This Is Not The Inspirational Blog You Are Looking For

The alarm goes at 5am.  It's been a fairly restless night, mostly spent thinking about blog posts, and then thinking about how I would blog about a restless night spent thinking about blog posts, and then about how I would blog about blogging about a restless night thinking about blog posts.  Make no mistake, I am an idiot.

Happy Race Day!

A large bowl of porridge, cup of tea and a banana later, the equipment goes in the car and I make the short drive to the pier through deserted streets.  When I arrive at 5:45, transition is filling up.  I find my slot, handily located next to a plant holder, making it pretty easy to locate during the race.

"You got enough space?" says the man next to me, in a broad Brummie accent. He's in his sixties, one of those sickeningly fit types, a little reminiscent of Charles Dance.  He has a Cervelo.  Clearly this is not his first time. We get chatting, his name is Rob, and he's wonderfully amiable.  He shares tips on swimming, tells me about his triathlon mishaps, and promises me I'll love it.

"Don't take it up as a hobby though.  You'll become like me.  You'll be out training 6 days a week.  You won't have a social life.  You won't have any friends, or at least the friends you do have will spend all their time talking about bloody triathlon and nutrition and training".

He points out Gary, a couple of spaces down, also doing his first triathlon.  Gary looks just as lost and nervous as I probably do.  "What time are you aiming for?" I ask. "I just want to get through the swim," he replies. Snap.  He's got the same bottom-of-the-range wetsuit as me, with numerous small tears demonstrating the fragility of the material.  Athlete #241 joins the conversation, also a first timer, also a swim-dreader.  Rob holds court with the three of us, like a dad with his kids.

Rob (in blue), Gary (L), #241 (R)

I get my number written on my arm and leg in black marker - presumably easier than dental records for identification - and then get the wetsuit on.  Rob helps zip it up.  He pats my belly and says "you wanna lose a couple of pounds", before breaking into a giant laugh and grabbing me round the shoulders.  He's not wrong. I am painfully cognisant of wearing such items in public. 

Conditions are pretty much perfect.  It's warm but overcast, and there is hardly a ripple on the sea, certainly much better than I've been "training" in. Heading down to the beach for the start, I see Emma and the kids, who are bearing a large banner with "Go Daddy Piper!" writ large.  They jump up and down waving it excitedly. We chat for a few minutes - Ella tells me she's unable to open her eyes because she's so sleepy; Alex is largely excited about getting to eat cereal in the car on the way - and then I take the opportunity to have a quick dip in the water, which is enjoyably warm.  A quick briefing and register later, and we're lined up at the water's edge ready to go. This is it.

The whistle blasts, and everyone runs into the surf.  I deliberately hang back a little, and by the time I'm swimming I'm already near the back of the pack.  My breathing is quick, and it's difficult to find a good rhythm.  At the first buoy, I'm probably 7 or 8 from the back.  One guy is breaststroking.  Another is doing front crawl but keeping his head above water, much like schoolboys do.  Either way, they're still going just as fast as me.  We cluster together as the back markers, occasionally bashing arms and legs as we weave around.  Generally everything is non-eventful, but enjoyable it is not.  I may have mentioned before: I really don't like swimming.  As the course heads back towards the shore, I measure my progress against the pier to my left.  By all appearances, I'm going nowhere.  Maybe even backwards.  It's a huge relief when I get to shallow waters where I can stand and run out the sea.  I'm not last, but not terribly far off.

"14 minutes!" shouts Emma as I pass.  It's a major surprise, one which makes me sure the swim course must have been significantly shorter than the advertised 750m.  Not that I'm complaining.  Meanwhile, the kids are still bouncing wildly with the banner and chanting as I run past.  

Transition goes largely to plan.  I'm a little surprised by how relaxed others around me seem, and it helps me relax too. The wetsuit comes off pretty easily, except for a stuck heel, I throw on my cycle top, pull on socks (handily ready rolled so no problems getting them on wet feet) and shoes, chuck on the helmet, and out I go. 

