Post 185 - Ironman UK: Kona qualification!

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: