Wildstrubel utmb

So I’m sitting on a bench at the aid station, 51km into the 73km race. I’ve made the decision to drop out. The aid station supervisor comes up to me and says “you don’t look great, what do you need?” Me: “I need to drop out, my knees are ruined.” Her: “Ah okay, I’ll let you sit for a bit.”

Other runners are coming up to me: “Ah man you look like shit, you okay?” Me: “No, gonna drop out.” “Ah no man you can do it!! Just one loop to go.” One guy in particular: “yeah I get why you’d want to – maybe you should, but I bet you could finish it you wanted to.”

That was it – my decision.

The emotions, comradery and support in this sport are complex. All I wanted was the validation from someone saying “ah yeah, good idea – sounds like you do need to drop.” Not one person gave me that..

Then the thought comes in… “hold on, why am I dropping? My knees are fucked but like, I think I could finish slowly and in shitloads of pain, and I want to finish.”

In the end it wasn’t a decision to finish. It was pure indecision and procrastination. Delaying the act of dropping out – which I didn’t want to do – until the next aid station. Easier that way, right?

—

Rewind to race morning. I like the way Fiona Pascall (race winner) put the build up…

Plan A: Wildstrubel 113km ultra with 6,600m at 10:30pm Friday (delayed because of snow)
Plan B: Wildstrubel 109km ultra with 6,200m at 6am Saturday (cancelled because of 50cm snow drifts and 45kph wind)
Plan C: Wildstrubel 72km ultra with 3,250m at 6am Saturday (started, and cancelled after 35mins due to more snow drifts)
Plan D: Wildstrubel 73km ultra with 3,450m (new route) at 8:20am Saturday

I went into this race with high confidence and good preparation in spite of the wild changes for the few days on the lead-in. I went out at a good pace – somewhere between “this is too easy and I’m getting caught in traffic” and “this is moderate and perhaps unsustainable.”

That may have worked in another world… but in this world I’d burnt up my legs during plan C. Summary: On the initial start I ran up the first major climb, then ran back into town after running into Ellen and Fiona just for fun – averaging 5:53/km over 13km which included the entire first major climb and descent… which is a bit smashy.

From there we’ll divide the race into 3 parts for the sake of storytelling.

Part 1: km 0 to km 36 | Feeling fast

The race preview was giving “not that technical, lots of runnable sections.” So I expected to make it quite far before feeling too tired. As it turns out, the adapted route had some hilariously fun, muddy and technical descents in the snow… great for the skier and descender in me. Also great to compare myself to these Swiss mountain runners and know I can descent with the best. But they take a high toll on the legs without much distance gained.

Then there was the fact that the last-minute changes to the route had created lots of confusion. There were 3 times when the route markers disagreed with the updated gpx they’d shared 20-mins before the final race start. Impossible to know if the race markers or the gpx were out of date.

So… after going the wrong way the 3^rd and final time I’d kind of lost any respect for whatever race position I’d end up in – it felt meaningless if we hadn’t all completed the same course. I was out to see how my body responded to the day.

Up until 36km in, it responded well.

Part 2: km 36 to km 50 | complete collapse

Up the most major climb of the day, energy levels were low. I was aware that my “true distance” with the false start had already clocked 50km with 2,200m of climbing, so having a first ‘low’ felt reasonable.

I used my poles well and hoisted myself up the climb still faster than those around me, but I felt drained and needed to use a couple of extra mins at the aid stations to top up on salt and normal foods, keeping cramp and the stomach in check.

I got to the top of the major climb feeling ruined and like running would be unlikely, but knowing that energy levels can bounce back at any time and that I just needed to start the descent slow.

To some extent in these races you can’t think too much. Your body is going to feel different in an hour – whether that’s better (because you fixed a fuelling problem) or worse (because it’s more fatigued). You just sort of carry on and respond as you go.

The moment I started going downhill I felt a dull pain in both knees that grew quickly to the point of agony. Descending was what I knew I’m best at, but it just wasn’t happening. I tried cycling through a bunch of mantras…

“This is fine, you’re fine.”
“This is easy, this is normal.”
“Don’t be a fucking wimp.”

200m down the road and I was using a signpost to take my weight as I lent back into a squat to stretch my knees. Temporary relief. We go downhill again – run a couple of steps – immediate agony again.

“This is fucking silly… I’m gonna have to use my poles.”

The poles come out, I use them as a sort of “stride softener” with each step. The steep bits are ridiculous. I’m lowering myself down like I’m using a zimmer frame. My face is a kind of constant anger emoji. I’m doing my best to not think what any of it means.

Then the following thought occurs over a period of about 0.75 seconds:

“There’s an aid station 6km down the road. The total route is a sort of figure of 8 so this aid station is at the start / finish. I could drop out there. It would be sensible. I’m saving my knees for future runs. There’s no shame in dropping out. It’s actually brave if I just take it on as a learning.”

You know when you subconsciously make a decision and the emotion of it suddenly comes over you? Those thoughts immediately turned into real sobbing. I didn’t know this race meant a lot to me but it was all coming from somewhere.. other parts of life or just that my body (for the first time?) felt like it was failing me.

Emotions are varied, and I felt a lot of them over the next 90mins that it took me to descend 6km. I’d try to feign a smile to the amazing spectators giving it loud cheers, and they’d sort of see my distorted face and dampen their cheering into a kind of “o dear awkward emoji” reaction.

Then there was seeing Ellen 100m from the aid station. Poor gal gave me a look of “oh god I’m dealing with enough of my own shite to give you support pal, but here’s all the support I can muster.”

I get to the aid station, cry on a bench and wait for my “drop out” opportunity. As we’ve covered, that ‘opportunity’ didn’t come.

Part 3: km 50 to km 73 | absolute ordeal

I get up and walk out of the aid station. I tell myself that I’m just going to the next checkpoint – 8km down the road – and that since I’ve sat for 20-mins, my knees might feel better and I’ll just test running for a bit.

I start running (let’s call it slow shuffling), it’s not so bad on the flat. Maybe this 23km run up and down a mountain will be okay.

We get to the first descent after about 3km of reverse-gaslighting and yeah nah the knees are not better. It turns out 20-mins of sitting doesn’t fix 7 hours and 64km of running .

Getting to the base of that first climb filled me with so much doubt that you just kind of have to shut out. Like, I was side shuffling down a trail and getting out of the way of every runner. Calls of “are you okay? Do you need help?” “Ah no, not okay but you carry on..”

I knew I could get up the climb but had not even a little idea of how I’d get down. But that was a future Chris problem. Current Chris was putting one foot in front of the other and maintaining that angry face emoji.

I’m told the last climb was everyone’s worst point but I was loving life. I warmed up and built up a sweat again. No knee pain for me. Beautiful Swiss mountains. Silencing the thoughts of impending doom.

The high-altitude point was a dam in maybe the most picturesque place I’ve ever seen. So I made like a good photographer, filmed a little video, dropped my phone, cracked the corner of the screen, limped to the aid station and got fed hot salty broth for 10 mins. It didn’t occur to me to drop out once.

The way down mercifully had a lot of flat sections, and very slight downhills which I could just manage a shuffle-run on. But – maths being maths – flats meant steep descents for other parts, because we were on a mountain. Getting through the rest of the race was a blur of telling myself “do not fucking stop you little bitch” and “christ alive this place is like a postcard.” Again, complex emotions.

“Ordeal” is just the best way to cover it. The last 7km of getting home was just a sort of unglamorous one-foot-in-front-of-the-other game. Slowly getting myself home.

Crossing the line.. yes I did cry. Again.. Probably cried more times in a day than since a bad breakup. People kept looking at me and sort of giving a rye smile / little nod.

I love this sport so fucking much. You feel true closeness to the people you’re running with. A total stranger said exactly the right things to (a) make me carry on when I wanted to quit and (b) make me realise that it was entirely my own self-belief which made me do so. When he saw me later on the course, he genuinely shouted with joy. You get the perspective to really just lower the stress magnitude of everyday life. Work deliverables and admin tasks realistically only matter as much as you want them to. Maybe it’s utter shared delirium.

Last thing to say, my pal Ellen had a similarly tough first half, but raced her race and managed to finish on the podium of her age group. I don’t know why, but I think seeing her just before the aid station ‘jogged’ me out of a tunnel vision, and maybe started the thought process of knowing I wouldn’t quit.

Cracking weekend. Would recommend.

Full X

Full X. Feck me.

I got offered a slot to this thing last year and thought “why not; it’s sort of up my street with the need for good endurance and a stupid amount of climbing. And it’ll be pretty. Sounds fun?”

Research into the event then told me I’d been an idiot. The 2021 winning time was 14h 08m and my longest triathlon to date was 13h 08m, in 2017. Oh I’d also not done an ironman since 2019. Fine. And I had to run a marathon up a mountain. Cool.

Honestly this race was so far from anything I’d done that there wasn’t much prior experience to base a planned effort on…

But we carry on, so – two weeks after racing Marbella – Chris (my coach) and I agreed that with so many unknowns, the best approach was to plan my effort level and nutrition per hour, but leave the rest to racing on feel.

So I noted the advice to do absolutely no pushing, packed enough nutrition to fill a small boat, and got to it. This is how it went, or what I remember at least…

—

The day started when I burned my butt on a hot radiator while getting out of the shower. Like, fuck’s sake. I turned out to be okay though, so got the bags ready, put the wetsuit and fun little swimming boots on, and went to transition for 4am wondering why I hadn’t stuck with gymnastics as a kid.

