Race Day

Race day.  I wake up at 6:15am, before the alarm goes off, almost unknown for me.

The Holiday Inn M4 Jct 10 (not to be confused with the Holiday Inn M4 Jct 11) is actually a nice place, or at least as nice as these places can be.  From the 6th floor I get a good view over the surrounding area, Winnersh Triangle, a triumph of post-millennial office space, all mirrored windows and gently glowing logos.  On a Sunday, it's a ghost town.

In a fit of anxious preparation, I've laid out my kit at the foot of the bed, and separated race bits (rucksack) from overnight stuff (holdall).  I keep thinking through the race and transitions, trying to figure out what I might have forgotten about, but all seems in order.  A couple of bananas and a slice of malt loaf serve as breakfast.

The venue is literally just the other side of the road from the hotel.  Unfortunately, that road is the A329(M), so it's a 2.5 mile detour through Winnersh to actually get there. I arrive just after 7am and register.  Back at the car, the guy from the neighbouring vehicle nods at the AFC Bournemouth logo on my shorts (yes, I'm a real pro) and says "good result yesterday".  It turns out he's also a Cherries fan, originally from Wimborne, now studying in Reading.  We strike up a bit of conversation; it's a good way to start the day.

I put the bike in the transition area, and fuss over the bits and pieces that I'll need.  Helmet, cycle shoes, a towel, water.  Sunglasses just in case, a couple of energy bars.  With about 20 minutes until transition closes, I go about affixing race numbers.  It's at this point that I realise I've left my race number belt in my holdall, which is back at the hotel.  I could try and blag some safety pins from somewhere, but as the hotel is only a few minutes away, I decide to go and get it.

The roads around Winnersh Triangle are a wonder of town planning.  I'm sure that they do a wonderful job of shepherding the masses of commuter vehicles on a Monday morning, but at 7:45am on a Sunday they are a bewildering kaleidoscope of lane markings and traffic lights, going through the motions regardless like a cargo cult.  For a man in a hurry, they're torture.  I get back just in time. To add to the fun, it's only during the race briefing that I realise I've left my Garmin in the car, and the car keys in the now closed transition.  I have to beg a marshal to fetch them for me.

Near the start, everyone mills around warming up.  They all look far too fit for my liking.  One guy is in a skin tight all in one - with his long sideburns and the build of a twig, he has a bit of the Bradley Wiggins about him.  He looks a bit more serious about this than me in my fleece and football shorts.

So 8:30am comes around, the horn goes and we're away.  The run is around the lakes of Dinton Pastures - a rural idyll betwixt Reading and Wokingham, and only slightly disturbed by the thrum of the motorway along its borders.  The sun starts to shine, which takes the edge off the chilly breeze.  The stony paths are not terribly friendly on the feet, but I settle into a decent pace on the shoulder of #27, resplendent in fluorescent peach, and stick with her for the next 3 miles.  She's probably cursing me panting heavily in her ear.

I hit T1 in just under 28 minutes, a pretty good pace - the run is actually 5.25km.  Having pondered the mechanics of transition for so long, this is my chance to do it for real.  In the event, it's really pretty simple - trainers off, cycle shoes on, helmet on, off you go. Not sure what all the fuss is about.

I mount the bike just behind #82.  He looks like he's going to be fairly quick - he has aero bars - but he's taking his time getting up to speed.  Given the drafting rules, I either have to sit behind or overtake within 15 seconds.  I make the decision to go for it and overtake.  Ten seconds later, lactic acid fills my thighs, and not surprisingly he just comes past again.  Lesson learnt, I stick to a rhythm and try to forget what everyone else is doing.

It's a pleasure to be sat down, and with the wind behind and a merciful lack of hills, it's a pleasant ride down to the M4.  Just beyond the motorway, the course turns and heads north, back into the frigid wind.  It also becomes a bit more hilly at this point, but they at least provide some shelter from that wind.  The increased difficulty shows as I come across a long line of cyclists, and gradually pick them off one by one.  It's a massive confidence boost, and in the end I'm only overtaken by two cyclists, both of them part of relay teams.  The only shaky moment comes as I reach a hill having just taken a mouthful of gooey energy bar - trying to breath through that stuff is tricky.

