Chapter 47

Threepenny-bit to GB Ironman

‘We can be heroes…just for one day’

The only time I competed as a professional sportsman was when I was aged seven.

‘I’ll give you a thruppence if you can do it in 20 seconds.’

‘Really?  Can I have a go now?’

'Come on then, lad - get yourself up to that third lamp-post and start when I drop my arm.’

On a Wednesday afternoon, Grandparents Harry and Ethel usually popped over for tea.  It was a half-hour drive around the north-west of the city from their home on Mansfield Road in Redhill, a routine they religiously adhered to throughout our entire childhood; normality that we all accepted as just the way things were.  Dutifully we answered questions on what we’d done at school, whose party we’d been to, or how swimming lessons were going.  Eagerly we accepted the treats that invariably accompanied a visit; nine times out of ten it would be a Milky Way that came with a shouted warning from Mum in the kitchen ‘not to let it spoil your appetite.’  And then we’d scoot out to play until summoned in for tea.

Harry had been a sportsman.  Apparently, in his youth he was a fast sprinter and, when he was ‘called-up’ in 1917, he’d been lucky to be deployed to Crystal Palace as a junior PT instructor rather than sent to the Western Front. Back home in Nottingham during his twenties and early thirties he was a renowned local footballer, even playing a few games for Notts County who, in those days, were a First Division team. He’d tell us that he decided against a professional career because, as a Methodist, he’d felt uncomfortable with the card schools and drinking that went on when the team travelled away; whether he didn’t quite make the grade either we’ll never know.  What isn’t in doubt is his goal scoring record at whatever level he played and I’d eagerly listen to him recounting how he’d ‘head the ball downwards.  It makes it hard for the ‘keeper!’ or, ‘Shoot first time before the centre-half can clatter you!’  My favourite was the story of how he’d scored eight goals in one game wearing a pair of borrowed boots.

But those days were in the past and now, in his sixties, he was content to watch football on the telly or help me in my fledging athletic attempts at the school sports day, although his coaching skills weren’t of great use for the sack or egg-and-spoon races.

Occasionally during these Wednesday visits, the threepenny-bit challenge would be thrown down and I’d enthusiastically trot up Balmoral Drive in my PE plimmos to the lamp-post by Alison Booth’s house.  At Harry’s signal, I’d hurtle back along the pavement, convinced that, this week, my 100-yard dash would earn the prize.

‘Not bad. Just missed it by two seconds but you were quicker than last time.’

Oddly enough, I was too naive to challenge the accuracy of the wristwatch or the integrity of the timekeeper but eventually, after a summer of failed attempts, the target was finally achieved and the small brass hexagonal coin found its way into my piggybank.

Trivia - Why are plimmos called plimsolls?  Apparently they acquired the name because of the way the canvas upper and rubber soul (good album - some classic ballads) merged together in one continuous join around the shoe, rather like the Plimsoll Line on a ship.  There’s a statue at Bristol Docks to Samual Plimsoll, the philanthropist MP who, battling parliamentary resistance from the ship-owning lobby, introduced the line in 1875 to help protect seaman from unscrupulous over-loading.

I often ran as a kid.  Never the quickest, there was always someone who could sprint faster, but I could keep going.  Playing ‘1-2-3-releaseo’ in the road, I’d sometimes leg-it a kilometre around the block in order to approach the ‘home post’ from the direction opposite to that expected by whoever’s turn it was to be ‘on’.  The fact that the game might have fizzled out during the seven or eight minutes I was absent didn’t detract from the excitement of doing something a bit different.  At junior school, Robbo and I enjoyed the occasional challenge of racing the school bus home, steaming out of the school gate to gain a ten minute start, choosing the most direct route down Central Avenue to Derby Road (now a three-lane dual carriageway known as Brian Clough Way) and hoping we could maintain our lead until the Sandy Lane turn off into the Bramcote Hills estate.  From this point victory was dependent on enough kids on the bus ringing the bell for their various stops.  The reward was 3d bus fare that could be pocketed to buy sweets.  (I’ve just measured the distance on OS Maps; about 2.5km so not bad for a nine year old in school shoes and carrying a satchel).

By secondary school, running was more structured.  The winter months, with the playing fields either frozen or muddy quagmires, was the time for ‘cross-countries.’  Most kids dreaded them but I found myself in more of a love-hate relationship. I hated the fact that it was invariably freezing, standing shivering at the start in just a rugby or T-shirt with the nervous pit-of-stomach feeling of wanting to do well.  On the other hand, I knew I would able to do okay, finish in the top half-dozen within the year-group, and be back in the changing rooms, warming up, whilst most of the others were still plodding home.  And for the first time I experienced the rasping sore throat that briefly accompanied exertion on cold days or that strange sore stiffness in the calves that you’d wake up with the following day.  I also agreed with Robbo that this feeling was invariably worse on the second day as we groaned every time we needed to get up and wander down the stairs or corridor to the next lesson.  A few races into the season and the muscles had adapted but still, every year it remains a now-familiar consequence of a hard, extended run.  For the first couple of winters, I’d usually finish behind Robbo and another kid we called Gudgie; I didn’t know him that well but remember he was into Bob Marley way before the rest of us even acknowledged reggae music existed.  I rationalised that these two had more stamina because in addition to school rugby, they were now playing local junior football which meant they were benefitting from some extra training.   By the third year things had changed. With a cardiovascular system boosted by the swimming I was now taking more seriously, I suddenly found myself back in the changing rooms ahead of everyone else.

The familiar, slightly daunting, school cross-country course has been locked into the memory banks for half-a-century but is easily retrieved.

Line up, outside the Dutch-barn, an odd facility for a school campus, that provided token cover from the elements for a concrete basketball court.  I’m tense; it’s the house cross-country champs and I really want to win.  It’s a short uphill start, up the drive that leads to the Tech School main block before swinging down alongside the fence and round the back of their cricket-net frames.  Follow the fence around the school perimeter, with the woods on your right and the two-storey art extension block on your left.  Glance towards the classrooms; wonder if any of the girls have been looking out the window and noticed I’m up there with the leaders?  Down onto the drive that leads past the secondary mod’ school, the home of those local boys who’d not managed, (or been helped), to pass the 11+ and were destined, so I was reliably informed, to end up as ‘just’ builders or plumbers, (not necessarily a bad career option in hindsight).  Emerge into Bramcote Park and turn right to run around the edge, not cheating by cutting to the inside of any of the huge oak trees that marked the route.  Eventually, just after passing the village cricket pavilion, climb the steep hill at the near end of the park and follow the path round the back of the swimming pool before passing through the gate by the sub-station and back onto the playing fields.  I’ve tried to shake off Gudgie on the hill and there’s a gap but he’s still hanging on; I can hear him panting twenty yards back.  It’s about half-a-mile across the pitches, past the running- track, skirting round my old primary school and heading for the finish on the drive where we started half-an-hour-earlier. I’ve got it! Gudgie’s dropping back and I claim the win, simultaneously taking the gloss off the congratulations of the few teachers and house captains present by spewing up half the school dinner I’d had earlier. 

A few weeks later and I find myself winning the SW Notts Schools U14’s at Wollaton Park.  It’s a crazy mass sprint across the fields at the foot of the hill on which the Elizabethan Hall, formerly the stately home of the Willoughby family, previously used as Bruce Wayne’s home in the Batman films, and now a museum, stands.  It’s a longer, tougher course around the parkland but by the time we’re on the track that passes the lake there’s just me and one other kid; he can’t hold the pace so I end up coming home in first place.  So it’s on to the Notts County Championships where I’m brought back down to earth, literally.  The Colwick Park course was a hilly mud bath on a horrible cold and rainy Saturday and I didn’t come close to the top ten, slipping and sliding my way home far behind the leaders.  A couple of things were clear: there were better runners than me in the county and I needed to do something about my footwear.  Glorified plimsolls, held on with an extra lace, were not suitable in muddy conditions - the serious runners were using ‘spikes’.  My generous birthday present from Mum and Dad that year was a pair of Adidas running shoes with interchangeable spikes; long ones for the cross-country and shorter, needle spikes for the all-weather athletic tracks.

Summer at school meant athletics and cricket.  We were fortunate in having a full sized 400m cinder track complete with long and high jump pits.  I suspect most pupils dreaded an afternoon of athletics and were happier wiling away an hour in the cricket nets or day-dreaming on the boundary.  I loved it, especially the chance to accumulate points towards badges on the star-system.  Each event awarded points based on age, time and distance and totalled your best scores from a mix of five events:  data and targets were right up my street and over the weeks of the summer term I’d anxiously watch as the PE teachers totted up my results and scores.  I was never quite fast enough at the sprints, couldn’t jump far or high enough, and certainly couldn’t throw the javelin or shot any sort of distance to achieve the ultimate 5-star level but was pretty pleased to claim the 4-star badge each year.

By the time we were third-years we were allowed to do the 1500m which suited me better. Wearing my new spikes at the house athletics that year, on a sunny afternoon with most of the upper school sprawled on the grassy bank supposedly spectating, I beat the favourite, Nick Woodward, a fourth year who ran for Notts AC. and was flouncing around beforehand in his club tracksuit.

