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.