After the Scottish National short-course cross-country championships, both of my Achilles tendons were really sore. It was a flat, fast run, on good ground. The first mile of the race was my mile PB, in 4:48. I hung on well and felt I had a decent race. But it was hard, fast running, much more so than I’ve been used to recently, and my Achilles were not happy afterwards. So I had to take a good few days off running, and had to make use of the turbo trainer. Nothing else for it. It’s not a bad thing to be keeping in touch with the turbo trainer and keeping the bike legs, in addition to cycling to work whenever possible. But it’s not a good thing when you want to be getting on with some consistent running training.
I had a wee trip over to Dublin the following week, with a flat(ish) ParkRun planned. But the day before, I wasn’t even sure I should run it, so I went out for a trial run, thinking to do a 5-minute warm up and then 20 minutes of fartlek running. Neither of my Achilles felt great but I started the minute fast/minute slow fartlek, thinking I’d see how it went. It wasn’t comfortable but neither was it so bad that I had to bail out. So I’d start the 5k the next morning, I’d try to run fast and see how it felt, I could always slow down or bail out if it was too sore.
Dublin tourism took its toll with a trip to the Guinness storehouse, a few drinks, and a sloppy Mexican dinner not leaving me feeling the best for the run the next morning. The course record was on, even with the surprise hill and dead turn halfway through the race, but I suffered in the final mile; having to slow a bit to avoid a very visible and disgraceful accident from appearing down the backs of my legs… it would have been nice to have taken the record with a sub-16 run but I was happy that my Achilles had survived.
The following week was another Scottish East District league race, in Broxburn, not far from Edinburgh. Then it was a week off, followed by the Scottish East District championships, in Aberdeen. This had been a target race for a while, to try to get fit enough and run well enough to be selected to run for the district/county (Scotland East) in the Scottish, and then UK inter-district/county championships in the new year.
Anyway, I had to get through the training and the Broxburn race first. I knew my fitness wasn’t bad, especially for shorter stuff, but there was a question mark over my ability to run well in the final quarter of a 5-6 mile race. There were also two further question marks, one over each of my Achilles. Another question mark arose very suddenly and in a very unwelcome manner when I was out for an easy training run one evening, nothing tough, just a nice easy few miles, when without warning my guts and stomach (which had both been emptied earlier in the day) decided to empty themselves before I even had time to think about where the nearest toilet was. Let’s just say I’m glad I was wearing leggings, but it was a very uncomfortable 30 minutes that followed.
Anyway. On to Broxburn. A 3-lap race. I jogged a lap of the course to warm up. I was terrified. Very narrow, very twisty, some horrible cambers, especially at the bottom of the hills, very slippery, and worst of all, very uneven and bumpy underfoot. The sensible thing would have been to bail out there and then, and not risk turning/spraining/breaking an ankle. But I wanted to run. I needed to run, to get another tough race in the legs. Also, I’ve an eye on placing well in the club’s cross-country grand prix, and I need to do as many of the races as possible.
So I started. I ran well, with good form, and good mental alertness, for the first two laps, trying to avoid the lumps and bumps on the course. I was actually really well up without knowing it. I think I ran a lot of it in 4th or 5th place. Then, on the third lap, in the final mile and a bit, my legs tired, my form went, my mental sharpness went, and I lost my bottle. I half-turned my right ankle twice on bumps, bad enough to yell out, but not so bad as to have to stop. Bottle disappeared. Even if I hadn’t lost my bottle, I didn’t have the legs. And even if I’d had the legs, I didn’t have the bottle. I lost nearly a minute in the final mile, and a few positions, but I was just so glad to be finished.
Struggling up a steep hill
Scared witless going down a steep, off-camber, slippy hill
I assessed the damage. Dare I have said it, but the ankle seemed OK. I managed a warm-down of sorts. Then had another “bloody hell get me to a toilet as quickly as possible” incident, this time just about with a good outcome. Driving home I was happy enough, I knew I’d had a stinker of a last lap but having placed so well in the race was a good sign, I still had time to work on the weaknesses and try to build strength for the final quarter of full cross-country race distance. But then climbing the stairs to my flat I was spontaneously cursing the whole way up. Ankle very painful. Top of foot very painful. Achilles very painful. Oh no. Out with the emergency frozen peas to ice everything. It’s the not knowing. It was painful. Would it be a day or two, or a month or two? I wasn’t in a happy place.
5 days later and I felt it was good enough to attempt some hill reps. This was an important session to help me build strength and I wanted to get through it. 14 hill repeats. Get through it. Come on legs, and ankle, and Achilles. I am getting more and more fragile as I get older. I got to ten repeats. It was going well. The eleventh repeat was into a horrible headwind and the time for this repeat was rubbish. I could feel the different bits and pieces weren’t happy. I didn’t want to finish on 11 with such a poor time. I was pleased to pull the time back on 12. I should have stopped there. Often as a runner it’s harder not to train, it’s harder to decline a run, or the final two intervals. I did them anyway. I would have bailed if I’d thought it was going to be very bad. The times were good. It was a good session. But again at what cost…? Both Achilles were sore again. But again I got away with it.
Looking at my Garmin watch, since the world half ironman, my weekly mileages have been as follows: 2, 8, 13, 17, 24, 19, 18, 15, 17, 21, 18, 26, 25. Not many miles to be honest. The body just can’t cope. Maybe I should put money into getting regular massages.
Anyway. If I could keep it all together for 9 more days, get to Aberdeen in one piece, I felt that I might have a chance of qualifying to run for Scotland east. Easier said than done. I was down in Leicester that weekend. A long drive. I ran laps of motorway service station car parks to try and stay loose. I found corners in the service stations to lie down and stretch my back and stick my arse in the air doing “happy cat” and “angry cat” yoga poses to keep the back loose. I did a slow ParkRun, and an even slower Sunday run. If you’d told me beforehand the paces I’d do for both, I’d have cringed and said “not enough by far…” With hindsight, both were perfect. A short moderate-tempo run on Saturday and a slow, long Sunday run, getting good time on my feet. Not taking too much out of myself. A nice bit of relaxation in between as well.
Back to Edinburgh, and 4 x half a mile repeats on Tuesday night, a light sharpening session, not a big intense wrecking ball of a session as the 14 hill repeats had been. I was very pleased to do all 4 repeats in well under 2:30. Decent. A swim session on Wednesday night to save the legs. A super-fast swimmer-turned coach told me that I push off the wall and glide for too long, thereby slowing down, which then means I have to accelerate back to up speed. And also that I don’t glide enough on each stroke. Good pointers. Over 3K in the water was more than I’d have liked, but at least the legs were saved. A short fartlek run on Thursday, a short turbo session on Friday, and there I was – in one piece, as well trained as circumstances had allowed, fighting and managing and working around circumstances all the way.
I was looking forward to Aberdeen. I lived there for nearly two years, a long time ago. I did a lot of my growing-up in Aberdeen, was well looked after by Metro Aberdeen Running Club, developed my running, shaped my life. I enjoyed the drive up the A90, a very familiar road. I enjoyed the warm-up and seeing the old familiar faces out on course, helping out. I enjoyed briefly catching up with people. Conditions were good. It was a good course. It should suit me. Part of me wished I was still in Aberdeen.
There would be 15 qualification slots to run for Scotland East. These might trickle down to the 16th or 17th finisher. Last year I was the final qualifier in 17th place. I knew there was a strong field assembled. I reckoned I’d finish somewhere between 14thand 20th. Before the start I chatted to Conan from Northern Ireland who was racing for Central AC. It turned out last week he had run 31:25 for a 10K in Belfast. Great running. I doubted I’d be anywhere near him. We lined up. A good mate Darrell was also hoping to put himself in the mix for qualification. We wished each other luck.
And off we went. One short lap and two long laps. 5 hills, two of which would be in the final mile-and-a-bit. This was a bit of a concern, given my poor form in the final mile-and-a-half of previous recent races. So, leave something in the tank for those final two hills…
The way it shook out was that I ended up tucked in behind Conan, Mr 31:25 for 10K. I wondered was this a bit ambitious, should I throttle back? But I felt OK. I needed to be ambitious. I knew who was behind me. I needed to try and keep them behind. And so it went for 4 miles. Running well. Into the last lap, I tried to look ahead and work out what position I was in. I reckoned 11th or 12th. Maintain that and you’ll have done it. Easier said than done.
Right at the lowest point on the course, with maybe 6 or 7 minutes left to run, Conan gradually opened up a small gap. A few seconds. He was stronger. I wasn’t as strong. I knew full well who was behind me. Quality runners. Maintain it, don’t let them through. But you can only run as hard as you can run, if they can run harder, if they are stronger, then they will come through. Once one comes through, another can come through, and another, then the previous four miles and all the training is for nothing. You need to be mentally and physically strong. I dug in. Up the second-last hill. Halfway up, my form going, my former coach from Metro roaring in my ear. Fighting my way up that hill. I knew if I could get over it, and onto the downhill, I’d be much less likely to be passed: relative to others, I run well on downhill sections that aren’t too steep. In theory I could recover on the downhill, maintain position, and get ready for the last hill.
And so it panned out. I maintained. No-one came through. Down the hill, onto a short flat section, around a sharp corner, then up the last hill. Maintain. Get up it. Keep them behind. As hard as you can. I doubt it was pretty but I got to the top, no-one passed me. Onto the last downhill. It was a downhill in two parts, punctuated by a devilish tight left-hander, needing good eyes to pick a line, and good acceleration out the other side to get back to speed. I had neither but I got onto the final flat section – out to the perimeter, around a hairpin, and then back to the finish. I underestimated this because I hadn’t thought about much beyond getting over the last hill.
At the last hairpin, for the first time, I looked back to see who was there. I had a gap. I doubted I’d be passed. Halfway down the home straight I had another look. Maybe he was a track runner and would unleash hell and get me. I looked again. Nope. I maintained. Crossed the line. Reckoned it was good enough. Conan one place and a handful of seconds ahead. Darrell two places behind. We had a wee hug at the end. Hopefully good enough for both of us to qualify.
