It’s an odd thing that we do, this endurance sport. With so much time to yourself, you don’t really spend much time thinking. You have miles and miles and miles of nothing going on in your mind then, abruptly, a short but vibrant episode of intense colour or Archimedean clarity on a topic that may or may not hold relevance to the day. I’ve recalled old jokes, seen old faces, heard old voices, felt maudlin, defeated, elated, passionate, indifferent and everything else in between, all with no logical order. And after it’s all over, you think to yourself, “why did I do this?” yet already you’re preparing for the next one. It’s like seeing a shrink for years but with fewer couches and more bicycles. It’s zen psychiatry!
Well, it’s all coming back to me now. That phase I went through on Sunday 15 Jun was the UK 70.3. Really, I’ve been trying to work out why I’ve been a bit off colour the last couple of weeks and it appears, at least partially, to be because I spent a touch over 6 hrs pasting myself over Exmoor. Perhaps I blanked out the experience. Perhaps I was overwhelmed by the emotion of doing the event, or maybe I’ve just been too lazy to write a race report. Anyway, I’m on a plane for the next 3 hours, so I may as well fire up the neurons, shine a torch light round my short term memory vault and see if I can avoid spilling this here cup of Kenya Airways camomile tea on my lap(top) while I write out my fragmented recollections of the 2008 edition of UK 70.3 (the 3rd in all).
The UK 70.3 has been building up for weeks. PJ and some others did a recce of the bike route some weeks back. I missed this because of a prior commitment to ride the Fred Whitton Challenge (of which more another time, if you care). I mention this because come race week for the UK 70.3, my absence from the recce meant I had to work reasonably hard to convince anyone that I was actually entered. Responses varied from downright refusal to accept that I could possibly be doing an half-ironman (thanks Ellen) to an impertinently amused (and, I noticed, very quick) agreement to light-hearted suggestion that I might be too overweight to be doing an half-ironman (thanks Natalie). Ooh, I’ll have another jaffa cake, please.
Right-o, so registration on the Saturday before the race passed off relatively painlessly at Wimbleball, the only notable issues being with (1) Nathan, whose wife had inconsiderately extended her gestation period beyond the normally distributed mean for human beings and (2) Alistair who arrived at the car park to realise that he was one wheel short of the usual brace necessary for a bicycle. After a brief wander round the start area, we headed off to get an early supper (rather stodgy pub food) and sufficient rest (I couldn’t sleep and lay in bed counting sheep for two hours before finally floating away).
So now it’s 5:50am on Sunday and I’m in a lake called Wimbleball. It’s not exactly warm. It’s certainly too foggy to see any buoys and I’m treading water next to, inter alia, Ellen Pooley and Stew Ward. For some reason that escaped me then, does now, and will enduringly, I am at the very front of a mass (and I mean 1000 people mass) start, directly behind the pink-capped pros. Whirling through my head went all those warnings from club mates about seeding myself for a mass start to avoid being run over by a vicious, flailing herd of carbo-loaded neoprene. It’s too late now. I can’t swim backwards because I’ll look like a numpty who’s forgotten his race tactics. I mean, it’s one being one, and another actually advertising it. A few quick thumbs up to the others and then it’s time to listen to the blood rushing through my ears.
And the bell goes. Well, I suspect it went. Actually, someone just turned on the washing machine and I had to start swimming. The fog meant that “sighting” was amended to “swimming in the same direction as everyone else”. This was handy because I’m rubbish at sighting, but quite good at being one of the shoal. The course is a single anti-clock wise loop with two turns. I’m vaguely conscious of time passing, but the swim is metronomic and effortless and my mind is pretty clear of trivia and distractions, other than the occasional “WTF!!?” moment when someone swims across me at right angles (more than once, different people). The fog seems to abate over the time I’m swimming and suddenly I look up to see the end of swim about 100 metres away. I keep going until my hands are clutching mud. I stand up and bound elegantly out of the water. Of course, elegance is relative, and an impartial observer might note that I emerge from the lake marginally less elegantly than a warthog whose arse has just been set alight by some hoodies.
I career up the unaccountably long run up to T1. An extraordinarily kind volunteer runs up alongside me and unzips my wetsuit. I seem to be running a lot faster than everyone else up this hill – is that a good omen or not? Don’t worry about it, just keep running, fat-boy. Straight into T1, get my kit on, making a last second decision to ignore my bike gloves and don’t bother with a gilet despite the chill. Come on, go. Grab my bike and run up to the mounting point where there seems to be a small conference of competitors going on. No, it’s just people unable to mount their bikes. I don’t stop to discuss this. I pedal off. 50 yards up the road, 2 cyclists have collided and are on the ground writhing in discomfort. I expect the air will turn blue shortly. I don’t stick around to hear this – nothing to do with me. I come up to Lucy Deakin almost immediately. She must have been slow in transition, I think to myself, because she’s good in the water. I don’t recognise her because she’s got a bottle in her mouth, but she is composed enough to recognise me and yell after me. I recognise her voice and feel that small surge of energy that comes with this recognition, and I yell back. The bike course is undulating and it’s a grey and unwelcoming day. I get my cadence up and settle in for the ride. Don’t overdo it, don’t undercook it and don’t fall off – that’s my plan. KISS = Keep It Simple, Stupid.