Back at T2, it's a simple change back to the trainers, and off for the second 5k run.  As I head out of transition, the race winner is coming over the finish.  Not surprisingly, it's The Twig.  My legs continue to cycle for the next few minutes, and the run is slow going.  For the most part, I'm on my own, save for the good people and dogs of Reading and Wokingham, and all I can do is count off the kilometres and hope the finish comes soon.  It comes, but not nearly soon enough for my liking.  Over the line in a grand total of 1:41:37.

Still, it's a job done, and a good marker for future efforts.  The time is about what I thought I'd do, and I'm 61st out of 87, so well above the bottom 10%, which was my aim.  I get a nice weighty medal for my efforts, as well as the obligatory water bottle and wad of leaflets for future events.

Vital stats:
Run 1 - 27:52
T1 - 01:21
Bike - 41:11
T2 - 01:35
Run 2 - 29:36
Total : 1:41:37 (61st of 87)

Time for bed.

Indecision

Ok, sports fans, the dream is back on.  Tomorrow I'm tackling the Reading Dinton Duathlon, thanks to the support and understanding of my family.  It's been touch and go - I missed the online sign up deadline by about an hour, but thankfully can still enter on the day.  I was going on my own, then with the family, then on my own, then with the family. Then I booked the wrong hotel (Reading has two Holiday Inns near the M4, who knew?).  Then I discovered the right hotel didn't have a family room available, so now I'm on my own again.   It's not quite been the preparation of champions.

It may or may not be live on Sky Sports. Full report tomorrow, assuming I still have energy in my fingertips.

In which fate kicks me firmly in the arse

"We have had to cancel the Duathlon at Thruxton Motor Racing Circuit due to circumstances beyond our control."

Gah!  I've spent the weekend thinking about the duathlon, getting excited about it, pondering transitions and times, and then this lands in my inbox. I am gutted - possibly as gutted as one can be at the news that you no longer have to run and cycle 20 miles.

I scour britishtriathlon.org for a replacement event.  The Goodwood Duathlon would be an ideal replacement, but entries are now closed. The Dinton Duathlon sounds good, but starts at a time that would mean leaving home at a time of the morning that isn't really compatible with the family. The Bath Duathlon is pretty uninspiring for the distance I'd have to travel.  The Peaky Freaky sounds like an intriguing and challenging route to a recurrence of knee problems.  I even seriously consider the off-road TriPurbeck Sika Duathlon, until I find that's cancelled too.

This has some serious repercussions for the screenplay.

The Wow! Signal

"Amazed at how closely the signal matched the expected signature of an interstellar signal in the antenna used, Ehman circled the signal on the computer printout and wrote the comment 'Wow!' on its side" - The Wow! Signal

What a week. After the lull and laziness last week, it's been a bouncing back time.  Sunday, the Causeway Loop at just under 18mph. Tuesday, a solid 2.7 mile run.  Wednesday, a sub 20 minute 750m swim.  Thursday, a hilly 10.7mi cycle at an average 17.9mph - 4 minutes faster than the previous week.  Friday, 10 sets of 30 second hill reps.  Not significant or impressive in absolute terms, but consistent leaps and bounds from where I started two months ago. 

And so arrives a Parkrun day.  In prep for the Duathlon next week, I decide I really ought to do my first brick - a cycle followed by run, aimed at getting the legs used to getting off a bike and heading straight off on a run.  I take the long way to Kings Park, up the hill on Belle Vue Road, and along the seafront to Boscombe.  It's hard going as the cold legs refuse to move and a fresh headwind pushes me backwards.  Nevertheless, I time my arrival carefully - I'm keen to leave as little time as possible from getting off the bike to starting the run. 

I get to the athletics stadium and lock the bike up on the railings, and it's then that I realise I probably really need to think through my transitions too.  I get in a right mess trying to get the bike shoes off and the running shoes on.  I nearly forget to take off my helmet.  I fart around with the Garmin trying to switch it from bike to run mode. Either way, it's somewhat wasted - the usual pre-parkrun presentations (which are actually one of the best parts about parkrun) go on a little bit, and it's a good few minutes before we get round to starting anyway.

This week is a pacer week, and there's one running a 26 minute pace.  Given that my 5k best is 26:45, it seems reasonable to aim for that, although I assume I'll tail off somewhere.  The 26 minute pacer is Ian.  Black from head to ankle, except for a fluorescent pink bib, he's pretty easy to spot.  As the horn sounds, he storms away.  I immediately start to panic that I've bitten off more than I can chew.  After 30 seconds, a man next to me hollers "are you running 22 or 26?!".  "It'll be fine!" shouts Ian. 

