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.

Racing Lines

This is going to sound really weird, but I have a definite fondness for the M3 and A34 in autumn. The roads plough through some quintessentially English countryside, bounded on both sides by oak and ash, auburn tinged.  To pass by them at 80mph on a sunny October morning is really quite a treat.

And so it goes, as I make my way to Thruxton Circuit for the Thruxton "Mass Attack" Duathlon.  I signed up for the race way back in March, the second part of a double header who's first part was cruelly snatched from me, so it's been a long time coming.  Confidence in this installment has not exactly been high either, as the distances and start time chop and change right up to the week of the race.  Finally the decision is made on a 5km first run (1 lap + a bit), a 30.4km bike (8 laps) and a 3.8km second run (1 lap).

Admittedly, preparation for this race has been somewhere between "poor" and "non-existent", with a leaning towards the non-existent. A bike ride and a couple of 5k runs (one of which was blighted by a novel pain in the hip) since the half-marathon are the meagre foundations on which this temple of athleticism will be built.

One hundred and thirteen duathletes gather on the start grid.  Most are in tri-suits, and quite a few have very professional looking accoutrements. The guy next to me is wearing bright green compression socks pulled right up to his knees.  The outlier is perhaps the girl behind me, wearing slightly grubby tracky bottoms, Nike tennis shoes and a top that is printed to look like the wearer has donned a tux.  It is a strange combination to say the least.  However, I am dismayed to find that none of my fellow competitors look particularly out of shape, or to be here for the taking.

And so it proves as the hooter goes, and 90% of the field storm out ahead of me.  A couple of hundred metres in, I glance at the Garmin, which reads a pace of 7:07/mi - ridiculously fast for my little legs.  It doesn't feel that fast though, so I go with it.  The run is heading anti-clockwise around the track, down to the bottom of a hill at which waits Patricia, a lady of mature years astride a marshal's motorbike, who forms a turn marker before the field heads back clockwise to complete a further lap of the course.  Heading around Patricia, we get our first taste of the wind that is blowing from the south west, as well as having to head back uphill.  I keep glancing at the Garmin, convinced that it must be on the blink.

The rest of the run is largely uneventful. Even heading back into the wind for the second half of the lap, and up the hill, I maintain a decent pace, although it's nice to get back to transition - in the pit lane, of course. At an average pace of 7:53/mi, it's actually very close to my PB, and surely without that wind and two hills it would have smashed the elusive 24 minute barrier.

I have learned a couple of lessons about transition this year.  Firstly, triathlon checklists tend to have an insane number of things on them that cover every eventuality.  You will use virtually none of them. To that extent, the blue crate I've used in previous events to hold my transition stuff has gone.  For this duathlon, the only things next to my bike are a towel (a useful way to spot your bike), my bike shoes, and a bottle of water.  Secondly, undo your bloody shoelaces when you take your trainers off. As someone who prefers to just kick off their trainers, I've been caught out at least twice by having to try and undo laces before getting them on.  When you're a bit unsteady from physical exertion, that's easier said than done.  And so it is that in T1 I dutifully undo my shoelaces fully before slipping my bike shoes on.

The pit lane exits heading eastwards, and with the strong wind at our backs, it is a joy to be on the bike.  The tarmac is smooth, there are no sharp bends to brake for, and there is little gradient to speak of.  I immediately overtake a couple of folks up ahead, and settle in for the next hour of riding. 

Three minutes later, I'm at the far end of the track, which turns slowly back westwards.  I come around a corner, and suddenly the bike is leaning heavily to one side, like I'm on a container ship mid-Atlantic.  That wind is coming back to bite.  I shift down a gear and dig in, but the course continues to turn until we're head on to it.  At this point, it's downhill, but one has to pedal hard to keep going anywhere, and it's even worse when the track starts to head back uphill, still into the fierce wind.  One of the leaders comes past - all Cervelo, aero bars and pointy helmet - and even he looks like he'd rather be at home in front of Sunday Brunch.

In front, number 12 is next in my sights, and he's weaving all over the road, hunched over the bars, looking exhausted already.  As I pass, he looks over and shakes his head.  "Only another 7 to go," he says.

At the top of the hill, the track weaves through a chicane and you're back at the start grid for another lap.  The wind is behind again, and we power along merrily, the wind and the hill forgotten about, until a mere two and half minutes later, when we arrive back at the far end and face another five minute slog back to the start line. It reminds me of a favourite punchline - "right lads, break's over, back on your heads".

