I got back from Norfolk late on Sunday evening, and a not much more
than a few hours later I was on a plane to Italy for a work trip. I was a
fairly unhappy guy heading to Italy, because I had a sore knee that needed
treatment and medication, and I had bike problems I needed to solve. The flat
tyres and unreliable valve extenders were playing on my mind, big-time. I was
also conscious that in the aftermath of previous work trip to Aberdeen, my back
had completely and excruciatingly locked up, leaving me really incapacitated. This
was done by possibly carrying my suitcase on public transport. I’m usually the
subject of some good-natured banter on these work trips because I always have
the biggest suitcase by miles – there's no way around this, as I have to bring my
training gear, food supplements, powders, pills, and on this occasion, loads of
fruit and spinach too.
Keeping Holland & Barrett in business
I made it to Italy, Monday passed, and my left knee felt
sore, although not disastrously so. Ideally I’d have gone to a physio, and I’d
have been giving it heat, ice and anti-inflammatories, none of which I could do in
Italy. The knee was sore probably because I’d gone too hard in Norfolk,
pedalling too hard and too fast without an adequate warm-up. Changing the flat
tyres also didn’t help, being bent double over the bike and wheel to fix the punctures. It’s fair to say that my body is quite highly-strung and it doesn’t take
much out of the ordinary to injure it. For example, I absolutely couldn’t contemplate
kicking a football, never mind playing 5-a-side.
I found out that the hotel in Piacenza in Italy had a few “city
bikes” to borrow for free. I also found out that the Giro d’Italia was passing
close by, but going to see it was out of the question as it was a work trip and
not a holiday… However, I couldn’t let the opportunity of a bike ride pass me
by, in 25 degree heat in the Italian countryside, towards the distant
mountains. I was worried about my knee, but I told myself that I would go for an easy,
leisure ride, not a hard training session.
The bike left a lot to be desired compared to my triathlon
bike. Talking of being highly-strung, my bikes are custom-fitted to my body
geometry using computers, sensors and science. I’m used to riding my own
personalised settings. So, riding a random bike has its own risks, as it’s
impossible to set it up identically to my normal settings. The angles and
pedalling motions, even if subtly different, can cause problems. But again, I
told myself it would be an easy ride, not a tough push.
I had 3 hours of daylight after our meetings had finished,
and there were hills in the distance. So I set off. What a pleasure to ride in
the heat, on quiet, unpolluted roads, with no pressure. I started to see signs
for a castle and decided to try to reach it. On the way, I crossed the magnificent Trebbia
river. What a contrast from London, and the filthy Thames.
I reached the castle. I took a few photographs. You can even
see the bike I rode in one of the photos below.
I saw loads of cyclists out enjoying the evening. It was
brilliant. I carried on further into the hills. I crossed the Trebbia again. It
got to the point where I had to turn back or it would get dark. I turned back,
got back to the hotel, and went for dinner feeling a lot happier: I’d had a
great bike ride and my knee had held up. The following evening I went for an
easy run, and again it held out. I wanted to push it a bit harder on the last
evening in Italy, but was invited out to dinner with all the meeting attendees.
It turned out to be something resembling a state banquet, in none other than
the castle I had cycled to a couple of evenings before… The Italians are very
hospitable to say the least, and I had to force myself to stay off the alcohol
and limit my food consumption. If I’d wanted, I could have eaten for the entire
3-4 hours, non-stop.
I flew back on Friday feeling like the knee wasn’t going to
get any worse. Over the weekend, I did some training, did my food shopping and
had it home delivered, and spent far too long stressing about my flat tyres and
valve extenders.
Delivery of porridge, among other things
I knew I had to do something about the tyres/wheels/tubes/valves, so I decided to deflate my tyre and remove the remaining good tube. When
screwing off the valve cap, the core came loose in the same manner as it had in
Norfolk, and in the blink of an eye, the tyre went as flat as a pancake. Great, I thought, another tube
wrecked. At this point, I didn’t have much confidence in these tubes.
So I did some research on the internet. Firstly I learned a few
tricks for removing wheels, and putting them back on again, particularly rear
wheels. Front wheels are easy to deal with. Rear wheels have gears and chains
and integrated brakes to consider. Prior to my research and practice, I would have
said that a flat rear tyre would be game over in the Ironman, as I thought it
would take me 20-30 minutes to put right. Now I’m confident I can do it in 5
minutes, which isn’t quite game over. I’d obviously rather not lose 5 minutes,
but 5 minutes is better than 25 minutes, which really would be game over for Kona. If I had tubulars rather than clinchers, things would be a bit more straightforward, but clinchers are a bit more convenient.
I needed tubes with a
100mm valve, to run with my Zipp 808 deep rim wheels, which are 80mm deep.
However, no such tubes exist anywhere in the world, and so I had to accept that
there was no way around using valve extenders. I read a lot of blogs, message
boards, forums and so on, with the general consensus being that valve extenders
are evil things, dreadful things, a pain in the ass, and not something that
anyone wants to have to deal with. From my own personal experience, I have to
agree. These damn things cause far too much stress – they don’t seal, they
leak, they are fragile, you can’t pump them up again, they come undone, and
they ruin races. Conventional valves are none of these things.
The problem is that only a very few wheels actually need
tubes with valve extenders, so fitting them is not something that’s commonly
done. I came across a few useful websites offering tips including using pliers
to intentionally damage threads, glue to secure the valve head, and
PTFE/plumber’s tape to create secure seals. My housemate Steve lent an invaluable
pair of hands, as well as tools, PTFE tape and help. After much debate, internet browsing,
taping, twisting, pumping, and after far too much time spent, we finally had 6 tubes using
two different kinds of valve extenders, all ready to go. One key was not to use
the screw-on valve caps, as unscrewing them can also unscrew the valve core and
then PSSSSHHHH would go the tyre.
The next step was to check that the CO2 cartridge inflator
would work with the two types of valve extenders. The idea behind these
cartridges is that if you get a flat tyre, you whip the wheel off, whip the
tyre off, whip the punctured tube off, whip a new tube in, whip the tyre on,
whip the wheel back into place, and then re-inflate it with a CO2 cartridge.
