Pills

"Have you heard about that new retirement place?  They got a restaurant, they got a cinema.  Everything!"

So it is that I find myself in the changing rooms at Two Riversmeet, Christchurch's premier (some might say only) municipal leisure complex, at 9am on a Wednesday.  It is populated almost exclusively with OAPs - I am the youngest by at least a generation.  In the changing rooms, three elderly gents exchange thoughts about retirement homes. 

"Best thing is just not to get old" is the eventual conclusion, "keep taking them pills."

In my own little effort to stave off the advancing years, here I am, back in the pool for the first time in many month.  In fact, it's my first swim since the Bournemouth Triathlon.  Without cash, and with £5 being the minimum charge for using a card, I'm forced to buy two admissions to the pool, thereby ensuring that I shall have to return with my inkjet special "pre-paid swim" voucher within the next month or face losing £4.35, although it's a close run thing as to which would pain me more.

It's no secret that I don't like swimming, and not surprisingly nothing has changed in the intervening period.  I labour up and down the pool, well aware of the folks 30 or 40 years my senior zooming past strongly.  It's almost like my very first visit to the pool, when I could barely manage more than a length or two without being exhausted.  On the plus side, I'm delighted to find that I've retained at least a reasonable ability for bilateral breathing, but I'm pretty sure that my swim stroke is hilariously inefficient, all flailing arms and sinky legs.  With the prospect of having to swim 1500m in August however, I'm clearly going to have to put in a bit more effort than before. 

Resus

It's been a little while, dear reader, and it's had it's ups and downs. From a fitness perspective, mostly downs.  The Thruxton Duathlon served as the last event of the year, and following that, and with a bit of work travel thrown in, my diet and exercise has not been a paragon of discipline.  My weight slowly creeps upwards, not dramatically, but enough to gently tip back over the 14 stone mark, at which point I promise myself that I need to do more to get it down again.

So I do what any self-respecting person would do - I drink two bottles of wine, and drunkenly sign up to do the London Triathlon, except I elect to do the Olympic distance, which is double the Sprint distances I've done until now.  That should keep me going for a while anyway.

Racing Lines

This is going to sound really weird, but I have a definite fondness for the M3 and A34 in autumn. The roads plough through some quintessentially English countryside, bounded on both sides by oak and ash, auburn tinged.  To pass by them at 80mph on a sunny October morning is really quite a treat.

And so it goes, as I make my way to Thruxton Circuit for the Thruxton "Mass Attack" Duathlon.  I signed up for the race way back in March, the second part of a double header who's first part was cruelly snatched from me, so it's been a long time coming.  Confidence in this installment has not exactly been high either, as the distances and start time chop and change right up to the week of the race.  Finally the decision is made on a 5km first run (1 lap + a bit), a 30.4km bike (8 laps) and a 3.8km second run (1 lap).

Admittedly, preparation for this race has been somewhere between "poor" and "non-existent", with a leaning towards the non-existent. A bike ride and a couple of 5k runs (one of which was blighted by a novel pain in the hip) since the half-marathon are the meagre foundations on which this temple of athleticism will be built.

One hundred and thirteen duathletes gather on the start grid.  Most are in tri-suits, and quite a few have very professional looking accoutrements. The guy next to me is wearing bright green compression socks pulled right up to his knees.  The outlier is perhaps the girl behind me, wearing slightly grubby tracky bottoms, Nike tennis shoes and a top that is printed to look like the wearer has donned a tux.  It is a strange combination to say the least.  However, I am dismayed to find that none of my fellow competitors look particularly out of shape, or to be here for the taking.

And so it proves as the hooter goes, and 90% of the field storm out ahead of me.  A couple of hundred metres in, I glance at the Garmin, which reads a pace of 7:07/mi - ridiculously fast for my little legs.  It doesn't feel that fast though, so I go with it.  The run is heading anti-clockwise around the track, down to the bottom of a hill at which waits Patricia, a lady of mature years astride a marshal's motorbike, who forms a turn marker before the field heads back clockwise to complete a further lap of the course.  Heading around Patricia, we get our first taste of the wind that is blowing from the south west, as well as having to head back uphill.  I keep glancing at the Garmin, convinced that it must be on the blink.

The rest of the run is largely uneventful. Even heading back into the wind for the second half of the lap, and up the hill, I maintain a decent pace, although it's nice to get back to transition - in the pit lane, of course. At an average pace of 7:53/mi, it's actually very close to my PB, and surely without that wind and two hills it would have smashed the elusive 24 minute barrier.

I have learned a couple of lessons about transition this year.  Firstly, triathlon checklists tend to have an insane number of things on them that cover every eventuality.  You will use virtually none of them. To that extent, the blue crate I've used in previous events to hold my transition stuff has gone.  For this duathlon, the only things next to my bike are a towel (a useful way to spot your bike), my bike shoes, and a bottle of water.  Secondly, undo your bloody shoelaces when you take your trainers off. As someone who prefers to just kick off their trainers, I've been caught out at least twice by having to try and undo laces before getting them on.  When you're a bit unsteady from physical exertion, that's easier said than done.  And so it is that in T1 I dutifully undo my shoelaces fully before slipping my bike shoes on.

The pit lane exits heading eastwards, and with the strong wind at our backs, it is a joy to be on the bike.  The tarmac is smooth, there are no sharp bends to brake for, and there is little gradient to speak of.  I immediately overtake a couple of folks up ahead, and settle in for the next hour of riding. 

Three minutes later, I'm at the far end of the track, which turns slowly back westwards.  I come around a corner, and suddenly the bike is leaning heavily to one side, like I'm on a container ship mid-Atlantic.  That wind is coming back to bite.  I shift down a gear and dig in, but the course continues to turn until we're head on to it.  At this point, it's downhill, but one has to pedal hard to keep going anywhere, and it's even worse when the track starts to head back uphill, still into the fierce wind.  One of the leaders comes past - all Cervelo, aero bars and pointy helmet - and even he looks like he'd rather be at home in front of Sunday Brunch.

In front, number 12 is next in my sights, and he's weaving all over the road, hunched over the bars, looking exhausted already.  As I pass, he looks over and shakes his head.  "Only another 7 to go," he says.

At the top of the hill, the track weaves through a chicane and you're back at the start grid for another lap.  The wind is behind again, and we power along merrily, the wind and the hill forgotten about, until a mere two and half minutes later, when we arrive back at the far end and face another five minute slog back to the start line. It reminds me of a favourite punchline - "right lads, break's over, back on your heads".

The bike is 8 laps - we're required to count our own laps.  By lap 4 I start worrying about forgetting the count, so I resort to songs in my head.  Four. The Fab Four. The Beatles. All You Need Is Love. Five.  Housemartins - Five Get Over Excited.  Six. Cricket. 10CC - Dreadlock Holiday.  Seven.  S Club Seven - Reach For The Stars. To be honest though, the Housemartins song is stuck in my head, so I abandon that strategy.  Also, any strategy that has you singing S Club Seven to yourself deserves to be abandoned.

Just over an hour of cycling later, and having tackled the wind and the hill at ever decreasing speeds, I head into the pits once more.  The winner has already finished - nearly 9 minutes ahead of his nearest rival, but then again, he is the ITU Duathlon world champion for his age group (40-44) two years running.  I limp out of transition on the run, just behind green compression sock guy.  He's tall, thin and wearing an Andover Triathlon club tri-suit, so I'm surprised he's lurking back here, and I take a small pleasure from going past him, albeit like a slug overtaking a snail. 

There's no way I'm going to keep up the same pace as the first run, and I just about manage an 8:30/mi pace.  At the far end, I turn into the wind for the final time, and whimper slightly as I spy the pit lane, way off in the distance.  But I keep it together, and as I head up the hill, I'm at least grateful to not be one of the backmarkers still pedalling in grim determination. 

Over the line in 1:50.29, 78th of 111 finishers.  Seeing as I'd predicted 1:55, and it's not the bottom 10%, I'm happy with the result.  Quick on the first run, not quite as quick as I'd like on the bike, and ok-ish on the second run.  Not too bad for very little prep.

Enduro Racer

Did I mention I was doing a half-marathon?  I don't think I did.  I did a half-marathon.  For why, I cannot say, other than for the same reasons Mallory climbed Everest, although I rather hoped I would not meet the same fate.

