I’ve a very confused and contradictory relationship with my homeland these days. Since leaving NI seven years ago I’ve always felt most homesick on and around 12th July. I miss the sound of flutes and drums in the evening, bonfire hopping around Belfast and Newtownabbey on the 11th night, counting the English and Scottish bands and the lodges from across the Commonwealth, and the sheer anthropological spectacle of the parades.
I’d vaguely planned to go home for the Twelfth this year; I haven’t stood in the traditional family spot at the top of Balmoral Avenue for several walks, and I wanted to show Andrea Ulster’s answer to Notting Hill. But instead I came to work in Singapore for a few months. I’m still proud enough, and have enough other t-shirts in the wash basket, to have worn my ‘Gerry Armstrong’ 82 World Cup retro shirt to Starbuck’s for my Saturday morning newspaper and coffee today. Yet it’s brilliant being in deepest Asia where a considerable number of people, even well-travelled and well-educated people, haven’t heard of Belfast, Northern Ireland, George Best, the IRA or Orangemen. They ask me if I’m English and I mostly answer yes. I do live there, afterall, and I assume they’re using it as shorthand for British.
Anyway, something else happens at this time of year, which July-by-July chips away at me and my perception of where I come from - Glentoran’s participation in European football. It sounds stupid, but it’s always obsessed me. I’ve travelled to see them lose in Israel, Denmark, Finland, Sweden, Norway twice and the Republic of Ireland. Annually I can’t wait to find out our opposition and analyse the competition format and UEFA co-efficients for weeks beforehand. I draw up, revise and re-do lists of my preferred destinations, partly on criteria of adventure and partly on winnability. But we never do win, or rather, when we did win once in my era – against Allianssi of Helsinki in 2004 – I wasn’t there.
As with all Irish League clubs we lose, often heavily (embarrassingly so), because we’ve given up. We’ve got a huge inferiority complex. Our manager and players give the same interviews every summer – I came to Glentoran to be involved in European matches, we want to give a good account of ourselves, this club has got a great European tradition, we’re not just representing Glentoran but the Irish League, we’ll give it our best shot – but our results get consistently worse. This year will see one of the biggest massacres, possibly on a par with losing to Ajax 14-1 on aggregate in the 70s. We’re up against Maccabi Haifa, a team that beat Man Utd 3-0 in the Champions League group stages a few years ago. They’ll destroy us, completely and utterly. To rub in our capitulation over the last decade, they only beat us 3-1 on aggregate in the Cup Winners Cup in 1998. Three goals in 180 minutes; this time I suspect we’re liable to conceded three goals in each half of each game.
Now I’m all for the romance of the plucky underdog. But the adjective is the operative word, not the noun. I want to see us fight. I want to see us start pre-season training early enough to be match fit, to ban our players from missing the games due to beach and clubbing holidays in Ibiza, to prepare with more than knockabouts against Nortel and Sirocco Works, to outlaw the legendary piss-up that our players embark on after an away game, even after losing heavily and having the reverse fixture less than a week away. I want us to stop believing that just because they’re foreign they must be better. I want to see the Board and management put more emphasis on the Champions League than the Co. Antrim Shield. We won’t win the former and sometimes win the latter, but that’s not the point.
I want to see our supporters demand more. But they don’t. If anything, the surrender culture, the rotting decay in our game relative to the progress of other countries, stems from the supporters. They talk about “full-time” opposition as if that puts their players on a different stratosphere, rather than being poorly paid lads stuck at clubs on the fringes of the Baltic or somewhere near the Arctic Circle who train for eight hours a week compared to our players’ four. And besides, who said our players can only train twice a week?
I want to see foreign journalists stop writing articles about how we’re a team of car mechanics and factory workers and how our top striker smokes 40 a day. I want us to start showing a little self respect. Unfortunately, it’s not going to happen, and that eats away at me because Glentoran runs through my core and yet so does a need to achieve as much as I can, to fight against my limitations, and to make some kind of small impact in life. The two feelings just aren’t compatible – how can I support a club with such limited ambition, when even our supporters – and sports fans are normally bigheads and fantasists – couldn’t care less as long as we beat Linfield in a scrappy derby, in a crap stadium, every now and then?
Macabbi Haifa v Glentoran; UEFA Champions League Preliminary Round 2, first leg; Wednesday 15th July.
