Post 50 - What now?

And so the question becomes “What now?” It’s not a case of “What now, will I try again, or will I call it a day?” Of course I will try again. I know I have it in me to do this. To qualify and to go and compete in Hawaii at the Ironman World Championships. Just before Ironman Wales, there was a photo that came up on the official Twitter feed, with a caption along the lines of “Just to remind you what this weekend is all about….” It was a photo of the swim start at the Ironman World Championships, Kona, Hawaii. Such an iconic sporting scene. The mass of swimmers. The clear blue Pacific Ocean. The support/safety boats and canoes. Kona pier, covered with bikes. The finishing arch. Ali’i Drive. Spectators everywhere. Awesome. I want to go there and compete.

What it's all about...

So I’m obviously going to try again. I want to qualify for Hawaii. That’s the number one goal. I’d also like to think that before I call time on my Ironman career (because it won’t be forever), I’d have a chance of getting on the podium or even winning my age group at Ironman UK, and then going under 9 hours at Ironman Austria. Maybe even having a crack at the Irish record.

The question I am asking myself at the minute is more a case of “What will be my plan for 2015?” Or indeed, “Is it realistic to compete in 2015, or should I put it off until 2016?”

I suppose the ideal situation for me would be to go back to Bolton and do Ironman UK in July next year. I know the course inside out, and I know I would have a good chance of qualifying there. To do this, I need to train between January and July, uninterrupted. Then I can go into the race knowing I’m well prepared, and hopefully deliver a good performance.

However, it’s not as straightforward as saying “I will do Ironman UK in July 2015”, because my situation is looking a bit complicated for 2015, with regards to work. Work commitments look like they could come into play during the first half of 2015, and it looks like there will be significant amounts of travelling. There might even be potential relocations.

I’m not sure it’s worth planning to enter a race, paying out a small fortune to book everything, and then having my training curtailed by factors outside my control. It’s tough enough at the best of times to train for a high-level Ironman, but if I can’t train exactly how I want, when I want, and if I can’t have access to the things I need, when I need them, for a period of 5-6 months before the race, then the chances of qualifying for Kona become severely, arguably impossibly, diminished.

Normally I like travelling, but it’s a difficult thing to travel while training for an Ironman and maintaining health. You lose control of your training structure, diet, access to physios and medical personnel, access to your bikes, ice baths, gym equipment, dietary supplements and so on. I’ve got a good set-up here in the house that I live in, and it took years to perfect. My training routine is pretty rigorous. So from an Ironman point of view, anything that upsets the equilibrium is a bad thing. It’s tough.

Ideally I’d know that there would be no business travel and I could just do my normal day at work, get home as usual at 6:30pm and have every evening to train. But at the end of the day, if the job means that I have to travel, then I will have to travel. Although I am a dedicated Ironman triathlete, I am also a committed professional. And so I am wondering if I should enter Ironman UK in July 2015, or if I should put it off until 2016. Or even consider a late-2015 event. Competing in late 2015 or in 2016 would mean that the early 2015 business travel will be over, and hopefully then there would be less potential for training disruption. But then, who knows what could happen and what situations could arise in late 2015 or 2016? I could be facing exactly the same scenario. I’ve thought about asking for some unpaid leave, but I want to work and learn and earn. I’ve also considered trying to find a sponsor, but this would probably be easier if and when I qualify for Hawaii.

Some tough decisions are to be made, and urgently. I can’t just wait and see how things are looking in February 2015, and make a decision then. Ironman races are becoming more and more popular, and selling out faster and faster. They open for entries a year in advance, and they sell out literally hours later. All the accommodation gets booked up nearly a year in advance. You need to get in there early and get everything booked, or else you won’t get an entry. Most of the races for summer 2015 are already sold out. There are a few entries left via sporting agencies, but taking an agency place means paying an extortionately marked-up accommodation fee.

Although I haven’t made any decisions yet, I think I’m most likely to enter Ironman UK in July 2015 and try to make the best of it. I could have something like Ironman Wales in September 2015, or Ironman Barcelona in October 2015, or a 2016 event, as a back-up. Tough sport? Absolutely. The sporting side is tough. That’s what you sign up for. The non-sporting side of things – the logistics, the money, the fitting in of training around a busy job, the trying to keep healthy, the commuting, all of these things are equally as tough as the actual training.

I recovered quite quickly after Ironman Wales. I didn’t run the last half of the marathon very hard – my knee and stomach prevented that. It’s the last half of the marathon that really does the damage and that forces a longer recovery period. I didn’t run the last half of the marathon hard, and so I didn’t have a very long recovery period. After a few days, I was back to feeling normal. Incidentally, I’m still 29, but I race in the 30-34 age group, as per the rules, as I will be 30 before the end of the year. Even with such a poor marathon, I’d have qualified if I’d been racing in the 25-29 age group. Needless to say, I wish the rules were different! I wish triathletes race in the age group of the age they are on race day…

After Wales, I had a brief flirtation with entering Ironman Barcelona at the start of October. It’s a flat and fast course, and I may have gone there and done very well. I may have qualified for Hawaii in October 2015. Or I may have gone there and not raced well. I don’t have a crystal ball. I wish I did.

It would have cost a few thousand pounds to go there and race, and I finally decided against it. I had no guarantee of a good race. I’d had a long tough season, and I needed to give my body a break. I wouldn’t have gone into Barcelona well trained or well tapered. Everything was too much of an unknown and to have competed there would have been a bit of a knee-jerk reaction. I want to go into an Ironman in great shape, with no issues. If I can do this, I’d hope to deliver a performance worthy of Kona qualification. To go to Barcelona 3 weeks after Ironman Wales, at the tail end of what has been a nightmare of a summer, both physically and mentally, isn’t the best approach for an attempt to qualify for Hawaii.

That said, I was tempted, because if I could have pulled it off and gone to Barcelona and qualified for Hawaii, it would have made 2015 so much easier. It would have meant that my entire 2015 could have been planned around a Hawaii trip in October 2015. Hopefully towards the latter part of 2015, all the business trips will be over so training for a late-2015 Ironman should be OK. Going to Barcelona and qualifying would have given me ample time to book flights and accommodation for October 2015 for Hawaii well in advance. Qualifying for Hawaii a year in advance, as at Wales or at Barcelona, is advantageous in this respect. Qualifying for Hawaii at a summer race such as Ironman UK only gives a couple of months before Hawaii to book flights and accommodation etc.

But I ruled out Barcelona, it was a case of head ruling heart. It would have been an expensive gamble, and I believe I made the right decision. I’m just trying to work out what to do for the best in 2015, and indeed into 2016. I’ll make it happen, one way or the other, sometime in the next couple of years. Somehow.

As a penultimate paragraph, highlights of Ironman Wales are being shown on Channel 4 in the UK at 7am on Sunday 28^th September (and at 8am on 4+1)…

And as a final paragraph, here are some more photos from Ironman Wales 2014…

 

 

Post 49 - Ironman Wales post race

Having crossed the finish line, I got my finisher’s medal from the mayor. She looked thrilled to be there, and a little bit in awe of the finishers. The medical people asked me if I was OK. I don’t know if “OK” would be the right word to describe my state, but I told them I didn’t need any medical help.

Although I had faded badly in the second half of the marathon and had been embarrassingly and pathetically slow in the last two laps, and although I knew I was nowhere near the Kona standard, I will still quite well up the field and there weren’t many athletes about the finish area. I had come 50^th overall out of 2100, and 15^th in my age group out of over 300. I had a bit of a chat with one of the finish line volunteers. He knew he would be busier later in the day. He said how inspirational it all was, and how much of an achievement it is to finish an Ironman. I thanked him very much – all the volunteers do a great job. Wales, Pembrokeshire, and Tenby did a great job.

On reflection, although I was massively disappointed that 2014 hadn’t gone to plan, and that the second half of the marathon in Wales had been such a disaster, it hadn’t been a nightmare of a day. Despite this being race number 4 where I have almost qualified for Kona, and despite all the effort, time, sacrifice and money that goes into it, I have to look at the positives. The weather was great. My support crew seemed to have enjoyed it. I didn’t crash, or wreck my knee. I’d finished the race. 5 days before Wales, my knee was so bad that I could barely walk up and down the stairs, and I had no idea if I’d even get past the swim. I knew I wasn’t in top form going into Wales, and I had still managed to compete reasonably well until the back end of the marathon. I know that if I can go into an Ironman in top form, with no problems, I can qualify for Kona.