The Bournemouth Half Marathon starts, handily enough, less than a quarter of a mile from home, within the leafy bounds of Kings Park. It's a crisp but sunny autumn morning, and the family gamely tag along to watch the early start.  They set up camp on a sunlit bank whilst I jog off to find my starting pen. I'm confident that I can complete the race, having gradually increased my training runs to nearly 11 miles, but I'm keen to bag a decent time.  Under 2 hours is the target, which a handy pace chart suggests needs an average 9:09/mi pace. A hooter goes, Bryan Adams' "Run To You" blares out the PA, and we're off.  With a wave to the kids on the roadside, we exit the park and head through Southbourne.  About a hundred metres in, I feel the need for a wee.

Other runners. Other bloody runners. What a nuisance they are.  As we crowd through the narrow channels, everyone else is just in the way. The heavy breathers. The chatterers. The overtakers. A couple in particular are annoying enough that I have to inject bursts of pace to get ahead of them.  The first has a set of keys in his pocket that jangle with every step. The second is a racewalker, a rare breed indeed. This athletic stroll is actually quite impressive - he's doing about 8:45/mi pace - but the technique necessitates flailing elbows that clear a space behind him.  Somehow I keep finding myself hemmed in behind him, until I make a conscious effort to overtake.

As the race hits the third mile and turns on to Southbourne Overcliff, the field spreads, the road opens up slightly, and I can finally settle in to a decent rhythm, around 8:40/mi pace. It's a bit quicker than planned, but I feel good.  As I pass the Spyglass and Kettle pub, the leaders are heading back on the other side of the road, setting a pace that I can only dream of.  At the front of the field is Commonwealth marathon runner, British 100km champion and local legend Steve Way (motto: "Don't be shit"), a man for whom a half marathon is a light jog to the shops.

As the air warms up, spectators start to appear along the course.  Gathered on the Overcliff are a bunch holding placards -  "You're looking good!", "Your legs will forgive you.  Just not today (or tomorrow)", "Pain is temporary, Internet results are forever" - which provide some light relief.  Not that I particularly need it, the first 4 miles seem to have flown by.  Despite my earlier claims, being in a crowd actually helps pull you along, and I spend most of my time scanning the hordes for anyone I might know (none), or failing that, someone who might make a good blog subject (none, except for perhaps the guy running with a fridge on his back).

The race drops down and turns 180 degrees again, on to the promenade.  At this point, the whole rest of the course is laid before you - to Boscombe, up on to the cliff top to Bournemouth, before returning back along the beach to Boscombe Pier, and a final leg back to Bournemouth Pier and the finish.  From here, a mile or so from the halfway point, it looks simple, and in glorious sunshine, possibly enjoyable.

Meanwhile, my bladder hasn't given in. At Fisherman's Walk, I make the decision to take a now-almost-traditional mid-race wee stop. With one eye on the clock, I don't really want to, but it's also a chance to rescue a couple of chewy glucose tablets out my sock (wrapped in clingfilm, in case you're wondering) for a bit of energy reload.  Refreshment achieved, I pick up the pace again, only to find myself once again right behind the key jangler, who I have to once again power past.

For all it's beautiful views, Bournemouth seafront is actually a little dull to run along, being straight and flat, and also a touch annoying, for it has a camber to it that is wearing on the knees.  I weave around to find the slightly flatter parts at either side.  By the time I reach Boscombe Pier, I'm actually quite looking forward to the variety of the run up to the East Overcliff.  At the feeding station, I grab an energy gel, which I tuck into my waistband - not being a regular user, I'm wary of the warnings that such things can have a less than desirable effect on the stomach, so I'll only use it if I need to.

The route turns at Boscombe Pier to climb up through Boscombe Gardens.  A man at the side of the path claps and booms "Fantastic! You're brilliant! You're great, all of you!" at everyone who passes, in a wonderfully un-British show of support ("did he have learning difficulties?" someone enquired at my description). It's well received, and necessary, for the path takes a left and steepens sharply to take runners to the Overcliff.

It's like a scene from Dawn Of The Dead.  The previously perky runners have suddenly slowed to a crawl.  Some walk, some creep, some try and power on up.  I adopt a sort of Cliff Young shuffle.  It's a steep hill, no doubt, and at the top I'm panting for air for the first time in the race.  The edge of the energy gel packet is also cutting into my flab, so I retrieve it and carry it for now.  Things are starting to feel a little tougher now, but the crowds along the cliff top help push me, and everyone else, along.

As we head downhill towards the Pier, I scan the crowds knowing that Emma and the kids will be around. I locate Emma and mother-in-law Angela, waving frantically, and take a couple of seconds to spot the kids sat high on a wall, clutching the same "Go Daddy Piper" banner that served so well at the triathlon. We all wave and shout at each other, and just as I'm starting to flag, it's the high point of my day. I feel a little jealous of the woman next to me, who has "Maggie" printed across the front of her top, and receives numerous shouts of "Go on Maggie!" and "Well done Maggie!", from presumably complete strangers.

The last 3 miles is along to Boscombe Pier and back.  It's a run I've done a few times before, not least on the triathlon, and it seems like a fairly trivial jog.  But 10 miles in, it's starting to hurt.  I consume the energy gel, assuming that it might not have any deleterious effects before the finish, although also really far too late to have anything but a placebo effect. I spend most of the run to Boscombe considering the annoyance of having to run along Boscombe Pier before returning.  Half way along, the enthusiastic supporter from Boscombe Gardens is making his way towards Bournemouth, still shouting encouragement.

At end of the pier, another runner, who I recognise having got out his car as we walked to the start, is stood at the side, for reasons unknown, cheering others on.  "Smile!" he says to me as I pass, and we attempt a high five that barely connects. I'm struggling to smile, because by now The Blerch is on my shoulder, whispering to me to stop and take a break.  I feel like I'm keeping up the pace, but the Garmin tells me differently.

It is a blessed relief to arrive back at Bournemouth Pier.  The crowds gradually increase, and once again I find the family crowded against the barrier, waving and shouting.  A quick up and down Bournemouth Pier, and I'm home.  In front of me, a pair run with arms around each other - necessary, for one of the runners has knees that buckle with every step.  I navigate around the Pier amusements, as the PA requests First Aid at the finish, and make what sort of counts as a sprint for the line.  It hasn't come a moment too soon.  The Garmin shows a total time of 1:56.20. Accounting for the refreshment break, moving time was 1:55.37, a testament to my speed weeing ability.  All in all, I'm delighted with the time.

I spend the rest of the day eating everything in sight.  The following day, I have a day off, on which it rains biblically until early afternoon.  This is handy, for my thighs are in no rush to get out of bed, or to get down the stairs.

The natural next question is "so, are you going to do a marathon?".

No.

(but, next up, the Thruxton Mass Attack Duathlon, the sequel to the ill-fated first part)

Adventure

The third leg of the Portsmouth RNLI Adventure Tri is underway, and I am leading the race.  This is not another crazy dream.  This is true.  What happened was... [cue wobbly lines]

The Portsmouth Lifeboat station sits on a shingle spit, a stone's throw from Hayling Island on the other side of the narrow channel that forms the entrance to Langstone Harbour.  I arrive around 8am, in bue skies and beautiful sunshine that shimmers on the mud banks exposed by low tide, and find Rik having arrived just ahead of me. We chat in the car park, and I rue the size of the tyres on the borrowed mountain bike that I pull out the car.  The Adventure Tri features off road sections, so a road bike would prove useless, but these tyres look like something off a tractor, and I suspect 23km on them is not going to be effortless.

This event is a little less formal than others.  Registration simply involves asking for your number (I am number 3, obviously an early sign-up) and being given it, along with safety pins and a map.  The map is large scale and a little bewildering, given that alongside the route it also displays locations of clues to be found to win prizes (which we agree to not bother with - the prize list is a little uninspiring), and where to stop for beer.   That said, the contestants look no less athletic, and there's a fine array of be-lycra'd challenge-seekers.

