Blenheim Triathlon – Sunday 22nd May 2005
My first ever triathlon had a little something for everyone. Cold, rain, cowpats, hairy feet, vomit and a fair degree of controversy. I was entered in the super sprint category which was a 400m swim, 10km bike and 2.5km run – roughly a quarter of what I would be facing in August at the London Triathlon.
I left for Paddington Station at 8am on Sunday morning enjoying a gentle 8 mile ride to catch the train to Oxford. My trusty lilac Claud Butler training bike (dubbed Cynthia) was my steed for the day as my money pit Pinarello race bike was enjoying a respray, botox, manicure and a variety of other luxuries at my expense in a secret south London location. I hoped that Cynthia would be the ideal weapon to propel me to triathlon greatness by keeping my sorry hide as far away from last place as possible.
I arrived a full ninety minutes before the start which is just as well as I faced a hefty que leading into the transition area over a half baked bridge running over the top of the bike course.
THE SWIM (400 m)
As swimming was by far my weakest discipline I was somewhat worried about the whole thing. I had only tried out my wetsuit a couple of times before this. On reflection I wasn’t anywhere near as prepared as I should have been for swimming in open water. I had swam a lot in the pool but this was different. I still felt confident mainly because of the buoyancy the suit gives you which makes it virtually impossible to sink.
I and the 200 or so other guys had to walk down a steep incline, through a cowpat field to the swim assembly area. Due to various officials not being in the correct place the start was delayed by about fifteen minutes. By this point the rain was hammering down and the wind blowing a gale. Standing there in the pouring rain I began to question what the whole thing was about.
After a wait we all jumped into the lake and took up our position at the start. Following the advice given to me by my swimming coach, I went towards the back of the field in an attempt to stay out of trouble. The thinking was that the fast guys would be gone in a flash leaving me with lots of space to enjoy the swim. Unfortunately, some of my fellow competitors didn’t share my plan and a whole host of slower swimmers placed themselves much higher up the field. This meant a fairly chaotic start as anyone caught in the way the strongest guys were given a hard lesson in what the event was all about. One chap gave up within the first fifty metres, I can only assume because he was given the pasting of his life by some neoprene clad he-men who swam over the top of him.
I shouldn’t mock because my own efforts were not all that much more successful. The water was so dark I couldn’t see my own hand in the water which made seeing other swimmers rather challenging. Pretty much impossible actually as I proceeded to crash half a dozen times into people in the first few meters. I knew I was going to crash into someone when a hairy foot slapped me right in the face. With each crash came a hefty downing of finest eau d’lake. I would love to tell you that it had a delicate texture similar to some of the finest French red wines, but it didn’t. After swallowing the water I started to lose rhythm as I was struggling to pass slow breaststroke swimmers. I found it impossible to get back into my freestyle rhythm as after every few strokes I was getting a hairy foot in the face and swallowing water.
By about half distance I had managed to get past the slower guys but I was in pretty poor shape myself. My rhythm and coordination had left me and I was treading water, breaststroking and managing a few strokes of freestyle at a time.
One race marshall in a canoe came over to ask me if I was OK. I shouted back that I was and then vomited down my chin into the water in front of me. I can assure you that swimming in you own sick is not a pleasant experience!
Later rather than sooner I managed to finally pull myself out of the water. I was own my own as I ran back to the transition area, the faster guys had left me for dead and several slower swimmers were way behind me.
THE BIKE (10km)
I started the bike leg determined to make up for my bad swim. My lungs were still full of water and trying to swallowing a rather disgusting energy gell didn’t help my nausea. As I started the bike course I realised that there was quite a steep short climb which many people were struggling on. Despite my heavy bike I was enjoying the incline more than most.
The race marshalls seemed to be waving their flags at me all the time to slow down. I was only too happy to oblige as I didn’t particularly want to finish my race by having splattered a wall with my innards. This meant that the bike leg was quite a conservative effort by some standards but I was more than happy to finish the two laps in one piece.
It wasn’t until the second lap until I really started to feel a bit better. My lungs were clearing and I was pounding round the pedals as best I could. All was going well until a middle aged lady on what I would describe as a “granny’s bike” burst past me, ringing her bell as she did so. I’m sure she had a wicker basket strapped to the front of the handlebars. To be fair I was slowing down to enter the transition area for the second time but I must confess to feeling a bit of a burke in all my fancy lycra gear.
THE RUN (2.5km)
My return to the transition area was a fairly comical affair as I struggled to work out where my correct bike rack position was. For a minute I thought someone else had racked their bike in my position and I was just about to throw a McEnroe style hissy fit, when I realised it was I who was completely in the wrong place.
After probably the most farcical bike/run transition in the history of triathlon, I set of on the run. After looking down at my legs I realised that were still trying to pedal and were doing their best to avoid any sort of running movement. I was pretty tired by this stage and mindful of the fact that I had a eight mile bike ride back to Oxford and then another eight miles from Paddington to home, ahead of me. “Oh well it’s only 2.5km” I thought.
All of a sudden I crossed the finish line and it was all over. The rather annoying announcer who was calling out everyone’s name as they crossed the line didn’t seem too interested in me. I was rapped in my foil poncho, given a medal and sent on my merry way.
It was only about half an hour later that I realised in my haste I had managed to miss out about 60% of the run course by taking a wrong turn and heading for the finish line. The result was a “partial disqualification” for the run leg.
Initially I was furious with myself for such an elementary error as not researching the course correctly. After time I feel better about it in that I achieved what I wanted from the race and the final result was not important. I had learned a lot of lessons (most of them hard lessons) which would prepare me well for my main objective – the London Triathlon on August 7th.