We are the 26 Minute Army, closely ranked behind the pacer.  It's a bunch of occasionals and middle-age spreads, the look of whom fills me with confidence that if they they can beat 26 minutes, so can I.  After the hurried start, we settle into a more comfortable pace, and I'm feeling pretty good.  "Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth" says Ian.  Easier said than done.  I don't appear to have enough nostril capacity to support my need to breathe.  But at least I'm in better shape than some of the other foot soldiers. Around me are plenty of wheezes and barks.  Most notable is a man in his 50's, resembling John Motson.  Shoulders hunched, feet barely lifting, his running style looks more like a fast walk. And boy, is he wheezing.  All due credit to the fella, he's just as fast as me, but it looks and sounds so strenuous I'm feeling it too. 

At the Dean Court corner for the final time, Ian shouts "150 yards to go! Go past me now! Sprint!" to the assembled crew. The majority are either unable or unwilling, so I take the initiative and pick up my stride. I overtake not only Ian, but a handful of other runners just ahead of him too. It only takes a few seconds to realise that I've totally overdone it, but I'm committed now.  The last hundred meters are agony, not least because I get that horrible feeling again that certain parts of my body are about to involuntarily evacuate themselves. I keep it up though, and cross the line in 99th place in 25:48* - a full 90 seconds better than my previous parkrun best, and a minute quicker than my 5k best.  Another achievement to add to this week's honour roll.

Tomorrow, a rest day. I've earned it.

* As I reviewed the results page I realised that I actually overtook a runner in the finish funnel, as she was bent double being nearly sick, so officially it was she who was 98th in 25:45.  

Wax on, wax off

An email plonks itself into my inbox, advertising the Thruxton Duathlon. A 5k run, a 20k bike ride, and another 5k run. Basically a tri but without the swimming evil.  It's terribly tempting - I can do those distances, but putting them all together right now might be a challenge.  I pore over last year's results to compare times (although the bike is 10k shorter this time), desperate to make sure I won't be last. I wonder whether I'm ready for it.

More importantly, I worry about the story arc of this blog.  Doing a race now would just be like revealing whodunnit in Chapter 2.  It would ruin the chances of it getting made into a Hollywood blockbuster, although I'm sure they could apply some artistic license.

And then I have an enlightenment, that it really doesn't matter.  I can come near the bottom, it's okay.  But if I don’t try it, I’ll never know.  If I do try it and come last, I’ll learn something about myself and about racing, and next time maybe I won’t be last.  Despite this, however, I still umm and aah about it.  I hold off signing up.

As I login to write this post, my Blogger dashboard shows me that someone has posthumously updated Scott's blog with the speech he wrote for his own funeral.  I read it again - "you have to take your chances when they come along. No, but really.  No, but *really*", he says.

Next Sunday, Thruxton Circuit, 10am.  I'll be there.  I might be last, I might not.  Actually, thinking about it, coming last would be great for the film, a bit like the Karate Kid.  Now I just need to see if I can get my wife to have an affair with some brute of a triathlete so that I can win her back.  Maybe he could slash my bike tyres or something. Then in July I'll pip him to the finish line where she’ll be waiting for me with open arms, and then we can limp off into the sunset to apply moisturiser.

When you get to the bottom you go back to the top

Another tri dream.  It's the bike leg, indoors in a long, cavernous, concrete warehouse.  I set out at a storming pace.  The problem I have is that a course is marked on the floor, and is only a couple of feet wide, with tight twists and turns.  As much as I try, I can't keep within the lines.  After a while, the lines on the floor are replaced by rows of open paint cans, which spray red and yellow paint extravagantly as I plough through them helplessly.

I have no idea what this means.

It's been a strange week anyway. Missed two days training on Thursday (working late) and Friday (just...forgot), but in the middle averaged 17.2mph for a 17 mile ride to work. Which was then negated by gorging on pizza delivered in for some late working in the office.  On Saturday I attempt to restart things with a run around Highcliffe, but it's terrible - my back hurts, my shoulder hurts, I just don't really feel in the zone, and as a result it's slow and difficult.  Sunday brings sunshine and a blast around the Causeway Loop, and I'm a gnat's whisker away from averaging over 18mph for the first time.  Almost quite literally - my helmet is peppered with large clouds of insects, newly arisen in the warmth of March.

