Post 98 - "Ironman" Wales 2015

I say “Ironman” Wales 2015 because it wasn’t really an Ironman, it was just a disastrous and very expensive short swim. Another complete shambles. I hadn’t been feeling great for about ten days before the race – sore head, stomach pains, snotty, blocked up, feeling cold, and with low energy. Not how you want to feel going into an Ironman. But regardless, I made the decision to go and to try and to do my best, and once that decision was made, then as far as I was concerned, I was going to finish the race. There was nothing else after Wales to save myself for.

My housemate Steve had been feeling rough all week too, needing to stay close to the toilet at all times. We were planning to travel down on Friday morning. Midday on Friday came and he said that he wouldn’t be able to go. It would be a 5-6 hour drive. He couldn’t go 5-6 minutes without needing the toilet. Plan B was to rent a car, but by the time that was done, it was too late in the day to drive to Tenby. I debated going half way, to Bristol, and staying with Matt, who was also planning to be in Tenby to watch. I decided against this as I couldn’t face dealing with rush-hour traffic, and unpacking everything in Bristol, then repacking it all into the car again on Saturday morning – I wouldn’t have risked leaving all the gear in the car overnight, out on a Bristol street.

So I would travel on Saturday morning, needing to be at registration before it closed at 1pm. This meant a horribly early start on Saturday morning and a long drive, broken only by stopping to meet Matt at a service station on the far side of the Severn bridge. We got to Tenby and it was gridlocked – road closures, Ironman traffic, bikes everywhere. It took about 15 minutes to drive up a 200m hill into Tenby. Ironman flags and message of good luck were everywhere: hanging off lamp-posts, hanging from windows, hanging all over the place. Tenby (and Pembrokeshire) really does rock during Ironman weekend. It was inspiring, and for the first time I started to feel excited for the race ahead, and I wanted to get out there and do it.

Room with a view

Tenby looking good

I made it to registration just before 1pm while Matt unloaded the car and brought everything into the guesthouse. Then I had less than 2 hours to get everything prepared and racked before transition closed 3pm. This meant checking the weather forecast for tomorrow (at this stage looking windy all day, and rainy until about 9 or 10am), planning to have enough wet weather gear on the bike, packing the transition bags, preparing the bike, and getting all the nutrition and drinks sorted.

The purple bag was for the mile-long run through Tenby from the swim to the first transition, it contained a litre of water to wash the sand off my feet, trainers to run through town, arm warmers to put on, an energy gel, and a small bottle of coke to sterilise my mouth and insides after the sea swim. The blue bag was for the bike gear – aero helmet, heart rate monitor, sunglasses, bike shoes, socks, a towel, a couple of bike tops, and a waterproof gilet. The red bag was for the bike-to-run transition, containing a watch, cap, fresh socks and top, running shoes and a gel. I got the bike ready and loaded with gels and bars and drinks, as well as a few essential tools and spares. It was racked by 3pm, just in time.

I got talking to a Russian guy who was in even more of a rush than me in transition. He had no idea what his different-coloured bags were for, no idea where the swim was, no idea what to do in transition, and he said he wanted to qualify for Kona. He asked me about previous races I’d done, and picked my brains about power figures. He hoped to be able to hold 160 watts for the 112 miles. I said I’d held over 200 watts at Ironman UK earlier this year and that had been nowhere near good enough to qualify. His face fell, and I guess he saw any thoughts he’d had of Kona disappear. 160 watts isn’t good enough. Blunt, but simple.

Racked

By 3pm everything was done. Matt was starving so we went to a restaurant and I watched him eat a massive pizza and garlic bread. We sat on top of the cliff overlooking North Beach, where the swim would be held. It’s a heck of a view. The tide was in and the sea was calm, like blue glass. There were quite a few swimmers out. It almost looked inviting. Then a bird broke the tranquillity by crapping on Matt. While he stormed off to clean up, a family sat down beside me. The young girl (maybe 5 or 6 years old) had just done the IronKids event earlier in the day, and was still proudly wearing her medal following her run through Tenby. The grown-ups were showing her the swim course, pointing out the buoys. “Daddy is going to swim from the beach out to that big red thing away out there, then over to that big red thing over there, then back to the beach, and he’s going to do that twice… then he’s going to get on his bike and cycle a very, very, very long way, then he’ll park his bike and he’ll run a very, very long way, and you’ll be able to cheer him on…” Simple really, and completely mad.

Tenby continuing to look good the day before race day, even the water looked good

I got chatting to another guy who had been in the water earlier. He “only” saw one jellyfish, and it was “nice and friendly”. I asked how long he had been in the water. One jellyfish every 15 minutes is far too often for me, that means I’d see 4 or 5 in the swim tomorrow. And how exactly is a jellyfish “nice”, or “friendly”?! Something that stings and terrifies isn’t “nice”, nor is it “friendly”… I didn’t want to know! Some pictures of previous Ironman swim starts in Tenby in the window of a photograph shop had caught my eye, so we called in. They were awesome pictures, at great prices. I got chatting to the guy and told him I’d be back after the race was over to buy one.