These cartridges claim to re-inflate wheels up to 80, 90 or even 100psi within
a couple of seconds. Contrast this to using a small hand pump which would get
40-50psi tops, would take ages, and would be a tiring job.
These cartridges are like small bombs. They come with a “gun”,
which goes over the valve, then the cartridge is screwed into the gun, and
boom, it discharges, inflating the tyre. So, I sacrificed my remaining
cartridge and one of Steve’s too, to satisfy myself that they would work. It
was like holding dynamite, screwing the cartridge into the gun and waiting for
it to discharge. I kept screwing it into the gun, and nothing happened… the
anticipation grew… surely it would blow soon… nope… it didn’t. I then found out
that my “gun” required depressing when the cartridge is screwed in. So I
depressed the gun and boom, it discharged and the tyre went up like a balloon.
It was quite impressive. And freezing cold! I subsequently read blogs about
hands freezing onto the cartridge. It's possible to buy insulating cartridge sleeves, which would
be a worthwhile purchase.
Anyway, after so much time, effort and stress, I was finally
satisfied that I had reliable tubes/valves/extenders, and that I could deal
with a flat tyre within a few minutes. So, ultimately, the whole disastrous
experience, that has been a total pain in the ass, has actually turned out to be
worthwhile. But surely never before has something so seemingly insignificant
turned out to be such a monumental pain in the ass to get right. Yes, I’ll
agree the valve extenders are a pain in the ass, but this is exacerbated by
unfamiliarity, which I was undoubtedly guilty of. Experience is worth a lot…
A successful bank holiday
Anyway, I’m a lot happier today than I was when I flew to
Italy. I said something similar two weeks ago, so without wanting to tempt
fate, bring on the Icknield 100 mile time trial at the weekend… I’m looking at
renting a disc wheel for it. If I could get under 4 hours for the 100, then
there would be a good case that I could do a sub-9 hour Ironman on a fast
course. The Irish record is 8:45…
On a final note, training with a heart rate monitor is
proving very interesting. A power meter really would be a very beneficial
training tool, but for now, the heart rate monitor is interesting to use and
will definitely help me in my training and racing. I’m sure I’ll blog about this in
more detail in future.
Training this week was as follows:
Monday 19th May 2014: Rest
Tuesday 20th: 2 hour bike
Wednesday 21st: 40 minute run
Thursday 22nd: Rest
Friday 23rd: Swim 3.8km
Saturday 24th: 2:05 turbo, 20 minute run
Sunday 25th: Swim 3.3km (hand paddle drills), 1:10 turbo (single leg drills: 10
x 2 mins left/right/both)
When Eric Cantona made his comeback for Manchester United
back in 1996 and scored the winning goal in the FA Cup Final, the commentator
exclaimed, “You just couldn’t write this script!” You really couldn’t make this up either, what follows. Here goes…
Last season, in the run-up to Ironman UK, I did two
“warm-up” events: the North Norfolk 100 mile time trial and the Icknield 100
mile time trial in Bedfordshire. I decided to do the same two events this year.
The intention is to mimic Ironman race day as closely as possible, trial all my
race gear, nutrition and hydration, and follow the ride with a run at Ironman
marathon race pace.
Because I do the majority of my bike training indoors on my
turbo trainer, these warm-up events are essential preparation for learning how
I perform on the road, and also to practice the logistics of packing and
unpacking equipment, and getting ready for a race day. Taking part in these
events involves ensuring the bike gets serviced in advance, renting a car, and
finding a willing friend (or friends) to come along and act as a “support
crew”. It also involves tapering down the training before the event and taking
some recovery time afterwards.
The house of horrors
I didn’t have a great experience in Norfolk last year. I was
living in a terrible share-house at the time. House sharing is my only option
because buying my own place in London is out of the question – far too
expensive, and I don’t intend to stay in London forever anyway – and even
renting my own place in London is too expensive. House-hunting in London is a
truly soul-destroying experience, particularly given that I have an expensive
bike that needs to be indoors and secure, and also given that I need to be able
to use my turbo trainer indoors. Usually, house-hunting also comes with time
pressure – it’s a case of having to find a house by a certain date or face
being effectively homeless. When combined with a full-time job, a horrible and
lengthy commute, a heavy training schedule, zero free time, ridiculously
expensive rents and an inability to afford my own place, no car, and a refusal for
health reasons to use London’s main public transport system, house-hunting in
London is an awful thing.
So it was that I ended up living in the dreadful house-share
with 9 housemates, overseen by an alcoholic live-in landlord and his dirty pet
dog that lived in the kitchen. This guy made a fortune in rent, didn’t work,
had a penchant for frequent parties, and kicked people out of the house if
anyone complained. With hindsight, I would never have lived there, but
evidently my first impressions on viewing the house were that it was liveable.
This last statement becomes more understandable when I mention that the house I
had viewed beforehand had syringes lying on the floor…
I knew if I didn’t find somewhere soon, I would have
nowhere, so I moved in. It soon became apparent that despite my earplugs sleep
was impossible due to the noise, and the house was generally disgusting. If I
hadn’t been training for an Ironman, I would have moved out straight away, but
I didn’t have time for another upheaval. I told myself I would move after the
racing season was over.
So it was that on a Friday evening in May last year my
friend Josh rented a car, drove to the house, slept on an airbed on my floor,
and we planned to get up early on Saturday morning, drive up to Norfolk, meet
Orla (another friend who lives in Lincolnshire, plus a friend of hers), I’d do
the event, they’d follow it in the car, and Josh and I would drive back to
London following the event. So Josh arrived and miraculously the house was
quiet and we bedded down early, knowing we had a 6am start in the morning.
The eviction
Shortly after we went to bed, the noise started. A karaoke
party in the kitchen, below my room. In 8 months in that house, the noise had
never been so bad. There was no chance of sleeping. A pneumatic drill would
have been easier on the ears. Hours passed. I wasn’t sleeping. I was riding 100
miles in the morning, and Josh was to drive about 400 miles. More hours passed.
