Ironman UK. Bolton. Wow. I finally qualified for Kona. The
Ironman World Championships. The Big Dance. Hawaii. It’s probably fair to say
that I’m not easily impressed, but Ironman UK 2019 was brilliant. After 10
years of Ironman disasters, I never thought I’d be able to describe an Ironman
as brilliant. It was the best weekend of my life. I wish I was still there racing it!
It’s now over 3 weeks since race day and the dust has
finally started to settle. It really happened. I delivered a good Ironman race.
I had always thought that if I could deliver a good race, I’d be in the mix for
Kona qualification. I kept backing myself. I kept believing I could do it. And so
it proved… I achieved Kona qualification! What a relief. Vindication for the
huge amount of time, effort, money, sacrifice, and – yes – blood, sweat and
tears too.
There was so much to do in the aftermath of the race, it was
difficult to find time to write, but here goes…
The final week or two before the race was spent tapering
down. Tapering seemed to go well, but the taper is difficult. When you are used
to the big miles, and to being tired, and to having very little time, the body
can find it strange to drop the levels and the intensity. It can feel strange.
But I’m used to it. It’s just a case of letting the time pass, and telling
yourself everything is fine.
I still wasn’t super-happy with the gears on my bike and
took them to a local bike shop. He said he would try a new derailleur which
might help them align better. The new derailleur didn’t make any difference so
he did his best with the existing derailleur and made them as good as they
could be. Which probably wasn’t much better than they already had been, but I
wanted to satisfy myself that I’d done everything I could for the bike. The bike was in good shape.
I had to admit to myself that I was in good shape too. Training had gone well. I’d
really put everything I had into it. All or nothing. It’s not just the hours
and hours of training, the endless lengths up and down the pool, the thousands
and thousands of miles on the bike, the hours running up and down hills, it’s
not just the three disciplines of swimming, biking and running, but it’s also the stretching, the weights, the core
work, the sleeping, the diet, the hydration, the equipment, the “self-care” –
all the massages and podiatrist appointments. The whole-life commitment.
Endless hours of devotion to it.
It was difficult to gauge how I might go in Ironman UK 2019, as the bike course was so different this
year. In previous years, 5:20 would have been a decent bike time, to put you in
the mix to qualify. I knew the shape I needed to be in to do such a bike time
(260+ watts for 100 miles was giving me 3:58 for 100-mile time trial events in
previous years, had translated roughly to 5:20 on the old Ironman UK bike
course). This year I had no idea. I guessed I might be able to do something in
the region of 5:50 to 6:20, based on training rides and my visit down to drive
and cycle the bike course earlier in the year. But where would this rank among
the top competitors…? Would it be good enough to qualify?
I had planned to swim something like 63-65 minutes. I thought
I could swim 56-57 if I pushed hard in the water, but experience led me to plan
to swim well within myself, and to come out of the water nice and fresh, with
minimal energy expended. Previous years had seen me starting the bike with a
heart rate of 170+, which was way too high. It was always difficult to get the
heart rate down after such a high start, so I realised I had been swimming too hard in previous years and needed to tone it down a bit.
Then I planned to start off the bike at 170-180 watts.
Really low. But really necessary. Training out on the road with a power meter
has been extremely useful this year, and if I started at such a “low” power,
then I knew I could ride strongly for 6-8 hours without fading. Not fading on
the bike was essential. Fading in the later stages of the bike would mean that the marathon would
be a long, painful, miserable trudge. Starting below 200 watts would mean my
heart rate would be acceptable, I wouldn’t be going “into the red”, and I would
then build throughout the 6 hours, hoping to edge the average up to something
like 210 watts.
Plus, toning the swim and bike back a bit would mean that
the body would better be able to process the nutrition I would have to take on,
and in turn this would mean that I’d be less likely to threaten the port-a-loos
(or in the worst case, my tri shorts, as has happened in the past…), or indeed
threaten the road with vomit…
I’d done all my long runs in training on hilly routes, and I figured I’d
need to run something in the region of 3:20 for the hilly marathon course to
qualify. My previous Ironman best was 3:34, but I’ve never felt I’ve run well
in an Ironman.
So I had my racing plan, backed up by a fairly well tested
nutrition and hydration plan. Tailwind Nutrition has been really good. It’s a
powder you dilute with water. It’s not sickly, doesn’t make you feel pukey,
tastes good and has “all you need, all day” – genuinely – all the electrolytes,
energy, carbs and liquid. I’m glad I came across it.
Preparation of nourishment and hydration
I had the training done. I was in decent shape. I knew the
bike course – I’d been round it twice in the flesh, and had watched it numerous
times on YouTube. I had made notes of the timings of the dangerous parts, and
knew exactly how to ride them. Everything was set. Even the weather forecast
was perfect. Warm (or as warm as could be hoped), but overcast. No risk of
sunburn. No wind. No rain (mercifully for the bike course – it was dangerous
enough in the dry, I can’t imagine how it would have been in the wet. I could
well imagine them having to shorten or cancel the bike if it had been wet).
So it was off to Bolton for my tenth attempt at an Ironman,
on the morning of Friday 12th July. It was a fairly painless drive down. I
didn’t want to rely on having to eat unfamiliar and often terrible food from motorway
service stations so I made sure I had enough of my own food to get me through
the 5-hour drive. I even stopped outside my office on the way out of Edinburgh
and had a colleague bring me out two scones from the canteen, keeping things as
familiar as possible. I had a few stops on the way to Bolton, did a few short walks and
some stretching to keep mobile and loose.
I was staying in an Airbnb with Deirdre. I’d never stayed in
an Airbnb during an Ironman before. It was brilliant. I was able to cook and
eat all my own food. I brought my own chopping board, my own cutlery, my own
plates and bowls. Sticking with what I knew, and what I knew was clean.
Compared to eating hotel food, it made such a difference. Hotel food has
scuppered previous Ironman races in the form of food poisoning and stomach upsets.
Maintaining the body’s equilibrium is important in the final
few days. I brought my own pillow. It was quiet. Both were essential to keep
the good sleep going. Deirdre was insured on my car, which meant I didn’t have
to drive repeatedly through Bolton on the various trips to register, rack
equipment, get food, and do what needs to be done. So this helped save my legs
and knees from pressing the clutch and from repeated accelerating and braking.
All this might sound like unbelievable overkill, but it was all vital and all
planned to be as easy and stress-free as possible.
I got registered quite quickly on Friday afternoon and had
enough time to spare to go and watch the “Night Run” – a 5km run around the
start/finish area of the Ironman course in Bolton city centre and nearby
Queen’s Park. Bolton was buzzing. The finish area was looking good underneath
the imposing Town Hall, with the massive Ironman banner hanging large over it
all. There were bands playing, there was on-street entertainment, the sun was
out. A great atmosphere. I was glad I went along to it instead of sitting in
the house, stewing, with too much time to think. Hundreds of people were doing
the Night Run, Deirdre flew around, finishing in the top 10 females. There was
a free drink for all finishers and it was good she finished so quickly because
she didn’t have to queue for the drink… it wasn’t long before there was a big
queue of night runners all keen to avail of the free rehydration…
I got to bed fairly early on the Friday evening and slept
fairly well. I got up early on Saturday. Deirdre headed off to a local ParkRun
and I took the bike out for a spin. I had read an article about doing something
short and sharp the day before race day, to open out the legs. In years gone by
I would have done very little for the couple of days beforehand. So I did 45
minutes on the bike, pushing quite hard up a few hills, feeling good. I still
hadn’t quite decided which pair of shorts to wear, so I tried a couple of pairs
and made my decision. For some reason, I started to feel a little bit of a
strain behind my right knee. I put a load of cream on it and tried to shrug it
off. It didn’t feel like a major problem.