Saturday 11 July 2009
Saturday 13 June 2009
Ironman Brazil 2009
Tuesday 26th May
The journey to Florianopolis started early. My employer threw a spanner in my race plans by sending me to Singapore for the three weeks prior to the race. A brilliant opportunity but awful timing. It was too early to taper and I missed a few key sessions planned in the UK, including my third 100-mile ride. There was nothing else for it – I packed my bike, as well as swimming and running gear, and headed to Asia from early May. The welcoming and very dedicated Singapore Joyriders ensured I got in a couple of hundred extra road miles around the island, mostly between 5-7am before either the sun or traffic got too aggressive. And I sacrificed Saturday morning swims in Heron Lake for endless laps of a neighbourhood 50m pool. With a handful of runs backing up my solid 3:35 at the Belfast Marathon earlier in the month I was tired through travel and hard work, but ready to go.
Singapore to London.
Wednesday 27th May
Arrived home in Oxford feeling reasonably fresh after a night in BA business class. The morning was spent paying bills and catching up with other admin and a few loads of washing. I’d hoped to make it to the gym for a gentle spin and swim but time beat me and I’d to settle for a race haircut in the Covered Market, visit to Beeline for some gels and bars, followed by a massage with Phil. As usual, Phil was full of calming advice and motivating stories from Oxford Tri members’ exploits at Ironman Lanzarote the weekend before. Foregoing the Champions League final to ensure a peaceful reunion with my girlfriend, Andrea and I ate in Pizza Express, full of anticipation of what was ahead. Neither of us had been to South America, nor had we spent so long away together. If we’d known that pizza and calzone is the staple diet of Santa Catarinia maybe we’d have gone to Zizzi or News Cafe instead
The journey to Florianopolis started early. My employer threw a spanner in my race plans by sending me to Singapore for the three weeks prior to the race. A brilliant opportunity but awful timing. It was too early to taper and I missed a few key sessions planned in the UK, including my third 100-mile ride. There was nothing else for it – I packed my bike, as well as swimming and running gear, and headed to Asia from early May. The welcoming and very dedicated Singapore Joyriders ensured I got in a couple of hundred extra road miles around the island, mostly between 5-7am before either the sun or traffic got too aggressive. And I sacrificed Saturday morning swims in Heron Lake for endless laps of a neighbourhood 50m pool. With a handful of runs backing up my solid 3:35 at the Belfast Marathon earlier in the month I was tired through travel and hard work, but ready to go.
Singapore to London.
Wednesday 27th May
Arrived home in Oxford feeling reasonably fresh after a night in BA business class. The morning was spent paying bills and catching up with other admin and a few loads of washing. I’d hoped to make it to the gym for a gentle spin and swim but time beat me and I’d to settle for a race haircut in the Covered Market, visit to Beeline for some gels and bars, followed by a massage with Phil. As usual, Phil was full of calming advice and motivating stories from Oxford Tri members’ exploits at Ironman Lanzarote the weekend before. Foregoing the Champions League final to ensure a peaceful reunion with my girlfriend, Andrea and I ate in Pizza Express, full of anticipation of what was ahead. Neither of us had been to South America, nor had we spent so long away together. If we’d known that pizza and calzone is the staple diet of Santa Catarinia maybe we’d have gone to Zizzi or News Cafe instead
Thursday 28th May
London to Rio.
Andrea and I met Dave and Tors in Terminal 5 and I showed off my newly waxed legs. The girls were definitely more jealous than Dave, who was exuding a quiet confidence about the race. I realised I’d forgotten my Ulster flag shortly before boarding. Thankfully Glorious Britain was on hand to sell me a large Union Flag. A proper finish chute celebration was in the planning – Dave was considering a Brazilian-style pointing to the heavens in tribute to his recently deceased cat.
The flight was ok apart from the alcoholic Italian in the aisle seat and an entertainment system that didn’t work. I compensated by catching up on some sleep, although twisting to put my head in Andrea’s lap gave me a worryingly sore left hip flexor for the next couple of days. Lesson learned – I’m stuck with economy class for several more pay rises but don’t risk anything before a race by contorting myself into strange sitting/lying positions during a long haul flight.
Saw Gareth and met Sarah, his girlfriend, when leaving the plane. Gaz in Ironman Florida polo shirt, Dave and I with Ironman Switzerland 70.3 rucksacks. It was fairly obvious where we were headed. They’d had a similar journey from Hong Kong with a single night in the UK. The advertising on the website was true and the hotel really was upstairs in the airport and so the six of us were off the flight and checked into our rooms within half an hour.
London to Rio.
Andrea and I met Dave and Tors in Terminal 5 and I showed off my newly waxed legs. The girls were definitely more jealous than Dave, who was exuding a quiet confidence about the race. I realised I’d forgotten my Ulster flag shortly before boarding. Thankfully Glorious Britain was on hand to sell me a large Union Flag. A proper finish chute celebration was in the planning – Dave was considering a Brazilian-style pointing to the heavens in tribute to his recently deceased cat.