Looking happy, feeling sick

I'm not prepared for how bad I feel coming out the swim.  I feel dizzy and nauseous.  My thighs and calves hurt.  One competitor ahead of me stops and tells a marshal that he's been sick and can't continue.  It's not surprising.  At the top of the slope up to the road, I'm glad to mount the bike, but seem to lack any power in my legs.  Seeing as I'm now heading towards the foot of the hill on Priory Road, this is not good. 

I find a low gear as I pass the BIC, and at the roundabout catch a competitor ahead of me.  At the steep part of the hill, I stand on the pedals to try and get some momentum going, but it's painful.  Halfway up the hill, another competitor is walking up with his bike.  He stops, bends over and rests his forehead on the saddle.  "Ok?" I pant as I pass.  "I'm going to be sick," he says.  I wish I hadn't asked.  As much as I'd love to stop and help mop it up, I'm on a mission, but his words are enough to return my thoughts to my own feelings of nausea.  At the top of the hill, I can barely get my legs going.  I want to take a drink, but I'm worried about it just coming back up again. On the Wessex Way, I realise that my race number belt is tight around my stomach, which isn't helping.  I push it down to my hips, and also realise that I haven't even turned on, let alone started, my Garmin. Sod it. 

Six or seven minutes into the ride, I start to feel normal again, albeit still lacking a bit in power.  I manage a nibble of a pineapple and ginger energy bar - as ever, a gooey mess that's almost impossible to eat while breathing hard - and a swig of energy drink.  I'm a little confused to have not seen the leaders heading back on the other side of the road.  I start wondering if there's been a bit of a problem, or maybe the marshals accidentally sending everyone on the longer standard course, but as I head over the Cooperdean flyover I catch sight of others, which gives me some satisfaction that I'm not *that* far behind.  I catch and overtake a couple of others before turning off at Blackwater and rejoining the carriageway for the return. Ahead of me is a line of 6 or so riders.  I'd like to catch them, but while I can make up ground, I can only find the speed to overtake one.  

Going under the Richmond Hill roundabout, I take another swig of drink, but fumble it whilst trying to get it back in the bottle holder, and it drops to the ground and rolls off.  I swear loudly, but I'm not going to stop and get it, so plough on regardless. It pays off, as I catch up with another couple of riders on the hill.  That's it until I get back to transition.  The bike leg has taken around 40 minutes - on track, but disappointed not to be a little bit faster.

I now have only one overriding feeling - I really, *really* need a wee. I don't think I can run with this full bladder. For now though, I have no option, so it's trainers on and off I go.  A few seconds in to the run I spot a sign for toilets.  I make the decision that the time spent weeing is surely nothing compared to how much I'll be slowed down if I don't go.  I veer to the left, only to find the door still locked at this early hour.  I'm gutted.  I push on, until 400 metres later, when another set of toilets, a strange temporary portakabin, appears. I try the door, it opens, and I spy a toilet.  

I run in, and the door swings shut behind me.  There are no lights.  Or windows.  It is pitch black.  With no time to find a light switch, I just have to aim into the darkness.  With just a little scanning, I find the water.  Blessed, sweet relief!  Thirty seconds later (ok, I admit, I didn't wash my hands), I'm back out and running again. This is such a good feeling, I'm on something of a high for the rest of the run.  I catch two or three runners ahead of me before I get to Boscombe Pier, throw a cup of water over my head, and turn around back towards Bournemouth. I'm feeling great - my pace is pretty quick, my legs are loose, and my breathing is controlled.  I chase another runner up ahead, until he stops and I realise he's actually just a random jogger. Halfway back, I see #241 coming the other way.  He looks knackered, but breaks out into a big grin as he recognises me, and holds up his hand for a high five.  

I up the pace for the last kilometre as the pier draws closer.  I spy the finish line up ahead, and as I get there, I notice a small crowd behind barriers to the left of the finish line.  I scan for Emma and the kids, until I look right and notice they're on the other side of the road, no barrier in front of them, and yet again jumping and chanting wildly with their sign.  I can't resist - I run over, beckon to Ella to grab my hand, and drag her and Alex, still carrying the banner, towards the line.  The rest of the crowd breaks out into a cheer, and we cross the line.

The finish area is small, and a chap thrusts a medal and a bottle of water into my hand.  He mentions something about looking at a screen for my time, but my head is spinning and I don't quite understand.  The kids are chattering at me, while a photographer gathers us together for a snap.