That done, it was time to prepare the two transition bags,
prepare the bike, prepare the nutrition and hydration. It always takes time to
get things ready and make sure all the bases are covered in order to have
everything I might need in the transition areas, and also to make sure all the
nutrition quantities and liquid volumes were sufficient, with a bit of
contingency.
My Sunday dinner
Then it was back into Bolton to rack the T2 bike-to-run bag
at the Queen’s Park transition area. I walked through it all and made sure I
knew exactly where my bike would be racked, where my bag was racked, where I’d
sit to get into my running gear, where I’d hang my bag when done, where I’d go
to exit the transition tent.
Deirdre had first-hand experience of the park from the Night
Run, and told me the park was hilly. A short wander through the park confirmed
this. It didn’t bother me, I’d trained endlessly on the hills. It wouldn’t be
the quickest of marathon courses but I knew what I was in for. After this, we
headed for Pennington Flash and the swim venue, to rack the bike and bike
equipment. The Flash looked calm and benign, and it wouldn’t be cold. No
jellyfish. No waves. Perfect. The marker buoys were out. 3800m looks a lot
further when it’s in open water compared with in a pool. I racked my bike,
racked my T1 swim-to-bike bag, got everything set up, walked through it all,
made sure I knew where I’d go and how I’d get through transition.
I have achieved Ironman’s All World Athlete status due to
being in the top few percent of competitors worldwide, and so had a priority
racking area in transition, which was good. It also meant I got a gold coloured
swim hat and would easily be able to identify other All World Athletes. I had
noted that there seemed to be quite a few Europeans in my age group – usually
this means if people are travelling over from the Continent, they are chasing
Kona slots, which makes things more competitive. Not that it mattered. I
couldn’t do anything about them. All I could do was try to do the best race I
could.
We headed back to the house, had dinner, and I headed for
bed. The alarm was set for 3:15am. I slept as well as I could have hoped, and
when I got up on race morning, it was dark. I hadn’t seen the dark for weeks
and weeks – I’d been going to bed shortly after 10pm for months, and with it
being the middle of summer it was still bright when I went to bed, and bright
when I got up.
I had a light breakfast – a toasted bagel and peanut butter.
I’d learned that stodgy porridge wasn’t a great race day breakfast for me. I’d
nibble on a cereal bar and have a drink of Tailwind caffeinated electrolyte
energy drink before the start. We headed off. Got to Pennington Flash. It was
getting bright. The quiet, organised chaos of an Ironman transition area and
start area.
I grabbed my bike and took it over to the transition fence,
away from all the chaos. A bit of peace and headspace. I oiled the chain,
mounted my Garmin computer, calibrated my power meter, put the bottles on
board, put my cycling gloves on the aero bars (to be put on the in the first
mile of the bike), pumped up the tyres, and pleaded silently with the bike to
get me around 112 rough, tough miles without failing me.
I handed over my white “street wear” bag to the volunteers,
who would transport it to the finish area. Then it was time to lube myself up
with BodyGlide and SuitJuice, and get the wetsuit on. My timings were perfect.
No rush. I wondered about wearing two layers or one layer under the wetsuit and
therefore on the bike. Although it would be a warm day, it could be chilly
enough on the bike at 7:30am when just out of a swim. In the end I went with
one layer.
I had time to go and jog for a few minutes to get the blood pumping,
and to windmill my arms to warm them up for the swim. Then into line, past someone dressed as Neptune (god of the sea and freshwater). Music booming. Announcers drumming up excitement over the microphones and sound systems. It was
time. No more could be done. I was ready. I was calm. Let’s do this.
No words needed here
It was a land-based rolling start and your time would start
when you crossed the timing mats just before the end of the pontoon. I thought
they would feed us into the water gradually as they have done in previous
races, but when the race started, it was a bit of a free-for-all as those at
the front of the line of 2000-odd athletes legged it and jumped/dived in. I’ve
suffered from hitting rocks at swim starts in the past, so I eased myself down
into the water as people were jumping over the top of me. And I was away. I
swam over a few weeds before it got deeper, and forced myself to swim nice and
easy.
It looked like 2000-odd athletes were swimming past me, and
with them the Kona slots. And it was difficult to have the discipline to take
it easy. But my experience has been very hard-earned, I wasn’t about to waste
it and get carried away, and I took it easy. Nice relaxed strokes. Nice easy
breathing. Off slightly to one side to avoid the argy-bargy. It was good. Wide
around the first turn buoy, across to the second turn, going along nicely.
Heading towards the end of the first lap. No sun out, so no glare and easy
sighting. The first lap passed fairly quickly.
After the first lap there was a short run on land where I
adjusted my goggles, had a quick check of the watch (on course for a sub-60-
swim, but usually the second lap is slightly slower than the first) and ran a
gauntlet of cheering spectators. All too soon it was back into the water.
Again, people were diving crazily in. It wasn’t worth the risk and I eased
myself back in.
Usually you reach an equilibrium in the first lap of the
swim, and the short land section between laps can knock this equilibrium. I had
a thermal wetsuit on, and the water temperature was good, so I soon reached the
same equilibrium again and never felt cold or out of control.
For about half of
the second lap I swam right beside another gold-capped All World Athlete. We
were inseparable, swimming at exactly the same pace, locked together, probably
taking a bit of subconscious comfort from each other. Then as we started
lapping the slower swimmers we lost each other trying to avoid the mule-kicking
breaststroking legs that could ruin the day with one kick to the face.
My left shoulder, the one that I dislocated in a freak bike crash almost exactly 2 years ago, got a bit achey as usual in the longer swims, but it has come a long way from where it was 2 years ago, with my arm hanging off at a sickening angle...
Swim exit
I got through it, allowed a volunteer to haul me onto the
pontoon and ran towards transition, stripping my wetsuit, hat, goggles and
earplugs as I went. I had swum just under an hour. Faster than I wanted! But it
felt pretty good. I grabbed my transition bag. Laid out my towel. Folded it
over my feet to try to dry them. Put on my race number belt. Gulped some flat
coke to try to kill any bugs and germs from the swim. Shoved 4 gels into my
back pockets (they didn’t all fit on the bike). Pulled on socks and bike shoes.
Shovelled my wetsuit and swim bits into the transition bag. Grabbed my helmet
and arm warmers. Legged it out of there. Threw my transition bag at a
volunteer. Put my helmet on as I was running towards the bike. Tried to haul my
arm warmers on over my wet arms (easier said than done). I got to my bike and
was still hauling them on, so with them half-on I grabbed my bike and headed
for the mount line. It wasn’t the fastest transition time in the world but it
meant I’d be as comfortable as possible on the bike.
Spectators were everywhere as I was pushing my bike to the
mount line. I’ve no idea how, but I looked up and there was Deirdre. “You’re
seventh out of the water…” Seventh in my age group. Maybe fortieth overall.