Swim

I started near the front, but took a firm right hook directly to the nose after only a couple of strokes, so had to surge to find clear water. After then, I’m pleased to say I executed a tactical swim.

I wanted to set a time ~5-mins slower than my PB to save energy, so found some good-looking feet relatively quickly and stuck to them. The pace was slower than I felt capable of, but this played into my hands because I was able to bridge to groups further ahead at a few key moments, ultimately landing me with a 1h05 swim which felt pretty on the money.

Bike

It’s so hard to do this bike course justice with a race blog, but it’s up there with the most beautiful rides I’ve ever done. I was even trying to save energy so managed to enjoy it.

One could divide the course into three neat sections, so for the sake of digestible blog content, let’s do that:

Section 1 | 0km to 50km, climbs – The Struggle (25%)

I started out by taking forever to get my silly swim boots off, before hopping on the bike, meandering through Ambleside and heading up The Struggle.

A friendly spectator at the top said I was in 3^rd (this became 2^nd quickly), which told me I was in contention for the win; so I kept things steady and put my head down ready for a long old day. The rest of this section included getting aero on some fast sections and peeing surprisingly frequently. I knew I could save energy and gain time by keeping my effort level low and using the aerobars on the flats, so did that. After The Struggle, the ride was relatively easy until 50km. I even got a bit cold, which is not surprising considering it was still before 7am.

Section 2 | 50km to 112km, climbs – Honister (25%), Newlands (20%), Whinlatter (20%)

These three climbs come in quick succession and are a good test to keep it controlled. My patented 34-32 “granny gearing” enabled me to spin relatively comfortably up each, while not feeling too gassed.

My nutrition also seemed to be going well – I’d planned to maintain 60g of carbs intake per hour (on the lower end of my usual 60-90g range because of the lower effort level), and managed to do so through Maurten gels, Maurten drink and the recently discovered game changers – Clif Bloks (you have to squeeze them hard to open them).

I finished this section feeling as tired as you’d maybe expect after 110km of cycling, but not in any sort of hole. So far so good.

I was also still in 2^nd, which told me that this phantom lead-rider was a strong cyclist and I likely wouldn’t see him until the run.

Section 3 | 112km to 180km, climbs – Hardknott (33%), Wrynose (20%)

Hardknott is one of those climbs which is so hilariously steep that you just think the builders were lazy. Like, would it have killed you to make more zig-zags?

After summiting that cheeky gal and trying my best not to do an accidental wheelie, I passed a capsized motorbike on the similarly steep and tricky descent (he was fine) and pressed into a poorly timed headwind.

By now, I made note that the lead rider was 5-mins ahead of me (I saw him on top of Hardknott and timed how long it took me to reach that point); but was surprised to see that gap close rapidly.

I passed him (Beau was his name, more on him later) at the base of Wrynose and noted that he’d obviously had a strong ride but didn’t look in a good way, so we exchanged a few words but I didn’t stick around to chat in case he found a second wind.

The course finished relatively quickly after Wrynose and I was surprised to still feel relatively strong heading into the run.

Run

Like the bike, let’s break this down into three sections and give them each a one-line summary before a bit more detail…

Section 1 | 14km to the base of Scafell Pike – “Pace feeling surprisingly good”

Section 2 | Up and down Scafell Pike – “This is a big f*cking mountain, where is 2^nd place?”

Section 3 | 30km to finish – “Why are there undulations, running is stupid, I want to die”

I targeted 5-mins/km for the first flat 10km, and managed to keep to that whilst feeling strong enough. 10km to 14km then undulated a little and I started to feel pretty tired.

I was relieved to reach the mountain because that was my internal excuse to stop running and start power-walking uphill, which quickly became slow-plodding uphill.

By now I was really thinking about the win and starting to slow down, so kept looking over my shoulder. And since we’re talking about 2^nd place – a moment to talk about Beau.

He’s a lovely guy and obviously had some expectations on his shoulders, because every time I arrived at an aid station or transition I was asked “oh, who are you? Where’s Beau? Did you see Beau?”

In hindsight, this sentiment was lovely because he obviously has a huge amount of local respect. But I must admit at the time I was probably a bit abrupt because my mind was elsewhere.. I think I gave answers like “I don’t know who Beau is, where’s the water? Which way am I going? Thank you!”

Anyway, Beau was obviously fast and by the time I started to struggle on the climb, I looked over my shoulder a lot but thankfully couldn’t see him. I knew it was my race to lose and I could descend well, so kept to the “tortoise and hare” strategy and eased up on the climb, knowing if I was caught that I might have more beans to give towards the end of the race.

It sounds strange, but I find mountain running easier than flat running – you’re using different muscles, you’re not aiming to go as fast and it’s just more varied so a bit more fun, which is important when your brain needs a distraction from lactate-battered legs.

Having said that, caffeine had become a large part of my fueling strategy by this point (I think I had 12-cups equivalent over the race…), and I felt about as alive as a fossil by the bottom of the mountain.

Those final 14km were about as painful and monotonous as the sport can get. All you want to do is stop running. Every step is a struggle, and every bump feels like a joke made by someone who doesn’t really know how to be funny.

I asked myself “are we there yet” more times than a 6-yr old going on their first holiday, but finally crossed the line with about as much relief as I can ever remember.

—

When Mark (the race organiser) told me my time of 13h 08, the moment started to hit me. I knew I could be in with a shot of winning the race, but I had never imagined that my body would be capable of that time two weeks after Marbella, and without a fell running background.

Maybe it sounds self-gratifying, but allow me my moment… I honestly couldn’t really believe it. This was such a different challenge to anything I’d done and I’d managed to race, win and feel strong on a course I didn’t know, with a measured race effort I feel really bloody proud of. Bodies are truly amazing.

The support I then received was just incredible. I didn’t want to announce the result quickly but I told a few close pals and they were all amazing and said all the right things. I wouldn’t do this sport if it weren’t for the pals I’ve made or the fact that my ‘training’ makes those friendships stronger, rather than the opposite. Y’all know who you are.

After some waiting, it became clear that 2^nd place was going to finish just over an hour after me, which feels utterly bonkers and makes me wish I’d had a rest or stopped for lunch…

This is up there with the results I’m most proud of and grateful for, and that feels quite cool.

The Roc

I felt good for this one.

You know when you just sort-of, know? I’m not one to make big claims before a race but I literally spent my week with a bumble bee at the back of my lungs giving me a buzz of excitement. The body just seemed to be working, and my head was at a place of “yeah, you’re here to have fun, but you know it’s there for you.”

Lucy and I made our way up separately the night before. We had a joke about, she accidentally poured coffee ground into her sipping mug and I put my tattoos on upside down for some reason. We got a good rest. No word about results we were aiming for.

The race morning was beautiful – the fog of Windermere cleared giving us a view of the race and the mountain tops. We got our bikes and bags set up in plenty of time, in spite of an unusual format, and made some pals before getting ready for the start. Bumble bee was getting buzzier. I was smiling, more like grinning, but like, sternly.

We lined up and the gun went off, and I flew over the sharp lakeside stones. Seems like I wanted this one.

—

Race format

🏊1.5km swim in lake Windermere
🚴45.5km bike to the base of Scafell Pike
🏃17.7km fell run to the summit of Scafell Pike and back
🚴45.5km bike back to the lake
🏃1km track run to finish

—

Swim
25:16 | 6th fastest

For the first time ever in a swim, I managed to hang onto faster feet and play the swim tactically. I got dropped maybe 2/3 into the swim, but I’d got myself into 6^th place. Got out of the water, into transition. Feeling good.

Bike – out
1:12:53 | 1st fastest (is that how you spell it?)

The bike lanes suited me to no end. Riding with my Yorkshire nutcase pals seems to have taught me a combination of complete recklessness and mind-numbing fearlessness around the tight lanes of Cumbria, and apparently some bike handling skills too. More on that later…

I overtook the swimmers and found myself with clear road ahead after about half the bike course. Post-analysis showed that I not only got the fastest split here but set a KOM and managed to pick up a “fastest climb of the race” award too. Legs feeling good I guess.

Getting to T2 I didn’t know what position I was in until I saw an empty transition zone ahead. That’s happened to me once before, in my only previous win. No time for being surprised or faffing, I got my shoes on.

Run
2:08:11 | 2nd fastest

Up… The run was my biggest unknown. In Weymouth and about all my prior races, I haven’t run well; but this terrain was different. It’s more power-walking uphill than running, and winding paths are much more my thing than flat roads.

Still, I had no idea how to pace. I just sort of went on feel, kept looking behind me and hoped that the pace I was setting wasn’t too fast (to avoid blowing my heart up) or too slow (to avoid blowing my pride up). The easiest way to describe my run from there is with the soundbites my memory has put together.

30-minutes | No sign of anyone behind me. The longer that’s the case for the more confidence I get.. at least I’m not way slower than anyone.

45-minutes | Still no sign. Starting to look less path-y and more rock-y.

55-minutes | No sign. Hopping my way over the rocks like the mountain goat I’m claiming that I am.

65-minutes | “You’re off course mate – you need to go that way.” FUCK. The nerves had been steadily building up inside me for about an hour now, waiting for the moment when things might go wrong; and now.. in a cloudy blind mess at the top of a big hill, I’ve apparently gone the wrong way. Imagine, if you will, the creative swearing that followed.

67-minutes | I get back to the track, and see another competitor. My heart sinks.

70-minutes | Iain and I are chatting – he’s a nice guy and we agree that the conditions and signposting aren’t great (that’s being kind..) but we help each other out and keep finding the path together. We’re working to stay ahead of the rest.

