The blisters tore open at around 10km, the initial cool wet feeling subsided and was replaced by the sensation of a match being held to the balls of my feet. 30km remaining and the gods weren’t smiling, it was going to be a tough few hours.
The Build
The preparation for Ironman UK (Bolton) had begun months before. A particularly poignant evening fuelled by whisky planted the seed that having completed Ironman Weymouth in 2016 and missed Ironman Wales through a combination of work and illness there was an unfinished chapter. A desire to prove that Weymouth wasn’t a fluke.
Training had been semi structured but with hindsight I know I focused on social riding or convincing myself that an hour of hard Peloton would see me through. I did clock a few longer rides and the odd multi-day mountain bike was justified training in my mind. My running was always poor but making the cut off for T2 means you have plenty of time, anyone can walk a marathon surely!
Lesson #1 — there are no shortcuts.
I attended a training weekend with Performance Tri with around 15 honed athletes who had clearly been putting in the work. Then me….delusions of fitness, I’d done this before. A pool swim showed me up for the fraud that I am, then next day a swim in the murky waters of Pennington Flash resulted in a panic attack after 5 minutes. With 5 weeks to race day it was going to be tough to break through the fear of open water, something I’d always thought I’d conquered.
It had been my first open swim of the year, the pool had been ok and a wetsuit makes it easier. A 1hr27m split at Weymouth gave me false confidence. I may as well have been a different person as the world closed around my chest, breaststroke became desperate and my heart rate soared.
Lesson #2 — Prior results do not dictate present performance.
Five weeks later and multiple panics in open water later I managed to get myself to the point I could swim the distance, assuming it wasn’t too choppy and the gods of sighting didn’t get me swum over.
I’m not an awful biker, but a bacon sandwich and social ride is not the same as a 180km lonely slog, something I should have realised sooner. Again making the assumption that prior feats would carry me through. My longest training run was 17km the rest a mix of Sunday football and 5 a side. Again, hindsight is wonderful but at the time I was convinced it counted as HIIT and we all know that’s the gold standard.
Race Weekend
We arrived on Friday and registered, funnelled through the merchandise and almost inevitably bought the hoodie. The list of names on the back meaning I couldn’t wear it if I DNF’d, something I’ll come back to. After having a sit down (£15 for a mug!!!) we went to scope out T1. Pennington Flash couldn’t be a more northern body of water if it put a whippet down it’s trousers and drank in a working men’s club. Bleak dark water, whipped into white caps by the wind and my fragile confidence was eroding rapidly.
The thought of 1400 people clambering over me on a tiny pontoon entry did not sound like a fun Sunday. For 3 weeks prior I’d spent 10 minutes visualising that entry and every step in an effort to ease the nerves. It worked, it didn’t make the nerves disappear or the fear completely subside, but it gave me a routine to stay away from the pattern of self destructive thoughts.
Lesson #3 — Visualisation works. It feels weird, but even 5 minutes when you get into bed, walk it through. If you start to wonder, restart.
Saturday morning drizzle and handing in race bags only led to more nerves. The planning was done, the bikes racked, in 48 hours it would all be over and I can settle down and do Park Runs like most normal people. The weather forecast looked good, 15 degrees and cloudy, no sunburn, no rain. Perfect. But this is Bolton, weather reports may as well be written by the drunken kraken that lives in the flash.
Race Day
Leg 1–3.8km Swim
The recommendation is you get there early, check your bike and ease into the day without a panic. The reality is the bike will be fine, things don’t break overnight. The only panic is a queue for the portaloo that snakes around the transition area.
Having checked everything and gone to throw the last bag into the pile I went back and put the garmin on the bike….the garmin that was in my pocket in preparation. Again, visualisation is the key here. The nerves started to build and the wet floor as we queued to get into the lake confirmed that everyone else was also weeing in their wetsuits prior to the start.
Lesson #4 — Take flip flops you can throw away just before you get in the water. That’s not rain on the floor.
IMUK is a rolling start so it took around 20 minutes to get to the pontoon, 20 mins of retracing those steps I’d visualised. 20 mins of deep breathing, 20 minutes of nervous chat around me. I’m not one for chat let alone nervous chat.
And in! The first 100m was panic stations, no technique, no gliding through the water, head up, paddle crawl and trying to find space. A few people already hanging onto the kayaks. They looked appealing, everything screamed to get to safety of the boats but I talked myself round, I knew if I stopped that was it, I’d never start. I’d told myself to get the first stretch done, it was like the lake back home, everything settles after 500m or so. Eventually it did settle.
I found a sighting line and ploughed forward, sighting every 5 or 6 strokes or every time someone swam directly across me. I could see the turn buoy for the first leg in the distance and set that as the first minor win.
Lesson #5 — Count the buoys before you start.
I got to the turn buoy and checked my line, either everyone else was wrong or I was only half way up the back straight. I was wrong, time to channel what was left of my adrenaline and get it done. Eventually making the turn and taking it wide to avoid the carnage at the congestion point it was home straight back to start the second loop and swim through the gate. Aside from people stopping to sight and using breast-stroke (be prepared to be kicked in the face if you’re behind that guy) it was ok. Lap 1 in the bag.
Out for lap 2, the wind picked up, a few mouthfuls of water swallowed and a little more chop and miscounting the buoys again but mentally I’d done one lap, one more was possible. Tick them off as they come, little victories. 1hr27 later and stumbling out of the water, swim done.
T1
Grab your bag and head for the nudity tent. If there’s anything more sobering in the morning than a bunch of men, visibly impacted by cold water stripping with gay abandon in a field, I’ve not experienced it. Talcum powder filled socks, bib shorts and a top later I jogged round to the bike, via the portaloo. Irrespective of the logic saying take your time I felt rushed and really need to take a seat. Trying to do that in bib shorts in a portaloo resulted in me looking like an octopus in a lycra bondage party whilst the world and probably a fair volume of the murky water exited at some velocity. I’m quietly proud that from water through changing to redressing after recreating the Somme took me 12 minutes. Onto the bike and out onto the road.