The bike is 8 laps - we're required to count our own laps.  By lap 4 I start worrying about forgetting the count, so I resort to songs in my head.  Four. The Fab Four. The Beatles. All You Need Is Love. Five.  Housemartins - Five Get Over Excited.  Six. Cricket. 10CC - Dreadlock Holiday.  Seven.  S Club Seven - Reach For The Stars. To be honest though, the Housemartins song is stuck in my head, so I abandon that strategy.  Also, any strategy that has you singing S Club Seven to yourself deserves to be abandoned.

Just over an hour of cycling later, and having tackled the wind and the hill at ever decreasing speeds, I head into the pits once more.  The winner has already finished - nearly 9 minutes ahead of his nearest rival, but then again, he is the ITU Duathlon world champion for his age group (40-44) two years running.  I limp out of transition on the run, just behind green compression sock guy.  He's tall, thin and wearing an Andover Triathlon club tri-suit, so I'm surprised he's lurking back here, and I take a small pleasure from going past him, albeit like a slug overtaking a snail. 

There's no way I'm going to keep up the same pace as the first run, and I just about manage an 8:30/mi pace.  At the far end, I turn into the wind for the final time, and whimper slightly as I spy the pit lane, way off in the distance.  But I keep it together, and as I head up the hill, I'm at least grateful to not be one of the backmarkers still pedalling in grim determination. 

Over the line in 1:50.29, 78th of 111 finishers.  Seeing as I'd predicted 1:55, and it's not the bottom 10%, I'm happy with the result.  Quick on the first run, not quite as quick as I'd like on the bike, and ok-ish on the second run.  Not too bad for very little prep.

Enduro Racer

Did I mention I was doing a half-marathon?  I don't think I did.  I did a half-marathon.  For why, I cannot say, other than for the same reasons Mallory climbed Everest, although I rather hoped I would not meet the same fate.

The Bournemouth Half Marathon starts, handily enough, less than a quarter of a mile from home, within the leafy bounds of Kings Park. It's a crisp but sunny autumn morning, and the family gamely tag along to watch the early start.  They set up camp on a sunlit bank whilst I jog off to find my starting pen. I'm confident that I can complete the race, having gradually increased my training runs to nearly 11 miles, but I'm keen to bag a decent time.  Under 2 hours is the target, which a handy pace chart suggests needs an average 9:09/mi pace. A hooter goes, Bryan Adams' "Run To You" blares out the PA, and we're off.  With a wave to the kids on the roadside, we exit the park and head through Southbourne.  About a hundred metres in, I feel the need for a wee.

Other runners. Other bloody runners. What a nuisance they are.  As we crowd through the narrow channels, everyone else is just in the way. The heavy breathers. The chatterers. The overtakers. A couple in particular are annoying enough that I have to inject bursts of pace to get ahead of them.  The first has a set of keys in his pocket that jangle with every step. The second is a racewalker, a rare breed indeed. This athletic stroll is actually quite impressive - he's doing about 8:45/mi pace - but the technique necessitates flailing elbows that clear a space behind him.  Somehow I keep finding myself hemmed in behind him, until I make a conscious effort to overtake.

As the race hits the third mile and turns on to Southbourne Overcliff, the field spreads, the road opens up slightly, and I can finally settle in to a decent rhythm, around 8:40/mi pace. It's a bit quicker than planned, but I feel good.  As I pass the Spyglass and Kettle pub, the leaders are heading back on the other side of the road, setting a pace that I can only dream of.  At the front of the field is Commonwealth marathon runner, British 100km champion and local legend Steve Way (motto: "Don't be shit"), a man for whom a half marathon is a light jog to the shops.

As the air warms up, spectators start to appear along the course.  Gathered on the Overcliff are a bunch holding placards -  "You're looking good!", "Your legs will forgive you.  Just not today (or tomorrow)", "Pain is temporary, Internet results are forever" - which provide some light relief.  Not that I particularly need it, the first 4 miles seem to have flown by.  Despite my earlier claims, being in a crowd actually helps pull you along, and I spend most of my time scanning the hordes for anyone I might know (none), or failing that, someone who might make a good blog subject (none, except for perhaps the guy running with a fridge on his back).