There were 5 Kona slots in my age group at this race last year. There would
definitely be 4 slots this year. There might be 5. Top 4 would guarantee Kona
qualification. Fifth or sixth would have a reasonable chance. Seventh to tenth
would have a very slim chance. Anything lower than tenth would have such a low
chance that it would be effectively no chance. I was momentarily a little bit
disappointed to be as low as seventh after such a decent swim, but I told
myself that I hadn’t pushed hard in the swim and I was setting myself up to
have a strong bike. Anyone ahead of me would have had to have swum hard and
fast, burning energy. There was a long day ahead.
Onto the bike. The first half-mile is on the road out of
Pennington Flash country park. There are speed bumps. Athletes were turning the
air blue as they hit the speed bumps and their bottles, spares, tools, gels,
and other bits and pieces went flying. Some chose to stop to pick them up, some
didn’t. It was a bit hazardous but I had my wits about me and I knew that there
were 6 inches of flat road to the far left of each speed bump, so I took this
line to avoid the bumps, kept things flat and under control. No point in
sprinting the first mile as everyone else seemed to be doing. Put the blinkers
on and ride your own ride.
My gloves were looped onto my aero bars and I had practiced
putting them on in training. I knew that putting them on would force me to ride
easy for a mile or two. I knew padded gloves would be a good idea as a lot of
the bike course had roads which were very badly surfaced. I had even bought new
padded handlebar tape and extended it right down the grips to minimise the
vibrations.
I had made sure everything was well-tightened and
well-secured on the bike – my bottles and spares were essential and I couldn’t
afford to lose them. I got the gloves on, got the arm warmers pulled up, got as
comfortable as possible, got an energy gel and a drink down me, and settled
down (as much as it’s possible to settle down when bent over in a tight
aerodynamic position).
I did keep things easy, and my heart rate was good. Not too
high. Quite a few bikes came past. I knew this would happen. It always happens.
Some weaker swimmers who are better on the bike always come through. Other
people always get over-excited in the early stages of the bike – you’ve tapered
down and are feeling fresh and you feel great on race day and you push the
first 30 miles of the bike too hard because it feels so good, and then you
suffer later. That wasn’t going to happen to me.
I was going to build from 180 to 210 watts and freewheel
down the hills to recover. The hills were so dangerous anyway that you couldn’t
open the speed out and power down them, so the course perfectly suited me – I
could climb well as my race weight was 63kg (at 6 feet and 1 inch tall and only
63kg I was glad it was a warm day), and then use the downhills for recovery,
hopefully leaving me fresh for the marathon. In previous years I’d have been
carrying 3kg of liquid. This year I’d only carry a maximum of 1.3kg of liquid,
which would reduce weight and help me up the hills.
I saw more bottles go flying and one part of the flattest
section on the main road was so bad that it was like a jackhammer. The road
vibrations were battering me. The bike was clattering over them. It wasn’t
pretty. One of the lead females lost her bottle and I nearly cycled over the
top of it. I had to swerve to avoid being wiped out by it. She stopped to pick
it up. In the early stages, with the cloud cover, it wasn’t warm and there were
even a few brief spots of rain. But that was as bad as the weather good.
Thankfully.
The route went into Bolton, over a cobbled section (more
jackhammering), past an aid station (manned by an army of people dressed as oompa-loompas, tremendous) and then out into the countryside where the
“fun” (i.e. hills) would start. I was feeling decent, and the race had started
to stabilise. Not many were coming past now. My heart rate seemed very low. It
couldn’t possibly be that low. Could it?! I realised that my heart rate
monitor’s chest strap had fallen down under my tight triathlon top. It has
never ever fallen down. How to get it back up…? I was heading up a long hill
and I sat up and tried to wiggle and jiggle it back into position under my
tight triathlon top. I didn’t dare to take both hands off the bars to do this,
so it was an awkward operation.
Then a happy athlete caught me up. “Hi John!” I heard from
behind. Who’s this, I thought? He had read my name off my race number which was
visible to the rear. We had a bit of a chat. He was Lithuanian but living in
London. He obviously had an eye on Kona. He knew it would be a long bike and as
another athlete came flying past we looked at each other, probably both
thinking he was going too fast, and we said we have to just settle into this
and accept it’s going to be 6 hours or more… we were back and forth for a
couple of hours before I dropped him.
It was hilly, gritty cycling. One really dangerous descent
on a last-minute course change nearly caught me out, with a hairpin turn at the
bottom. You’d wonder why the marshals don’t sweep the apex of these corners to
clear them of grit and gravel. I survived.
Approaching an aid station after nearly 2 hours on the bike,
I hit adversity. I grabbed my nearly-empty front bottle and put it in my mouth
to dump it. I reached the litter zone, ditched the bottle, and grabbed a new
bottle of water. I still had a full bottle of Tailwind Nutrition in my rear
bottle cage behind my saddle. I was through the aid station before I realised
that the bottle I had picked up was less than half full. As good as the
volunteers were all day, and they were fantastic, this wasn’t great. I had been
expecting to pick up 750ml of water and I got about 300ml instead. I wasn’t too
worried because I knew I had the rear bottle with 600ml of Tailwind, so I’d be
OK to get through to the next aid station, about 80 minutes away.
I reached back to transfer the rear bottle to the front
bottle cage. But dammit, the rear bottle was gone! I hadn’t even noticed. If I
had noticed it falling out, I would have stopped and picked it up. The rear
cage was still secured, so it must have just been ejected out by the force of
the bumps. There was nothing I could have done. I’ve been using that cage for
years and never had a problem. My literally precious Tailwind Nutrition with
the all-important electrolytes was gone. I had about 300ml of water to get me
through the next 80 minutes. The aid station was a few hundred metres behind. I
made a quick decision to carry on. I knew I had a few gels on the bike, and
four more in my back pockets. Each gel is about 60ml, so a few gels and the
300ml of water would make almost 500ml. Just about OK for 80 minutes.
Then the adversity got decidedly worse. I reached into one
of my back pockets. No gels. Expletive. OK, well, there were two more in the
other pocket. I reached into the other pocket. Big expletive. No gels. They
were gone. How could they be gone?! I have never lost gels from my rear
pockets. I can only think it must have been the force of the road bumps. I had
lost about 3 hours’ worth of nutrition. Nutrition I had trained with for
months. With no option to pick up like for like at aid stations on course. I
had packed contingency nutrition so I took stock. I’d have to ration my water
and gels until the next aid station. I’d planned to use water on course when my
Tailwind ran out. Now I’d have no option but to pick up the on-course Enervit
energy drink. It was unknown and untried and untested and unproven. I was
worried it would make me puke. But I couldn’t do anything about it.
I ploughed on. Up hill and down dale. Into the dangerous
Pickup Bank section. I knew exactly how to ride this from my course
familiarisation. Miss the big pothole on the apex of the right hander, carry
all the speed through the left hander, brake a little for the right hander and
let the speed take you all the way up the short steep hill on the other side.
Then over the crest and along to the most dangerous descent on the section. I
noted the ambulance parked at the top of the hill. Into the tight downhill
right hander then I let loose on a scary fast narrow descent, and then heavy
braking in good time for the left-hander at the bottom. I smelled burning when
I braked. But I rode the section perfectly. More hills and more hills and
finally the aid station at 51 miles arrived. I picked up a bottle of water and
a bottle of energy drink and got some of it down me. I felt OK. Ploughed on.
Determinedly pedalling and munching my way up (yet another) hill.
I was eating an energy bar at this point...
