Rubber

First thing Saturday morning, I turn up at The Wetsuit Centre. It's a warehouse full of wetsuits.  It sells the wetsuits.  It sells very little beside wetsuits.  The staff there are hugely experienced in wetsuits.

"What can I do for you?," says the guy behind the counter.

My cerebellum fuses slightly at the question.  Surely - surely - I cannot say "I want to buy a wetsuit".  If I am not there to buy a wetsuit, or he to sell me a wetsuit, clearly one or both of us is in the wrong place.  My mouth hangs open for a second, unsure of quite what to say.

"I want to buy a wetsuit," I say.

The chap doesn't even blink.  What a fucking champion.

Fast forward, 10 minutes later, to a changing room.  Ella has come along with me, because my mother always told me never to buy a wetsuit without a 6 year old in tow. They're useful for their straight talk.

"Dad, you look really fat," she says, as she slaps my rubberised stomach. It doesn't even need saying.  There are many many garments I shouldn't wear, but skin-tight neoprene is right there near the top, especially after the excesses of April and May - holidays, parties, business trips - have taken their toll on my figure.  I pull at the material around my sizeable midriff, and it causes a puff of air to ripple up the chest and fart out the neck.  Ella is delighted.  We'll take it.

Fast forward, a day later, to the beach.  I can put this off no longer.  If I am to compete in the triathlon, I have to face the prospect of an open water swim.  I can't remember the last time that I actually swam in the sea - perhaps as a child.

It takes a good 10 minutes to actually get the wetsuit zipped up.  It really is pretty snug - if not indecent, at least indignant.  Luckily, I've chosen the seclusion of the western end of Hengistbury Head beach, where there are few passers-by to witness my indignity.  After a bit of wriggling and shoulder dislocating, the zip pulls into place.  Goggles on, I wade into the water, pleasantly surprised by the insulation provided by the wetsuit.  I walk in until the water is up to my chest, and then lower myself, bobbing up and down on the swell, which is not insignificant.

Frankly, I'm nervous. Any time I can't immediately touch the bottom I have a minor panic. After a couple of minutes, I stick my face in the water, and I'm greeted with an olive green wall of water.  Visibility is perhaps a metre.  The brine is as disgusting as I remember it.  I start gently breaststroking towards the groyne, which feels utterly futile - whatever motion I can muster is insignificant to the tidal forces that are pushing and pulling, rising and falling.  This isn't much fun.  I change to a front crawl, and it's better, but in my nervousness I'm breathing quicker than normal, and it's hard to establish a real rhythm.  It doesn't help that each passing wave drops me and smashes my face into the water whether I like it or not.

After a few minutes of backwards and forwards between groynes, I'm still alive and decide I shouldn't push my luck, so I head back to the safety of the beach, satisfied with my orientation session.  But clarity comes to me that, really, this is my challenge.  Until now, I've considered the swim a bit that I'll simply tolerate, something to get out the way so I can crack on with the fight for time on the bike and the run.  Based on this, swimming 750m in the sea is going to be an achievement in itself.