There is a very obvious benefit to teaming up with Rik for this event - the swim is replaced by a 2 mile kayak, and not only is he a mountain of a man, but he's also an experienced kayaker.   We grab lifejackets and a two-man kayak, and watch as the rest of the field get on the water.  The advertised start time is 9.07am, to coincide with the turning of the tide, and with 20 minutes still to go, we're in no rush to get wet.  Eventually we realise that we're the only ones left on the shore, and even though there's still plenty of time, push away anyway, handily settling right near the front of the field, which stretches out a hundred metres or so behind us.  With a combined 30 stone on top of it, the kayak is sitting alarmingly low in the water.  We're out there barely a minute before the organiser stands up in his boat alongside the massed field and shouts "Go!".

The start is chaos.  Seventy kayaks, most of which are staffed by novices, converge on each other in a watery frenzy.  Paddles clash, bows collide, sterns crash.  We end up almost at ninety degrees to where we should be going and T-bone a neighbour.  "Paddle on the right!" shouts Rik.  "I thought you were doing the steering!" I shout back.

The comedy continues for the next few minutes as boats drift into each other.  To add to the pandemonium, there are boats moored in the harbour, which a few competitors struggle to navigate around.  Eventually we find clear water, and start the business of paddling in earnest.  It's nigh on impossible to find a rhythm - the length of the boat means it's difficult for Rik to get in a full stroke, and I'm just a hopeless idiot.  I spend most of the time shovelling water either into the boat or in Rik's face behind me.  At least he laughs about it, in the same way you might laugh about someone kicking you in the nuts every few seconds.  I can only keep apologising.

After 10 minutes of paddling, it's getting tough to continue sitting upright.  Kayaks are fairly unforgiving, requiring one to sit up with minimal back support, legs out straight in front.  I've got a pain in the top of my thighs.  Looking at my Garmin, we've only covered 800 metres of the 3 kilometres.  Nightmare.  I scan the horizon for our destination, but all I can see around me is mud, so all we can do is push on regardless. Rik ploughs on, seemingly effortlessly, but I have to take regular breaks to adjust my position.

It's another 20 minutes before we finally pitch up at the Portsmouth Outdoor Centre, about the 15th boat in, thanks to our advantageous start position and Rik's paddling. A volunteer helps pull the boat onto the foreshore, and I get up and out in an undignified tumble.  We carry the kayak to the top of the slipway, grab a cup of water, and it's into the run.

My shirt is soaking wet, and hangs heavily against my chest as we start running.  I'm glad to have remembered to apply BodyGlide in all the right places, otherwise this could become painful.  We immediately settle into different paces - Rik's muscle-bound frame is a lot to carry around - so Rik and I bid each other farewell until the finish.  The run course follows the water's edge back to our start point, along a narrow gravel path.  I'm actually feeling rather good, and even though I'm not going at a particularly fast pace, about 8:30/mi, I overtake a handful of people on the way.  The kayak stage has spread out competitors enough that only a couple of faster runners come by me. The course drops down onto the shore, exposed by low-tide, and for a section requires some deft footwork and rock scrambling to avoid the stinking, oozing mud and slipperly vegetation.

I reach the RNLI station, just under 6km and 30 minutes, ready to tackle the bike.  Transition is far simpler than a normal tri - the mountain bike has flat pedals, so there's nothing more to do than simply strap on a helmet, swig some drink and away you go.  The bike leg also has an interesting interjection -  the first thing to do is get the ferry over to Hayling Island.

On the pontoon, there are 10 or so people already waiting for the ferry.  I take the chance to chomp on a chocolate and peanut energy bar while we wait.  When the ferry does arrive, it's a tiny vessel, with room only for about 10 people.  As people clamber on, the ferryman points at me to indicate that I'll be the last one on (it's possible that this was actually at the mercy of a couple of people who strictly were before me - sorry).  By this time, Rik has arrived, and I wave to him as I get on the boat.  The bloke stood next to him looks a little confused and meekly waves back, unsure of quite why I'm waving at him. Awkward.

Crossing the channel, someone points out that we're the first boatload across.  Being as I was last on, my bike is piled on top of everyone else's, which means that I'll be first off.  And so it came to pass, as I disembark and head up the pontoon on the other side, that for a small moment in time, I was leading the triathlon. Yes, good fortune, a capable kayak partner and the unconventional ferry crossing have contributed to this, but I count it among my life achievements nonetheless.

This doesn't last long.  The group looks around for which way to go.  Either because it's an adventure tri, or through poor organisation - we'll assume the former - there is no signage or marshals, just the map, which I keep stuffed up the leg of my shorts for handy reference.  It shows a route that goes along the shore for a short way, to a clue, before returning and starting the rest of the circuit in earnest.  With me are a variety of people.  A couple of guys look like serious triathletes.  There's a Polish bloke who overtook me on the run, a couple of ladies from the Army, judging by their t-shirts, and two other couples.  We head along a car park, which turns into a gravel path, which turns into proper shingle, which eventually turns into grassland.  By now, we're all a bit confused as to how far to go.  No-one has seen any clue. Gradually, people decide that we've gone too far and turn back anyway, and I do the same, whilst three or four others carry on. It's on the way back that I spot the clue tied to a fence behind a sand dune, being carefully analysed by a couple of old ladies out for a stroll.

The cycle route heads through the sleepy backwaters of Hayling Island before turning off road to follow the old Hayling Billy rail line. Being straight and flat, I've got a good speed going, despite the knobbly tyres.  Out the corner of my eye, I spy someone cycling just behind me.  A quick glance around shows an older gent in a yellow flourescent jacket, clearly not part of the triathlon. I push on, but I can't shake him.  I'm bewildered that he's able to keep up.  It's not until I catch up with the Army ladies, and slow down to chat, that he comes past and we realise he's got a motor attached to the bike.  Not just any motor, but a seemingly home-made contraption, looking alarmingly like an old tin can and a few wires.

The cycle leg is certainly an adventure.  The route takes a turn down narrow paths, around marshland and along shingle banks. In some places it requires running with the bike; at one point I have to lift the bike over a stile. I'm definitely grateful for the knobbly tyres now. Halfway through I think I'm off course, so take a turn into a car park to try and pick up the trail again.  By the time I realise I was right in the first place, the Army ladies have gone past again. I catch them up yet again and chat for a couple of miles, taking the chance to get some shelter from the increasing wind.  As we start back down the western side of the harbour, I get ahead of them for the last push to the finish.

The finish line is fairly low key, a handful of applauding spectators and event organiser Rob ready to hand out medals and goodie bags (A dry-bag, 2 energy bars, an energy gel, tube of glucose tabs, pen, TeaPigs tea bags and a bunch of leaflets, for the record).  Back in transition, I count the bikes, there are just 9 in there.  Somehow, in a field of 120, I've finished 10th. Remarkable. Twenty minutes and about 10 places later, Rik also rolls in, having got lost and done an extra 3 miles on the bike.

And so onwards to the next event - the Bournemouth Half Marathon on October 5th.

Statto

Warning: quite a boring post for anyone who isn't me.

The official race results are in.  Let's do some analysis.  The positions in brackets are the position for that section alone, whereas the cumulative number gives the actual position in the race at the end of that section i.e. I was the 57th fastest person in T1, and therefore in that time dropped from 53rd to 60th place.

Swim - 14:30 (53rd of 72, cumulative 53rd) - not unexpectedly, a long way down the pack.  But the time is quite remarkable.  Clearly the swim course was shorter than advertised, perhaps by as much as 25%.  For example, if I were to do 14:30 last year, I would have been 4th out the water.

T1 - 2:54 (57th, cumulative 60th) - Oh dear, clearly I have some work to do on transition.  It felt relatively smooth, and the wetsuit came off fairly quickly, but in hindsight there were some things I could have done without.  Putting socks on, whilst feeling dizzy and exhausted from the swim, was a challenge. Better racers would not bother with socks, but having not done it before, I didn't want to try it for the first time on race day. In addition, getting the cycle top on was a little tricky.  The zip is the wrong way round (the slider is on the right), so it's a bit fiddly. In addition to this, I stupidly placed my transition crate underneath the bike.  It fits nicely, when the bike is hung on the rack, but when you have to get it out and get the saddle under the rail, it's in the way.  Lessons learned.

Bike - 40:52 (26th, cumulative 39th) - Woohoo!  Although the bike felt a little slow at the time, clearly it wasn't a bad effort at all, almost in the top third of the field.  That's backed up by the Garmin stats, which show an average speed of 19.3mph.  I made up 21 places (only exceeded by one other person), although bear in mind that the men and women, whilst combined in results, raced separately, so I actually only overtook 7 or 8 on the road.  Still think I could have gone a bit quicker though.