The random pockets of support in the middle of nowhere were
fantastic. The support in the towns and villages was also pretty good. I’m sure
the good weather helped. The support helped to make the miles pass and I tried
to give as many supporters as possible a smile and a thumbs up. Things were
going well, I was feeling good, and I told myself I had to try to enjoy it if
at all possible. It could well turn ugly later in the day but while I was
feeling good, try to enjoy it… On the steep hill on the Roman Road, a spectator
told me I was dancing up the climb. Hopefully I’d still be dancing in a few
hours…
I headed on to the Sheephouse Lane climb, this time going
over it from the Belmont side, the reverse direction to previous years. The
atmosphere at the pub at the bottom of the climb was brilliant, so many people out cheering, it was like Alpe d'Huez at the Tour de France, through a tunnel of cheering spectators, and I felt
rejuvenated from the fresh drinks and the cheering crowds. It was a great few
hundred metres and I hardly noticed that it was one of the steepest parts of
the course. I knew once I got over Sheephouse lane there was a long descent
(recovery!) and then a good flat section back into and through Bolton, then I’d
be well into the second half of the ride.
I knew the “wrestlers” would be at the top of the climb and
I looked forward to passing them. They’ve become iconic at Ironman UK, turning
out with flags, masks, capes, flamboyant tight pants, banners, music and high
fives in all weathers at the top of Sheephouse Lane at Ironman UK - they've been doing this for as long as I can remember. They are an integral and iconic part of the race now, so much so that this years’ medal features them. All the support on course was brilliant, it really does lift you and help you around the route.
I kept everything under control on the climb, and descended
perfectly. Brake for the first right hander, let gravity take you, not much
braking until the arrow signs at the right hander, then let loose all the way
to the tea house, over the cattle grid, don’t brake until well beyond the 20mph
signs, then brake, then let loose again all the way down to the reservoir. 3-4
minutes of recovery . Great.
Then a good flat aero section into Bolton where the average
speed crept up again. I remember swerving to try to avoid some broken glass and
hoping I wouldn’t get a flat tyre. Through Bolton and approaching the cobbled
section again, the town centre was busier now. The cobbles were painful. Like
Flanders. I saw Deirdre, and she said I was still seventh. Fair enough. I hadn’t
been blitzed and swamped by the uber-power-bikers. A few had passed me, I had
passed a few. Maintaining seventh. In the ballpark for a Kona slot. I could
have been pushing harder in the swim and the bike and been placed higher, but
there was still half the race to go. You don’t qualify for Kona in the first
half of the race… I was enjoying it. Feeling good. Under control. Not labouring
or fading.
So it was back out onto the hilly course for the second and
final lap. I peed a couple of times on the bike, a good sign that I was well
hydrated, The on-course energy drink wasn’t making me puke. It was quite a
lonely bike ride, a sign that I wasn’t going backwards (which was good), but
also that I wasn’t going forwards (which wasn’t as bad as it sounds – I was
sure that this status quo would change in the marathon). As well as I thought I
was climbing, the lead female was climbing even better. She would pass me on
the climbs and I would pass her on the flat sections or descents. She was going
well. The support on course was pretty good. I was still enjoying it. I saw
evidence of a few crashes, which didn’t surprise me. I hoped everyone would be
OK. Bike bits and bottles were strewn everywhere.
Out at the Grane Road, I saw a running clubmate and his
partner – he had told me they’d be in the vicinity and would come out and
support. He has got into triathlons recently and it was great to see them. At
around this time I started to feel for the first time that the power was fading
ever so slightly. My average had topped out at almost 210 watts but for the
first time it was starting to creep down rather than up. 220 watts going up the
hills was now feeling much tougher than earlier. But it wasn’t a massive fade.
I wasn’t blowing up. I kept going with the nutrition and hydration. Kept
freewheeling the downhills for recovery. Kept trying to enjoy the support and
the scenery (where possible!)
I got through the Pickup Bank section safely again. It was a
course that demanded maximum concentration. At the far end there of Pickup Bank
was a tight right-hander then a left-hander leading onto a flatter, faster
section. Going round these blind bends, a young kid on a bike was coming right
at me. His dad was on his bike, on the correct side of the road. The kid was
coming right at me in the wrong lane. So dangerous. We could both have been
wiped out. I yelled at him and he saw me just in time to swerve out of the way.
I kept going. Everything kept functioning. Ride the hill,
recover on the descent, eat, drink, pee, pay attention, monitor heart rate and
power. A few people passed me. That’s what happens. I was down 10-15 watts on
previously, and that was enough for a few people to take advantage. On the
approach to Sheephouse lane I knew it was only one more climb before a descent
and a flat section to finish the bike. Sheephouse lane was a bit more laboured
this time, without doubt. But I still felt I was riding fairly well.
Someone was counting the positions and he told me I was
30-somethingth overall. I was determined to keep my average power over 200 watts, which
helped to keep me motivated in the final hour. It was a long bike ride, it was going to be more than 6 hours in the saddle for me. But I had trained for a long hilly bike ride,
and I knew that I had been able to run really well (albeit for short distances)
off such long bike rides.
So I passed the wrestlers again at the top of Sheephouse Lane. I wondered how many times I had cycled past them over the years, and would I ever cycle past them again...? I recovered on the
descent, and got as aero as possible on the flat section into Bolton. Head
“turtled” down low, shoulders shrugged in tight to minimise the frontal area. I
actually passed a couple of riders on the way in, which was good for the
morale.
I hit transition after 112 miles, 10,000 feet of climbing (well, 9977 on my Garmin) and 6 hours
and 12 minutes in the saddle. 10,000 feet of climbing! A hilly spin on the bike
to say the least. We used to go on holidays to Donegal and we used to climb
Mount Errigal. Errigal is 750m high, but because you start the climb above sea
level, the total ascent is maybe 650m, or around 2000 feet. So I had climbed
the equivalent of 5 Mount Errigals. Or loosely the equivalent of 4 Munros. I'd come a long way to be able race around a course like that, given that 15-16 months ago I was tentatively trying to get the confidence back to take a bike out on the roads at all, never mind race, after the crash and injuries in Cork in 2017.
I dismounted and racked the bike. We had survived. No flat
tyres. No mechanical issues. No crashes. It had been a decent bike section. Not spectacular,
but the bike didn’t need to be spectacular. There was a marathon to run. Kona
is won and (more frequently) lost in the second half of the marathon. Now it was down to me. You always hope that you get a fair crack and get through the bike with no issues, which means it really is all down to you in the marathon.
It was agony in transition, bending over to take off my
socks and bike shoes. My hips flexors were sore, to say the least. I knew it would be temporary,
but the pain would have been worrying for a first-timer. I got vaseline between my
toes, put on a fresh pair of socks, got the running shoes on, threw on my cap
and sunglasses, put on my watch, shoved a gilet into my back pocket, grabbed my
bottle of Tailwind and a couple of gels, and headed out to run. Again it wasn’t
the fastest of transitions, but it meant I was giving myself every chance to be
as comfortable as possible on the run.
Deirdre was there. Of course she was there. Great supporter
(GS…?!). She told me I was still seventh. Seventh. I was in the ballpark. What are you made
of? 3 hours to find out. Do you want Kona? How much do you want it? 10 years. Let's end this. If you can
run well, you can give yourself a chance. I’ve never ran well in an Ironman
marathon. Time to change that. Let’s do this. Plus I wasn't ready to call a halt to my summer just yet. Yes it's tough, but I love training. I love being out on the bike, putting the miles in, and it's a good feeling when you know you are fit, when body and mind work together in training, when you feel strong. I love the process of working towards a goal, of analysing all the components, of learning and improving, of getting the most out of myself. I didn't want any of it to end just yet. If I wanted it to continue, to continue through to Kona in October, I had 26.2 miles to do something about it...
