Lost: one triathlon mojo

If found, please return to Martyn Brunt, under a duvet, Coventry


Issue ID: May 2013


Our AG hero isn’t a happy chappy, but he has at least come up with some solutions…

Lost mojo’ is triathlon code for ‘can’t be bothered to train,’ which is something we all go through from time to time.

It could be the arctic weather, which has kept my bike wheels in the evil clutches of my turbo trainer rather than sliding along the icy lanes like a penguin in a velvet wetsuit. I keep being invited by friends to go ‘mountain biking in the snow’ but to me this just suggests that they’re badly dehydrated.

It could be my age. Later this year I shuffle into the 45-49 age group, my back hurts and the latest Now That’s What I Call Music album doesn’t contain one song that I recognise.

It could be that I’m tired from doing too much cross-country running on courses that couldn’t be harder if you had to execute the water jumps under fire from a machine gunner.

Generally I’m a nightmare to be around when I’m in this sort of mood and I have all the personality of a VAT return. Consequently I haven’t seen any of my friends for a while, although it doesn’t matter because the voices in my head keep me company.

Anyway, as my dad would’ve said, “What are you doing to resolve the situation, Sonny?” So I’ve been pondering seven deadly solutions…

1 I could visit certain tax-cautioned coffee shops for a massive jolt of caffeine, given that these days coffee is just a liquid fag equivalent.

2 I could go abroad. After all I live in Coventry, and a quick glance out of the window confirms that any mentally capable person with access to transport wouldn’t want to stick around.

3 I could try and get my hands on some drugs, so I’ve sent a round-robin email to all the crackheads in a 30-mile radius.

4 I could try ending my ‘no booze’ New Year’s resolution and start drinking again, although not to the point where I’m back to running through parks chasing ducks, shouting incoherent obscenities at passers-by and urinating freely through my trousers.

5 I could try changing my diet. Lately I’ve had a craving for fish and chips, although a small portion of chips from my local chippy is so large that if I ate them all I’d die during the night. So I’m making sure I eat no more than I can fit down my tri-shorts.

Given that I also tend to eat – and drop – sandwiches while cycling to work, my usual breakfast of choice is strawberry jam mixed with soil, so I’m giving my mate’s recipe for ‘whisky porridge’ a go, which is a bit like having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped around a large gold brick.

6 I could focus on preparing my bike for the season ahead, taking it apart and cleaning it and screwing the bits together, like a rubbish version of the hitman in Day of the Jackal.

7 I could get someone to deliver a boot to the goolies. Before you all write in and volunteer, I mean this metaphorically because in the past the best way for me to shake off the gloom is to get annoyed. This most famously happened at the Vitruvian some years ago, which I unwisely did just one week after doing Ironman Canada. I say unwisely because I was knackered, and because I put my bike back together with the saddle too high that stretched my knees. Being a cretin, I decided to try and complete the race. I was mid pathetic, limping run when a certain acquaintance skipped past and asked what was wrong. “Bad knees,” I whimpered. “Ah, that old chestnut,” he said and ran off.

And lo! I was so distressed at this accusation of malingering that the red mist didst descendeth, the skies didst darken and there was a mighty clap of thunder as I hurtled after him like a hellhound, flew past him and ran on to the finish in a time of 1:16hrs for 20km. I then kept running straight on to the medical tent where they gave me painkillers, strapped me up, called me a moron and told me not to run again for six weeks.


So remember, if you’re also struggling with a lost mojo, never forget that ‘impossible’ is just a word. Whereas ‘**** this for a game of soldiers’ is a far-more impressive seven words.