I saw all my support guys at the finish – my mum and dad, Elise, Matt, Steve and Natalie. I had given them a tin of tuna that I wanted to eat if/when I finished, so I took it off them and headed for the athlete’s tent. I didn’t need medical attention, but I was already getting really cold, so I grabbed a space blanket, wrapped myself up, grabbed the post-race pizza and took a seat. The pizza was horrible. I couldn’t eat it. I could barely eat the tuna either, but I forced it down me. The protein would do no harm. I had a bottle of water and it was great – cool, tasteless and hydrating – exactly what I needed. I started to warm up again. I then went and had a massage.

I milled around in the finisher’s tent for a bit longer, chatted to a couple of people, got my finisher’s T-shirt, and went back outside to meet the others. We headed back to the hotel via transition, where I picked up my bike and transition bags.

 

 

I was shortly in the shower, along with various items of equipment that I needed to rinse – my wetsuit, bike shoes, running shoes, swimming hat, goggles, earplugs, shorts, compression socks, bike socks and running socks. It’s a good idea to rinse it all as soon as possible, otherwise it really starts to stink. After a while in the shower, I was done. I hung everything up as best I could and flopped onto the bed. The finish line was also visible from the room, and we could hear the music, the cheering, and the finish line announcer. I felt a bit flat. I continue to visualise crossing the line knowing I have qualified for Kona, and the euphoria it would bring. But right now, there was none of that. I was sore. Sore legs. Sore knees. Sore neck. Sore torso. Sore head. My stomach had calmed down a bit. 

I didn’t feel too hungry, but we went out for dinner. We saw people still running the early stages of their marathons. They’d be going until nearly midnight. There were still crowds of people out, and the atmosphere was still great. We found a restaurant and I had a chicken burger, some chips, and a beer. I could barely eat or drink. I forced the burger down, and couldn’t finish the beer. Runners were passing outside the window.

By this stage, I knew that if I had run a 3:30 marathon, I would have been going to Kona. A 3:30 Ironman marathon should be no problem to me, given that my half marathon PB is 1:11. I kept asking myself, “Why didn’t you just run harder in the second half?!” But I also had to keep telling myself that I could have done no more. It was like last year in Wales, when I finished one position away from qualifying from Kona. I kept asking myself “Why didn’t you just run a bit faster?” But again I had to keep telling myself that when I was out there running the marathon, I was doing the best I could, and couldn’t have done more.

After dinner, we went back to the hotel via the finish line. It was after 11pm. Athletes were still coming in. The atmosphere was electric. It was quite humbling. The weather was good this time round. Last year, at 11pm at the finish line, it was blowing a gale, and lashing rain. We watched a few people finish their Ironman race, and then we headed back to the hotel. I decided it wasn’t worth getting up early to go to the awards. There was no way the Kona slots would roll down to 15^th. If I had been 8^th, it would have been worth going. But 15^th? No chance.

So we had a bit of a lie-in the next morning. I had a massive dirty fried breakfast and we packed up, said our farewells and thank-yous to Lee and Laura, and got on the road. And so finished my 2014 Ironman season. Thanks to everyone who has helped – you know who you are! I’m sure I’ll blog soon about my thoughts and plans for trying again, but for now, it has been a long day of typing over 7000 words and sorting out my photographs!

Post 48 - Ironman Wales run

The run at Ironman Wales is 4 laps. You run up the hill out of Tenby, you turn, you run back down the hill, and then you run around the spectator-lined, noisy streets of Tenby, and then you repeat that 4 times. I don’t mind running laps, but the lack of flat is tough. I tend to go well on flatter courses where I can get into a rhythm and just keep going. At Wales, on the bike, and on the run, and even on the swim, it’s difficult to maintain any kind of rhythm.