The first mile was in 7 minutes flat. I’d planned to run the
first few miles in 7:50 or so, and hopefully ease gradually into 7:30/mile
pace. 7 minutes was a fast first mile, and the next few were also fast. In fact, 5 of my first 8 miles were under 7:10. I never thought that would happen...
But
I felt good. I told myself that if I was serious about Kona, I might have to
roll the dice a little bit. Much like the world half ironman championships in
South Africa, I started running faster than I wanted, felt great, and managed
to hang on. 7 minutes per mile wasn’t ruinously fast. 6:30 or 6:00 would have been too
fast. 7 was fast, but it felt good. I hoped and felt like it wasn’t going to
destroy me.
The run course was four laps: through the town centre and
past the finish area, up through Queen’s Park, onto the main road, out and
back, then back into Queens Park, down into Bolton, repeated 4 times. Running
through Bolton was fun. The crowds and atmosphere were great. I barely noticed
the hill in Queen’s Park on the first lap. There weren’t many runners on course
at this stage. A good sign.
I got up onto the main road. Feeling great. Sipping on my
Tailwind. Supplementing it with an occasional gel. Overtaking people. Enjoying
it. Actually enjoying it! Past a fantastic steel drum band. Through the
“armband station” where you get a different coloured armband for every lap you
complete. Back into the park. Down past transition. As in South Africa, I told
myself I would not allow myself to be overtaken, ever. This was something to
focus on. Who was the next person ahead that I’d chase down…? Through Bolton.
Back up through Queen’s Park. Again barely noticing the hill. I’d trained for
that hill for months.
I got through halfway in the marathon feeling great. Or
rather, as great as it’s possible to feel at that stage of an Ironman. I was
getting great support from Deirdre. It really does make all the difference. I
carried a gilet on the run in case I felt I was getting cold, but I felt
confident enough to ditch it. The temperature was warm. It suited me. I was
ticking the miles off. A Swedish guy overtook me and I was gutted. But then I
watched him run straight into the port-a-loo and I never saw him again. My guts
and stomach were doing well. The Tailwind was doing its job. I wasn’t tempted
to over-eat.
I didn’t know it but Steve was doing a lot of research in
Ireland and he knew that the guy leading my age group (who won the whole thing)
had already qualified. So he wouldn’t be taking his slot. So if there were 4
slots, fifth place would be guaranteed a slot. If there were 5 slots, sixth
would be guaranteed. He fed this information to Deirdre, who fed it to me,
along with the fact that I had climbed a position to sixth. It was so close,
but so far away…
Then on the third climb up through Queen’s Park, I started
to suffer. The pace dropped. I felt a lack of strength. It’s probably just
under a mile up through the park to the main road and this was my slowest mile
of the whole run. 9 minutes flat. It was a horrible slog. Where you exit the
park onto the main road, there was a Red Bull energy station. I never touched
the stuff. They had a mist spray you had to run through to cool you down. I
barely noticed it on the first two laps but it chilled me badly on the third
lap. I was in a bad spell. I wasn’t strong up the hill, and now I was chilled.
Suffering up the hill
This was a make or break moment. I had to be strong on the
main road. I had to get my speed back. With a lap and a half to go, if I faded
now, any chance of Kona would be gone. Somehow, the pace came back. It was
strange. It came back almost effortlessly. I'd been very specific in my training for this particular race and the particular course characteristics of the bike and the run courses. I’d trained endlessly on hills. I
was ready to push myself so hard. I had to. It was good. I was still running
well. I got my third armband. I clocked a sub-7 minute mile. This was happening. But could I sustain it...?
By now I had I run out of Tailwind and was relying on the
aid stations. But the feeding and drinking were under control. I didn’t think
there would be gut or stomach bombs. I passed Deirdre again. She screamed
“You’re sixth, all to play for!” It was indeed all to play for.
The course was
getting busier as more athletes finished their bike rides. I used them to make
sure I kept moving forwards and every time I overtook someone I would look
straight ahead to the next one. A few runners did overtake me, but not many at
all. As in South Africa, in the first 70% of the run I really don’t think
anyone overtook me. Then for the final 20-30%, a few did come through. Maybe
they were fresh and over-exuberant on their first lap. But it was good. Only a few
runners overtaking me was much better than hundreds swarming past, as has
happened in previous years when the run has gone badly wrong.
I got back into Bolton. Passed the finish area. I knew the
next time I saw the finish line, I’d be done. I knew once I turned to leave
Bolton there was only one more Queen’s Park hill to run up. Just keep going.
Keep maintaining. Do not fade. DO NOT FADE. You’ve dreamed of being in
contention with one lap (10km) left. You’re in the position now. What will you
do about it?
Running out of Bolton to start the last lap, things were a
blur. I passed through the aid station just as you leave town. The old course
run which I know so well used to turn right onto a main road out of town. The
new course turned left and went through the park before emerging on the same
main road. I almost turned right and someone shouted at me and I had a bit of a
wobble trying to change direction and get back on the new course. But it was
OK.
That fourth and final hill. One last hill. All the hills you've done. 10 years. Don't let one more hill ruin it. Just one more. I went
up it faster than the previous lap. It was a blur and a slog, but there were a
lot of people on that hill by now and I worked so hard to try to be faster up it than all of them. The Red Bull station’s cooling mist was switched
off. I was glad. No chills.
Last hill
I battered my way up that last main road section, past the
steel band who were still going strong, turned at the top, tried to keep it
going. Less than 3 miles left. The pace was dropping. Not a lot. Just a little.
The pace had dropped beyond 10-minute miling in previous years, which was
disastrous. It was down at 8:20 or so now. Not a disaster, but I had to keep
going and keep strong. If I could stay strong, there was a chance of Kona. If I
could stay strong, there was a guarantee of being able to say “That was a good
performance.” Then even if Kona didn’t happen, I would at least have a good
performance to show for it.
I got the fourth armband. I pulled out a 7:52 mile. Then a 7:50. Coming down through
the park was busy. I wanted to keep my rhythm and not break it when overtaking
so I was grunting and shouting at slower runners ahead when I was lapping them,
to try to get them out of the way. Back towards town. Through the crowds. Less than a mile.
I was
dying for it to be over. But weirdly, one small part of me wanted it not to
end. It had been brilliant. I’d had a good day. I’d performed well. But it was
hurting. I kept it going. Approached the finish area,. Round the back of the
Town Hall. Deirdre was there. I managed a high five. Round the front of the
Town Hall and then it loops right round in a double arc so that the spectators
can get a good long view of the finishers.
I hit the red-carpeted, spectator-lined finishing straight.
I ran 3:22. As you cross the finish line, the announcer welcomes you “home” by
name, saying “You are an ironman!” This was my tenth Ironman (but I’ve lost
count of how many I’ve finished – I had to think it through – this was my sixth
finish). Of the ones I have finished, I have never once heard them say it. I’m
sure they have said it, but whether it’s tunnel vision, tunnel-deafness (if
there’s such a thing), mental switch-off, crowds cheering, music blaring,
whatever it is, I didn’t hear it this time either.