The flight was ok apart from the alcoholic Italian in the aisle seat and an entertainment system that didn’t work. I compensated by catching up on some sleep, although twisting to put my head in Andrea’s lap gave me a worryingly sore left hip flexor for the next couple of days. Lesson learned – I’m stuck with economy class for several more pay rises but don’t risk anything before a race by contorting myself into strange sitting/lying positions during a long haul flight.
Saw Gareth and met Sarah, his girlfriend, when leaving the plane. Gaz in Ironman Florida polo shirt, Dave and I with Ironman Switzerland 70.3 rucksacks. It was fairly obvious where we were headed. They’d had a similar journey from Hong Kong with a single night in the UK. The advertising on the website was true and the hotel really was upstairs in the airport and so the six of us were off the flight and checked into our rooms within half an hour.
Friday 29th May
Rio to Florianopolis.
Walked downstairs with our suitcases and bike bags to check in early for the Gol flight down the coast to Florianopolis. It’s a cheap airline and we’d made an amateur mistake in simply assuming there’d be no problem with bringing sports equipment. In the end there wasn’t, minus the R$100 charge, but we were lucky the hordes of American athletes were on other flights.
We were at our resort apartment in Canasvierias by lunchtime and celebrated by taking a stroll along the beach and finding an outdoor restaurant for burger and chips. While staring out to sea we saw a few individuals in wetsuits trying out the water. More and more we started spotting tanned and lycra clad guys pedalling the streets on top-end tri bikes. After lunch we built our bikes, both with no problems or damage in transit – phew – and in early evening we took a taxi to race HQ in Jurere. Well, we took a taxi to near race HQ but as it was soon time for registration to close and everyone was feeling hungry again we diverted to go for dinner…pizza. Second amateur mistake. Lesson learned – register as early as possible.
Saturday 30th May
We were discovering that our apartment was great but slightly isolated from the Ironman expo. After a couple of dodgy experiences with unofficial taxis the day before, Dave and I decided to brave the local bus system to go to register and spend plenty of money on stylish Ironman Brazil stash. Three buses, two terminals and only one fare later we made it. We both bought IMB bike jerseys and a few other bits and pieces. I did my piece to camera for my personalised IMB DVD – naturally forgetting everything I’d planned to say and instead rambling on about how rubbish the weather was – and we sauntered over to the registration tent at 11:30am. Only to find everything packed up and just a handful of staff remaining. It had closed at 11am and we’d missed registration. This was our third overseas trip for middle or long distance races and we’d got complacent. Lesson learned – don’t be slack with pre-race routine. Anyway, apologies and a little pleading later and the race staff sorted us out with wristband, race programme, race numbers, stickers, timing chips, health declarations and freebies. Ten minutes later we bumped into Gareth and Anthony in the expo tent and told them what happened. They stared back blankly – they hadn’t registered either. I jogged with them to the registration tent but by this time it was completely empty. I last saw them disappear into the main building, reaching for their wallets and ready to bribe someone. Next time we spotted each other was on the beach the following morning, two minutes before the hooter, and it was a relief.
Back to the apartment to pack swim, T1 and T2 bags and take the bikes out for a final spin to double check everything worked. I followed this up with a 10 minute run. The main drag in Jurere had been packed with runners, some of them really hammering it, other just showing off their gear from other Ironmans and their race-ready bodies. I just wanted to burn off some nervous energy and remind myself I could still run. That came in useful eight miles into the marathon the next day.
After that we packed the bikes and kit into our newly acquired ‘hire car’ (owned by the receptionist’s mate who gave us a verbal rental agreement – “one dent ok, but two and there will be big problem”) and drove over to check them in. The race organisation was fantastic. Every team we encountered over the next 24 hours, whether bike and helmet checkers, the people that showed you to your bike station in T1, the guys in the changing tent, even the body painters, had designated English speakers, easily identifiable with Union Jack’s on their t-shirts. They were also friendly and full of encouragement. The atmosphere was really building now, the music was blaring out of the speakers all over race HQ, and I walked around T1 a few times to memorise the location of my bike.
We arrived back at the apartment earlier than expected and Andrea and Tors made a perfect simple pasta dinner and then we all had an early night.
Rio to Florianopolis.
