Jairvan

"We choose to go the moon, and do these things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard"

 - John F. Kennedy

The French département of Corsica floats in the Mediterranean, an overnight ferry from Nice, but just a stone's throw north of its Italian neighbour Sardinia. With its own language, and unmistakable flag, It maintains a culture that makes it very distinct from its motherland, enough that separatist terrorism has been a shadow on Corsican life for many years (some of the first freedom fighters were the parents of a certain Napolean Bonaparte, born in Corsica the year that the proto-Italian Republic of Genoa decided they didn't want it any more and turned it over to the French). I first visited Corsica in 2006, and was smitten by its granite mountains looking out to sea over scrubby maquis. Idly reading the literature, sat on a balcony looking out over the sparkling ocean, I found out that there was a walk...

(I also saw a small stray dog with the largest penis I've ever seen on a canine, but that's another story)

The GR20 (French for "GR20") is labelled as "Europe's Toughest Trek". The Grand-Randonée snakes its way over the granite Corsican mountains for 112 miles and 13,000 metres of ascent, taking its willing victims from Calenzana in the north east to Conca in the south west, over the course of 16 stages connecting mountain refuges. Most of the time is spent above 2000m, which makes the trail impassable to anyone but hardened mountaineers for 8 months of the year. In early June you should expect to still find snow in your way, and by the end of September you'll probably be needing your woolies once again. In the summer months though, the trail teems with walkers from all corners of the world, keen to take on one of the world's great hiking challenges.

Most walkers complete the walk in around 2 weeks, if they complete it at all, which is actually a rarer occurrence than those giving up sore and exhausted after just a handful of days on the trail. The very first stage requires you to ascend nearly a mile in altitude, usually in searing Mediterranean summer heat, before afternoon thunderstorms drench you and crisp mountain nights freeze you. Experienced walkers can double up on stages to get it done in 10 days or so. In 2019, François D'Haene polished off his cornflakes in Calenzana on Friday and popped up in Conca in time for Football Focus the next day. You can't blame him for not stopping. The refuges have a reputation as cramped, noisy, smelly, bed-bug-ridden hell holes, enough that most walkers prefer to sleep on the hard, rocky ground outside with a thin sliver of tent material between them and the roaming wild boars.

The Jairvan is a route, but definitely not a path. For the most part, the trail is a never ending scramble over rocks, hauling up narrow gullies, and across scree fields, following red and white markers daubed on boulders. This is a walk for which upper body strength is a distinct advantage, and where the descents are considered the tough parts. The two ends of stage 3, the refuge at Carozzu and the Ascu Stagnu ski station, are a mere 6km apart, which would be an hour's stroll around the park at home, but is an energy-sapping, knee-breaking 6 hour slog on the GR20. For the most part, you are miles from civilization, food or drink, devoid of shade or shelter, and unlikely to find any ground that would satisfy a spirit level.

It is not without its share of very real danger. The Cirque de la Solitude was considered the highlight of the jairvan, requiring "walkers" to lower themselves on chains and ladders down a steep cliff face into a chasm, traverse a boulder field, and then drag themselves back up a similarly precipitous wall on the other side. In 2015, a mountain storm washed tons of mud and rock into the Cirque, sweeping 7 hikers to their deaths.  The Cirque was closed, the fixtures removed and the GR20 rerouted. Even without the obvious threat of falling off a mountain, all it takes is a momentary lapse of concentration to take a misstep and do yourself a mischief that would need an ambulance, if there was any hope of getting one within a few miles of you. If you're lucky, they'll get a helicopter close enough that you'll only be writhing in pain for an hour or two before a paramedic can hike to you. 

Around the halfway point, the sleepy hamlet of Vizzavona is the most bustling metropolis that walkers will encounter in the whole 2 weeks. With a tiny railway station served by ancient rattling trains that connect the east and west coasts of Corsica, it makes a handy stopping point for those who only have the time or the legs for half the journey, like me. Flights are booked for September, and with only 2 weeks until the return flight, fitting the whole trek in would be extremely ambitious for a novice hiker, allowing time for transfers and contingency for bad weather. So it's just the northern half for me, which is half of the total distance but probably 75% of the total effort, and let's face it that's probably enough.

I don't quite know what siren call I'm answering with this, perhaps it's a mid-life crisis. For starters, I keep forgetting that 2 weeks after I return from this Quite Difficult Thing I'm still supposed to be running the London Marathon, assuming it happens. By the end of it all I'll either be very fit or very broken, or maybe just lying on the sofa wondering where it all went wrong.

Different Times

Not a single blog post in the whole of 2020.  Must have been a pretty dull year, don't think much happened....?

Actually, there was this.

You will no doubt recall where this blog left off in 2019, but let me refresh your memory and set the scene. It's mid December, I have a place in the London Marathon in April 2020, but training has given me a stress fracture in my foot, and by all popular advice I need to stop training for 6 to 8 weeks.

Fast forward to early Feb.  The fracture has healed, I really need to get going on picking up my plans again, but to no-one's surprise, least of all mine, I completely fail to inject any urgency whatsoever into my training. Actually, that's overstating it somewhat - I completely fail to train. Days and weeks roll by, and I keep a laser focus on the day that I'm going to start my training, that day being "tomorrow".  

Eventually, March arrives, and I'm forced to admit to myself that I'm in no fit state to run a marathon, or any other distance for that matter. I submit my withdrawal, and instantly the shame and regret rise inside of me. Shame that yet again I've been my own worst enemy, regret that I won't be there at one of the world's most recognisable sporting events, at least for another year anyway.

In the background, there's this little thing going on called COVID-19.  Maybe you've heard of it? Some guy has a little entanglement with a bat in some way and all hell breaks loose. Suddenly, jamming 40,000 people together on the streets of London isn't a good idea, so the mara is postponed until October. Suddenly, all bets are back on, withdrawals are withdrawn, and my destiny is in my own hands again. I mean, that's perfect, right?! Six months over the summer to train while we sort out this blasted virus and then we'll all have a jolly old time to celebrate the end of it while we skip around London. Lesson learned, never again will I let myself feel that shame and regret!

Pretty sure I don't need to tell you how that panned out on all fronts, but for the avoidance of doubt, COVID-19 forced the October event to also be abandoned. There was a "virtual marathon" to participate in so all that training didn't go to waste, but in any case I had done precisely sod all anyway so spent that day sat on my arse. What the f*** is wrong with me?

