As we fly through the south western suburbs of London, the decision to take the route through central London appears to be a good one. Then we hit Knightsbridge, and suddenly we're in chaos. The streets are thronged with people out on the town. Everything slows to a crawl, at best. From then on, it's a long drawn-out affair of jams and traffic lights and missed turnings, until we finally pop out the other side at Wapping, having taken probably the best part of an hour. Turns out Google know what they're talking about. On the plus side, we've had quite the tour of the sights. On the down side, my nerves are shredded, and it's now 10pm. We drop down into the Limehouse Link, really looking forward to a bed, and now the traffic has disappeared we zip along to our destination. As the tunnel forks I scan the signs to figure out which way I'm going, when there's suddenly two bright flashes - glancing at the speedo it says I'm doing a little over 40mph, in a 30mph tunnel. It's possible that I may have uttered some curse words.
At least the Ramada hotel has parking, and it's comfortable enough. We wake up refreshed around 8.30am. Given that most other events I've done have started at the crack of dawn, I'm not used to having time to spare before the start. We eat breakfast in the hotel restaurant, whose large windows look out onto Royal Victoria Dock, and right outside the early waves of age-group (read: old) triathletes are already on their 10k run along the dockside path, the sun beating down on them mercilessly. It looks like hard work, and really I'm in no rush to join them.
Fruit and nutella-topped toast consumed, we wonder over the road to the venue. The South Hall of the ExCeL is absolutely vast. At the east end, a variety of expo stands invite triathletes to part with their money. The whole western half is cordoned off, and filled with at least 40 bike racks, each rack a couple of hundred feet long to accommodate a hundred or more bikes. If you're ever going to worry about not being able to find your bike in transition, this is it. When we arrive, most of them are empty, waiting for participants of the afternoon waves to fill them. Three or four of them are reserved for the 12:25 wave, where I find a slot somewhere in the middle, the ends already being chock-a-block. I go on a little recce, making sure I know from the run in where to turn, and how far along my bike is. I determine this to be the first cone past the second "Caution: runners" sign, and then about two-fifths of the way along.
12:05 - Swim assembly. We're issued with bright pink swim caps, and 400 people gather in front of a moustachioed Welshman, who proceeds to give a briefing, with a hefty dose of humour. He reminds us that we're all here for our own reasons, and all need to look out for one another, and to reinforce the message, we're asked to turn around and hug the person behind us. Which leads to that most modern of dilemmas - as someone offers their hand, are they going in for a traditional handshake, or a bro-shake? It's close, but I just about call it right (a bro-shake).
A few minutes later, we're plunging into the Royal Victoria Dock to paddle to the start line. I jump in and disappear momentarily below the surface. It's....it's.... how would you say this... it's disgusting. It's greeny-brown, possibly from algae, maybe from sewage, who knows? It even feels disgusting, like it has a film of oil or fuel or something. The thought of spending the next forty minutes in this is distinctly unappealing. I find my way near the front - I need all the help I can get - but far to the side, out of the general melee. Even so, when the hooter goes, it's chaotic, arms and legs everywhere, and my goggles immediately fill up with water. Bollocks. In this fight, however, stopping is not really and option, so I close my eyes and windmill wildly until I'm in slightly calmer territory. Even then, I flail about trying to adjust while staying afloat, and never quite find a satisfactory answer. I resign myself to bathing my eyes in dock water for the rest of the swim, perhaps not something recommended by opticians.
It's a long long way down to the end of the dock. With the water in my goggles. it's hard to tell what everyone else is doing, but I'm aware that a large portion of pink hats are in front of me and moving away rapidly. At least I have a small harem of similarly slow swimmers with me. I'm delighted to reach the buoy at the far end of the dock, before I realise that it's a long long way back to the entry/exit point. I'm trying desperately hard to retain good swimming style, but my brain can only handle one thing at a time. If I'm rotating my body, I'm forgetting to kick. If I kick properly, I'm forgetting to keep my head down. If I keep my head down, I'm forgetting to keep my elbow high. But there's no stopping now.
I keep finding myself boxed in. To my front and left are two other swimmers. To my right is a rope between the buoys marking the course, which I keep tangling in, but I figure it's not a bad thing if it's keeping me on track, because I'm damned if I can actually see where I'm going. This is clearly proven when I suddenly realise that I've managed to swim over the rope and I'm now 20 feet the wrong side of the next buoy, and have to take a sharp left turn to get back on track. From there, however, I can see the buoy at the bottom end of the course, which brings an immense feeling of relief that this torture is nearly over. That sense of relief is shot down cruelly when I get within 10 feet, and realise that everyone is carrying on past that buoy, and that's when I spot the actual turn, still a good 200 metres away. I could cry, but I've got enough water in the goggles already.
Anyway, enough bloody swimming. It's as tedious to write about as it is to do it. I get to the exit point and clamber up the pontoon. I glance at the watch, which shows precisely 40:00, and I'm slightly smug about my estimation abilities. The transition is an interesting affair, requiring competitors to strip off wetsuits on the move along the dockside, throwing them into plastic bags, and then carrying them up a flight of stairs and 150 metres along a carpet around the edge of the transition area.
At this point, I panic slightly that I'm no longer certain about the position of my bike. I also notice that the bike racks have assigned letters, which would have been a far better way to locate my spot. Too late now - I take a chance on a rack, and it turns out to be the right one. Being a ham-fisted swimmer, many of the bikes have already gone, leaving mine dangling forlornly on its own. The bag is dumped, shoes are on. I go to grab my sunglasses, carefully positioned for maximum efficiency within my helmet, balanced on the aero bars, but neither the glasses or the helmet are there. "Where the f**k is my helmet?" I mutter aloud. I scan the area and discover them scattered a few feet away, presumably the innocent victims of someone in a hurry.
