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.
Wednesday 9 July 2014
Monday 7 July 2014
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.
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.
Sunday 6 July 2014
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.
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.
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.
Saturday 5 July 2014
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.
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.
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