My brother John comes round on Saturday with the family.  He's done a few seasons of triathlon himself previously, and we talk about times.  Until now, I've mentally set myself a goal of 1h40 total.  Looking at the results of previous Bournemouth Sprint Tri events, I realise this really isn't going to cut the mustard.  That time would put me in the bottom 10% of the field, and whilst, yes, of course, it's about the participation and the journey, and not about the time, it is really, isn't it?  I harbour no lofty ambitions, but I have no desire to be a straggler either.  The best I can hope for, as far as I can see, is to concentrate on my bike speed, hope that I can take a minute or two off my 5k time between now and July, and pray for a miracle in the water.

Work to do.

Tramps like us

Rik posts on my Facebook, inviting me to run the March For Men 5K with him. Alarmingly, it's only 2 days away, and my head is still thick with mucus.  I say yes, but mentally start documenting excuses.

By Saturday, I haven't exercised for two days and I'm getting anxious about it. This is not a sentence I thought I would be saying.  Having said that, by mid afternoon I find myself comfortably on the sofa, and if a man can't enjoy a little doze after a walk in the sunshine and a delicious lunch, then I don't know what civilization is coming to.  As my eyelids ease slowly into position, the anxiety kicks in, and I realise that if I don't go and do something now, there's little chance of it happening at all.  The eyelids protest; for a moment I slump back, but eventually I convince myself that I really should go.

Top lip smothered with Vicks, I set myself a target of 2 miles at 8:30/mi pace to test things out, but after a minute I'm going under 8:00/mi pace, and find it incredibly difficult to slow down, so I carry on going.  As I approach Jumpers Corner I'm starting to feel terribly uncomfortable, a dull ache in my stomach.  I push on regardless, determined to complete the 2 miles.  At 1.7 miles, I get to the end of my road - I should run straight past, but psychologically it's a massive blow and I stop, sure that I'm going to vomit, or worse.  I tell myself that I've been ill and need to take it easy, but really I know I've copped out a little.

Rik picks me up at 8.30am for the race.  I register and we find ourselves at a bit of a loose end for 30 minutes until the start.  This is unfortunate, because the wind is coming in off the sea and it's bloody cold. We make do with jostling around and stretching like we know what we're doing. We bump into Kerry, a friend of Rik's, who recognises me as "Mark that does the blog".  I give a sheepish smile, slightly embarrassed at my newly found fame as the fat bloke doing some exercise.

"Bloody hell! Look at the size of that thing!" says Rik.  It's not a compliment, as he points out the Garmin on my wrist to Kerry.  I bought the Garmin 6 years ago, and it was second-hand then, so it's true to say it's something of a relic as GPS watches go.  I make a note to look for something more up to date, but it's better than running with a phone in my hand at least, since I discovered how easy it is to upload from a Garmin to Strava.

The race takes the field up through the Lower Gardens.  It's a tricky start, as a few hundred people at varying paces funnel into narrow paths made uneven by invading tree roots.  Eventually the field spreads, and we pop out back at the Pier Approach and on to the promenade, where the wind immediately makes itself known.   We plod along at 9:00/mi pace, until the 5K turnaround, which is somewhat anonymous - the sign announcing it is blowing in the wind, and the marshall holding the stick isn't paying attention to the runners, so I'm fairly sure there's a few 5Kers that will have found themselves treated to a 10K after all.  It's lucky for Rik that I'm a few steps ahead of him, as he fails to spot the sign and briefly looks surprised to see me heading in the opposite direction.

With the wind now behind, my pace increases.  Gradually Rik drops back and he waves me on.  I'm feeling pretty good, and I'm definitely going fast, as I creep up on the runner in front.  I glance at my Garmin and see that I'm on for a personal best, so I'm disappointed and a little confused when I'm still 200 yards from the line as my PB time goes by.  Regardless, I make it on to the shoulder of the runner I've been chasing just as we get onto the Pier Approach, but I have little left in the tank and he sprints for the finish.  Curse you #103.

Not me, followed by me

A minute later, Rik appears too, and it's not until he points out that the course is a little longer than 5K that I realise I did actually beat my 5K PB - down to 26:45, 30 seconds better than my previous best.  The pace graph shows the third mile at 7:53/mi, almost like a proper runner or something.

Rik posts on my Facebook, inviting me to run a quarter marathon.  I haven't replied yet, but mentally I'm documenting excuses.