So here we are, January 1st, 2021. As always, this is not a resolution, things are already in motion anyway, but this just happened to be a time to consider what lies ahead, and just maybe writing some of it down will be a good idea.

What lies ahead?

Well there's that little rescheduled marathon, now October 2021, COVID-19 notwithstanding. However, before I get to that - inadvisedly, insensibly, comically almost, only just before, but you know, YOLO - there's the no-small-matter of walking half of the GR20, "Europe's Toughest Hike"(tm) through the beautiful Mediterranean island of Corsica. And before I get to that, I really need to shift some of the pounds that have re-accumulated in the intervening months and years.

Stay tuned.

Stress

As you might imagine, the last few weeks are nothing particularly to write about.  I squeeze in the Dark Valley Half Marathon, which is great fun, not least for the beer and sausage roll aid station, and with a time of 2:20 I'm fairly happy, given that it's off-road in the dark with a couple of steep slopes thrown in.

I keep up a reasonable but unremarkable schedule, doing a couple of runs in the week and a 9 or 10 mile long run on the weekend.  The aches and pains come and go, but generally things are good, even getting in my fastest 5k of the year.

The top of my left foot hurts.  With a ski holiday planned, I slightly dread the ski lessons at the local dry slope, jamming my foot into a stiff ski-boot.  But it just seems like an inconvenience more than anything.

Awaiting dinner with the extended family, having done a 5 mile run, I notice that not only is the top of my foot hurting, but seems to be creaking when I flex it. This is an interesting development.  

"Does it hurt after exercise?" says the sister-in-law, a nurse.

"Yep"

"And does it hurt when you tie your laces?"

 

"Yep"

"Classic stress fracture"

Right.  This isn't what I hoped for. 

"What can I do about it?"

"Nothing, just rest it and then start again slowly"

"How long for?"

"A few weeks"

Part of me is secretly delighted that I have an excuse to not run for a few weeks.  The rest of me is gutted, having gained a confidence that I'm on the right track. 

Plan B under consideration.

A Life Aquatic

Over dinner on Saturday, Steve offers his advice on marathon training. Steve is a man with a 2:50 mara under his belt, and a knee surgeon on speed dial.

"It's all about the long runs, time on your feet," he says. "Just do three runs a week. Tuesday, Thursday and a long run on the weekend - you'll be fine."

Sunday rolls around, and I wake to the sound of howling wind and pouring rain.  Conditions are definitely not conducive to a long run, but I know that if I can't get out and do it now, I really ought to be ashamed of myself.  Luckily a glance at the forecast shows the sun coming out later in the afternoon, so I postpone until then and enjoy a lazy morning.  And of course, if the weather doesn't improve, that's clearly the forecaster's fault, not mine.  What you going to do?

Sadly, right on cue, the sun makes an appearance, the wind drops, and I no longer have an excuse. I use the time to take the new electric car for its first visit to a charging point, just to get an idea and set things up. With the car (eventually) successfully sucking down power in the hospital car park, I head out for a route along the River Stour, a nice way to quickly get out of the town and into countryside.

The conditions are actually very pleasant considering the state of things earlier in the day, bright sunshine in a clear blue sky. I follow the country lanes out through Holdenhurst and Throop, before the road gives way to a gravel footpath that runs right alongside the river.  The river is high, and it's not too long before I reach a point where river and path become one.  It's fortunate that another path exists just to the left, a couple of feet higher, that allows me to continue on, albeit that it's along the grass bank and therefore is pretty muddy.  I'm worried for the state of my relatively new trainers, that to this point haven't seen any winter action.

Having pranced my way around the mud and puddles, I eventually arrive at a full-on flood.  I only have two options - to turn back, or plough through the water regardless.  It doesn't look that deep, and it's only water, and I hate turning back, so in I go.  It's up to my ankles, so the trainers are thoroughly soaked, but it's a fairly short stretch and I'm quickly through it and on my way.  Until the next one.  Which looks deeper, and disappears around a corner, so I have no idea how far it goes. In for a penny, in for a pound though.

It goes a long way.  I wade ever deeper, still unsure whether I'd be going for another 2 minutes or 20 minutes.  The water is pretty cold, and by the time I emerge from the depths after 5 minutes my toes have gone a bit numb.  But this proves the last obstacle along the way, so a few minutes of getting back to running warms them up again.

The route back gets off the river and on to the roads, and I take particular pleasure in finding a lane I've never been down before, particularly pleasing because it gives a view, with scrubland bordered by a line of pine trees atop a low ridge, that looks like nothing else in the area.

Eventually I'm back at the car, just shy of 10 miles and with still soggy trainers.  It's been a relatively easy run, although to be honest I wouldn't have wanted to have gone much further, but it's a little boost of confidence that I'm not going to entirely hate the Dark Half in just 3 weeks time.

Countdown

One hundred and ninety six days is a long time, if you were waiting for, say, your cat to come home, or a man to fix your boiler, or an especially exciting holiday to come around.  It's not a long time if an email has landed in your inbox telling you that you've earned a place in the London Marathon. Only one of these events is likely to have me writing this blog again, so I'll give you a moment to decide which one it is.

Picked one?

Great. 

It comes as a bit of a surprise, having entirely forgotten that I'd made my sixth attempt in the ballot, and it's a simple ping that brings the news to my inbox. As I read it my heartbeat quickens, and I'm simultaneously delighted and horrified - delighted that I'm in, horrified that just as the days start to darken and the heating comes on that I should have committed myself to 6 months of long runs. 

State of the nation: not entirely terrible, but not great.  The Bournemouth Bay Half in April was slow going, a career worst 2:20-ish, thanks largely to wearing really bad socks that chewed up my feet.  A 25 minute Parkrun, once a sign of a bad day, is a bit of a dream right now.  On the plus side, I've not given up running, albeit I'm a little irregular, but occasionally an 8 or 9 miler happens.

To try and keep motivation up, I've entered the Dark Half, a half marathon in the dark, naturally.  Unfortunately, the usual happened - instead of motivation its become a reason to rebel, and so I find myself 3 weeks away having done very little to actually prep myself for anything even approaching 2 hours. The little email finding it's way to me refocuses the mind, and suddenly the Dark Half, rapidly heading towards a no-show, becomes a must-do. 

So, Garmin out, trainers on, this could be interesting. As soon as the rain stops.

This Time

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

                                       - England World Cup Squad 1982

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.

Oh

Oh.

The scales do not lie.  Since October, I've packed a whole stone back on.  A stone of booze, crisps, chocolate, mince pies, and many other sins. I have, I suppose, some detail to fill in.