With swimming increasingly taking up so much time, there was never a thought given to any running training - I’d just turn up and rely on the cardiovascular work done in the pool to get me through.  I wasn’t the only one benefitting from this approach.  In 1975 I finished in the top six at the county schools cross-country event and ended up in the county team for the Nationals in Brighton alongside several other lads from the county swim squad.  I didn’t remotely come anywhere and it was the same story the following March in Southampton but, with hindsight, this was probably a welcome distraction being only a few weeks after Mum had died and just after the pressure of the Midland Short-course swimming championships.

And from there things went on hold for a few years.  I might jog back late at night from Alison Kirk’s house; or run with Robbo the mile from Trent Bridge or the City Ground back along Arkwright Street to the Broadmarsh bus depot, dodging through the post-match crowds; or even race around the corner to the shops because walking felt like a waste of time, but there were no races to get worked up about.  Even at university, with time on my hands, there was insufficient incentive to pull my running shoes back on for anything more serious than the Mick’s Cafe Race (see Uni chapter).

The catalyst required to relaunch my running occurred for the first time on my birthday in 1981.  The inaugural London Marathon was unlike anything seen before; a mass participation race, open to anyone from world record holders to fancy-dress runners, covering what seemed a mind-blowing distance of 26 miles and with everyone’s trials, tribulations and triumphs shared on national television for all to see.  It heralded a boom in ‘jogging’ and spawned a large number of local marathon events and I was tempted to join in.  In the autumn of 1982, at a bit of a loss after Naomi had finally ended our relationship, I signed up for the first Kingswood Marathon to be held in May the following year and embarked on a rudimentary DIY training programme.

It wasn’t very sophisticated; just run a few miles each week through the winter and then increase the distance as the day approached.  I ran the six miles home from work a few times and thought I was quite well-prepared; being increasingly involved in the canoe club there wasn’t much time for weekend runs and the thought of joining a running club never crossed my mind.  It was a time before the proliferation of running magazines, books and blogs and most amateur runners, me included, turned up at the start line hopelessly under-cooked with little idea of what was appropriate for footwear, nutrition and hydration.  It was no surprise that the phrase ‘hitting the wall’ became synonymous with early marathon running; most of us inevitably ran out of gas after three hours because we didn’t realise that our depleting energy reserves needed replenishment during the event.

Running a marathon was relatively unheard of in the early eighties so I had no trouble getting people to sponsor me; the Canoe Club needed a couple of kayaks for kids who couldn’t just go out and buy one.  Consequently there was a little bunch of club members at Page Park to cheer me off and, with the added bonus of it only being a 15 minute walk from my flat in Kingswood to the start, it was by far the easiest, stress-free event I’ve ever had to get to.  I joined a couple of hundred other marathon virgins as we jogged off into the unknown.  In my Adidas 3-stripe trainers, not-exactly a marathon shoe, and only sustained by the occasional plastic cup of orange squash I managed to reach around 22 miles on the fairly hilly course in reasonably good order.   Dragging myself up Hanham Hill on the second lap I dropped down from fourth to second gear but when things levelled off ten minutes later was unable to click back up.

Welcome to ‘The Wall’.

It’s the ‘twilight zone’ of endurance sport.  It lurks out there on all distance events, usually around the point you think you might just have got away with it, just where you might even be thinking your current pacing will deliver a good finishing time, just where you notice some fellow competitors starting to walk or receiving the attention of the desperate-to-help St John’s Ambulance crews.  It doesn’t creep up, it pounces, and suddenly the finish line feels a very long way off.  And the muscles let you know, painfully, that they’ve both run out of juice and can’t get rid of the waste chemicals fast enough.  It’s too late to do much about it; drinking or eating something might help you survive the distance but the body won’t be able to process it fast enough to re-power the muscles back to anything close to their earlier capability.

All bets are off as you enter a mind-game territory.

‘Christ!  This is going to take another hour at this rate!’

‘Don’t ‘effing stop; you’ll never get started again!’

‘How come that fat bastard is still going?  Try and hang onto him.’

‘Legs I’m sorry; I promise never to do another one!’

‘Only 3k left: you can do that in your sleep!’

‘Don’t puke!’

‘Think of a song.’

‘Look for the pretty girls amongst the spectators.’ (Put on heroic face.)

‘Acknowledge the supporters’ encouragement with a grunted ‘thanks’. (Grimace to show how tough it is.)

‘Do you want that finisher’s medal?’

‘Never again!  You’ve nothing more to prove.’

This was a new experience in 1983 but from the top of Hanham Hill it was gradually downhill most of the way back to Page Park and forty-five uncomfortable minutes later I’d finished.  Not sure about my time or position but there were a lot of runners still out there as I enjoyed a celebratory cup of water and Mars Bar.  A guy from the Canoe Club ran me home.  A long soak in the bath didn’t prevent the next three or four days of groaning as the calf muscles gave me their opinion of my efforts.  ‘Okay I’ve done one now so we can forget about it.’

Two years later I was back in Page Park.  In an effort to impress new girlfriend, Sue, and my friends in the Activities Club I’ve signed up again.  The training wasn’t much different and we were still fuelled en-route by orange squash but the photos Sue took at least reveal I’m wearing some proper running shoes bearing the recognisable Nike flash.  The time wasn’t bad either; Sue snapped me crossing the line in 3:08 so I’d like to think that on a less severe course, with more structured training and better fuelling, I’d comfortably have broken three hours.

I got distracted for a few years; a wedding, a wife, long-distance canoe races, the Alternative Challenge… just ticking over with the odd 1/2 marathon (Bath 1990 1:28) or 10k (Frenchay 1991, 36 minutes).  It draws you back.  With our adventure sports wings being temporarily clipped by Sue becoming pregnant with Stuart, the changing domestic situation meant less time away at weekends.  However I could usually sneak out for an hour’s run during the evening, or jog back from work, and before long the need for another running challenge manifested itself. 

Rick was living in Brussels at the time, working for Price-Waterhouse, and we’d provisionally aimed to visit him in September ’92 after a week’s surfing with the gang in Brittany.  And now he also had a new three-month old nephew wanting to meet him for the first time.

‘You do know it’s the Brussels Marathon that weekend?’ Rick mentioned during a phone call.

‘Really?’  I feign ignorance.

‘Haven’t you already got something on at the end of the month?’  Sue reminds me.

‘Oh yeah.’  I unconvincingly feign forgetfulness of the Bath International Triathlon I’ve been vaguely training for all summer.

‘Seems a shame to miss a chance for a warm-up race,’  I add.  ‘Rick’s flat is virtually on the route and I’m ‘sure’ he’d like to help you with Stuart.’

After a week in the Brittany waves at La Torche we drove, with Stuart sleeping soundly in his car-seat, across northern France and around Paris to reach Brussels on the Friday evening.  A wander around the City sights on Saturday loosened the legs before I crept out the flat early the next morning.  3 hours 15 minutes later and it was all over.  Not without the usual unpleasant last few kilometres, but this time it was different.  A big city marathon, an international mix of runners, decent feed-stations and a noisy crowd of people lining the route.  Rather a contrast with Kingswood where the support largely comprised of a few encouraging grunts from householders working in their front gardens.

Two weeks later I stood by Pultney Weir in Bath, apprehensively regarding the flow on the River Avon, swollen to a muddy brown by recent heavy rain.  I’d done a couple of shorter triathlons over the previous few years but this one was serious: a full Olympic distance of a 1500m swim in the river, a 40km bike ride up and down the hills to the south of the city and finishing with a 10km run through Bath’s Georgian streets and Victorian parks.  It was quite a big deal at the time for what was still something of a fledgling sport; some big names, TV coverage and lots of razzamatazz.

Chris, Jo, Mike and Bridget were there to support and Stuart attended his second major event before he’d even reached four months.   As prep’ I’d done the odd swim at the local pool before work in the morning, trusting to muscle memory from two decades earlier.  Cycling to work most days helped with bike fitness but 40km was double what I’d managed in a race before.  At least my legs knew they could hack the run distance but who knew what speed they’d have left in them.

The swim was carnage.  Racing downstream with the flow was the easy bit but turning upstream for the return leg around a bridge pillar was like swimming on a treadmill.  Where the river narrowed to pass between the bridge pillars, the swollen flow inevitably increased further and it took a huge effort to slowly claw clear and into the slightly easier water on the upstream side of the bridge.  Some of the weaker swimmers had no chance, eventually drifting downstream, exhausted, to be rescued. Whilst allowed to complete the bike and run, they were officially DNF’d (did not finish).

I was on my new TI Raleigh Equipe, purchased through the staff shop at work a few weeks earlier; it was a ‘racer’ bike , but ‘entry-level’ if you know what I mean, although it did have ‘531 tubing’ which was supposed to be cutting edge.  However in those days, before the technology (and prices) really took off, it was as good as many of my fellow amateurs were using.  New, quicker, lighter it still didn’t stop the hills being an effort or 40km feeling like a long way, especially as I hit the kerb and fell off whilst trying to drink on the move.  Consequently, when I reappeared for the run, I was sporting a bloody elbow and knee.  Trying to maintain a respectable run pace as the route passed the Royal Crescent, it was clear that the universal law that states: ‘Regardless of the overall distance of the event the last 5k always hurts’ applied equally to triathlons as to marathons.  I finished in about three hours; not too dissimilar from my marathon times and made a mental note that I’d return to triathlons one day.

