26

Competers and Completers

IFIGURED it would be important to get some sort of triathlon experience before attempting the most demanding triathlon event of all, having read that many parts of the race can trip you up, particularly the changeovers between each leg.

Transition, in which you remove your swimming gear to get on the bike, then later rack your bike to get out on the run is even known as ‘the fourth discipline’ by triathletes and can add minutes to your time if performed badly. It is not as simple as changing clothes and footwear, although that can be awkward enough when wet with water or sweat, coursing with adrenaline. For a full distance event, which I would be attempting, you would need drinks and snacks in place, sunglasses, a helmet, kit bag and race belt and everything would need to be prearranged to be as accessible as possible.

For a taster, I entered the Eton Dorney sprint event, the shortest triathlon distance. It only comprised a 1km swim, 20km on the bike and a 5km run but was enough to show me what I was in for. Within seconds of the start I had to stop swimming and resort to doggy-paddle because of the frenetic activity of those around me. The water churned and I became disorientated.

In the end I swam the course in 26 minutes, a very poor time. The bike leg was reasonable and I felt strong on the run, hitting 19 minutes for the 5k distance. All in all, enough of a performance to suggest I would be okay.

Three weeks before Bolton I attended a reconnaissance day at the course, arriving full of enthusiasm and hungry to learn as much about my new sport as possible. It quickly became obvious that virtually all the other athletes were far more experienced than me. As we assembled at the edge of the swimming lake I heard conversations about races around Europe and the States, triumphs and injuries. Many of them wore official Ironman T-shirts, which are only given to those who successfully finish.

In a full-distance event comprising 140 miles of continuous racing, simply getting to the end is an achievement, many do not, but to be recognised as an Ironman you have to complete the course in under 17 hours. Failure to do that gives a result of DNF – did not finish. In this way, several tiers of Ironmen are created, ranging from ‘completers’, whose sole ambition is to finish within the cut-off time, to ‘competers’, who are aiming for a high position, fast times and ranking points. At the very top of the pyramid are the professionals, who can accumulate considerable prize money.

It makes an interesting statement about our perception of human capabilities that in the first two Ironman races beginning in 1978, in which only the very fittest athletes in the world entered, all were merely completers. Most of the marathon runners, special-forces operatives, tour cyclists and open-water swimmers who contested those first events in Hawaii, failed to cross the line. Many considered the distance to be too extreme and the event to be one of pure insanity.

It was not until the days of Dave Scott, the American six-time world champion of the early 1980s, that Ironman turned into an actual race, rather than a straight-up personal ordeal. Yet as the event has grown in status and popularity into the 21st century, spreading all over the world, part-timers, some even carrying beer bellies, can get to the end. The bar has been raised and Ironman has shown us that psychological conviction is more important than physical prowess. Regardless of any of this, despite my novice status, within my mind I placed myself firmly in the competer category. I was not there just to make up the numbers.

To confirm my rookie position, by and large the other entrants actually resembled each other physically. They were like some kind of Ironman sub-species – skinny and super lean. I still had my rower’s physique, with a broad back, deep chest and thick limbs. I felt like a bulldog in the middle of a pack of greyhounds.

We studied the course and I sensed I would be fine. If nothing else my fitness levels and refusal to stop would get me around. Anything beyond that was a bonus, but if I could finish an Ironman, at the right end of the field, on just six weeks’ specific training, that would be encouragement enough. Some guys train all year and still don’t make it.

After returning from the reconnaissance day I developed Achilles tendonitis, which limited my running. It didn’t bother me too much as I knew I had to focus on the swim, my weakest of the three elements. To perform respectably I would have to put myself in a position where I was not completely shattered getting out of the water. If I felt okay at the start of the bike, I knew I could fly through the rest.

I stayed at Terry’s house for a couple of days before the event, another much appreciated gesture. Although by that time we had known each other for nearly a year, most people would not be happy letting an ex-convict stay in their home with their kids. It really showed me how much trust he had in me and I wanted to repay that.

Two days before the start, at the pre-race briefing known as a ‘pasta party’, an opportunity for competitors to mingle and do a bit of carbohydrate loading, I found myself sitting next to an Irishman.

‘So is it your first Ironman?’ he asked, making conversation.

I nodded.

‘We’ve all been there! You’ll be fine if you take it steady. So how many regular triathlons have you done?’

‘None.’

‘Oh…okay.’ His eyes widened, betraying shock which he tried to disguise. He clearly had no idea what to say.

On race day I woke at 4am and caught the athletes’ bus down to Pennington Flash, the lake where the swim would take place. Before heading down to the water’s edge I had a last check of my bike in the transition area. My water bottles were still attached, as were the nutrition bars I had taped to the frame. Everything looked fine. Calm and ready,

I walked from there down to the start line. The scene that unfolded astonished me.