Old hero from the old days in Aberdeen
A little warm-down, a wait for the results to be stuck on the wall of the clubhouse. I was 12th. That should do it. A good run, in a strong field – so much so that the guy who was fifth is a commonwealth games marathon bronze medallist… On the road back, we stopped. At a burger king. I had a double whopper burger. It was amazing. I had a Guinness later that evening. Scandalous. I was looking forward to a day or two of switching off. I had a think about the results. Conan told me at the finish that he ran as well in the cross country as he did in his 31:25 10k. So in theory that means that I am in shape to run a sub-32 10K. I’ve wanted to do that since I was 18, when I started with Metro and club coach Jackie Stewart told me “you’ve got sub-32 in you…”
For someone who had no idea about running and who could barely break 40, this was exciting, but unbelievable. It became more believable as my running career progressed, but it never happened. I really want to do it. It also means I’m probably in shape to be able to run a sub-70 minute half marathon.
It’s a shame that it’s the winter season when road races are few and far between. I had a look online. I knew about the Ribble Valley 10k on 30th December, down near Blackburn. Possible for a day trip. A quality race. The English 10K championships. 6 of the top 20 fastest entrants are from Scotland. However, entries are now closed for it, and anyway I get back to Edinburgh the night before. My brother’s wedding is just before Christmas. Then Christmas itself. Plus I’m down to do the new year’s day triathlon in Edinburgh. There are a few 10k races in London in the run-up to Christmas, but they don’t look particularly fast. With racing commitments in the new year, it might be April before I can get to do a 10k… anything could have happened by then…
For now anyway, I need to rest and recover. I went out the day after Aberdeen and did 10 miles, far faster than I needed to. This completely knackered me. I had postponed putting up my Christmas tree until after Aberdeen, not wanting to get injured in the process. That’s how ridiculous things are – when it gets to the stage where you are worried about getting injured by a Christmas tree… I bought it off the buy and sell noticeboard at work for very cheap. It is a big steel thing, weighs a ton, and sure enough, when I got it put up, my back was in pieces, so I have been sitting boiling myself in hot baths and giving it cold showers ever since…
What’s next? Well, I’ve just had my selection for Scotland east confirmed. Maybe a ParkRun before Christmas, trying to survive the wedding and Christmas without eating and drinking too much, keeping an eye out for a 10k although this is unlikely, doing the Greencastle 5 mile road race on Boxing day, doing the new year’s day triathlon in Edinburgh, and then into January with the Scottish inter-district cross country in Stirling, another East district league cross-country, and then the East Lothian cross country, all coming thick and fast in January. Assuming I stay injury-free… and then a longer-term question of what to focus on next year – short-course triathlon, ironman triathlon, or running. Given how well I ran in Aberdeen, off not that much training, the decision has become a lot more difficult…
Selection confirmation. Compare this with the East District Championships I ran
in the mid 2000s, where I had no hope whatsoever of qualifying, and with
last year's effort where I went in without a hope but had a good run to finish 17th, and
wondered if it might be good enough, waited for the email, didn't receive it,
and then heard via messages from friends that I'd made it, as the email
went into my spam/junk folder. This year, I went into the race hopeful that a
good run would see me in the mix, and so it proved with a 12th place finish
that I was fairly sure would be good enough at the finish line.
12th November 2018: Here’s what has happened since the Peebles duathlon. How time flies, that was now 2 months ago…
I won the Peebles duathlon, but it was at quite a high cost for the 2 weeks that followed. My legs were really deconditioned for running due to an Achilles injury (left me having done basically no running since July), and the soles of my feet had also softened up due to lack of running. My legs still hurt from South Africa anyway (the miracle half marathon I ran out there on an injured Achilles and grossly under-trained legs really destroyed my legs).
I had fitness from turbo training, but I had too much fitness for the low level of conditioning my legs had. So after Peebles, with its 20k bike sandwiched between 2 x 5k runs, my legs and feet were in agony. Waddling round like a lame duck. Unable to put weight on the outsides of my feet. Wanting to get back into running again, but being unable. Not wanting to turbo train, but having to turbo train because I couldn’t do anything else. I knew it would pass, but it was frustrating.
Winter targets will include cross country running, building running fitness for the Scottish East District cross-country championships, to try and get selection at county/district level, to run in the Scottish and UK inter-district races. I hope to have a strong winter of running and then have another crack in the spring at a sub-32 10K, and another crack at the Bere Island ParkRun course record. I will keep in touch with the swimming maybe once a fortnight, and cycle to work, and maybe the odd turbo session or night ride when the weather allows. Hopefully such a winter will set me up for a good summer of triathlon and duathlon. More on that in a future post...
Edinburgh night riding
But the main winter target is running. So waddling around like a lame duck wasn’t great for getting this target going. But I eventually tentatively got back into running. My Achilles still didn’t feel right, but I started back doing some interval sessions and trying to be sensible about building slowly.
I turned out for the East District cross country relays (4 x 4km) and surprised myself with a decent run on a filthy day. I was running leg one, got completely boxed in during the first mile, which held me back, which was good as I ran strongly in the final two miles. Not bad, I thought, given I had only been back training a couple of weeks.
Some clubmates keen to do their bit, some less so... #disgusted
Nice couple of chicken drumsticks...
The cross country races seem to come thick and fast in the early part of the season so I soon found myself on the start line at Stirling for race one of the east district league. 9km. 3 laps. A nice day. A hilly, tough course. I suffered so much on the final lap… no endurance, no fitness, no ability to run hard beyond 4 or 5km. And because it was dry, my spikes were like sandpaper on my feet, and they were badly blistered. Back down to earth with a bump.
Runners turned triathletes turned runners again. Stirling is a great location, but very tough
A little more training, a little bit of scenic cycling in the southern Highlands before the winter really sets in, with a girl I met at the wedding of two good friends in south-west Ireland. The wedding was probably the peak (nadir?) of my non-fitness - a 3-day Irish wedding, no sleep, no idea how many Guinnesses (Guinnii?) consumed, so bad (good?!) was the drinking situation that one night I was drinking espresso martinis for dessert after a main course of Guinness. And I hate coffee! But these were good. The morning after a night of no sleep, we were on the ferry to the Bere Island ParkRun - the ferry was fine, but it was all I could do not to vomit on the roller-coaster minibus ride to the start at the opposite end of the island. It was a sorry, soggy ParkRun, but strangely I enjoyed it, just jogging round in the wilds of Ireland. It cleared the head, then after breakfast/lunch it was off to bed at 1pm.
The railway on Rannoch moor
Glacial and painful
So, still building fitness, off to the national cross country relays in Cumbernauld. A short run, again 4 x 4km. A cold day, but good under foot. A hilly course. I first ran it in 2003, one of my first races in Scotland. Surprisingly, in the intervening 15 years, I hadn't been back to Cumbernauld for the National cross country relays, but I had been back to most of the other big races.
I was on leg 2. My old club Metro Aberdeen came in first after leg one, my current clubmate came in just behind. I knew the boy I was chasing. I knew if I could keep with him it would be a good run. I had a pretty good run. I never caught him but he never got away and we had a 3-second gap for the whole lap. 2 of the really quick boys passed us, so I handed over in fourth place.
I’ve never suffered more after a run. Usually you’ll be out of breath but after a minute you’ll be fine. I couldn’t breathe properly for days. Lungs rattling. Coughing. I think it was a combination of the cold air, having not run in the cold so far this year and not being used to it, and having not run so intensely for a long, long time.
This was quite a poignant run for me. I wrote the below on Facebook, hopefully it will explain why:
I ran the Scottish National cross-country relays today in Cumbernauld, for the second time. This was one of my first runs in Scotland, 15 years ago(!) back in 2003 for Metro Aberdeen RC.
Back when the vest was black & gold (today it's an Edinburgh AC vest), when race entry fees were sent by cheque to organisers' home addresses, when race photos were taken on actual cameras with actual film and if you were lucky the actual real photos were handed out at training 2 months later, when if you were lucky (or unlucky...!) you got to travel to a race in the FlintstoneWagon...
...when club tents/gazebos didn't exist and it was a stampede to find the biggest tree to shelter under, when race results were posted out to club secretaries on actual paper and then photocopied and handed round at training, when the race t-shirt was a long-sleeved heavy cotton thing that weighed over a kilo when you sweated, when satellite watches and Facebook and Strava didn't exist...
...when Kudos was a pat on the back from the big boys and they bought you a beer somewhere on the A90 on the way home and it was the best thing ever (the big boys know who you are, heroes).
One of the "big boys" 15 years ago and still a hero. Metro Aberdeen stalwart Rob Taylor
Scenes in Cumbernauld, cross country is great
My vests on the wall of my flat
The next race was the Men’s Health 10k in Edinburgh. A great route, from the Royal Mile, down to Holyrood Park via Princes Street gardens, then back out for 4 miles into a headwind to Murrayfield stadium, near where I live. I was third at this race last year. I didn’t know what to expect this year. I knew I was running quite well in shorter races, but not so well in longer races. All I wanted was a strong final two miles as that’s where I am currently weak.
It was a good race. Two went off hard at the start, I let them go. I pulled them back when we turned into the wind, but I also dragged 4 or 5 others with me to form a lead group of 7 or 8. Then there was a bit of ding-donging for a couple of miles when one got away. I let him go. I’d wait for the flatter roads out near Murrayfield to up it. And sure enough, I pulled him back and ran 5:15 for the final mile into the wind to take the win. I did 33:29, which you’d never expect to win a 10K, but importantly, I’d had a good final couple of miles.