It was back to marathon running in 1993.  Fellow Activities Club member, Dave Hoptroff, was a runner; he’d even joined a running club and talked about things like ‘hill reps’ and ‘fartlek’ sessions.  His soon-to-be-wife Lisa was Irish and Dave and I concocted a holiday plan that enabled a week’s holiday in a cottage near her family in Cork to be combined with the Dublin marathon.  We piled four adults and Stuart into his dodgy Citroen and caught the Holyhead ferry across the Irish Sea. The rather dull course through industrial and housing estates was enlivened by the crowds; it was a Bank Holiday in Ireland and an excuse to gather in the streets and have a drink.  By the time the route entered the last few kilometres amongst the grand buildings and cobbles of the old city, most of the crowd were well-gone and their inebriated banter helped ease the inevitable pain.

The following week, on the beautiful, empty, windswept coasts of the Cork and Kerry, we found the perfect place to recover and chill; or at least as well as one can with a fifteen month old child.  To cap off a lovely week, Sue announced she was expecting again.

LONDON

The envelopes used to drop through the door in late November.  Instantly you recognised the ‘Flora’ logo and knew what it meant: six months earlier in May you’d sent off a speculative entry form and promptly forgotten about it, not holding out much hope as there was only a 1:5 chance of success.

A large, bulky envelope was actually bad news.  It contained your ‘free’ gift for bequeathing the entry fee to a charity so, along with the ‘better luck next time’ letter, was a sweat shirt, running jacket or similar.  These gifts were actually quite decent; I still use the rain-top I was sent in 2000 and yesterday I pulled on a fleece I received two years later. (I was doing some manual labour round at Andy Stone’s house so, sadly, it’s no longer deemed presentable by my fashion advisor).

But a thinner, white A4 envelope bearing the words ‘Flora London Marathon’ was enough to raise the heart rate before it was even opened.  It’s hard to overstate the importance of this event within the running community back in the 1990s.  It was the goal of thousands of joggers and club runners, not just in the UK but around the world. It was, and still is, the biggest charity fund raising annual event anywhere, and it had, and still does, a deserved reputation for incredible levels of support from the people of the Capital.

Yahoo! 1996.  Third time lucky.   After two failed entries in previous years, the thinner envelope greeted me when I returned from work in November 1995.  There wasn’t much else to do in the winter evenings once the boys had been bedded down and an exhausted Sue had nodded off on the sofa.  It was on with the running shoes and out onto the dark streets for an hour or two.  Except it wasn’t, because I couldn’t run.  I’d done my cartilage in a few months earlier, and then worsened it by doing the Welsh Three Thousands with Matt P, and had needed an operation to fix it.  There was no option: I’d have to take advantage of the deferment clause which allowed an entry to be postponed by a year for a valid medical reason.

So it was April 1997 before I found myself wandering around the registration Expo, overawed by the scale of the event.  There were 30,000 taking part and it felt like everyone was squeezed into the  Olympia Exhibition Centre, grabbing the freebies, listening to the speakers, and buying last minute unnecessary kit and snack bars.  Eventually finding the exit, I re-joined my support team; Ade and Sue B had volunteered to help and we’d based ourselves at the Crystal Palace campsite.  I was in a tent and they were in our van which Sue would drive round the South Circular the next day and park somewhere near the finish. The problem with these big events is that you’ve got to be at the start at least a couple of hours in advance. You think you’ve got ages but time rapidly disappears in the snaking queues for the bag drop, the over-subscribed loos, and the need to be in the appropriate start-pen 30 chilly minutes before the start. 

I was lucky.  I shared a taxi to Blackheath Common where those forecast to go sub-4 hours start from.  It was still incredibly busy but not as bad as for the bulk of ‘other runners’ who are heading for the slower mega-mass start in Greenwich Park.  Stripped down to just my running kit I entered the pen and, despite numerous earlier visits, immediately wanted the loo again (this is a phenomenon that afflicts me every time.  I can guarantee the moment I’m zipped into my triathlon wetsuit I’ll have the urge to go!)  Jumping up and down to stay warm on the chilly morning, I tried to take my mind off the predicament but eventually the countdown started, the canon boomed, everyone cheered and… nothing happened.

It took a few minutes before the faster-seeded runners ahead created enough space for a shuffle, then a stop-start type of trot before, maybe 10 minutes later, it was possible to be running largely unhindered, provided you kept an eye out for the various imposters who’d clearly seeded themselves wrongly and had created mini slow-moving road-blocks as everyone else had to weave around them.  And, just like in every marathon I’ve ever done, as soon as the route passed some waste ground, a park or even just a decent covering of trees and shrubs, there was a mass exodus of runners briefly diverting off to the side to empty bladders overfilled with energy drinks.  Guys (and girls) find every piece of cover they can locate: I’ll just say I’m glad we don’t live on a popular marathon route.

I had the impression that the whole route was crammed with supporters: the clapping and encouragement was constant. There were home-made signs exhorting, ‘Go Mum!’ Or, ‘Don’t stop Uncle Bob!’  High-fiving kids and charity groups clustered around their banners, cheering their sponsored runners.  Every few miles there’d be a street-side band or music blaring out of speakers from a first-floor flat.  Added to the noise was the visual uplift provided by running past some of the city’s iconic sights: The loop around the Cutty Sark; crossing the Thames via Tower Bridge; the final uncomfortable plod along the Embankment towards Big Ben, which, due to bends in the river, seemed to recede rather than approach, before eventually, with the crowd shouting ‘Sprint! You’re nearly there!’ the curve around the statue of Queen Victoria led past The Palace and onto The Mall where, somewhere off in the near-distance, the finish line beckoned.

You just can’t escape the music!  For me there are some tracks which will be forever associated with the London event. Someone somewhere will be pumping it out, blowing a sax, banging on steel dustbin lids, singing a choral or reggae version, or orchestrating a brass band outside a pub.  Hearing them anywhere now ensures a rapid Time Machine return to the Streets of London.

Bowie -           - Heroes

Fleetwood Mac - Don’t Stop

Survivor            - Eye of the Tiger

Bon Jovi           - Living on a Prayer

Queen              - Don’t Stop Me Now

'Chariots of Fire’ and ‘The Trap’, the BBC theme to their annual London Marathon broadcast.

Let me make an observation about finishing straights: the normal rules of physics don’t apply.  The more effort you put in, the slower your progress towards the goal, and the normal space-time continuum is suspended, rather like Einstein’s theory on the impossibility of reaching the speed of light.  Pete Williams summed it up perfectly when we (me, Matt, Chris W and Pete W) had a lads’ weekend in Berlin in 2003 with running the City’s marathon as the excuse.  He described trying to run the last 2km down the famous Unter Den Linden towards the Brandenburg Gate finish line as like the opening scene in Star Wars when the fleeing resistance ship is being inexorably overhauled by the vast fleet of the evil Empire.  No matter how fast it’s trying to go, it appears to be sucked backwards and the sanctuary of the rebel planet becomes an increasingly forlorn hope.  Eventually the line appeared.  The electronic scoreboard callously continued to tick up the seconds until, with a token lift of the pace for the last few metres, it was done.  The commentator called out my name; the medal was draped round the neck; the space blanket; the distinctive London plastic goodie bag; yet another bottle of water… ‘Never again!'  No-one tells you it is such a long, slow, walk to the bag collection and the official friends-meet-up zone by Horse Guards’ Parade.  Sue and Ade found me and steered us towards a tube station and a ride out of town away from the pending mega-congestion.  My time of 3:45 ensured we were just ahead of the main bulk of the runners and their supporters.

They used to have a clause that guaranteed an entry if you’d had four previous failed applications so I knew that I’d get a return to London at some point.  When Bridget announced she was going to give it a go, and Chris Williams surprised us all by saying he had a charity entry, it seemed like an opportunity for a threesome from the gang.  It was a massive commitment by these two, who weren’t normally used to banging out the miles in training, and I was so impressed to once again find myself with them at the campsite in Crystal Palace prior to the race, and even more impressed to meet them afterwards when we finally rendezvoused in the Meet-Up Zone.  I’d managed to take ten minutes off my previous time and registered 3:35. (Chris completed another two marathons before a cruciate ligament ended his long-distance career, whilst Bridget decided, with all her commitments, that one was enough and has confined herself since then to the odd Half and 10k).

In contrast I didn’t manage to find a cure for the addiction.

Two more Londons: 2001 (3;56) and 2009 (4:01 - believe me I tried like crazy to avoid hitting four hours). 

Nottingham 2000 (3:50)  - You’ve got to do your hometown race sometime.  Totally underprepared it was a real struggle and best remembered for the pre-race mini-fun run in which Stuart made his running debut.

Florence 2005 (3:52) where Sue and I combined a long weekend break with Dee and Andy.  I warmed up the day before by traipsing in Dee’s wake through the Uffizi Gallery and I think my support team watched most of the race from various roadside cafes before punishing me the following day by insisting we climb the 463 steps of Il Duomo to view the city panorama.

Failing to beat four hours in London 2009 was a bit of a mental blow, clearly sending a message that things were changing physiologically and confirming an inexorable decline over the decade.  I know it’s only a number, just a few seconds different from 3:59, but with demanding teenagers soaking up domestic time, and work pressures incessantly increasing, I couldn’t see how to step up the training necessary to prevent further slowdown so mentally ‘parked’ endurance stuff for the foreseeable future.