76-minutes | We reach the top. Iain passes me.

Down…

To my parents’ dismay, I used to hop, skip and jump along all of the rocks like they were my playground down at the beach. Running at speed across jagged, slippery boulders is literally my happy place. Throw in my aforementioned fearlessness, and descending mountains on foot suits me.

And I knew this. Iain was clearly a good runner but going up is very different to going down. I had started to lose hope – there was another contender – but I might just need to fight for it.

FUCK – I’d gone the wrong way again. Iain (absolute credit to him) shouted down at me “that’s the wrong way again dude” before hopping off into the distance, leaving me to clamber back up a scree face. 2-minutes that lost me. He was out of sight.

Now I really started to lose hope. You don’t have much time to think in moments like this, but I guess my next decision was a result of my week of build up and my buddy bumble bee. I basically shouted at myself, and let the f***ing legs go. He might win, but I’m fighting.

“He’s 100m ahead”
“He’s 200m ahead”
“He’s a minute ahead”
“He’s 150m ahead”

Jump, shout, jump, hot step, jump, climb down, massive leap, leap leap leap, step, step, leap, jump, run, run, step, shout, run. I’ve never run down a hill so fast… fell a couple of times but gathered myself. The cloud cleared. I see the gap. He’s about 3-400m ahead. Bastard liers!

Still, 3-400m is about 2 minutes. And there’s another factor here…

He’s a faster runner, but there’s a whole other bike leg coming, and that’s where the advantage flips. I say it out loud to myself – “empty yourself; and if you’re within 2-minutes at the next transition, it’s yours to lose.” I believed that.

We’re off the base of the mountain and I spot the gap, I think it’s closing. I watch as he runs by landmarks and time myself to them. 2-minutes, 2-minutes, 90-seconds…

I run into transition feeling more gassed, slumped and emptied than a hibernating sloth, which is also dying, in a desert.

But I was only 90-seconds behind. I come into transition as he rolls his bike out. We catch eyes.

Bike – back

Triathlon is a funny thing.. because as every triathlete will attest, once you switch from one discipline to another, you magic yourself a new pair of legs. I’d never – in my life – biked off a run in a race before, so my performance in the next 5-minutes (let alone 60) was a complete unknown.

But for the first time all year, I felt like my fueling and hydration was completely tuned in; so I put some power down to test the system… are they working?

400W, 415W, 489W. Blimey, they’re working. Head down Chris. I figured I needed to pass him within 25km to have the race in the bag – he’s a better runner so I need to close this 90-second gap, and open up at least a further 90-seconds on him before the end of the bike…

4km down, wait. Is that a bike?

5km down, it’s HIM.

7km down and I’m literally on his tail. I’ve managed to close 90s in a fraction of the bike course. I’d spent the last hour or so believing I might have lost it and then, in this moment I knew I hadn’t. So I relaxed a bit, and allowed myself a grin.

100m, 50m, 12m. Now’s the moment. It’s mine to lose.

And then I lost it.

I saw a hairpin coming, knew I needed to slow, did so, leant in for the corner, hit the apex too early, saw the point on the wall I was barreling towards, knew there was nothing I could do, tapped the brakes, boom.

What was it I said?

• Complete recklessness
• Mind-numbing fearlessness
• Apparently not enough bike handling skill…

—

Collecting a bloodied fool off the road

An absolute legend called Dave found me about 30 seconds later, and fortunately he found me in an okay state. I’d obviously picked up the bike to see if I could carry on riding, but the right fork was completely snapped, so he found me sat back down, helmet visa in pieces, raging at the result, and feeling lucky to be raging at the result.

I was able to recite the race in detail to him, walk around and put a smile on. He’d lost a friend to a bike crash a few years before so – even though I already knew my luck – I was humbled.

About an hour passed after the crash, over which time I was checked over, kept warm, put in two cars and driven back to the start / finish line. Knowing I was okay – if looking like a Halloween victim – I went to see Iain who had finished by then, to let him know I was okay.

The event organisers were lovely, the first aid tent was lovely, and as all the other positions – from 2^nd place downwards – rolled in, I did my best to put on a smile and give kudos to their amazing efforts. I was especially proud of Lucy who won the female race and finished 5^th overall.

—

And.. that was my race. Gah it’s hard to react in the way that I know I should… I am lucky. The accident was entirely self-inflicted which has not been the case for too many riders this year. And what’s more, I’ve turned my run back into a weapon and had possibly the best race execution of my life so far. But if you know me you’d see right through a massive lie if I were to say I wasn’t raging……

You never know what would have happened.. but my ‘out’ bike was 4-minutes’ faster than Iain’s, and when I was lying there on the road – admittedly packed with adrenaline – I couldn’t help but feel seriously good. I was walking around, ready to finish the race. You literally dream of close battles like this, especially where you come through to end up on top, especially in such an amazing race format. But real life happens sometimes.

Congratulations to Iain, who is a lovely guy and a deserving winner.

I won’t make this a grudge match with the race course because – like I say – I never make claims, because you’re just setting yourself up to fail. But man I can’t wait to race this one next year, as shown by my immediate signing up to it, and its Welsh sister race.

I have a lot of positives to take from this:

• This is as close to a perfect race execution as I’ve ever had, sortof
• I know that – in spite of self-doubt creeping in – I can rally when it matters
• My nutrition and hydration was completely on point
• After a year of run woes, I can confirm that on fell terrain, my running is still a weapon
• It was a great battle, until it wasn’t
• I can be proud of not acting like a sore-losing moron, even though I felt like it

I’ve had an incredible season of – honestly – just having fun and not caring much about the results. But for this one, the fire has well and truly been lit, and I’ll be back. Uh oh….

LEJOG

Why five days?

I was eating a stir fry on a sofa with a chihuahua called Rocko eyeing up my food. I’d gone to see Lizi during a short lockdown break, and we missed riding outdoors, and just like that the idea of cycling across the country – from one end to the other – 280km per day for 5-days – just happened, for some reason.

Lizi and I are ‘yin’ and ‘yin’, you see. We’re not planners. We just leapt at the thought, safely away from the presence of a practically-minded ‘yang’ to tell us that it was a terrible idea.

The planning process was watertight. I’d forgotten to book the bikes onto our first train, we booked our first camp site 3-days before, we begged and borrowed our bike packing bags less than week before, and I’d never packed everything; so had no idea if all my stuff would actually fit in said bags.

But things usually work out for us, so on the 23^rd August 2021, Team Soft Butts – comprised of Lizi and myself – boarded a train to Penzance, eyeing an early start from Lands End the following day. What could go wrong?

Day 1 | Lands End to Yeovil

277.0km | 3,295m climbing | 10hrs 16mins riding time | 14hrs 0mins total time

9:32AM | We’d been riding for about three hours and were somewhere just off the A30, sipping coffee and indulging in a chamois cream top-up (it’s that kind of blog, sorry not sorry). This bike packing business is fun. My bike’s a bit heavy and I can’t get out of the saddle because the tail bag wobbles too much, but it’s sunny and the locals are friendly and I’m well stocked on petrol station cereal bars.

11:45AM | We keep taking these pretty detours off the A30 which are pleasant, because it’s an A-road full of bastards, but the detours seem to all have really steep hills, which are also bastards. On the plus side, Lizi’s Instagram prowess and natural charisma not only mean that we’re documenting the ride, but we’re also making friends along the way! Locals are nice.

12:36PM | We’ve stopped at just over half distance because we started to fade. The heat, hills and headwind (also, a bastard) had started to take their toll on us. Coffee, Calippos, crisps and flapjacks were just the ticket. And shade.

2:23PM | Things are looking less bright. Lizi and I’s friend-making ability seems to have got us through a few “road works closures,” but energy levels are starting to drop, a little too soon after our refuel. Much worse than that is my gear cable – it’s giving signs that it’s about to snap and I can’t use 4 of my 11 gears. The original plan was to stop at Bristol, but Lizi suggested a detour to our pals Sam and Leanne, who know a lot about bikes and how to fix them. That means an extra 70km to the overall trip and a route re-plan, but it’s our only choice.

4:46PM | I take Lizi’s backpack to relieve some of the pressure from her shoulders and knees. We burst into laughter for some reason. The gear cable is holding on.

6:34PM | Sam has ridden to meet us in Taunton. Seeing his clean white jersey was like seeing an angel with a bike and an invisible tow-rope. He brings our spirits back up and we get moving again.

8:27PM | At last, we arrive in Yeovil where Sam fixes my bike and Leanne cooks us up LITERALLY the most incredible feast you ever did see. Rice, roast veg, potatoes, avocado, vegan chilli, peanut butter pasta, some other stuff which also didn’t last… It’s seemed to dawn just how difficult this ride will be, but I personally don’t let myself think it. Sam and Leanne have been lifesaving and I’m enjoying the food, company and the prospect of a bed, not to mention freshly washed bib-shorts in the morning.

Day 2 | Yeovil to Warrington

298.2km | 2,230m climbing | 10hrs 51mins riding time | 15hrs 21mins total time

5:34AM | Lizi and I set off with lights, jackets and tentative smiles to embark on 70k of tarmac to get to Bristol. Dawn was misty and pleasant, with a few lumps around Cheddar Gorge.

8:09AM | Lizi and I roll into Bristol and meet up with Lyndsey; who’s addition increases our average speed, level of sarcasm and team attractiveness significantly. Team Soft Butts now had three members. Cracking.