I got angry about it. Josh wasn’t asleep either. 2am came. The noise continued.
3am came. No sleep. The alarm was set for 6:30am.
I had two options. One option was to do nothing, and accept
that I probably wouldn’t get any sleep. Previous experience in the house had
taught me that the parties continued until 6am or 7am, sometimes even later.
The second option was to go downstairs and ask them to keep the noise down. Not
ask them to be quiet, or go elsewhere, but just to turn it down a little. They
would either say yes or no, but in choosing the second option, there was at
least a chance that I would get some sleep. However, I was really reluctant to
go down to a room full of noisy drunks.
In the end, shortly after 3am, I decided to go down and ask
them to turn it down a bit. I didn’t think it was an unreasonable request. Down
I went, I made eye contact with the girl at the stereo, there seemed to be an
immediate understanding, and even a hint of an apologetic look, and for a split
second I thought that maybe it would be a bit quieter and that Josh and I might
grab a couple of hours of sleep. Ideally I wanted 8 hours of sleep, so the
whole weekend was already horribly compromised, but given the circumstances it
was a case of making the best of a bad job.
Then the landlord caught a glimpse of me. I’d always made
big efforts to get on with everyone in the house, to stay clear of house
politics and gossip, to be clean, tidy and unobtrusive, and in particular I had
made efforts to get along with him. His befuddled brain went into overdrive,
trying to work out what I was doing standing at the kitchen door. After a few
seconds, it dawned on him that I wasn’t down to party, and to put it mildly, he
went totally apeshit. Absolutely berserk. He came at me, brandishing a pool
cue, shouting and swearing. The polite version of it was, “How dare you?” and
“Go away.” I actually thought for a couple of seconds he was going to hit me,
but a couple of housemates held him back and told him to calm down. He didn’t
hit me and he settled for screaming and shouting in my face until his
already-purple face turned an even deeper shade of purple.
I tried to reason with him and explain that I was only asking
them to turn the music down a little, but I quickly realised that anything I
said or did was futile, and he was going to keep asking “How dare you?” and
keep requesting that I “go away.” So I went back up to bed, apologised to poor
Josh for the ridiculousness of it all, and we braced ourselves for a couple
more hours of noise and non-sleep. Ten minutes later, my door started to bang.
It didn’t take me long to realise that Mr Landlord was at the door, and that he
was going to bang it until either I opened it or he banged it right down.
So I opened it, and the drunken shouting and swearing
started all over again, and the polite version of it was that I was being
evicted from the house. I wasn’t thrown out there and then, I got a month’s
notice. Bear in mind that I was due to drive to Norfolk in a few hours for a
100 mile cycling time trial, and in 3 weeks I was due to compete in the
Icknield 100 mile time trial, and a few weeks after that was Ironman race day.
With the aforementioned stressful job, commute, training schedule, zero free
time, no car, refusal to use the London transport system, and upcoming races
that I had put so much time, effort and money into, it’s fair to say this was
an added stress that I really, really didn’t need.
Anyway, the alarm went off shortly after, and I got up out
of bed, having had zero sleep. I had been burning a lot of nervous energy
during the night and I felt totally depleted. I went down to force myself to
eat something. I didn’t blame Josh for not wanting to go down. Mr Landlord was
still in the kitchen, by himself. He sneered at me, “You heard what I said last
night?” Yes I did indeed hear what he had said last night, and probably half of
London heard it too. If only I’d recorded it…
I ate some cereal and toast, but it was as if anything I was
eating wasn’t registering with my stomach, it was burning off straight away. I
was alarmed to find that I had the shakes, and it was somewhat disconcerting to
find that I couldn’t stop my hands and legs from quivering uncontrollably.Although I hadn’t touched alcohol for a long
time, I felt horribly hung over. I brought a bowl of cereal up to Josh, and
shortly after, we set off for north Norfolk.
En route to Norfolk, 2013
I tried to sleep in the car, but I still had the shakes and
a million different things were running through my mind. Where was I going to
live? How would I find somewhere? What would happen to my bike, and my indoor
training? How terrible would the final weeks in the house be? How on earth was
I supposed to ride 100 miles? What was I going to do? Why wouldn’t I stop
shaking? Why was eating food not having any effect on my energy levels?
I couldn’t sleep in the car, and because I needed to build
up some sort of energy levels, we stopped at a roadside service area – the
“World’s Best”, if the sign was to be believed. It turned out to be decrepit and
disgusting on the outside, and inside was no better. The smell of greasy eggs
and bacon very nearly made me vomit. The only thing I could contemplate eating
was a Kit-Kat, but this was very poor sustenance. What I really needed (apart
from a new house and a magic 8 hours of sleep compressed into the next 1 hour) was
a plateful of pasta and some chicken and vegetables, but I suspected that
vegetables were not something that would ever be on the menu at the “world’s
best” service station.
One Kit-Kat later, I gave Orla a call to arrange meeting up.
“Hey Irish, what’s the craic, I’m not even out of bed yet!” After I had explained
what the craic was (for those that don’t understand what “craic” means, it’s an
Irish term for news/banter/fun), Orla was rendered a bit speechless. Orla is
not one to be short of words, but said she would meet us later. We got to
Fakenham, where the race HQ was located, and I picked up my race number.
For time trial events, riders are set off at one-minute
intervals, with the faster riders setting off later. I thought I had a nice
bike until I saw some of the machines rolling around vicinity of the race HQ.
These bikes would induce you to whisper in their presence. They were like spotless,
polished carbon-fibre rocket ships with disc wheels, and owners clad in the
tightest lycra, festooned with sweeping aero helmets, walking awkwardly in
their cleated shoes. They resembled some sort of alien species, wheeling their
spaceships around. I’m sure some of the bikes were worth over £10,000. At the
other end of the spectrum, there were basic entry-level road bikes and even
tricycles taking part.
I was still in a bad state, so I went to the local corner
shop, where the only acceptable things I could find were a couple of cereal
bars. The crisps, dodgy-looking sandwiches, chocolate bars, fizzy drinks,
newspapers and cigarettes didn’t look appetising and wouldn’t have provided me
with much benefit. At this point, I was seriously considering not riding –
quite a grave consideration for me, given my tenacity. At this point, one hour
before my start time, the day seemed quite nice, but the weather forecast was
terrible. I don’t think anyone has ever been more ill-prepared to ride 100
miles.