T2 - 1:48 (64th, cumulative 40th) - That transition again. I made the schoolboy error of leaving the laces tied on my trainers, which meant I spent a good 20-30 seconds trying to get them undone. D'oh!  The transition crate also got in the way once more, trying to re-rack the bike.

Run - 24:53 (55th, cumulative 42nd) - A little disappointing, but probably a minute of that is attributable to a call of nature.  In hindsight, I could have pushed harder (running, not weeing), but was nervous of going to fast too soon.

So, 42nd out of 72, 60th percentile.  It's certainly above my target of not being in the bottom 10%, so I think we can consider it job done.

187 Days Later

One hundred and eighty seven days after Day 0.  I've gone from 15st 5lb to 14st, and from a 38 to 36 inch waist. I've gone from averaging around 15mph for bike rides to averaging 18-19mph.  I've gone from running 10 minute miles to running 8 minute miles.  I've gone from being a bad swimmer in the pool to being a bad swimmer in a wetsuit.  I've written 42 blog posts, some 25,000 words, with 3000 views.  I've raised £375 for Cancer Research (hmm, more on that later...).  I've made a few friends, and lost precisely one :(

To all those that cheerfully put up with me banging on about the triathlon - thank you.  To all those that read this blog, and offered encouragement and praise - thank you. To all those who liked, shared and commented on Facebook - thank you.  To all those that offered their time and advice to help me - thank you. To everyone that donated money to Cancer Research - thank you. It has been a pursuit of a trivial goal, hardly the peak of human endeavour, but everyone has been fantastically gracious and patient, much like you would treat a child when they announce that they can do five - FIVE! - bounces on the trampoline.

Most of all, Emma has been enormously tolerant of the time spent either training or blogging. Always ready to offer advice, or be an understanding listener on the bad days, she has always been nothing less than wholly supportive of my little hobby.  Meanwhile, Ella and Alex have been unending sources of comedy and disbelief that their Dad should be larking about in lycra.

So, what now?  Is this the end of my triathlon career?  The end of the blog??

You should be so lucky.  Next up: the Portsmouth RNLI Adventure Race!  Good news though readers: no swim!  It's replaced by a two-man kayak, in which I shall be ably chauffeured by Rik. After that, in October there's the Mass Attack Duathlon at Thruxton - hopefully not cancelled this time. And you can be sure that I'll still be here blathering on about it.  Bestselling books don't write themselves y'know.

About that £375.  I made a promise, that if I hit £300 I would swim Pier to Pier.  Of course, you wonderful, yet silly, silly people made that happen.  Oh joy.  Alas, some unfortunate scheduling means that I'll not be able to do the actual Pier to Pier, but I will be organising a little private event at some point in the near future. Perhaps some of you fancy joining me?  I am really looking forward to it.

This Is Not The Inspirational Blog You Are Looking For

The alarm goes at 5am.  It's been a fairly restless night, mostly spent thinking about blog posts, and then thinking about how I would blog about a restless night spent thinking about blog posts, and then about how I would blog about blogging about a restless night thinking about blog posts.  Make no mistake, I am an idiot.

Happy Race Day!

A large bowl of porridge, cup of tea and a banana later, the equipment goes in the car and I make the short drive to the pier through deserted streets.  When I arrive at 5:45, transition is filling up.  I find my slot, handily located next to a plant holder, making it pretty easy to locate during the race.

"You got enough space?" says the man next to me, in a broad Brummie accent. He's in his sixties, one of those sickeningly fit types, a little reminiscent of Charles Dance.  He has a Cervelo.  Clearly this is not his first time. We get chatting, his name is Rob, and he's wonderfully amiable.  He shares tips on swimming, tells me about his triathlon mishaps, and promises me I'll love it.

"Don't take it up as a hobby though.  You'll become like me.  You'll be out training 6 days a week.  You won't have a social life.  You won't have any friends, or at least the friends you do have will spend all their time talking about bloody triathlon and nutrition and training".

He points out Gary, a couple of spaces down, also doing his first triathlon.  Gary looks just as lost and nervous as I probably do.  "What time are you aiming for?" I ask. "I just want to get through the swim," he replies. Snap.  He's got the same bottom-of-the-range wetsuit as me, with numerous small tears demonstrating the fragility of the material.  Athlete #241 joins the conversation, also a first timer, also a swim-dreader.  Rob holds court with the three of us, like a dad with his kids.

Rob (in blue), Gary (L), #241 (R)

I get my number written on my arm and leg in black marker - presumably easier than dental records for identification - and then get the wetsuit on.  Rob helps zip it up.  He pats my belly and says "you wanna lose a couple of pounds", before breaking into a giant laugh and grabbing me round the shoulders.  He's not wrong. I am painfully cognisant of wearing such items in public. 

Conditions are pretty much perfect.  It's warm but overcast, and there is hardly a ripple on the sea, certainly much better than I've been "training" in. Heading down to the beach for the start, I see Emma and the kids, who are bearing a large banner with "Go Daddy Piper!" writ large.  They jump up and down waving it excitedly. We chat for a few minutes - Ella tells me she's unable to open her eyes because she's so sleepy; Alex is largely excited about getting to eat cereal in the car on the way - and then I take the opportunity to have a quick dip in the water, which is enjoyably warm.  A quick briefing and register later, and we're lined up at the water's edge ready to go. This is it.

The whistle blasts, and everyone runs into the surf.  I deliberately hang back a little, and by the time I'm swimming I'm already near the back of the pack.  My breathing is quick, and it's difficult to find a good rhythm.  At the first buoy, I'm probably 7 or 8 from the back.  One guy is breaststroking.  Another is doing front crawl but keeping his head above water, much like schoolboys do.  Either way, they're still going just as fast as me.  We cluster together as the back markers, occasionally bashing arms and legs as we weave around.  Generally everything is non-eventful, but enjoyable it is not.  I may have mentioned before: I really don't like swimming.  As the course heads back towards the shore, I measure my progress against the pier to my left.  By all appearances, I'm going nowhere.  Maybe even backwards.  It's a huge relief when I get to shallow waters where I can stand and run out the sea.  I'm not last, but not terribly far off.

"14 minutes!" shouts Emma as I pass.  It's a major surprise, one which makes me sure the swim course must have been significantly shorter than the advertised 750m.  Not that I'm complaining.  Meanwhile, the kids are still bouncing wildly with the banner and chanting as I run past.  

Transition goes largely to plan.  I'm a little surprised by how relaxed others around me seem, and it helps me relax too. The wetsuit comes off pretty easily, except for a stuck heel, I throw on my cycle top, pull on socks (handily ready rolled so no problems getting them on wet feet) and shoes, chuck on the helmet, and out I go. 

Looking happy, feeling sick

I'm not prepared for how bad I feel coming out the swim.  I feel dizzy and nauseous.  My thighs and calves hurt.  One competitor ahead of me stops and tells a marshal that he's been sick and can't continue.  It's not surprising.  At the top of the slope up to the road, I'm glad to mount the bike, but seem to lack any power in my legs.  Seeing as I'm now heading towards the foot of the hill on Priory Road, this is not good. 

I find a low gear as I pass the BIC, and at the roundabout catch a competitor ahead of me.  At the steep part of the hill, I stand on the pedals to try and get some momentum going, but it's painful.  Halfway up the hill, another competitor is walking up with his bike.  He stops, bends over and rests his forehead on the saddle.  "Ok?" I pant as I pass.  "I'm going to be sick," he says.  I wish I hadn't asked.  As much as I'd love to stop and help mop it up, I'm on a mission, but his words are enough to return my thoughts to my own feelings of nausea.  At the top of the hill, I can barely get my legs going.  I want to take a drink, but I'm worried about it just coming back up again. On the Wessex Way, I realise that my race number belt is tight around my stomach, which isn't helping.  I push it down to my hips, and also realise that I haven't even turned on, let alone started, my Garmin. Sod it. 