On the marathon, running up the hill is tough and energy-sapping, and running down the hill is also tough on the legs. The downhills aren’t gentle enough to be nice to run down. They are quite steep and your joints and muscles take a pounding. There are a lot of twists and turns, especially running through the town.

Leaving T1, I was carrying a small plastic bag. This contained my Garmin watch, my visor, an energy gel, a small bottle of Coke and a larger bottle of water. I thought that I could get all of these things sorted out while running, rather than wasting time in T2.

The first thing I did when I started running was try to get my Garmin up and running. This is important as it then gives you an indication of your pace, and helps you avoid starting off too fast. It turned on OK, and it locked onto the satellite reception OK. But the screen that it showed after it had found satellite reception wasn’t the screen I was expecting. This threw me a little bit, and I fiddled with it for a few minutes, trying to get the screen I wanted. I couldn’t get what I wanted, so I decided to turn it off and re-start it.

I hadn’t yet put it on my wrist as I was carrying the plastic bag, so I shoved it in my back pocket. I then put on my visor, and had a gulp of Coke. I put the gel in my back pocket, and grabbed the water bottle. The plastic bag was empty so I put it in the back pocket too. Then I went back to trying to get the watch to work.

By now I was maybe 5 minutes into the run, and I had already passed a couple of people. I was heading out of town and onto the hill. I wondered if I had started off too quick, and I didn’t have my pace displayed on my Garmin to tell me to hold back. I restarted the Garmin and after it had logged onto the satellites, I finally got the screen I wanted. I don’t know what happened the first time round. I then passed an aid station and ditched the plastic bag. Now I felt I was properly on my way.

 

Leaving Tenby on lap 1

There were very few people on the run course at this stage. I made it to the turn at the top of the hill feeling good. It had only taken about 20 minutes to get there. I tried to break it down in my head. 3 more 20-minute climbs, a few downhills and a few laps of Tenby. Should be fine… At the top of the hill I grabbed my first armband, signifying my first lap. 3 more to collect… On the way back down the hill, I passed my support crew and they told me that I was 8^th in my age group. I didn’t hear it properly. 9^th? No, 8^th! 8^th? Yep, 8^th! Yikes, that’s not bad. I only need a couple more places…

I ran back down into town, and took regular sips from my water bottle. I poured some of it over my head. It was getting warm. The support in town was brilliant. I felt good. My feet felt good. Usually on an Ironman marathon my feet feel awful. I set off back up the hill, and on the steepest part, just after leaving town, I had a planned power-walk. These help, as they give some brief respite from the toughest part of the hill, they help to bring the heart rate down, and they help to give the legs a little bit of recovery time. Going up the steepest sections while powerwalking isn’t much slower than trying to run up them. So you gain a lot and don’t lose much.

I got to the top of the hill OK, made the turn, grabbed my second armband, and headed back down. I passed the support crew again but wasn’t in much shape to give them much more of a passing glance. I knew I had passed at least two more people in my age group. I knew I was 6^th. I was there or thereabouts for Kona. 5^th would guarantee it. 6^th would have a good chance. I made it back into the town. Half distance. Only 13.1 miles to go. I had got to halfway in 1:40. If I could hold my pace, I’d do a 3:20 marathon. That would give me a chance…

 

 

 

But the second half of an Ironman marathon is an ugly thing. I started to struggle. It all seemed to happen at once. My stomach started churning. My left knee (perversely not my right knee) starting getting sore. My pace slowed. I couldn’t pick it up. The third time up the hill was a nightmare. I made an emergency port-a-loo stop, thinking I would feel better afterwards. I didn’t. My stomach continued to rumble and grumble and churn ominously, threatening to eject its contents in two directions. My knee was sore and not letting me stride out. I was walking through the aid stations and taking ages to get going again. I had another port-a-loo stop. This was bad news. One stop is acceptable, but two is bad news.