The race drops down and turns 180 degrees again, on to the promenade.  At this point, the whole rest of the course is laid before you - to Boscombe, up on to the cliff top to Bournemouth, before returning back along the beach to Boscombe Pier, and a final leg back to Bournemouth Pier and the finish.  From here, a mile or so from the halfway point, it looks simple, and in glorious sunshine, possibly enjoyable.

Meanwhile, my bladder hasn't given in. At Fisherman's Walk, I make the decision to take a now-almost-traditional mid-race wee stop. With one eye on the clock, I don't really want to, but it's also a chance to rescue a couple of chewy glucose tablets out my sock (wrapped in clingfilm, in case you're wondering) for a bit of energy reload.  Refreshment achieved, I pick up the pace again, only to find myself once again right behind the key jangler, who I have to once again power past.

For all it's beautiful views, Bournemouth seafront is actually a little dull to run along, being straight and flat, and also a touch annoying, for it has a camber to it that is wearing on the knees.  I weave around to find the slightly flatter parts at either side.  By the time I reach Boscombe Pier, I'm actually quite looking forward to the variety of the run up to the East Overcliff.  At the feeding station, I grab an energy gel, which I tuck into my waistband - not being a regular user, I'm wary of the warnings that such things can have a less than desirable effect on the stomach, so I'll only use it if I need to.

The route turns at Boscombe Pier to climb up through Boscombe Gardens.  A man at the side of the path claps and booms "Fantastic! You're brilliant! You're great, all of you!" at everyone who passes, in a wonderfully un-British show of support ("did he have learning difficulties?" someone enquired at my description). It's well received, and necessary, for the path takes a left and steepens sharply to take runners to the Overcliff.

It's like a scene from Dawn Of The Dead.  The previously perky runners have suddenly slowed to a crawl.  Some walk, some creep, some try and power on up.  I adopt a sort of Cliff Young shuffle.  It's a steep hill, no doubt, and at the top I'm panting for air for the first time in the race.  The edge of the energy gel packet is also cutting into my flab, so I retrieve it and carry it for now.  Things are starting to feel a little tougher now, but the crowds along the cliff top help push me, and everyone else, along.

As we head downhill towards the Pier, I scan the crowds knowing that Emma and the kids will be around. I locate Emma and mother-in-law Angela, waving frantically, and take a couple of seconds to spot the kids sat high on a wall, clutching the same "Go Daddy Piper" banner that served so well at the triathlon. We all wave and shout at each other, and just as I'm starting to flag, it's the high point of my day. I feel a little jealous of the woman next to me, who has "Maggie" printed across the front of her top, and receives numerous shouts of "Go on Maggie!" and "Well done Maggie!", from presumably complete strangers.

The last 3 miles is along to Boscombe Pier and back.  It's a run I've done a few times before, not least on the triathlon, and it seems like a fairly trivial jog.  But 10 miles in, it's starting to hurt.  I consume the energy gel, assuming that it might not have any deleterious effects before the finish, although also really far too late to have anything but a placebo effect. I spend most of the run to Boscombe considering the annoyance of having to run along Boscombe Pier before returning.  Half way along, the enthusiastic supporter from Boscombe Gardens is making his way towards Bournemouth, still shouting encouragement.

At end of the pier, another runner, who I recognise having got out his car as we walked to the start, is stood at the side, for reasons unknown, cheering others on.  "Smile!" he says to me as I pass, and we attempt a high five that barely connects. I'm struggling to smile, because by now The Blerch is on my shoulder, whispering to me to stop and take a break.  I feel like I'm keeping up the pace, but the Garmin tells me differently.

It is a blessed relief to arrive back at Bournemouth Pier.  The crowds gradually increase, and once again I find the family crowded against the barrier, waving and shouting.  A quick up and down Bournemouth Pier, and I'm home.  In front of me, a pair run with arms around each other - necessary, for one of the runners has knees that buckle with every step.  I navigate around the Pier amusements, as the PA requests First Aid at the finish, and make what sort of counts as a sprint for the line.  It hasn't come a moment too soon.  The Garmin shows a total time of 1:56.20. Accounting for the refreshment break, moving time was 1:55.37, a testament to my speed weeing ability.  All in all, I'm delighted with the time.

I spend the rest of the day eating everything in sight.  The following day, I have a day off, on which it rains biblically until early afternoon.  This is handy, for my thighs are in no rush to get out of bed, or to get down the stairs.