Six or seven minutes into the ride, I start to feel normal again, albeit still lacking a bit in power.  I manage a nibble of a pineapple and ginger energy bar - as ever, a gooey mess that's almost impossible to eat while breathing hard - and a swig of energy drink.  I'm a little confused to have not seen the leaders heading back on the other side of the road.  I start wondering if there's been a bit of a problem, or maybe the marshals accidentally sending everyone on the longer standard course, but as I head over the Cooperdean flyover I catch sight of others, which gives me some satisfaction that I'm not *that* far behind.  I catch and overtake a couple of others before turning off at Blackwater and rejoining the carriageway for the return. Ahead of me is a line of 6 or so riders.  I'd like to catch them, but while I can make up ground, I can only find the speed to overtake one.  

Going under the Richmond Hill roundabout, I take another swig of drink, but fumble it whilst trying to get it back in the bottle holder, and it drops to the ground and rolls off.  I swear loudly, but I'm not going to stop and get it, so plough on regardless. It pays off, as I catch up with another couple of riders on the hill.  That's it until I get back to transition.  The bike leg has taken around 40 minutes - on track, but disappointed not to be a little bit faster.

I now have only one overriding feeling - I really, *really* need a wee. I don't think I can run with this full bladder. For now though, I have no option, so it's trainers on and off I go.  A few seconds in to the run I spot a sign for toilets.  I make the decision that the time spent weeing is surely nothing compared to how much I'll be slowed down if I don't go.  I veer to the left, only to find the door still locked at this early hour.  I'm gutted.  I push on, until 400 metres later, when another set of toilets, a strange temporary portakabin, appears. I try the door, it opens, and I spy a toilet.  

I run in, and the door swings shut behind me.  There are no lights.  Or windows.  It is pitch black.  With no time to find a light switch, I just have to aim into the darkness.  With just a little scanning, I find the water.  Blessed, sweet relief!  Thirty seconds later (ok, I admit, I didn't wash my hands), I'm back out and running again. This is such a good feeling, I'm on something of a high for the rest of the run.  I catch two or three runners ahead of me before I get to Boscombe Pier, throw a cup of water over my head, and turn around back towards Bournemouth. I'm feeling great - my pace is pretty quick, my legs are loose, and my breathing is controlled.  I chase another runner up ahead, until he stops and I realise he's actually just a random jogger. Halfway back, I see #241 coming the other way.  He looks knackered, but breaks out into a big grin as he recognises me, and holds up his hand for a high five.  

I up the pace for the last kilometre as the pier draws closer.  I spy the finish line up ahead, and as I get there, I notice a small crowd behind barriers to the left of the finish line.  I scan for Emma and the kids, until I look right and notice they're on the other side of the road, no barrier in front of them, and yet again jumping and chanting wildly with their sign.  I can't resist - I run over, beckon to Ella to grab my hand, and drag her and Alex, still carrying the banner, towards the line.  The rest of the crowd breaks out into a cheer, and we cross the line.

The finish area is small, and a chap thrusts a medal and a bottle of water into my hand.  He mentions something about looking at a screen for my time, but my head is spinning and I don't quite understand.  The kids are chattering at me, while a photographer gathers us together for a snap.

Total time : 1:24.57.  It's an amazing time, 10-15 minutes quicker than expected, but almost certainly helped by a very short swim - by my reckoning, at least 100m short, maybe even 200m.  A quick measure on Google also suggests that the run is around 400m short of 5k.  

 Back in transition, I see Rob and Gary.  Rob finished near the top, in 1:16.  Gary was one minute and one place ahead of me.  We congratulate each other and head our separate ways. It's all over, and it's barely 8am.  A good (second) breakfast awaits.

Post mortem coming later - watch this space.

Triathlon Eve

'Twas the night before triathlon,
And all round the house,
No-one was stirring,
Not even a mouse

So here we are. Finally. I'm sure you've been waiting for this with baited breath, and tomorrow is the day.  The mid-week feelings of excitement have been replaced with nervousness - not about the athletic endeavours, but the sheer organisation required to remember everything you need.  It's far from simple. Sure, you've got your wetsuit and your bike and your trainers. You've also remembered your goggles and swim cap and towel.  And your bike shoes and cycle top.  Of course, you'll have your Garmin.  Hopefully you've also not forgotten tyre levers, a spare tube and a mini pump (or CO2 cartridge if you're flash), just in case the worst should happen. I needn't remind you to take shades in case it's sunny, and socks for the bike and run.  If you're going to get socks on wet and sandy feet, you'd better have a water bottle to rinse them and some talc handy.  Talking of water, refreshment in the form of an energy drink and an energy bar will be handily waiting on the bike. Oh, and don't forget that you won't even be allowed to race if you don't have your bike helmet, and all your number stickers in place. Which reminds me, take your race number belt so you don't have to faff around with safety pins. Oh yeah, it would also be a good idea to have some Vaseline or Bodyglide to prevent chafing and help the wetsuit off.

That's just the stuff to bring.  Now you have to lay it out in some kind of order so that you have the right things in the right place at the right time, in a space just a couple of feet wide, and be able to get them or or off at speed. It's really quite stressful.

I decide to have a little practice session at getting the wetsuit off.  Last time I went out swimming I ended up essentially strait-jacketed and writhing like an escapologist trying to get out of it. Ella is at home with me, so I ask for some assistance.  Having just watched Officially Amazing - a kids TV show featuring record attempts - she offers this in the form of timing me getting the wetsuit on.  If you've never tried to don a wetsuit with a 6 year old screaming "Faster, daddy!" at you, you really haven't lived.  She arbitrarily decides the record is 5 minutes and 11 seconds.  After 6 minutes of me trying to get the zip done up, the fabric massively stretched by my bulk, I ask her to help. She tugs weakly at the zip before giving up and sitting at the kitchen table. "I'm exhausted," I say, sweating profusely. "I bet," she says with a mouthful of tomatoes, gazing out the window.  With the zip half done up, I too give up, and set about trying to get it off. It's a blessed relief to peel it away and let my skin breath again, and, as it turns out, not really too difficult.  Then again, this is with a dry suit.  Damned if I'm going to give it another go.

In the afternoon, I head into town to attend the registration.  A chance to suss out the competition.  Not surprisingly, they all look far fitter than me.  In the car park, people greet each other like long lost friends. One proudly sports an Ironman Lanzarote t-shirt.  I suck in my stomach just that little bit more.

An information board confirms my place in the Sprint tri, amongst a field of roughly 100 men and 40 women, and a start time of 6.35a.m.  This is, frankly, a ridiculous time to be doing exercise.  I'll need to be up around 5am to grab breakfast and get down to the start to set up in transition.  I scan the list for familiar names, but I don't see any.  The list also contains ages - I'm slight relieved to see that the next guy on the list is in his sixties, although presumably one of those sickeningly fit types.

As we queue to collect race numbers, the girl behind me asks about the bike course. I confirm that it's an out-and-back. "Done many of these before?" I ask.  I really hope she says no.  "Quite a few actually". Damn. "Are you doing the Sprint?".  "No, standard".  Of course.  The standard (a.k.a. Olympic) tri is twice the length of the sprint.  The sprint is for wimps, clearly. "It's my first one," I offer by way of explanation as to why I'm doing the wimps race.  "Oh, you'll be hooked," she says sunnily.

Number 238 will be getting an early night.

Race Face

One week to go.  What's done is done.  Any attempt at improvement now is surely too little, too late.  The regrets start to take shape - the weeks of missed swim sessions, the lack of training structure, the all-too-regular food and wine indulgence.  What I do know is that I probably won't die, and barring an incident I'll finish the race.  What I don't really know is where I'll come or what time I'll post.  I like to think I'll get under 1:40, but looking at last year's results, that'll actually put me in the bottom 10%, and I actually think I'm better than that.  I guess there's only one thing to do, and that's to race.

Most important preparation - getting your race face on.  Let's see...

Too surprised. I don't want my rivals thinking I've wandered into the race by accident.

Too thoughtful.  Fine for the office, not fine for a triathlon.  It's no place for a ponder, it's all about action.

Too Brucey.  No-one wants a fat Bruce Forsyth in a wetsuit.

Too Easter Island.  Just plain weird.

Perfect.

Nothing New

"In the Philippines there are lovely screens to protect you from the glare

In the Malay states there are hats like plates which the Britishers won't wear

At twelve noon the natives swoon and no further work is done

But Mad Dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun."