The course was a 3-lap course and I took the decision to at
least start and see how I felt after a lap. I thought that surely 33 miles
would be do-able, and if I needed to pull out, then I could do so right beside
the race HQ and call it a day. If I felt like continuing, I could do another lap
and pull out after 66 miles. So I got ready, got the bike assembled, tyres
pumped up, drinks attached, energy gels and bars packed, tight clothing put on,
and I pedalled off to the start.
The 2013 North Norfolk 100 mile time trial
I’ve never started an event with lower expectations. I took
it very easy on the first lap, ate my bars and gels, and drank my electrolyte
drink, I kept an eye on my speed and kept everything easy and controlled. The
course was quite undulating and twisty, but a lap passed fairly uneventfully.
Josh had met the others and I saw them a couple of times on the way. I decided
to keep going after a lap: I felt I had another lap in me and the weather was
still holding out. I continued to push the pedals, kept eating and drinking,
kept standing up on the pedals every ten minutes to allow my ass to de-numb
itself, and I kept going. I got a boost every time I’d see my support crew, who
were probably a bit concerned that I would just collapse on the road in a heap.
Another lap passed and it was decision time. What else to do but to keep
going…?
Looking wrecked in Norfolk... worse was to come...
I started the third lap. The first 10 miles of each lap was
westbound, and after a couple of miles on the third lap, an almighty storm blew
in from the north-west. I have cycled in monsoons on Bali and in Thailand. I’ve
cycled in blizzards in Northern Ireland. But I have never cycled in worse
conditions than that final lap in Norfolk last year. The pressure dropped like
a lead balloon. You could feel it, in the space of a few seconds. It was like
stepping into a fridge. The wind got up. The temperature plummeted about 15
degrees in the space of a few seconds. Angry black clouds blocked the sun and
made it dark. It was almost frightening.
Then the rain started. I have never, ever seen rain like it.
It was so heavy that it hurt. Within 10 seconds, the road was turned into a
river. The smart thing to do would have been to quit. Something kept me going,
I don’t know what. Looking back, if I’d quit, I would probably have collapsed
at the roadside until my support crew found me. I passed so many shivering and
miserable-looking riders huddled under trees, sheltering behind walls, doing
whatever they could to shield themselves from Mother Nature’s worst efforts. I
ploughed on through gritted teeth. It was a good way to get the anger and
frustration out. It became me versus everything. I was going to finish this no
matter what. My support car pulled up alongside me. Orla rolled down the window and screamed something
that I couldn’t hear. I screamed back that I was carrying on.
Cold, wet, utterly exhausted and not happy...
Conditions were impossible. I got cold. I was really ill-prepared;
I only had a skin-tight triathlon top on, with a pair of arm warmers and a pair
of thin gloves. I had nothing waterproof. I was soaked to the skin, cold, and
cycling through a freak storm. I kept eating and drinking, but after taking
electrolyte drinks and gels for 4 straight hours, they become difficult to
stomach. I puked, a horrible, yellow liquid puke apart from the little bits of
energy bar that I also barfed up. Lovely stuff…
Then I missed the left-hand turn, lost another few minutes,
did a U-turn and got back on track. Then I got so cold that my fingers stopped
functioning. I was finding it tough to change gear and use the brakes. I
couldn’t get my gels opened. I couldn’t open my energy bars. Fortunately I
could still suck my energy drink through the straw of the aero bottle. I
ploughed on. I got colder and colder. The miles passed. 3 miles from the
finish, I passed a guy with a flat tyre, pushing his bike to the finish line. I
hoped I would keep it together, I hoped for no flat tyres or problems. I
crossed the line. But it wasn’t over. To get back to the race HQ, it was
necessary to continue up the road to the roundabout, do a 180-degree turn and
come back to the race HQ on the opposite side of the road. This was to stop
cyclists doing U-turns… This added maybe another mile of cycling, which
ordinarily would be no problem.
The 2013 aftermath
As soon as I crossed the finish line, I stopped pedalling
hard and started cruising. Just like the weather had changed in an instant, my
body temperature plummeted as soon as I stopped exerting myself. Within a few
seconds my teeth were chattering and I was in big trouble. I was totally numb
and pretty incapable. Somehow I got round the roundabout without having an
accident, and I got to the car park where I could see Josh with my running
shoes in his hand. I had told him to have them ready for me at the finish as I
intended to do a 10km run immediately afterwards, to simulate the bike-to-run
transition. Josh quickly saw that I wouldn’t be running anywhere. I literally
fell off the bike and had to be picked off the ground. They had to strip me and
dry me and put clean clothes on me because I couldn’t do it myself. I was
shivering uncontrollably, and couldn’t speak properly. Worryingly, my hands and
face were blue. In hindsight, I was probably hypothermic.
They got me inside, and I heard the word “ambulance”
mentioned. I was parked in a seat beside a radiator and dressed in every stitch
of spare clothing available. A cup of tea appeared. I couldn’t even drink it,
they had to pour it down my throat. Finally, mercifully, I warmed up. I’m glad
I finished and could sit by a radiator with lots of clean and dry clothes on.
If I’d quit out on the course on that last lap, it’s not much of an
exaggeration to say I’d have frozen.
What a mess
Perversely, tauntingly, the sun came back out. The vibe
among the riders was that it was the worst weather ever experienced. Quite a
few riders had seen the forecast that morning and had thought better of even
starting. Of those that did start, a very low percentage actually finished. My
official time was 4:42. Without the wrong turn, I’d have been under 4:40. In
better weather conditions, and with proper sleep and without having been
evicted from my house, who knows what time I’d have done. The event itself was
great – really well organised and friendly, and with a truly dedicated
marshalling team. If the cyclists who finished deserved medals, then the
marshals deserved massive trophies and cash prizes – to be out all day in those
conditions takes dedication.