Total time : 1:24.57.  It's an amazing time, 10-15 minutes quicker than expected, but almost certainly helped by a very short swim - by my reckoning, at least 100m short, maybe even 200m.  A quick measure on Google also suggests that the run is around 400m short of 5k.  

 Back in transition, I see Rob and Gary.  Rob finished near the top, in 1:16.  Gary was one minute and one place ahead of me.  We congratulate each other and head our separate ways. It's all over, and it's barely 8am.  A good (second) breakfast awaits.

Post mortem coming later - watch this space.

Triathlon Eve

'Twas the night before triathlon,
And all round the house,
No-one was stirring,
Not even a mouse

So here we are. Finally. I'm sure you've been waiting for this with baited breath, and tomorrow is the day.  The mid-week feelings of excitement have been replaced with nervousness - not about the athletic endeavours, but the sheer organisation required to remember everything you need.  It's far from simple. Sure, you've got your wetsuit and your bike and your trainers. You've also remembered your goggles and swim cap and towel.  And your bike shoes and cycle top.  Of course, you'll have your Garmin.  Hopefully you've also not forgotten tyre levers, a spare tube and a mini pump (or CO2 cartridge if you're flash), just in case the worst should happen. I needn't remind you to take shades in case it's sunny, and socks for the bike and run.  If you're going to get socks on wet and sandy feet, you'd better have a water bottle to rinse them and some talc handy.  Talking of water, refreshment in the form of an energy drink and an energy bar will be handily waiting on the bike. Oh, and don't forget that you won't even be allowed to race if you don't have your bike helmet, and all your number stickers in place. Which reminds me, take your race number belt so you don't have to faff around with safety pins. Oh yeah, it would also be a good idea to have some Vaseline or Bodyglide to prevent chafing and help the wetsuit off.

That's just the stuff to bring.  Now you have to lay it out in some kind of order so that you have the right things in the right place at the right time, in a space just a couple of feet wide, and be able to get them or or off at speed. It's really quite stressful.

I decide to have a little practice session at getting the wetsuit off.  Last time I went out swimming I ended up essentially strait-jacketed and writhing like an escapologist trying to get out of it. Ella is at home with me, so I ask for some assistance.  Having just watched Officially Amazing - a kids TV show featuring record attempts - she offers this in the form of timing me getting the wetsuit on.  If you've never tried to don a wetsuit with a 6 year old screaming "Faster, daddy!" at you, you really haven't lived.  She arbitrarily decides the record is 5 minutes and 11 seconds.  After 6 minutes of me trying to get the zip done up, the fabric massively stretched by my bulk, I ask her to help. She tugs weakly at the zip before giving up and sitting at the kitchen table. "I'm exhausted," I say, sweating profusely. "I bet," she says with a mouthful of tomatoes, gazing out the window.  With the zip half done up, I too give up, and set about trying to get it off. It's a blessed relief to peel it away and let my skin breath again, and, as it turns out, not really too difficult.  Then again, this is with a dry suit.  Damned if I'm going to give it another go.

In the afternoon, I head into town to attend the registration.  A chance to suss out the competition.  Not surprisingly, they all look far fitter than me.  In the car park, people greet each other like long lost friends. One proudly sports an Ironman Lanzarote t-shirt.  I suck in my stomach just that little bit more.

An information board confirms my place in the Sprint tri, amongst a field of roughly 100 men and 40 women, and a start time of 6.35a.m.  This is, frankly, a ridiculous time to be doing exercise.  I'll need to be up around 5am to grab breakfast and get down to the start to set up in transition.  I scan the list for familiar names, but I don't see any.  The list also contains ages - I'm slight relieved to see that the next guy on the list is in his sixties, although presumably one of those sickeningly fit types.

As we queue to collect race numbers, the girl behind me asks about the bike course. I confirm that it's an out-and-back. "Done many of these before?" I ask.  I really hope she says no.  "Quite a few actually". Damn. "Are you doing the Sprint?".  "No, standard".  Of course.  The standard (a.k.a. Olympic) tri is twice the length of the sprint.  The sprint is for wimps, clearly. "It's my first one," I offer by way of explanation as to why I'm doing the wimps race.  "Oh, you'll be hooked," she says sunnily.

