“What have you done?” Caroline says, looking at me, not quite cross yet.
‘What do you mean? I haven’t done anything, it wasn’t me, I didn’t mean to...I ...I...’. I could feel my cheeks flushing with heat. Adrenaline surging into my muscles. It was going to be fight or flight and I’ve always been much more of a flyer than a fighter.
‘What have you done?....oh my god, why are you on the ironman uk website? We only got back from Lanzarote yesterday.’ She looked over my shoulder at the laptop and shoved me to the side.
‘I couldn’t help it.’ I sobbed into my hands. Hanging my head in shame. ‘I....I....love it too much.’ I fell to my knees and grabbed her legs, sobbing against her thigh. ‘It....it.....completes me.’
‘Ok....ok....relax. At least this one’s in England. Hang on...I thought I completed you? And what about your son?....doesn’t he...’
But it was too late. I was already 3 feet off the ground, punching the air and screaming ‘yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees, I’m gonna fricken smash it sweetness. I’m gonna nail it. I’m going double hard, no wait, triple hard......and I’m not gonna pee every 10minutes on the bike. I’m doing another IRONMAN......swwwwwwwwwweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet.’
‘Ok, but can you take the rubbish out, and the shelf is falling off the wall in Leo’s room.’ She said, unimpressed.
So I was registered for another ironman. I’d actually registered before I’d even raced Lanzarote, just in case it all went tits up in the Grot and the training had all been for nought. I still had a summer of racing ahead of me but I was confident that come August 19th I’d be stronger than ever and ready to smash it properly.
As the weekend drew nearer it turned out that Caroline couldn’t make it to the race and I was going down there on my lonesome. However, Stu, being the legend he is, volunteered his ironman support service and we were once again sharing a rubbish hotel somewhere in England’s eternally damp countryside.
What the hell is with Britain and rubbish hotels? This old ‘rustic inn’ was over a hundred nicka per night and built out of wallpapered cardboard. If the guy in the next room farted, the faded framed watercolours on the walls would rattle. The duvet was not much more than an off cut of thick nylon carpet veiled in a greasy floral sheet, every time I turned in the night I’d fire blue sparks of static from my nose. Oh and stuffing a pillow case with a type of fire retardant foam with similar density and sharp edges as a phone directory is just taking the piss.
I was on my own for the early part of Friday evening as Stu was heading down after work, so I went in search of carbs and ended up in the ‘hotel restaurant’ which had one of those impossibly low ceilings that were all the rage 300 years ago and loads of randomly hung oil paintings depicting obese farmyard animals. I sat at a table next to this way too tanned dude wearing a baseball cap backwards and sporting the biggest set of guns outside of a Saturday afternoon WWF smackdown.
‘American?’ I questioned casually, flipping open my menu.
‘Yuh, Sacramento, California. You doing the ironman?’ He said swinging over one of his massive meat hooks. I tentatively shook his hand fully expecting him to crush every bone.
So anyway, poor old California Jack had been catching cabs to the race site every day to go to swim practise and so on. We got chatting and it turns out his massive guns were from water polo and he was gonna swim the Channel next September. Pretty hardcore. However it was his first ironman. Uh oh.
Stu got in at around 10ish. By travelling at twice the speed of sound he had completed the journey from Shepherds bush in about 25mins (have you ever been in the car with Stu? I keep thinking we’re going to explode into flames and end up in Hill Valley 1955). He had executed approximately 60 roadside animals during his journey and was pretty buzzed up by the time he crashed through into the room.
‘I was going so damn fast that my stereo broke.’ He beamed, striding over.
His trouble free, smooth journey didn’t bother me at all. I had thoroughly enjoyed 5hours of motorway traffic, just so i could register early and spend more time in a muddy field than necessary. And by having to push the clutch pedal over 30,000 times as I crawled down the A30whatever I had got in an awesome left leg workout.
Saturday morning was swim practise. It was pissing it down at the lake and the thought of jumping in the murky swamp just down from the crumbling Sherborne castle should have seemed like a horrible way to start a minging Saturday, but I was excited, I was totalled amped up ready to get in and see where my swimming was at. I’d had a pretty good 3km swim at Lorient long distance champs so I was feeling semi confident.