Running in cleats on a smooth concrete floor is a skill. I go for the method of leaning heavily on the bike for support, like a Zimmer frame. Out through the loading bay doors and over the mount line, I jump on, hot on the heels of number 6908, and realise that my handlebars are about 5 degrees out of line. Note to self: check bike after transit.
The bike leg is quite simply awesome. The roads are closed, straight and largely flat, save for the occasional short climb up flyovers. It takes the riders westward for a little tight technical section through Canary Wharf, before popping out again and continuing west through the Limehouse Link. There is something immensely fun about descending down the steep entrance into the earth, the tunnel lights whooshing by, like going through the tunnel at Monaco. I hit max speed - ironically over the 30mph speed limit - as I pass a group of ladies shouting "wheeeeeeeee!". The only downside is that being in a tunnel plays havoc with the Garmin.
There are hundreds of people out on the course, all at various stages of their race, so it's hard to tell who I'm really making up places on, but it's hugely satisfying to continually overtake people. At the end of the Limehouse Link, the road steepens sharply, and there's a snake of riders heading towards the light. I click down to a low gear and spin my way up, past the wheezing hordes. I have to say, I'm flippin' good. At the top, it's a few yards to the turn point, and then straight back in. Heading east, the wind is at my back, and the 5 miles to Gallon's Reach at the easternmost point fly by.
Lap 2 of the bike is more of the same. Faster competitors suddenly appear, leaders of the elite wave that started later. Heading through the tunnel again, one of them passes me, but at least gives me a look to check whether I'm a rival. I try to look like a serious competitor, but I don't think he's fooled. As I say, those tri-suits are really quite unforgiving. There's no doubting the status of the woman that we pass in the process - she's singing loudly to herself as she trundles along slowly on her mountain bike.
An hour and 12 minutes after setting out, I'm tackling the steep, knobbly concrete of the ramp to the ExCeL loading bay, and back into transition. I take a cue from the guy in front and remove my shoes for the run in, which proves a good move as I watch another cyclist slip around like Bambi on ice tackling the sharp turn. I've long finished my bottle on the bike, so as I switch to trainers I gulp down as much of my spare bottle of drink as I can stomach. The run heads out onto the loading bay again, this time heading out the other way for a twisting course along the dockside. The roof over the loading bay once more gives the Garmin trouble, and it's impossible to truly know what pace I'm doing, so all I can do is just run and hope I'm neither too fast nor too slow. I can't even seem to find the screen on my Garmin that shows my overall time, so I've no real idea whether I'm on course for my goal of 3 hours.
The run course is a strange one. Thanks to construction work on the docks, it takes a route full of right-angled bends along the dock, past the Ramada, around the construction hoardings and along a hedge, before doubling back along the other side of the hedge, around a building back to the dockside, a few hundred metres to the turn point, a mile from the start, where everyone does a U-turn and follows the same course back to the ExCeL. The course is narrow, which makes it very awkward to negotiate slower athletes, but the twists and turns mean that psychologically it doesn't feel like a mile from end to end. Hundreds of triathletes are scurrying along the paths like ants who have found food. Some sprint athletically, others plod, quite a few are walking. At least one is leaning over a barrier, getting a second taste of his energy gel.
Although the skies have clouded over, the temperature is still in the high twenties, and the only thing I can think about for most of the run is water. At one end of the hedge, a sprinkler showers the runners with a fine spray of cold water. Every pass through it starts with a little intake of breath as the cold water hits the skin, and then sheer elation at the refreshing coolness. Towards the turn point, I grab two cups of water from the water station at every opportunity - one to drink, one to go over the head - but just a few seconds later I find myself parched again and dreaming of my next visit.
As I hit the end of my second lap, my brain starts reminding me what a daft thing to do this is. It immediately puts any plans to do anything longer (half Ironman anyone?) on indefinite hold. My legs are really starting to stiffen up now. For the first time today, I spot Karen, who is heading out on her second lap. She looks remarkably fresh, certainly a lot better than I feel. All I can do is keep setting small goals - "Make it to the fence", "make it to the sprinkler", "make it to the turn point" - and then hoping I'm stupid enough to keep going when I get there.
I'm really quite glad to enter into the ExCeL for the third and final time, and at last get to take the fork that says "Finish" instead of "Next Lap". Others around me start sprinting for the line, but I haven't got the legs. An announcer gives out my name as I trundle up the little ramp and under the clock for a finish photo that shows me looking somewhat desolate.
So, how did I do?
- Swim - 39:57 - as slow as I expected. This is in the bottom 20% (81st percentile) of all athletes who did Olympic distance over the two days.
- Bike - 1:12.57 - smashed it. An average of 20.4mph over the 25 miles, way way way in excess of anything I've done before, thanks to the closed roads and flat course. This is in the top 25% (23rd percentile) of competitors
- Run - 50:46 - only about a minute off my 10k PB, and in the top 50% (46th percentile). Not bad considering the bike leg I'd just done, and that I couldn't check my pace with the Garmin.
- Overall 2:51.12 - nine minutes faster than what I'd set myself as a stretch goal. I finished 1626th out of roughly 3750 competitors - in the top half (42nd percentile). Given that I'd normally be around the 60-70th percentile, I'm chuffed to bits.
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