Walked downstairs with our suitcases and bike bags to check in early for the Gol flight down the coast to Florianopolis. It’s a cheap airline and we’d made an amateur mistake in simply assuming there’d be no problem with bringing sports equipment. In the end there wasn’t, minus the R$100 charge, but we were lucky the hordes of American athletes were on other flights.
We were at our resort apartment in Canasvierias by lunchtime and celebrated by taking a stroll along the beach and finding an outdoor restaurant for burger and chips. While staring out to sea we saw a few individuals in wetsuits trying out the water. More and more we started spotting tanned and lycra clad guys pedalling the streets on top-end tri bikes. After lunch we built our bikes, both with no problems or damage in transit – phew – and in early evening we took a taxi to race HQ in Jurere. Well, we took a taxi to near race HQ but as it was soon time for registration to close and everyone was feeling hungry again we diverted to go for dinner…pizza. Second amateur mistake. Lesson learned – register as early as possible.
Saturday 30th May
We were discovering that our apartment was great but slightly isolated from the Ironman expo. After a couple of dodgy experiences with unofficial taxis the day before, Dave and I decided to brave the local bus system to go to register and spend plenty of money on stylish Ironman Brazil stash. Three buses, two terminals and only one fare later we made it. We both bought IMB bike jerseys and a few other bits and pieces. I did my piece to camera for my personalised IMB DVD – naturally forgetting everything I’d planned to say and instead rambling on about how rubbish the weather was – and we sauntered over to the registration tent at 11:30am. Only to find everything packed up and just a handful of staff remaining. It had closed at 11am and we’d missed registration. This was our third overseas trip for middle or long distance races and we’d got complacent. Lesson learned – don’t be slack with pre-race routine. Anyway, apologies and a little pleading later and the race staff sorted us out with wristband, race programme, race numbers, stickers, timing chips, health declarations and freebies. Ten minutes later we bumped into Gareth and Anthony in the expo tent and told them what happened. They stared back blankly – they hadn’t registered either. I jogged with them to the registration tent but by this time it was completely empty. I last saw them disappear into the main building, reaching for their wallets and ready to bribe someone. Next time we spotted each other was on the beach the following morning, two minutes before the hooter, and it was a relief.
Back to the apartment to pack swim, T1 and T2 bags and take the bikes out for a final spin to double check everything worked. I followed this up with a 10 minute run. The main drag in Jurere had been packed with runners, some of them really hammering it, other just showing off their gear from other Ironmans and their race-ready bodies. I just wanted to burn off some nervous energy and remind myself I could still run. That came in useful eight miles into the marathon the next day.
After that we packed the bikes and kit into our newly acquired ‘hire car’ (owned by the receptionist’s mate who gave us a verbal rental agreement – “one dent ok, but two and there will be big problem”) and drove over to check them in. The race organisation was fantastic. Every team we encountered over the next 24 hours, whether bike and helmet checkers, the people that showed you to your bike station in T1, the guys in the changing tent, even the body painters, had designated English speakers, easily identifiable with Union Jack’s on their t-shirts. They were also friendly and full of encouragement. The atmosphere was really building now, the music was blaring out of the speakers all over race HQ, and I walked around T1 a few times to memorise the location of my bike.
We arrived back at the apartment earlier than expected and Andrea and Tors made a perfect simple pasta dinner and then we all had an early night.
Sunday 31st May
I slept really well – I’d settle for an uninterrupted six hours every time before a big race – and the alarm woke me at 4:11am. Cornflakes, yoghurt, banana, orange juice and a shower. The previous day Dave and I had arranged for a taxi to collect us outside the resort gates at 5am, leaving the hire car for the girls to follow us down at a more sociable hour. We arrived there, Dave already in his wetsuit up to his waist, and a car boot party from the previous night was still in full swing in the village 100 yards along the road. But no taxi. We gave it ten minutes before accepting the driver was still in bed and Dave walked back to the apartment to wake Tors and ask nicely for a lift. Next thing I knew I heard a horn and saw someone frantically waving out of the back of a small car. Dave had bumped into Alexandro, an Argentinean athlete who we’d spoken to in the resort the previous day, and he and his wife offered us a lift. There was plenty of chat for the first five minutes of the journey before we all went quiet, obviously thinking about the day ahead, especially as the car struggled in second gear up the hills we’d face later on the first lap of the run course. I remember saying something to Dave about how for months beforehand we live off the anticipation of Ironman with all our friends knowing about it and forever asking how we’re getting on, and now, unfortunately, the day had come to actually have to do the 2.4, 112 and 26.2 miles.