Two thousand competitors had gathered on the banks in a fidgeting, shuffling, rubber-coated horde. It almost looked biblical – a great mass of humanity wearing swimming hats and wetsuits, like seals in the pre-morning twilight, preparing to throw themselves into cloudy, unwelcoming water. What would aliens make of this if they observed it?

As we waited for the signal to start I conducted an internal MOT. I felt good, no nerves at all. My body felt strong and ready. I didn’t know fully what to expect, but whatever came up I felt I could handle it. I was in a good place. Familiar coldness and steeliness overcame me. I looked around at some of the others, foreheads creased, eyes narrowed, hands shaking. A few of them even crossed themselves.

‘This is nothing,’ I thought. ‘I’m out here in the fresh air. I’ve got the chance to use my body. Belmarsh or this? No contest.’

In 2013 the swim still had a floating start, meaning we had to paddle out to a line in the middle of the lake, then tread water until they gave the signal. The national anthem played over the tannoy system as we all bobbed around in water so murky that if you put your hand in, it disappeared from view at a depth of 20cm.

A man’s voice came over the speakers.

‘Three…two…one,’ followed by the bang of the starting gun.

Chaos.

I tore at the water like a jet-ski, thrashing at it to get the best possible purchase. All around me, 2,000 others did the same. The lake boiled, as if filled with a shoal of giant piranhas on a feeding frenzy, a human tsunami. Competitors clambered over each other and pulled each other back. A stray elbow caught me around the temple. A foot planted itself in my ribs.

I got stuck behind a couple of slow swimmers and almost had to stop to match their pace. Frustrated, I pushed my way between them, not caring if I impeded their progress. It was kill or be killed. When Charles Darwin spoke of ‘survival of the fittest’ he could easily have been describing an Ironman mass-start.

Around 300 or 400 metres into the swim it began to settle down. The natural order of things asserted itself as the stronger swimmers put distance between themselves and the rest, while the stragglers tailed behind. I got myself into a rhythm and completed the first lap comfortably, before hauling myself out of the lake. Bolton featured what was known as an ‘Australian exit’, meaning at the end of each lap you got out, covered a short distance on foot then got back in.

Crowd noise filled my ears as I clambered from the bitter water. Spectators shouted encouragement and rang cowbells, an Ironman tradition. I was not among the leading group, but they were not too far ahead. Pleased with how the race had begun, I plunged back in to continue.

As I swum the second loop the sun began to climb over the trees. Its warmth was welcome on my face and back, but I soon realised I had committed my first schoolboy error. My goggles were clear, not tinted and as I neared the halfway point of lap two, with the rays slanting over the water, I became totally blinded. The buoys I was supposed to follow disappeared in the glare.

Unpanicked, the only tactic I could think of was to attach myself to another swimmer. I became dimly aware of someone to my right and made sure I stayed close to their feet for the remainder of the lap, having to trust they would successfully guide me into shore. Fortunately, they did.

After completing the last two laps in that way, constant squinting had given me a small headache and red dots in front of my eyes, so it was a joy to emerge from the water for the last time, remove those useless goggles and head for T1, unzipping my wetsuit on the way. Sunproof eyewear would be top of my next shopping list.

Running to the area where my bike was racked, peeling my wetsuit down my torso, I checked my watch. My time for the 2.4-mile swim was one hour seven minutes, quite creditable under most circumstances, but considering I had gone from being a virtual non-swimmer to the race in six weeks, really encouraging. I had not expected to be so quick.

As I pulled on my cycling shoes, wheeled my bike to the mounting line and clambered on, it suddenly occurred that up to that point, the longest ride I had completed was a 60km jaunt from Mum’s house out to Ditton and back, but my self-belief was firm. I set off in determined mood.

With the little bit of information-gathering I had done, I knew that the three-lap circuit of the Bolton bike course was regarded as a challenging one, involving 1,600m of climbing, including the infamous Sheephouse Lane and a lot of winding descent sections. Once the early hills were out of the way, you spent the rest of the circuit out on the moors, where the topography was bumpy, the roads were poor and northern winds could be fearsome. Those with Ironman experience regarded it as a pure cyclists’ course, meaning that it suited riders with technique and plenty of road and bike handling experience, rather than athletes of power.

I was pleasantly surprised to find Sheephouse Lane not to be the destroyer-of-legs it was so often described as. Rather than one continuous climb, it was actually three separate uphill sections with small flat parts between. The individual ascents were testing, rising to a maximum 17 per cent incline in places, but the respite provided by the flats more than compensated.

An hour or so in, as I passed the 60km mark and embarked on new territory, I still felt fresh and strong. Despite the fact I had one of the worst bikes in the race, I found myself gliding past other riders. Outside of my immediate focus on what I was doing, excitement began to build.