Tenby was really buzzing. It was a nice evening with blue sky, the scenery was great, the air was clean, and not for the first time I found myself wondering what the hell I am doing, wasting my life in London. Back we went to the hotel, I had my dinner – pasta – and then it was bedtime. The beds were awful, like sleeping on stones. The alarm went off at 4:45am. It was raining. Argh. I went downstairs and made porridge, to which I added protein powder, chia seeds, nuts, raisins, flax seeds, honey and peanut butter. Matt ate a massive fry-up. Other triathletes were down for breakfast too, bantering away about all the jellyfish. I didn’t want to know.

Then we went to transition, and the rain had stopped. Things were looking up. I gave the bike a final once-over, fired up my Garmin bike computer and calibrated my power meter. I saw the Russian guy, Mr Unprepared, wrestling with his pump, trying to get air into the tyres.

The organised chaos of transition on race morning

We went back to the guesthouse and I started the wetsuit-donning process. Ironman Wales is great – it starts an hour later than Ironman UK, and everything is within a 5-minute walk in town – both transitions, race HQ, race expo, race start, race finish, shops, restaurants, everything. It’s a magnificent event, for athletes and spectators. And it’s so, so tough. We headed down to the beach. The roads were packed with spectators and athletes. The fire station had its doors open and the firemen were blasting out music and dancing and shouting “good luck”.

I got onto the beach. It was only 6:30am. Half an hour to wait. Dawn was breaking. I dipped my feet in the sea. It was cold. No point in a full submersion, I’d only end up freezing before I started. It was a rolling start this year. No mass-start carnage. Everyone was lined up. The tide was high. The cliff paths were packed with people. The sun was coming up. The lifeboat was about 20 metres out to sea. I took it all in. A magnificent sight. It’s just a little emotional. Everything you have gone through, everything you hope for, everyone thinking the same thing, about to tackle this mad event, are we up to it, will we make it, will we achieve our goals, the atmosphere is electric, the music is pumping, the announcer – the Voice of Ironman – adding to the atmosphere, the people cheering, the smell of adrenaline in the air (or is that just wetsuit rubber, BodyGlide, and farting), months and months and years and years come down to this one moment.

7am came, and we went. Into the water. What a shock. Cold. Salty. No backing out now, no easing into it, there’s a tidal wave of athletes coming behind, don’t get swamped, get going, breathe, breathe, breathe, don’t gasp. Heading out to sea, there were some big swells, but it was no worse than last year. I was taking on a bit of salt water, but no worse than last year. I was faceplanting the waves, but no worse than last year. It was tough, but no worse than last year. Heading around the first buoy, it was difficult to sight the second buoy with swells of around one or two metres. I felt reasonably OK. It was a long swim across to the second buoy, then the turn back into shore. This final leg back into shore was the easiest leg as it was the most sheltered, and the swells were pushing us in. I hadn’t seen any jellyfish. I exited the water right in front of a lifeguard, and pulled a face. He just laughed, as if to say “your choice mate!” I looked at my watch. 31 minutes. Not super, but not bad either. I’d hopefully finish the swim in under 65 minutes. I’d take that.

I started the second lap feeling reasonably optimistic. But halfway to the first buoy, I could feel that I was weakening, and my strokes were losing power. It wasn’t an easy swim, but this was bad. I’ve never felt weak in a swim before. I started having to improvise to keep going, and was flitting between breaststroke and doggy paddle. Then, all of a sudden, I felt I was going to be sick. It was a fairly rapid deterioration. I spewed up spectacularly. Over and over. Full-body retching. Not nice.

The lifeguards were really on the ball, with canoes, paddle-boards, jet-skis and inflatable boats everywhere – I guess they learned from last year’s tough swim that they needed lots of cover. Really quickly, a paddle-board was alongside me and I clung on for dear life, retching and barfing as badly as I’ve ever retched and barfed in my life. I’ve never ever felt as ill in my life, ever. This went on for about ten minutes. I got really cold. Really, really cold. I could barely hold onto the paddle board any more because I was shivering so violently. I was thinking thoughts along the lines of why do I do this to myself, I never want to ever do this again, this sucks, if I don’t stop retching then I am going to barf my stomach up. The game was up. I knew it, and the lifeguard knew it. Next thing, I was being hauled on board an inflatable speedboat where I collapsed onto the floor like a useless bag of shhhhhh, still retching.

All I can remember thinking was “what the hell do I do this for?” There were a few other barfing, shivering wrecks on the boat, and they took us shore. They hauled us onto the beach and the boat went back out. The officials checked me over, took my number, took my race timing chip off, stripped my wetsuit to the waist, and put space blankets and ponchos on me. I was freezing. I just wanted to be as far away from Ironman as possible, and curl up in a ball and wake up in a few days to find it had all been a bad dream.

But the officials insisted I had to go to the harbourmaster’s office, away round on the pier. I just went along with it, and an official escorted me. It was awful. I was a shivering wreck, and people were clapping me. Applauding in sympathy. I was affronted. I kept my head down. There must have been 20-30 athletes who had already been plucked from the water and were already in the harbour master’s office. The atmosphere was grim. They checked me over and put me by a heater. I warmed up, and wanted to get away out of there as soon as possible.