Josh and I were due to drive back to London. I dislike
London at the best of times, but I really wasn’t keen to go back to the house
of horrors given what had happened. Orla was having none of it and we stayed at
her house in Lincolnshire that night. It was blissfully quiet. No obnoxious,
alcoholic landlords in sight. I had such a good sleep and was woken by the most
amazing cooked breakfast I have ever seen. I made short work of it. And there
was no dirty dog watching me eat.
Then it was back to London and back to work. To cut a long
story short, I moved out of London to Essex, to a civilised house. It was a
lonely house though, and I craved a bit of chat with like-minded people. I
moved again, to my current house in Kent, where I live with cyclists and
marathon runners and where my bike is totally secure. And, one year later, I
went back to Norfolk to have another go at the 100 miles as part of my training
for Ironman UK 2014.
En route to Norfolk, 2014
The week before Norfolk this year, I rented a car and took
the bike for a service. I had new tubes and valves put on.
Old valve extender with no core (top) and new valve extender (bottom) with core
The day before Norfolk, I insured the bike. My old insurance
had expired as I was moving house, and because my new house is so secure, I didn’t
feel that theft was a problem. All my bike training is done indoors anyway so
there’s no chance of crash damage. If I ever ride outside, I use a different
bike. I hadn’t bothered to renew the insurance since February, but when it
comes down to it, although the insurance costs a fortune, I can’t afford to
risk not insuring it. I rented another car for the Norfolk weekend. The weather
forecast was good, I felt good, training had gone well, the bike was serviced
and ready to go, I had bought bike and running Garmins with heart rate monitors,
I had taken off the frame bottle cages and bought clothing with better
aerodynamics, I hadn’t been evicted or sleep-deprived, so I was optimistic for
a big improvement from last year. I was hoping for something in the region of
4:15 to 4:20, which I felt would set me up for a crack at a sub-4 hour time at
the flatter and faster Icknield 100 mile time trial in Bedfordshire in 2 weeks.
New toys... the bike computer can display 8 different data parameters at once, and is compatible with a power meter...
Elise was my supporter this time, so I set off early on
Saturday morning to pick her up and drive to Norfolk. I had worked out how long
all this should take, and added a massive contingency. This should have allowed
us to arrive at the race HQ well in advance, and allow me time to get ready in
good time. The first problem I had was that I had to stop 3 times for a toilet
pit-stop en route to picking Elise up. The final stop involved literally
skidding to a halt on the hard shoulder of a dual carriageway, jumping out and
watering the flowers. Or, more accurately, high-pressured blast hosing of the
flowers and greenery. Literally, 2 seconds later and I would have been watering
my trousers, or the car seat. These stops cost me time. Then traffic in Norfolk
and further food/toilet stops cost more time.
I was due to start at 1:11pm, and I had hoped to be at the
race HQ by midday at the latest. We arrived at 12:15pm, which was later than I
hoped but still not disastrously late. I went and signed in, went for the
ritual pre-race dump, ate some more, quickly admired some bikes, drank some
more, looked at my watch, realised that time was slipping alarmingly away, got
suncreamed, got changed, got the gels and bars packed onto the bike and into my
pockets, pumped the tyres up, threw together a “running bag” for a post-cycle
run, put on my heart rate monitor strap, looked at my watch, realised time was
up, didn’t get to stretch, didn’t get to pee, and headed for the start.
I had hoped to ride with my heart rate at something like
140-150 beats per minute and a pedalling cadence of 90rpm. Pacing is everything
in endurance events, so it was important not to exceed these target figures,
and to learn what it felt like to ride at these target figures. I was appalled
to find that I hadn’t even started and my heart rate was at 160. The stress of
the journey and the stress of getting ready so hurriedly had taken its toll.
The 2014 North Norfolk 100 mile time trial
I set off at what seemed like a normal, reasonable pace. My
Garmin computer told me otherwise. My heart rate was up at 170bpm and my
cadence was approaching 110rpm. I battered on, telling myself it would calm
down after the first 10 undulating miles were over, and when I made the first
left turn, and got out of the headwind. 25 miles in and things hadn’t calmed
down. Although I felt I was going pretty hard, I didn’t feel it was
unsustainably hard. I was averaging 23.4mph through 25 miles. To average this
pace for the entire 100 would have seen me finish in 4:16. With hindsight, this
was perhaps a little ambitious.
Before it all went wrong...
As it turned out, I never got to find out if I could have
sustained the pace, as my event was ruined just after 25 miles by the dreaded
“PSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHH” sound of a rapidly deflating tyre, followed by the awful
feeling of the road vibrations being transmitted through a flat back tyre,
through the forks, up the frame, through the seat post and to my back side.
There was no reason for this flat tyre to happen –the tyres and tubes were new,
the road was good and I hadn’t run over any debris. Anyway, the tyre was flat
and I had to deal with it. I pulled over, and experienced the terrible feeling
of watching other competitors fly past, some giving fleeting sympathetic
glances before they were past and zooming on their way, and some remaining
resolutely poker-faced and fixed on the road.
The first problem I had was opening the aero box that
contains my equipment for dealing with flat tyres (this aero box can be seen in photos of my bike, it's the black rudder-shaped thing behind the seat tube and above the rear wheel). It would not open, no matter
what I tried. The left-hand clip was totally jammed by something inside the
box, and it would not open. So I had a much-needed pee and tried again. Still
it wouldn’t open. It wouldn’t budge. I thought that was my day over – if I
couldn’t get into the box then I’d have to sit at the side of the road until
Elise came past in the car and picked me up. Finally, after about 10 or 15 minutes,
it opened. I got the rear wheel off, changed the tube, and problem number two
was that no matter what I did, I could not get the wheel back onto the bike.
No matter how much I wiggled it and jiggled it, it would not
click into place. I spent another 10-15 minutes trying to get the wheel on. I
finally got exasperated and gave it a really good shove, far harder than should
have been necessary, and it clicked into place. Then I took my CO2
cartridge inflator which I had been assured would give me something like
60-80psi (normally I pump my tyres to 110psi). 60-80psi wasn’t ideal but it
would keep me going until I found the car, then I could stop and use the foot
pump to get the tyre back up to normal pressure.
