Happy Race Day!
A large bowl of porridge, cup of tea and a banana later, the equipment goes in the car and I make the short drive to the pier through deserted streets. When I arrive at 5:45, transition is filling up. I find my slot, handily located next to a plant holder, making it pretty easy to locate during the race.
"You got enough space?" says the man next to me, in a broad Brummie accent. He's in his sixties, one of those sickeningly fit types, a little reminiscent of Charles Dance. He has a Cervelo. Clearly this is not his first time. We get chatting, his name is Rob, and he's wonderfully amiable. He shares tips on swimming, tells me about his triathlon mishaps, and promises me I'll love it.
"Don't take it up as a hobby though. You'll become like me. You'll be out training 6 days a week. You won't have a social life. You won't have any friends, or at least the friends you do have will spend all their time talking about bloody triathlon and nutrition and training".
He points out Gary, a couple of spaces down, also doing his first triathlon. Gary looks just as lost and nervous as I probably do. "What time are you aiming for?" I ask. "I just want to get through the swim," he replies. Snap. He's got the same bottom-of-the-range wetsuit as me, with numerous small tears demonstrating the fragility of the material. Athlete #241 joins the conversation, also a first timer, also a swim-dreader. Rob holds court with the three of us, like a dad with his kids.
Rob (in blue), Gary (L), #241 (R)
I get my number written on my arm and leg in black marker - presumably easier than dental records for identification - and then get the wetsuit on. Rob helps zip it up. He pats my belly and says "you wanna lose a couple of pounds", before breaking into a giant laugh and grabbing me round the shoulders. He's not wrong. I am painfully cognisant of wearing such items in public.
Conditions are pretty much perfect. It's warm but overcast, and there is hardly a ripple on the sea, certainly much better than I've been "training" in. Heading down to the beach for the start, I see Emma and the kids, who are bearing a large banner with "Go Daddy Piper!" writ large. They jump up and down waving it excitedly. We chat for a few minutes - Ella tells me she's unable to open her eyes because she's so sleepy; Alex is largely excited about getting to eat cereal in the car on the way - and then I take the opportunity to have a quick dip in the water, which is enjoyably warm. A quick briefing and register later, and we're lined up at the water's edge ready to go. This is it.
The whistle blasts, and everyone runs into the surf. I deliberately hang back a little, and by the time I'm swimming I'm already near the back of the pack. My breathing is quick, and it's difficult to find a good rhythm. At the first buoy, I'm probably 7 or 8 from the back. One guy is breaststroking. Another is doing front crawl but keeping his head above water, much like schoolboys do. Either way, they're still going just as fast as me. We cluster together as the back markers, occasionally bashing arms and legs as we weave around. Generally everything is non-eventful, but enjoyable it is not. I may have mentioned before: I really don't like swimming. As the course heads back towards the shore, I measure my progress against the pier to my left. By all appearances, I'm going nowhere. Maybe even backwards. It's a huge relief when I get to shallow waters where I can stand and run out the sea. I'm not last, but not terribly far off.
"14 minutes!" shouts Emma as I pass. It's a major surprise, one which makes me sure the swim course must have been significantly shorter than the advertised 750m. Not that I'm complaining. Meanwhile, the kids are still bouncing wildly with the banner and chanting as I run past.
Transition goes largely to plan. I'm a little surprised by how relaxed others around me seem, and it helps me relax too. The wetsuit comes off pretty easily, except for a stuck heel, I throw on my cycle top, pull on socks (handily ready rolled so no problems getting them on wet feet) and shoes, chuck on the helmet, and out I go.
Looking happy, feeling sick
I'm not prepared for how bad I feel coming out the swim. I feel dizzy and nauseous. My thighs and calves hurt. One competitor ahead of me stops and tells a marshal that he's been sick and can't continue. It's not surprising. At the top of the slope up to the road, I'm glad to mount the bike, but seem to lack any power in my legs. Seeing as I'm now heading towards the foot of the hill on Priory Road, this is not good.