I struggled down the hill and into town. Any incline now seemed mountainous. The course was getting busier now as more people got off their bikes. I was getting passed by people. It was difficult to work out who I was actually racing, because some people were on lap 1, some were on lap 2, some on lap 3 and some on their final laps. Although it didn’t actually matter who I was racing any more, as there was nothing I could do to run any faster. My body wasn’t allowing it. My pace was nowhere. It’s an awful feeling. Out of nowhere, somewhere in Tenby, my dad appeared beside me, jogging alongside for maybe 100 metres. He was in better shape than me at this point, and he must have realised it. “How do you feel?” “I feel awful, it’s gone…” Or words to that effect. “One more lap to go, keep going…” The first lap was fine. This one won’t be fine.

I had another toilet stop on the way up the hill, preceded by a half-mile waddle to get there without exploding. Bye-bye Kona. I kept trying to get back to normal pace, and I just couldn’t. I literally couldn’t. It was really pathetic. My knee wasn’t liking this at all. By now, both knees had become sore. My stomach would not calm down. Maybe I ate too much on the bike. Maybe I drank too much Coke too soon on the run. Urgh. I picked up my final armband. I passed an athlete collapsed on the ground, being tended to by the first aiders. People were struggling. It was hot. So many people were walking. An ambulance went past.

I made it to the bottom of the hill and ran around Tenby for the last time. I was going to finish in around 10:50 or so. Worse than last year. No chance of Kona. I got to the finishing chute on the Esplanade and onto the red carpet. It was packed. Everyone was cheering. I wasn’t interested. I was happy that it was over and that there would be no more horrible gels or energy drink, and that my knees would have to do no more, and that my stomach would get a chance to calm down. But ultimately I was disappointed again as I crossed the line. No joy. End of story.

 

Approaching the finish chute on the Esplanade in Tenby

Post 47 - Ironman Wales bike

The bike leaves Tenby, and is fairly flat as it heads out to the west coast of Pembrokeshire, then it heads back inland and gets very hilly. Two hills laps follow, each of which loop inland and then back down through Tenby. It’s a tough bike course and difficult to keep any kind of rhythm.

I usually put on my bike shoes in the transition tent so I can just jump on the bike and get going. A lot of people leave their bike shoes clipped into their pedals and jump on the bike first, then once they are up to speed they’ll reach down and get their feet into their shoes. I don’t like doing this as you end up not looking where you are going, weaving all over the road, and risking a crash. Immediately after I left transition I came across two riders doing exactly this: reaching down, trying to get their feet into their shoes, weaving over the road. I shouted a few times to warn them I was coming through, and got away out of town.

It’s important to take it easy in the early stages of the bike, as it gets really tough and hilly later. I got into the routine of eating and drinking, and keeping as aero as possible. I tried to breathe slowly and keep the heart rate down, and maintain a cadence of 90rpm. There is always a lot to think about on the bike.

 

Not far from transition

It was a good ride out to Angle, the most westerly part of the bike course. The roads narrow out by the coast towards Angle, and you have an opportunity to see who is in front of you, as part of the course returns via the same road it heads out on. There didn’t seem to be as many people in front of me as last year, which was a good sign. I was already making places up and feeling good. The knee was holding, and I was managing my heart rate well.

I had put on really low gears specifically for Wales. Last year I ran a compact with a 26 at the rear. This year I had a compact with a 28, and it really paid dividends. I was able to go up the hills, spinning fairly easily at reasonably high cadence, while people around me were grinding and toughing it out, pumping away at low cadence and often having to get out of the saddle. I was no slower than everyone else up the hills, but I was going up them and exerting myself less than others. It was a good choice of gearing.

Drafting is illegal in Ironman bike racing. You must keep a 10m gap to the rider in front. There are race referees who police this, and penalties range from time penalties to disqualification. I think that the professionals are quite strictly policed, but the age-groupers are less strictly policed. Drafting at the sharp end of the race, where Kona slots are at stake, needs to be more strictly policed. There was a lot of drafting going on. I’ll concede that in Bolton and Wales, some sections of road are too narrow to allow safe overtaking and there may be cases where you end up too close to the rider in front. However, there are some sections of road where it is inexcusable. On one particular section I came up behind a train of about 5 riders, all clearly drafting. I went past them all, away out to the right hand side of the road. As I was passing them, a race referee on a motorbike came past and looked at the drafting train. You could see the drafters immediately drop back, as the referee said, “Mind the gaps, boys…” There should have been penalties issued there.