      - Noel Coward, Mad Dogs and Englishmen

Across the many triathlon web sites and forums, there is one common maxim - "nothing new on race day".  That is, turning up on race day with clothing, equipment or technique that you haven't already put to the test in a non-competitive scenario is a recipe for disappointment, injury, or, worst of all, chafing. With this in mind, and only 2 weeks to go, I decide to make the most of the beautiful weather and do a bit of a dress rehearsal, with a 20k bike/5k run brick.

First decision - what to wear. In lieu of owning specialist tri-shorts (and being too tight to buy some), the choice is between cycle shorts and swim jammers.  On race day, I'll be wearing them under the wetsuit for the swim, so the cycle shorts are out, lest the padded rear become a sodden nappy.  The swim jammers, black and knee length, pass for cycle shorts anyway.  On top, it's whether to wear my running top, or my cycle top, or possibly whether to swap in transition.  I choose to wear my cycle top - snug enough to be somewhat indecent for a fatty - but lay out my running top alongside my trainers in my little transition area on the driveway, should I feel coy when the time comes.

Doing a swim leg is a little impractical, so I simulate it by standing in the shower so I can test riding with wet shorts. By the time I get out the door it's gone 11am, and the summer sun is high in the sky.  The ride takes me round my usual loop across Avon Causeway.  A swift and uneventful forty minutes later I'm back home, with dry shorts and unchafed loins. Great success! I gulp down as much water as I can stomach, switch to running shoes and head back out the gate.

I decide to stick with the cycle top for the run.  I figure that the ride will have shifted pounds off my stomach and I now cut a dashing, athletic figure.  A quick glance in a passing shop window confirms this to be most definitely not the case.  The elasticated waistband gathers the bottom of the shirt tightly - it does no favours to a man's stomach.  Regardless, I don't believe any cars crashed or veered violently at the sight of a wobbling gut approaching them, but I wouldn't have blamed them if they did.

It's hot in the midday sun.  I curse that I've left it until now to get out the house, and more than once I think seriously about stopping for a breather.

"It's a bit hot for that, innit?" says a man getting out his car as I pass by.

Yes, it is. Somehow I plough on - if I can't do it now, there's no reason to believe I'll magically pull something out the hat on race day.  I'm hugely thankful to reach the traffic lights at Beaufort Road and watch the Garmin tick over to 5.00km.  I don't run a step more than I need to.

So, distance: done.  Nipples: fine.  Clothing: verified.  All good to go.  Bring it on.

Frequently Asked Question

A popular question along the way has been "are you doing it for charity?".  It's a fairly automatic assumption - "fat bloke doing exercise? Must be for charity" - so my answer is always "No". Doing this triathlon has never been about novelty value.  If I wanted that, sitting in a tub of beans would have been easier and more delicious. What it has been about is driving changes in my life that needed to be made.

"What would be on your bucket list?" says Emma, as we drink in the evening sun, and the Pinot, in the garden. "Where do you want to go, what do you want to experience?"

"I don't have one," I say. "If I don't believe in an afterlife, I can't believe that I'll be around in some form to regret the things I didn't do."

"But you might live that afterlife while you're still here," she says wisely, "someday it might be too late." I ponder for a minute.

"I don't think I'd have regrets about not going somewhere or doing something.  I'd regret not taking more opportunities to make life better for other people when I had the chance, because I was too lazy or too embarrassed or too afraid."

So, I can't pass up the opportunity. I hope you've enjoyed, and will continue to enjoy, these ramblings of mine. Even if you haven't, perhaps you at least appreciate my efforts to turn myself into a triathlete.  Even if, you hard-nosed bastard, you don't appreciate that, maybe you'll at least just think about how many lives are affected by the shadow of cancer (read this if it helps), and why I've decided to use this as a chance to raise money for Cancer Research.

If you're still having trouble (wtf?!), I'm going to make you a BOGOF offer. For if you help me raise over £300, I will also throw in the Pier to Pier swim the following week.  Yes folks, we're talking 1.4 miles of sea swimming.  That's three times further than I'll have to swim in the tri, and three times further than I've ever swum before in one go.  In the sea.  In a wetsuit.  I do not make this offer lightly, this is the stuff of nightmares.

From the stats, this blog has about 40 regular readers, so raising £300 should be a doddle. You can donate at JustGiving,

Thank you.

I Can But Travel

It's a strange thing.  I scoff down Sunday's breakfast and leave the house at 7:30am.  I sit in a variety of moving metal cases, until I magically find myself at my hotel room, just in time for Monday's breakfast.  I've slept only for about an hour.  To all intents and purposes, Sunday evaporated.

Lift music permeates the public spaces at Changi Airport.  Like everything in Singapore, it is spotless.  I head down the spotless escalators to the spotless platforms to get on the spotless MRT.  I get to the bottom, coffee in hand, only to discover the sign that promises a SG$500 fine for eating or drinking on the train.  Unlike "No heavy petting", such things here are not an idle threat, so I turn around and head back up to find a bin. The Mass Rapid Transit does exactly what it says on the tin.  It gets me from the airport to a 1 minute walk from my hotel in the heart of the city at a price that would barely get me to the end of the road on a bus back home.

For a Brit, the MRT map is a comforting glimpse of home.  The colonial days are recalled in Admiralty, Queenstown, Commonwealth; the people who made it in Braddell, Raffles Place, Clarke Quay; the home-from-home of Dover, Somerset and Kent Ridge.  The announcements on the train are made in clearly enunciated English that echoes the London Tube, including an almost verbatim "Mind The Gap". This morning, it's Monday rush hour, and my case just gets in the way.  Luckily, the English sense of not causing a fuss appears to be an export to this island, and legs are bashed and toes squashed with little comeback.  Opposite me, a tall lad looks even more tired than I do.  He yawns, and his eyelids slide shut, until he slowly topples forward on top of the small lady in front of him.  He jolts awake and offers a small apology before grabbing the hand rail.  If this is the start of his week, it's going to be a long one.

At Tanah Merah, I have to switch trains, and it's at this point that I get my first reminder of the relentless humidity of Singapore.  Weather forecasting is not an interesting job in this part of the world - it will be sunny in the morning, and it will rain in the afternoon.  Every day, it is 30 degrees Celsius.  Even the setting sun doesn't bring any respite.  If you're lucky, it might dip to 27 degrees in the night. I never get bored of telling this fact: the record - record - low temperature in Singapore is 19.6 degrees.  Benetton probably don't sell many jumpers here.  The humidity makes sweat spring immediately to my forehead.  It would surely be utter madness to attempt to run outdoors here.

Thankfully, the hotel offers a pool and a gym to negate the need to kill myself in the inhospitable climate. I arrive just in time to grab breakfast, at which point I note that the pool is right outside the restaurant windows.  I will need to choose swim times carefully if I'm not to put diners off their food.  My plan is to catch up on some kip before heading to the office, but something tells me that would be disastrous for my body clock.  Instead, I realise that if I don't get in some exercise now, another couple of days will have passed, albeit in fast-forward, without exercise.

In the gym, the treadmills have TVs attached.  Having no headphones, I skim around the channels trying to find one that I can watch without needing sound.  Eventually I settle upon what appears to be a K-Pop version of Saturday Kitchen.  The guests eat and drink behind a dazzling barricade of overlaid text,  scrolling, static, horizontal, vertical, big, little, red, green, blue, pink, yellow.  I have no idea what it says, except for the odd English word - "OK", "Wow", "Vicky". Still, everyone, presumably Vicky included, appears to be enjoying themselves enormously.

Next to me, an ageing Asian man plods away, just a little quicker than walking pace.  The clock on his treadmill shows that he's already been going for 30 minutes. I hop on and strike up a good pace.  I don't know if they're pumping oxygen in, but I feel extremely lively for a man working on little sleep.  After 15 minutes, I promise myself to not push it, but the lad is still going.  After 20 minutes, I'm ready to stop, but still he continues.  It's getting personal now.  I get to 5K in 26 minutes, his clock is now at 57 minutes, and while he's slowed down a little, he's still going.  I give up.

And now it's all starting to kick in a litttttttttttttttzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....................

Rubber

First thing Saturday morning, I turn up at The Wetsuit Centre. It's a warehouse full of wetsuits.  It sells the wetsuits.  It sells very little beside wetsuits.  The staff there are hugely experienced in wetsuits.

"What can I do for you?," says the guy behind the counter.