That was until I met the dad of David, one of Murray’s football and cricket teammates.

Chatting with Andy Bromley on the touchline at one of their Sunday morning matches he casually, modestly, mentioned he did a bit of running.  I subtly probed for details; like most runners I can’t help it. 

‘What, where, when?’  Not expecting anything special I was surprised and impressed.

‘Ironman Sherborne 2007 and I’ve got the Paris Marathon in April.’ 

I did a double-take.  I knew he was sporty, after-all he was captain of the Downend First XI cricket team, but I didn’t have him down as a triathlete, let-alone capable of Ironman distances.  And further interrogation revealed more impressive facts; his friendly, unassuming wife, Maggie, was also seriously good: they’d represented Great Britain at Duathlon (run-bike-run) Championships and, to cap it off, were both a couple of years older than me.

Over the next few years we got to know them well, drawn together several times a week by Murray and David’s training and match commitments.  Additionally, Andy helped out coaching at Yate Tri-Star's, a local triathlon club for teenagers that David trained and raced with.  Murray was focusing more on his football development but Stuart liked the sound of triathlon so, before we knew, it we had fitted further commitments into the teenage taxi schedule.

I was musing.

Ironman?  It’s got to be possible.  Hell I’m a swimmer so that bit shouldn’t be a problem.  I cycle to work most days and I know I can do the run distance.  But put them altogether?  And it’s 15 years since my last tri’ and that was only a quarter of the distance.  But I needed a challenge.  Andy did it.  ‘Ironman’ sounds good doesn’t it?  I needed a realistic schedule…Better talk to Sue.  (I didn’t reveal my master three-year strategic plan at that stage: Olympic distance 2010; 1/2 Ironman 2011; leading to the full distance in 2012.)

‘Thought I might try a Tri’ next year.  There’s an Olympic distance one in the Cotswolds in June and they also do a relay version.  Maybe you and Bridget could have a go and rope someone in to make a three for a team so we’d all have something to aim at?’

The sales pitch worked.  Bridget bravely tackled the open-water swim leg for the girls; Ade volunteered to ride the bike, and Sue rounded off with the run.  And whilst they were worrying about themselves I reacquainted myself with ‘’swim-bike-run’, the usual confusion of transitions, and the horrible ‘what’s happened to my legs?’ feeling when you try to run hard straight after a bike ride.

They enjoyed their event enough to have another go at another relay the following year with Sue B replacing Ade in the team.  Meanwhile, I appraised how it had gone and decided there was nothing to stop me at least trying the half-distance IM as the next step. 

‘I’ll get it done early in the Summer,’ I assured Sue, making the point it wouldn’t get in the way of other things we’d planned for the summer of 2011 and that the bulk of the training would be during the winter.

The Swashbuckler held in the New Forest in mid-May was an early-season classic of the UK racing calendar.  The longer distances (1.9k swim, 90k bike and a half-marathon 21k run) necessitated some proper training. I wanted to hook up with the local Tri’ Club, with whom Andy and Maggie trained and socialised, but work and family commitments just wouldn’t allow so I stuck with my DIY programme.  Thirty-five years after saying ‘good-bye’ to early morning swims, I was back in the pool at 6.00am to grab half an hour before work, having been up since five to cycle the 12km to the pool in Yate.  Squeezing in what I thought was a long training ride at the weekend and the odd extended run during the evening, I thought I’d enough in the tank to be able to finish.

I really ought to have known better.  Firstly, it was still dark at 4:30am when transition opened for bike racking, so a head torch was a must if you didn’t want to lose a key piece of kit.  Secondly, the sea was bloody cold in May - the event was held at Buckfast Hard, a scenic, historic village on the banks of a tidal estuary and the water was bracing, especially before the sun was up.  Thirdly, three hours on the bike was a long way and you needed to have consumed more than a snack bar and a couple of water bottles to arrive for the final stage in a fit state.  The run was an ordeal and I ended up walking some stretches, coming home eventually in 6 hours 7 minutes, pleased I’d managed it but seriously questioning how I was ever going to manage twice the distance.  Or at least I did for a week or two until the memory had faded and I didn’t meet much self-resistance as I scoured the events list for something suitable for the following year.

Perfect.  The Outlaw: a hometown venue described as the ideal for first-timers at the ironman distance.  A sheltered swim in the international rowing regatta course at Holme Pierrepoint, just down the road from Trent Bridge and the City Ground.  A cycle around the villages in the east of the county and a run of a few laps up and down the banks of the Trent.  At least the water should be warmer in July.

There’s no escape from the training needed for this event; it’s impossible to wing it if you’re only half-fit.  The hours just needed to be put in; that was two mornings a week at the pool then.  Urgh!  I wasn’t a great fan of a 5:00 am alarm, dressing in bike kit and invariably waterproofs, riding in the dark to the pool, taking all the clobber off, swimming, putting all the clobber back on, cycling to work, taking all the clobber off again and changing into work clothes, all before 7.00am.  And I just had to deal with the facts that the default training run needed to be doubled in length and at least one half-marathon a fortnight would be required during the final few months.

‘I need some new running shoes,’  I tell Sue, omitting the fact that it’s impossible to find a decent pair for under £80.  Shoe technology had moved on or, more likely, the marketing bullshit was more persuasive.

‘Are you a pronator?  Do you need extra-cushioning?  The reinforced gel sole and the extra-breathability ensures a comfortable distance run. etc etc.’  I was suckered in as usual, continuing my journey from Adidas to Nike and now to Asics, conveniently trying to blank out the fact that the shoes had been made in a Vietnamese sweatshop and the company’s vast mark-up was now probably helping line the pockets of some Premiership footballer and his agent.

But the bike leg. How do you train for 180km?  I scoured the Tri’ mags for suggestions and asked Andy for advice.

‘Come out with me and Maggie on some of our rides.’

‘Sure, why not?  Thanks’

It’s bit of a shock to the system joining an established cycle gang for the first time.  After two hours I was praying we were well on the way home; my bum and neck were aching and I couldn’t believe we’d sustained constantly, what I naively thought was a high pace.  And they seemed to embrace climbing hills; I’d be gritting my teeth as Maggie comfortably chatted away alongside whilst Andy had already disappeared into the distance.

On the plus side they introduced me to the ‘coffee and cake stop’ tradition of British weekend cycle groups and slowly, slowly my bike fitness improved.  By January I could hang on without worrying about a heart attack and wasn’t completely phased by the prospect of 100km or a four hour ride.  What was also apparent was that my ageing road bike, used daily for commuting, wasn’t the best option for the type of riding I now needed to do.  I splashed out £1400 on my Specialised Roubaix, a delight to ride with its comfortable geometry and lighter carbon frame.  I thought that was a lot of money for a race bike; it shows how little I knew about racing bikes.

And then there was the nutrition.  Everything you hear and read about ironman distances emphasises the fact that the body can’t store anywhere near enough energy to get you through the day.  The internet has plenty of footage of wobbly-legged ironmen and ironwomen literally crawling, dazed, towards the finish line and, of course, there’s rarely a video of those who abandon earlier in a race, their body giving up on the challenge.  To avoid bonking (cyclist term for ‘hitting the wall’) on the bike or collapsing in a knee-buckling heap on the run, it’s necessary to keep fuelling throughout the day; this turns the whole day into one long help-yourself buffet, albeit one where what’s on offer isn’t very exciting.

With an hourly target of 60g of carbs and a litre of fluid, it’s got to be stuff that not only goes down easily but can also be processed quickly through the digestive system into the bloodstream and on to the muscles.  These days that means energy drinks and gels.  There’s a multitude of flavours but after a few hours they all taste the same: sweet and sticky.  A feed station on the bike leg will offer a banana or snack bar but you’ve got to wait for the run before the choice improves.  Seven hours into the race it’s a welcome change to grab a piece of flapjack, a Jaffa biscuit or some crisps, and swill it down with a plastic cup of coke (always seems to help settle a protesting stomach that’s unhappy working non-stop dealing with foodstuffs it doesn’t usually have to cope with).  The other positive aspects of a feed station are the reassurance that a portaloo will be there, just in case it’s needed, and the small bunch of volunteers will chirpily offer encouragement and falsehoods.

‘You’re going great!’  (Really?) 

‘Looking good!’   (You’re kidding!)

‘Not far now.’   (Bollocks!  I know you’re lying!)

The one thing that’s difficult to prepare for is the mental side.  How do you ignore the messages that are racing, with increasing desperation and annoyance, up and down the nervous system from all parts of the body to the brain?  I guess I would find out on the day.

I wasn’t short of support.  We stayed at the venue at Holme Pierrepont. Sue and I slept in the car, not exactly the most ideal arrangement but you never get much sleep the night before a big event and I needed to be up at 3.30am anyway.  Sue and Ade were in their van and obliged with my traditional porridge breakfast and the entire Hayden family had come along and were camping on the next pitch; Di was even driving down from Warrington.

The countdown clock, which had been running for the last nine months since that simple click of the ‘enter’ button, was down to its last few minutes.  The scale might have been different but I suspect I had an inkling of how an astronaut, perched on top of a rocket about to blast-off, or a woman about to go into labour might feel.  ’Oh hell, what have I got myself into?’ combined with the realisation that it’s actually going to happen, it might not be much fun and there’s absolutely no way to back out now.