The bike continued. The first half of the bike should always feel fairly easy, ensuring you leave enough for the second half and the run. It was a warm day. My support crew had cycled out to Carew. It’s such a lift to see people you know, even if only fleetingly. I kept eating and drinking. It’s a bike course that requires total concentration. You can’t just put your head down and pedal. There are some parts of the course that are verging on dangerous. There was one left-hander in particular that almost caught me out.

I was zooming downhill, and approaching a left-hander. The really tight and dangerous corners on the descents have warning signs and marshals beforehand, to give you a chance to realise you need to scrub off some speed. There was nothing before this left-hander. It was a blind left-hander than tightened up as you got into it. There was a steep grassy bank on the other side. I was leaving a good gap to the guy in front of me, and had already checked there was no-one close behind – the last thing you want is for someone else to mess up and hit you.

The guy in front had a guy in front of him, and this first guy went in too hot to the corner. He ran out of road, hit the grassy bank and went flying. He had deep-rim wheels, and his front wheel literally just folded right over on itself. Game over. The wheel was probably worth at least a thousand pounds, and the guy was probably racing to qualify for Kona. He was OK. The guy in front of me panicked and skidded and just made it round. I got on the brakes and also made it round, but it was a dodgy corner and a dodgy moment. The course demands total respect and attention.

On the last section of the lap, passing through Saundersfoot and on the road into Tenby, there are some particularly savage hills, which reach over 20% gradient. One of these hills has been dubbed “Heartbreak Hill”. They are tough enough on the first pass, but on the second lap you hit them after over 100 miles of riding, so you need to make sure you judge the bike pace well.

A good way to get up the hills is to hit the bottom of them as fast as possible, and let your speed take you up. So I was hammering through Saundersfoot, a couple of hundred metres before Heartbreak Hill, and the crowd were going mad for everyone who passed. It really is an amazingly well-supported race. A Tour de France atmosphere. Then all of a sudden a little kid was running onto the road in front of me. I don’t know how he managed this, because there were safety railings keeping the crowd off the road. I barely had time to react when his dad ran into the road and snatched him away. I dread to think if I’d hit him…

Then I rounded the corner and hit Heartbreak Hill. It’s only maybe a couple of minutes to ride up, but there must have been thousands and thousands of people on the hill. Screaming, yelling, cheering. Brilliant. I was comfortable at this point and had low gears, so I was able to spin up the hill and enjoy it. It was literally like Alpe d’Huez during the Tour de France. Crowds and crowds of people. Unreal. Heartbreak Hill was the first time in 70 miles of riding that my heart rate went above 170bpm, which was good, I'd been pacing well and the hills hadn’t been destroying me.

You couldn't help but smile going up Heartbreak Hill - a gauntlet of noise

A couple more hills later and I was zooming through Tenby, again through awesome crowds of people, and then out onto the second lap. After the previous 20 minutes where there were so many spectators, it became quiet and almost lonely again. It was at this point last year that I began to struggle on the bike.  To try to avoid this, I took on a bit more food than usual in the next 30 minutes. Maybe this was an error. At this point, the bottle of energy drink that I was drinking from was also far too concentrated, and it left me doing burps that I felt could turn pukey. I was feeling a little bloated and I was craving some water, but the next aid station was some way away, so I was forced to keep drinking the concentrated stuff. It wasn’t ideal, but it didn’t feel disastrous.

 

 

Passing through Tenby, lap 1

 

I still felt OK, and I knew from my average speed that I was on for a reasonably good bike split, and definitely faster than my 5:53 from last year. Finally I reached the next aid station, ditched the horrible drink and got a nice bottle of water. Such a difference. The energy drink was so acidic. Like drinking sulphuric acid. The water was benign and neutral. Nice. I kept pedalling, tried to keep my concentration, and it was good to see the support crew again in Carew. I started feeling better. You hit bad patches, and you just have to manage them and get through them. I tried to keep as aero as possible. On this course you constantly are getting up from the aero position on the aero bars: to go up the hills, or to tackle a fast and twisty descent, or to get on the brakes, or to eat, or refill the bottles. It’s important to force yourself back down into the aero position as soon as possible.