Problem number three was that the cartridge inflator was
laughably (or cryably) pathetic. It gave about 10psi, not even enough to ride
on. Fortunately I had a small hand pump, which I used to get another 30psi into
the tyre. This took another good few minutes, and after a very frustrating eternity
spent dealing with the flat tyre, I was finally back on the road.
The offending cartridge and inflator gun
I cruised round the rest of the first lap, stopped, and got
the foot pump from the car. As I was unscrewing the valve cap, the entire valve
core came loose, and the tyre went flat again. I had paid a fortune for these
new tubes and valve extenders, and they were proving somewhat disastrous. I
went through the whole fixing rigmarole again – tools out, wheel off, tyre off,
tube out, new tube in, tyre on, wheel on, oily hands, pump up, try to clean
oily hands. Fortunately I had the foot pump this time to get good pressure in
the tyre. I kept both of the offending tubes for a post-mortem.
I decided that because I was one of the last riders to set
off, and because I had lost so much time with the two flat tyres, and because I
wanted to run 10k straight after the ride, that I would be very late finishing
if I did the full 100 and then a run. I also knew I didn’t have any more tubes,
so one more flat tyre really was game over. I decided to do a really hard
second lap, hoping for no flat tyres, followed by a run. I really hammered the
second lap at 24mph (4:10 pace for 100), and towards the end of lap two, my
legs were flagging. My heart rate was still high for the second lap, at around
170bpm. My cadence was also high, at 100-110rpm. I didn’t have it in my legs
for a third lap, so I got off the bike, and set off for a run.
My heart rate hit 180 for the run, which was far higher than
I wanted it to be. I partly put this down to not having had a very sensible or
normal bike. The heat probably also had an effect. I ran the 10K in under 45
minutes, and felt pretty shattered afterwards. I went into the race HQ, grabbed
an egg sandwich, handed my number in, and drank a protein drink. I chatted with a few of the riders and volunteers, and like last year, there was a really friendly vibe. It's a great event: well-organised, well supported, well marshalled, and well photographed too. I checked out
the results board. There were a few really top riders who finished around the
4-hour mark, well beyond me, but I couldn’t help thinking that a sensibly-paced race, with no
flat tyres and no pre-race stress would have seen me finish in around 4:20,
which would have put me in 6th place overall. I’d have been happy
with this, given that I’m not an out-and-out cyclist. But I’ll never know…
The 2014 aftermath
The Icknield 100 mile time trial on 1st June has
suddenly become a lot more important. I did 4:14 there last year in almost
perfect weather conditions. I need to do an uninterrupted 100 in the run-up to
Ironman race day, and I hope that conditions in Bedfordshire are good, so that
I can truly compare my time with last year. I also hope for no flat tyres or
mechanical problems on the bike.
I've done 5 events in 2013 and 2014 with the bike - North Norfolk twice, Icknield, Ironman UK and Ironman Wales. Of these five events, four have turned out to be disastrous: both times at Norfolk I had the problems described above, at Ironman UK last year I erupted in vomit and diarrhoea while leading my age group with 10 miles left to run, and at Ironman Wales last year I executed a terrible race to end up finishing one place off World Championship qualification. The only satisfactory event I've done was the Icknield 100 last year, where I did the 100 miles in 4:14 and followed it with a decent 5 mile run.
As bad as Norfolk was, there is a lot I can learn. The same applies to all the other events I've done. Experience is worth a lot. I need to
re-think what tubes and valve extenders I will use. I need to make sure that my
bike’s aero tool box will open easily. I need to practice changing wheels. I
need to re-think my strategy for inflating a flat tyre. I need to pace myself
better, to keep my heart rate and cadence down, otherwise I will blow up, hit
the wall, and suffer a terrible marathon in the Ironman. A power meter would be
a really, really useful tool that would allow me to pace myself far better in
both training and when racing. I need to give myself far more time than I think
I need on race day. I need to practice putting on my new, tight, aerodynamic
top when my upper body is wet, to simulate the swim-to-bike transition, as the
top is difficult to put on. And, as bad as Norfolk was, I didn’t crash. I
didn’t break my leg, or my collarbone. I didn’t get hit by a car, and my bike
wasn’t damaged. Although I was disappointed, I’ll live to fight another day.
One thing that worries me slightly is that my problematic
left knee is a bit sore. This probably came from pedalling harder than I
intended, at a faster cadence than I train at. 90rpm is my ideal cadence, and I
generally train at around 90rpm. During very short, intense intervals I might
get close to 100rpm. Most of the miles I rode in Norfolk were at over 100rpm.
So I’ll need to manage the left knee and take it easy this week, and hope for
the best.
And I must also learn the lesson about pacing. This is one of the
most difficult things for me to accept: I don’t need to be as good a swimmer as
I could possibly be, I don’t need to be as good a cyclist as I could possibly
be, and I don’t need to be as good a runner as I could possibly be. To achieve
my potential in each individual discipline would require me to give up
triathlon and focus solely on a particular discipline. To succeed at Ironman
requires a view of the bigger picture, and a willingness to compromise and
balance the training demands. I could swim 6 times a week and find an extra 2
minutes in my swim time, but swimming 6 times a week would adversely impact on
my cycling and running training. It really is a balancing act. To achieve my
potential in triathlon, I have to accept that I will not achieve my potential
in each individual discipline. Like I said, a power meter would be a useful
tool to help with pacing, but they cost over £1000 and I’m not sure I could
justify that.
I’m writing this blog from Italy, as I’m currently on yet
another business trip, where frustratingly from a training point of view I lose control of so many aspects of my life. I
got back from the Norfolk event late on Sunday night, and I was up very early
on Monday morning (with sore legs) to get to the airport, carrying a suitcase filled with fruit,
spinach, vitamins, glutamine, protein and training gear. As well as shirts, ties, a laptop, and endless documentation. Ideally, I wouldn’t have to travel again
until this is all over. It's far from ideal to be in Italy with problems to
solve that are difficult to solve whilst I’m away: my bike needs work, my left
knee hurts, I need treatment and anti-inflammatories, and I am racing again on
1st June.