You will recall that the London Triathlon was a success.  At a smidge under 13 stone, I was the lightest weight I can ever remember, by some distance, and I felt good for it.  Sights were set on tackling the Bournemouth Half Marathon once again, and bettering the 1:56 from last year.  Long runs became a feature of the weekend, and gradually I got back to 7, 8, 9 mile runs, albeit with some post-run soreness, particularly in my right knee, but it wasn't bothersome after a day or so.  Two weeks before, I set out for an 11 mile trot, circling around the back of St Catherine's Hill, to the river at Hurn, and circling back via Throop and Charminster.  The previous day, I had set a new Parkrun PB of 21:59 - an average pace of 7:12/mi - so I was feeling rather pleased with myself, and with a target half mara pace of around 8:30/mi (a 1:51 finish), went off at a fair canter.

Around 1.5 miles, at the top of Marsh Lane, I missed the turning that would take the track to Avon Causeway, and instead continued merrily along Dudmoor Farm Road, until I reached a point where it became obvious that I wasn't heading in the right direction.  I turned and headed back, feeling that soreness in my knee starting to gnaw away.  By the time I got to the turning I'd intended to take in the first place, I had no choice but to stop and stretch against the gate. After a couple of minutes rest, two other runners came past, and I set out behind them, but it only took a few seconds before the pain rose again and I was forced to stop.  I tried a couple more times, but it was clear that this wasn't a passing twinge. Cursing, I made the decision to abandon the run, and started the walk back home, heading over the top of St Catherine's Hill.  From time to time, I tried to break into a jog, but nothing more than walking pace was comfortable.

I rested the knee for a few days, and decided that a 10k run the following Sunday would be the decider - if I could comfortably complete 10k, I would go for the half, otherwise I'd call it off.  Safe to say, the run was another disaster, barely making it to 5k before a repeat of the previous week and a long, lonely, grumpy walk home.

So started the decline - feeling sorry for myself, and with the darker nights setting in, it was easy to forgo exercise, and without an event to aim for, to allow the odd glass of wine here and occasional chocolate bar there.  The odd glass became a regular bottle, and the occasional bar became a regular couple of bars.  Then you're into Christmas and the house is full of food, and you've already given up any willpower you had so what's another few calories on top?  Although that suggests it was a slip of discipline, when in actual fact it occasionally swung into positive malice, a teenage rebellion sticking two fingers up to diet and exercise.

Not surprising, then, to find myself in this predicament.  But standing on the scales brings an epiphany, and I make a pact with myself to get back on it.  I start with a couple of runs and a gym session, and start to remember the endorphin rush that comes from finishing a good run.

Finding some events would be useful, more on that soon...

London or Bust

TL;DR - it was hot, masochistically fun, and I did quite well actually

As we fly through the south western suburbs of London, the decision to take the route through central London appears to be a good one. Then we hit Knightsbridge, and suddenly we're in chaos. The streets are thronged with people out on the town.  Everything slows to a crawl, at best.  From then on, it's a long drawn-out affair of jams and traffic lights and missed turnings, until we finally pop out the other side at Wapping, having taken probably the best part of an hour.  Turns out Google know what they're talking about. On the plus side, we've had quite the tour of the sights.  On the down side, my nerves are shredded, and it's now 10pm.  We drop down into the Limehouse Link, really looking forward to a bed, and now the traffic has disappeared we zip along to our destination.  As the tunnel forks I scan the signs to figure out which way I'm going, when there's suddenly two bright flashes -  glancing at the speedo it says I'm doing a little over 40mph, in a 30mph tunnel. It's possible that I may have uttered some curse words.

At least the Ramada hotel has parking, and it's comfortable enough. We wake up refreshed around 8.30am. Given that most other events I've done have started at the crack of dawn, I'm not used to having time to spare before the start. We eat breakfast in the hotel restaurant, whose large windows look out onto Royal Victoria Dock, and right outside the early waves of age-group (read: old) triathletes are already on their 10k run along the dockside path, the sun beating down on them mercilessly.  It looks like hard work, and really I'm in no rush to join them.

Fruit and nutella-topped toast consumed, we wonder over the road to the venue. The South Hall of the ExCeL is absolutely vast. At the east end, a variety of expo stands invite triathletes to part with their money. The whole western half is cordoned off, and filled with at least 40 bike racks, each rack a couple of hundred feet long to accommodate a hundred or more bikes.  If you're ever going to worry about not being able to find your bike in transition, this is it. When we arrive, most of them are empty, waiting for participants of the afternoon waves to fill them.  Three or four of them are reserved for the 12:25 wave, where I find a slot somewhere in the middle, the ends already being chock-a-block.  I go on a little recce, making sure I know from the run in where to turn, and how far along my bike is.  I determine this to be the first cone past the second "Caution: runners" sign, and then about two-fifths of the way along.

12:05 - Swim assembly.  We're issued with bright pink swim caps, and 400 people gather in front of a moustachioed Welshman, who proceeds to give a briefing, with a hefty dose of humour. He reminds us that we're all here for our own reasons, and all need to look out for one another, and to reinforce the message, we're asked to turn around and hug the person behind us.  Which leads to that most modern of dilemmas - as someone offers their hand, are they going in for a traditional handshake, or a bro-shake?  It's close, but I just about call it right (a bro-shake).

A few minutes later, we're plunging into the Royal Victoria Dock to paddle to the start line.  I jump in and disappear momentarily below the surface. It's....it's.... how would you say this... it's disgusting. It's greeny-brown, possibly from algae, maybe from sewage, who knows?  It even feels disgusting, like it has a film of oil or fuel or something.  The thought of spending the next forty minutes in this is distinctly unappealing.  I find my way near the front - I need all the help I can get - but far to the side, out of the general melee.  Even so, when the hooter goes, it's chaotic, arms and legs everywhere, and my goggles immediately fill up with water. Bollocks.  In this fight, however, stopping is not really and option, so I close my eyes and windmill wildly until I'm in slightly calmer territory. Even then, I flail about trying to adjust while staying afloat, and never quite find a satisfactory answer.  I resign myself to bathing my eyes in dock water for the rest of the swim, perhaps not something recommended by opticians.