Such a great finish, a good few people in the stands too
Then it was into the National short course cross country championships (4km). I had decided that by this stage, I was properly used to running again, legs conditioned, body re-adapted. I hadn’t had much consistency since I started to try and train for running again in October, with blisters and deconditioned/painful legs, and the Achilles still not right, and the rattling lungs, and a few stomach issues. I felt I wasn’t achieving any consistency in training, and hadn’t yet properly knuckled down to really serious stuff. But after the 10K race I had a good, tough, no-hold-barred 6 x 0.5 mile interval session and then the short course cross country on a flat and fast and firm course. I hoped for a decent run.
I had a decent run. 4:48 for the first mile, being swept along in the tsunami of runners. My fastest ever mile. I was just a couple of seconds off my fastest ever 3k as well (which means I’m probably fit enough to run sub-9 for 3k on the road in good conditions), I held on for a 5:01 mile 2, and a 2:30 split for the final half mile. A decent run. We took National team silver as well, with some of our fast young whippersnappers having turned up.
Silver medal team: 3 youngsters and an ex-youngster who wants to believe he is still young but whose body keeps protesting otherwise
But. My Achilles felt sore during the run. And sore after it. I was planning to really crack on with the training, start getting into a routine, get the quality going, try and drop a kilo or two, really ramp things up for the East District championships and try for district qualification. And now I am dealing with a sore Achilles that if I don’t manage it properly, it will end up costing me another 3 months. Right when I want to be pushing on and training well.
This sport (by “this sport” I mean running and triathlon and duathlon) cracks me up a lot of the time. Fingers crossed I get through it. It’s less about trying to achieve perfection and more about overcoming and making the best of situations. Seems that’s how it has been for me since 2003! We’ll see how it goes…
I raced the half ironman world championships in South Africa on 2nd September 2018. Exactly 2 weeks later was the Peebles duathlon – a 5k run, 20k bike and 5k run. I was in agony after the half ironman worlds. My legs were completely crippled. I injured my Achilles at the start of July and had done minimal running training for South Africa – probably less than 10 miles in 2 months, when in usual circumstances I might have done 200-300 miles of running in those 2 months.
So my legs were incredibly deconditioned. My fitness was good, as I had been smashing out sessions on the bike and in the pool, but my legs didn’t have the conditioning to deal with running at the level of fitness I had. Plus, my Achilles was injured. So after miraculously managing a fairly decent half marathon to finish the half ironman world championships, I genuinely couldn’t walk. My legs were trashed. Muscles shot to pieces. My feet had softened up and the shock of running a hard half marathon had caused massive callouses to form on my feet. These were complete agony to put weight on too. And this wasn’t just for a few days. It was for weeks.
So, even thinking about doing the Peebles duathlon wasn’t a good idea. It was even less of a good idea when the day before race day came and I was still in leg pain and foot pain, and I had done pretty much no training whatsoever in the two weeks since South Africa. You can’t count as training eating junk food, pizza, chips, buns, cakes, chocolate, beers, you name it and I devoured it.
Also, my racing bike needed a full service after South Africa – it had got soaked and caked in mud, grit and dust. I still hadn’t managed to fully put it back together and get it to the bike shop. It was still lying in pieces on my living room floor…
So I was in pain, unfit, overweight (yes, yes, in relative terms, but it didn’t take long to put on a few kilos after South Africa), I didn’t have my race bike available, and basically was in no state to be doing a duathlon.
But I had agreed to travel down with a couple of friends (runners, now dabbling on bikes and in multisport racing). Well, I could just go and spectate. Then I thought, well, I could just bring my road bike and maybe go for a spin and watch the race. Then I thought well, I could just bring my gear anyway and try a little jog to warm up and see how it feels.
So we drove down on a day that was threatening to rain. We got there and parked. Well, I could just register, there’s no harm in that, I’ve already paid for the entry fee, I don’t necessarily have to start the race… I even asked at registration what the protocol was for withdrawing from the race before the race actually started.
Registration done, body marking complete, timing chip strapped around my ankle… Well, I suppose I could just rack my bike and get everything set up and then try a warm-up jog…
Well the warm-up jog didn’t feel great (actually it felt horrific, I had to completely change my stride to avoid landing on the callouses, which meant I was running pretty much like a lame duck, probably after a few kilometres I’d be quacking in pain too) but, well, it’s only a 5k run, a lot of it is on grass and trail anyway, and then you’re on the bike and there’s no impact forces on the bike, and well, don’t worry about the final 5k run, you could just bail out after the bike or even if you don’t bail out, well, it’s just a final 5k…
Transition on the banks of the River Tweed
So, possibly foolishly, I started the race. I’ve started lots of races. Been there, done that, countless times. Everyone always starts too fast. Especially in duathlons. Let them go. You’ll catch them back. I was fourth or fifth after a mile. After 2 miles I was first. Cardiovascularly I was quite comfortable, but my legs and feet were in pain. Just get through it. One more mile then you’re on the bike. It was a tough enough run course, along the river, over a bridge, up and down steps, up and down slopes, on path, trail, grass, over another bridge. Difficult to get into a rhythm.
I was first onto the bike. My road bike is a lot more lively and responsive than the time trial bike and I quite enjoyed the ride on the undulating course along the river Tweed. It was damp, and I was working hard, and the visor on my new aero helmet was steaming up from the inside, and collecting water on the outside, so I kept having to wipe it. More learning – I’ll need to buy some anti-fogging spray for it.
I was surprised at my average output and surprised at how decent I felt on the bike. I had thought I’d do well to hold 260 watts, and that I’d feel terrible, but I was well over 280 watts and feeling reasonable. Could I maintain the power though? It was an out-and-back course. Heading back was tougher, into the wind, but I could see how much of a lead I had. I reckoned if I could be first off the bike, I could suffer 16-18 minutes for the final 5k and hopefully hang onto the lead. I could deal with the damage later, after the race. I’ve never won a duathlon before, and here was a chance.
So on the homeward stretch, I kept everything low and tight into the wind and powered back to transition, was first off the bike, and started the final 5k run. Wow, it was immediately painful. My feet felt like they were on fire. My legs were trashed. I had recovered a little from South Africa in the two weeks since, but the first 5k here had completely set that back. But I still felt like I had fitness, I wasn’t deep into the red zone. I felt, surprisingly, that I had the fitness for a decent final 5k, I just didn’t have the body to allow it.
In the end I won by something like three minutes. I hadn’t expected to have the fitness levels I had. I respected the race and I raced as hard as I could for the whole thing. Maybe I should have backed off a little and reduced the damage done to my feet and legs, but you’re in a race. You’re racing. Go hard or go home. Respect it. Respect everyone else's efforts. It was nice to get the win in what was my final multi-sport race of the season – it was something of an unlikely win, possibly undeserved given what was a dreadful 2-week build up.
The Borders triathlon series was coming to a close the following week with the Peebles triathlon. I knew I wouldn’t make this as I’d be at a wedding in Ireland. I ended up second overall in the series with three second place finishes (two sprints and one standard) and two wins (one sprint and one duathlon) out of the seven events in total (I entered five races). The series winner was the 2017 European and World M30-34 sprint triathlon champion. It’ll be interesting to see how much I can improve for next year, given that this was only my first season doing shorter triathlons. I’m sure in later blog posts I will reflect in more detail on the season.
And that was it for my triathlon/duathlon/multisport season. I’ll have another few weeks of proper rest and recovery and “indiscipline” – i.e. eating whatever I want, drinking whatever I want, doing whatever I want, and not training much. I’ve got a wedding in Ireland (a 4-day thing…) and then I will have to start picking up the training, with more of a running focus, for the winter cross country season. The first cross-country race will be in mid-October and I’ll try to get to a level in December where I might be considered for Scotland East selection again for the Scottish and UK inter-district championships in early 2019. I’ll do a little bit of swimming and cycling over the winter to keep my hand(s) (and legs) in, and then look to ramp up for the multisport season again in early 2019.
Well. What a couple of weeks it has been at the Ironman 70.3
World Championships in Port Elizabeth in South Africa.”70.3” being how they
describe a half-ironman, as the total distance covered is 70.3 miles. It was epic,
and so this will probably end up being an epic blog post to try and do it
justice.
My previous blog post talked about what a nightmare it was
to dismantle and pack the bike. It was genuinely a nightmare, for a number of
reasons:
One: the bike box I borrowed had “seen better days”
according to the guy I borrowed it off. This was true – of the 6 clips on it,
only one worked properly. So I had to rely on rolls and rolls of parcel tape
and cellophane parcel wrap to secure it, and I had to reply on pure hope, and a
wing and a prayer that it would hold together over the 60 hours it would be in
transit, across 6 different flights. I was grateful to have been able to borrow
it at all – there weren’t many alternatives at short notice – a new bike box
would cost £400, or paying a courier or triathlon bike delivery company to take
the bike and deliver it to my guesthouse in Port Elizabeth would also cost
around £400. Or I could make do, with zero monetary cost, but a fairly high stress
cost…
Two: my handlebars, from the bottom of the base bar to the
top of the tri-bars are quite high – too high to fit in the width of the box.
Dismantling the handlebars meant measuring and photographing all the customised
angles and dimensions, accessing a whole pile of inaccessible nuts and bolts,
removing the front brake, taking off the front bottle cage (which I remember
being meticulously cable tied in a difficult, but ideal position) and then
knowing it all had to be put back together again at the other end…
Three: Probably the most significant factor - my uselessness - I don’t really like bike maintenance
work, I didn’t have great tools, I had never fully dismantled a bike before.
Talk about learning the hard way.
Four: Realising that the bike box weighed 15kg when empty,
knowing that that bike would weigh another 8-9kg, and further knowing that this
would leave me only 6-7kg of luggage allowance for everything else… I overcame
this by taking a huge hand luggage bag and hoping the check-in staff wouldn’t notice
or say anything.
From this...
...to this - quite an achievement (thanks to IC for the help and DB for the bike box!)
All the while, I was wondering, “what is this all for?” I
injured my Achilles on the 14th July. Since then, I had managed a total of
about 4 miles of running training. My Achilles was sore. I’d done everything
for it – massage, foam rolling, creams, anti-inflammatories, rehabilitation and
strength work, hot Epsom salts and lavender and eucalyptus oil baths – I
figured that smelling like a granny’s boudoir was a small price to pay if my
Achilles got better.