Holy crap that’s so damn cold was the first thought that popped into my head as I plopped off the muddy bank into the dark water. It’s supposed to be summer dammit, looks like somebody forgot to tell the lake. It was Baltic. Me and Stu swam out to the start buoy, which was some 200m from the bank. The course is a two lap affair with no hopping out onto land for a quick river dance before splashing back in again. This suits me fine as the water exit half way through sends my HR through the roof and it takes a few hundred meters to get settled again. We set off with the intention of taking it steady, but still cruised to the end buoy in pretty quick time. I check my watch and calculated if I could keep this pace in the race I’d be out the water in around the hour mark. Perfect (for me).
The swim back in to complete the single lap was pretty tiring and when I got out the water I was trashed. Stu was upbeat and full of encouragement as usual but I was pretty worried. I hadn’t flogged it and yet I was knackered. My head was spinning and I’d gulped loads of swamp ming. My confidence was pretty ropey.
We faffed about in the rain all day waiting for transition to open and then finally the briefing at 2pm. The grounds around the expo and castle were getting seriously muddy, and Glastonbury like. I only had the one pair of shoes with me and there was mud all the way up my trackies. Poor old California Jack couldn’t stay upright. I think it might have been the first time he’d seen mud and each time he hit the deck the whole compound shook.
It was at this point in the rain soaked mud fest that me ol' geez Dave showed up with a selection of rain apparel he'd snagged from his Pal, Clive's shop. He had a range of colours and cuts and I selected a rather delightful red number which matched my mood.
The race briefing was about as dull as race briefing’s can be and we were all seriously hungry. The race referee was getting all excited about how tough he was gonna be on drafting. He had employed a bunch of renegade ex-cops armed with .44 magnums who were gonna shoot out our tires or something. I don’t know, I was running way low on blood sugar and all I could hear was wa wa wa like in Charlie brown whenever the teacher talks to the class. All I knew for sure was, we had to get outa there before briefing finished or it was gonna get bad for everyone. I was gnawing on one of the main marquee guide ropes and was almost through it when at last the decision was made to blow.
Getting out of the carpark was gonna be hard work. It was a muddy field at the bottom of a 5meter depression in the land, meaning you had to get a good run at the exit to have enough momentum to get out. We could see the disaster waiting to happen and soon enough cars were stuck spraying mud everywhere. We took a flying run at the entrance instead and left all the suckers wheel spinning in the sludge behind us.
Thank the lord for ASK pizza, us four muddy dudes sat at table talking way too loudly about stuff unfit for restaurant banter and consumed all kinds of carb stuff, even though it was just me racing the following day. It was like I’d not eaten for a week. I couldn’t stop myself, I was gonna leave 30kg heavier or die trying.
RACE DAY.
The alarm went off at 3am. I sneaked into the bathroom so as not to wake Stu and prepared my breakie. 4 white rolls loaded with peanut butter and raspberry jam....the breakfast of champs. I got my coffee filter going and chilled out. I like to visualize the race in my head and see everything going really well, feeling strong throughout and not weeing very much on the bike. My bike was no doubt totally soaked in transition and I’d still need to check the tubs were secured and add a couple of tire levers which I’d stupidly forgotten to put on yesterday. I loaded up my drink bottle with 13 gels and a little water. I’d put more gels and a couple of clif bars in my T1 bag and had an aero bottle on my bars which I’d fill with go go juice at the race site. By 4:15 the pipes were rattling and I knew I had seconds to get to the toilet. Brilliant, no repeat of the backing up disaster at UK70.3 (you know I don’t spare the details).
At 4;30am, Stu, Jack and I jumped in the car to get to the race. It was only raining lightly. I had arm warmers in my T1 bag but wondered if they were gonna be enough. I’d have to just ride harder....hmmm good plan vince.
We got to within around 3km of the race when we saw the ridiculously long traffic jam and realized they’d still not sorted the carpark from yesterday. Stu did a great job of keeping us calm at only 20mins to race start. Stu steered out of the queue and floored it straight to the castle entrance to drop us off. We pegged it to transition.