Leg 2–180km Bike
Swim done, relax, breath into it. Or take the advice you heard in the wait to get wet. “Smash the first 10 miles to get your average speed up, then you can afford to lose a couple of kmh on each lap..”
I felt good, I passed people, looking at the splits I matched a friend who managed to bag a Kona spot. For 18km. Then I realised it was stupid and eased back, one lap at a time. The Bolton laps can be broken into 3 sections.
Firstly out of town, some ups and downs but generally good speeds and nice roads, a few slogs but rewards of some lovely downhills.
Second section, up on the top of the hills, grindy. Lap 1, the demons were out for that whole section as my average pace dropped to below 20km/hr. I managed to keep my feeding routine up, a block of Voom and some Precision Hydration drink every 20 mins but I was ready to quit after 30km. Get back to town and see how you are was the general feeling.
Section 3, the wrestlers, the long fast downs and a couple short sharp ups and a much better feeling. Flying into town with the crowds beginning to build felt good. There was no way I could quit in front of a crowd, so one more lap then I could quit.
Lesson #6 — Little victories, take each step at a time.
That all sounds lovely until lap 2 of 3. The wind picked up so the long fast downs became a wrestling match with the handlebars. My triceps started to ache from fighting the crosswinds and my nerves on the tribars stopped me from getting into a rhythm. Section 2 came at me with a vengance, not only a slog, but a slog into crosswinds, more than once resulting in close shaves that another split second would have seen me at one with nature or a dry stone wall.
This time I was ready for the wrestlers, they are incredible, as are all the support. There were families and lone fans out in the most remote sections, just pushing you on. They were there on my first lap, and still there on my last. I made a point of thanking them all when I could, absolutely phenomenal.
Lap 3 is where you start to do maths. Or at least if your close to cut off you do. I’d had a few mechanical stops. Orro I’m looking at you and your ridiculous seat post dropping issue. Paste, sandpaper and nothing works, it drops 3 inches making me look like I’m a clown on a kids bike. Not the right set up as you’re grinding up a hill at mile 100 of a long day. I love my bike, but it very nearly got thrown into the fields as I had to stop for the fourth or fifth time to undo, raise and tighten again, no doubt well past the frame tolerance if my anger channelled into that allen key.
I past a lovely lady called Sue who told me she wasn’t going to make cut off with 20km to go, I told her we had lots of time and we’d get it done. 15km later I was full gas through town as people cheered and I was swearing and cursing in my best Goggins voice, burying my legs to beat cut off. I got waved through, stopped, time checked and told I had 2 mins to get changed and get out on the run. People behind me were getting stopped. There was no way I wasn’t going to earn that hoodie with the names on. There was also no way after 10+ hours of horrendous hard work I was going to give up. My brain wanted to be stopped and would have accepted it. My soul wasn’t having any of it, finish or fall over trying.
Lesson #7 — You’ve always got a little bit more, even if only for a small time. Dig in
Having made the cut off by minutes, I’d buried my legs, this run was not going to be fun.
Swim, bike, run, walk, crawl….whatever it took.
Leg 3–42km
It’s only four 10km sections. You’ve got plenty of time, 6 hours is plenty, just run, walk and keep your salts up so you don’t end up lying in the medical tent like you did at Weymouth…..all good advice. Listened to none of it. I jogged and walked the first section through town, then back into the park, taking doritos and flat coke to get me fed. Then a walk up the hills in the park and a feeling of nausea. More flat coke and crisps didn’t help, so I glugged water. The long out and back seeing runners around you was hard. I started to blister at about 5km, I’d had my shoes loose as my feet have a habit of going numb. It had worked in training on the canal running a flat 10km. It didn’t work on a slightly lumpy Bolton road.
Band envy compounded the problem as I saw people around me with multiple laps done. It was going to be a long night.
Lesson #8 — Band envy is real, race your own race
The blisters tore at 10km, I felt them go. New ones started to form and I resigned myself to walking. Still plenty of time, now was the time to complete not to try and get a time. People around me were run/walking but I found myself catching them as they dropped to a walk, like elastic they’d gap me as they jogged and I’d wind them back in as I walked. Occasionally I’d break into a jog, either buoyed by the raucous crowds at the pub or the local who was helping everyone keep pace at the top end of the straight.
Lesson #9 — Test your gear, in all situations. Blisters are painful.
The one piece of pride I take from that walk was at around 20km the pain was incredible. My feet were on fire and I wanted and did slow down. I had a word with myself along the lines of “It’s blisters, it’s pain now, but nothing is broken, you can box the pain off for a few hours, pick up the pace, it hurts fast or slow but you aren’t stopping”.
Lesson #10 — Nothing hard comes easy.
I dug in. Acknowledging the pain seemed to make it a part of the day, part of the reason to finish. 6 hours later I rounded the corner for the last stretch, one of the last few across the line. Finding the energy to run in, fists pumping and a wash of emotions I wasn’t ready for.
I think my first words as they hung the medal round my neck were “F**k that”. ~1400 registered, ~850 finished.
Turns out I’m an Ironman, nobody can take that off me, it’s mine, I proved it, I am an Ironman. The first wasn’t a fluke. I am sensitive, I do have doubts, I’ve struggled with mental health all my life, but deep down I’ve got a core that will not let me stop. If you’ve read this far and you ever have doubts, I’m there for you and everyone else is too. I’ll never win the race, but I’ll never quit despite what my mind says.
You’re more than your thoughts.
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Fubar@Forty 