It's a long long way down to the end of the dock. With the water in my goggles. it's hard to tell what everyone else is doing, but I'm aware that a large portion of pink hats are in front of me and moving away rapidly.  At least I have a small harem of similarly slow swimmers with me.  I'm delighted to reach the buoy at the far end of the dock, before I realise that it's a long long way back to the entry/exit point.  I'm trying desperately hard to retain good swimming style, but my brain can only handle one thing at a time.  If I'm rotating my body, I'm forgetting to kick.  If I kick properly, I'm forgetting to keep my head down.  If I keep my head down, I'm forgetting to keep my elbow high. But there's no stopping now.

I keep finding myself boxed in.  To my front and left are two other swimmers.  To my right is a rope between the buoys marking the course, which I keep tangling in, but I figure it's not a bad thing if it's keeping me on track, because I'm damned if I can actually see where I'm going.  This is clearly proven when I suddenly realise that I've managed to swim over the rope and I'm now 20 feet the wrong side of the next buoy, and have to take a sharp left turn to get back on track.  From there, however, I can see the buoy at the bottom end of the course, which brings an immense feeling of relief that this torture is nearly over.  That sense of relief is shot down cruelly when I get within 10 feet, and realise that everyone is carrying on past that buoy, and that's when I spot the actual turn, still a good 200 metres away. I could cry, but I've got enough water in the goggles already.

Anyway, enough bloody swimming. It's as tedious to write about as it is to do it. I get to the exit point and clamber up the pontoon.  I glance at the watch, which shows precisely 40:00, and I'm slightly smug about my estimation abilities.  The transition is an interesting affair, requiring competitors to strip off wetsuits on the move along the dockside, throwing them into plastic bags, and then carrying them up a flight of stairs and 150 metres along a carpet around the edge of the transition area.

At this point, I panic slightly that I'm no longer certain about the position of my bike.  I also notice that the bike racks have assigned letters, which would have been a far better way to locate my spot.  Too late now - I take a chance on a rack, and it turns out to be the right one. Being a ham-fisted swimmer, many of the bikes have already gone, leaving mine dangling forlornly on its own.  The bag is dumped, shoes are on.  I go to grab my sunglasses, carefully positioned for maximum efficiency within my helmet, balanced on the aero bars, but neither the glasses or the helmet are there. "Where the f**k is my helmet?" I mutter aloud. I scan the area and discover them scattered a few feet away, presumably the innocent victims of someone in a hurry.

Running in cleats on a smooth concrete floor is a skill.  I go for the method of leaning heavily on the bike for support, like a Zimmer frame.  Out through the loading bay doors and over the mount line, I jump on, hot on the heels of number 6908, and realise that my handlebars are about 5 degrees out of line.  Note to self: check bike after transit.

The bike leg is quite simply awesome.  The roads are closed, straight and largely flat, save for the occasional short climb up flyovers.  It takes the riders westward for a little tight technical section through Canary Wharf, before popping out again and continuing west through the Limehouse Link.  There is something immensely fun about descending down the steep entrance into the earth, the tunnel lights whooshing by, like going through the tunnel at Monaco. I hit max speed - ironically over the 30mph speed limit - as I pass a group of ladies shouting "wheeeeeeeee!".  The only downside is that being in a tunnel plays havoc with the Garmin.

There are hundreds of people out on the course, all at various stages of their race, so it's hard to tell who I'm really making up places on, but it's hugely satisfying to continually overtake people.  At the end of the Limehouse Link, the road steepens sharply, and there's a snake of riders heading towards the light.  I click down to a low gear and spin my way up, past the wheezing hordes.  I have to say, I'm flippin' good. At the top, it's a few yards to the turn point, and then straight back in.  Heading east, the wind is at my back, and the 5 miles to Gallon's Reach at the easternmost point fly by.

Lap 2 of the bike is more of the same.  Faster competitors suddenly appear, leaders of the elite wave that started later.  Heading through the tunnel again, one of them passes me, but at least gives me a look to check whether I'm a rival.  I try to look like a serious competitor, but I don't think he's fooled.  As I say, those tri-suits are really quite unforgiving.  There's no doubting the status of the woman that we pass in the process - she's singing loudly to herself as she trundles along slowly on her mountain bike.

An hour and 12 minutes after setting out, I'm tackling the steep, knobbly concrete of the ramp to the ExCeL loading bay, and back into transition.  I take a cue from the guy in front and remove my shoes for the run in, which proves a good move as I watch another cyclist slip around like Bambi on ice tackling the sharp turn.  I've long finished my bottle on the bike, so as I switch to trainers I gulp down as much of my spare bottle of drink as I can stomach.  The run heads out onto the loading bay again, this time heading out the other way for a twisting course along the dockside.  The roof over the loading bay once more gives the Garmin trouble, and it's impossible to truly know what pace I'm doing, so all I can do is just run and hope I'm neither too fast nor too slow.  I can't even seem to find the screen on my Garmin that shows my overall time, so I've no real idea whether I'm on course for my goal of 3 hours.

The run course is a strange one.  Thanks to construction work on the docks, it takes a route full of right-angled bends along the dock, past the Ramada, around the construction hoardings and along a hedge, before doubling back along the other side of the hedge, around a building back to the dockside, a few hundred metres to the turn point, a mile from the start, where everyone does a U-turn and follows the same course back to the ExCeL.  The course is narrow, which makes it very awkward to negotiate slower athletes, but the twists and turns mean that psychologically it doesn't feel like a mile from end to end. Hundreds of triathletes are scurrying along the paths like ants who have found food.  Some sprint athletically, others plod, quite a few are walking.  At least one is leaning over a barrier, getting a second taste of his energy gel.

Although the skies have clouded over, the temperature is still in the high twenties, and the only thing I can think about for most of the run is water.  At one end of the hedge, a sprinkler showers the runners with a fine spray of cold water.  Every pass through it starts with a little intake of breath as the cold water hits the skin, and then sheer elation at the refreshing coolness. Towards the turn point, I grab two cups of water from the water station at every opportunity - one to drink, one to go over the head - but just a few seconds later I find myself parched again and dreaming of my next visit.

As I hit the end of my second lap, my brain starts reminding me what a daft thing to do this is. It immediately puts any plans to do anything longer (half Ironman anyone?) on indefinite hold. My legs are really starting to stiffen up now. For the first time today, I spot Karen, who is heading out on her second lap.  She looks remarkably fresh, certainly a lot better than I feel. All I can do is keep setting small goals - "Make it to the fence", "make it to the sprinkler", "make it to the turn point" - and then hoping I'm stupid enough to keep going when I get there.