But I couldn’t afford to give it the one thing it really needed
to get better – time. So I wasn’t in a great frame of mind for the trip – I
wanted to go to a world championships in top condition, ready to deliver a strong performance, one that I could say "that could not have been better." I was a long way from that, so really struggled to get excited
about the trip. I had no expectations. I figured I’d be OK on the swim, and on
the bike, but I’d probably end up walking most of the run.
The swim would be in Nelson Mandela Bay, close to Shark Point Pier. Something about this makes you think that the waters might be a place where sharks hang out... Anyway, I’ve read Nelson Mandela’s book – “The Long Walk To
Freedom.” An inspirational and dignified book. I figured I’d be on a long walk
to “freedom” in the run – “freedom” being finishing the damn race and being
done with it, and then not having to worry or think about my Achilles, and
training, and anything to do with triathlon for a while. But my long walk probably wouldn’t be especially
dignified or inspirational. Oh well. I was going. I’d do the best I could with
the circumstances. I might not deliver the ultimate best performance I am
capable of, but I’d do what I could to do the best I could with the
circumstances I had.
Finally, I got packed - the receptionists at work did a great job keeping track of all my deliveries - bubble wrap, cable ties, masking tape, parcel tape, pipe lagging to pad the bike, cellophane wrapping, and other bits and pieces. I crossed my fingers at the airport
as I watched the bike box disappear on the luggage belt, hoping I would see it
again, in one piece. I was flying from Edinburgh to Qatar to Johannesburg to
Port Elizabeth, and was assured that the bike would be checked right through to
Port Elizabeth, along with my other piece of checked-in baggage.
On the first flight to Qatar, I had three seats to myself –
great. What wasn’t so great was that I was sitting at the back of the plane,
and so was last to be served with my dinner. They had no vegetarian meals left
(always the safer option, especially with airline food) so it was Thai red
chicken curry or nothing. I’d probably have been better off with nothing, as
the chicken was awful – grey in colour, and the sauce was just red grease. I
spent the next few hours with my stomach turning and rumbling quite ominously, and
hoping that it wouldn’t get any worse (thankfully it didn’t!)
A short change in Doha and I was on the overnight flight to
Johannesburg. The priority was to sleep on this flight, so I asked very nicely for
an upgrade – if you don’t ask you don’t get – surprise surprise, I didn’t get. What a shame,
business class looked amazing. But I did get three seats to myself in cattle
class. Brilliant. I curled up like a foetus (6 feet and 1 inch still doesn’t go
that well into three seats) and had a fairly bad sleep – but this was infinitely
better than no sleep, and I got up just before the dawn.
I love looking down from an aeroplane on the landscapes
below. I’d rather do that than watch in-flight movies. So the final couple of
hours of the flight were spent watching the sun rise, and looking down on a
whole lot of brown nothingness over Mozambique and South Africa. Dried up river
channels were very obvious. When was there water there? The odd dirt road. Who
used these tracks? No signs of humanity, other than the odd pin-prick of light
in the dark, or the odd tiny settlement, barely visible in the sunshine. What
do people do there? Why did they settle there? How do they get by? Do they ever
see anyone from outside their little worlds? The lack of any obvious paths or
trails or roads would suggest not. I wondered what they made of the planes
flying overhead.
A landscape untouched and unchanged for millennia
We got to Johannesburg. I passed the baggage carousel. I had
been told my bike would go straight to Port Elizabeth. I had a long lay-over in
Johannesburg and wasn’t in a rush, so I decided to wait at the baggage carousel
to see what would happen. Looking behind me, about 50 bikes were sitting in the
baggage hall. They were obviously unclaimed. Shortly afterwards, all the bikes
from our flight arrived and were set beside these bikes. I asked a few
questions. In the end, it turned out that bikes (and luggage) entering South
Africa for the first time at Johannesburg had to be reclaimed and checked in to
the onward flight. No-one seemed to know this, and it wasn’t what I had been
told in Edinburgh. So a lot of people ended up in Port Elizabeth without their
bikes and baggage…
I picked up my bike and took it to the check-in desk for the
Port Elizabeth flight (departing in 7 hours). I was told (literally) to leave
it in the middle of the check-in hall, in full view of the exit. So I sat for
the next 5 hours watching the bike until someone came and took it to put it on
the plane. I wasn’t risking someone deciding they fancied a nice bike… There were a lot of triathletes waiting at Johannesburg airport for Port Elizabeth flights. I enjoyed watching the entire spectrum - plenty were running up and down the terminal, ensuring their Garmins were recording. Others had rubber bands and were simulating swimming. Others were stretching. Some were resting. I was eating a burger and chocolate (it was a veggie burger, and I scraped off the cheese-flavoured goo and the other manky contents, so basically it was vegetables and bread). There wasn't much other choice - no pasta, no potatoes, no falafel, nothing I'd call acceptable...
Finally, I was aboard the Port Elizabeth flight. At least
three-quarters of the people on board were travelling for the race. A giant Russian athlete plonked down beside me. I smiled and said hi. He pointed at my bag. "Ironman, good!" he said, and offered his giant hand. When he was done crushing my hand, he covered his head with his coat and snored the whole way to Port Elizabeth. It was a
small plane. I wondered how all the bikes would fit in… We sat for ages on the
tarmac while the baggage handlers evidently wondered the same thing. On arrival
at Port Elizabeth, there were bikes missing, and I can’t explain how glad I was
when I saw mine being carried into the terminal and handed to me. There was
another pile of unclaimed bikes at Port Elizabeth airport, and I heard that the
airlines had to charter a flight specifically to clear the backlog of bikes…
People were justifiably flapping in Port Elizabeth, 2 days before race day,
whose bikes were still missing in transit…
Bike chaos in South African airports
I was so lucky to have a guesthouse owner who was on my
side. He picked me up from the airport, took me to the supermarket so I could
buy in food and supplies, lent me tools, gave me lifts and advice. Brilliant. I
was lucky to be staying where I was, in a good neighbourhood, a 15-minute walk
to the race headquarters at the Boardwalk on Marine Drive – the centre of all
the action. In my neighbourhood, all the houses had 10-foot high walls topped
with metal spikes and electric fences, with guard dogs, CCTV and private armed
security. A different world.
Yum Yum Peanut Butter, must have liked me, wanted my phone number
I had a good sleep and I got the bike built the next morning.
I understand now why a lot of people opt for all-black bikes, because my white
frame became filthy with oil and dirt. I headed down to book it into the
official bike mechanics for a service. This (I have to be honest) was a
complete farce. My bike needed maybe 15 minutes of straightforward work and
checks. I had done most of it, but I wasn’t able to bring the tools to do
everything - I really should buy a torque wench. I had written them a list of things to do. But the reality was that the official mechanics were doing very basic
bike servicing on an industrial scale, at a fairly high cost. About half of
what I wanted done wasn’t covered by the basic servicing. They didn’t want to
commit to anything other than what was on their basic service list. I managed
to persuade them to do the extra, and was told to come back that afternoon. I
was keen to get the bike back, and get out for a ride.
I went back that afternoon. Not ready. Come back in the
morning, they said. I went back in the morning. Not ready. Come back in half an
hour, they said. I went back in half an hour. Not ready. Come back at 5pm, they
said. Patience wearing thin, I said, “Come on guys, the bike has been with you
for 2 days now.” I went back at 5pm. I was handed the bike. I looked at it. I
could see straight away that very little had been done. The frame had been
cleaned, and not much else. They had (unbelievably) removed all the cable ties
that were securing my rear saddle bottle cages and mount on to the bike. I cannot understand the
thought process behind this. They had lost the patch that covers the valve hole
on the disc wheel (and angered me when they said that there hadn’t been one,
and then said there had been one but it was ripped when they received it –
lies). They hadn’t mounted the front bottle cage properly. They hadn’t sorted
the gears.
I spoke to the guy running the show and he said to come back
at 10am in the morning (Friday morning) and promised that it would all be done.
I was getting fed up. I had arranged to meet a few people on Friday at 1pm for
a bike ride to see the course. I went back on Friday at 10am. I didn’t expect
much. I wasn’t disappointed. Not ready. I had seen a facebook message saying
that there was an independent bike mechanic in the car park at the back of the
hotel, operating out of the back of his jeep, and he was open for business. I
took the bike to him. 10 minutes later, the bike seemed perfect. There is a
significance here to me using the words “seemed perfect”… more on that later…
I can’t say I recommend travelling with a bike. A necessary
evil. Maybe a road bike is easier. My triathlon bike is indeed particularly
awkward. All that aside, Summerstrand (the area in Port Elizabeth that hosted
the race HQ, start, finish, transitions, swim, expo, and had all the
restaurants, bars and so on), was a brilliant venue. There was loads going on.
People of all nationalities, of all ages. The weather was great, if a bit
windy. The sea looked brilliant. The course looked great. There was a great
vibe. Plenty of people were getting in the water, testing it out, having a wee
swim. I was tempted, but I’ve never been keen on practice swims in the couple
of days before a race, I don’t think they achieve much. Loads of people were
running/jogging along the seafront. I really wanted to go for a run, but didn’t
dare to risk the Achilles.