I find a low gear as I pass the BIC, and at the roundabout catch a competitor ahead of me. At the steep part of the hill, I stand on the pedals to try and get some momentum going, but it's painful. Halfway up the hill, another competitor is walking up with his bike. He stops, bends over and rests his forehead on the saddle. "Ok?" I pant as I pass. "I'm going to be sick," he says. I wish I hadn't asked. As much as I'd love to stop and help mop it up, I'm on a mission, but his words are enough to return my thoughts to my own feelings of nausea. At the top of the hill, I can barely get my legs going. I want to take a drink, but I'm worried about it just coming back up again. On the Wessex Way, I realise that my race number belt is tight around my stomach, which isn't helping. I push it down to my hips, and also realise that I haven't even turned on, let alone started, my Garmin. Sod it.
Six or seven minutes into the ride, I start to feel normal again, albeit still lacking a bit in power. I manage a nibble of a pineapple and ginger energy bar - as ever, a gooey mess that's almost impossible to eat while breathing hard - and a swig of energy drink. I'm a little confused to have not seen the leaders heading back on the other side of the road. I start wondering if there's been a bit of a problem, or maybe the marshals accidentally sending everyone on the longer standard course, but as I head over the Cooperdean flyover I catch sight of others, which gives me some satisfaction that I'm not *that* far behind. I catch and overtake a couple of others before turning off at Blackwater and rejoining the carriageway for the return. Ahead of me is a line of 6 or so riders. I'd like to catch them, but while I can make up ground, I can only find the speed to overtake one.
Going under the Richmond Hill roundabout, I take another swig of drink, but fumble it whilst trying to get it back in the bottle holder, and it drops to the ground and rolls off. I swear loudly, but I'm not going to stop and get it, so plough on regardless. It pays off, as I catch up with another couple of riders on the hill. That's it until I get back to transition. The bike leg has taken around 40 minutes - on track, but disappointed not to be a little bit faster.
I now have only one overriding feeling - I really, *really* need a wee. I don't think I can run with this full bladder. For now though, I have no option, so it's trainers on and off I go. A few seconds in to the run I spot a sign for toilets. I make the decision that the time spent weeing is surely nothing compared to how much I'll be slowed down if I don't go. I veer to the left, only to find the door still locked at this early hour. I'm gutted. I push on, until 400 metres later, when another set of toilets, a strange temporary portakabin, appears. I try the door, it opens, and I spy a toilet.
I run in, and the door swings shut behind me. There are no lights. Or windows. It is pitch black. With no time to find a light switch, I just have to aim into the darkness. With just a little scanning, I find the water. Blessed, sweet relief! Thirty seconds later (ok, I admit, I didn't wash my hands), I'm back out and running again. This is such a good feeling, I'm on something of a high for the rest of the run. I catch two or three runners ahead of me before I get to Boscombe Pier, throw a cup of water over my head, and turn around back towards Bournemouth. I'm feeling great - my pace is pretty quick, my legs are loose, and my breathing is controlled. I chase another runner up ahead, until he stops and I realise he's actually just a random jogger. Halfway back, I see #241 coming the other way. He looks knackered, but breaks out into a big grin as he recognises me, and holds up his hand for a high five.
I up the pace for the last kilometre as the pier draws closer. I spy the finish line up ahead, and as I get there, I notice a small crowd behind barriers to the left of the finish line. I scan for Emma and the kids, until I look right and notice they're on the other side of the road, no barrier in front of them, and yet again jumping and chanting wildly with their sign. I can't resist - I run over, beckon to Ella to grab my hand, and drag her and Alex, still carrying the banner, towards the line. The rest of the crowd breaks out into a cheer, and we cross the line.
The finish area is small, and a chap thrusts a medal and a bottle of water into my hand. He mentions something about looking at a screen for my time, but my head is spinning and I don't quite understand. The kids are chattering at me, while a photographer gathers us together for a snap.
Total time : 1:24.57. It's an amazing time, 10-15 minutes quicker than expected, but almost certainly helped by a very short swim - by my reckoning, at least 100m short, maybe even 200m. A quick measure on Google also suggests that the run is around 400m short of 5k.
Back in transition, I see Rob and Gary. Rob finished near the top, in 1:16. Gary was one minute and one place ahead of me. We congratulate each other and head our separate ways. It's all over, and it's barely 8am. A good (second) breakfast awaits.
Post mortem coming later - watch this space.
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