I'm really quite glad to enter into the ExCeL for the third and final time, and at last get to take the fork that says "Finish" instead of "Next Lap".  Others around me start sprinting for the line, but I haven't got the legs.  An announcer gives out my name as I trundle up the little ramp and under the clock for a finish photo that shows me looking somewhat desolate.

So, how did I do?

• Swim - 39:57 - as slow as I expected.  This is in the bottom 20% (81st percentile) of all athletes who did Olympic distance over the two days.
• Bike - 1:12.57 - smashed it.  An average of 20.4mph over the 25 miles, way way way in excess of anything I've done before, thanks to the closed roads and flat course.  This is in the top 25% (23rd percentile) of competitors
• Run - 50:46 - only about a minute off my 10k PB, and in the top 50% (46th percentile).  Not bad considering the bike leg I'd just done, and that I couldn't check my pace with the Garmin. 
• Overall 2:51.12 - nine minutes faster than what I'd set myself as a stretch goal.  I finished 1626th out of roughly 3750 competitors - in the top half (42nd percentile).  Given that I'd normally be around the 60-70th percentile, I'm chuffed to bits.

A-Race

The London Tri slips nearer, and I start to get a little nervous.  Not about the race, but about the organisation required.  I read and re-read the race information brochure, making a note of what I need to remember to take. I'm fairly sure I've got it all sorted - I have a trusty list scrawled on a notepad that I've used for the last few events - but I still can't help but think there's something obvious I'm going to be missing.

I spend much of my time scouting on Google Maps, wondering the best way to get to the eXcel Arena on Saturday night.  Google Maps recommends taking a tour around the M25 (2hrs 38 mins, 156 miles), the alternative being to battle through the suburbs and central London, 40 miles less but 10 minutes more. Getting the chance to take in AFC Bournemouth's first game in the Premier League means we'll be leaving it fairly late, by which time I hope that traffic won't be too bad, so the cross-city route seems inviting.

I also plot the bike course on Strava.  It heads west from the arena, across the mouth of the River Lea, a detour into Canary Wharf, and through the Limehouse Link tunnel, before turning around and following itself east, back past the arena, out to Gallon's Reach, before once again doing a u-turn back to the arena.  Rinse and repeat. Pleasingly it works out at exactly 40 kilometres.  I suspect it's almost entirely flat, but Strava's elevation profile shows two spikes of more than 100ft elevation in the middle.  I trace them along, and they turn out to be in the middle of Canary Wharf.  Now, I'm not hugely au fait with Canary Wharf, but I'm pretty sure it's not known for its range of hills and grand vistas, so I assume it's just a slight miscalculation.

My thoughts wonder to timings, so I get hold of last year's results.  I'll admit it's slightly depressing.  Last year, 4500 athletes tackled the Olympic distance.  Based on my anticipated timings and personal bests:

• A 40 minute swim would put around 4000th of 4500, about 90th percentile. That's pretty shocking, but not surprising. 
• A 1:23 bike would put me around 3600th.  Now, granted that time was on open roads with a couple of sizeable hills and traffic, but it's 18mph average, and I've never gone much beyond that on any significant size ride.  If I could tip the speedo to 19mph, that would save me about 4 minutes, and about 400 places.
• A 49:50 run would surprisingly be my best result, at around 2300th.  Of course, the chances of a 10k PB at the end of a tri are slim, but you never know. 
• My goal of hitting 3 hours total would see me finish around 3200th of 4500. Seventieth percentile.  Seems about right.

Weather watch: cloudy but warm, 25 degrees.  Gentle breeze from the south-west.  Sounds decent.

Anyhow, it's all over bar the shouting, nothing to do now but crack on and enjoy it.  

Que sera sera.

The 5-Step Process

Step 1: In the week prior to the event, visit your local park and run intervals - 0.6 miles at hard pace (7min/mi) should do it.  In between, do some token press ups and sit ups.

Step 2: The night before, consume several slices of Domino's pizza.  For the record, 5 slices of Tandoori Chicken and 2 slices of Ham and Pineapple, although it's not yet clear if the toppings are statistically significant.

Step 3: Immediately prior to your event, cycle a few miles, including a couple of steep hills. Preferably leave it late so you're panicking about making it to your event on time.

Step 4: On the start line, have a friend give you a karate chop massage and tell you to go and beat your PB.  Have a sudden doubt that your PB was a complete outlier and you've never come close to it since.

Step 5: Run your chubby little legs off

The results speak for themselves.

Scabby Nipples

My dear reader, I cannot nor will not protect you from the harsh realities of triathlon life. It's for your own good.

Safe to say I will be ensuring henceforth that I apply Bodyglide in all necessary places.

Skidmarks

The kids are packed off for a sleepover at Nanny's, and in time-honoured fashion we head immediately to a local bar for pizza and a pint.  That's about as raucous as it gets - an hour later we're back home and talking about going to bed, and not in the fun sense.

At 5am the alarm goes, and Emma hops out of bed ready to face the day.  As always, I'm a little more sluggish, but it makes a change from having to sneak out quietly.  For today I have a companion in my tri adventures, as Mrs Piper faces her first triathlon. It's been a little while coming - the event she originally targeted in May was cancelled late in the day - but the next instalment of the Salty Sea Dog triathlon series offers a perfect chance to have a go at the Super Sprint distance (375m swim, 10k bike, 2.5k run), while I tackle the normal Sprint event as a prep for the London Tri.

The car park at Boscombe Pier is already filling up when we arrive shortly after 6am.  It's hard not to start looking around to compare yourself to others, and I definitely feel a little smug when someone tries to enter the car park (height restriction: 2.1m) with the bike on their roof.  They already have the attention of a number of people who have guessed what's coming, but if anyone hasn't noticed, they do when the sound of bike against barrier rings around the car park.

An hour later, and we're on the sand waiting for the hooter to sound.  There's a breeze, but the sun is shining and the water is warm, and definitely calmer than it was last time out.  Heading into the water, I'm somewhere in the middle of the pack, and for a couple of minutes I'm fending off other competitors all around, buoyed with confidence from last week's Pier to Pier swim that I can put in a good showing.  By the time I reach the outmost orange buoy, I'm starting to worry that I'm being overtaken by rather a lot of people, even those breaststroking by as they take a bit of a breather.

The water is beautifully clear, and even at a depth of 10-15 feet I can see the sea bed.  I can also see the jellyfish swimming just a few inches below me.  Its little grey face - I think it was his face, hard to tell with these lads - beams up at me as he floats on by.  I catch sight of a few more over the rest of the swim, thankfully at a bit more of a distance than the first, and I wonder what Em makes of them, given how much she'd worried about them in our training, without ever actually seeing one.