The hour before the race was the usual blur. I inflated my tyres, attached saddle bag, bento box and pump to my bike, rechecked my T1 and T2 bags were still on their hooks, did some stretches, had a small snack and eventually slapped on some baby oil and slipped into my wetsuit. I also had a quick chat to the American athlete beside me for whom this was his 19th Ironman. Dave and I then took the 10 minute walk down to the beach and had a quick dip to test out the ocean before walking up the beach to the start line. We’d cut things fine and there were less than five minutes to the start, which turned out great as we’d no time to think. I saw a girl bawling her eyes out. Her face was red and she looked distraught. I gave her the thumbs up and a smile and really hope she started, and finished, the race.
Then we were off. The beach start wasn’t as crazy as I’d expected but once everyone dived the water was very busy for the first 10 minutes with the usual tugging, zigzagging, over and undertaking, elbowing and attempted drowning. I wasn’t enjoying the swell – it felt much larger than it had looked from the beach and I couldn’t sight the buoys ahead because of oncoming waves. I ended up having to follow the white swim caps ahead of me for the next 2.4 miles, which probably meant my course was inefficient but it was the same for everyone. We came out onto the beach after the first lap. Running along the beach in a corridor formed by the crowd was great and I checked my watch – 00:38 – surprisingly on target considering the first lap was 2,100m. The second lap definitely felt shorter, also helped by there being a lot more clear water. I’d someone on my feet for half of it but didn’t manage to get pulled along myself. I exited in 1:10, ran up the beach and was delighted to see teams of people to help us out of our wetsuits. Then through the crowds again to the changing tent.
I’d a good T1, much quicker than Ironman UK last year, mostly due to planning. I got a big cheer from Andrea and Tors a couple of hundred yards into the bike and off I went. 112 miles. My bike is definitely my weakest discipline and I was prepared to lose places to the weak swimmers but strong cyclists over the next 30 or 40 miles. That happened but I was ready for it and enjoying the ride. I also knew from my swim time that it was unlikely that Dave was ahead of me and got more and more pleased when every rider that passed turned out not to be him. I knew that as long as I stayed in the lead on the bike until at least 50-60 miles then my stronger run would still make me favourite. We hadn’t talked about it much in the few days beforehand, but our rivalry is a big driver for both of us and I knew Dave wanted to avenge defeat at IMUK last year. Anyway, the sun was shining, which was a very pleasant surprise as the day before had been horrible and the forecasters had predicted showers throughout the morning of race day. On the whole the roads were good, especially as we were on the main dual carriageway into the city and then the main A-road along the coastal front, but I still kept my eyes peeled for the occasional pothole. Aid stations were so regular that after a while I ditched my two bottle strategy to save weight and stuck with one. Worst thing that could happen would be losing a bottle and having to wait only another 8 miles for a drink. Unfortunately, no gels or bars were being handed out on the bike and half-bananas were the only solids on offer. I’d a couple of those, two gels and a bar that I’d brought with me. Along with Gatorade and water I was keeping well fed and hydrated, even as midday temperatures were starting to pick up to around 20 degrees.
Halfway into the first of two laps I saw Dave at a turn point about three or four minutes down on me. I started to hurt over the next 20 miles. Nothing major, just the usual dull ache in legs, back, arms, shoulders and, mostly worryingly, brain. It was far too early to be hurting and I was finding myself out of the saddle too often. Got to the turn point with Dave still a few minutes behind me. It was great to get back to the crowds, hear the music and MC and see Andrea and Tors by the roadside. I shouted to them to look out for Dave as he was only a few minutes back, did the 180 degree turn and headed out for the second 56 miles. 02:55 so far – bang on target for the 6 hour bike I’d planned.
I continued to hurt. It never got unbearable but I had to put in more and more effort to maintain the same speed. I was trying to be as efficient as possible and spending at least half the time on my aero bars. A guy went past me on a downhill on the carriageway with http://www.triuk.com/ on the back of his trisuit. That’s where I’d bought my bike – he was obviously one of only 11 British athletes who’d made the trip. Dave eventually caught me approaching the first of four passages through the tunnel on the second lap and he pulled alongside for a welcome chat. We were both sore and neither had enjoyed mouthfuls of the salt water on the swim. After a motorbike marshal shouted at us for drafting (drafting when riding abreast?) I told Dave to go on. We’d seen a lot of people yellow carded and, as nice as the company was, it wasn’t worth a 5-minute time penalty. I reckon Dave put three minutes into me fairly quickly after that, maybe motivated by finally being in the lead after a combined 19 hours of Ironman racing in Sherborne and Florianopolis (!), but a turn point thirty miles later I was pleased to see he was still only five minutes up. I didn’t enjoy the rest of the bike and just wanted to get finished and onto the run. The last 5k into Jurere was the longest three miles I’ve ever cycled. Saw Andrea and Tors with a mile to go – they were in a great spectating spot and I’d see them there again 15 minutes later a mile into the run. I didn’t really appreciate at the time that they’d been standing there for over six hours, just for two quick glimpses of Dave and I, but we heard all about it over the next few days. A pampering tent in the expo for Ironman girlfriends is definitely needed.