I cramped up 10 metres from the finish line and just about
managed to disguise it, and just about managed not to stop and limp over the
finishing line. The photos show I was making a praying gesture as I finished. Totally unplanned, and I don't really remember it. It had been my best Ironman by a long, long way. But I didn’t cross the line
certain of qualifying. I crossed the line with a chance of qualifying. So I
couldn’t celebrate it. I’d have to wait until the awards ceremony the following
day to find out. I had a weird expression, it looked quite neutral, disguising a mix of acute hamstring cramp pain, deep fatigue pain, hope, a little bit of satisfaction, a little bit of despair, relief, trying to bottle things up and not think about Kona.
I grabbed the offending cramped right hamstring with a
pained expression, and a volunteer immediately grabbed me and manhandled
(womanhandled?) me off to the side, wanting to get me urgent medical
assistance. I tried to protest. It was just a bit of cramp, I’d shake it off. I
managed to persuade her to loosen her grip and she let me go. I shook the cramp
out a bit, got a bottle of water, and leaned on a railing. I saw Deirdre and
gave her a thumbs-up and then headed into the athlete recovery tent.
I had a good massage, and it was a real struggle to get off
the table. Then I went to look at the food. It was Domino’s pizza. Not great.
I’ve had some brilliant post-race food, but this wasn’t very palatable at all.
I had a bite of a slice and nearly vomited. I wanted to have more, to help my
body to have something with which to start the recovery process, but I couldn’t
stomach it. I binned it. I couldn’t face the cake either, as I’d been eating
sugary nutrition all day. I had a few slices of orange, and then I forced
myself to eat a protein bar. My appetite was, surprisingly, not great. I had
packed a sachet of Tailwind recovery powder in my after-race white bag, which I
mixed with water and drank. I’ve used Tailwind recovery after all my long rides
and runs this season and it has been brilliant.
I got changed, and I checked my feet. They weren’t in bad
shape. One small blister on my toe. No agony in the soles of my feet, as had
been happening earlier in the year. The podiatrist appointments were well worth
it. I chatted to a few other finishers about their days. Everyone was united in
saying the bike course was at best incredibly tough and at worst, dangerous.
People had seen crashes. I was glad I was in once piece.
Then I headed out to
meet Deirdre. It’s a long day for athletes but arguably it’s an even longer day
for spectators. I was 23rd overall and sixth in my category. My category was really competitive. The overall race winner and overall third place were both in my category. There would be 40 Kona slots allocated. I was 23rd. Would there be a slot for me...? There was a lot of
second-guessing going on. The winner wouldn’t take his Kona slot. Would there
be four or five slots in my age group? Would I fall foul of the age cut-off (racing as a 34-year old in the 35-39 category)? Had anyone else above me already qualified? The guy in
second in my category was an ex-pro, who had raced as a pro earlier in the season (Steve was
continuing to do his research in Ireland). Would he be entitled to a slot?
There was no way to know. But one thing was sure, I would be attending the
awards ceremony the next day…
We ambled slowly back to transition to pick up my bike.
People were still on the course. We stopped and got an ice cream. It was so
nice. I got the bike and the bags and then we headed for the car and headed
back to the house. I needed time to shower, and to clean my gear. I’d been
peeing in my wetsuit and in my bike gear so it all needed cleaned. I did what I
could to clean up while Deirdre made a bit of dinner. More pizza, but nicer
pizza. I tried to have a beer but I couldn’t stomach it. Kona was on my mind,
as much as I tried not to think about it.
The view from an ice cream van, after an Ironman.
Much better than Domino's pizza...
We decided we would head back to the finish line for “hero’s
hour”, to cheer the final finishers over the line at 11pm, after 17 hours
racing. I had already been reading reports of loads of athletes crashing, and
missing the bike cut-off times due to the difficulty of the course. The finish
area was buzzing. The Sheephouse Lane wrestlers were there. It was fun. Indeed,
it was very inspiring, watching athletes who had laboured for 16-17 hours and made
it to the finish line. Epic stuff. We stayed until the very end. I managed to
get a picture with the wrestlers. It was cool, I was glad we made the effort to
do it.
These guys. I don't know how many times I have cycled past them over the years at Ironman UK. I'd say it's into double figures. I'd say that they have seen around 30,000 Ironman athletes pass them at the top of Sheephouse Lane. When I first saw them years ago, my initial reaction was, "Are these guys for real?! What a bunch of weirdos!" Years later, I can safely say these guys are for real. As real as it gets. Corny as it may sound, they make every single athlete feel amazing. They inspire every single athlete. They energise every single athlete. They stand up at the top of Sheephouse Lane, year after year, in the best and worst of the British weather, and they magnificently embody everything that Ironman is meant to stand for, everything that's good about sport. They have deservedly become an integral part of Ironman UK. When they heard that they would feature on the finisher's medal this year, their reaction was, justifiably, one of pride, but they were humble enough and gracious enough to say that their image on the medal should represent everyone that supports an Ironman endeavour, whether behind the scenes at home, or visibly out on the road, in whatever way. My initial reaction to them being on the medal was dubious at best. But that medal is the coolest medal I have. These guys rock. They are the real deal. Do Ironman UK. See these guys. I don't know if I'll ever see them again but they've given me some great memories, and it was great to meet them at the finish line.
Then we headed home again and it was off to bed. I reflected
on the race. There was nothing I would have changed. Nothing that could have
made it better. It was as good as it could have been. I was strong pretty much
throughout. No fading or blowing up. Even the adversity of losing the bottle
and gels on the bike didn’t have an effect, and in a way I was almost glad I’d
had a spell of adversity in the race and showed the resilience and adaptability
to overcome it. So if I qualified for Kona, it would be well deserved. And if I
didn’t, well, there really was nothing more I could have done.
I didn’t sleep much. I never usually do for a few days after
an Ironman. I was exhausted and dehydrated and inflamed and battered and sore.
But it would pass. It was up early for breakfast and back into Bolton yet again
for the awards ceremony in the Town Hall. I’ve been to awards ceremonies before
and missed out on Kona by one place. I didn’t want to miss out again. It was
entirely possible I might miss out. I had tried so hard not to get my hopes up. It was agony.
Previously they had results and slot winners published and
put up on the wall at the awards venue, so you knew before the awards who had
won a slot and how many slots were in each age group. This time, they hadn’t
published it. So we went in and I sat in that auditorium and I couldn’t watch
any of the awards. I sat with my head in my hands for about 2 hours.
They really drag it out. I suppose it’s enjoyable for those
who have won their age groups and know that they are guaranteed a Kona slot.
But for me it was worse than actually doing the Ironman, and it seemed to take
far longer as well. First they presented the top 3 in each age group with their
race awards (completely separate to the Kona slots). This took forever, as
there are male and female age groups in 5-year intervals all the way from 18
years old to 70-something.
Then they move on to the Kona slot allocation. How they
actually allocate the slots across the age groups is a bit of a mystery.
Broadly, if there are 2000 entrants in the race, and 200 people in a given age
group (i.e. 10% of entrants), then that age group will have 10% of the
available slots (10% of 40 slots is 4 slots). But it’s not that
straightforward, because the older age groups might only have one entrant, and
they will be entitled to a slot, so it’s not totally proportional.
