This time,
More than any other time, this time
We're gonna find a way,
Find a way to get away, this time
Getting it all together
We'll get it right
Promises, promises. So, perhaps the scales weren't quite the motivation I needed to actually get back to peak fitness, or to continue blogging such feats. But the evenings start getting lighter, the weather warmer, and a conversation with a work colleague clues me into the Osprey Sprint Triathlon in Weymouth, three weeks hence. Three weeks doesn't seem like a long time to get my act together, but I figure that I could either continue making excuses, or crack on with it and use it as a marker for future events.
Mercifully, the swim is only 300m, and in a pool - a pool! the luxury! - so I assume that I can pretty much rock up without needing to spend too much time on swim training. But a rainy Sunday presents an opportunity to at least dip a toe in the pool, so I take it, and very soon I'm painfully aware that even 12 lengths is going to be hard work. Thinking back, I realise that the last time I swam was way back in August, in the oily murk of the Victoria Dock. Even 50 metres is a struggle, and when I eventually work up the energy to do a full 300m without stopping, it's well over 9 minutes, a good way out from the 8 minutes prediction I'd put on my entry form. Luckily, practice makes, if not perfect, at least better. A few more swim sessions later, I have my 300m time down to around 7:40.
Sunday 23rd April - The alarm is set for 5.15am, but as I open my eyes, I can see daylight through a gap in the curtains. Startled that the alarm hasn't gone off, I quickly grab the phone to check the time, only to find that my brain has somehow pulled off that strange and remarkable feat of waking itself up at just the right time, 5.08am to be exact. Who knew it got light so early? I turn off the alarms - a second one just in case I should relapse from the first - so that I don't wake Emma, but I immediately flop back into the pillow and close my eyes, before realising that I am in grave danger and forcing myself out from under the duvet.
By the time I reach Weymouth at 6.30am, it's turning into a lovely sunny morning. It's not quite so lovely to get out the car and feel the bitter northerly wind blowing across Portland Harbour. Bizarrely, the large car park next to the leisure centre is barricaded off by a flimsy wooden fence, except for a car's width gap, through which everyone squeezes. It is still not clear to me why. The car park sits in the shadow of the steep precipice that forms the main part of the Portland peninsula, and up which the bike route immediately proceeds. Having driven up it for the first time just a month before - and it's not particularly easy going in a car, let alone on a bike - it's this hill that's been at the forefront of my mind in the lead up. My commutes to work on the bike have been via the biggest and steepest hills I can find en route, but even they seems like mere molehills compared to this one.
Having registered, I drop all my stuff in transition, and begin to remember how the hardest part of triathlon is not the athletic effort, it's the mental effort of making sure you've remembered everything and have it laid out in a reasonable order. To add to the mix here, the pool swim means that everyone starts in waves, ordered from slowest to fast swimmers, of which I am in the second one, and not scheduled to start until 8.25am. There is absolutely no way I'm going to stand around in a thin tri-suit in this cold for any longer than I need to, so I try to figure out exactly when and where I should be getting changed. I opt to go inside, make extravagant use of the porcelain facilities, and get a coffee from the leisure centre cafe, restraining myself from adding a bacon roll to the order.
Work colleague, and triathlon newcomer, Stuart arrives with his other half. Stuart, in jeans and puffy jacket, is dressed like he's going for a pint rather than racing, but insists he has his tri-suit on underneath (not only is that true, but he's also opted for the same second-least-expensive Zone 3 tri-suit as me). Built like a whippet, I suspect that newcomer or not I'll be left in his wake. I also recount to him how I had suddenly remembered, the previous day, that I've got an automatic entry to the Pier to Pier swim again this year. Bugger.
8:15am: I am poolside, stood in a long queue - all donning matching orange swim caps - awaiting my turn to go. It's certainly a lot more civilised than the open water swims that I'm used to. At the front, a lady greets the next swimmer with a smile and smalltalk, before passing them along to get in the pool. There are all sorts here, young and old, new and experienced. Swimming styles are definitely varied - the splashers, the gliders, the breaststrokers, the drowners; the two-stroke breathers, the bilateral breathers, the quad breathers, the don't-put-your-face-in-the-water breathers. As the first, somewhat nervous looking, swimmer gets to the exit, a loud round of applause echoes around the pool as he disappears out the fire escape and down the steps to transition. It's nice to have a bit of an atmosphere. Finally, 15 minutes later than advertised, I'm in the pool and away. I start out at a reasonable pace, but within three lengths I've been caught by the guy behind, but also pleasingly have caught the girl in front, who lets both of us pass at the end of the length. From there, it's as boring as swimming gets - not too slow, not too fast, and even though it's only 300 metres, I'm pleased to get to the steps.
The cold air bites on the way out the doors. It's definitely too chilly to go cycling in just a wet tri-suit, so I've folded a lightweight running jacket around the handlebars. I unfold it, and try to put my arm in. The strong breeze makes it flap around, and at least three times I put my hand out through breathable slit at the back of the jacket instead of down the sleeve. Fourth attempt gets it right, and then I fart around trying to do up the zip as I'm running out, until I accept that it will be a lot quicker to stop and do it properly. Less haste, more speed.