The natural next question is "so, are you going to do a marathon?".

No.

(but, next up, the Thruxton Mass Attack Duathlon, the sequel to the ill-fated first part)

Adventure

The third leg of the Portsmouth RNLI Adventure Tri is underway, and I am leading the race.  This is not another crazy dream.  This is true.  What happened was... [cue wobbly lines]

The Portsmouth Lifeboat station sits on a shingle spit, a stone's throw from Hayling Island on the other side of the narrow channel that forms the entrance to Langstone Harbour.  I arrive around 8am, in bue skies and beautiful sunshine that shimmers on the mud banks exposed by low tide, and find Rik having arrived just ahead of me. We chat in the car park, and I rue the size of the tyres on the borrowed mountain bike that I pull out the car.  The Adventure Tri features off road sections, so a road bike would prove useless, but these tyres look like something off a tractor, and I suspect 23km on them is not going to be effortless.

This event is a little less formal than others.  Registration simply involves asking for your number (I am number 3, obviously an early sign-up) and being given it, along with safety pins and a map.  The map is large scale and a little bewildering, given that alongside the route it also displays locations of clues to be found to win prizes (which we agree to not bother with - the prize list is a little uninspiring), and where to stop for beer.   That said, the contestants look no less athletic, and there's a fine array of be-lycra'd challenge-seekers.

There is a very obvious benefit to teaming up with Rik for this event - the swim is replaced by a 2 mile kayak, and not only is he a mountain of a man, but he's also an experienced kayaker.   We grab lifejackets and a two-man kayak, and watch as the rest of the field get on the water.  The advertised start time is 9.07am, to coincide with the turning of the tide, and with 20 minutes still to go, we're in no rush to get wet.  Eventually we realise that we're the only ones left on the shore, and even though there's still plenty of time, push away anyway, handily settling right near the front of the field, which stretches out a hundred metres or so behind us.  With a combined 30 stone on top of it, the kayak is sitting alarmingly low in the water.  We're out there barely a minute before the organiser stands up in his boat alongside the massed field and shouts "Go!".

The start is chaos.  Seventy kayaks, most of which are staffed by novices, converge on each other in a watery frenzy.  Paddles clash, bows collide, sterns crash.  We end up almost at ninety degrees to where we should be going and T-bone a neighbour.  "Paddle on the right!" shouts Rik.  "I thought you were doing the steering!" I shout back.

The comedy continues for the next few minutes as boats drift into each other.  To add to the pandemonium, there are boats moored in the harbour, which a few competitors struggle to navigate around.  Eventually we find clear water, and start the business of paddling in earnest.  It's nigh on impossible to find a rhythm - the length of the boat means it's difficult for Rik to get in a full stroke, and I'm just a hopeless idiot.  I spend most of the time shovelling water either into the boat or in Rik's face behind me.  At least he laughs about it, in the same way you might laugh about someone kicking you in the nuts every few seconds.  I can only keep apologising.

After 10 minutes of paddling, it's getting tough to continue sitting upright.  Kayaks are fairly unforgiving, requiring one to sit up with minimal back support, legs out straight in front.  I've got a pain in the top of my thighs.  Looking at my Garmin, we've only covered 800 metres of the 3 kilometres.  Nightmare.  I scan the horizon for our destination, but all I can see around me is mud, so all we can do is push on regardless. Rik ploughs on, seemingly effortlessly, but I have to take regular breaks to adjust my position.

It's another 20 minutes before we finally pitch up at the Portsmouth Outdoor Centre, about the 15th boat in, thanks to our advantageous start position and Rik's paddling. A volunteer helps pull the boat onto the foreshore, and I get up and out in an undignified tumble.  We carry the kayak to the top of the slipway, grab a cup of water, and it's into the run.

My shirt is soaking wet, and hangs heavily against my chest as we start running.  I'm glad to have remembered to apply BodyGlide in all the right places, otherwise this could become painful.  We immediately settle into different paces - Rik's muscle-bound frame is a lot to carry around - so Rik and I bid each other farewell until the finish.  The run course follows the water's edge back to our start point, along a narrow gravel path.  I'm actually feeling rather good, and even though I'm not going at a particularly fast pace, about 8:30/mi, I overtake a handful of people on the way.  The kayak stage has spread out competitors enough that only a couple of faster runners come by me. The course drops down onto the shore, exposed by low-tide, and for a section requires some deft footwork and rock scrambling to avoid the stinking, oozing mud and slipperly vegetation.