My cerebellum fuses slightly at the question.  Surely - surely - I cannot say "I want to buy a wetsuit".  If I am not there to buy a wetsuit, or he to sell me a wetsuit, clearly one or both of us is in the wrong place.  My mouth hangs open for a second, unsure of quite what to say.

"I want to buy a wetsuit," I say.

The chap doesn't even blink.  What a fucking champion.

Fast forward, 10 minutes later, to a changing room.  Ella has come along with me, because my mother always told me never to buy a wetsuit without a 6 year old in tow. They're useful for their straight talk.

"Dad, you look really fat," she says, as she slaps my rubberised stomach. It doesn't even need saying.  There are many many garments I shouldn't wear, but skin-tight neoprene is right there near the top, especially after the excesses of April and May - holidays, parties, business trips - have taken their toll on my figure.  I pull at the material around my sizeable midriff, and it causes a puff of air to ripple up the chest and fart out the neck.  Ella is delighted.  We'll take it.

Fast forward, a day later, to the beach.  I can put this off no longer.  If I am to compete in the triathlon, I have to face the prospect of an open water swim.  I can't remember the last time that I actually swam in the sea - perhaps as a child.

It takes a good 10 minutes to actually get the wetsuit zipped up.  It really is pretty snug - if not indecent, at least indignant.  Luckily, I've chosen the seclusion of the western end of Hengistbury Head beach, where there are few passers-by to witness my indignity.  After a bit of wriggling and shoulder dislocating, the zip pulls into place.  Goggles on, I wade into the water, pleasantly surprised by the insulation provided by the wetsuit.  I walk in until the water is up to my chest, and then lower myself, bobbing up and down on the swell, which is not insignificant.

Frankly, I'm nervous. Any time I can't immediately touch the bottom I have a minor panic. After a couple of minutes, I stick my face in the water, and I'm greeted with an olive green wall of water.  Visibility is perhaps a metre.  The brine is as disgusting as I remember it.  I start gently breaststroking towards the groyne, which feels utterly futile - whatever motion I can muster is insignificant to the tidal forces that are pushing and pulling, rising and falling.  This isn't much fun.  I change to a front crawl, and it's better, but in my nervousness I'm breathing quicker than normal, and it's hard to establish a real rhythm.  It doesn't help that each passing wave drops me and smashes my face into the water whether I like it or not.

After a few minutes of backwards and forwards between groynes, I'm still alive and decide I shouldn't push my luck, so I head back to the safety of the beach, satisfied with my orientation session.  But clarity comes to me that, really, this is my challenge.  Until now, I've considered the swim a bit that I'll simply tolerate, something to get out the way so I can crack on with the fight for time on the bike and the run.  Based on this, swimming 750m in the sea is going to be an achievement in itself.

Underwhelmed

"Good luck!" says Emma as I leave.  "If you keep to your schedule so far, this'll be your last session before the big day!"

It's a sobering thought. It's been probably 6 weeks since I last entered a swimming pool that didn't have a tube slide and a giant tipping bucket.  Even tonight, I've dithered in getting out the door.  I thought I was going to be saved by having left my goggles in the bag in the kid's bedroom.  Alas, they were fast asleep, allowing me to sneak in and fetch them. I check my emails.  I have another go at taming the new hamster (she's having none of it).  But finally I can't hold off any more, and away I go.

I don't hate swimming.  I don't even dislike it.  I just have no motivation for it.  Unlike running or cycling, it requires you to go to a particular place at a particular time, to go backwards and forwards in the same boring space, with little visual or audio stimulation.  No-one ever wrote a blog post about how they swam to an old French fort and gawped in wonder at the Alps.  Of course, it doesn't help that I have to pay £4.40 for the privilege either.

It doesn't even really feel like exercise.  When I've finished a run or a cycle, I certainly feel it - I want to find the nearest lady, flex my rock-solid thighs and say "'ave a feel of that, love". When I finish a swim, I come home with a slight fatigue and whiff of chlorine.  Maybe that's a sign I'm not really doing enough.

So, I get in the pool, I go backwards and forwards.  It's not great, it's not bad, although I definitely have a bit of trouble with my right elbow, and I'm still looking at 20 minutes for 750m. Whatevs.  I make a mental note to go and buy a wetsuit next week - I need the practice in open water, and it might alleviate some of the boredom.

In other news, a quick, and quick, ride on the bike yesterday.

La Bastille

A change is as good as a rest, they say.  I'm not sure I agree.  In moving house, a work offsite meeting, a week in Crete and a few days with work in Grenoble, routine has gone out the window.  Through it all, training is hanging on for dear life.  I haven't done a decent cycle for about a month, and mentally I've abandoned swimming. It's only running that continues to keep me honest.

The early morning sun peeks out from behind the clouds in Grenoble, and around the edges of the blinds in the Park Hotel.  It’s 6.30am, and the alarm goes off with a deafening tone, one that surely would be considered for use as a torture device in Guantanamo Bay.  I switch it off urgently, and fall back into the pillow.  It's so, so easy to allow my eyelids to close again, which they do for a few minutes.  It's cosy here.  I tell myself how much I'm going to enjoy getting up and going for a run, but the body does not believe it.  Eventually, it's only the need to pee that gets me out of bed.  Even then, it takes an awful lot of effort to convince myself not to get back in once I'm done.  By the time I get out the door, it's nearly five to 7, and I haven't left myself an awful lot of time to run before needing to get back for breakfast and the cab to the office. 

Outside, it's a little chilly, but otherwise a beautiful morning.  Right across the street, I into the Parc de Paul Mistral, a green hub in the middle of Grenoble.  On summer evenings, this place is chock-a-block with the sports-obsessed citizens of the city.  Running, football, touch rugby, ultimate frisbee, slacklining, bicycle polo; all get an airing here.  But this morning I'm largely alone. 

I am on a mission - to reach la Bastille. There are easy ways to get up there - the Téléphérique, or Les Oeufs to the locals, can whisk you smoothly and efficiently to the restaurant at the top in a matter of minutes.  It is unfortunate, perhaps, that it doesn't open until 10am, so today I'm running.  At dinner the previous night, my companions told me of a colleague who reached the Bastille in under 7 minutes.  Should take me 10, tops.

Grenoble, "Capital of the Alps", is in fact the flattest city in France.  It really is very flat.  The city sits at the conjunction of three flat-bottomed valleys, forming a Y at the eastern end of the Alps.  The flatness of the city, however, is almost by definition - the bits that aren't flat are so very not flat that to build on top of them would be crazy.  It is on one particularly not flat bit, nestled at the apex of the Y, that the Huguenot chose to build the Bastille de Grenoble.  It floats a few hundred feet above the city, a vast stone edifice built into the mountain.  

I reach the river. On the other side, there is a single road, and a single line of shops and houses, that found the space to fit themselves along the riverbank before the ground rises almost vertically to the Bastille above.  Straight ahead, a path heads through a set of iron gates, inviting people to make their way up to the Bastille.  Looking up, it's clear that it’s not going to be an easy task to get up there.  At least I'm only running - an invading army would surely have handed in their collective notice at this point and gone home.  

Beyond the gates, one hits a set of Escher-esque steps through stone battlements that immediately lift you 100 feet above the river.  At the top of the steps, the zig zag track starts in earnest.  The path is steep but not unbearable, so feeling spritely, I try to keep up a relatively normal pace.   By the third hairpin, it’s clear this is not going to work.  My calves are feeling the burn already.  I plough on, but I'm getting slower and slower.  Another runner appears from another path, and as much as I want to keep up with him, I can't do it.  Eventually I have no option but to stop and catch breath.  Which I also do at the next hairpin, and the one after that, and after that. 

A mile of path and 15 minutes later, I make it to the base of the fortifications, 700 feet above the river.  The final push is up a steep set of steps, which are torture on my thighs and calves.  At the top, the steps turn through the stone wall, and on to an interior balcony, with a large arch looking out over the city.

This was why I came up here.  Down below, the city sprawls out in all its flatness, the closely packed medieval core clearly delineated from the 1960's concrete that grew up around it.  Beyond it, wooded peaks rise steeply to meet the low cloud floating above them.  But the cloud is merely a decorative sash for the mountains behind, that keep drawing your eye upwards to their snow-capped summits.  For a boy for whom the Mendip Hills are high peaks, it’s hard to grasp the scale.  A photograph could not even start to convey it.  At this time of the morning, the sun hits the mountains horizontally, picking out every crevice and rock in sharp relief.   I feel like I could take the pain every morning if this were the reward.