Talking of which, as I hop on the bike, I accidentally press the Lap button on the Garmin twice, which immediately makes it think I'm now back in transition, so I spend the first minute of the bike fiddling with the Garmin to get it back on track. The road starts upwards, so I put it in a low gear and spin, wanting to save legs for later. The hill is actually not too bad for the first couple of minutes, and I pass a variety of people on the way, some of whom have already stopped on the roadside, and they're not even at the steepest bit yet. A sharp bend in the road signifies the start of the hard bit, a consistent 8-10% grade slope with an annoyingly rough road surface, for the first part at least. Riders are bunched together, some walking, some swerving, all breathing hard, me included. I manage to stay in the saddle all the way to the hairpin at the top, on the treeless plateau, which makes it feel positively Alpine. Near the top, I overtake another competitor, and in what I hope is a spirit of comradeship, say "Fun, isn't it?". Again. And once again, as he looks at me blankly, I immediately realise what a stupid thing that is to say. I am a tit. A socially awkward tit.
With the wind at my back, and the road all downhill all the way to Portland Bill, it's easy going, mostly huddled over the tri bars, overtaking a learner driver nervously navigating their way down the country lanes. The road ends at a turning circle in the shadow of the lighthouse, and it's like cycling into a wall. Suddenly it's into the wind, and all uphill for the 4 miles back to the Portland Heights Hotel. All I can do is put my head down and keep going, at what now feels like a snails pace. Every undulation in the road feels bigger than the hill I ploughed up at the start. I'm more than grateful to get to the roundabout and start the steep, and mildly petrifying, descent back to the leisure centre and T2.
"Helmet off!" shouts the marshal, "helmet off!". A schoolboy error, running out of T2 with my helmet still on. I dither slightly, trying to figure out whether I should just throw it down or return back to my spot in transition, before taking the middle ground and placing it neatly tucked under a barrier at the side of the course. The run heads out around the marina, before diverting off the tarmac onto a rough track along the causeway that joins Portland (don't mention the rabbits) to the mainland. The surface makes it tough enough, especially with my calf feeling very tight and a sore back, but the wind makes it horrible, howling past my ears and drowning out the shouts of the marshals advising which way to go. A flag marks half way, at which point I turn, and with the wind behind gives me a new burst of energy all the way to the finish.
Final result: a 7:23 swim (ok), a 41:54 bike (not great), and a 27:05 run (slow), total 1:19.43. 91st of 201 finishers, so can't complain, but can't help but feel I could have put a bit more effort in. I am positively shamed by Stuart, who finishes 28th in his first tri. Still, I treat myself to one of those bacon sandwiches anyway.
Mercifully, the swim is only 300m, and in a pool - a pool! the luxury! - so I assume that I can pretty much rock up without needing to spend too much time on swim training. But a rainy Sunday presents an opportunity to at least dip a toe in the pool, so I take it, and very soon I'm painfully aware that even 12 lengths is going to be hard work. Thinking back, I realise that the last time I swam was way back in August, in the oily murk of the Victoria Dock. Even 50 metres is a struggle, and when I eventually work up the energy to do a full 300m without stopping, it's well over 9 minutes, a good way out from the 8 minutes prediction I'd put on my entry form. Luckily, practice makes, if not perfect, at least better. A few more swim sessions later, I have my 300m time down to around 7:40.
Sunday 23rd April - The alarm is set for 5.15am, but as I open my eyes, I can see daylight through a gap in the curtains. Startled that the alarm hasn't gone off, I quickly grab the phone to check the time, only to find that my brain has somehow pulled off that strange and remarkable feat of waking itself up at just the right time, 5.08am to be exact. Who knew it got light so early? I turn off the alarms - a second one just in case I should relapse from the first - so that I don't wake Emma, but I immediately flop back into the pillow and close my eyes, before realising that I am in grave danger and forcing myself out from under the duvet.
By the time I reach Weymouth at 6.30am, it's turning into a lovely sunny morning. It's not quite so lovely to get out the car and feel the bitter northerly wind blowing across Portland Harbour. Bizarrely, the large car park next to the leisure centre is barricaded off by a flimsy wooden fence, except for a car's width gap, through which everyone squeezes. It is still not clear to me why. The car park sits in the shadow of the steep precipice that forms the main part of the Portland peninsula, and up which the bike route immediately proceeds. Having driven up it for the first time just a month before - and it's not particularly easy going in a car, let alone on a bike - it's this hill that's been at the forefront of my mind in the lead up. My commutes to work on the bike have been via the biggest and steepest hills I can find en route, but even they seems like mere molehills compared to this one.