I reach the RNLI station, just under 6km and 30 minutes, ready to tackle the bike.  Transition is far simpler than a normal tri - the mountain bike has flat pedals, so there's nothing more to do than simply strap on a helmet, swig some drink and away you go.  The bike leg also has an interesting interjection -  the first thing to do is get the ferry over to Hayling Island.

On the pontoon, there are 10 or so people already waiting for the ferry.  I take the chance to chomp on a chocolate and peanut energy bar while we wait.  When the ferry does arrive, it's a tiny vessel, with room only for about 10 people.  As people clamber on, the ferryman points at me to indicate that I'll be the last one on (it's possible that this was actually at the mercy of a couple of people who strictly were before me - sorry).  By this time, Rik has arrived, and I wave to him as I get on the boat.  The bloke stood next to him looks a little confused and meekly waves back, unsure of quite why I'm waving at him. Awkward.

Crossing the channel, someone points out that we're the first boatload across.  Being as I was last on, my bike is piled on top of everyone else's, which means that I'll be first off.  And so it came to pass, as I disembark and head up the pontoon on the other side, that for a small moment in time, I was leading the triathlon. Yes, good fortune, a capable kayak partner and the unconventional ferry crossing have contributed to this, but I count it among my life achievements nonetheless.

This doesn't last long.  The group looks around for which way to go.  Either because it's an adventure tri, or through poor organisation - we'll assume the former - there is no signage or marshals, just the map, which I keep stuffed up the leg of my shorts for handy reference.  It shows a route that goes along the shore for a short way, to a clue, before returning and starting the rest of the circuit in earnest.  With me are a variety of people.  A couple of guys look like serious triathletes.  There's a Polish bloke who overtook me on the run, a couple of ladies from the Army, judging by their t-shirts, and two other couples.  We head along a car park, which turns into a gravel path, which turns into proper shingle, which eventually turns into grassland.  By now, we're all a bit confused as to how far to go.  No-one has seen any clue. Gradually, people decide that we've gone too far and turn back anyway, and I do the same, whilst three or four others carry on. It's on the way back that I spot the clue tied to a fence behind a sand dune, being carefully analysed by a couple of old ladies out for a stroll.

The cycle route heads through the sleepy backwaters of Hayling Island before turning off road to follow the old Hayling Billy rail line. Being straight and flat, I've got a good speed going, despite the knobbly tyres.  Out the corner of my eye, I spy someone cycling just behind me.  A quick glance around shows an older gent in a yellow flourescent jacket, clearly not part of the triathlon. I push on, but I can't shake him.  I'm bewildered that he's able to keep up.  It's not until I catch up with the Army ladies, and slow down to chat, that he comes past and we realise he's got a motor attached to the bike.  Not just any motor, but a seemingly home-made contraption, looking alarmingly like an old tin can and a few wires.

The cycle leg is certainly an adventure.  The route takes a turn down narrow paths, around marshland and along shingle banks. In some places it requires running with the bike; at one point I have to lift the bike over a stile. I'm definitely grateful for the knobbly tyres now. Halfway through I think I'm off course, so take a turn into a car park to try and pick up the trail again.  By the time I realise I was right in the first place, the Army ladies have gone past again. I catch them up yet again and chat for a couple of miles, taking the chance to get some shelter from the increasing wind.  As we start back down the western side of the harbour, I get ahead of them for the last push to the finish.

The finish line is fairly low key, a handful of applauding spectators and event organiser Rob ready to hand out medals and goodie bags (A dry-bag, 2 energy bars, an energy gel, tube of glucose tabs, pen, TeaPigs tea bags and a bunch of leaflets, for the record).  Back in transition, I count the bikes, there are just 9 in there.  Somehow, in a field of 120, I've finished 10th. Remarkable. Twenty minutes and about 10 places later, Rik also rolls in, having got lost and done an extra 3 miles on the bike.

And so onwards to the next event - the Bournemouth Half Marathon on October 5th.

Statto

Warning: quite a boring post for anyone who isn't me.

The official race results are in.  Let's do some analysis.  The positions in brackets are the position for that section alone, whereas the cumulative number gives the actual position in the race at the end of that section i.e. I was the 57th fastest person in T1, and therefore in that time dropped from 53rd to 60th place.