Such are the highs and lows of Ironman training and racing –
one week ago I was feeling really positive about how things had been going and
now I feel somewhat derailed and worried. I’ll deal with the circumstances as
best I can, I’ve no other option… Training this week was as follows:
Monday 12th May 2014: 20 minute turbo, 10 minute run Tuesday 13th: Swim 4km Wednesday 14th: 25 minute turbo, 15 minute run Thursday 15th: Rest Friday 16th: Easy short turbo Saturday 17th: North Norfolk 100 time trial (67 miles completed), 7 mile run Sunday 18th: Rest
Totals: Swim 4km, Bike 87 miles, Run 11 miles
On another note, I’ve always thought that sport could do a
lot more to bring its viewers closer to the action by exploiting camera
technology. Formula 1 cars have an array of small, light cameras mounted on
them, enabling the viewer to see things from the driver’s perspective. I had
been thinking, why not have helmet-cameras for sports like cycling or bobsleigh?
Indeed, why not ask 100m sprinters to wear head-mounted cameras? Why not mount tiny
cameras on a snooker cue? On a bike? The possibilities are endless… Admittedly,
the cameras might add a few grams of weight and provide a little bit more
aerodynamic drag, but if every competitor was required to use/wear them, it would
be a level playing field. Such technologies would add massively to the viewing
experience, as proven by the short video clip below… wow...
Monday 5th May 2014: 60 minute run at
5:45-5:50/mile
Tuesday 6th May 2014: Rest
Wed 7th May 2014: 1 hour turbo (hard), 20 minute run
Thurs 8th May 2014: Swim 1.6km (1500m in 23:14)
Friday 9th May 2014: Rest
Saturday 10th May 2014: Rest
Sunday 11th May 2014: 30 minute bike
Totals: Swim 1.6km, Bike 33 miles, Run 13 miles
Although the total mileages this week were low, I did some
intense sessions. I hammered a 1500m swim time trial on 3rd April,
and did it in 23:23. I hammered another 1500m time trial this week in 23:14.
Almost exactly a year ago I swam a 1500 in 23:29, and a month before race day
last year I got down to 22:52. So I’m just about ahead of where I was this time
last year, and hopefully in 6 weeks I’ll go and do another 1500m time trial and
get under 23 minutes, which would be a good boost.
The swim time trials I do are a bit hit-and-miss in terms of
having a free lane in the pool. I usually go and do these time trials just
before lunchtime during the week, and hope that there is a free lane, or at
least a lane which only has a couple of others in it. This week I was lucky –
there was just myself and one other fast guy in the fast lane and we didn’t get
in the way of each other, so my time was an honest, uninterrupted time.
Earlier this week I decided to go and do a 60-minute hard
run, to get some sort of a gauge as to what level my running is at. I tried to
do as much of this run as possible on grass and trails to save my legs. I ran
for an hour and averaged around 5:45-5:50 per mile, and with my rose-tinted
glasses on I would like to think if I had taken a couple of gels and a gulp of
energy drink, I could have carried on for maybe another hour at that pace. I
was happy with this tester of a run, given that if I could run the Ironman
marathon at 7 minutes per mile it would be an excellent performance. In the
aftermath of this tester run, my legs weren’t as sore as I thought they’d be,
so my muscles must be getting reasonably well conditioned.
From a training point of view, the weekend was quiet as I
took the bike for a service – Yellow Jersey Cycles in Billericay always do a
great job, so much so that I’ll give up my whole weekend and rent a car to get
the bike there. The bike is now primed, armed, serviced, and ready to roll at
the North Norfolk 100 mile time trial next Saturday. I feel ready for it too.
It will be good to get out there and see how I go. All of my training has been
done indoors on the turbo trainer and I haven’t had the time trial bike out on the
road since Ironman Wales in September last year. It would be difficult for the
North Norfolk event to go any worse than it did last year (more on this next
week…), so I hope to see a big improvement in my official time from last year
of 4:42.
The bike has now been fully serviced and cleaned, it’s got a
new chain, deep-rim racing wheels and new tyres on, new inner tubes with long
valves and no evil valve extenders to worry about, the frame bottle cages have
been removed for aerodynamic purposes, the saddle bottle cages have been securely
cable-tied on, and big litre bottles bought. With my wheel rims being so deep,
I had to use valve extenders in the past.
These valve extenders are dreadful things. Nightmare-inducing.
They never seal properly and they often leak, making it difficult/impossible to
inflate the tyres on occasion, and leaking air on other occasions. “Occasions”
included race morning at Ironman UK when I went to pump the tyres up, 30
minutes before the start, and the front valve started leaking. Cue massive
stress and an emergency dash to the bike maintenance tent, where I had to plead
with them to fix it. Fortunately they could see the desperation written large across
my face, they took pity, and I got away with it. I can’t imagine having to fix
a flat tyre during the race with those valve extenders, so now Yellow Jersey
Cycles have sorted me out with super-long valves, which is one less thing to
worry about.
I’ve had the frame bottle cages removed, reasoning that
there’s little point in having an expensive aerodynamic bike, only to ruin the
smooth airflow with two massive bottles on the frame. So I’m now reliant on the
front aero bottle and the two saddle-mounted bottles which are behind my back
side and out of the wind. At Ironman Wales last year, one of these rear bottle
cages sheared off and I lost a litre of precious electrolyte drink. So now
these bottle cage attachments have been beefed up with cable ties and hopefully
will hold fast. Another less thing to worry about.
Rear bottles
The bike hadn’t been on the road since September last year
so I took it for a short spin after the service to make sure it was all working
well, and to get the tyres and adjustments bedded in. It was a blustery day,
and it was a scary 30 minute ride. The deep rims are tough to handle in windy
conditions and the bike becomes unstable and difficult to handle, so it wasn’t
an especially fun 30 minutes, but I was relieved when it was over…
Relief after a windy spin, and a cycling buddy for once...