The swim seems to go on for ages, and people continue to easily overtake me, despite my best efforts.  I reach the end thoroughly demoralised, and thoroughly glad to be out of there. Transition is made easy by the new tri suit - wetsuit off, bike shoes on, helmet on, sunglasses on, go.

The cycle goes straight up the steep climb from the Pier, but I've climbed it numerous times in the past few weeks and it's relatively straightforward.  Like the last Salty Sea Dog, the wind is blowing from the west, so the ride down to Hengistbury Head is fast.  I overtake a number of other people, which starts to make up for the disappointing swim, and even on the return I manage to keep up a reasonable speed into the headwind.  Nearly back at Boscombe, I catch up with Em, but while she's nearly back at T2, I have to navigate the roundabout at the Pier and head up that hill again.  Pleasingly, I overtake a couple of more serious-looking athletes on the way up (and the Strava data shows I set a new PB for the climb), but I pay for it at the top as a wave of nausea comes over me, and the two I passed come flying by me again.

The rest of the ride passes without note. Until.

I'm finally heading back down the big hill, 200 yards until transition, head down, arms tucked in, trying to maintain an aerodynamic position.  Even though I've had slight success with wearing my bike shoes a bit loose, my feet are a little bit numb, so I decide to give them a wiggle to bring some life back before the run.  I twist and turn my feet, still clipped in to the pedals.  Suddenly there's a thud, and before I know it my back wheel is skidding down the hill.  The heel of my left shoe has connected with the spokes, and is now well and truly trapped by the force of the wheel straining to rotate.  It's taken a couple of seconds to understand what's happening, and things are now in slow motion.  I'm still upright at least.  The marshall at the junction at the bottom is watching quizzically, wondering what on earth I'm doing. My first thought is to unclip and put my foot down, but with a couple of tugs it's clear that the left shoe - the one I always put down first - is going nowhere.  It's a blessing that I was going so fast, because it gives a couple of vital extra seconds to think about what I'm doing to do.

(at this point in the documentary, cut to adverts for added suspense)

My solution to the problem is sheer genius: unclip the other foot. Actually easier said than done. Whilst unclipping itself is fine, as the bike slides to a halt every bone in your body has a natural desire to lean to the left and put your left foot down.  It takes a lot of concentration to shift weight to the other side - enough to make the bike drop on that side, but not so much that you fall off before you can get the foot down.  Finally the bike loses it's kinetic energy, my right foot goes down, the bike leans steadily to the right, and I've survived.

(cue music)

I untangle my trapped shoe, and roll on the down the hill slowly.  The marshall starts to jog up towards me - I try and explain as I pass, but it's possibly gibberish.  Looking down I see that my wheel has taken on a slight buckle, so taking it very cautiously, I turn onto the promenade and head towards transition.  It's only after the race that I see the state of my tyre.

After a pleasingly pacy run, final time is 1:39.50 - a couple of minutes quicker than the last Sea Dog.  I'm pleased to go under 1:40, but disappointed that it's not a bigger margin.  On reflection, the swim was long, perhaps as much as 1200 metres according to Strava, and everything else - T1, Bike (even with the incident), T2, Run - was quicker than last time.  Not to mention, Em meets her targets of a) surviving, b) finishing and c) not coming last, so I think we can chalk up a success.

Onwards to London.

We need to talk

We need to talk.

It's not you, it's me.  Over time, well, things have moved on, things have changed. This isn't just a phase, this is me, it's who I am.  And I know it's hard to face the truth, hard to accept the obvious, but we have to face it now before it hurts us more.

I am a MAMIL.

This is confirmed by my purchasing of a tri-suit.  For the uninitiated, a tri-suit is a one-piece lycra affair, combining cycle shorts with vest, in a quick-drying material.  On the bum, just enough padding to be comfortable on the bike, without being like a wet nappy after the swim.  On the vest, cut-away arms to show off the guns.

I've resisted the tri-suit until now, but they're just so darn practical.  No need to flap around in transition with drying off and putting a top on, just whip off the wetsuit, shoes on, and away you go.  They also have seams in the right places. Until you've done a tri in shorts with a seam up the middle, you may not appreciate what a difference this makes (also in the package from Wiggle: Bodyglide).

Having lost a few more pounds, it's now just possible that I could wear such a thing in public without getting arrested.  That said, it's tight.  No-one will be under any illusions about where I pack my spare pounds (no, it's not there).  Nor do I have the muscles to carry off the sleeveless look - it's mostly sidemoob and hair in unwanted places.

I feel very self-conscious wearing it around the house, let alone running around the streets.  Emma reminds me that I'm always telling her, in her own moments of sports clothing dilemma, that no-one at these events either notices or cares, and mostly just appreciate the fact that you got off your bum and achieved something. Which is entirely true, but still, one can't help feeling a little uncomfortable.

But I have worked hard to claim my place in the pantheon of sporting greats, and surely those washboard abs and bulging biceps can only be weeks away.  On Monday I run 7k at my fast 5k pace, around 7:45/mi, and on Tuesday take a 20 mile route home from work on the bike, hitting an average of 18.4mph, which is great considering that there's a few small but signficant hills in there.

Looking forward to seeing what I can do with the next installment of the Salty Sea Dog on Saturday.  Total 1:41 last time out, hoping to take four or five minutes out of that.

Progress

"Have you lost some weight?"

"Why yes I have!"

Alarm bells ringing from the Salty Sea Dog, I set about a life of purity and cleanliness.  My body is a temple, my desk a shrine to fruit.  I teach myself to scorn biscuits; to despise chocolate; to look disapprovingly (but affectionately) at beer and wine.  Remarkably, it starts paying off.  Not, perhaps, quite as spectacularly as one might hope or expect, but definitely.  Six weeks later, and I sit here half a stone lighter, and feeling pretty darn pleased with myself.

That said, I fail to make many in-roads into actually improving my times.  My training plan is still ad-hoc, whatever happens to spring to mind that morning.  Then again, it doesn't cause me too much cause for concern.  I figure that just having a level of fitness that will let me get through an Olympic distance triathlon is just dandy - either way I won't be first, and I won't be last, so why worry? We should never forget to enjoy the moment.