Having registered, I drop all my stuff in transition, and begin to remember how the hardest part of triathlon is not the athletic effort, it's the mental effort of making sure you've remembered everything and have it laid out in a reasonable order. To add to the mix here, the pool swim means that everyone starts in waves, ordered from slowest to fast swimmers, of which I am in the second one, and not scheduled to start until 8.25am. There is absolutely no way I'm going to stand around in a thin tri-suit in this cold for any longer than I need to, so I try to figure out exactly when and where I should be getting changed. I opt to go inside, make extravagant use of the porcelain facilities, and get a coffee from the leisure centre cafe, restraining myself from adding a bacon roll to the order.
Work colleague, and triathlon newcomer, Stuart arrives with his other half. Stuart, in jeans and puffy jacket, is dressed like he's going for a pint rather than racing, but insists he has his tri-suit on underneath (not only is that true, but he's also opted for the same second-least-expensive Zone 3 tri-suit as me). Built like a whippet, I suspect that newcomer or not I'll be left in his wake. I also recount to him how I had suddenly remembered, the previous day, that I've got an automatic entry to the Pier to Pier swim again this year. Bugger.
8:15am: I am poolside, stood in a long queue - all donning matching orange swim caps - awaiting my turn to go. It's certainly a lot more civilised than the open water swims that I'm used to. At the front, a lady greets the next swimmer with a smile and smalltalk, before passing them along to get in the pool. There are all sorts here, young and old, new and experienced. Swimming styles are definitely varied - the splashers, the gliders, the breaststrokers, the drowners; the two-stroke breathers, the bilateral breathers, the quad breathers, the don't-put-your-face-in-the-water breathers. As the first, somewhat nervous looking, swimmer gets to the exit, a loud round of applause echoes around the pool as he disappears out the fire escape and down the steps to transition. It's nice to have a bit of an atmosphere. Finally, 15 minutes later than advertised, I'm in the pool and away. I start out at a reasonable pace, but within three lengths I've been caught by the guy behind, but also pleasingly have caught the girl in front, who lets both of us pass at the end of the length. From there, it's as boring as swimming gets - not too slow, not too fast, and even though it's only 300 metres, I'm pleased to get to the steps.
The cold air bites on the way out the doors. It's definitely too chilly to go cycling in just a wet tri-suit, so I've folded a lightweight running jacket around the handlebars. I unfold it, and try to put my arm in. The strong breeze makes it flap around, and at least three times I put my hand out through breathable slit at the back of the jacket instead of down the sleeve. Fourth attempt gets it right, and then I fart around trying to do up the zip as I'm running out, until I accept that it will be a lot quicker to stop and do it properly. Less haste, more speed.
Talking of which, as I hop on the bike, I accidentally press the Lap button on the Garmin twice, which immediately makes it think I'm now back in transition, so I spend the first minute of the bike fiddling with the Garmin to get it back on track. The road starts upwards, so I put it in a low gear and spin, wanting to save legs for later. The hill is actually not too bad for the first couple of minutes, and I pass a variety of people on the way, some of whom have already stopped on the roadside, and they're not even at the steepest bit yet. A sharp bend in the road signifies the start of the hard bit, a consistent 8-10% grade slope with an annoyingly rough road surface, for the first part at least. Riders are bunched together, some walking, some swerving, all breathing hard, me included. I manage to stay in the saddle all the way to the hairpin at the top, on the treeless plateau, which makes it feel positively Alpine. Near the top, I overtake another competitor, and in what I hope is a spirit of comradeship, say "Fun, isn't it?". Again. And once again, as he looks at me blankly, I immediately realise what a stupid thing that is to say. I am a tit. A socially awkward tit.
With the wind at my back, and the road all downhill all the way to Portland Bill, it's easy going, mostly huddled over the tri bars, overtaking a learner driver nervously navigating their way down the country lanes. The road ends at a turning circle in the shadow of the lighthouse, and it's like cycling into a wall. Suddenly it's into the wind, and all uphill for the 4 miles back to the Portland Heights Hotel. All I can do is put my head down and keep going, at what now feels like a snails pace. Every undulation in the road feels bigger than the hill I ploughed up at the start. I'm more than grateful to get to the roundabout and start the steep, and mildly petrifying, descent back to the leisure centre and T2.
"Helmet off!" shouts the marshal, "helmet off!". A schoolboy error, running out of T2 with my helmet still on. I dither slightly, trying to figure out whether I should just throw it down or return back to my spot in transition, before taking the middle ground and placing it neatly tucked under a barrier at the side of the course. The run heads out around the marina, before diverting off the tarmac onto a rough track along the causeway that joins Portland (don't mention the rabbits) to the mainland. The surface makes it tough enough, especially with my calf feeling very tight and a sore back, but the wind makes it horrible, howling past my ears and drowning out the shouts of the marshals advising which way to go. A flag marks half way, at which point I turn, and with the wind behind gives me a new burst of energy all the way to the finish.
Final result: a 7:23 swim (ok), a 41:54 bike (not great), and a 27:05 run (slow), total 1:19.43. 91st of 201 finishers, so can't complain, but can't help but feel I could have put a bit more effort in. I am positively shamed by Stuart, who finishes 28th in his first tri. Still, I treat myself to one of those bacon sandwiches anyway.
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