Hitting the final section of the lap, I knew the final hills would be tough and the descents would require care, especially now that I was lapping people. I got over the hills, and cruised down the final gradual downhill into Tenby. I loosened my shoes, took a final drink, had a final gel, and then reached Tenby. I climbed up the last climb into town and then into T2.

I had biked 5:43. This was 10 minutes faster than last year. However, again I was slightly disappointed by this. Earlier in the year, before I went to hospital, I had done a 100 mile time trial 15 minutes faster than the same time trial the year before. So I thought than in a 112 mile Ironman bike, I would be over 15 minutes faster than last year. It reconfirmed that despite my best efforts after hospital, I hadn’t quite reached the peak that I was at in June this year.

I racked my bike, went into the transition tent, took off my helmet, shoes and top, put on a new top and new socks, and grabbed a small plastic bag containing the things I’d need on the run. Then I started the run. The knee had done OK up to now. My times so far were solid if not quite spectacular.

Regarding Kona qualification, my times at this point didn’t leave me thinking “Yes I am in a really good position to do this”, but neither was I thinking, “No chance”. It would all come down to the marathon, and how well my knee would hold up, and how well I would run. I had done a 3:34 marathon at Wales last year, and deemed this to be a poor marathon. I wasn’t fresh getting off the bike last year. I hadn’t paced the bike well and as a result, my marathon had been poor. This time round, I felt much better getting off the bike. My overall race time when I started the marathon was 7 hours. I thought that if my knee held, my worst-case marathon would be 3:30. This would give me 10:30 overall. I thought I needed 10:15 to be in the top 5 and to qualify. So I felt that anything better than 3:30 would give me half a chance. The question was, how much better than 3:30 would I be?

There was no way of knowing at this point that a conservative 3:30 marathon would have been enough to qualify. But a look at the results after the race told me that 3:30 was all I needed. I would have bitten your hand off (and I’d have bitten off plenty else too) to be told that a 3:30 marathon would be good enough to qualify. But I didn’t and couldn’t know this on leaving T2. I figured I had to run 3:20 or better to have any chance.

And so I started the run…

Post 46 - Ironman Wales swim

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 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.

 

 

I am at the extreme bottom left of this picture...

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…

Post 45 - Ironman Wales race morning

Ironman Wales in Tenby, Pembrokeshire, began with a 5am alarm. 5am is early compared with the 3:30am alarm required at Ironman UK in Bolton. Ironman UK starts at 6am and is a bit of a logistical nightmare. Ironman Wales starts at 7am and is a logistical breeze. I went straight down and got my porridge, honey, raisins, toast and peanut butter. Our B&B were absolutely brilliant – they couldn’t have been more helpful in terms of allowing me access to the kitchen’s fridge for storing my food, and allowing me access to the microwave and toaster. One less thing to worry about. Breakfast was a quick affair, polished off with a calcium tablet to help my muscles later in the day.

I still had huge doubts about my knee. I’d developed a sore right knee earlier in the week. It was the old problem of pain when trying to put weight on it when it was bent. Usually this problem was specific to my left knee, but my right knee had flared up this time, unbelievably just a few days before race day.

I’d been taking anti-inflammatories and icing it during the week. Yesterday at the Ironman Expo in Tenby I’d had both knees taped up. I figured it wouldn’t do any harm. Anyway, at this stage there was nothing more I could do. One of several things would happen: I’d get through the swim and then wouldn’t make it through T1 if my knee gave up. Or I’d get a few miles into the bike, or maybe halfway through, and my knee would give up. Or I’d make it through the bike and then wouldn’t be able to run. Or I’d have to abandon the run halfway through. Or I might finish. I might even still finish well enough to qualify for Kona. I had no idea. It’s a terrible way to go into a race, with no confidence in your body. You want to go in feeling good and positive. You don’t want to have any doubts.