12:45PM | It’s difficult to remember details about this day because honestly it was a lot of cities and traffic lights; but we stopped at a pub around this time and cleared out their kitchen. Lyndsey had been taking most of the turns and Lizi and I were enjoying the ride; but once again our final destination needed adjusting. Rather than ending up north of Manchester, we decided that the 180km remaining was too much of an ask, opting to cut it to 130km of riding for the rest of the day, and booking a stop in Knutsford, just south of Warrington.

4:16PM | Progress is really quite slow now. Even the best endurance athletes’ knees are at risk with distances like this, and Lizi’s have started to show signs of a problem that started on day 1. We’re taking turns but the continuous traffic lights are the main problem, taking their toll on our speed, motivation, and knees……

8:36PM | We arrive at a hotel. Not only does the receptionist angel let us keep our bikes in the room, but the kitchen closes in 24 minutes. Hallelujah, and two meals a head please.

Day 3 | Warrington to Johnstonebridge

257.8km | 1,918m of climbing | 10hrs 10mins riding time | 15hrs 7mins total time

6:53AM | Appreciating the rest, we have a late start, which might cost us later. But we’re on the road.

12:11PM | Kendal, what a difference a day makes. Cities and traffic becomes open country and smooth roads. You can’t help but enjoy yourself. Are we halfway? Every time we stop and someone asks us where we’ve come from, we just sort of laugh and give an answer that makes it seem like we’re lying, even though we’re not.

1:54PM | Shap is the first real climb in the whole journey, and WHAT a view we’re treated to. It could be the lack of sleep and hallucination, but it feels genuinely alpine. We’re singing Scottish folk songs in terrible accents and nomming some of those soft straw things. Things are pretty.

7:11PM | Gretna Green, and the Scottish border. It’s hard to believe we’ve cycled here, but we don’t have much time to enjoy it, because we should be further than Gretna by now.

8:12PM | The knee woes are firmly back, and progress is slow. The sun is going down and safety becomes the priority. We check with a local hotel – Can we stay there? Can any taxis can get us to Johnstonebridge. No and no. It’s not about the ride anymore, it’s about getting indoors.

9:34PM | We arrive, needing a feed. No such luck of an open kitchen tonight, so we stop by the M&S next door and empty its shelves. There are geese next to the shop, or maybe that’s our imagination. The receptionist has a Scottish accent – oh yeah, we’re in Scotland. We review team progress and sleep.

Day 4 | Johnstonebridge to Kenmore

238.4km | 2,039m of climbing | 9hrs 12mins riding time | 13hrs 5mins total time

9:21AM | Most of this morning’s riding is through what you literally picture Scotland to be. Marshes, lonely single-lane roads, trees and hills. We’re enjoying ourselves, but already Lizi’s knees – which until now have (somehow?!) lasted until the end of each day, have shown real signs of wear already.

11:32AM | I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, but I’m so proud of Lizi for deciding what she did. We’d talked the night before, and Lyndsey and I made it clear that we were in this to support Lizi, so she needed to decide what was right for her. It’s one thing to ride in agonising pain for what must have been since Yeovil, but it’s more admirable to recognise the special things you have elsewhere in your life, and decide that a bike challenge isn’t worth risking them. So, 5km from Edinburgh, she decided to cycle to the airport and catch a train to London. I’ve left a lot of the emotional detail out of this, but if you know Lizi then you know how hard this was for her to do, and the kudos she deserves for doing it.

**Sidenote | since this, Lizi couldn’t run or ride for two weeks after getting home, but she’s recently started training again and is setting run PBs. Looks like her body is thankful for the rest.

12:01PM | By this point, Lyndsey and I had spent about 2 hours talking about how to get Lizi home, having put to the side any thoughts of getting to John O’Groats. It was only by sheer luck and coincidence that Lizi decided to stop so close to Edinburgh, and to our route. Upon realising that it might actually be possible to still finish, I tell Lizi that my heart isn’t in it. We signed up to this as a team and I wanted to finish with her. She was surprised but I was pretty set.

12:06PM | Lyndsey had overheard me. By this point she’d fully assumed that we weren’t even going to try to finish, so hearing this conversation sort of made her think “Ah fuck, this is still possible isn’t it…” (her words).

12:07PM | “So, do you want to try to finish?” (her). “……Yes” (me).

PART 2 – North Scotland

You don’t realise just how much of the country is untouched, open and beautiful countryside, until you do something like this. Lyndsey and I were subdued after the airport, but crossing Edinburgh bridge we couldn’t help but quickly smile and hysterically laugh again. HOW were we doing what we were doing. Just over three days ago I was at the far end of Cornwall…

We spent most of the afternoon rolling smoothly, through Perth and towards Aberfeldy. Lyndsey’s parents’ place was apparently really beautiful and I was looking forward to some home comforts, and perhaps arriving before dark. After leaving the A9 and heading towards Aberfeldy, I wasn’t ready for what happened next.

7:34PM | After about 45-minutes of false flat through the middle of nowhere, the road just.. dropped. The sun was at 12-O’clock ahead, just over the horizon, the sky was orange and the bends were gradual and sweeping. Somehow the bike was handling beautifully – a few days basically living on it meant I was used to every twitch, so felt completely comfortable sliding down one of the most beautiful descents I’ve ever seen. The whole thing was surreal now.

8:01PM | We arrive in Kenmore, and it’s like an artist painted paradise and god turned it into real life. The loch, the village and the castle and the town and the beach. We shower, smash some rice, charge the lights and collapse. Tomorrow.. is a big one.

Day 5 | Kenmore to John O’Groats

335.3km | 3,040m of climbing | 11hrs 44mins riding time 15hrs 2mins total time

4:43AM | We knew what was ahead of us. My experience with a ride like this is that you have to start early, resist the temptation to stop for a while, maximise use of your fresh legs while you can, and predict that you’ll need more and longer stops towards the end. We set off at 5:53am, just as the sun was rising.

6:43AM | The first hour had been a lovely break from the main roads, climbing and dipping through the clouds. I was dropped on about every small lump, but we were making steady progress. By the time we hit the A9 we were looking forward to getting dry and picking up our average speed.

8:01AM | Holy hell is this road what we needed. It’s fast and smooth and somehow we’re being given enough space by the cars. Even the false flats feel fast. We’re taking turns well. The sun is getting higher.

11:34AM | It’s warm now. The jackets came off about 2 hours ago and we’re actually sweating. We’ve just about made it past the Cairngorms and we’re about to ride the long 5km descent into Inverness. I’ve gotten quite good at resting on the handlebars while moving the position of my butt, so that I was basically cruising while resting. This bit was the good bit. The next bit was not the good bit…

13:02PM | Leaving Inverness you know it’s about 190km to go, but you don’t know what the road quality is like. Turns out, it’s bumpy. Not ‘hilly’, just coarse. Needless to say, our 4-day-old butts and crushed bits weren’t appreciating the ride, as we by now were openly sharing with each other. I’d bought a new tub of Chamois Cream for the trip. I was almost through the whole thing.

15:43PM | It’s a slog now. We’re going into full “lie to self” mode by claiming to ourselves that it’s “only 60k to go until it’s 40k to go so it’s basically just 60k to go”…

16:30PM | We stop, we have to. 45-minutes of full on passing out on the pavement and being talked at by lovely but surprised locals and nomming a LOT of supermarket snacks.

17:16PM | On the road again and about 80k to go. We’re not talking about how far we have to go anymore. It’s about fuelling and moving.

18:08PM | I’ve never seen someone as talkative as Lyndsey go as quiet as the girl I call “John O’Groats Lyndsey.” I was feeling weird and taking a selfie while I turned the video to her and.. well she didn’t give off the happiest vibe. Who can blame her really.

19:54PM | 18km to go. It starts raining.

20:32PM | John O’Groats has a climb for the last 2km, before a short roll down to the coast. It’s hard to remember our mood, but we do our best to enjoy the moment. I ask a friendly tourist to take photos of Lyndsey and I, which are a bit weird because we’ve forgotten how to be normal. We ride up to our hotel, do our best to source some food, and collapse.

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There was a group of riders at John O’Groats who’d just completed the ride in 11 days, who looked at Lyndsey and I like we were both warriors and nuts. I think that’s about right.

A few times over the ride and afterwards, we chatted to strangers about what we were doing, and ‘why’ never really came up. I took up triathlon a few years ago with a mindset of wanting to ‘complete goals’ and even to some extent ‘say I’d achieved some stuff’. This whole thing was a nice reminder of how far from that mindset I was.

I was fully ready to stop without Lizi. If it wasn’t for Lyndsey, I would have. This was one of the hardest weeks I’ve ever had; and not even for the cycling. Going to bed and knowing that – after 4 hours of sleep – you have another monster ahead in a complete state of sleep deprivation is hard to describe; but with company it just turns into a complete adventure.

I signed up to this thing knowing it was a bit nuts, but I’m so grateful that I did. Fill your life with adventures with the best people. I’ve got really close to some great pals, and my body keeps surprising me with what it’s able to do. And I’m basically spending my life outside. What more could I ask for?

Head, shoulders, knees and butt

national 24-hour championships – race report

It’s like the kids rhyme.

Only instead of toes, it’s butt. And instead of a melodic means to educate young children on parts of their body, it’s a clever and lighthearted way to talk about the debilitatingly painful phases of my 24-hour time trial last Saturday, how they played on my mind and how I think I got through them. Still educational, just… maybe not for kids. 🍑

So picture, if you will, a joyful place known as Prees Heath roundabout, on the morning of Saturday 17^th July. I’d had a night of van-sleep, I’d solved my poor electronics planning by sitting in a diner with wires running into all my lights, I was full of hummous rice cakes (mmm), and Steve – my legendary one-man support team – had arrived for a rapid team briefing.