The Pier to Pier swim is the milestone for my swimming, 1.4 miles west to east along the coast from Bournemouth to Boscombe.  As the 12th July date approaches, Emma and I (for the reigning Mrs Piper is signed up for this little adventure too) keep an eye on the weather, which slowly worsens as the week progresses.  Sun turns to sunny spells, which turns to overcast, which turns to thick cloud, and then rain, with 20mph winds.  It comes as no surprise when it's postponed a couple of days beforehand.  It's also unsurprising when the rearranged date is announced as the 9th August, the very same day as the London Triathlon.

Unperturbed, we decide to stage our own Pier to Pier the following Sunday, along with Karen, who is also doing the London Tri.  Emma and I have had regular sea swims to work up to this, so I'm actually feeling well prepared, and it helps that the morning comes with bright sunshine and relatively calm seas.  The water is about as warm and as clear as you can hope for in the English Channel.  Clad in wetsuits, we weave through the tourists to the water's edge in the shadow of Bournemouth Pier, cap and googles on, and in we go.

If there is one thing to be said about swimming, it is that there is little to say about swimming  But the water and the company and the sunshine make it - whisper it quietly - pleasant.  We maintain a steady pace and a steady course, although on the couple of occasions I start to breathe to the right I veer off line alarmingly quickly.  In the latter stages the ladies also show that they're more competent swimmers than I and leave me trailing somewhat, but I'm happy enough to prove to myself that the distance I'll face in London is perfectly achievable.

Less than three weeks, bring it on!

A New Hope

Time ticks inexorably on. Winter begets spring, and spring begets summer, and yet the green shoots of prose fail to sprout on the barren tree of this blog.  But, dear reader, the forest of triathlon is not entirely bereft of life, for in a quiet corner of the wood the gentle deer of running still drink from the sparkling stream of athleticism, and the soft fungus of cycling clings to the mossy face of swimming in a life-giving symbiosis.

The London Triathlon approaches fast, and it's debatable whether I'm prepared.  Remember that this is going to be Olympic distance, twice the distance I usually race. But then, none of the distances involved are alien to me - in the past 3 months I've set PBs for the 10K run (49:54) and the 40K cycle (1:23).  The goggle-wearing elephant in the room is that, even in a pool, I've only managed a 1500m swim once. When I say "managed", that's largely in the sense of "managed to bear the outrageous boredom of".  Goggles with built-in LCD screens surely can't come quick enough.

I make a last minute entry into the Salty Sea Dog triathlon - sprint distance - and it sets a few alarm bells ringing.  For starters, the swim is every bit as nasty as I expect it to be, and I spend most of the time simply dreaming of getting out the disgusting brine and onto the bike.  The bike is hardly more pleasant though, a stiff headwind making me glad to have decided to fit clip-on aerobars, but still a challenge for the legs.  By the time I get to the run, my feet are once again completely numb, and I spend most of the 5K trying to coax some feeling back into them. Banks of sand across the prom make the going even tougher, and by the time I cross the line in 1hr41m, I'm relieved to have finished.  My position of 75 out of 89 tells me that there's plenty of work to do, and evaluation of new cycle shoes needed.

This isn't entirely surprising. Glancing back at my resolutions from the start of the year, I've completely failed to fulfil even a single one of them.  The time for action is NOW. Or maybe tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow, I'll feel more like it then.

Friday the Thirteenth

The week holds very little time for training. Work is busy enough to quash notions of doing something during lunchtimes, social events put paid to doing anything in the evenings, and if you think I'm getting out of bed early to run around, you're sorely mistaken. The highlight of the week is Em and friends raising over £6000 in under 7 days, getting their hair shaved off in support of Hayley - undergoing chemo less than a year after this post was published.

Friday the 13th arrives. It's foreshadowed very last thing on Thursday, with the receipt of an email at work that requires me to put aside any plans I had for Friday in order to deal with an urgent matter. It needs to be done by Tuesday, but as I'm out on holiday the following week, it has to be dealt with in one day. By the end of Friday, I'm more than ready for a drink, so I jump at Emma's suggestion that she and Ella (Alex being on a sleepover at his Grandma's) meet me at a bar next to the railway station for dinner.

Pokesdown Station, that most unpromising of railway stations, is largely deserted as I lock up my bike on the bike rack. Security conscious, I remove the mildly expensive front light before I leave. Ninety minutes later, it's the only bit of my trusty bike that I still possess. 

I'm not even surprised. There's a painful inevitability about returning to find an empty bike rack and my cable lock (an admittedly cheap backup) severed on the floor. I simply swear under my breath and turn around to go back and find Emma and Ella, who are waiting at the bar for a taxi as the rains pours down outside. I'm not sure if I'm more annoyed at the bike disappearing, or that I blame myself for being so stupid as to assume I could leave my property in a public place for just over an hour without some little bollocks stealing it.

It is, at least, covered by insurance, so by Monday morning a replacement - the 2015 version of the same bike - is arranged for delivery on Friday. Who knows, might take a couple of minutes off my time.

Maybe it's the pent-up rage, or maybe it's the carbs from the booze I ingest to take away the pain of having the bike nicked, but Saturday morning rolls around and I post a parkrun PB of 23:44. My first sub-24 minute 5k, by a healthy margin, although it's far from easy. It's a helpful reminder that I can and should be thinking about training to get faster, not just doing rote 5k/10k runs at the same pace.

Sunday Roast

(with apologies to Kurt Vonnegut)

Winter mornings don't come much finer.  The sun bursts through strings of cirrus clouds, in a blue sky above a land delicately touched by frost. It's the sort of day that screams at you to get out the house and *do* something while it lasts. And so it goes.

Everyone else clearly has the same thoughts: whilst the car deck of the Sandbanks Ferry is barely 1/3 full, the pedestrian areas are packed with runners and cyclists. We're on our way to Rempstone Forest, which fills the short gap between the sandy beaches of Studland to the west, and the rise of the Purbeck Ridge to its east.  As we head off the ferry towards Studland, we pass local running hero Steve Way, who as it turns out, is just finishing the first of two 17.5 mile laps of the Purbecks, taking in all the hills along the way. You know, as you do.

The Rempstone Roast MTB duathlon starts at the Burnbake campsite.  As we head along the road towards Corfe Castle, I realise that I didn't really get a good look at where it is on the map, so I desperately hope that it's signposted.  By the time we near the end of the road, I'm positive that we must have missed it, and turn into a narrow entrance to turn round.  As always happens, my plans are scuppered by another vehicle, a VW van, turning in right behind me. I don't have much choice but to continue, through a gate, pull in awkwardly on the grass verge and gesture to the van to come past.