Before the race I had been putting together best-case and worst-case finish times, assuming my knee held out and allowed me to finish. I thought 10:15 would qualify for Kona. I thought my worst-case times were 1:05 for the swim, 10 minute for T1, 5:50 for the bike, 5 minutes for T2, and 3:30 for the marathon. This would give me a 10:40 finish. But I knew that these worst-case times were fairly conservative. I thought if I was somehow able to do it and qualify for Kona, it would be brilliant. Wales is the first qualifying race for Kona in October 2015, so it would give me a whole year to prepare. I could book the flights early, have my pick of accommodation on Hawaii, get everything sorted, and focus my entire 2015 on Kona.

Then I told myself to shut up, that Ironman Wales was the toughest Ironman in the world, and that I had to get through it first, and to get through it really well, before I could even start to think about Kona.

After breakfast, it was straight down to T1 to put my drinks and Garmin computer on the bike, as well as give the tyres a last blast of air. T1 was literally a stone’s throw from the B&B. We had the most amazing view over the T1 tents and bike racks. All day on the Saturday we watched as the bike racks filled up. Despite the good weather, most people made use of the supplied yellow waterproof bike “pyjamas” overnight, so T1 was a sea of yellow. The pictures below show how T1 changes during race weekend...

 

 

 

 

I had no last-minute dramas at the bike, then went back to the B&B to get my wetsuit on. I decided I’d only put the bottom half on, and then make the 10-minute walk down to the beach, where I’d get the top half on. The wetsuit is tight and restrictive on land, but when in the water, it is magic. Like a massively buoyant torpedo.

There was an athlete’s parade down through the town and onto the beach, but I didn’t concern myself with that and made my own way down, support crew in tow. I didn’t want to get stuck behind 2000 nervous, slow-moving, wetsuit-clad triathletes. I wanted to be on the beach in good time. Just before the beach, I got the top half of my wetsuit on. These wetsuits are a nightmare to put on. They take ages, and you end up burning energy, sweating, and getting sore arms from pulling them on. Putting the bottom half on, and then putting the top half on some time later, helped to keep me fresh.

I walked down the zig-zag cliff path to the beach, and racked my purple bag. The purple bag contained a pair of shoes to get me through the 2km run from the beach to T1. This 2km run sounds ridiculous given that most races have their T1 right beside the swim exit, but this extended run to T1 is a unique feature of Wales. There must be thousands of spectators lining the roads from the beach to T1.

Anyway, I got on the beach and had a half-hearted splash in the water to get used to it. No point in getting excessively cold. I did an on-shore warm-up, windmilling my arms and stretching them behind me. There was an awesome sunrise. The sky was somewhere between pink and purple as the sun came up over the horizon, and the sea reflected this. It was awesome. Truly awesome. A favourable sign for a good day ahead, weather-wise at least…

 

 Swim warm-up in purple sea under an awesome sunrise

 

The music was blaring over the PA system, and the announcer was doing his thing, stirring up the excitement and calling the athletes into position on the beach. All manner of boats, canoes, jetskis and even the Tenby lifeboat were bobbing offshore. The cliff path was packed with spectators. The beach was busy. The sea was actually quite rough, with an onshore breeze whipping up a bit of a swell. We start in a pen on the beach, and when the gun goes, there is bedlam. Everyone sprints for the first buoy, about 20m offshore. Then you must round this buoy and make a 45-degree left turn, and then head out to the second turning buoy, about 500m away.

Penned in on the beach

 

Last year I started right in the middle, at the front, and I got absolutely beaten to a pulp in the first 20 minutes of the swim. You could hardly even call it a swim, it was more a fight for survival. I took on a lot of salt water last year and was retching and gasping for air. It was tough. I didn’t want a similar experience this year. Last year the first 45-degree turn was further offshore, and you had to swim to it. This year it was only 20m offshore, and you could wade to it. So my plan was to place myself at the very front of the pen of athletes on the beach, as far to the left as possible. Then I would sprint/wade/fight my way to the buoy, take a 90 degree left, continue to wade parallel to the shore for another 30-40m, and then start my swim, away off to the left of the main group and out of trouble. I also reasoned that being shore-side of the main group would give me some shelter from the waves.

By now, we were almost at 7am. Almost time for the race to start...