It’s t-minus 3 hours and we’re about ready to go.

After agreeing our ‘flying support’ locations where Steve would be handing me food and drink, discussing our longer stops to add / remove bike lights and clothes, and considering backup plans should anything go wrong; we drove to the start line and it was pretty much time to go.

Before a race, I’m usually met with a familiar nervous stomach and ‘buzz’ as my adrenaline kicks in – not this time. This race felt a bit different.. I was actually super relaxed because.. well I had no idea how I was going to do, and it wasn’t exactly a “gun goes and GO GO” type of vibe. If you go out too hard you’re a dead person.

So I stood in the sun with my bike. Made pleasant chat with the ultra-endurance legend who happened to be starting behind me, waited to be told to start, got on my bike and sort of… started… knowing at the back of my mind that I wouldn’t really be stopping, or sleeping, for 24 hours.

If you’ve done an ultra-endurance event, you’ll know that it’s difficult to recall the extremes of how I really felt over that time. But I’ve given myself long enough to digest, so whether this is a true reflection of the events or a (not very) glossy recollection, here’s my best summary of how it went…

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Head | 6-hours into the ride

If you don’t remember last weekend, it was hot. I think it hit 26 degrees for most of the day.

I started out with a vague pace plan in my head and managed to average about 37kph for the first 4-5 hours, which I was seriously pleased with. Coupled with a bunch of cyclists to wave at and some comically melty chocolate that Steve handed me, I was in pretty good spirits.

From about hour 5-onwards, things started to get really bad.

I’d kept on top of hydration in my impression, but I slowly started to feel delirious, then a headache kicked in. Then it got worse. Not in a way that ‘hits’ you, in a way that happens slowly enough to trick you into thinking it isn’t that bad, until you concentrate on it, and realise that it is.

I was finding it difficult to concentrate and my head was literally throbbing; telling me that I’d likely fallen behind on hydration over 6-hours of 20+ degree heat. I wasn’t the only one – as I found out later, several people dropped out at this point including the two race favourites and the ‘ultra-endurance legend’ I’d been chatting to at the start line, and a few times on the course.

I’ve done a 24-hour event before on Zwift, where I managed to raise over £1,500 for some great charities, and the support from people honestly got me to the finish. This time, I’d done it for me, and I came the closest to dropping out of a race I ever have. Like, why? I didn’t have anything to prove and I didn’t have sponsors or charities relying on me…

I honestly think if it weren’t for knowing that Steve had made the trip to support me, that would have been my lot.

Still, I carried on, possibly for the simple reason that I didn’t actively tell myself to ‘stop’. After all, the night was cooler, and things were probably about to get better?

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Butt | 8-hours into the ride

It’s funny how you convince yourself things are about to get better, knowing that something else is going to be equally bad at some point soon; but that’s a future-you problem, so you crack on.

My head was better now. Things had cooled down and I’d caught up on hydration without overdoing my fluid intake or risking stomach problems (aka, the shits).

However, now that my head wasn’t feeling like a slow-boiling tomato, I had enough consciousness to realise that my butt was in quite a lot of pain having been sat on a saddle in the same position for about 8-hours. Funny that…

Well if the problem is my butt constantly touching the saddle, let’s prevent my butt from constantly touching the saddle, right? So began the “Chris pretends it’s a hill” phase of my race. It goes something like this: every time there’s the mildest of lumps, you change up a couple of gears and get out of the saddle to rest your butt. Problem solved. What could go wrong……………………………………………………………………….

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Motivation | 12-hours into the ride

I read somewhere recently that the only guarantee during events of this length is change. However you’re feeling now, you won’t feel that way soon.

3-hours in, I felt on track and was having fun. Was frigging singing to my weird self.
6-hours in, I gave up on all distance goals and wanted to quit.
8-hours in, my butt hurt horrendously but I was kind of having fun.
10-hours in, my butt felt better and I didn’t care about the distance. It was me and the stars and some cyclists. I was flying, things were great.
12-hours in, my heart was so not ‘in’ it that I kept making excuses to stop for 30-seconds, and I basically wasn’t trying. I was just turning the pedals.

I enjoyed not being able to see the bike computer because it meant not thinking about how fast I was going and convincing myself that – because things felt fast – I was going well. At about 11.5 hours, I accidentally stole a glance and all my optimism for the last few hours dive-bombed like a teenager belly-flopping a pool.

For about four hours, I couldn’t wait for the night to be over.

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Knees and butt | 16-hours into the ride

When the night shift finished, the mist cleared, I had a little stretch for 5-mins and got directed away from the night circuit, onto a little country loop. Blimey, how a change of scene lifts the goofy mind.

I went out the blocks so hard on this loop that I think I set a pb for the whole event. Who knows where my mood had come from.. I’m pretty sure my moods circuit board was broken by now.

Anywho, that was a bit silly, because after one loop of “in the saddle, ow my butt, out the saddle, PUSH,” my knees were completely shot. Turns out 8-hours of in-the-saddle riding followed by 8-hours of periodic out-the-saddle efforts isn’t great for the old levers.

Well, this was a bit of a pickle. Can’t protect my butt because if I get out of the saddle, my knees will give. Can’t protect my knees, because sitting for too long sandpapers my butt. Hmm. AHA.

What for it but to periodically shift the saddle to the central-left-cheek position, before shifting it back to the central-right-cheek position, and repeating. Picture a see-saw where the pivot is about ¾ over one way, that’s my butt. Worked a treat – all kinda of cushioning.

Things were pretty desperate by the time hour 20 hit, and I got directed down quite a fast section towards our final loop. Thankfully, my bike handling skills are good enough that I could carry my speed on the descents without needing to break around the corners, so I didn’t need my knees too much to get there.

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Head, shoulders, knees and butt | 22-hours into the ride

Yeah, it all hurt now. The heat was back, the heat was going wrong again. Knees are like creased cardboard and the butt is like an old wrinkly tomato. To top it off, my left shoulder did this ‘electric-ping’ type feeling where suddenly it went numb for a while. That couldn’t be good… Meh, none of it’s good. Crack on.

By this point I was just angry. The final loop was around an industrial estate and I basically spent 45-minutes shouting “WHY THE F*** WOULD THE F****** PUT THE FINAL F****** LOOP ON S SH*TTY ROAD SURFACE AROUND A P*SS HOLE LIKE THIS.” Then I had a final stop with Steve, who’d made some friends, who all told me off for resting for 5-minutes. They also told me that (relatively speaking) I seemed to be doing better than some of the other racers, so I told myself off and started to smile again.

For the last hour, I mean who knows what I was thinking by then. But I like to think that in the last few minutes, I started to smile at the magnitude of what, somehow had just happened.

It had occurred to me after the night shift that I could be on for a distance of 448 miles, which in triathlete terms is four back-to-back iron distance bikes, each in sub-6-hours. If you’d told me four years ago that I’d be able to do that I wouldn’t have believed you.

So, after the first race I can confidently say I’d not have been able to do without a buddy (thanks Steve, for everything), I finished with a distance of 459 miles, in 12th place for my debut at the 24-hour National Championships.

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It’s funny how you look back at these things more fondly than you did in the moment. Every athlete knows that there’s a difference between the type of ‘fun’ you get during the event and the sense of purpose you get outside of it.

Cycling around in circles for 24-hours isn’t even my usual idea of fun. Give me an A to B adventure any day (watch this space)…

But everything over these last few years has kind of added to how amazed and happy I am about what my body can do. Lordy, let’s hope I don’t get any other silly ideas soon……

How to be a planet-friendly triathlete

Taking up a new sport is a very easy way to be daunted into buying carbon-hungry, plastic-filled, single-use toys if you don’t know better. And it’s difficult to know better, because companies use words like “green” and “eco-friendly” to make their products seem better than they are. So here are my tips on getting into (or continuing in) the sport in a way that’s good for the world and, you know – by extension – everyone.

(There’s a summary at the bottom if you fancy the 8-line version).

The big things

Much like the well-meaning but perhaps misdirected obsession with plastic straws, it’s possible to put a good deal of energy into something that doesn’t have much impact. To avoid doing that, these are the three biggest ways you can reduce your carbon footprint in triathlon:

1. Travel smart | this doesn’t mean don’t travel. One of the best parts of racing is the buzz from a race weekend in an amazing location; but try to see the value in things closer to home too. It’s an unfortunate truth that flying and solo-driving are two of the worst ways to travel in terms of carbon emissions. Remember, some of the best races can literally be around the corner or can at least be reached without needing to fly.

If you do choose to fly to a race (and.. fair enough), maybe limit yourself to doing it less often. If you drive, car share. And if you’re thinking really futuristic, why not make a long trip of it and use sustainable, overland transport – perhaps working your way across a continent – instead of burning air miles for a short weekend. Life is too short for short weekends.

2. Be picky with your kit | this one might be controversial… after all, we all look great in lycra. It’s also unavoidable that you’ll need equipment and clothing to suit your new sporting needs, but there are smart ways that you can limit your impact in doing so.