I’d a bit of an emotional wobble on the final mile. It had been the same at IMUK last year. I’ve grown to love the bike, but it’s always the leg I’m most nervous about, and so the relief at finishing it combined with the onset of real emotional tiredness brought a tear to my eye. After manning up I threw my bike to the catcher and was pointed towards the changing tent. Bike in 6:08 – I’d slipped during the second lap and was behind my target time but not too worried.
Changed from my bike jersey into my tri top, socks, running shoes, gel into my back pocket and the first of probably twenty cups of flat Pepsi and off I went on the marathon. The balls of my feet were killing me. I’d had new cleats put on my bike shoes before the race and something about them had bruised me. Thankfully, after hobbling the first few hundred yards the pain went away. Everyone hobbles the first few hundred yards of an Ironman run so I didn’t look more ridiculous than anyone else. It was good to be running. I’ve lots of confidence in my long distance running with six marathons, a few ultra marathons and the Marathon des Sables behind me. I’d also done quite a few running races during March and April in preparation – Reading half marathon, Kingston Breakfast Run 16-miler, Maidenhead Easter Ten and the Belfast marathon. But by this point I was more tired than hoped and I already knew a 3:45 marathon was a very outside bet. Saw Andrea and Tors again in the same spot and turned to run out of town on the first 21k loop. I soon passed Dave. He was walking and not happy. You ok, I asked? Feel sick, he mumbled. I shouted something about drinking plenty of water and moved past him, trying to look strong, and knew I’d really have to blow up for him to catch me again.
I did blow up, but he didn’t catch me. I really went downhill fast over the next six or seven miles. The course was very hilly and we were running in a demoralisingly straight line out of town and away from the finish line. The 20 miles left started to loom and I began to panic. I hadn’t expected to feel this bad so early. I slowed to a walk for a few minutes, angry with myself as I’d ran every step of the IMUK marathon, even through all the aid stations. At this point I was looking down the barrel of a 6 hour marathon and wasn’t happy. I saw Dave again at a turn point and he seemed in much better form. Afterwards he told me he’d been through a good patch, which coincided with my bad patch and he came within a few minutes of catching me. Then I saw Gaz about 5 minutes behind him. Maybe seeing them spurred me on; maybe I just came out of an inevitable slump, but I somehow picked up and ran strongly for the next 18 miles to the finish.
The sun started to go down during my second lap. The run course was boring and very lonely in places, but it was well configured with a 21k loop followed by two 10.5k loops. I was running strongly and keeping a close eye on my stopwatch. With 15 miles to go 11:45 had become my revised target. Andrea ran along with me for a few yards and gave the usual boost, while I could see Tors filming me at the side of the road. I asked how Dave was and they told me he’d thrown up but was still moving. The end and start of each lap were great as they passed by the finish chute and the crowds and atmosphere were brilliant. I was getting good support from American spectators who recognised me as American or British, either from the name on my race number or else my relatively pasty complexion.
Starting the final lap I passed a, ahem, very fit looking female American who was running beautifully and I told her to stay on my shoulder at 6 minute kilometres and we’d break 11:45. How fast do we need to go?, she asked. 6 minute ks. F**k that, she answered, and away I went. It felt like I was blasting along at this stage. I was passing loads of people and feeling pumped up at being within an hour of the finish. But I know from my splits that I was looking only mildly less pathetic than everyone else. Saw Anthony with only three miles to go. He was grinding it out on his second lap and shouted something about being very jealous.
For the last ten miles I’d been very ballsy at aid stations, screaming “Pepsi” and “aqua” throughout each one until someone stepped out and handed me what I needed. The quartered oranges were also going down a treat. I reckon I must have eaten about 12 oranges and drank a couple of litres of Pepsi. I went through this routine for the last time at the top of the two-mile straight down through Jurere and to the finish line. I kept checking my watch but was fairly confident of beating 11:45. Once I passed the split point for those athletes finishing a lap and those going to the finish chute I started high fiving the lines of people on each side. I felt incredible. The joy of finishing an Ironman beats just about everything. It’s not only an unbelievable achievement on the day but the end of months of training, constant tiredness and many sacrifices. At the start of the finish chute I saw Andrea and Tors. Both got quick, and probably very sweaty, kisses and Andrea handed me the Union Flag. They were both excited to see me and gave me superb support. I ran the next hundred yards to the line with the flag over my head. There was no-one else finishing in front or behind and the crowds in the bleachers gave me a great reaction. I could see 11:44:57 on the clock as I crossed the line.