‘You gotta be fricken kidding me’, I screamed at my bike staring at my tubs lying in the grass. The tape had been soaked and come undone. I started frantically drying my bike and the damn tubs. I wound about 10feet of tape around the tires and slapped them on my bike, all the time muttering the word ‘idiot’ to myself. Of course I forgot to add the tire levers. More on that later.
I yanked on my rubber suit and sprinted to the race start throwing my bag at Stu. He gave some good encouraging words about going as hard as possible and I felt a wave of confidence come over me. I don’t know why this happens, but I get really nervous in the build up to the race, but the day of the race, I just get really excited. I just reassure myself that all I need to do is race as hard as I can and don’t worry too much about the result. I guess racing as hard as you can is all you can do. You can’t be disappointed in the result if you’ve given it everything you’ve got. There is so much satisfaction in knowing you left it all out there on the course......just me?
All 9billion of us swam slowly out to the starting buoy and bobbed about, a few making nervous small talk about how ‘crrrrazy we all are’. I just stared at the guy holding the claxon and gently kicked people around me so I had some space.
And we’re off. The water foamed up and pond weed flew into the air. I sprinted for a bit to get away from the mega splashers immediately around me and then settled quickly into a nice pace. Unfortunately I’d forgotten to close my gob and like some diving heron, scooped a few swamp fish and close to a gallon of lake. Nice. The swim went pretty well but I couldn’t really find any fast feet to sit on. I’d missed the fast guys and just spent the whole race overtaking people. This was fine as it didn’t beast me too much and I was just looking forward to getting on the bike...in the rain.
Through transition was hilarious as barefeet don’t hold sloppy mud too well and I was doing the old Scooby doo like running, my arms out, sliding round the corners with my legs whirring round like wheels spinning for traction. The way too friendly old dude volunteers were eager to cop a hold of my wetty and drag me out of it but without using too much force I persuaded to leave me alone.
The Bike: 2282m of climbing (5:27)
I got out on the bike pretty quick and was pleased to have Stu’s pimping white arm warmers. The rain and wind was brutally cold. I was overly pleased with getting out the swim in just under the hour and was hoping to really smash the bike. I was flying through people feeling really good. Properly tucked down in my aero position and taking sneaks of gel from my bottle every 10mins. Then it happened. Ok, don’t panic it’s just a flat, you’ll rip it off the wheel and get a new tub on in seconds. The problem was my hands were so damn cold, they were like these useless claws. I laughed to myself, a little hysterically to be honest, remembering Stadler stuck at the side of the road in Kona, shouting at his mechanic,
‘Too much f**king glue’.
Stu and I have been laughing about this for ages and perfecting the ‘Too much glue’ voice, so I actually just stood there saying it too myself over and over and giggling like a fool. Of course a tire lever would have sorted it out in seconds, but as you’ll remember, I didn’t put the damn thing on my bike. I looked at my watch and 8mins had already gone by. Then by some miracle another cyclist pulled up next to me with a flat. He had just about everything Wiggle sells loaded onto his bike. I enviously eyed his camping stove, imagining he probably had a mug and some cocoa in that giant pack swinging under his saddle. I grabbed his tire lever out of his hand before he could start on his own bike and whipped my tire off in seconds. I had the new one on moments later and fired off a gas canister to get me back on the road again. Ok just over 12mins. That’s ok, that’s fine, I can make up some of that. I was worried about over cooking it to try and grab back that time and to a certain extent that’s exactly what I did. At around half way point, I had my dark moment. I was really suffering. Luckily I was with a few other riders who also looked in a pretty bad way. I stopped for a pee and gave myself a bit of a pep talk. Good positive self talk really works for me. I reminded myself about those long lonely winter miles and stuffed a gel down my throat. The darkness lasted another 20km but then my legs started to come good again. I was ramping up the speed and pulling back lots of places. The wind was terrible, every gap in the hedge would send you across the road and the head wind up the long climb to Lyons gate was just brutal, but I was really loving it, my legs were feeling almost normal. I hugged every corner and blasted past the poor lapped folk wobbling around trying to push way too big gears. Then at last I saw the turn off to complete the 3rd and final lap. I charged down the hill to the castle and got out of my shoes totally fired up for the run.