A thousand nervous people in wetsuits; a far-too-enthusiastic commentator for 6.00am in the morning booming out through the speakers; a stunning sunrise at the far end of the swim course.

‘Move forward everyone please.’

‘Enter the water now folks, fast on the left, slower on the right.’

‘Thirty seconds.  Have a great day!  See you on the carpet later.’

‘GO!’

‘Oh, Shit!’

Over the last couple of years, organisers have introduced a more civilised ‘rolling start’, where small groups are set off at five second intervals, but traditionally it’s a mass bun-fight; arms and legs everywhere as people try to find some space to settle into their stroke.  It’s reasonably good-natured but can still hurt if someone’s foot or elbow catches your head or stomach and there’s always the worry of losing your goggles.  I suspect it’s a good job everyone has their head under the water because, with adrenaline-pumping, the language would be lively. 

Eventually things calmed down as a pecking order was established.  Murky water ensured that fellow swimmers drifted in and out of vision as we slowly made progress up, and then back down the regatta course.  With the sky lightening it was possible to see a few keen spectators wandering, at a similar pace, along the adjacent path and note the odd family of swans near the bank no doubt bewildered by the early morning spectacle.  After an hour, just as the cold water was letting fingers and toes know they’d been immersed long enough, the regatta grandstand came into view.  Ten minutes later, after a scramble up the ramp and a short jog, the changing marquee provided a brief opportunity to grab a breath.  The tent is a luxury usually only associated with longer events as many competitors choose to change kit between the stages rather than do the whole thing in the one tri-suit; an additional benefit is that it protects the watching public from witnessing a mass of bums and bits being towelled, talced and lubricated.

Bike kit finally on, I headed for Transition and performed my usual idiotic run back and forth past where I’d racked my bike: even with a thousand bikes lined up over twenty rows it shouldn’t be too hard to remember the row number and where you’d position it, right?  Wrong!  Often shivering and with the crowd shouting, fellow racers getting in the way, and cycle shoes clip-clopping dangerously on the tarmac, it’s not as easy as it sounds.  Finally reunited with my bike, I headed off, far too quickly but I needed to warm up.

The key to a successful bike leg is to find a pace you can hold for the next six or seven hours.  Trying to avoid being sucked into pushing to overtake someone in front or alternatively resisting the urge not to engage in a duel with anyone passing me was difficult, particularly in the first hour or two as riders established their natural place in the race.  It also helped not to look at the distance log on the little bike computer too early in the race but after a couple of hours I couldn’t resist a peek.

‘58km, hey?  Not bad!’

I started doing a few mental sums. ‘Keep this up and that’ll be 6:30.  No need to worry about missing the nine hour cut-off then.’

The route picked its way around the gently rolling countryside of east Nottinghamshire, through villages where I’d played cricket thirty-five years earlier, past the medieval minster in Southwell, over the Trent on Gunthorpe Bridge.  Essentially a two-lap course, it was best not to try and think about the remaining distance until at least half-way.  Inevitably, slowly the aches emerged.  The wind picked up slightly and the pace started to slip.  My little band of supporters made successful interceptions on several occasions, helping to lift any flagging spirits, and fleeting conversations with other riders offered mutual encouragement.  Five hours in and with 40k still to go, I passed into the ‘how much f..ing longer’ zone: the period when you can’t help taking frequent glances at the computer and bemoaning the apparent strange increase in length between the distance markers on the side of the road.  Neck, arse and legs were definitely not happy and a heavy squall in the final hour added to the discomfort, but eventually I rolled back into Holme Pierrepont, found the correct rack spot, and waddled, bow-legged, into the changing marquee.

‘Wow, 180km, my longest-ever ride.  6 hours 50.  Not too bad.  Now what’s next? 

Oh yeah, a marathon.’

It’s best not to worry much about the run until you actually have to start as it would only result in an intimidated, despairing head-space; just try and stay in ‘denial’ mode until your trainers are laced up.  Telling myself, ‘Okay, let’s go!  We can do this!’ it was out onto the run and the hideous first kilometre when the legs realised that the 31,000 revolutions they’d already performed in the day didn’t warrant a deserving sit-down and screamed in protest, enforcing an awkward, uncomfortable jog.  Eventually they get the message; ‘We’re in this for the long run so better try and make the best of a bad job.’ allowing a more efficient gait to eventually become established.  It’s a good job they didn’t know there were still 50,000 steps ahead of them.

The run route circled around the regatta course before following the towpath along the river, past the City Ground (‘Mist rolling in…’) and Trent Bridge, over the suspension bridge I’d crossed so many times with Dad, Rick or friends en route to a match, before looping back to the start.  Repeat five times.  Lap one was manageable; about an hour in which to suss out the state of the path, the feed station offerings, personalities, and loos, and whereabouts Sue and the gang were loyally gathered.

It got worse; any hopes of a five hour run slowly evaporated.  Despite the continued encouragement, the never-ending clapping and the unlimited buffet, the pace inexorably dropped as the afternoon shadows lengthened.  Knees that had been niggling in the months leading up to the race started to twinge; the knee-support I was wearing, increasingly ineffective; hips, back and shoulders joined in on the act so that the smile I gave anyone in the crowd was becoming far more of a grimace.  And my stomach was complaining; I sat in a portaloo for 10 minutes feeling sorry for myself, hoping the cramps would pass, before accepting that I’d just have to get on with it.  It’s quite common to adopt a walk-a-bit-run-a-lot strategy over this distance but mine wasn’t planned; out of necessity I must have walked an hour on and off during the middle of the run, only cheered by noting how many others were in the same boat.

The wind wasn’t helping: it was right in my face along the long stretch by the regatta course and it disrupted any remaining rhythm, elicited constant Anglo-Saxon cursing, sapped further the energy and chilled a body that was nearly out of juice.  I’d pretty well run out of mind games;  I couldn’t be bothered to keep summoning songs from the mental catalogue and even the distraction of spotting and over-hauling or being over-hauled by a shapely female form no longer generated much enthusiasm.  And yet, five hours forty-five minutes after setting off on the run and fourteen and a quarter hours since the start, I veered left, away from those still with laps to do, and onto the carpet that led along the final chute to the gantry that marked the Finish.

 A restrained fist pump and a huge sense of relief.  And satisfaction.

'Never again!’ said Ade after 14 hours of clapping.  Truthfully.

‘Never again!’ said my Sue.  Hopefully.

‘Never again!’ said a daft bugger.  Falsely.

Anna Wedgwood claims I’m a bad influence and holds me responsible for the triathlon journey that she and Chris were about to embark on.  Not a couple to sit still for long they were casting round for a ‘summer activity’, their winters being occupied by kayaking, walking and skiing.  With sons Josh and Seb increasingly independent they had time on their hands.

‘I fancy having a crack at what Pete and Sue have been doing’ Anna says to Chris. ‘How about trying a triathlon?’

‘What!’ says Chris thinking she must’ve forgotten that he can barely swim and is scared of open water?

They never do things by halves.  They splashed out on a couple of decent bikes, signed up for swimming coaching and began running up and down the lanes and across the Wiltshire fields around their home in Nettleton.  Anna started badgering me to recommend a good intro’  event and before I knew it I was entered with her in the 2013 Vachery Olympic distance race based at a country estate in Surrey.  Chris’s swimming was coming on but he wasn’t ready yet for 1500m.  Just as well he opted out; the swim was advertised as being in crystal-clear, spring-fed lake but the reality on the day was anything but.  The hot weather had encouraged a bloom of green algae on the surface and a mass of straggly, clinging weeds were growing up from the bottom.  One of my pet hates is the slimy touch of seaweed and the half-hour swim was a nightmare; everyone emerged draped in green tendrils looking like some sort of Dr Who monsters from the depths.  But the ride was scenic, taking in some picturesque, if rather snooty villages and hamlets (residents only parking, stay off the green, etc) and the run looped a couple of times around the country estate.  Anna survived, coming in 30 minutes behind me in around three and a half hours, and within minutes of demolishing her celebratory cake announced that next year it would be a Half.

‘Why not do your local one then - the Cotswold 113 next June?  It’s based at the South Cerney Water Park.’

I monitored (stalked them on Strava) their training over the following months.  ‘Not bad’ became ‘okay’ became ‘pretty decent’. Their determination to stick to the coaching plan was laudable and Chris’s determination to improve his swimming impressive.  However he wasn’t quite ready for 1900m so, again, it was just the two of us contemplating the calm waters of Lake 32 at six ’o’clock on a Sunday morning.  Just a few hours earlier Sue and I had been in St David’s celebrating Sue B’s 50th and had virtually driven overnight to the venue.  And this year my training had been different; the previous weekend we’d dragged my work team through their Three Peaks adventure and much of the previous six months had revolved around walking up and down hills in preparation.  As an alternative approach it seemed to work.  Finishing in five and a half hours was a decent result and buoyed by this performance I allowed myself to contemplate doing another full Ironman the following year. 

I needn’t have bothered.  Three weeks later I was in Southmead hospital with a smashed pelvis and broken arm. This story, which effectively wrote off 2015 for anything competitive, is told in the ‘Dog in the Park’ bike crash chapter.

There’s nothing like a race goal to focus thoughts and efforts.   A big crash, a big injury and a big rehab’ needed a big target.  I’d told the solicitor handling my injury claim that I’d be thwarted from doing an ironman in 2015 so almost felt obliged to actually make good on that statement. 