Someone came up, put a towel over my shoulders and asked if I wanted something to eat. I said hello to Andrea and posed for a few photos before heading to the tent for pizza, more Pepsi and ice cream. Your body just tells you what it needs. Then I changed into warm clothes and went back out to meet Andrea and Tors and cheer others in. Gaz made it in 12:34, Dave finished in his hoodie in 12:58 (living his sub-13 hour dream) and Anthony in 13:18.
I’d missed my target time but it was hard to care immediately after an Ironman. Two weeks later and I’m still not that bothered, just proud. I know I need to improve my bike. I maybe also didn’t rest enough in the final few weeks, and the travel from Singapore-London-Oxford-London-Rio-Florianopolis in the few days before the race probably didn’t help. But after comparing results from IMUK and IMB in 2008 I still reckon I made a slight improvement, and there’s definitely more to come. Next stop Ironman St. George (Utah) on 1st May 2010…or, if I can swing an extended stay in Singapore, then it’s Ironman Western Australia at the start of December. Bring it on.
I slept really well – I’d settle for an uninterrupted six hours every time before a big race – and the alarm woke me at 4:11am. Cornflakes, yoghurt, banana, orange juice and a shower. The previous day Dave and I had arranged for a taxi to collect us outside the resort gates at 5am, leaving the hire car for the girls to follow us down at a more sociable hour. We arrived there, Dave already in his wetsuit up to his waist, and a car boot party from the previous night was still in full swing in the village 100 yards along the road. But no taxi. We gave it ten minutes before accepting the driver was still in bed and Dave walked back to the apartment to wake Tors and ask nicely for a lift. Next thing I knew I heard a horn and saw someone frantically waving out of the back of a small car. Dave had bumped into Alexandro, an Argentinean athlete who we’d spoken to in the resort the previous day, and he and his wife offered us a lift. There was plenty of chat for the first five minutes of the journey before we all went quiet, obviously thinking about the day ahead, especially as the car struggled in second gear up the hills we’d face later on the first lap of the run course. I remember saying something to Dave about how for months beforehand we live off the anticipation of Ironman with all our friends knowing about it and forever asking how we’re getting on, and now, unfortunately, the day had come to actually have to do the 2.4, 112 and 26.2 miles.
The hour before the race was the usual blur. I inflated my tyres, attached saddle bag, bento box and pump to my bike, rechecked my T1 and T2 bags were still on their hooks, did some stretches, had a small snack and eventually slapped on some baby oil and slipped into my wetsuit. I also had a quick chat to the American athlete beside me for whom this was his 19th Ironman. Dave and I then took the 10 minute walk down to the beach and had a quick dip to test out the ocean before walking up the beach to the start line. We’d cut things fine and there were less than five minutes to the start, which turned out great as we’d no time to think. I saw a girl bawling her eyes out. Her face was red and she looked distraught. I gave her the thumbs up and a smile and really hope she started, and finished, the race.
Then we were off. The beach start wasn’t as crazy as I’d expected but once everyone dived the water was very busy for the first 10 minutes with the usual tugging, zigzagging, over and undertaking, elbowing and attempted drowning. I wasn’t enjoying the swell – it felt much larger than it had looked from the beach and I couldn’t sight the buoys ahead because of oncoming waves. I ended up having to follow the white swim caps ahead of me for the next 2.4 miles, which probably meant my course was inefficient but it was the same for everyone. We came out onto the beach after the first lap. Running along the beach in a corridor formed by the crowd was great and I checked my watch – 00:38 – surprisingly on target considering the first lap was 2,100m. The second lap definitely felt shorter, also helped by there being a lot more clear water. I’d someone on my feet for half of it but didn’t manage to get pulled along myself. I exited in 1:10, ran up the beach and was delighted to see teams of people to help us out of our wetsuits. Then through the crowds again to the changing tent.