The “parade of nations” was brilliant – I think there were
over 100 nationalities represented, and all the countries got together and
paraded down from the top of the Boardwalk to the beach. Superb stuff. I got
chatting to most of the Irish (maybe 20 of us, the usual craic and banter), and
it seemed that more of us were Irish expats (living in England, Scotland, UAE,
Australia etc) than actually living in Ireland…! There was one Hungarian
representative in the parade in front of us. There were a couple from the Faroe
Islands. The Italians behind us were giving it large. There were two or three
from Sri Lanka (definitely not known as a hotbed of triathlon). And numbers in
the hundreds from South Africa, Australia, USA. It was such a laugh. 4500 athletes
in total were due to race in the first ever triathlon world championship in
Africa and it seemed most of us had turned out for the parade, as it took ages
and ages to get the entire parade down on to the beach…
I’m not usually too bothered with pre-race banquets, pasta
parties, and briefings. But I was keen to do as much as I could and experience
as much as I could here in Port Elizabeth. They had set up a massive marquee in
a cricket field for the pre- and post- race feeding, drinking, entertainment, briefings, speeches, prizegiving etc, and I headed that way about 20 minutes before it was due to start. There was
already a queue a couple of hundred metres long. Could I be bothered? I had
made a pile of pasta back at the guesthouse and it was waiting in the fridge…
I got chatting to a great Australian girl in the queue, and
my Northern Ireland accent was overheard by a couple from Northern Ireland, and
before I knew it, Nakita, June, Stephen and I were in the marquee knocking back
red wine… peer pressure is a terrible thing… not how I had seen my pre-race
preparation going, but then the entire preparation had been a disaster, so a
red wine (or two) wasn’t going to hurt. We must have been one of the first to
order red wine, and they served it in a massive plastic tumbler, full to the
brim. I think not long after, they realised that wine was only to be served in
much smaller quantities or they'd run out. So I had the equivalent of about three glasses of red
wine. The pasta and food was great too, as was the chat and banter.
The mayor of Port Elizabeth made the best speech ever: "Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and GENTLEMEN! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! Welcome to Port Elizabeth! Welcome to Port ELIZABETH! WELCOME TO PORT ELIZABETH! Nelson Mandela Bay! Nelson Mandela BAY! NELSON MANDELA BAY! NELSON MANDELA! MANDELA! Port Elizabeth! Thank you! Thank YOU! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!" And to rapturous applause he left the stage. I had an
absolute blast, such good craic, and I doubt I could have met three better
people out of everyone there. I think by the time the pasta party finished we
were all already looking forward to the post-race party on Sunday night…
I got out for my bike ride with the group on Friday at 1pm. We
had received pre-race warnings: “what to do if you’re attacked”, “what to do if
your car is hijacked”, “do not cycle alone”, “only cycle in the official police
convoy at 9am every morning for safety”. I took these with a little bit of a
pinch of salt, and was sure our group of 6 or 7 would be fine. We had no
problem, even cycling up through Port Elizabeth in the traffic was fine. When
we got down onto the coast road, it was great for cycling – such great scenery,
wide, empty roads, sun out. The wind kept us honest and kept us concentrating, and kept us from enjoying the views too much.
Crashing at this stage would be just as bad as drinking lots of red wine… I did manage to whip out my phone and take a couple of snaps. I really enjoyed this spin out on the bike, after the long journey and the hassle of travelling with the bike, and getting the bike sorted. It was a good group, good chat, and I noted that those who took it easiest up the long drag out of Port Elizabeth were freshest on the run-in back to Port Elizabeth. The bike was working
well. It was just what I needed and I enjoyed feeling good in the final 10 miles zooming back
into the Boardwalk and finish area.
However, it seemed nothing was going to go to plan on this
trip. Halfway round the bike, my heart rate monitor stopped working. I had
resigned myself to having a poor run on race day, but if nothing else, I wanted
to get data from my bike on race day – speed, power output, and heart rate. The
reason being that there is also full Ironman held on pretty much the same bike
course (over two loops rather than one), and I wanted to see if it was feasible
that I could possibly come back for the full Ironman and look to have another
tilt at Kona qualification.
I’d done my homework – Kona qualifiers in my age group would
swim around an hour (this should be fine for me), cycle somewhere between 4:55
to 5:10, and run something like 3:10 – 3:20. A finishing time of 9:30 or better
has usually been good enough to qualify. So I figured I needed to bike quicker than 2:30
in the half, ideally closer to 2:20, to translate into a full ironman bike that
would be in the ballpark of 5:00 – 5:10. I also wanted to see my power and
heart rate data for the bike, to learn more about what power outputs were
needed to hold the speed required, and what heart rates it took to sustain
them. I wouldn’t want to come all the way back to South Africa for the full
Ironman without being reasonably confident I could challenge to qualify.
So, I was annoyed that my heart rate monitor wasn’t working.
I wanted to watch the women’s race the following day, but I had a new priority
– going to the Ironman Expo and finding a Garmin technician who could sort out
my heart rate monitor. Then I’d go back to my guesthouse, get everything ready
to rack in transition, then I’d go and watch the ladies on their run, and then
I’d go and rack everything in the transition areas for my race the following
day.
Another curveball was thrown when I finished my Friday bike
ride/course recee and went to switch my Garmin bike computer off. Usually it
gives a short beep before turning off. This time, for whatever reason, it held
its beep for about 20 seconds and then froze. Great. So now no Garmin and no
heart rate. Having no Garmin computer meant power and heart rate were useless
anyway as the data is all displayed and recorded onto the Garmin. I fiddled about
with it back at the guesthouse but it wouldn’t fully fire up, and it wouldn’t
pick up the power meter or heart rate monitor. I didn’t have my laptop with me
to check the software or do a re-set. So it would all have to go down to the
Garmin technicians at the expo tomorrow morning. I told myself that they’d fix
it, and to forget about it until tomorrow.
So on Saturday, rather than getting to watch the ladies do
their swim and bike, I headed straight for the Garmin stand in the expo. “How
can we help?” they said. “Everything has worked fine for years and the day
before the world championship it has all clapped out…” I could barely believe I
was saying it. All the batteries were fully charged, all the software updates
were up to date, there was no reason for it to have happened. After 90 minutes
of faffing and fiddling and plugging into laptops and blah blah blah, a full
factory re-set restored the Garmin, and hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of
South African Rand (the currency) were handed over to buy a new heart rate
monitor.
All sorted. I could go and watch the ladies on the run. As I
was cycling to the run, I realised the factory re-set had deleted all my
settings and parameters on the Garmin, so it was another hour of work to try
and remember everything and get it all set up again. I have about 16 data
fields scrolling across the screen, all of which need to be manually input, along
with my threshold and stats. I’m not a massive gadget geek, and I’m not
obsessed with Strava or TrainingPeaks or analysing my data to extremes, but
tomorrow of all days I did want a record of power, speed and heart rate to work
out how I might go on the same course for the full ironman.
Anyway, I got it sorted and by now it was early afternoon
and it was scorching. The ladies were getting it tough on the run, that’s for
sure. I went out to the far end of the course where there weren’t so many
spectators, and enjoyed a couple of hours of viewing. Daniela Ryf had already
won the pro race, but it took another couple of hours to get everyone started
in their various start waves, so by now the course was busy. It was pretty much
a flat course, but where it turned off the main Marine Drive at either end, there was a
gentle uphill for a few hundred metres to a turn, and then back down. One
African guy was standing opposite me waving enthusiastically at the athletes
and telling almost every one that they were “about to climb Everest” and that
he “respected their sacrifice”. Probably it did feel like climbing Everest, I’d
find out and suffer it tomorrow…
I’d say about 90% of the runners were running reasonably
well, looking tired and strained, but fairly reasonable. I’d say 5% looked
incredible – absolutely flying along, faster than anyone else. And the final 5%
were really suffering – for whatever reason – illness, injury, not used to
scorching conditions, not hydrated enough, went too hard on the bike, whatever.
I saw Nakita, moving well, looking like she was somewhere in the reasonable
90%. I saw Sheila, an Irish girl, looking good. I missed June – I did a little
stretching and had a couple of port-a-loo visits and a shop visit so she must
have sneaked past when I wasn’t watching. I really wanted to go down to the
finish area, but I had my bike with me and the finish would be jam-packed, and
anyway I had to go and sort my kit and get to both transitions to get sorted
and ready for my own race tomorrow.
The "Everest" man
Tri bikes really are quite narrow and aero,
and racing tyres really do have quite a small contact patch with the road...
Photos showing the ladies race, transition, and the walk back
With a last check of the weather forecast for race day
showing cloud cover and not much sun (yep, good), strong winds (just great),
and thunderstorms (perfect, really throwing all the good stuff at us), I headed
off and got everything racked. I didn’t waste much time, headed back to the
guesthouse, ate some pasta and went to bed. The sharks, wind, storms, rain,
lightning, and my Achilles, could all do their worst. I told myself it would
take more than that to keep me from finishing, one way or the other…
Race morning was overcast but dry. I hoped that I would at
least get started in the dry, and that I would make it onto the bike and dry
out, allowing me to get warm. Then if it rained, so be it – but I didn’t want
to be getting out of the swim wet, and then not getting dried on the bike, as I
knew I’d get cold – with my body type I don’t deal well with cold. I must say I’ve
never seen better port-a-loos than those in transition – every time someone
emerged, a volunteer would go in and properly clean, and there was loads of
soap and sanitising gel available too. Rest Of The World – take note and take
lessons in port-a-loos from South Africa!
I just about had time to watch the pros finish their swim
and blitz through transition – it looked an exciting race – Jan Frodeno,
Alistair Brownlee and Javier Gomez were up front with another handful of
athletes. It had been billed as a race between those three but it looked like
others were keen on getting in the mix too. Then it was into race mode for me –
wetsuit on, post-race kit thrown into the lorry, a gulp of water, a gel, a
pre-race pee in my wetsuit (such a great feeling, warms the legs up no end,
shame I can’t do handstands…) and into the queue to start. My M30-34 age group
was due to start at 8:25am. I wasn’t bothered about being at the front of the
queue, and at 8:30 exactly, I started. Nakita was apparently standing just a
few metres away and got some great photos but I didn’t see or hear her at all –
I was too “in the zone” (the yikes-I’m-going-to-run-into-sharks-here zone?!),
or maybe it was my earplugs and tunnel vision dulling the senses to everything but the water ahead…
A couple of bounds over the waves and I got swimming. It
felt fine, not too crowded, the sea was fairly flat, it was quite easy to
sight. All good. The ladies had said it was cold, but I was fine. Apparently it was 13-14 degrees for the ladies, but the currents and winds had changed and we were up at 19-20 degrees. Brilliant. Due to the cloud cover, there was no blinding sun. I had heard
that there were divers underneath the marker buoys, so I was prepared for this
– had I not known, I’ve no doubt I would have thought “shark” and literally died
on the spot. Apparently they were holding some sort of device in their hands – possibly to keep
the sharks away…?! Who knew? I just wanted to get out of that water in one
piece. I took one hefty kick to the face but it didn’t do much damage. I smelt a bit of a diesel smell on the inward leg of the swim - maybe the rescue boats in close proximity?