Fancying an Ironman branded event I picked out IM Weymouth in September 2016 as a race far enough in the future to allow me to get back in some sort of shape.  The swim should be okay even if it was in the sea.  I’d done the Big Chill, a six mile swim in Coniston Water in autumn 2015 with Rick, who was making long-distance open-water swimming something of a speciality for himself, but I was still slightly miffed at the finish to find out he’d been a few minutes quicker.

For the bike and run it was essentially back to the DIY plan used in 2012, blending the training around a crazy year at the factory and our other various commitments: no different to most of the other competitors then.  Despite the usual disruptions from minor injuries in the preceding months and the inevitable niggles and scares in the final days that threatened a last-minute abort I found myself watching another golden sunrise; this time from Weymouth beach.  With me on the beach was Stuart, who was having his first crack at the alternative half-iron distance with a couple of his university friends, whilst in the crowd of spectators lining the promenade were Sue and Murray, there in his unofficial role as supporter-coach-advisor.

Hardly surprising it turned out to be another long, long day.  The run leg that looped five times around the harbour, through the old bits of the town and out and back along the Prom’, never seemed to end although was enlivened by increasingly rowdy encouragement from the clientele drinking outside the various pubs.  As always, if you keep putting one foot in front of the other and tell yourself ‘to just keep moving forward’ the finish carpet eventually appears.  It always feels great but an Ironman brand event has just that little bit extra.  The event takes over the whole town for a few days and the build-up, the razzmatazz, the expo, the upbeat briefings, the armies of helpers, the merchandise all add up to make everyone feel that little bit extra special.

And then there’s the traditional finish, almost legendary amongst endurance triathletes.  The same commentator, Mike Reilly, has called home the finishers in over 250 Ironman races around the world, keeping up a non-stop banter from the start until the final cut-off 17 hours later.

Crossing the line to hear him announce at the top of his voice ‘Pete Sheath.  You are an Ironman’ adds an extra dimension to the sense of achievement.

Overall the 14 hours 38 minutes was 20 minutes slower than four years earlier in Nottingham and that was largely due to the hillier bike course through the rolling Dorset countryside.  Considering the pelvic surgery two years earlier and the time-constraints on training I was more than satisfied.

Hever Castle, the country home of Anne Boleyn was the scenic backdrop for a standard distance race in 2017, most memorable for Sue giving it a go in the lake for her first open-water swim as she had a crack at a Sprint Distance.  Then it was back to the Cotswold 113 in 2018.  Anna and Chris, now based in Les Gets in the French Alps, were full-on in the summer with their local tri-club and had progressed in leaps and bounds.  They fancied an early season Half before tackling Ironman UK Bolton later in the year and challenged me to enter.  That Chris was now capable of swimming 1900m in open water was a testament to his determination to overcome his nerves.   As usual I was overhauled on the ride by Anna, a she-beast on the bike, before catching her back on the run.  I ended up with 5:56 with Chris and Anna not far behind. It was a good warm-up for them; six weeks later they finished their first IM and Anna sneaked a coveted, Willy-Wonka golden ticket age-group entry to the legendary IM Kona in Hawaii at the end of the season.  Seriously impressive.

GB Journey

Out on an autumn ride with the Bromleys a few weeks later Andy mentioned something that hadn’t even crossed my mind.

‘Have you looked at GB qualification?’

‘Nope.  Why?’

‘With bit of focus you might be there or thereabouts.’

Curious, I dug around the British Triathlon website.  The qualification process for Half and Full-Distance ironman events was a bit unusual.  Getting within 15% of the winner’s time at a recognised event allows your name to be considered for selection and then, depending on the size of the team they’re sending to a particular event, you hope you’re one of the fastest of those eligible.  Checking past results from a few recent international events I realised I wasn’t a million miles away; maybe with a step-up in the training it might be possible.  Recently retired I certainly couldn’t use work commitments as an excuse and I would also be pitching, aged 60, at the bottom end of the 60-year-old age band and therefore, in theory, had age on my side.  I found myself answering enquiries about what I would be doing in my retirement with an admission I was having a crack at qualifying to race for Great Britain.  The more people I told the more I realised I’d better do something about it.

Step one was to obtain a vital stamp of approval; fortunately Sue was her normal supportive self just adding the caveats that holidays and weekends wouldn’t be overly compromised.  I joined Kingswood Tri’, the local triathlon club, and bought a new pair of running shoes (New Balance this time) and a new bike.  At £1300 it was an entry-level Boardman TT (time trial) bike, which in theory would enable me to find 5-10% extra speed thanks to the bike profile and different riding position which reduces the air resistance through better aerodynamics.  I could easily have spent three times that amount but common sense just about won out.  How much value do you put on the possibility of going another few percent faster?

Autumn, winter, spring.  Twice a week in the pool and gym plus a new mix of shorter-faster and longer-steadier rides and runs, tapping into the experience of other club members, reading the books and magazines, listening to podcasts, absorbing suggestions from Murray, all feeding in to a training plan designed to deliver a quicker sustainable pace.  It wasn’t always easy.  At times it felt like a throwback to forty years earlier and the swim racing/training mindset;

‘If you want to get better, you’d better get up, better go out, better get your trainers on etc’.

Poor weather, lethargy, feeling a bit hung over, something on the tele, can’t be arsed, and so on all need the overrule button to be pressed.  Remarkably I managed to avoid any significant injuries and eventually arrived at the start of the racing season broadly in shape.

I had earmarked four events for 2019 that met the entry criteria; two Halves and two Fulls.

May Swashbuckler Half in the New Forest, last tackled in 2011. 5 hours 40 minutes.

Cloudless, seriously chilly at 6.00am and a swarm of jellyfish to deal with in a decidedly icy swim.  It took an hour for my feet to warm up on the bike and I got the pacing wrong on the run, going off far too quickly and paying the price in the final, unpleasant hour.

Half an hour quicker than eight years earlier, second in my age group and most importantly within 9% of the winner.  This might get me in contention.

Within an hour of finishing we set off for Scotland, driving non-stop to the cottage in Torridon, arriving early the following morning in time for breakfast with our friends and a loch-side walk as a belated warm down.

June   Cotswold 113,  done a few times previously.   5 hours 22 minutes

Lucky with the weather again at this venue and everything went according to plan, even managing  the 1/2 marathon run comfortably inside two hours having been more sensible with the early pace.  Thought I’d done pretty well and later in the day when the official results popped up on the webpage it was confirmed.  First in the 60 plus age-group and 25 minutes faster than 12 months previously.   Not bad at all.

PLUS: according to my interpretation of the criteria I should definitely be selected for the European Middle Distance Championships in Austria in June 2020. Yeh!  Excited!  Just had to wait until October when the team will be announced and selection confirmed.

July:   The Outlaw,  the home of my first full-distance in 2012.   4 hours 58 minutes ?

Not so lucky with the weather.  It was baking hot the week leading up to the race but for the 24 hours beforehand it absolutely chucked it down. Huge puddles on the paths to the start didn’t bode well for the run and the ride wasn’t going to be much fun, especially as the forecast was for more heavy rain until mid-afternoon.

A strange mix of emotions amongst the competitors at the start as the rain beat down; some gung-ho, some fatalistic, some just miserable, some scared.  The announcer tried to be upbeat.

‘Think yourself lucky you’re not spectating;  at least you’ll be drier when you start the swim.’

I had a good swim but on the short jog to the changing tent was given the news that the bike leg had been cancelled due to the conditions.  Apparently parts of the course were flooded and elsewhere huge puddles hid hazards like potholes; and it was still like a monsoon so, even if we tried racing, there was little doubt there would be crashes and riders would quickly get cold without full waterproof kit.  Disappointing but definitely the right call by the event crew.

So after a short re-organisational breathing space which gave the chance to nip back to the van, grab a coffee and refocus, it was onto the run;  effectively a cross-country marathon.  The path by the river was often ankle-deep; no point in attempting to avoid the numerous puddles or muddy patches; everyone just had to tough it out.  Eventually by early-afternoon the rain had eased and the final hour of the run was completed in drier and warmer conditions - relief for Sue, let alone me.

Without the bike leg, in my annoyed state, I’d set a revised run target of getting under four hours so was chuffed to do 3:50 for the marathon, amazingly the fastest run since London 1999 and, considering the conditions, pretty good for a sixty-year old. 

And, when the revised results came out I was second out of nineteen in the age-group and only a couple of seconds behind the winner.  Shouldn’t have dallied so long on a wee-stop!

But a nagging doubt - would British Tri’ accept a truncated result for the long-distance selection?  Fortunately I’d still another chance to log an official time.

September:   Ironman Emilia Romagna, Italy.       12 hours 19 minutes

An end-of-season opportunity that originally was scheduled as a ‘bit of fun’ after a fortnights holiday in southern France and a week in Italy providing the chance to catch up with my old boss Giuseppe for a few days it suddenly took on a new importance. To be sure of consideration for GB at this distance I needed to register a reasonable finish.  Adding a further dimension was the fact that Chris and Anna were doing it; Anna absolutely flying after a summer’s racing and training in the Alps, Chris was rebuilding after a crash earlier in the summer in which he’d broken a couple of ribs and just looking for a finish.