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| Starting lap two |
Halfway into the first of two laps I saw Dave at a turn point about three or four minutes down on me. I started to hurt over the next 20 miles. Nothing major, just the usual dull ache in legs, back, arms, shoulders and, mostly worryingly, brain. It was far too early to be hurting and I was finding myself out of the saddle too often. Got to the turn point with Dave still a few minutes behind me. It was great to get back to the crowds, hear the music and MC and see Andrea and Tors by the roadside. I shouted to them to look out for Dave as he was only a few minutes back, did the 180 degree turn and headed out for the second 56 miles. 02:55 so far – bang on target for the 6 hour bike I’d planned.
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| Enjoying the bike |
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| One mile to go...before the marathon |
Changed from my bike jersey into my tri top, socks, running shoes, gel into my back pocket and the first of probably twenty cups of flat Pepsi and off I went on the marathon. The balls of my feet were killing me. I’d had new cleats put on my bike shoes before the race and something about them had bruised me. Thankfully, after hobbling the first few hundred yards the pain went away. Everyone hobbles the first few hundred yards of an Ironman run so I didn’t look more ridiculous than anyone else. It was good to be running. I’ve lots of confidence in my long distance running with six marathons, a few ultra marathons and the Marathon des Sables behind me. I’d also done quite a few running races during March and April in preparation – Reading half marathon, Kingston Breakfast Run 16-miler, Maidenhead Easter Ten and the Belfast marathon. But by this point I was more tired than hoped and I already knew a 3:45 marathon was a very outside bet. Saw Andrea and Tors again in the same spot and turned to run out of town on the first 21k loop. I soon passed Dave. He was walking and not happy. You ok, I asked? Feel sick, he mumbled. I shouted something about drinking plenty of water and moved past him, trying to look strong, and knew I’d really have to blow up for him to catch me again.
I did blow up, but he didn’t catch me. I really went downhill fast over the next six or seven miles. The course was very hilly and we were running in a demoralisingly straight line out of town and away from the finish line. The 20 miles left started to loom and I began to panic. I hadn’t expected to feel this bad so early. I slowed to a walk for a few minutes, angry with myself as I’d ran every step of the IMUK marathon, even through all the aid stations. At this point I was looking down the barrel of a 6 hour marathon and wasn’t happy. I saw Dave again at a turn point and he seemed in much better form. Afterwards he told me he’d been through a good patch, which coincided with my bad patch and he came within a few minutes of catching me. Then I saw Gaz about 5 minutes behind him. Maybe seeing them spurred me on; maybe I just came out of an inevitable slump, but I somehow picked up and ran strongly for the next 18 miles to the finish.
The sun started to go down during my second lap. The run course was boring and very lonely in places, but it was well configured with a 21k loop followed by two 10.5k loops. I was running strongly and keeping a close eye on my stopwatch. With 15 miles to go 11:45 had become my revised target. Andrea ran along with me for a few yards and gave the usual boost, while I could see Tors filming me at the side of the road. I asked how Dave was and they told me he’d thrown up but was still moving. The end and start of each lap were great as they passed by the finish chute and the crowds and atmosphere were brilliant. I was getting good support from American spectators who recognised me as American or British, either from the name on my race number or else my relatively pasty complexion.
Starting the final lap I passed a, ahem, very fit looking female American who was running beautifully and I told her to stay on my shoulder at 6 minute kilometres and we’d break 11:45. How fast do we need to go?, she asked. 6 minute ks. F**k that, she answered, and away I went. It felt like I was blasting along at this stage. I was passing loads of people and feeling pumped up at being within an hour of the finish. But I know from my splits that I was looking only mildly less pathetic than everyone else. Saw Anthony with only three miles to go. He was grinding it out on his second lap and shouted something about being very jealous.
For the last ten miles I’d been very ballsy at aid stations, screaming “Pepsi” and “aqua” throughout each one until someone stepped out and handed me what I needed. The quartered oranges were also going down a treat. I reckon I must have eaten about 12 oranges and drank a couple of litres of Pepsi. I went through this routine for the last time at the top of the two-mile straight down through Jurere and to the finish line. I kept checking my watch but was fairly confident of beating 11:45. Once I passed the split point for those athletes finishing a lap and those going to the finish chute I started high fiving the lines of people on each side. I felt incredible. The joy of finishing an Ironman beats just about everything. It’s not only an unbelievable achievement on the day but the end of months of training, constant tiredness and many sacrifices. At the start of the finish chute I saw Andrea and Tors. Both got quick, and probably very sweaty, kisses and Andrea handed me the Union Flag. They were both excited to see me and gave me superb support. I ran the next hundred yards to the line with the flag over my head. There was no-one else finishing in front or behind and the crowds in the bleachers gave me a great reaction. I could see 11:44:57 on the clock as I crossed the line.
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| What a feeling |
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| With Andrea post-race |
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