Moving

"Grandeur" is not a word often associated with Pokesdown Railway Station. I'm not about to change that either.  It's the most functional of stations.  The station entrance is simple double doors sandwiched between Cheque Express ("Tel 42-22-52 for Kwik Cash!") and Klevaco Air Conditioning Ltd. The ticket concourse is bland beige flooring with white tiled walls.  The long platform - once a necessity to accommodate the hordes of holiday makers arriving by train - is deserted, sheltered by a shabby roof held up by iron stanchions, backed by a high wall.  That wall, at least, has in recent times been perked up with an impressive spray-paint mural, the length of the platform, but still it struggles to lift the station out of its misery. Situated in a cutting, there's little view to be had except the weeds that grow in between the rails.  Two years ago, the station was officially renamed "Pokesdown For Boscombe".  This probably tells you everything you need to know about the sort of people that normally disembark at Pokesdown - those that are inhibited, either by alcohol, language or simple map-reading skills, from locating the nearest station to their destination unless it's made explicitly clear.  Which begs the question "who gets on a train not knowing where they're getting off?", but I digress.

My commute now terminates at Pokesdown.

It's been moving week for the family, half a mile across the gently flowing River Stour to the tree-lined suburbia of Boscombe East.  It's meant a severe dent in the training regime. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday all fly by without a hint of exercise, save for the lifting of boxes.  On top of this, the upheaval means a bunch of takeaways, and the Easter weekend delivers chocolate aplenty.

On Monday I take myself out for a post Easter run. It's the familiar 5k loop around the Iford and Tuckton bridges, albeit that I now start from the opposite side of the river.  Everything starts well, as I keep a sub 8-minute mile pace along Barrack Rd.  It's notable that 8:30/mi pace, not so long ago a "stretch goal", is now considered slow and steady.

Gradually I feel the acid sting of half digested Mini Eggs rising in my oesophagus.  I immediately regret my chocolate intake. But I keep up the pace anyway, over the railway bridge and on to Stour Road.  The Garmin beeps to let me know that I've completed 2 miles, and it's a quick one.  If I keep going like this, maybe even on for another 5k best.  But then my brain gets in the way.  "Stop," it whispers gently, "you've earned it.  Ease yourself back in." I've become pretty good at ignoring my brain, as my wife would testify, however today, for some reason, it's not so easy. I slow to a walk, and congratulate myself on the run until now. After a breather, I speed back up, ready to attack the last mile at a similar speed.

"What the...?" shouts my left shoulder blade.

"This isn't what I signed up to" says the arch of my right foot.

The left foot nods in agreement.

"I'm sleepy," yawns my right arm, slowly going numb.

"I told you this would happen," moans my right knee.

"It's a disgrace!" grumbles the left knee.

"Hi, I'm new here!" proclaims my neck.

It's a disaster.  Every part of my body suddenly has a tale of woe to tell.  Things are so bad that I barely reach the other side of Tuckton Bridge before having to stop again. I've gone from Mo Farah to Big Mo in the space of 30 seconds.  Things continue in a similar vein for the rest of the run, and I'm mighty relieved to round the corner on to the finish straight.  I am a broken man.

With a holiday coming up next week, I fear this situation may not improve either.  And I still haven't got back in the pool.  The clock is ticking down to July 6th.  Erk.

Game of Bones: The Tale of Paa-Krunne

It was dark days in the Kingdom. The King's trusty steed, Knees, was rendered lame. Instead, the King - devilishly handsome and wonderfully benevolent - busied himself toiling in the fields; playing with his casual band of minstrels; attending the tremendous displays of derring-do by the King's Regiment.  Meanwhile, the Queen prepared the Royal household for its relocation across the sparkling waters of the great River Stour, into the hinterlands of Iford.

But none of this could hide the fact that the King was avoiding his duties. A great malaise was spread over the land. The waters of the lagoon lay undisturbed.  He found solace in wine and beer.  The twin trolls, Sloth and Gluttony, hid under the palace drawbridge, awaiting their chance to ambush the King.  People all over the land beseeched the messengers of the court to bring them news of the King, but they could not, for he could not even find the heart to update his blog.

But news reached the King of great trouble.  A great dragon, Paa-Krunne, had come down from the mountains, and was now troubling the peasants in the King's Park.  The King discussed the situation with his advisors.  Everyone expected the King to do something, but he feared for the still recovering Knees. He did not want to show his vulnerability in a battle that he might lose.  But when the time came, the King knew what had to be done.  This was the opportunity he needed to show his people his bravery and courage.  He knew that he must take Knees into battle, and slay the dragon - in under 25 minutes.

On the high plateau of the Park, the King laid eyes upon the dragon.  It was still 3.1 miles distant, but the King was brave of heart and strong of head.  He was surrounded by his loyal troops - Sir Greg, once rumoured to have slain the dragon in just 22 minutes; Sir Kennedy and his young trainee, Master Henry; Dame Black; Lord John of Motson.  Urging Knees into a gallop, the King rode steadily but quickly.

Paa-Krunne was still a mile away when the pair came to the Marsh of Fatigue. A fog hung heavy over the marsh, and Knees struggled to make headway through the soft ground.  The King was by now alone, and ruing his earlier pace.  He was longing for a tavern in which to rest, when he passed by a fair maiden.

"'Tis a tortuous journey, my lord," spoke the maiden.

"Verily it is. But we have come so far, and we are so near," replied the King.

"What is your quest?," she quizzed.

"I have come to slay the beast in under 25 minutes"

The maiden, red hair funnelled into a thick plait down her back, considered the quest. "Then I think you are travelling well, sire. In this marsh I fear I have lost my way, and I shall not reach my destination today".

"Then we shall travel together, fair maiden, for I too am lost in this terrible place.  I am Sir Mark," said the King.  He did not wish to reveal his true identity, for he was humble, as well as devilishly handsome and wonderfully benevolent.

"I am Lady Kate."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Come, we must not tarry, for the dragon is near."

Together they travelled, from the Marsh of Fatigue, through the Woods of Twisted Ankle.  The tales they told along the way passed the time, and compelled them onwards.

At the summit of the Hill of Doubt, they found the lair of the dragon, and inside, the awakening beast.  It noticed the brave adventurers.  The Hill of Doubt had sapped their energy, but they reminded each other of the rich rewards that awaited the completion of their quest.  The dragon reared up and beat its massive wings.  It was angry, and its fiery breath scorched the muscles and took away their breath.

"We must aim for the heart, Sir Mark.  Gird your loins, for now is the time we must attack."

"Aye, Lady Kate.  Attack we shall."

The party advanced upon the dragon, deftly avoiding its attacks.  The King charged at full speed.  The good horse Knees was now at his limits.

"Sprint now, Sir Mark, if you are to accomplish your quest!," squealed Lady Kate.

As Knees buckled beneath him, the King plunged his sword deep into the heart of Paa-Krunne.  The beast let out a moan that reverberated throughout the Kingdom, and slumped to the floor.  It was slain.  The King glanced at his most ancient Garmin to see that he had completed his quest in 24 minutes and 20 seconds.

As light returned to the Kingdom, the people rejoiced, and once more did the King update his blog.

Block

"You haven't posted on your blog for ages," says Benji.

"I know. I haven't had anything to write about."

"Perhaps you have writers' block. You should post about writers' block."

It's probably not so much writers' block as triathlon block. A general trough of apathy has followed the duathlon.  It's not been without it's highlights, most notably a 25:10 parkrun 5k, and an 8.5k lunchtime run, but otherwise it's a litany of missed training and underwhelming effort.

To underline the gloomy outlook, today my knees age about 30 years of their own volition.  It starts with a hill reps session with Greg.  The warm up run is fine, but as soon as we start the first run up the hill, the inside of my right knee pings and I have to stop. It's another few minutes before I can go again, and then it's gingerly.

Over the course of the afternoon, my left knee decides it needs a bit of the action too.  By the time I get home, climbing the stairs is a chore. This cannot be good.  It it maybe life's way of telling me that I really should get back to swimming. I haven't been for two weeks.  Perhaps, just perhaps, this is the opportunity I need to discover my inner dolphin.