When actually announcing the slot winners, they start with
the oldest age groups and work their way down. Some of the oldest age groups
had only one entrant, who would be entitled to a Kona slot if he or she wanted
it. If he or she didn’t want it, and there was no-one else in their age group
for it to roll down to, then the slot would be allocated to a different age
group with proportionally the largest entry. I hoped some of the older people
would decline their slots and that it would be re-allocated into my age group.
This was a long shot, and so it proved. No slots were re-allocated.
2000 entrants, 40 Kona slots...
I still couldn’t watch. I had no choice but to listen. It’s
like an auction. If you win a slot, your name is called and you have to let
them know if you want to accept. They will call your name three times, and if
you don’t answer (i.e. if you are not there and not interested in the slot)
then it will roll down to the next athlete.
Usually, on the first call, athletes were springing up.
Dreams realised. “Yes please!” “Hell yeah!” “Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“Whooooooooooooo!” I was sitting in agony. As they moved to each age group,
before they started with the announcements, they said how many slots were in
the age group. One of the age groups in the 50s rolled right down to position
14. Unprecedented. One of the age groups in the 40s rolled right down to
position 12. Incredible. Those guys hit the jackpot. The guys who finished
ahead of them but didn’t turn up to the presentation would have been gutted if
they had gone to the race hoping to qualify. I still had my head in my hands
and couldn’t watch.
Finally they came to my age group. M35-39. How many slots
would the announce? 5 and I was in. 4 and I would have to hope for a roll-down.
They forgot to say how many slots there would be in the age group. So I still didn't know. They called the winner’s name. He was there,
but he had already qualified in a previous race earlier in the year. “No thanks, already qualified,” he said. Then
they said there would be 4 slots for my age group. Dammit, dammit, dammit, I’d
need a roll-down. I’m very self-critical, extremely reluctant to praise myself,
but I believed my performance would be worthy of a Kona slot. I wouldn't say that lightly. And yet I might not get one.
Second place was a Slovakian. The ex-pro. I thought given that he’d come all
the way from Slovakia he would take his slot. They called his name once. No
answer. I still refused to believe it might happen. Surely he’d have answered first time. They called his name twice. Nothing. Three times…
I’M GOING TO KONA! YESSSSSSSSSS! I’m not very outwardly
emotional either, but this was emotional. The head went back into the hands
again. They finally called my name and I was up onto the stage, half in tears
and half smiling and so relieved and bloody hell this has finally happened.
They present you with a small (but coveted) qualifiers medal, a Hawaiian beer,
and put a Hawaiian floral lei around your neck. Then I was down off the stage
and heading out the door to go and register for the Ironman World
Championships. There was a bit of a queue and I just slumped against the wall,
head in hands again, shaking a bit and probably breathing as hard as I’d been
breathing in the race itself. Kona! Maybe the rest of this blog post might sound a bit self-indulgent, I hope it doesn't, but after everything that has happened to me in the last 10 years (see blog post 183), I am very relieved to have finally done it...
The moment. It was all worth it.
The slot allocation continued, but I literally didn’t hear a
thing. I got the third slot in my age group, and it turned out that the fourth and final slot rolled all the way down to fifteenth place
in my age group. Absolutely unbelievable, I never thought a slot would roll down so far. I could have been half an hour slower
and still qualified. But the performance was so important to me. I got everything out of myself on
the day. Things went well. I capitalised. Whether Kona happened or not, I did a race for the ages, a race that justified the past 10 years, a
performance that I will be proud of for the rest of my life (and I don’t ever
say things like that either).
I'm sure that better athletes than me haven't managed to qualify. It's all about the day though, you have to put yourself out there, and keep putting yourself out there, to have a chance, you have to race as well as you can, you have to have a little bit of luck on your side (but if you do everything you can possibly do then you could argue you are making or forcing your own luck) and things can fall into place, as they have done for me after 10 years...
Finally, after nearly 10 years, after thinking about it for most of my adult life and starting to train specifically for it in Korea in 2010, after who knows how many hours sat on a turbo trainer, after multiple trips to multiple races, after disaster
after disaster, after all the brutally tough issues and incidents and knocks
(or “learning experiences” – learning the hard way), after continuing to
believe in myself and back myself, after not throwing in the towel, after coming back time and time and time again, after picking myself up so many times, after literally scraping myself off the roads and peeling myself off hospital beds and hauling myself back from some dark places, after forcing myself through tortuous rehabilitation and strength work and endless training, after all
that, I had finally cracked the Ironman. Everything fell into place. I'd done it. Was Kona ever harder earned...?
I'd done a great
race, everything finally aligned spectacularly. It was a race that I felt I could say was deserving of a Kona slot, and one that
was indeed rewarded with a place at what some people call the holy grail of
triathlon. The Big Dance. The Ironman World Championships. Kona, Hawaii. If I’d
faded in the second half of the marathon and ran 3:50, I would still have
qualified. And I’d have taken it, but I wouldn’t have felt it would have been
properly earned. I wanted to feel I had delivered on what I always believed I had in me.
Kona! Off to where Ironman all began, 40 years ago, when they combined the Roughwater Ocean Swim with the Around The Island bike ride with the Honolulu marathon to create an increible challenge, one of which they said "whoever finishes this will be called the Ironman..."
Off to Kona, where I'll race with the fittest people on the planet in the world's toughest sporting event, where I will swim in Kailua bay with the turtles and dolphins, climb the pier steps into transition, where I'll race the bike out along the Queen Ka'ahumanu highway (the Queen K), through the lava fields, battling the high crosswinds, back into transition, where I'll run up the Palani hill and out and down into what's called the natural energy lab, where it's so hot and barren, where I'll fight the heat and the humidity and where I'll truly test myself. Where I'll finish on the legendary Ali'i drive, where this journey will end. I'm almost in tears writing this. The stuff of legend. Bring it on. It was earned the hard way.
Then I had to get the credit card out… I’ll have to accept
it will cost whatever it costs… And that was it. After a few photos, we were
the last ones out of the Town Hall. Ironman UK was over. The finish area and
athlete village and merchandise tent were already being dismantled. Life goes
on. We went for lunch and sat in the sun on the steps of Bolton Town Hall. I
still had my lei round my neck. A triathlete came up to me and said “You
qualified for Kona?!” and shook my hand. I asked him about his race. He was Italian, living in Scotland like me. He’d had a
good, tough day. All the finishers were saying the same. A tough, tough day,
great support on course, and an amazing feeling to finish such a tough race.
The consensus, both official and unofficial, was that this
was now the most difficult Ironman race in the world. Ironman Wales had been
seen as a very tough course, arguably the toughest course. This new course at Ironman
UK, it was agreed, was now tougher. Having done the old Ironman UK course, the
new Ironman UK course, and the Ironman Wales course, I can agree. Our day
yesterday was the toughest day on the Ironman calendar.
It turned out that several hundred athletes didn’t manage to
make the bike cut-off time, so tough was the course. A significant number also
crashed out, some with significant injuries. As far as I could tell, no-one was
in a life-threatening state. I wondered what the organisers would have done if
it had been wet. They’d have had to shorten the bike – maybe only a flat 20 miler
from the swim into Bolton, missing out the two hilly loops. Surely they won't be able to have such a difficult and dangerous bike course in future? If they do end up having to change it, then surely that means Ironman UK 2019 will be the standalone toughest ever Ironman...?
Then it was time to head back to the house and pack up. I
had forgotten to wash my bike shoes and they were festering and stinking in a
plastic bag. They’d been peed on a few times and I was annoyed that I had
overlooked cleaning them in the shower. I triple-bagged them and would deal
with them back at home.