Clothing – Firstly, buy quality kit that will last, don’t buy more if you don’t need it (sorry), and look after it. Tri suits don’t like being left in a sweaty pile. Nothing does… Secondly, buy from brands with an ethos of sustainability. Presca have to be the gold standard in my eyes, with many of their products either being fully carbon-neutral or carbon-positive, which is rare and just super cool (their Strava club also plants trees in exchange for your training miles – how cool!). Brands like Sundried are also great because they use 100% recycled materials to make their kit. Be picky, and maybe consider if you really need to air-freight that super sexy jersey from Timbuktu. You look great without buying that jersey.

Equipment – I haven’t personally come across a bike made of bamboo or artisan seaweed, so when it comes to equipment, reliability is the aim. Get something awesome that will last you a long time (and looks sexy – important). When parts brake (see what I did there..), ask your pals if they have spares, or look for second hand parts rather than buying new. Trust me, we all have a lot lying around……

3. Eat the good foods | this will definitely be controversial, but it’s been proved beyond any reasonable doubt that being picky with your diet is one of the top ways to reduce your carbon footprint – inside of triathlon and out. Mainly, this is because we (by which I mean I…) eat a serious amount of food.

But the good news is that the healthiest foods for you are the healthiest for the planet. Who knew – it’s like we evolved that way!

So many corporate-sponsored fad diets exist that it’s difficult to do research and find any hard and fast rules. But I’m not corporate sponsored, so here are some hard and fast rules:

To reduce your carbon footprint – reduce your meat and dairy intake (including fish) and buy foods that are in season (i.e. aren’t artificially hot-housed or flown from the tropics to their final destination). What you eat is more important than where it’s from – shipping is actually pretty efficient.

To make your diet healthier – stick to whole foods. The less processed, the better. Look for the short ingredient lists and hang around the vegetable aisle – it’s a wholesome place.

Without getting into specific health conditions, it really is that simple.

Greenhouse Gas emissions of different food groups

*Disclaimer on my own diet. I used to worship meat like there was no other option, and you wouldn’t have convinced me otherwise. Now, thanks to spending time with smart and forward-thinking people, I’m fully vegan and honestly love my food. I get all my ingredients from the local shop and my meals take about 20-mins per meal to cook. Check out [BOSH] and [VeganFitRecipes] for some amazing recipes. Not all vegans are healthy, but vegans are almost always less impactful in terms of carbon emissions. For an interesting summary on the subject, have a look at the carbon emissions of different types of food here, or click on the helpful image on the right: [Summary]

You don’t have to go vegan. But as you can see, a little reduction goes a long way.

The little things

Each of the below things won’t have as much of an impact as those above, but they’re worth a look. After all, once you commit to some of the above things and realise you’re awesome, you start to feel all good about yourself and have to go further. So, here are some other ways to reduce your carbon footprint in triathlon:

Repair your inner tubes | please only do this if you’re confident, because face-planting some tarmac is worse than a wasted inner tube; but don’t assume you can’t do it without trying – you probably can. It’s a great way to reduce waste, save money and make you look capable and planet-conscious (nothing sexier) in front of that athletic specimen you’re riding with. There’s a great ‘how to’ video on GCN’s YouTube channel [Here].

Make, don’t buy snacks | this is a great way to guarantee health, save money and make things tasty, and it’s easier than it sounds. I’ve been making these oat / chocolate bars with tonnes of peanut butter (okay, relatively healthy..) and, well, o-daym. If you do buy snacks, choose brands like Tribe who have their eyes set on sustainability.

Ask if you really need it | another controversial one, as we all love buying a thing; but it’s an important question. Do you really need those fancy recovery-boosting anabolic inhibiter pills or just a bit more sleep? Do you really need a different wheel for each race, or just a few more hard sessions improving your FTP? There are worse industries to sink money into, but don’t get addicted.

Buy the eco-friendly versions of things | if it’s something you absolutely need (i.e. degreaser, detergent) then there are some great companies with eco-friendly options. Think packaging that’s refillable or products that don’t use harmful chemicals. And please read the reviews – there’s nothing worse than buying some eco-friendly degreaser before using the whole can in one go because it sucks.

Turn off the fan | sweat baby, sweat. This is obviously suicide for the harder indoor sessions (for the people who do this – respect), but if you’re just having an easy spin on the turbo, turn the fan off. Sweat is sexy.

Have I missed anything? Probably. What do you think?

In summary:

HIGH IMPACT WINS:
1. Travel smart – race close to home where you can, and avoid long haul flights.
2. Be picky with your kit – look after it, question if you need it, and buy from the right brands.
3. Eat the good foods – reduce your meat and dairy intake (including fish) and buy in-season products.

SMALLER WINS THAT ARE STILL COOL:
– Repair your inner tubes
– Make, don’t buy snacks
– Ask if you really need it
– Buy the eco-friendly versions of things
– Turn off the fan (I’ll still be your fan)

Habits and COVID-19

On Wednesday this week, I did something that I’ve never done. Heading out for my once-a-day bike ride, I decided to get up early to see the sunrise. That doesn’t sound special, but I’ve lived in my house for over four years and have never done that.

To the point.

People have called 2020 “the year that never happened,” because we can’t ‘get on’ with the things we usually do. I just can’t see that. This will be one of the most memorable years of many of our lives; exactly because we aren’t doing the things we usually do. And of course, while a great deal is out of our control, there are things we can control.

So my ‘first’ of watching the sunrise gave me the idea to write about things we can control – new habits. In particular, new habits centred around the people in our lives, and the real and meaningful things we can do for them.

Think back to two months ago to how you interacted with the people in your life. We’ve all – to some extent – given voice in recent years to how we’ve not spent enough time showing care for our friends, family and ourselves because we’re too busy. There’s just too much going on, or some other bad reason. But in the last month the focus of the whole world has changed and now, for maybe the first time ever, the whole world is focused on one thing.

The extent to which we make this year memorable in a positive way is down to the habits we form. And for better or worse, the habits we form now will be the habits we keep for months, maybe longer.

 

Taking responsibility

Let’s not forget that this is the most important thing all of us can do now.

If someone you valued were to ask you, in 10 years, how you behaved during the Coronavirus pandemic, could you say with full honesty that you were proud of the actions you took, and the sacrifices you decided to make?

That’s how I think about it.

Social distancing isn’t necessarily about protecting those closest to you, or yourself. It’s about protecting people you may have never met from coming to harm, by being an active member of your community – which is something I personally thing the nation has needed a lesson in.

So remember that everyone else is going through the same, maybe worse than you. The ‘circumstance,’ and our ability to be responsible, is going to get harder before it gets easier; but remember above all that there are small sacrifices that you can make which may give another family, somewhere, the greatest gift.

Read the guidelines daily and follow them. We’re all in this together.

 

Change, even when it’s shit, represents opportunity

This is the main point I want to make. It isn’t a coincidence that I’ve had so many firsts this week. I actually feel like I’ve spent more time with my friends than for ages.

The circumstances we’re in are awful; but understanding that doesn’t mean resigning ourselves to months of doing nothing valuable.

In the best of times, I think it’s everyone’s responsibility to try to do three things – try to make the world better, invest in those close to you, and invest in yourself. In a strange way, I feel more able to do each of those things now.

And it’s more important to do it now – the risks are greater and the rewards are greater. Slip into poor habits and they could be your life for months, with a real effect on your mental and physical health. Form good habits, and the effect you could have – on yourself and those close to you – could be very memorable.

What do I mean by ‘good habits’?

It’s only been a week, and here’s a medley of ideas from my friends and I which are pretty cool:

• Organise a takeaway night from your favourite local, to help keep them afloat. Current guidance is that “it might be better in the current circumstances to order hot, freshly cooked food, rather than cold or raw items,” because of the standards these kitchens have around food handling and preparation.
• Take up that language / course you’ve always wanted to learn. I’ve been taking my French lessons via Zoom. Enrich yourself and support people probably struggling for work. It’s a cool double win.
• Call people. Especially people who live alone, or who you’d never otherwise speak to. You finally have an excuse to dial them without feeling all British and awkward about it. They may not tell you, but it could make a tonne of difference.
• Improve the connections you have. It’s too easy for loads of time to pass between seeing your friends, because of distance. In a strange way, there’s suddenly no distance between you – the norm is to engage remotely. Suggest some weird virtual game or just get in touch. Use House party too (it’s an app).
• Reach out and offer your time. Whether you give your e-mail to a few people, offering time over the phone, or volunteer at your local Co-op to help keep it stocked up, there are ways to help your community.
• Ask for help and company if you need it. We all human.
• Change out of your pyjamas. Seems silly, but it does wonders for your mind set and can make your day so much more valuable.
• Use social media to spread some joy, not hate.
• Do things that are good for your mind. Yoga, meditation, books, audiobooks. Do them in the morning too, they’ll make you feel a tonne better about yourself, and will have a knock-on effect on your day.
• Learn to cook all those fancy recipes you never learnt how to cook. Great way to make a tit of yourself in front of your flat mates, which always makes you closer.
• Seriously, change out of your pyjamas.

—

Last year I set out to qualify for the IRONMAN World Championships – in my head that was a monumental goal which was bound to be life changing. That year was life changing, but I’m grateful for it in very different way to how I expected. The best lessons are the ones we don’t expect to learn.

Investing time in yourself and those around you is always, always a good thing. And more so, there’s a very real chance that this situation will last a long time. Waiting for it to subside before ‘getting on with your life’ is just an opportunity missed.

Finally, no call to action is complete without a TED talk.. This is my favourite and has been for 7 years, for how it shows the beautiful simplicity and power that our actions can have on other people, without even knowing it. All in a cool 6 minutes.