I felt
reasonable on the swim, neither brilliant nor bad, but when I got out of the
water and looked at my watch, it still said 8:something, so it wasn’t yet 9am and so
I must have been under 30 minutes. The results said 28:36. No idea where that
came from. That was in the top 25% in my age group, and in the top 12% overall.
I’d never have predicted that. I swam 31:something in Edinburgh and had thought
I’d had a good swim there – maybe Edinburgh was long, maybe South Africa was
short, maybe the winds and currents… maybe maybe… whatever.
So it was onto the bike, keeping to my strategy of putting
bike shoes on in transition and then enjoying jumping on the bike, clipping in,
and pulling away from those with bike shoes mounted on their bikes, struggling
to get their feet into their shoes and their shoes fastened. After a minute, I
realised – damn, I didn’t start my Garmin. After all that hassle, start the bloody Garmin! Then it was a long pull up through and out of Port Elizabeth. I
was trying to be strict about riding to a power cap and kept things under
control, despite the bikes streaming past me. Let them go too hard now. Do your
own race. I’d see them later. I wanted to start off at about 220 watts, and
gradually ease up to 240+. Not an easy thing to do when most of the races this
year have been sprint distance races where you can go as hard as you want (300
watts) and hold it for the 20km (30ish minutes). And also not easy to do when
everyone else is zooming past you…
Especially in the first half of the bike, it was difficult
not to ride in draft zones. You are supposed to keep 10m back from the rider in
front, and if someone passes you, you are supposed to drop back. Slipstreaming
saves lots of energy, and deliberate prolonged slipstreaming is cheating – there
are no two ways about it. It’s so much easier to ride up close behind someone
as they break all the wind resistance while you get “towed” along. At the
athlete briefing, the race referee said he wanted to be the “most bored person
in South Africa” on race day – they don’t want to be giving out penalties. The
referee asked if anyone was planning on drafting. A couple of hands went up.
What?! Smart asses. I’d have given them their 5-minute penalty there and then…
I had heard there were a lot of penalties doled out by the
marshals in the female race, and with twice as many men racing as women, the
course was pretty congested. I didn’t want to get a penalty. I wouldn’t ever
intentionally cheat. People do, and they get away with it. But it’s difficult
to stay out of draft zones the entire time when you have so many riders going
at different speeds on the same part of the course. I guess that’s why they
staggered the swim starts by up to 2 hours, to try to reduce the number of
bikers on the same part of the road. I did my best, rode hard to pass slower
athletes and clear their draft zone as quickly as possible, and eased back to
let quicker athletes go. The big issue was when a train of faster athletes came
through – you then have to drop back for all of them and you lose quite a bit
of ground. I told myself that the odd minute of easing back wouldn’t hurt. I thankfully
didn’t get any penalties. I heard it said that because the women had got so
many penalties, maybe the marshals had been told to cool it a little for the
men’s race.
That arm and rider behind me - in my draft zone...
After maybe 10 miles we got up to the top of the rise, out
of town, and then there was a big swooping gradual downhill for a few miles.
Most people were cruising easily down here, not pedalling too hard, and recovering
from the drag out of town. It was drizzling and I was wet and getting cold, and
I didn’t want to get any colder. So I powered down at full speed in the full
aero tuck, hitting nearly 80 km/h, flying past everyone else. It was exhilarating
stuff, but it needed full concentration. We picked up the coast road and hit a
couple of hills near the turning point. We went over a couple of vicious speed
bumps too, I was glad everything was well anchored onto my bike as (literally)
thousands of pounds worth of equipment had been shaken off bikes at the first
speed bump (on a downhill, so hit at speed). All the gear (computers, bottles,
gels, tools, spare tubes, tyre levers, etc etc) was just lying in the middle of
the road. What would you do? You’d have to keep going – riders zooming behind
you would make it difficult to stop and walk onto the course to retrieve
anything, it would be pretty dangerous. I’d say a lot of people lost gear
without even knowing.
At the top of a hill, with an amazing view across the coast
to a massive sand dune, with a big downhill ahead leading to the turning point
(literally a cone in the road requiring a dead stop) I heard a clunk. Dammit,
that clunk was from my bike. What the hell was it? Dammit dammit dammit, my
front brake is hanging off… it was literally hanging by its cable, off its
mount, banging into my front wheel. Disaster. Firstly, I was now on the steep
downhill, with only one brake, and the roads were wet. Secondly, the brake was
banging into the front wheel so there was no way to continue unless I held the
brake off the wheel with one hand, and then kept my speed down by pulling the
rear brake with the other hand. Thirdly, going slowly meant the race was
passing me by. Riders flying past, at speed, going downhill, on quite a narrow
road. Please don’t let anyone come flying into my rear end… Fourthly, what the
hell to do?!
The brake was missing its spacers, they had obviously fallen
off, and so there was literally nothing I could do myself as I didn’t have
spare spacers. I knew there was a mechanic station near the turn. I knew it was
probably a few kilometres away so I would have to crawl along to the mechanics,
holding the front brake off the wheel with one hand and pulling the rear brake
with the other hand, and hoping like mad that the mechanics would have a solution.
I wasn’t too hopeful though as the brake isn’t a common brake – it’s a special
aerodynamic brake, only made in the USA, and specially-ordered. They aren’t
run-of-the-mill parts found everywhere. What if they couldn’t fix it? I’d just
have to get them to cut it off and carry it in my back pocket, but then I
couldn’t “race” the rest of the bike – it would be too dangerous on windy, wet,
undulating roads, with other riders all around. I’d have to just cruise back at
low speed. The one thing I wanted from the race was a set of good data from the
bike, and now I wasn’t even going to get that. Bad mood? Not half.
I was pretty despondent pulling into the mechanic station. “My
brake is feckin’ banjaxed,” is exactly what I said. Fortunately the African
mechanic understood the “my brake” part, and could see it hanging off. He tried
to screw it straight back on, but I said it needed spacers to hold it off the
fork. He understood this and I could see him thinking “how can I fix this…” He
called over all the other mechanics. They all had a look. They could see what
was needed, but they didn’t have an obvious solution. Nor did I. How to
improvise? Could they figure something out? Or would they just shrug, forcing
me to tell them to cut the feckin’ banjaxed thing off, which in turn would
force me to ride slowly for the final 30 miles to the finish…
Alleluia, one had an idea. They had loads of spare tubes,
obviously. The valves on the spare tubes come with a valve cap and a screw
ring. Would these screw rings fit the threaded bolt on my brake…? Please,
please, please fit… miracle! They fitted. They frantically unscrewed 5 or 6
screw rings, screwed them onto my brake bolt, and re-mounted it. I had a good
check that it was nice and tight and operational, and gave them all a massive
fist-bump. I’m sure they are well used to dealing with flat tyres, but I doubt
they’ve ever seen a rider whose brake had fallen off. I’ve no idea how it
happened. I mounted it myself, nice and tight, and it had been checked by a
mechanic. Did it just work loose? Was it damaged in transit? Was it just bad
luck? Some suggested it might have been sabotaged. I couldn’t believe this. I just
couldn’t see how it could have come loose. Anyway, it didn’t matter, I couldn’t
change it and thinking about it wasn’t going to change it.
I was angry, and I wanted to take the anger out on the bike,
but had to use every ounce of self-discipline to rein myself in, stick to the
power cap, and not burn myself out. I tried to work out how much time I lost. A
few minutes was lost when I was going slowly, and then how long was I stopped
at the mechanics? 5 minutes? 10 minutes? I reckoned in total I lost somewhere
between 7-10 minutes, and my data later confirmed that it was around 8 minutes.
As I got back into my rhythm, I found I was feeling fresh and strong, the
enforced break no doubt the main reason. Not many people passed me in the
final 25 miles, and the final 10 or so on Marine Drive back to transition was
great – my legs were holding good power, I wasn’t fading. And it was obvious
those around me were fading in the latter stages of the bike – I’ve been there,
done that, got the t-shirt (got piles of t-shirts in fact) – so it felt good to feel strong, even if it
was a bit artificial.
8 minutes lost due to the mechanical issue, but how many
minutes gained back in the final stages of the bike…? Certainly one or two
anyway. My official bike time was 2:34, at an average of 157bpm and 234 watts
average power, 242 watts normalised power, at about 63-64kg. Without the
mechanical it would have been 2:27 or so. The wet conditions probably slowed
things a little. Not quite fast enough to be saying I could definitely come
back and do a 5-hour full Ironman bike, but certainly not so slow that a 5:10
would be impossible. But none of those projections (1-hour swim, 5:10 bike) will
matter if I can’t work out how to improve my ironman running. My standalone
running times (1:11 half marathon PB) would indicate that I should be capable
of a sub-3 hour ironman marathon. Even with a 3:15 ironman marathon time, that
would be good enough to qualify.
I've no photos from the bike (yet)... I may well end up buying the official photos and updating this in due course... (NOTE: Now updated!)
One other change I made for the race in South Africa was to
change to a totally liquid-based fuelling strategy. I was using Tailwind
Nutrition – a powder that you mix with water that contains all the calories and
salts/electrolytes you need, and that hopefully won’t mount up inside your guts
like solid food – this inevitably results in all your energy exploding out without much warning - if you're lucky you'll reach a port-a-loo in time... if you're unlucky, well, it gets messy. Tailwind claims “no gut bombs”. And also claims “tasty all day”.