"Are you doing the race?" says the woolly-hatted lady in the driving seat as she passes.

"Yes!" I reply, "I think I've missed the turning.  I'm pretty sure it's further back up the hill."

"Sat Nav says it's down here actually," she says, and continues down what turns out to be a driveway. At the bottom, we encounter some posh looking country cottages, but no sign of a race. We both turn around and head back up the driveway. Back at the main road, the sign for the campsite is blazingly obvious in front of us, at a junction no more than 20 metres further along the road.

Burnbake campsite, at this time of the year, is actually just an empty field, rendered white by frost.  The kids pile out the car and run down to a solitary tree to investigate. Meanwhile, I set about trying to wrestle the bike off the car and fit various accessories to either the bike or myself.  Being an offroad duathlon, this requires a mountain bike, duly borrowed from my brother.  It's not too long before a marshal is shouting "5 minutes to race briefing!" while I'm still trying to sort myself out, and I get to the transition area just in time, suddenly panicking that I haven't had any time to actually ride the bike this morning and make sure it's all working.

This is a pretty low key event.  Transition is just a couple of lines of bike racks in the field; race numbers for the bike and helmet are hastily scrawled on stickers; there are no timing chips to worry about. In fact, there are only around 40 competitors, and as we mingle around the start line, I have the usual realisation that most of them look a lot fitter and more athletic than I do (note to self: get some clothing emblazoned with a sponsor's name). I suspect that everyone else will sprint away from the line far quicker than me. So it goes.

The start of the run heads along a lane up a long hill. To be fair, not everyone is ahead of me, but I don't dare look back to see just how many or few are behind.  I concentrate on just settling into a rhythm, as the paved road heads down a steep hill and turns into stony lane with grass down the middle.  The leaders have disappeared off into the distance, and I join on to the back of a group of 3 or 4 who are setting an 8min/mi pace, which is pacy but not exhausting.  Through a gate, the course turns left up a steep bank, and changes once more to a grassy forest track.  Along the way are large patches of thick mud, which require some deft footwork and daring leaps - safe to say I wouldn't want to do this course after a period of rain.

The run eventually rejoins the tarmac road back to transition, which I reach just a couple of seconds behind the runner in front.  Transition, when one doesn't have to swap shoes or rip off a wetsuit, is a simple affair - helmet on, grab the bike and off you go.  I'm alongside the guy in front, with a couple more people just up the road, and with the bike usually my strong point, I'm confident of overtaking a handful of people. My ambitions are soon ripped to shreds as I struggle to get my legs going on the chunky tyres, and my rival eases away into the distance and around the corner.

As the bike course hits mud, on an uphill section, I'm cursing mountain biking. It's certainly not what I'm used to, and it's bloody hard and slow going.  I'm certainly not used to the grip of the tyres, which perhaps results in me being overly cautious on downhill sections, and a couple of times come to a halt lest I end up bouncing off rocks or spoke-deep in mud. At one point, someone comes flying past me, just as I think I'm starting to make progress.  I realise that I haven't really drunk anything all morning, and I'm a bit dehydrated - the main problem is that taking a drink whilst juddering along over sandy gravel is easier said than done.

A glance at the watch shows that I've done 5.5 of the 10 miles, and I feel relieved that I'm at least halfway there.  Then I figure that I'm actually nowhere near the end of the first of two laps, and looking again reveals that this is the total distance, including the run, so I've actually only done 3 miles on the bike.  Disaster. I might just cry.

The second lap is a bit easier.  I've understood that I'm going nowhere particularly fast, and finding a smooth line through the detritus is often quicker than simply trying to pedal harder. I don't see another rider for the whole of the second lap, until the last couple of hundred yards, when a older lady suddenly appears over my right shoulder.  She passes with a nod and a smile, and I follow her into the second transition.

The second run takes us up the long hill for the fourth time today.  Out of the transition I pass the lady who overtook on the bike, but a minute in my shoelace comes undone, and I have no choice but to stop and tie it, at which point she passes again. I start off again, running alongside her.  It's awkward. Given her friendly appearance just a minute ago, I decide that a bit of chit chat is in order.
"It's fun this, isn't it?"

In hindsight, this is a stupid thing to say in any circumstances. My companion's visage has changed. She stares straight ahead, blowing her cheeks, before slowly shaking her head.  I quickly take the hint and push on ahead before she beats me with my own Garmin.

The leg muscles are aching, but after a mile they've got back into the running, and the rest of the run is uneventful, although the fatigue makes the leaps over muddy puddles a little less springy than they were first time round.

The finish would be a welcome sight, if I could see it. The run comes back up the lane to the car park, past the timing marshalls, diligently taking times and numbers on a clipboard, but it's not really clear if that's the finish or not. As I come through, past the cheering Emma and kids, I'm pointed back into transition, where I eventually spot the finish banner next to a desk where a woman hands out finisher t-shirts. I run up to the desk, she hands me a t-shirt, and I guess we're done. It's something of an anticlimax, just like the end of this blog post. So it goes.

The stats:
Run 1 (2.3 miles): 18:41 (8:01/mi) - rank 23rd - happy with this!
Bike (9.7 miles): 46:33 (12.5mph) - rank 24th - should have done better
Run 2 (2.3 miles): 20:09 (8:29/mi) - rank 21st - not too shabby I guess

Resolution #9

Right, where were we?  Last year's (non-)resolution was to get fit, with the side effect of blogging about it on the way.  This year's resolution is to continue my journey, and put more effort into the blogging again.

It is true, dear reader, that I have left you somewhat wanting for the past few months. In some ways, I dare say I felt a victim of my own success - folks telling me they enjoyed my posts so much I stopped writing for fear of not being able to produce the goods everytime.  So, resolution #1: write crap more often. Not deliberate crap you understand, I wouldn't do that to you, but just to write more stuff down for the purpose of capturing it, versus trying to be witty or clever or observational or whatever.  Starting with this post.

The Strava stats show that for 2014 I recorded 994 miles of combined cycling and running.  I thought 1000 miles was a shoe-in, but a nasty illness over Christmas has meant a 10 day hiatus from exercise.  Still, with a 5 mile cycle round trip most days to work, I can probably add at least another 800 to that anyway.  Resolution #2: do more miles in 2015.

Other things to be doing: more strength training, more swimming, lose more weight, more high intensity intervals, more bike miles (eyeing up turbo trainer or rollers).

Less: wine, browsing Reddit & Facebook.

Target is to lose another stone before the London Tri,

Next event: the Rempstone Roast

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.