By now, we were
penned in on the beach. In position. No chance to change anything now. We were
ready to go. Everyone was highly strung, particularly those at the front, with
aspirations of doing well. You could have bottled the tension and atmosphere
and sold it for millions. At 6:58 we knew it was close. 6:59. Come on dammit.
6:59:30. The starter was right beside me, to the left, but was waiting for the
signal via race radio. So there was no countdown. Then all of a sudden the klaxon
blared. We were off…
I am at the extreme bottom left of this picture...
I knew the first 30 seconds were critical. I had to get to
that buoy first, and get around it, and get away to the left, and I had to do
this before 2100 athletes swallowed me up, beat me up, and ruined my race. So I
sprinted like I’ve never sprinted before, and fought through the waves and the
sea, and hit that buoy, and took a left, and I knew I was clear. I carried on
wading, it was faster than trying to swim through the waves. Finally it got too
deep and I started swimming. I was pretty much alone. It was a great feeling.
No dogfight. It was rough. It was very rough. The waves and swell were coming
in from the right, so I was breathing to the left. It was like a rollercoaster.
Waves were smashing me. Slamming me. There is nothing to do except battle on.
Sighting was so difficult. Breathing was so difficult. It continued.
A few swimmers started coming past on the right, which was
reassuring. Safety in numbers… after all, there were killer jellyfish in the water...
There was a photo doing the rounds on Twitter of a 4-foot jellyfish washed up
on the beach on Friday morning. It looked horrifying. But I had to keep
swimming and try not to think about jellyfish. It was difficult to see the
buoy, and there was nothing but horizon beyond it, so it was difficult to make
sure I was swimming in a straight line. Finally I hit the turn, and it was a
sharp right. Now I was swimming out in the bay, parallel to the shore, and
towards the lifeboat station. Sighting was a bit easier on the way across, as
we had the lifeboat station to aim at and we could see it above the waves,
which were now coming across from our left.
Heading out to sea - it was rougher than it looks...
I had settled into the swim by now. There was still no
argy-bargy, so I had obviously got away well. But it was still tough. Then I
got a kick in the face, literally. Visibility in the sea is quite low.
Sometimes you can be swimming along, and you stretch out an arm in front of you
to make a stroke, and instead of reaching into the water, you’ll reach onto
someone’s feet. When people are swimming frontcrawl, they flutter their feet
behind them, so if you swim into someone’s feet, not much will happen. However,
I happened to swim into someone who had decided to swim breaststroke for a bit.
Maybe he needed a break or was trying to catch his breath or whatever. Either
way, I saw a breaststroke mule kick coming straight for my face and before I
could do anything about it, bang, I got kicked. It hurt. I had a quick feel
with my tongue to make sure all my teeth were still intact, and then there was
nothing else for it but to carry on. I hoped I wasn’t bleeding. Killer jellyfish
might like blood…
I kept going. There were boats and canoes close by, which
was reassuring. Unlike last year, the field seemed quite well spread-out. I
wasn’t complaining about this. I hit the next turn, and took another sharp
right, back to the shore. Finally, the conditions relented a bit as the waves
were now coming in from directly behind, and pushing us towards the shore. I
made it to shore, and exited the water. We ran up the beach, over a timing mat
and back into the sea. The tide was on its way in so we had a bit further to go
on the second lap. I had done a 31-minute first lap. Not bad in the conditions.
The second lap passed much the same as the first. Unlike
last year, I didn’t get cold. I think the sea was maybe a degree warmer than
last year, and I had a new wetsuit this year too, which sealed really well. I
felt like I was swimming reasonably well. I would even go as far to say I had
properly settled into it, had got used to the conditions, and was almost
enjoying it. Don’t get me wrong, it was still tough. I started to lap people
during my second lap, which was indicative that everyone was finding it tough.
The waves didn’t relent. I still hadn’t seen any jellyfish. By the time I was
heading back towards the swim exit, I was happy that I was going to get through
the swim. My thoughts started to turn to what I had to do to get up to T1, and
whether or not my knee would allow me to run up the steep cliff path and
through the town to T1. Finally I exited the water and my watch said 64
minutes. My official time was 65 minutes, by the time I had run over the timing
mat on the beach.
65 minutes is my worst Ironman swim by a long way, and I was
a bit disappointed with 65. Conditions made it difficult to draw comparisons
with my previous swims, but there’s no doubt I was a bit disappointed. I couldn’t
help but steal a backward glance to see everyone who was still out there. The
sea looked busy to say the least. And then I was off up the cliff path, ripping
the top half of my wetsuit off. The bottom half would wait until the T1 tent.
And my knee felt OK. I grabbed my purple bag, and straight away I took out a
bottle of water, and rinsed the sand off my feet. A small thing to do, but a
significant thing. I would have no sand in my socks and shoes all day. It took
all of 10 seconds to rinse the sand off. 10 seconds well spent, I’d say. Then I
pulled on an old pair of shoes, and set off up the zig-zag path and through the
town to T1.
En route, I had a few swigs of flat Coke from another bottle
I had stashed in my purple bag. The caffeine would give me a bit of a kick, and
the Coke would help to rinse out and kill off any bugs or germs in my mouth
following the swim. Again, a small thing, but worth doing. I also had an energy
gel (not an energy bar, as I learned last year these are easy to choke on when
you’re out of breath). Finally I whipped on a pair of arm warmers, not because
it was cold but because I didn’t want to get sunburned and also because it’s
easier to pull on my tight aero bike jersey over a pair of arm warmers rather
than over a pair of wet, salty arms.
The route up to T1 was packed with spectators. Such an atmosphere.
I managed to glimpse my parents when I was swilling my mouth out with Coke. I
think I gave them a nod – I had no free hands to wave, and I couldn’t give them
a shout as I had a mouth full of Coke.
I got into T1 and had a fairly smooth transition. There’s a
lot to remember. Wetsuit off. Towel down. Towel folded over feet. Heart rate
monitor strap on. Race number on. Sit down. Socks on. Shoes on. Jersey on. Grab
helmet and sunglasses. Put everything else into the bag. Hand the bag to a
volunteer. Run to the bike. Put on the helmet and sunglasses on the way to the
bike. I ran right underneath our B&B and got a big shout from the terrific
Lee and Laura (the B&B staff), who were watching from one of the rooms.
There were loads of bikes still in T1. I started to think I’d
had a better swim than I thought. I heard the announcer say that the first
female pro was on her way into T1. Usually I catch the female pros on the bike.
This time, I’d beaten them on the swim. So I felt I was reasonably well-placed.
I learned after the race that the organisers were thinking of cancelling or
shortening the swim due to the conditions. I also learned that they’d had to
pull 70 people out of the water, who were struggling. I also learned that most
people were exiting the water in a dazed state, staggering and stumbling their
way off the beach. I’d done OK in the water, all things considered. Now to see
how the bike felt…
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