Taking on gels repeatedly for 9-10 hours in an Ironman (or even for 4 hours in
a half) makes you want to vomit. So let’s see how this Tailwind stuff goes…
Coming into transition, I felt Tailwind had gone well so far
– I didn’t feel hungry, I didn’t feel burpy, I didn’t feel barf-y, I didn’t
feel port-a-loo-y. Long may that continue, at least for the next 13.1 miles.
And so I set off on the run. A huge, huge unknown. In the shorter triathlons
earlier this year, my run had always been my strongest point. But the longer
the run, the worse I get. My biomechanics aren’t suited to long runs. And, I
had next to no miles in my running bank from the previous 7 weeks. Anything
could happen. I honestly didn’t expect to be faster than 1:50, and I thought
I’d be walking plenty of miles. I started to run. I felt great. OK, my Achilles
hurt, but it wasn’t restrictively hurting. My first mile was a 6:09.
Ridiculous. If I was fit and trained, this would have been too fast. For
someone untrained and injured it was just plain stupid.
I reined myself back to a 6:22 for mile 2. Still ridiculous.
And did a 5:58 for mile 3. What on earth?! I was loving it. I love to run. I
hadn’t ran properly for weeks and weeks. I was able to run here. I wasn’t
pain-free, but the pain wasn’t stopping me. I was managing. The course was
great – 2 loops of a flat out-and-back along Marine Drive, with a little hill
at each end, spectators everywhere, a great atmosphere, not too hot. I was
passing so many people. I think in the first 10 miles, only 2 people passed me.
I was sensible enough and well enough hydrated and well enough nutrition-ed
that I was able to limit myself to one gel and a gulp of water at each end of the course,
around 25 minutes apart. No point in having a gel every 10 minutes and then
ending up in a Port-a-loo. I was having a blast. I saw Nakita, and June and
Stephen - “Come on Portstewart!” being a good call, as you have your first name
written on your number and so everyone is saying “come on John” and you can’t
distinguish anyone who calls you by your first name…
I heard the "come on Portstewart", then stuck my hand out for a high-5, then realised Stephen was holding two cups of coffee, and June was taking a video. Stephen tried to do something with the coffee cups, but we both realised it wasn't going to happen at around the same time, so I ran past laughing. I was enjoying it at this point, as this screenshot from the video shows. I've never looked as happy in an Ironman/half run...
The hearts? Well either I am loved or someone can't work out how to use modern technology...!
My fourth mile was a 6:04, then a 6:13, then a 6:12, then a
6:14, and I kept thinking that it was all going to fall apart soon, I’m going
to fade, I’m going to explode in a port-a-loo, my Achilles will go and I’ll
have to limp to the finish. If I continued with this pace, I’d run close to
sub-80. I can’t articulate how unlikely and ridiculous this was. I wondered
what my heart rate was – I could easily find out with the press of a button on
my watch, but decided against knowing – it wouldn’t benefit me anyway.
Going good...
Going tough...
Around the halfway point I could feel blisters on both of my
second toes. Stupid. I’d had Vaseline in my running transition bag, but didn’t
use it. The blisters were sore, and I thought they would get a lot worse, but
they didn’t seem to get worse and it was manageable. Mile 8 was slightly slower
at 6:38 (must have been on one of the hills and through an aid station, both of
which would slow you down). The little hills (not even hills, just short gentle
inclines) were now indeed feeling like Mount Everest. Mile 9 was 6:19. 4 miles
to go. I might just be able to keep this going. If I can keep this going I can
run under 1:25. In my wildest dreams I wouldn’t have thought I would be running
1:25 here. My first ever half marathon, in Inverness in 2004, was a 1:25. Could
I beat that?
Forget about anyone or anything else, that was what kept me
going in the final few miles. Beat 1:25. Hang in there. The legs were getting
sore. The deep fatigue was setting in. My bounce and spring had gone. I was
suffering now. A few people started passing me. Just damn well keep going. I
did a 6:34 for mile 10, to go through 10 miles in 62:33. Mile 11 was up the
hill and it was like running through treacle. I so much wanted to run this mile
under 7 minutes, but going up the hill my pace was slower than 7 minutes. Would
the quicker pace on the flat part of this mile be enough to balance it out…?
The watch beeped. Mile 11 done. 7:00:09. 9 hundredths of a second off.
I was inordinately and unreasonably hacked off with this.
I’d have bitten your hand off (probably your whole arm) to have been offered a
7:00:09 mile at mile 11 of the run. I used it to spur me on to a 6:48 mile 12,
and crossed the line in just over 1:23. I think the course was 30-60 seconds
short, but it was still a sub-1:25 run (done at 173bpm average). I have no idea – none whatsoever –
where on earth that run came from. My run was in the top 6% overall. Madness. Surely
a sub-1:25 run with no training would translate into no worse than 3:15 in a
full…? If you could guarantee me that it would, then I would book flights back
to Port Elizabeth immediately and enter the full ironman straight away. I’ll
have to have a think…!
As per all my other previous ironman finishes, coming down the finishing straight I heard absolutely nothing, and saw nothing. No idea what music was playing, no idea what the announcer said, no idea I had my own personal photographer standing 2 feet away
So I finished happy. There aren’t many ironmans and
half-ironmans (OK, there are none) that have ended happy for me – 12 iron or half iron races entered, and 12 disasters isn't a great record,
but I’d take this one. I’d still class it as a “disaster” because ultimately it
was massively compromised by injury, lack of training and mechanical problems
on the bike. But I’ll say it was a “happy disaster” (if there is such a thing –
there is now!) I wish I hadn’t had the issue on the bike, but then I learned
about the value of “rest” on the bike – I should freewheel the downhills more
often to get recovery – I’ll lose 20-30 seconds doing this, but more than make
this up in the final stretches of the bike due to feeling stronger, and will be
much fresher for the run. Would I have run 1:23 if I hadn’t had the enforced
break on the bike? Probably not…
The Tailwind nutrition had worked a blinder and I never once
had to threaten a port-a-loo. My overall finishing time was 4:33:27. I’d have
loved to have broken 4:30, and without the bike issue I probably would have
done, but given everything that had happened, I couldn’t be too disappointed.
My finish time was good enough for top 12% overall according to the results.
The athlete’s village took a while – queues for everything – food, massages, medal engraving (the medal was massive!) It started to rain. Heavily. The queue to pick
up your bike was a mile long (almost). It was lashing rain. People were frozen.
I had changed into warm, waterproof clothes but other people were frozen in
their skimpy tri-suits. The announcer kept reminding us that it is a blessing when it rains in Africa. They should have played "Africa" by Toto on continuous repeat - great song - there are quite a few pertinent lyrics in this song, but the key lyric for the athlete's village would have been "I bless the rains down in Africa..."
I got chatting to an Ecuadorean with a 27-minute 10K PB
and a 2:09 marathon PB. He ran 1:18 in the race, and he didn’t look that young
either! Good going. It was a long, soaking wet, miserable, painful trudge back
to the guesthouse. What was usually a 15 minute walk took about 45 minutes. I
was completely soaked through. My arm was locked due to carrying 4 transition
bags full of kit. I had to physically move it with my other arm to get my
clothes off. Agony. I got straight in the shower. My arm eased. My guesthouse
owner washed and dried everything. What a hero. The rain was still apocalyptic
but I didn’t feel too bad. My Achilles was sore, and my legs were a bit sore,
but otherwise I felt pretty decent.
Post-race nourishment was, well, absolutely freezing
I didn’t fancy the walk to the banqueting marquee in the
rain but my guesthouse owner solved that too and dropped me off. Such a good
guy. June, Stephen and Nakita were already there, in the company of a table full
of beer and wine. And another guy from Ireland. Happy days. I got stuck
straight in to the drink. The food was tremendous too. June had finished fourth
in her F60-64 age group and got a really cool lion trophy at the presentation.
Not bad for a newcomer to triathlon. They announced the finishing splits of the
prizewinners. The top amateur age groupers, from 20 years old right up to about
50 years old, were all probably good enough to be professionals. I really can’t fathom
how you can swim 21 or 22 minutes (I swam 28). I can probably get my head
around biking 2:20 on that course, but I can’t get my head around 2:15 and then
following that with a 1:15 half marathon. Such speed… It’s not called the world championships for nothing and
the best in the world were here. The female winner, Daniela Rfy, made a speech
when presented with her trophy – she spoke very well – I liked her – very
humble. The Mayor of Port Elizabeth was back, and he had worked even harder on this speech: "Ladies and Gentlemen! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! Thank you! Thank YOU! THANK YOU! Congratulations! CongratuLATIONS! CONGRATULATIONS! Port ELIZABETH! NELSON MANDELA! THANK YOU!" Tremendous, proud, inspiring and passionate stuff from my favourite mayor and speech-maker.
Plenty of drinks later, we were literally the last 4 left in
the whole marquee. So if they had 4000 there that night, we were in the top 0.1% of finishers...! We were ushered out, and headed for the Boardwalk
hotel’s bar – a few of the pros were hanging about there. More drink. More
craic and banter. June will go to do Ironman Barcelona in October. She may well
qualify for Kona. Good luck to her. We ended up being the last four left in the
hotel bar too. A dubious claim to fame. We finished up in the hotel lobby at
something like 3am. Such a great night.
I'm as baffled by this photo as I was about my run. What on earth...?!
I paid for it the next day. It was a horrible mess of pain.
I had an awful hangover. I was so dehydrated. I had the shakes. And my legs had
become unbelievably sore. No running for 7 weeks and then a 1:23 half marathon
will lead to extremely sore legs. I’ve been running since my late teens and I
have never, ever, ever felt worse. My quads and IT bands in particular were
just shot to pieces. They were not functioning. My Achilles was pretty sore. When
I finally summoned the resolve to try to get out of bed, I couldn’t stand up. I
couldn’t stand up from a sitting position, and I couldn’t sit down from a
standing position, and I couldn’t walk. Horrific. I could have done with a wheelchair.
