Sunday Roast

(with apologies to Kurt Vonnegut)

Winter mornings don't come much finer.  The sun bursts through strings of cirrus clouds, in a blue sky above a land delicately touched by frost. It's the sort of day that screams at you to get out the house and *do* something while it lasts. And so it goes.

Everyone else clearly has the same thoughts: whilst the car deck of the Sandbanks Ferry is barely 1/3 full, the pedestrian areas are packed with runners and cyclists. We're on our way to Rempstone Forest, which fills the short gap between the sandy beaches of Studland to the west, and the rise of the Purbeck Ridge to its east.  As we head off the ferry towards Studland, we pass local running hero Steve Way, who as it turns out, is just finishing the first of two 17.5 mile laps of the Purbecks, taking in all the hills along the way. You know, as you do.

The Rempstone Roast MTB duathlon starts at the Burnbake campsite.  As we head along the road towards Corfe Castle, I realise that I didn't really get a good look at where it is on the map, so I desperately hope that it's signposted.  By the time we near the end of the road, I'm positive that we must have missed it, and turn into a narrow entrance to turn round.  As always happens, my plans are scuppered by another vehicle, a VW van, turning in right behind me. I don't have much choice but to continue, through a gate, pull in awkwardly on the grass verge and gesture to the van to come past.

"Are you doing the race?" says the woolly-hatted lady in the driving seat as she passes.

"Yes!" I reply, "I think I've missed the turning.  I'm pretty sure it's further back up the hill."

"Sat Nav says it's down here actually," she says, and continues down what turns out to be a driveway. At the bottom, we encounter some posh looking country cottages, but no sign of a race. We both turn around and head back up the driveway. Back at the main road, the sign for the campsite is blazingly obvious in front of us, at a junction no more than 20 metres further along the road.

Burnbake campsite, at this time of the year, is actually just an empty field, rendered white by frost.  The kids pile out the car and run down to a solitary tree to investigate. Meanwhile, I set about trying to wrestle the bike off the car and fit various accessories to either the bike or myself.  Being an offroad duathlon, this requires a mountain bike, duly borrowed from my brother.  It's not too long before a marshal is shouting "5 minutes to race briefing!" while I'm still trying to sort myself out, and I get to the transition area just in time, suddenly panicking that I haven't had any time to actually ride the bike this morning and make sure it's all working.

This is a pretty low key event.  Transition is just a couple of lines of bike racks in the field; race numbers for the bike and helmet are hastily scrawled on stickers; there are no timing chips to worry about. In fact, there are only around 40 competitors, and as we mingle around the start line, I have the usual realisation that most of them look a lot fitter and more athletic than I do (note to self: get some clothing emblazoned with a sponsor's name). I suspect that everyone else will sprint away from the line far quicker than me. So it goes.

The start of the run heads along a lane up a long hill. To be fair, not everyone is ahead of me, but I don't dare look back to see just how many or few are behind.  I concentrate on just settling into a rhythm, as the paved road heads down a steep hill and turns into stony lane with grass down the middle.  The leaders have disappeared off into the distance, and I join on to the back of a group of 3 or 4 who are setting an 8min/mi pace, which is pacy but not exhausting.  Through a gate, the course turns left up a steep bank, and changes once more to a grassy forest track.  Along the way are large patches of thick mud, which require some deft footwork and daring leaps - safe to say I wouldn't want to do this course after a period of rain.

The run eventually rejoins the tarmac road back to transition, which I reach just a couple of seconds behind the runner in front.  Transition, when one doesn't have to swap shoes or rip off a wetsuit, is a simple affair - helmet on, grab the bike and off you go.  I'm alongside the guy in front, with a couple more people just up the road, and with the bike usually my strong point, I'm confident of overtaking a handful of people. My ambitions are soon ripped to shreds as I struggle to get my legs going on the chunky tyres, and my rival eases away into the distance and around the corner.

As the bike course hits mud, on an uphill section, I'm cursing mountain biking. It's certainly not what I'm used to, and it's bloody hard and slow going.  I'm certainly not used to the grip of the tyres, which perhaps results in me being overly cautious on downhill sections, and a couple of times come to a halt lest I end up bouncing off rocks or spoke-deep in mud. At one point, someone comes flying past me, just as I think I'm starting to make progress.  I realise that I haven't really drunk anything all morning, and I'm a bit dehydrated - the main problem is that taking a drink whilst juddering along over sandy gravel is easier said than done.

A glance at the watch shows that I've done 5.5 of the 10 miles, and I feel relieved that I'm at least halfway there.  Then I figure that I'm actually nowhere near the end of the first of two laps, and looking again reveals that this is the total distance, including the run, so I've actually only done 3 miles on the bike.  Disaster. I might just cry.

The second lap is a bit easier.  I've understood that I'm going nowhere particularly fast, and finding a smooth line through the detritus is often quicker than simply trying to pedal harder. I don't see another rider for the whole of the second lap, until the last couple of hundred yards, when a older lady suddenly appears over my right shoulder.  She passes with a nod and a smile, and I follow her into the second transition.

The second run takes us up the long hill for the fourth time today.  Out of the transition I pass the lady who overtook on the bike, but a minute in my shoelace comes undone, and I have no choice but to stop and tie it, at which point she passes again. I start off again, running alongside her.  It's awkward. Given her friendly appearance just a minute ago, I decide that a bit of chit chat is in order.
"It's fun this, isn't it?"

In hindsight, this is a stupid thing to say in any circumstances. My companion's visage has changed. She stares straight ahead, blowing her cheeks, before slowly shaking her head.  I quickly take the hint and push on ahead before she beats me with my own Garmin.

The leg muscles are aching, but after a mile they've got back into the running, and the rest of the run is uneventful, although the fatigue makes the leaps over muddy puddles a little less springy than they were first time round.

The finish would be a welcome sight, if I could see it. The run comes back up the lane to the car park, past the timing marshalls, diligently taking times and numbers on a clipboard, but it's not really clear if that's the finish or not. As I come through, past the cheering Emma and kids, I'm pointed back into transition, where I eventually spot the finish banner next to a desk where a woman hands out finisher t-shirts. I run up to the desk, she hands me a t-shirt, and I guess we're done. It's something of an anticlimax, just like the end of this blog post. So it goes.

The stats:
Run 1 (2.3 miles): 18:41 (8:01/mi) - rank 23rd - happy with this!
Bike (9.7 miles): 46:33 (12.5mph) - rank 24th - should have done better
Run 2 (2.3 miles): 20:09 (8:29/mi) - rank 21st - not too shabby I guess