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.