‘If I can sustain this performance,’ I thought, ‘maybe I can get up among the leaders.’

Unfortunately, Ironman has a way of crushing hubris and teaching harsh lessons to the naive and inexperienced. I was about to discover that a variety of elements need to combine to create a successful race. Preparation, equipment and natural aptitude are all important but one of the most indispensable commodities is luck. During nine or ten hours of racing, a multitude of mishaps are possible. If fate decides to conspire against you, you’re screwed. Having navigated the swim and about a third of the bike course without too much trouble, that was about to be made abundantly clear.

At 75km, as I started out on the second loop, I felt a sudden irritation on my left eye which I tried to ignore. Within five minutes it had worsened into persistent and sharp pain spreading up from my eyelid to my eyebrow. I blinked repeatedly and felt a strange friction. The eye streamed. Allowing my pace on the bike to slow, I raised one hand and lifted my sunglasses. A bee flew out. Within seconds my left eye swelled completely shut. The pain was excruciating, but I lowered my sunglasses and continued. Cycling one-eyed caused further problems, however. On the downhill stretches wind blew into my face, making me squint. With my left eye closed, my right eye watered profusely, obscuring my vision on that side too. As I had on the swim, I found myself rendered almost blind.

Fearing for my safety and that of other racers, I slowed down, becoming aware of others whizzing past me. Fellow racers yelled, ‘Get left!’, ‘Watch what you’re doing!’ or ‘Move over!’

Without realising it, I had been veering all over the road and if seen by officials I could have been ejected from the race. The sensible thing to do would have been to pull over for a while, but something in me refused to stop. I also suspected if spotted by a race steward and they saw my eye, they would pull me out. There was no way I could allow that to happen.

By the time I finished the bike leg, I knew my chance for a high placing had gone. I had slowed almost to a standstill at times and been unable to recoup momentum at others. From then on my first Ironman was about salvaging as much pride as possible.

At T2 I removed my helmet and went to rack my bike. As I did so I pulled my sunglasses up and saw a marshal look my way with an expression of absolute horror. I pulled them back down swiftly.

‘Did my eye look bad?’ I asked him, as light-heartedly as possible.

‘Yeah, what happened?’

‘Nothing, it’ll be all right in a minute,’ I said and dashed off before he could speak again.

As I started the run, the eye actually opened up a crack, giving me a tiny sliver of vision on that side. It was still sore and wet but improving. Terry was there to cheer me on, as was Darren Davis, who had travelled up to support me too. It was great to have him there. In many ways he was the one who had started it all and seeing him raised my spirits. I saw them both on each of the three laps around Bolton town centre.

My legs were more tired than they should have been from all the stop-starting on the bike, which I chalked up to experience too. Constantly breaking inertia tires you out more than powering along, but I ran the marathon in three hours 59 minutes.

As I passed through the finishing chute and crossed the line a lump rose in my throat. Not only was I a free man, within limits, but I could now call myself an Ironman. At the same time, I could not help but be slightly disappointed that I hadn’t managed to go quicker, but put those thoughts to one side. Finally, it had really begun. I was at the start of something.

My total time clocked in at 11 hours 49 minutes, putting me in 66th place in the 30–34 age group, not as fast as I had hoped for, but on six weeks’ training and competing in my first real swim and bike, both of which I completed half-blind, I could not be too hard on myself. The average for a competitor in my division was 12 hours 12 minutes, meaning my time and placing were certainly enough to suggest I had a future at the right end of the sport if I could correct my mistakes and ensure I was better prepared.

Terry and Darren congratulated me on the finish, but already my mind ticked over with what I needed to do to improve. Training was key. I was racing against guys who had developed their athletic potential while I was locked up, so I would have to devise a rigid, professional programme and stick to it, no excuses. I would push myself to the extent of my limits, as I knew I was capable of doing. I would show myself no mercy. A year of that and there would be no stopping me. Internally I resolved to return to Bolton in 2014 and win it.

Those thoughts were still going through my mind as I checked into the medical tent, post-race. The doctor winced as he examined my eye. By that point yellow pus oozed from one corner and ran down my cheek.

‘You’re going to need to go to hospital,’ he said. ‘You’ve been stung on the eyeball and the stinger has remained in your iris.’ He pulled it out gingerly with a pair of tweezers. ‘If you don’t get that sorted it could get infected.’

My first night as an Ironman was spent at the Manchester Royal Infirmary, with an antiseptic dressing covering one side of my face. I reflected on the race. It had not been that hard, physically. What was all the fuss about? Without the eye problems, who knows what I could have done? There was no question I could run and cycle considerably faster. My swimming needed further work. I laid there alone, looked up at the ceiling and made plans. Oh, such plans.