London or Bust

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, how did I do?

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

A-Race

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Que sera sera.

The 5-Step Process

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

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

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

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

Step 5: Run your chubby little legs off

The results speak for themselves.

Scabby Nipples

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

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

Skidmarks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rest of the ride passes without note. Until.

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

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

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

(cue music)

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

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

Onwards to London.

We need to talk

We need to talk.

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

I am a MAMIL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Progress

"Have you lost some weight?"

"Why yes I have!"

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

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

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

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

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

Less than three weeks, bring it on!