Number 238 will be getting an early night.

Race Face

One week to go.  What's done is done.  Any attempt at improvement now is surely too little, too late.  The regrets start to take shape - the weeks of missed swim sessions, the lack of training structure, the all-too-regular food and wine indulgence.  What I do know is that I probably won't die, and barring an incident I'll finish the race.  What I don't really know is where I'll come or what time I'll post.  I like to think I'll get under 1:40, but looking at last year's results, that'll actually put me in the bottom 10%, and I actually think I'm better than that.  I guess there's only one thing to do, and that's to race.

Most important preparation - getting your race face on.  Let's see...

Too surprised. I don't want my rivals thinking I've wandered into the race by accident.

Too thoughtful.  Fine for the office, not fine for a triathlon.  It's no place for a ponder, it's all about action.

Too Brucey.  No-one wants a fat Bruce Forsyth in a wetsuit.

Too Easter Island.  Just plain weird.

Perfect.

Nothing New

"In the Philippines there are lovely screens to protect you from the glare

In the Malay states there are hats like plates which the Britishers won't wear

At twelve noon the natives swoon and no further work is done

But Mad Dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun."

      - Noel Coward, Mad Dogs and Englishmen

Across the many triathlon web sites and forums, there is one common maxim - "nothing new on race day".  That is, turning up on race day with clothing, equipment or technique that you haven't already put to the test in a non-competitive scenario is a recipe for disappointment, injury, or, worst of all, chafing. With this in mind, and only 2 weeks to go, I decide to make the most of the beautiful weather and do a bit of a dress rehearsal, with a 20k bike/5k run brick.

First decision - what to wear. In lieu of owning specialist tri-shorts (and being too tight to buy some), the choice is between cycle shorts and swim jammers.  On race day, I'll be wearing them under the wetsuit for the swim, so the cycle shorts are out, lest the padded rear become a sodden nappy.  The swim jammers, black and knee length, pass for cycle shorts anyway.  On top, it's whether to wear my running top, or my cycle top, or possibly whether to swap in transition.  I choose to wear my cycle top - snug enough to be somewhat indecent for a fatty - but lay out my running top alongside my trainers in my little transition area on the driveway, should I feel coy when the time comes.

Doing a swim leg is a little impractical, so I simulate it by standing in the shower so I can test riding with wet shorts. By the time I get out the door it's gone 11am, and the summer sun is high in the sky.  The ride takes me round my usual loop across Avon Causeway.  A swift and uneventful forty minutes later I'm back home, with dry shorts and unchafed loins. Great success! I gulp down as much water as I can stomach, switch to running shoes and head back out the gate.

I decide to stick with the cycle top for the run.  I figure that the ride will have shifted pounds off my stomach and I now cut a dashing, athletic figure.  A quick glance in a passing shop window confirms this to be most definitely not the case.  The elasticated waistband gathers the bottom of the shirt tightly - it does no favours to a man's stomach.  Regardless, I don't believe any cars crashed or veered violently at the sight of a wobbling gut approaching them, but I wouldn't have blamed them if they did.

It's hot in the midday sun.  I curse that I've left it until now to get out the house, and more than once I think seriously about stopping for a breather.

"It's a bit hot for that, innit?" says a man getting out his car as I pass by.

Yes, it is. Somehow I plough on - if I can't do it now, there's no reason to believe I'll magically pull something out the hat on race day.  I'm hugely thankful to reach the traffic lights at Beaufort Road and watch the Garmin tick over to 5.00km.  I don't run a step more than I need to.

So, distance: done.  Nipples: fine.  Clothing: verified.  All good to go.  Bring it on.

Frequently Asked Question

A popular question along the way has been "are you doing it for charity?".  It's a fairly automatic assumption - "fat bloke doing exercise? Must be for charity" - so my answer is always "No". Doing this triathlon has never been about novelty value.  If I wanted that, sitting in a tub of beans would have been easier and more delicious. What it has been about is driving changes in my life that needed to be made.

"What would be on your bucket list?" says Emma, as we drink in the evening sun, and the Pinot, in the garden. "Where do you want to go, what do you want to experience?"