The run. 773m of climbing (3:03)
Oh my god. I started out running through the grounds of sherborne castle feeling a bit bloated but clipping along at a fair pace, but then the road went up and then up some more and then goddammit it went up some more. It pretty much climbed up to the bottom of the fricken rain clouds. I think I saw a bearded dude with a harp. Then you turned around and got sent down this muddy jeep track with probably the world’s slipperiest mud laid on especially for the race. At this point your legs are all over the shop and staying upright becomes hilarious. I loved it. I was in major physiological trouble but I thought this is great, everybody is hating this so I’m going to love it. About 2km later I was back in the hurt locker. Thank god Stu and Dave were standing at side of course to give me some yeahs because it was all going a bit Pete Tong. I was a bit worried I was cooked, but somehow I kept trucking and went for the second lap in the castle grounds. Back up to the clouds and back down through the mud. There was about 8miles behind me and it was time to head out through sherborne and up to the A30. This was where I had my next really dark moment. Imagine a line of red traffic cones pitched along a nasty undulating dual carriageway as far as you can see and then throw in a head wind. It went on for days and days. Pros were coming back the other way looking pretty dejected but slightly smug that I still had all that to go. It was brutal. I even cried a bit when I got to the turnaround some 4miles down the road as I knew I had to do it again. I saw Pete Doubleday a couple of times and he looked like I felt. It was just gnarly out there. I really don’t know how I kept going. I felt so totally and utterly miserable but I kept chugging the pepsi, chatting to the volunteers and begging for a piggy back to no avail.
I passed Bryan Rhodes who was walking his second A30 lap while i was on my first. He’d totally blitzed the bike in something like 4:45 and paid for it on the run. He had major cramp issues by the time he hit the second half of the run but was gonna finish no matter what. I’ve nothing but respect for him. Most pros would have just quit. He stomped through it with rigid legs and still beat me by a couple of minutes.
When I saw the end of the cones on my second lap, out of nowhere I got this rush of energy. I started lifting the pace and was trucking big time. The end was still a good few miles away but I was flying. I got to the castle grounds and was consumed with emotion, I was rushing with adrenaline. I felt light on my feet and stepped up the pace again. Stu was at the railing shouting something, but it was totally lost to me. I was high as a fricken kite. Is this shit legal? I sort of heard my name as I ran down the red carpet breaking little kids wrists with my over enthusiastic high fives and then it was over. I was stood on the other side of the finish line looking at my watch. God damn 9:37. And that’s when I needed some support as my legs decided to quit.
Time: 9:37
Position 3rd 30-34
34th overall.
That my friends was one seriously hard ironman.
So, yes I did qualify for Kona and no I’m not going. There are many reasons why I’m not going but you can bet I’ll be trying again next year. After all I’m a fricken Iron Junkie now.
Epiblogue
So I've since been asked "What the hell happened to 'California Jack'? Well ol' slugger smashed his way through the ironman and made it back in the dark in a time of 16:15. 'There was like nobody at the aid stations after dark, they just left a bunch of cups full of gatorade for us' He said half laughing at the absurdity of racing for such a long time. We had long gone back to the hotel and I was actually tucked up in bed while Jack was still racing. He eventually got a lift back from a chef at the race site. Unfortunately by the time he finished, the transition area was closed so we had to go back there in the morning to up his bike. I then gave him a ride back to London where he spent the next few days eating vast quantities of steak and buying London tat to take back to the good folks of Californeeeee-aaaaahhhh.
Oh and huge thanks to my awesome supporting cast, Dave Hemming who came over from portland, oregon with the excuse that it was his sisters wedding the weekend before. He's also the guy who inspired me to get into this crazy tri game. Also to Stu Anderson, for legendary support stuff and of course my amazing wife, Caroline who puts up with me and my smack talk of how I'm gonna take on the world one tri at a time. Oh yeah, you too, Leo unit, you rule.