I also bought a new front aero bottle for between the aero
tri bars. Compared with my old one, it’s a lot bigger and wider as shown below:
The new one has just over 50% more capacity than the old
one, which equates to more weight carried but one less bottle pick-up at a feed
station. The bottle pick-ups are stressful because it’s difficult and
time-consuming to slow down, try to grab a bottle from a volunteer, and avoid
hitting discarded bottles rolling around on the road, while also trying to
avoid other competitors attempting to do the same thing. I spent an hour
discussing in detail the pros and cons of each bottle with my housemate, trying
to work out if it was feasible to somehow attach it between my tri bars, but we
came to the conclusion that the new bigger aero bottle was so wide that it
didn’t fit easily between my narrow tri bars, and in being wider it is less
aerodynamic anyway, so it will be sent back.
I’ve also been buying piles and piles of kit, as another
improvement I can make is to wear more aerodynamic clothing. It’s possible to
spend a fortune online, and receive kit in different sizes, try it all on,
decide what to keep, and send the rest back for a refund.
For me, I want to wear a short-sleeved top, as this will
protect my shoulders and upper arms from sunburn, and also will be a bit warmer
than a tank top or vest. A long-sleeved top would be too difficult to put onto
a wet body in the swim-to-bike transition, whereas short sleeves are a bit
easier to deal with. For the same reason, a full-length zip is also essential.
I don’t swim in my tri top, only in my shorts. This is because my wetsuit is
tight, and the sleeves of a tri top are restrictive for swimming. Plus, when
swimming it’s not feasible to swim with 10 gels or bars in the back pockets of
the tri top. So I prefer to put the top (with gels and energy bars already
stuffed into the rear pockets) on in T1 (Transition 1).
I’ve decided on wearing the Castelli Stealth T1 top. They
claim it will save 3 minutes during an Ironman cycle. I ordered a Small, a Medium
and a Large, and the Medium was the best fit. Sod’s law dictated that it had a
fault with the zip, so I had to send it back along with everything else, and I
requested a new one. Sod was really doing overtime on me, and his law dictated
that the retailer was out of stock, so I’ve had to order it from another
website and I am keeping my fingers crossed that it will arrive in time for
next weekend’s time trial.
I was also very keen on the Castelli Body Paint tri shorts,
as they have a very comfortable pad. Most tri shorts aren’t necessarily
designed for Ironman-distance races, and have a very thin pad. For a
short-distance triathlon, this doesn’t matter very much, but after a few hours
in the saddle, I’m always gritting my teeth for a bit more comfort. One of my
non-triathlon friends saw a pair of my triathlon shorts last year and asked
about the pad and the comfort. I said it wasn’t particularly comfortable, but
it was quick-drying and that you do get used to the discomfort. This particular
pad was red, and I finished the conversation with a tongue-in-cheek remark that
perhaps isn’t a million miles from the truth: “There’s a reason it’s red…”
These Castelli shorts have got two small hooks on the back
of them, supposedly to attach the shorts to a jersey and effectively make a
one-piece suit. I can’t see that I would ever use the hooks for this, and I can
also see these hooks tearing holes in my tight-fitting wetsuit. I’m surprised
that they have been incorporated, as in my opinion they spoil a great pair of
shorts. These shorts are worth about £100 and I’m currently debating taking a
pair of scissors to them and cutting the hooks out, but for obvious reasons I’m
somewhat reluctant to do this… So, I’ve ordered a pile of alternative shorts in
all different sizes to see of any of them have a decent pad. If I can find a
good pad, I can forget about Castelli shorts and scissors. If not, then I might
or might not end up ruining the most expensive shorts I’ll ever own…
Such are the stresses and expenses of Ironman racing…
On another note, the Giro d’Italia, one of the world’s
biggest bike races, on a par with the Tour de France, started off in Northern
Ireland at the weekend. These events are steeped in tradition and it’s a
massive coup for any region to be awarded the “big start” of a major bike race,
but for it to start in Northern Ireland was a somewhat unprecedented breaking
of new ground. The Stage One time trial was on a course around Belfast city,
Stage Two was a long stage up to the North Coast, and Stage Three headed down
to Dublin. I was tempted to go home and see it, but priorities dictated that my
bike needed to be serviced.
By all accounts it was a great event and really well received,
despite the “traditional” Irish weather. No amount of wind and rain could spoil
the spectacularity of the coast road stretching from Portrush, past the Giant’s
Causeway, through Ballycastle and down along the mouths of the Glens of Antrim,
then on to Belfast. It’s an awesome rollercoaster of a road with views as good
as anywhere in the world. These roads are my old stomping grounds, where I
trained for my first Ironman, and where I still go and out and ride any time I
go home. And what roads they are.
For a while, all other colours seemed to be forgotten and Northern
Ireland embraced the Giro’s “pink” theme really well – pink being the colour of
the race leader’s jersey, the fabled and coveted “Maglia Rosa.” The success of
the event, its organisation, and the level of support it received, all showed
what Northern Ireland can do when united for a common goal. Roads were closed,
sheep were coloured pink, lots of other things were coloured pink, statues and
sculptures were created and bedecked in pink, people cheered in their thousands
(many in pink), church services were re-arranged to accommodate the route, people pulled together and compromised, and
thus it was that Northern Ireland was showcased to the world for all the right reasons. Long may
this continue, and long may pink sheep, banners, flags, bikes, cars, statues
and whatever else adorn the roadsides.
The only downside was seeing the violent crash of Irish rider Dan Martin and some of his team-mates during Stage 1, on a wet Belfast road. Crashing on a bike is not fun. I don't fear the Ironman distance but I fear crashing. So much effort wasted. Fingers crossed.
In the aftermath of the success of the Giro d'Italia, I wonder when they’ll bring the Tour de France to Northern
Ireland…? It would be amazing to see them climb the Bishop’s Road, past the
Gortmore viewpoint and the statue of Mannanán MacLir (see the photo in Post
15). Yellow is the colour of the Tour de France leader’s jersey, and Northern
Ireland would look as good in yellow as it does in pink... Mannanán himself would
look good in yellow too…
Bring on the North Norfolk 100, and bring on some nice
weather too please… last year’s conditions were unbelievable for the wrong
reasons!