"I don't have one," I say. "If I don't believe in an afterlife, I can't believe that I'll be around in some form to regret the things I didn't do."

"But you might live that afterlife while you're still here," she says wisely, "someday it might be too late." I ponder for a minute.

"I don't think I'd have regrets about not going somewhere or doing something.  I'd regret not taking more opportunities to make life better for other people when I had the chance, because I was too lazy or too embarrassed or too afraid."

So, I can't pass up the opportunity. I hope you've enjoyed, and will continue to enjoy, these ramblings of mine. Even if you haven't, perhaps you at least appreciate my efforts to turn myself into a triathlete.  Even if, you hard-nosed bastard, you don't appreciate that, maybe you'll at least just think about how many lives are affected by the shadow of cancer (read this if it helps), and why I've decided to use this as a chance to raise money for Cancer Research.

If you're still having trouble (wtf?!), I'm going to make you a BOGOF offer. For if you help me raise over £300, I will also throw in the Pier to Pier swim the following week.  Yes folks, we're talking 1.4 miles of sea swimming.  That's three times further than I'll have to swim in the tri, and three times further than I've ever swum before in one go.  In the sea.  In a wetsuit.  I do not make this offer lightly, this is the stuff of nightmares.

From the stats, this blog has about 40 regular readers, so raising £300 should be a doddle. You can donate at JustGiving,

Thank you.

I Can But Travel

It's a strange thing.  I scoff down Sunday's breakfast and leave the house at 7:30am.  I sit in a variety of moving metal cases, until I magically find myself at my hotel room, just in time for Monday's breakfast.  I've slept only for about an hour.  To all intents and purposes, Sunday evaporated.

Lift music permeates the public spaces at Changi Airport.  Like everything in Singapore, it is spotless.  I head down the spotless escalators to the spotless platforms to get on the spotless MRT.  I get to the bottom, coffee in hand, only to discover the sign that promises a SG$500 fine for eating or drinking on the train.  Unlike "No heavy petting", such things here are not an idle threat, so I turn around and head back up to find a bin. The Mass Rapid Transit does exactly what it says on the tin.  It gets me from the airport to a 1 minute walk from my hotel in the heart of the city at a price that would barely get me to the end of the road on a bus back home.

For a Brit, the MRT map is a comforting glimpse of home.  The colonial days are recalled in Admiralty, Queenstown, Commonwealth; the people who made it in Braddell, Raffles Place, Clarke Quay; the home-from-home of Dover, Somerset and Kent Ridge.  The announcements on the train are made in clearly enunciated English that echoes the London Tube, including an almost verbatim "Mind The Gap". This morning, it's Monday rush hour, and my case just gets in the way.  Luckily, the English sense of not causing a fuss appears to be an export to this island, and legs are bashed and toes squashed with little comeback.  Opposite me, a tall lad looks even more tired than I do.  He yawns, and his eyelids slide shut, until he slowly topples forward on top of the small lady in front of him.  He jolts awake and offers a small apology before grabbing the hand rail.  If this is the start of his week, it's going to be a long one.

At Tanah Merah, I have to switch trains, and it's at this point that I get my first reminder of the relentless humidity of Singapore.  Weather forecasting is not an interesting job in this part of the world - it will be sunny in the morning, and it will rain in the afternoon.  Every day, it is 30 degrees Celsius.  Even the setting sun doesn't bring any respite.  If you're lucky, it might dip to 27 degrees in the night. I never get bored of telling this fact: the record - record - low temperature in Singapore is 19.6 degrees.  Benetton probably don't sell many jumpers here.  The humidity makes sweat spring immediately to my forehead.  It would surely be utter madness to attempt to run outdoors here.

Thankfully, the hotel offers a pool and a gym to negate the need to kill myself in the inhospitable climate. I arrive just in time to grab breakfast, at which point I note that the pool is right outside the restaurant windows.  I will need to choose swim times carefully if I'm not to put diners off their food.  My plan is to catch up on some kip before heading to the office, but something tells me that would be disastrous for my body clock.  Instead, I realise that if I don't get in some exercise now, another couple of days will have passed, albeit in fast-forward, without exercise.