Spend some time thinking about how you can improve your life, and the lives of people around you. It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do…

https://www.ted.com/talks/drew_dudley_everyday_leadership?language=en#t-16477

IRONMAN Kona: The Big Dance

Like anything worth doing, what defines a race is the moments that stick in your head long after you finish, and what you take from them. Over an IRONMAN, those are usually the moments when your plan starts to fall apart, and your decisions define whether you drop out, finish, finish fast or burn up trying.

For me, that moment came 30km into the run when my entire left leg seized through cramp, and I stood still for two minutes screaming in pain, trying to stretch it out – knowing it had the potential to end my race, and that I still had 12km to run.

But let’s take a step back first, because there are factors that led me there.

 

Race week – IRONMAN World Championships

For me, coming to Kona wasn’t about competing for titles or setting PBs. It was about spending a day racing in the toughest of conditions against the best IRONMAN athletes in the world. I was never going to world-beat; but I was going to enjoy delivering a race I could be proud of, or at least try.

The IRONMAN franchise puts on a hell of an event – pro interviews, boats 750m from shore giving out free coffee to morning swimmers, branded freebies, high-value giveaways in return for Instagram posts, charity underwear runs, parades of national teams, and a tangible buzz of walking around a town in Hawaii with 2,000 of the fittest amateur athletes in the world.

And the sponsors only help matters. Nirvana Europe – a company offering athlete all-inclusive packages – had set up a house not far from my AirBnB, and kindly offered access for all GB athletes to free OTE Sports nutrition and Normatec recovery technology (*read inflatable boots that squeeze your legs like a frube to get blood moving).

I was also offered a sweat test by Gatorade Endurance to determine the volume and salinity of my sweat in this heat at my usual race pace – more on this later.

It all kind of makes you feel like a rock star, amongst other rock stars with as much commitment and interest in this niche sport as you.

With all that in mind, I had to reel myself in and be sure to get the rest I needed without getting sucked into all the hype.

I joined some of the events, collected 6 ‘trucker’ caps, and had THE BEST time at surreal experiences like the underwear run; but mainly I picked up final supplies, did a couple of acclimatisation sessions to get used to the heat, and kept my feet up.

After all, Saturday was approaching.

 

Race morning – a reason to smile

I will never forget the morning of my first IRONMAN, walking into Tenby at 4am with my race bags and gradually spotting more and more athletes with the same bags and the same stride, moving towards the same spot. Heads down, very few words and minds focused.

In Kona, I couldn’t help but note the exact same was true. Only by now, I’d done this enough times to relax, appreciate it, and even feel a little nostalgic.

I could notice the subtle race-morning differences too. Race tattoos were applied by volunteers, not you. Timings were tighter. Transition entry was more governed. Bike racks were more secure. And of course, there’s the small matter of standing in the transition queue with Lucy Charles-Barclay, Nikki Bartlett, Ali Brownlee and the like, preparing for the same race that they are.

Then there was the preparation for the swim start. No self-seeding this time – we were starting in waves, to the sound of a claxon, from the water. All in all I really gave myself the ability to enjoy the occasion.

There’s the famous swim start. There’s the famous banyan tree. There’s the finish line. Here I am, competing in the world championships.

Then, as the klaxon goes, the mind focuses. Less watch-y, more swim-y. I’m here to do an IRONMAN, and we’re off.

 

The race – what you don’t notice

There’s an IRONMAN mantra of “train hard, race easy” which attests that a well-executed race is one where you leave enough in the tank to push towards the end. The curveball of Kona is that the heat drains you more than you’re used to – much more.

It wasn’t as hot this year than in the past, but the winds were stronger and average times were slower. Things were without doubt brutal enough to catch out the very best – deceptively brutal even. The trouble is, you don’t notice if you’re pushing too hard until its too late, and – as my post-race vomiting and nausea will attest – you don’t realise the effect this sustained sun / heat exposure is actually having on your body.

In days following the race, I heard stories of mid-bike repeated vomiting, blackout and fainting and, far more frequently, general ‘flatness’ as if the body just isn’t able to push. There were far more of these stories than I expected.

In essence, Kona is a different beast and has the respect it does for a good reason.

As for my race – I started well. The swim was fighty and I picked up a few kicks to the face (nothing unusual), before exiting the water in a respectable time of 1hr 1minute. In a normal race, that would put me in the top 5%. Here, I was in the bottom 50%…

The bike may have been the saving grace to my eventual time. My Gatorade-sponsored strategy was to consume one Gatorade bottle every 45 minutes and one OTE Duo bar every 50km. After 120km, I felt a little thirsty but I was on track and feeling confident enough to up my fluid intake slightly without consequence – not bad for my first hot race.

All things considered and minus the usual drafting difficulties Kona is famous for, I’m proud to say I finished the bike leg in just over 5-hours – my fastest ever bike split. Now onto the run, where most people’s races live or die.

And that takes us back to kilometre 30……

 

As deep as I’ve ever dug – kilometre 30 and beyond

There’s a point in the marathon route where athletes complete an out-and-back through the Natural Energy Lab – a solar panelled area by the coast where temperatures reach their peak, before turning back onto the Queen Ka’ahumanu highway for 12km of straight, undulating tarmac to the finish line.

By this point, I felt confident. I was faint and tired but still had energy.

I rounded the corner back onto the hot tarmac of the “Queen K” and clocked the straight 12km ahead. “Just one foot in front of the other, all the way home,” I thought.

Then the lightning bolt hit.

I’ve spoken about controlling the controllables before. My main concerns before the race were of stitches – something that can be driven by poor salt intake and which I’d suffered from in my past two races. With no issues so far on the marathon, I was almost ready to claim that my fuelling strategy had been a success. But there’s no mistaking that muscle cramping is caused by insufficient salt intake.

It’s hard to describe how that moment felt. Cramp can be completely debilitating. If it happens in one leg you can stand on the other and stretch. If it happens in both and you fall over, there’s honestly no getting back up – it can be heart-breaking when the rest of the body has more to give.

So there I was, standing still. Stretching. Shouting. Shouting in pain, and shouting orders at myself. The stretching wasn’t working, so there was one thing for it – putting one foot in front of the other, and telling the cramp to fuck off, for 12km.

I started walking. I was walking through pain but I was moving. Then I was jogging through pain, but still moving, faster. I knew that if I slowed down too much that my legs might completely fold; so I took to speeding up my aid-station strategy.

One cup of ice down the crotch rather than 2. One half cup of coke rather than two. Two cups of water over the head rather than 4. Cold sponges, but only if I could grab them without slowing down.

One km down – fuck me that felt long. Single-leg cramp turned into double-leg. I stopped as my leg re-seized at least 6 more times… But my loose screw just gave me the ability to channel all the incredible support I’ve received, and all the work I’ve put in over this whole year, to just keep on moving..

I don’t know how long that last 12km took me. I didn’t check my pace and I didn’t care. I had set my mind on keeping upright until I got close enough to the finish line to crawl if I collapsed. Within 1km of the finish line, say.

But my legs – somehow – held up, and the feeling of emotion I felt over the last 400m, as I let the focus go and experienced ‘that’ moment is something I’ll never, ever forget.

9hrs 44mins. Nine hours, forty four minutes. I couldn’t hope for more. A volunteer placed a lei around my neck (the one I’m wearing as I sit on the plane, writing this), and I nearly collapsed as my arms were forced over the shoulders of two others.

From speaking to other athletes, my problems had been very minor in comparison to what the conditions had caused for others. It seemed I had dealt with the heat, and been able to push better than most – perhaps my obsessive compulsive heat training and race preparation had paid off after all.

In any case, sharing IRONMAN journeys on the other side of the line with other athletes, and basking in the moment made it – if it’s at all possible – even sweeter. My achievement was their achievement and vice versa.

I qualified for, raced and finished the IRONMAN World Championships in Kailua-Kona in under 10-hours.

I did it. It’s all over. I’m done.

 

Reflections – what’s your next step?

I’ve mentioned this before, but if I’d like you to take one thing from reading this, it would be to sign up for something that will push you to be better at something you enjoy. It’s that simple.

IRONMAN has taught me many things this year, but training for it has taught me my most important lesson – that racing and performing is only ever a means to enjoying training, and enjoying my life more.

I might not aim to qualify for Kona again, but I’m going to keep training, because I’ve enjoyed it for what it is. It’s hard and takes both effort and time, but it makes me healthy, gets me closer to my friends and makes me much, much happier.

So, one last time before I sign off for the year: that thing – the one you’ve been thinking about doing but thought you didn’t have time or weren’t good enough for – just sign up for it. Get drunk and then sign up if you have to; but do it, because it could change your life 😉

My Road to Kona

Cake.

It’s good for many things, but allow me to use it as an underlying metaphor.

See, enjoyment is best typified by cake. Eat a massive slice when you’re not hungry and you meet your old pal “instant regret”. Eat a massive slice when you’re super hungry / tired and it’s the best thing in the world.

Why is this relevant?

Basically, whether or not you enjoy something depends entirely on the context, and my road to Kona is typified by two, very similar experiences. They’re both IRONMAN races, and both similar on paper, but what I’ve taken from each of them could not be more different.

So, let’s start with the first, and some context.

 

IRONMAN Wales, 2017

It’s September 2017 and the race is IRONMAN Wales. I’ve been racing for 11 hours and have a half marathon to go. I’m not sweating anymore. I can feel the beads of old perspiration shaking off my shoulders with each slow, heavy step; but I’m not moving quickly enough to feel like I’m exerting. If anything, I’m starting to feel cold. But I just can’t push any more. There’s nothing left, and I’m almost completely numb. I’ve already exceeded my last years’ time, and still have almost half a marathon to run – that’s a long way when I’m starting to feel faint. It’s even longer when my motivation is completely gone.