Preparation wasn’t exactly ideal; en route to Italy the van broke down marooning us in a pokey little hotel near Monte Carlo for four nights and we ended up sleeping in the hired car before finally arriving at Cervia on the Adriatic coast on the day of registration.

It was good to hook-up with the Wedgwoods, who had installed themselves in a very comfortable apartment and try and chill out the day before the race trying not to worry that the sea looked rather choppy.  Surely they wouldn’t cancel the swim?  Local experts weren’t overly concerned and they were proved right; dawn on race day revealed a much calmer ocean.

Another good swim, a reasonable bike-ride on a flat course although the last hour was tough; the wind didn’t help, I found the aero riding position hard to sustain for so long, I was given a 5 minute drafting penalty (No way! Maybe the zealous marshal was upset about Brexit and picking on the Brits), and got in a tangle trying to get my suit off and back on in a portaloo.  Anna had cruised past earlier and kept up a good enough pace on her run to prevent me hauling her back.  I was completely shot by the finish,  ‘Pete Sheath, you are an Ironman’ never sounded so good.  Anna even asked if I wanted to get checked out in the medical tent so I must have looked really wasted.

‘Never again’.

We found Sue amongst the spectators on the beach and were able to give Chris a deserved cheer when he determinedly made it home. Sue steered me, hobbling like an old man, back to our caravan.

‘Never, never again’

Next morning I’d perked up after a shower and a night’s sleep.  The results revealed Anna had come third in her category and I’d managed a top twenty finish with a time two hours quicker than my previous best seven years earlier and one that also met the selection criteria for GB ironman consideration for the World championships in Holland.

‘Well maybe just one more.’

Great Britain and Northern Ireland

Two emails arrived a few months later.

It was a similar set of feelings to when the County Swim Team call-up letter had arrived in the post back in my teens.  There was the quiet satisfaction that the objective I’d been aiming for, sharing the intent with friends and former colleagues, had been achieved.  I was excited by the prospect of wearing the GB kit, being part of the team and taking part in European and World Championships.  And the venues were in places we could take the van and have a week or two holiday afterwards so there was something more in it for Sue than just a lonely day standing by the side of the course.

Of course it’s one thing to be selected, but the full journey isn’t complete until you arrive at the start line.

‘So,’ I said to Sue, ‘I’d like to give it full focus in 2020, see just how good I can go, make sure I don’t let myself down in a GB vest, and then I can back off and not take it too seriously.’

‘It’s a deal.’  Or words to that effect.

What did ‘taking it seriously’ actually mean?

There were several strands. The bike leg provided the biggest opportunity to find some extra speed but there was also ample scope for improvement elsewhere.  On the recommendation of Andy Bromley, I enrolled with local cycling coach, Chris Davies.  Still racing competitively at national level in his sixties, he had a wealth of experience and he encompassed strength and conditioning and physiotherapy within the package.  An interesting, enigmatic guy, he had an Aladdin’s Cave of bikes in his garage/workshop, an eye-watering collection of guitars in a music room, a well-equipped gym and a physiotherapy room all comfortably squeezed into his home alongside the river in Frenchay.  He was knowledgeable and forthright with a pleasant manner and I liked him from our first chat, especially as he confidently assessed where I currently was and suggested that a 15% improvement was definitely achievable.  All I had to do was follow his plan.  Oh, and cough up his monthly coaching fees.  There weren’t many perks associated with GB selection but one of them was the entitlement of free membership to all local public sport centres.  This meant the money I saved on swim and gym sessions could be used to fund Chris’s coaching and an accompanying training software package, ‘Training Peaks’, to monitor and track fitness, fatigue and form and ‘Zwift’ for monitoring performance and effort whilst on the indoor turbo trainer.

All set, we embarked on a programme to build endurance and strength through the winter and then focus on developing speed in the Spring.  I enjoyed the focus, the attention to the data, the logic undermining the physiological development and embraced the routine of an even more disciplined weekly calendar: pool, gym, turbo, road, run, repeat, repeat.  Luckily, Sue had also embarked on her own fitness regime, so we often shared trips to the sports centre and the odd ride and didn’t end up leading separate lives.

It was working. The data clearly showed an improving trend.  The week in Majorca in March with Pete and Di and Malc and Kate would set me up nicely for the coming speed work.

Except it wouldn’t.

Coronavirus swept onto the scene and suddenly, almost overnight, everything was up in the air.  LOCKDOWN: Confined to home; exercise outdoors only with one other; stay local; early season events cancelled. Surely it would only last a few weeks?  Compared to many thousands of others, we were fortunate.  We were healthy, confined in a comfortable home, which albeit felt like a prison at times, with a pleasant garden, communicating with ease via Zoom, and with numerous walking options to discover in the neighbourhood.   Even the weather was perfect.

Somewhat selfishly frustrated in my own little bubble, I tried to adapt, just like every other athlete around the world.  I improvised weight-lifting on the patio, sweaty sessions on the turbo, pilates on zoom, even ridiculous sprints around the garden.  All in the increasingly forlorn hope that the European Champs in Austria at the end of June wouldn’t be cancelled.  At the end of April the plug was pulled, rescheduling the event to Bled in Slovenia later in September.  I was pissed off but it at least looked like the Holland World Champs would survive and then we’d just head further on to Bled.   Wouldn’t we?

‘Adapt’ said Murray ‘You’ve got the miles in the tank’

‘Adapt!’ said Chris the Coach ‘You’re in a good place.  We’ll ease up for a month and then build again from June.’

He was right about being in a good place.  I couldn’t resist banging out a hard ride and run just to see where I was before we turned things down.  I ran a half-marathon distance in 1:38, way faster than I’d done for years, and held 33km/hr for a two-hour ride - both 15%+ faster than previous bests.

By the middle of June, Chris had taken the leash off and we’d started on the search for speed.  The TT bike was unhitched from the turbo and let loose outdoors as, with Covid restrictions easing, small groups were once again allowed to ride together.  The revised training schedules were keyed into Training Peaks and, as part of the plan, I headed off on a two hour ride loop to Wotton and back.  Earlier in the week I’d hit a pothole and come off, scraping elbows and knee, and getting a puncture but nothing worse and wanted to shake off a bit of stiffness.  It didn’t quite work out as planned.

Southmead Interlude

If you’ve already read the ‘dog crash’ chapter and don’t want more on accidents, hospitals and rehab just keep reading.

For more of the story about the later crashes, the physical details, and the emotional ups and downs that accompanied the accident, repair and recovery have a read of the ‘Southmead Hospital Trauma Team - 2020/21 Season Ticket Holder’ chapter.

-  In summary the next six months involved two bike crashes, a broken clavicle, a new artificial shoulder ligament, a dislocated finger, a broken femur and a dose of Covid.  Not exactly great preparation for a GB debutant.  One of the few silver linings of the pandemic was that both the Bled and Holland events were cancelled in 2020 and the rescheduled Europeans in Austria were abandoned for a second time, postponed until 2022 in Bilbao.  At least I hadn’t missed out on anything.  The Worlds would now go ahead in September 2021.

Nine months later - or more importantly, six months before the rescheduled Worlds

The consultant(s) hadn’t said it couldn’t be done.

The physios hadn’t said it couldn’t be done.

Chris the Coach hadn’t said it couldn’t be done.

Tri-club friends hadn’t said it shouldn’t be done.

Sue hadn’t said, ‘You can’t do it.’

So, taking everything into account, there were no red lights.

Great.  Let’s give it a go and see what happens.  The body would just have to try and do what it was told.

Short, limping uncomfortable runs, became longer lurching uncomfortable runs.

Short tentative bike rides, became longer, stronger, more confident. Ten minutes in aero position became half-an-hour, became an hour…

Stretching, stretching, basic strength, basic strength.

Constant aches, Deep Heat, niggles, Iburofen, sharp pain, enforced rest day (or five), bear with a sore head, massage, optimism, pessimism, optimism, optimism.

Chris the Coach and Jethro the Physio, tried to keep things positive and sensible, guarding against me trying to run before I was ready to walk.  Sue kept a wary, supportive eye on proceedings.

There wasn’t enough time to concentrate on the other stuff.  I’d have to rely for the swim on what I’d put in the bank over the years and any extra strength work would just have to wait until next year.

Dark evenings became lighter evenings and my optimism increased in parallel.

A benchmark was the Cotswold Half, scheduled for July.  Would the shoulder be strong enough to work properly in the swim within a confining wetsuit?  Would it be flexible enough to reach the release strap round the back and wriggle out?  Could I hold the aero-position on the bike?  What would the run feel like?

I wouldn’t find out on the swim.  Early morning fog over the lake made it too dangerous so we went straight to a bike/run.  In the end, the sub three hour ride and sub two hour run was better than I expected.  Pretty much the same as in 2019.  I might not have the pace from 2020 but it was better than I had hoped. The big question now was whether I could cope with double the distance in a further four weeks’ time?

And that was assuming we could actually make it to Holland.  With Covid still everywhere, it was hard for anyone to pin down what was happening and what the various international travel rules entailed. Finally, in July, the event was confirmed as going ahead but it was still far from clear whether the GB team could travel.  Would the Dutch let us in?   Would Boris let us out (and back in)?  Eventually, with four weeks to go, GB asked each team member to commit.