I was a bit worried about the long drive back, but in the
end it was fine. My legs were sore, but not so bad that I couldn’t walk. I was
very dehydrated and it would take days to replenish and get back to my normal
equilibrium. I don’t know what it feels like to be hit by a bus, by my insides
felt absolutely battered. Again, it would pass. I had a really good dinner stop
on the road back – buy one main meal and get a kids’ meal for £1. I said I had
2 kids outside and had a pile of steak pie, lasagne, burgers, chips, potatoes,
vegetables, gravy. It was tremendous. Just what I needed.
I spent most of the time on the road home talking to people
on the phone (via bluetooth). It was a shame my parents hadn’t been able to
make it to Bolton this year. They’ve seen nothing but the disasters at my
Ironman races. They’ve stood freezing in lashing rain in the middle of nowhere
to see me cycle past in a blur. They’ve seen the marathons fall apart. They’ve
seen the worst of it. They’d have enjoyed this one.
I finally got home and had to call
a friend to help me up the stairs with all my gear.
The Ironman mess
Then the clean-up and aftermath operation began. It took
days. Clean all the shoes, wash everything, clean the bike, get everything put
away, get some shopping in, get everything dried and put away, sort all the
paperwork, clean up the aftermath of my flatmate moving out (far from
impeccable timing with a big spend looming for Kona), reply to various
messages, go back to work, try to get some sleep, think about when to write this
blog, replaying it all over and over again, looking at the photos, reading the
articles, and yes, I had to sort out Kona. All of this was done on a high. I
wished I was still out there racing. I’d had a blast. Such a good day.
There were a few nice gestures. I arrived back at the office
to find a card and a box of brownies on my desk, from Ollie at work. Almost the
entire box of brownies was polished off that day. I got a Hawaiian shirt in the
post from Matt in Bristol. Matt has been to a few of my races and I went
to support him when he did Ironman Wales. He wrote a note saying he bought the
Hawaiian shirt for me years ago and was glad now that he could finally get rid
of it…!
I maybe started back training too quickly. I went over to
Arthur’s Seat on the bike for a few laps a couple of days later, more just to
get moving and get blood flowing and get muscles flushed out. I had nothing on
the hills. Usually I can blast up at nearly 400 watts. It was a bit humbling to
only be able to raise 150 watts as I laboured up, the legs just not wanting to
do it.
I went down to the club’s mile relay event in the Meadows. I
intended to run nice and easy, and I did indeed run nice and easy, doing my
mile in 6:40 compared with 4:40 as I’d be able to do normally. But it hurt. My
left knee and right foot were sore. They didn’t want to be running and I pretty
much limped the second half of the mile. It was a little bit worrying, but I'd just have to accept that the recovery would take time. I went for an easy swim in the pool and after 20 lengths
I was freezing. The body was depleted. I had to get out and sit in the sauna to
warm up.
I really wanted to get going with this blog, but I knew it
would take a while to write it, and I had other priorities. I had been
half-looking at options for Kona. At the awards ceremony, Nirvana Europe (the
triathlon travel company) were there, promising they could take care of
everything to do with the Kona trip. I asked them for a rough estimate of a
quote for 2 people and a few days later they came back to me. Over £3k each.
Too much.
So the weekend after the race, I told myself I was shutting
myself in the flat and not leaving until Kona was all booked. A few people were
interested in going. Deirdre. My dad. Steve and Natalie. My brother. I needed
answers. I needed to book it ASAP. It’s prime racing season now in Europe and
North America, and with every weekend that passes and every Ironman race that
is held, there will be another 40-100 qualifiers all looking to book flights,
accommodation, car rental, and bike transport. So it had to be booked.
The options, routes, prices and accommodation choices were
bewildering. It took numerous phone calls and endless hours on the internet to
check everything out, price it all up and figure out the best options. It was a right pain and a right hassle to be honest. But there are worse problems to have! In the end it all got booked. I’m flying from Edinburgh
to Dublin to Los Angeles on Aer Lingus, staying a night in an airport hotel in
Los Angeles, then flying to Kona the following day. Kona is pretty much a
6-hour flight beyond LA. A long way. I had to compromise on a sea view at the
accommodation, but have booked a 2-bed apartment within walking distance of the
race epicentre. I booked a car too, as I’m keen to see a bit of Hawaii. Then
when it was all booked, I was almost grateful to jump on the turbo trainer and
spin my legs.
Not long after the big spends, and when I thought most of the spending was done, I received a
phone bill of over £100. Usually I pay £13 a month. I had gone way over my
minutes allowance in the aftermath of Ironman UK and in the organisation of
Kona. I also had to fork out £75 for the official race photographs and video,
but I think this will be money well spent and something to look back on in
future.
My race video, part of the photo package I bought
The following week I did some light training, including a
really memorable swim with a couple of friends up at Gladhouse reservoir on the
warmest evening of the year. The water was fantastic. There was an island which
we planned to lap twice. The first lap was fine, with a few stops to lie on our backs
and admire the views of the surrounding Moorfoot hills. I got chilly on the second lap and had to swim hard to
get to shore, to generate heat, and to get out of the water. It was still a
warm evening but it took me a while to warm up again.
Then it was over to Ireland for 5 nights touring the west
with Deirdre. This was “enforced rest” which I probably needed (apart from the
Ennis ParkRun and a few laps of the running track with Deirdre’s 2-year-old
nephew). I switched off quite a bit for these days. I had a few drinks. Ate whatever
I wanted. Some great eating. Ice creams. Barbecues. Chips. Pizza. Whatever.
There was no option to cycle as I didn't have a bike available. I didn’t really have the time (or the will) to go
swimming, and I wanted to minimise my running to allow my legs, joints, knees and feet to recover.
And now it is time to try to start training again. I haven’t
really thought about how I’m going to play it. I have the world sprint
triathlon championships in Switzerland on 31st August, and the world standard
distance triathlon championships a day later. Then it’s 6 weeks until Kona. I
will need to do some heat training, some shorter intense training for
Switzerland, some longer training for Kona. I’ll need to make sure not to get
injured. There’s a lot riding on the next few months. But first of all I will
need to see how my legs and knees and feet feel. I suspect I’ll be fine for
cycling and swimming but it might take me a little while yet to be able to run
as I want in training.
This blog had turned into a bit of a misery-blog
with how things had gone over the years. But I’m so glad now that I have been able to write the
Kona qualification post. I’m relieved! The monkey is off my back. Or rather,
the all-consuming monster is off my back. I’m going to Kona. Thanks are due to
everyone that has been part of this journey, I'm not going to get into naming names but people will know who they are. But the journey isn’t over! I have
to get to Kona in one piece and finish it, which is much easier said than done. But in terms of qualifying, I did it,
finally. Anything is possible if you put your mind to it.
With it being the
fiftieth anniversary of the moon landings, the quote from President John F.
Kennedy seems appropriate too: “We choose do these things not because they are
easy but because they are hard…” To continue the moon theme, I've already bought and finished a book on the history of the first Ironman triathlon. When they were about to start that first Ironman race, they had no idea if it was possible. They really were going into the unknown. It was compared to the astronauts going to the moon. But where one completes, or where one achieves, or where one arrives, others follow.
Kona! Job done! Now to get there in one piece and race well out there!
A summary of training and the race is below:
