almost,” I allowed.
“We won’t have time in the morning to play about, tonight please.”
“Yes, Mum,” I sighed.

Of course I’ve known about this weekend for ages, pre season testing in Manchester for me, Mand and Mum (they seem to have taken more interest in Mum again after her Roskilde medal). Not sure we’ll see anyone else, it’s much easier to organise for the guys living in the UK, it’s just us three who are an issue, not sure about Josh though, he never said anything at the presentation. So anyway, we’re flying over tomorrow, staying at Gran’s then we’ve got stuff at the velodrome Sunday and Monday then it’s home.

“And don’t forget your skinsuit,” she called after my retreating back.
“No, Mum.” At least we aren’t taking bikes.

“Anyone want coffee,” I asked.

We’d got to the airport well early; everything was going well until the board flashed up a delay on our flight. No reason but expected departure was now an hour later.

“See if you can get some food,” Mum asked slipping me a twenty.
“I’ll come too,” Mand offered.
“Won’t be long.”

We set off down the concourse, I saw a snack bar place a few gates along from where we’d camped, at least we didn’t have to go back through passport control.

“We got held up for six hours coming back from Tenerife once,” Mand supplied.
“I hate airports, queue to check in, security, passports, to get on the plane, nightmare.”
“S’pose so, oh look, another queue.”

Well it wasn’t a big queue at the food outlet; we joined the line and settled to wait our turn.

“Coffee and er cheese and ham,” I supplied passing Mum a cup and bag.
“Cheers, do I get any change?”
Skinflint! “In my pocket.”

I put my stuff down and fished the coins out of my pocket.

“How much?” she exclaimed.
“It is an airport,” I pointed out, I must admit eighteen euros for three coffees and three sandwiches is a bit rich. “Gran picking us up?”
“No, we’ll hire a car in Manchester, gives us more flexibility.”

Mand was busy with her book and Ipod music thing and Mum returned to her magazine, I checked the time, 12.05.

12.49, I sighed as I waited for the departure board to cycle through, “Hey, our flight’s been called!”
“‘Bout time,” Mum grumbled.
“Mand!” I shook her leg.
“What?” she asked pulling an ear bud free to hear.
“Time.”

A grey day in Dusseldorf translated a couple of hours later to a typical wet and miserable afternoon in Manchester. The flight was a bit bumpy coming in to Manchester; we seemed to get a bit sideways on the runway as the pilot slammed us onto the tarmac. I was well glad to get off the plane but then it’s the warren of corridors and stairs that take you to passport control, we got through there quick enough but then had to wait for the case we were sharing.

think when they designed Manchester airport they tried to make it as difficult as possible to use. We eventually located the car hire and an hour after landing finally got to our transport.

“Bit excessive,” I noted.
“They didn’t have an Astra left so we got upgraded.”

The upgrade was a Ford Kuga, a huge sort of four by four people carrier thing; I suppose it’s a bit like Gloria’s Cayenne but less luxury.

“Come on, we still have to get to your Gran’s,” Mum went on.

In theory the motorways are the quickest route but instead Mum took us on the A roads through Wilmslow, Holmes Chapel and Middlewich.

“Give your Gran a call, Gab, we’ll be about fifteen minutes,” Mum suggested.
“’Kay,” I got out my Handy and hit the speed dial.
After a couple of rings it was answered, “Peters.”
“Hi, Gran.”
“Gaby, you landed love?”
“Yeah, Mum says we’ll be about fifteen minutes.”
“I’d best go home and put the kettle on then, I’m just round at Gwen’s, we went to Chester this morning, no point taking two cars*. See you in a few minutes, bye love.”
“Bye, Gran.”
“Sounded complicated,” Mum observed as I re-stowed my phone in my Handtasche.
“Not really, she’ll have the kettle on.”
“I’m parched,” a voice mentioned from the rear seat.

“Egg and chips okay for tea?” Gran enquired as we reconvened after unpacking.
“Please,” I enthused.
“Fine, Mum,” Mum agreed.
“Amanda?”
“Er sure, any chance of scrambled instead of fried though?”
“I’m sure we can manage that, in fact I might join you. We can go to the Taj Mahal tomorrow, you’ll need a feed after being at the track all day.”

Cool, a proper Indian! You struggle to get anything beyond chicken madras at home.

The chips were real homemade things; I stuck with fried eggs and enjoyed every greasy mouthful. It’s not the sort of thing we have at home in Germany, it just doesn’t fit into our supposedly healthy menu, it’s not that we never have ‘pommes’ or even eggs but just not in the same meal. It doesn’t hurt occasionally and it certainly brings a smile to your face – as well as egg yolk!
As you know German TV is quite dire most of the time, there are a few passable programmes but mostly, well we don’t bother with it. It was therefore quite a novelty to watch some Saturday night TV UK style, even if it wasn’t great viewing. Dancing on Ice was okay I guess then we ended up watching the Winter Olympics coverage.

“I wonder if Jess made the team?” Mand and I dueted.

Of course that had us both in hysterics.

“Who’s Jess?” Gran asked.
“Jessica Simmonds, she’s a figure skater, they were training at Lilleshall last year when we were there,” Mand supplied.
“I’ve known her a few years, from when we used to go skating in Sheffield,” I added, “she helped me stand up.”
“Not seen any skating,” Gran noted, “There’s a guide in the rack Jen.”

Well apparently we’ve missed the figure skating stuff, it was last weekend, GB hadn’t scored any medals, I’ll have to email her to see how she is. If I remember, I’m terrible with stuff like that, hmm maybe I can just text her? Yeah, I’ll do that later. By the ten thirty news I was yawning, we have to be at the track for ten in the morning so we decided to call it a night.

“Okay, ladies,” Steve called out, “that’ll do.”

Mum was doing other stuff but Mand and me have spent the last hour or so being put through our paces on the track. We’ve not been alone out there; anyone can tip up, pay their dosh and ride on the Sunday morning session, just because we are with BC doesn’t give us any priority. We rolled down to the infield and dismounted.

“Well done, girls, bit rusty.”
“Not, huh, been on, huh, track since, huh, summer,” I gasped out.
“Put the bikes in the rack, then we’ll meet in room two, okay.”
“’Kay,” Mand agreed.

Steve went ahead leaving us to change footwear and collect our gear, my rainbow hooped skinsuit had certainly got a few looks, maybe recognition, apparently our team launch was in this week’s Comic. Have to try to get a copy to take home.

“That was pretty intense,” Mand noted as she towelled down.
“My legs are killing,” I admitted, “I suppose we have that VO² thing later.”
“Yeah,” Mand agreed.

Well apparently our turn on the exhaustion test would be Monday morning, the remainder of our Sunday was taken with giving samples and static testing of one sort or another. No one bit was particularly hard but the cumulative effect was tiring.

“Okay, guys, see you in the morning,” Steve told us about three thirty.
“Er yeah, is it just the VO² thing tomorrow?” I asked.
“That and Chris’ll go through the results with you, have a chat about this year’s programme and so on.”
“’Kay, see you tomorrow.”

We waited in reception for Mum to finish up; it was after four when we left to go back to Grans’.

“Table for four,” Gran requested.
“This way please, ladies,” the waiter requested.

The Taj Mahal was everything an Indian restaurant should be, poorly lit, flock wallpaper with an annoying soundtrack of tinkly bells in the background. We were escorted to a table in the window and seated before being handed the impressive menu cards – yeah, a real Indian.

“Nothing too hot now, Gaby, we don’t want any bad stomachs,” Mum instructed.
“And we’ve got the torture session in the morning,” Mand noted.
“Spoilsports.”
“Drinks, ladies please?” our waiter requested.

They had a set meal option which we agreed to go for, you get a variety of stuff to share, we had beef madras, chicken korma, lamb tikka and Gob Aloo with the trimmings of course, bhajis, Naan and samosas with the main course, popadoms with the chutneys and stuff and somehow we squeezed in sorbets before the coffee. And not a sign of a vindaloo worst luck.

“I’m well stuffed,” I sighed stretching out to ease my stomach.
“I can’t move,” Mand offered from opposite me.
“You did have two bhajis,” Mum pointed out.
“Couldn’t waste it,” I groaned.

I certainly didn’t feel like physical exercise would be possible anytime in the next week, it was a struggle to walk to the car. By the time we got back to Gran’s the feeling of exploding had reduced to mild heartburn and a need to visit the bathroom – urgently!

Maddy Bell 14.06.16