Sue said, ‘Just do it!’ and the long-suffering GB team administrator then applied to the Dutch government for ‘elite sport’ quarantine exemptions for us.  Six days before we travelled, the documentation finally arrived, so all we had to do now was pass the mandatory Covid test before getting on the ferry, pass the mandatory Covid test to get into the event, and back on the boat afterwards, and finally book the mandatory Covid test for after we were (hopefully) back in the UK.  ‘That’ll be two hundred and fifty quid in total for the tests for the pair of you. Thank you very much’.

What seemed like a never-ending road eventually neared its end when we pitched up at the campsite in Almere, on the outskirts of Amsterdam. Next morning I could finally, proudly, allow myself to pull on my GB team shirt for the first time for the team photo and briefing.

Twenty-four hours later it would be my international debut. 

The following is the short race report I pinged off to the Tri-Club Facebook page the following day.

Almere - World Long Course Champs - Race Report.

You know that feeling the night before a big race?

‘Why did I ever sign up for this?  This is going to hurt!‘

‘Do I really want to set the alarm for four am?  The water’s going to be cold.’

‘What if I get a puncture?   Or worse, something I can’t fix?  Or fall off (again)?’

‘Have I forgotten anything?  Rephrase that - what have I forgotten?’

‘What if I get busted for drafting?’

‘What about an extra layer under the flimsy tri-suit? (It can’t be long-sleeved or they’ll disqualify me for covering up the number tattoo.)   Arm warmers then?’

‘What if my normally reliable stomach decides it can’t deal with all the energy drinks and gels and I end up lurching from one feed station loo to the next?’

‘Will Sue be okay and manage to find her way to various points on the route to see me going by?’

I’m going to get stuffed.  This isn’t like a normal event where there is wide range of abilities; everyone here looks super-athletic, tanned and younger.  There’s not a hint of a spare kilo of weight and they all look like they’ve spent the last six months at a sun-kissed Mediterranean training camp or working out at altitude in the Alps or Rockies.

That’s before I even think about the bikes.  I’m surprised they even let my entry-level Boardman TT bike through the bike check-in; it must be one of just a handful that isn’t sporting An aero-disc rear wheel.  Most of the other bikes are like something out of the next century and by the time their riders have donned their aero helmets and visors I’ll be feeling like I’m up against an evil, faceless army from a Star Wars film.  Vindictively, I have a jealous hope that it might be too windy on the day for disc wheels before I grumpily realise that they’ve undoubtedly got a spare standard race wheel back in their hotel room and even that probably cost more than my whole bike! ‘Stop it!’

And will my repaired shoulder and leg hold up?  I might have been reinforced with titanium plates and artificial ligaments in the last 12 months but the surrounding muscles and other soft-tissue has never been asked to keep going this long since the various ops.

I can’t say I slept particularly well, despite part of my brain telling me to look for the positives.

‘Don’t beat yourself up - after the year you’ve had it’s good just to be here.’

‘You’re racing for GB - just be proud to wear the kit. (But don’t let the team down).’

‘You’ve got a team manager; if anything goes wrong he’ll help sort it.’

‘You can do it - just keep going. (I know but it’s such a long way)’

‘Once it’s over you can relax.  Back to Tuesday social rides and Club Sundays with no need for structured training or Training Peak analysis . Yeh!’

There’s no going back, there’s no way out. 

It’s the World Championship Long-Course in Almere, Holland.  Like so many events, it was cancelled last year and was in doubt until a few weeks ago.  For the British team to even be here has required half-a-dozen Covid tests plus a letter from the Dutch authorities granting exemptions to their mandatory quarantines, and that’s before we even think about getting back into the UK afterwards.  I’ve got so many downloaded documents on my phone I’m surprised I’ve not reached my storage limits.

At 7:00 am I’m on the quayside with all the other anonymous wet-suits as a watery sun rises over a breeze-rippled lake, revealing the distant-looking marker buoys.  Most of us are quietly reflective, apart from the large American contingent who are noisily encouraging each other with high-fives and ‘Way to go, dudes.’  First in are the pros who quickly speed away, chasing world records and the $15,000 prize money, and within half-an-hour we’re all in the water.

It’s a rolling start so the usual melee is avoided and it’s not cold at all; in fact it’s positively balmy at 20c.  A little choppy but there’s nothing to stop a steady swim and 1:17 and 4200m later (a bit longer than advertised) it’s into T1.  After 11 minutes of faffing, I’m onto the bike course.

The route heads north-east from Almere Port along the coastal dykes for 50k before looping back across endless fields to the sea to complete a circuit that’s ridden twice.  It’s absolutely pancake flat.  There are long straight sections (imagine 25k without a bend!) and the road surface is great; I wonder if the Dutch realise how lucky they are not to be dodging potholes every few metres.  What’s not to stop a quick bike time?

Well the answer is provided by the large offshore wind farm arrays and the dozens of windmills that line the route.  The forecast was for light winds; the reality felt stronger and, whatever it was, it was strong enough to keep all the windmills turning.  It’s so exposed to winds off the North Sea and I’m sure there’s a fundamental law of physics that says, ‘The benefit from a tailwind is always half the impact from a headwind.’ It certainly felt that way for the last 35k.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so lonely on a ride.  Being closed-road, there was no traffic, and numerous marshals on motor bikes ensured that no-one risked drafting.  Having exited the swim in the middle of the pack, the next few hours saw a continual stream of express trains coming past as the quicker cyclists sped by.  I’d hear the whir of disc wheels approaching, feel the buffet of slipstream as they cruised past, leaving me to contemplate their national kit, age-group or physique/figure as they disappeared into the distance.  I didn’t think I was hanging around (I averaged 29k/hr for 180k) but most of the others were going quicker; I guess it was the ‘Worlds’ and everyone was there to race rather than just finish.  By the second lap, the line-up had settled and I’d found my place in the pecking-order towards the rear of the field, trying to keep my concentration until I could at least have a brief chat with someone at the next feed-station.  I only overtook two people and reckon I was passed by about three hundred.  I tried to reconcile this by repeating, as a mantra, the quote from Lance Armstrong before he fell from grace:

‘It’s all about the bike.'  Or something like that.

After 6:30 hours I just managed to get in and out of T2 before the winners showed up on the same blue finishing carpet and plodded off on the first of six 7km laps around the lake.  At least the legs were moving, maybe not as quickly as I wanted, but well enough to start picking off a few fellow athletes during what had turned out to be a hot, sunny afternoon.  For a few laps it was quite busy but as the younger, quicker ones completed their quota and the sun sank towards the horizon there were fewer and fewer of us left out there.  I’m just not used to being among the last chunk of runners out on the course so it was a strange experience, but the local support was noisy, the feed-stations crews were brilliant, and Sue was there each lap to give encouragement and snap photos of an increasingly haggard looking husband.  To help take my mind off how much further it was I tapped into my mental music library for suitable distraction songs settling on First Aid Kit’s ‘My Silver Lining’ with its appeal to ‘keep on, keeping on’.

Most of the crowd had left the stands for the bars and cafes but there were enough of the GB team still there to raise a cheer when I finally, proudly, made it home after 4:45 on the run and a total of 12:58 on the go.  Can’t say I blame them; the winners had finished five hours earlier.

When the dust had settled I’d apparently become 17th in the world for my age-group (out of 28), providing of course I ignored the fact that Covid had thinned the entries and there were no teams from Asia, Australia or New Zealand.

The original plan had been to cycle back the 6k to the campsite but Sue, having seen the cycle path route, had sensibly insisted that a hotel might be a better alternative for the night than a wobbly, kit-laden ride home in the dark.  I allowed her to persuade me to do a last minute booking of a room within a short walk from the finish.  The fact that it was the American team hotel and the bar was full of athletes and supporters incessantly chanting ‘USA USA’ didn’t matter: within minutes of dumping everything in the room we were out for the count.

Mission accomplished.  Now what?

‘Never again!’   I promised Sue and myself.  ‘Not at this distance anyway.’

But there’s still the re-arranged European Half Distance to do, now in Bilbao in September 2022.  With a year to go, I’ve plenty of time to ‘build back better’.

Note – I was building back better until an achilles problem a month before the Bilbao race handicapped the running training.  On a miserable, wet day my GB suit made a second appearance and made it to the finish line in 29th place out of 54 for the age-group.  Satisfied that I’d tried as hard as I could but irritated that the ongoing ankle problem had resulted in a run 20 minutes slower than I was capable of.  It wouldn’t have made a massive difference to my overall place but it would have put me roughly alongside Rick.  He’d entered in the open category and another good performance emphasised the progress he’d made in the two years since he’d taken up the sport., especially considering he’s still in full-time work.  Needless to say I will quietly offer to myself the explanation that I’m three and a half years older and have a body that’s held together by nuts and bolts and I’ll never mention that my bike cost 1/3 of his!

And now?  

In 2025 I’ll be at the bottom end of the next age-group for GB selection. 

Maybe…or

London Marathon one last time?  The guaranteed ‘good for age’ entry time is 3:45.  Maybe…..or

Trail running or riding?  Some long steady cross-country trips where I can actually appreciate my surroundings rather than being focused on the 5m of tarmac in front.   Maybe…..or

What about another shot at the threepenny-bit challenge. 100 yards in 20 seconds.  Maybe…..or

As it happens, it looks like it's Lands End to John O Groats in May 2023.

Image removed: Adidas running spikes, adidas green stripe trainers, plimsolls