Swim - 14:30 (53rd of 72, cumulative 53rd) - not unexpectedly, a long way down the pack.  But the time is quite remarkable.  Clearly the swim course was shorter than advertised, perhaps by as much as 25%.  For example, if I were to do 14:30 last year, I would have been 4th out the water.

T1 - 2:54 (57th, cumulative 60th) - Oh dear, clearly I have some work to do on transition.  It felt relatively smooth, and the wetsuit came off fairly quickly, but in hindsight there were some things I could have done without.  Putting socks on, whilst feeling dizzy and exhausted from the swim, was a challenge. Better racers would not bother with socks, but having not done it before, I didn't want to try it for the first time on race day. In addition, getting the cycle top on was a little tricky.  The zip is the wrong way round (the slider is on the right), so it's a bit fiddly. In addition to this, I stupidly placed my transition crate underneath the bike.  It fits nicely, when the bike is hung on the rack, but when you have to get it out and get the saddle under the rail, it's in the way.  Lessons learned.

Bike - 40:52 (26th, cumulative 39th) - Woohoo!  Although the bike felt a little slow at the time, clearly it wasn't a bad effort at all, almost in the top third of the field.  That's backed up by the Garmin stats, which show an average speed of 19.3mph.  I made up 21 places (only exceeded by one other person), although bear in mind that the men and women, whilst combined in results, raced separately, so I actually only overtook 7 or 8 on the road.  Still think I could have gone a bit quicker though.

T2 - 1:48 (64th, cumulative 40th) - That transition again. I made the schoolboy error of leaving the laces tied on my trainers, which meant I spent a good 20-30 seconds trying to get them undone. D'oh!  The transition crate also got in the way once more, trying to re-rack the bike.

Run - 24:53 (55th, cumulative 42nd) - A little disappointing, but probably a minute of that is attributable to a call of nature.  In hindsight, I could have pushed harder (running, not weeing), but was nervous of going to fast too soon.

So, 42nd out of 72, 60th percentile.  It's certainly above my target of not being in the bottom 10%, so I think we can consider it job done.

187 Days Later

One hundred and eighty seven days after Day 0.  I've gone from 15st 5lb to 14st, and from a 38 to 36 inch waist. I've gone from averaging around 15mph for bike rides to averaging 18-19mph.  I've gone from running 10 minute miles to running 8 minute miles.  I've gone from being a bad swimmer in the pool to being a bad swimmer in a wetsuit.  I've written 42 blog posts, some 25,000 words, with 3000 views.  I've raised £375 for Cancer Research (hmm, more on that later...).  I've made a few friends, and lost precisely one :(

To all those that cheerfully put up with me banging on about the triathlon - thank you.  To all those that read this blog, and offered encouragement and praise - thank you. To all those who liked, shared and commented on Facebook - thank you.  To all those that offered their time and advice to help me - thank you. To everyone that donated money to Cancer Research - thank you. It has been a pursuit of a trivial goal, hardly the peak of human endeavour, but everyone has been fantastically gracious and patient, much like you would treat a child when they announce that they can do five - FIVE! - bounces on the trampoline.

Most of all, Emma has been enormously tolerant of the time spent either training or blogging. Always ready to offer advice, or be an understanding listener on the bad days, she has always been nothing less than wholly supportive of my little hobby.  Meanwhile, Ella and Alex have been unending sources of comedy and disbelief that their Dad should be larking about in lycra.

So, what now?  Is this the end of my triathlon career?  The end of the blog??

You should be so lucky.  Next up: the Portsmouth RNLI Adventure Race!  Good news though readers: no swim!  It's replaced by a two-man kayak, in which I shall be ably chauffeured by Rik. After that, in October there's the Mass Attack Duathlon at Thruxton - hopefully not cancelled this time. And you can be sure that I'll still be here blathering on about it.  Bestselling books don't write themselves y'know.

About that £375.  I made a promise, that if I hit £300 I would swim Pier to Pier.  Of course, you wonderful, yet silly, silly people made that happen.  Oh joy.  Alas, some unfortunate scheduling means that I'll not be able to do the actual Pier to Pier, but I will be organising a little private event at some point in the near future. Perhaps some of you fancy joining me?  I am really looking forward to it.