It was an embarrassing walk through Tenby, with the race in full swing. I looked back at the sea. From a distance, it looked deceptively benign. Calm and flat. But I’d been out in it, and conditions had been tough. No worse than last year, but combined with me not feeling well in the week before the race, it was a recipe for disaster. Ironman is a very unforgiving sport. I can attest to that. I walked through town. It was packed. Athletes were running up to the first transition. The streets were packed. Clapping, cheering, cowbells ringing, music blaring, air horns blowing.

I got back to the guesthouse and had to get a spare key to let myself into the room. I called Matt. Called my parents. Messaged a few other people whom I knew would have been following online on the live tracker. It probably didn’t look too good to people following that I had just disappeared in the second lap of the swim and apparently not come out of the water… I had a long shower, and warmed up a bit. Matt came back. He thought maybe my goggles had snapped, or that my race timing chip had fallen off my ankle.

Was I disappointed? Obviously yes, I was gutted, again. Another year wasted, all that effort and time and money and sacrifice, with absolutely nothing to show for it. But I wasn’t acutely disappointed with the actual race – I knew I hadn’t been feeling great going into it, and I had been trying to fool myself with false optimism. I hadn’t been expecting a good race. My mentality had been to finish, however long it took. I hadn’t planned on pulling out. But it wasn’t even a decision to pull out in the swim, I physically could not have continued. My body just said “no way”. I can’t argue with that. I got what I deserved. With hindsight, I shouldn’t have travelled to Tenby and I shouldn’t have started the race. You’d think I’d have learned from last year after the fiasco with the leg infections – I went to Bolton anyway and started Ironman UK and had a terrible day and a DNF. Same story this year in Wales. Gutting, especially with the efforts I make to try and not get sick.

I felt better after my shower and then I had to go and pick up my gear from transition. More embarrassment. Officials saying “hard luck”, and “the swim looked tough”. What else could they say? I just shrugged and nodded. What else could I do? There looked to be about 40 or 50 bikes still in transition, which meant that 40-50 people hadn’t finished the swim or had missed the cut-off time. I collected all my transition bags and bike, and brought everything back to the room.

Then Matt and I headed back into town for some food. All the athletes were out on their bikes now. It was breezy but dry, with intermittent sun. No sign of any rain. I had wanted to ride, to see how I’d go, to get some power data, to test myself on the hills, to enjoy the awesome support – it seems that all of Pembrokeshire comes out and lines the bike course. I wanted to do the run too, to test myself on the long drag up to the top of the course, and back down, and through the town, with people everywhere.

We had a bite to eat and called back into the photo shop. The guy was already framing photos from the start of this year’s swim. One photo in particular was awesome, taken from the top of the cliff. A small sliver of beach at the top of the high tide, the Goskar rock completely surrounded by water, a long line of red-hatted Ironman athletes stretching away back along the beach, water safety personnel and boats, the Ironman banner on the cliff, the zig-zag path up the cliff, lined with purple transition bags and blue banners, people everywhere, multi-coloured buildings on top of the cliff, and the lifeboat daring to go right in as close to the shore as possible, almost saying to the athletes “come on then!” Great photo. It looked brilliant in a frame. I wanted to buy it so much. But I couldn’t. I’d had a terrible day. I didn’t want any souvenirs from it. I bought a framed photo of the 2014 start instead, I’ll give it to my parents, they had a great weekend in Tenby last year. It’s not quite as good a photo because the water is further out and the lifeboat isn’t in the shot, but anyway. It’s a photo of a better day. And even then, Wales last year was ultimately disappointing.

Great photos, and contact details

Matt had to be back in Bristol that evening for work first thing on Monday. So we packed up and headed off. As we were loading the car, the first pros were in T2, transitioning from bike to run. Still going, 6 hours later. The start seemed a long time ago now. I had a chat with Lee and Laura, the guesthouse hosts. Great people, and really helpful. They had looked after me well this year, and last year too, as I’d stayed in the same guesthouse. But it will be no more next year, as it has been sold off and will be turned into flats. Lee and Laura have found new jobs in a hotel in Bournemouth. We headed off, and were stopped at the crossing point at the bottom of town. Athletes on bikes were streaming past, having completed the first big 70-mile lap of the bike. Still going strong, while I was going home. Not good.

We got back to Bristol and I ended up staying the night. Tiredness hit at 9pm after a massive dinner, and my first dessert this year. 9pm. Athletes would still be running. Some would have almost 2 hours left. The start seemed a very long time ago. Incredible.

I’ll be back in Tenby for next year’s event, as a spectator this time. Matt has entered. Brilliant. It will be really good to witness an Ironman from a spectator point of view. I got back to London early on Monday afternoon and got everything tidied up. Then, the next day, I was off to Italy with work. In Italy, my condition deteriorated even more, and right now I have a horrible chest infection and a sore throat, as well as a sore head and a snotty cold. On reflection, it was a ludicrous idea to go to Tenby. But at least I will have no “what ifs”. Now I’ve got some serious thinking to do about life, work, jobs, locations, and whether or not I will try again at Ironman…