I keep a pretty good pace up for me. The club spin sessions and turbo sessions at home are paying off. The cyclists around me look like reasonably handy athletes and I’m chuffed to bits to be there with them. It’s uneventful, the ride. There are hills, some of which are very steep, but none very long. I comfort my brain with memories of cycling up Hardknott some weeks back (30% max and a long climb). It’s a brain game this. At the top of one hill, I hear my name being shrieked out. It’s Eleanor, who is down watching her boyfriend do the event. Again, that surge of energy – why does that happen when someone yells your name? Is it me wanting to show off how good a cyclist I am? Is it a transfer of the preternatural force they banged on about in Star Wars? Or is it just that it was the top of a hill and I’m now going downhill? Stop thinking, you fool, focus and cycle. End of the first loop. That’s 45k. The Windsor lot must have finished their race. I wonder how they all did. I wonder if I’ll make it to the pub in time to see everyone tonight and find out how they did. I wonder if they had good weather. It’s pretty cold here. And it starts to rain …… hard. My hands are so cold I can’t shift the front derailleur. Don’t worry, just try harder. But it is a bit colder than ideal. It wasn’t like this in the Monaco 70.3.
Where is everyone else from the club? Am I so far behind them all? Oh wait, there’s Ellen. I cycle up to her and pass her, exchanging encouragement. She catches me up 5 mins later, but I retake her and that’s the last I see of any FOT members for the ride. My legs feel just fine, I say to myself, get going when you start your run and it will all be fine. I’m through the finish of the ride! Time to dismount, and someone is shouting at me to do so. I comply and run off towards T2. Someone grabs my bike off me and I’m into T2. I get my bag, sit down and empty the contents onto the floor. A lady rushes up to help. I’m confused, I can’t think of anything I need to do other than change my shoes. It can’t be that easy. Apparently it is. Eschewing emergency gels and hats, I kick off to the run.
The run is a shocker. I’m going backwards. I can feel my legs ache from the onset of cramp. Did I really foul up my nutrition so badly or have I under-trained? Or am I just too old for this? Oh shut up and keep running. I suffer so badly up the first hill I have to stop to get my head together. Ellen comes up alongside and checks I’m not at death’s door before floating off like a gazelle. I grit everything I can and get running again. Only three loops of this and then you’re done for the day. I get to the road over the dam and see Natalie Creswick. I wonder which lap she is on. I’m a bit disoriented and mental arithmetic is quite unfeasible. I give up trying to work out how far ahead of me she is, and focus on working out which foot I need to put forward next. Natalie looks like she is pushing herself hard and her pace is good. I see Ellen again as the route doubles back on itself. I keep going, downing glasses of flat cola at every drink station. I’m going to do well to beat 2hrs for the run at this pace so I reconcile myself to just keep going.
Now thoughts are beginning to whirl around my head, as though to distract me from the pain in my legs.
1 lap gone. It hurts. 2 laps nearly gone and I see PJ hurtling round the route. He’s clearly trying catch Natalie and he is running fast. I also see Stew Ward. He has the same look of resigned concentration he always has when he’s running. Eleanor has formed a gaggle of girls at the end of the lap and co-ordinated them to scream encouragement as I (and other FOT) run past. It’s an enormous fillip when that happens. I shan’t ease up. But it really, really hurts. The last lap is an unfeasibly lonely place. Nothing left but to finish this off and god knows there is pain to come. Thoughts about everything and everyone are now bowling around in my head – apologies to anyone who sneezed during around noon on Sunday 15 Jun (it’s an Indian thing – if you sneeze, it’s because someone was thinking about you). The last grassy hill up to the finish was welcome in the way that chocolate and mint gateau is welcome at the end of a dinner party. The last corner, and over the finish line I go: 6hr02min.
I’m a bit cross about missing the 6hr mark, but not so that it bothers me. I do feel I’ve blown it by cramping and I just don’t see why that happened. Someone stops me and puts a finisher’s cap on me. I get a medal I look around but can’t see anyone. I get a coughing fit and I’m bent over double hacking like a 60-a-day man. It eases the memory of the pain in my legs. Slowly, my eyes start focusing and I wander aimlessly towards somewhere I can get some food. I cant see anyone from FOT. Have they all gone home? Forget it. Get some food before your legs seize up. I go past the massage tent. The thought of a massage causes me an extra wince. I walk through the athletes area into the food tent. Ah, there they all are – all sat together looking like they finished ages ago. I wander over, dump my stuff next to them then suddenly realise Im going to have a bit of a wobble. I think I’ve just realised that I’ve finished. I cover my fact with my hands and walk off to get something to eat or drink, tripping over a chair almost immediately. Tom saves me from making an arse of myself, but I’m beyond caring now.
A cup of tea, a cheese sandwich and a couple of cakes …… that’s better. I feel like I can talk now. Natalie appears to have blown away the oppo, coming first in her age group. PJ and Stew were very close behind her. Ellen did something like 5hr40. It’s been a long day for me and I’m feeling stripped down. I’m emotionally naked and it takes a while before I want to start talking about the race.
I can’t think whether or not this was harder than Monaco 70.3. It doesn’t matter. Last year’s pain has no significance when you have current pain to deal with. Everyone seems to have had a cracking race, so I feel like I’ve failed. I’m not bothered about the time compared to others, but I’d like to come out of a race feeling like I’ve shoved everything I can out there. I’m cross about getting cramp but I’ll get over it.
It’s sunny, I’m well fed and we are sat on the grass enjoying the post race atmosphere. I remember now …. This is why I do this. I can’t wait for Antwerp half ironman.