In the gym, the treadmills have TVs attached.  Having no headphones, I skim around the channels trying to find one that I can watch without needing sound.  Eventually I settle upon what appears to be a K-Pop version of Saturday Kitchen.  The guests eat and drink behind a dazzling barricade of overlaid text,  scrolling, static, horizontal, vertical, big, little, red, green, blue, pink, yellow.  I have no idea what it says, except for the odd English word - "OK", "Wow", "Vicky". Still, everyone, presumably Vicky included, appears to be enjoying themselves enormously.

Next to me, an ageing Asian man plods away, just a little quicker than walking pace.  The clock on his treadmill shows that he's already been going for 30 minutes. I hop on and strike up a good pace.  I don't know if they're pumping oxygen in, but I feel extremely lively for a man working on little sleep.  After 15 minutes, I promise myself to not push it, but the lad is still going.  After 20 minutes, I'm ready to stop, but still he continues.  It's getting personal now.  I get to 5K in 26 minutes, his clock is now at 57 minutes, and while he's slowed down a little, he's still going.  I give up.

And now it's all starting to kick in a litttttttttttttttzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....................

Rubber

First thing Saturday morning, I turn up at The Wetsuit Centre. It's a warehouse full of wetsuits.  It sells the wetsuits.  It sells very little beside wetsuits.  The staff there are hugely experienced in wetsuits.

"What can I do for you?," says the guy behind the counter.

My cerebellum fuses slightly at the question.  Surely - surely - I cannot say "I want to buy a wetsuit".  If I am not there to buy a wetsuit, or he to sell me a wetsuit, clearly one or both of us is in the wrong place.  My mouth hangs open for a second, unsure of quite what to say.

"I want to buy a wetsuit," I say.

The chap doesn't even blink.  What a fucking champion.

Fast forward, 10 minutes later, to a changing room.  Ella has come along with me, because my mother always told me never to buy a wetsuit without a 6 year old in tow. They're useful for their straight talk.

"Dad, you look really fat," she says, as she slaps my rubberised stomach. It doesn't even need saying.  There are many many garments I shouldn't wear, but skin-tight neoprene is right there near the top, especially after the excesses of April and May - holidays, parties, business trips - have taken their toll on my figure.  I pull at the material around my sizeable midriff, and it causes a puff of air to ripple up the chest and fart out the neck.  Ella is delighted.  We'll take it.

Fast forward, a day later, to the beach.  I can put this off no longer.  If I am to compete in the triathlon, I have to face the prospect of an open water swim.  I can't remember the last time that I actually swam in the sea - perhaps as a child.

It takes a good 10 minutes to actually get the wetsuit zipped up.  It really is pretty snug - if not indecent, at least indignant.  Luckily, I've chosen the seclusion of the western end of Hengistbury Head beach, where there are few passers-by to witness my indignity.  After a bit of wriggling and shoulder dislocating, the zip pulls into place.  Goggles on, I wade into the water, pleasantly surprised by the insulation provided by the wetsuit.  I walk in until the water is up to my chest, and then lower myself, bobbing up and down on the swell, which is not insignificant.

Frankly, I'm nervous. Any time I can't immediately touch the bottom I have a minor panic. After a couple of minutes, I stick my face in the water, and I'm greeted with an olive green wall of water.  Visibility is perhaps a metre.  The brine is as disgusting as I remember it.  I start gently breaststroking towards the groyne, which feels utterly futile - whatever motion I can muster is insignificant to the tidal forces that are pushing and pulling, rising and falling.  This isn't much fun.  I change to a front crawl, and it's better, but in my nervousness I'm breathing quicker than normal, and it's hard to establish a real rhythm.  It doesn't help that each passing wave drops me and smashes my face into the water whether I like it or not.

After a few minutes of backwards and forwards between groynes, I'm still alive and decide I shouldn't push my luck, so I head back to the safety of the beach, satisfied with my orientation session.  But clarity comes to me that, really, this is my challenge.  Until now, I've considered the swim a bit that I'll simply tolerate, something to get out the way so I can crack on with the fight for time on the bike and the run.  Based on this, swimming 750m in the sea is going to be an achievement in itself.