I wasn’t really up to much for a couple of days. I got the
bike dismantled. I rounded 4 Allen keys trying to get my pedals off and then
gave up and limped the bike shop, where a big spanner did the job in 4 seconds
flat. On the way back I sat at the seafront for a while, not doing anything in
particular. I got chatting to an older guy, who had worked in the nearby
Volkswagen car factory. He had trained the mechanics and seemed particularly
proud that he had trained the first black African mechanics in the factory.
Apartheid must still be quite raw in the memory in South Africa – it’s still
recent history (Nelson Mandela became president in 1994). I had thought Volkswagen
was a German outfit, but I suppose the labour and production costs are cheaper
in South Africa. I ended up being given a tour of the factory, which was
amazing. Unfortunately I was told not to take any photos, but it was a really
interesting experience. The global economy in full swing, doing what it does
best, economising – producing stuff as cheaply as possible and selling it for a
big mark-up, with the profits going to a select few and not to those toiling to
make the products…
It didn’t take too long for the event organisers to get
everything packed away and even just a couple of days later there was a real sense
that the party was over. People were leaving – heading home, or off on safari,
or off on the Garden Route to Cape Town. There weren’t as many people left around
Port Elizabeth. It was quieter. Port Elizabeth, and especially the Summerstrand
area, were getting back to normality. With my flight ending up being a day
later than expected, I had an extra day to kill.
I was lucky enough to get
chatting to a great American girl and a great Italian girl living in America, and we
ended up renting a car and taking a mini road trip. We headed to Jeffrey’s Bay,
known for its surfing. It was windy! Anna and Amber went for a proper swim, I could
only brave it up to my thighs, but it helped to ease off my legs a little. Sand
went everywhere and I ended up dumping half the beach on the courtyard of my
guesthouse when I got back. We visited the Shell Museum (sea shells, not the oil company), and what could have been a horribly tacky museum was actually
quite cool, with some impressively large (and tiny) shells on show. There’s a
famous shark attack video of a surfer being attacked by a great white shark
while at a world championships. I hadn’t realised that it was at the very same
stretch of sand in Jeffrey’s Bay, which isn't all that far from Port Elizabeth...
We headed down to Cape St Francis, past some sobering
townships by the main road – filth, rubbish, shacks, goats, pigs, cows, and
people, just trying to get by. And us, with our first-world problems of self-inflicted
sore legs and how to fit a triathlon bike into a bike box… Cape St Francis was
wild – rocks, high seas, and a windswept lighthouse. One of the ends of the
world. Next stop Antarctica. And, under the lighthouse, away out here in the
middle of nowhere, a penguin rehabilitation centre. There were no staff
anywhere to be seen, everything was locked up, and the penguins weren’t giving
much away as to how and why a penguin rehabilitation centre had been founded
here.
By now we were hungry and we went to St Francis Bay village –
obviously a wealthy holiday village, with lots of second home, with its own
private airfield, with massive houses centred around artificially landscaped
marinas. And a great bakery, with cakes and pies that were so cheap and tasty
that it was impossible not to eat a good few. And, in contrast, just a few
miles up the road, the town of Humansdorp with its poverty where I felt just a little bit vulnerable driving through on the way back to Port Elizabeth. We made it back OK - a great day with great people.
And that was it for me – my flight was the next morning. I
was gutted to be leaving, but also happy to be leaving - it was all over, the
magic was gone. No reason left to stay. I’d have happily wound the clock back
two weeks. I was happy that I was happy, because after all the time and effort
and money and stress and injuries and low expectations, it was good to come
away on a high.
Superb aerial photo of the race venue (mostly in the lower half of the photo)
I hadn’t given much thought to the flights home. I was told
the bike would go straight to Edinburgh. I knew what I’d do though – check all
the baggage carousels en route home. It took a while to check at Johannesburg:
the baggage conveyor broke down and we had to move to a different one, and I
waited and waited and watched time getting tighter and tighter for the next flight. No
bike appeared and finally I told myself that the bike must indeed be on its way
to the Doha flight.
That's my bike, top left. I watched them handle it onto the plane. They handled it well, to be fair. An Irish guy, James, living in Perth, told me he watched his bike in much the same way, but he watched them fail to load it on the plane (not enough room obviously), and his plane pushed back and took off with his bike left behind! Nightmare! It turned up a couple of days later...
So then I rushed to the Doha flight and was one of the last
people to board. Not a good idea when you have a large carry-on bag with
fragile contents (bike gear, helmet etc). I got told on boarding the flight at
Johannesburg that my carry-on bag was too big. I protested. I had been on 4
previous flights with it, on the same ticket, and there was no problem. I told
them that the bag squashes down small anyway. Show us, they said. Despite best
efforts, the bag didn’t really squash down. I was last in the line. Everyone
else was boarded. Please guys, don’t make this a pain in the arse. A supervisor
was called. He looked at me. I looked at him. Be nice.... “Hurry up and board
him guys!” Fist-bump, cheers mate, and with a big smile at the staff who had
tried to make things awkward, I was on the plane.
I had been told that I would be OK to carry my CO2 cartridges
(for rapidly inflating a flat tyre) in my hand luggage, by none other than
Qatar Airways. It turned out that I got pulled at Doha airport in Qatar as
their scanning machines picked them out in my luggage. I was told they weren’t
allowed and I’d have to surrender them and the police would take my passport
details as a result. I protested. “But Qatar Airways said it would be fine!”
“But it’s already been on two flights with no problems!” A supervisor was
called. A Qatari policeman appeared. This was starting to look like it could
get a bit serious. I asked why they needed my passport details and asked if I was
in trouble. They said if I kept resisting (resisting?! I was only repeating
what I had been told, and trying to find out why they wanted my passport
details) then it would get worse. They said if they confiscate items they need
the name of the passenger for their report, and no I wasn’t in trouble currently,
but I would be if I kept “resisting” and I would be if I was caught with CO2
canisters in future. I wasn't going to win this argument. I gave them my details. And then legged
it to the next flight.
The next flight was the overnight flight to Edinburgh and it
was packed. No chance of three seats to myself. Trying to sleep bolt upright
wasn’t a great success and I gave up and watched some mindless films in a bit
of a stupor. We touched down at 7am on Friday morning, and I was pleased to see
the bike box had made it back too. For some reason, on the homeward leg, I had
been made to sign a liability waiver saying that the bike would only be covered
to the value of 20 dollars per kilo, which meant if it got damaged or lost I
would get 300 dollars. That wouldn’t even pay for a front wheel. I protested
signing this too, but was told to either sign it or leave the bike in South
Africa. Tempted as I was to leave the damn thing in South Africa, I signed… I
had looked at bike insurance, but none seemed to cover the bike when it was in
the “care” of an airline.
It’s now 9 days since race day. I’ve eaten my fair share of
junk food. Yesterday I ate cheesecake for breakfast, in front of my bemused
boss. He is more used to seeing me eating healthy food like carrots or bananas.
Yesterday I ate 8 cookies (and two baby beetroots) for dinner. I’ve done
precious little exercise. It was a stupid idea to enter the Scottish National
Olympic triathlon one week after the world half ironman. I bailed on that.
There’s a sprint duathlon this weekend (2 weeks after race day). I tried a run
2 days ago. Not having done any running for ages, my legs have lost all their
conditioning, and my feet have softened up. After the run in Port Elizabeth, massive callouses formed on my feet. Usually my feet are
hardened up and are used to running miles and miles every week, but they weren’t
used to it in Port Elizabeth.
So a short, 10-minute jog along the canal meant that the
hard callouses pretty much acted like abrasives, and damaged the skin underneath,
and I literally cannot run a step without being in agony. So the duathlon may
have to be canned as well. I have been selected by Ireland for the European
Duathlon championships, on the party island of Ibiza of all places, at the end of October. I am probably going to bail on this too. I don’t need the pressure of trying to train and run
when injured, and spending all the time and money on something that is going to be
sub-par. I need to recover, re-set, and re-charge. The season is over.
What next? Well, the bike needs a full strip down, clean, and
re-grease. I need some rest and recovery, and I need to get my Achilles and
legs and feet back to normal. I want to do cross-country running over the
winter, and to do that I need to be able to run (talk about stating the
obvious). So I just want to get back to the simple act of running, pain-free.
I’ll keep my hand in with the swimming and cycling once a
week over the winter, and I’ll have two big targets for next year – the world
duathlon championships in Spain in April, and the world sprint (or Olympic)
triathlon championships in Switzerland at the end of the summer. I’ll also look
to do the Irish and Scottish national sprint and/or Olympic triathlon
championships.
I’ll have a think about committing to a full ironman again,
likely in 2020, likely in Port Elizabeth, with a Plan B at Ironman UK later in
2020. One last tilt at Kona? Maybe? Or maybe I’ll scrap the above plan to do shorter stuff in 2019 and decide to go for Ironman
South Africa in April 2019… or maybe not. I’ll let the dust settle and have a
think. But if that’s how good the half ironman world championships were, how
good must Kona be?! I suspect so many people enjoyed Port Elizabeth so much
that they may well end up coming back to race the full ironman there – and
these are the world’s best – which will make qualifying there more difficult. But these
are all thoughts for another day – for now I’ll settle for coming through the half
ironman world championships and having had a great time in South Africa.
Training done (or more accurately “lack of training done”
(or perhaps I should say “tapering done”)) in the run-up was as follows:
Mon 27 Aug: Rest
Tue 28 Aug: 30 min turbo
Wed 29 Aug: Rest
Thu 30 Aug: Rest
Fri 31 Aug: 2 hour bike
Sat 1 Sep: Rest
Sun 2 Sep: Half ironman world championships:
Swim 1.9k: 28:36. T1 3:34. Bike 90k: 2:34:48 (2:27/28 without the mechanical
issue), 157bpm, 234/242W. T2 3:27. Run half marathon: 1:23:04 (6:28/mile,
173bpm), 4:33:27 overall.