With hindsight, I can tell you categorically that I hadn’t trained hard enough; but that’s not the important thing. The important thing is that I had tried hard, really hard to train well; but I just couldn’t find the motivation.

Why? I think it was a number of things. I’d trained for an IRONMAN the year before and put in a good deal of summer hours. Doing it again was a daunting prospect; but perhaps even worse was that the goal was less significant. Let me pose you a question – which sounds more motivating?

1 – Finish your first IRONMAN in under 12 hours and raise £1,500 for the British Refugee Council.
2 – Beat last year’s IRONMAN time (FYI I finished 1hr 50mins slower).

Easy, right?

That’s race one. Now let’s move onto race two, and more context.

 

IRONMAN Ireland, 2019

It’s June 2019, and a lot has happened. Firstly, I’ve set my sights on qualifying for Kona – the toughest goal I’ve ever set myself, and for the past eight months I’ve been executing the toughest and most rigorous training programme of my life.

See, how anyone goes about getting the best from themselves is a mix of art and science.

The science comes from the millions of conflicting pieces of advice out there on long term nutrition, race nutrition, training plan structure, training volume, training intensity, sources of motivation, wellbeing advice… these form the ingredients. The art comes from being selective – picking the ingredients that work for you, and committing to them.

In geek terms, my ingredients of choice were as follows:

Starting over the winter with strengthening exercises for my knees and ankles.

• Matching my winter low-intensity training with a low-calorie diet to start the year in the right body shape.
• After January, breaking my year into three clear “Macro-cycles” – periods of time aimed at “peaking” for a particular event at the end of the cycle.
• Breaking each Macro-cycle into Meso-cycles of 4-8 weeks, during each of which I’d aim to “maintain” two disciplines and “build” one (i.e. cycling).
• Breaking each Meso-cycle into micro-cycles of one week each, during which I’d usually plan back-to-back high intensity sessions to “overload” the body, before resting, and finishing the week with one “long, easy” session.
• Ensuring my “high intensity” sessions were well planned by measuring my “threshold” (the power / speed I’m able to sustain over an hour) and aiming to exceed it regularly, in short intervals.
• Mixing up indoor and outdoor training, to keep motivation high.
• Eating 4,000 calories a day after January, mostly towards the start of the day, and gradually decreasing before bed.
• Eating mostly vegan and gluten-free ingredients, to give my gut an easier job when digesting this large volume of food.
• Removing highly processed foods from my diet, for the same reason.
• Keeping to all of that, every day for eight months minimum.
• Forgiving myself when I don’t.

For eight months I’d been executing this and somehow, somehow keeping it up. For eight months I’d been watching myself get stronger and stronger. For eight months I’d been seeing my belief rise to the point of my “impossible” goal becoming possible, even realistic – could I actually do this?

But back to the race.

In spite of a literal shit tonne of rain – and a start which involved bouncing on the spot (and pissing myself twice) to stay warm – I was going very strong by the final lap of the marathon. I had not been overtaken once on the bike and my marathon splits were on target.

I wouldn’t let myself think of the finish line – I couldn’t without getting weak at the knees – but I kept moving past the point of not being able to feel my legs.

I crossed that line in a complete outburst of emotion, before collapsing in a complete heap of cramp and hypothermia.

As I found out a nerve-wracking 24hours later, I had done it. I was able to walk onto a stage with a room of athletes and friends cheering me on before picking up my lei, my Kona brewery beer and my Qualification Coin. I was going to Kona.

 

My reflection

If you had told me after that race back in 2017 that today I’d be sitting on a flight, on my way to Kailua-Kona, Hawaii to compete in the IRONMAN World Championships, I simply wouldn’t have believed you. It just wasn’t on my radar. I knew it as a truly unattainable goal that some at a near semi-pro level set their sights on, and I could only imagine the work it would take to get there.

Besides, at the time, I was tired.

But most important journeys start with important failures such as that, and my road to Kona has taught me three things:

• Your own motivation level is mostly under your own control.
• Hard work pays off.
• Lying to yourself works.

The difference between my experiences in Wales and Cork weren’t down to the races themselves, they were down to my training. Specifically, how much I managed to motivate myself to train, and the journey it’s taken me on.

My mum was kind enough to tell me recently that when she heard about my Kona goal, she expected to be “picking up the pieces” by now. She wasn’t alone… (also thanks mum)

But that’s just it – the goal was just a means to enjoying myself.

This year – even before Cork – I’d found a real enjoyment in watching my own progress, knowing that even with such a huge goal, I was getting there. And since Cork, I’ve built a house on Cloud 9. I’ve met incredible people, kept up my training rhythm and continued to improve. I had planned only to train to this level in 2019, but – to my own surprise – I’ve enjoyed it so much that I’m probably going to continue next year, after a well-earned rest.

There aren’t parallels between triathlon and everything, but if there’s something you’re considering taking up or committing to, I’d truly encourage it – the enjoyment I’ve found in pursuing this goal has made it one of the best years of my life, to the point where it isn’t about the goal anymore.

Basically, everyone starts somewhere, so start! Just remember:

• Goals are good, they force you to spend time on something you enjoy.
• Research, and plan – it gives you peace of mind that you have a smart plan.
• Tactical lying works, because you get to pretend it’s “just one more,” when really it isn’t.
• Rest intentionally and when you need it, but not when you don’t.
• If you lose motivation or skip a session, forgive yourself. Worse things have happened.

Oh, and eat as much cake as you want.

The Vitruvian

“Every problem has in it the seeds of its own solution. If you don’t have any problems, you don’t get any seeds.”
– Norman Vincent Peale

Thanks Vincent.

I signed up to the Vitruvian Triathlon – another “half Ironman distance” of 1.9km swim, 90.1km bike and 21.1km run – as a final warm up race for Kona, to hone my execution. The aim was twofold:

1. Test myself on a relatively fast / flat course (similar to Kona).
2. Nail my race execution ahead of the big dance.

It’s a smaller race than the IRONMAN-branded events. Could I be a “big fish in a small pond,” and go for the win, I thought?

(Thinking of myself as a “big fish” swiftly came back to bite me as you’ll read…)

 

Context

Your race time is basically a function of four things:

• The conditions on the day
• The race-specific controllables (bottle size, nutrition provided, transition format etc)
• How effectively you’ve trained
• How effectively you execute

One of triathlon’s comforts is that 90% of your result is down to pt.3 – how effectively you’ve trained – which you can’t change on the day. But the other 10% – the difference between “really good” and “your best” – most of that’s down to execution – to controlling the controllables.

That was what Vitruvian was about – a final data gathering exercise. Honing my skill at controlling the controllables – at knowing how my body reacts under race-pace stress, and preparing myself mentally to keep pushing when I just want to stop. Maybe having some fun too.

 

Swim

Rutland Water is a beautiful setting for a triathlon, with the swim set in a scenic lake surrounded by a sharp pebble beach, as the morning sun burns the mist from foggy waters.

The swim is a waved mass start, meaning all male athletes from 18-44 years old start at once……… from the beach.

Yes, you read that right. But let me bring it into harsh light, in case you missed it… A mass start. A pebble beach. With razor sharp stones. The kind you cut your feet on. And 200 testosterone powered heavy dudes running towards the water. Over the stones………

Why the race wasn’t started from the water is completely beyond me, but in an effort to save my feet for my pre-Kona training runs, I carefully navigated the stones, rather than trampling them. I wouldn’t call that a mistake – I’d do it again; but it resulted in my being caught in the pack, behind the front group. That meant my swim could be described by a few things – chief amongst them sentences such as: unable to complete my stroke effectively, because I keep hitting other people. Being swum into. Swimming into others. Not being able to sight. Following others who were going the wrong way. Fucking annoying.

I left the water after 32 minutes – 3 minutes slower than my target and 7 minutes slower than the best. If I had any leftover aspirations of winning this race, they were long gone.

Learning: whatever it takes, get into the front pack.

 

Bike

Started to have some fun here.

In my two races so far in 2019 – IRONMAN Cork (full distance) and IRONMAN 70.3 Dun Laoghaire (half distance), I’d not been overtaken once during the bike leg. I’d call myself a hill specialist, so I fully expected this record wouldn’t last the day on such a flat course, with such a high quality field… But to my surprise, I was still overtaking from the get-go.

One lap, two laps.. the whole way around the course, it felt like I was flying. There were a couple of short ‘ups’ to break up the time-trial-like sections and give my back a rest; but in general the bike was a huge success. 9 people were faster than me on that leg, and still hadn’t been overtaken – not bad for such a loaded field.

 

Run

Three weeks earlier, in Dun Laoghaire, I had put myself in a great position to possibly top my age group from the swim and the bike. At that race, I had gotten a bad stitch that lost me upwards of 5-minutes during the run – something difficult given the work I’d put in, but these things happen.

This was keenly front of mind during Vitruvian – whatever you do, control your salt intake and don’t eat too much. Don’t get a stitch.

My target overall time was to average ~3:50mins / km over the 20km run. I forced myself into a relative slow pace off the bike of 3:55 mins / km to ensure that I didn’t stitch through early exhaustion, and in an effort to “negative split” – a term given to finishing faster than you start, and an indication of a well-executed run.

7km in I was going strong. I’d started at 3:52 mins / km and 3:49 mins / km (slightly too fast) but had maintained ~3:55 mins / km since then. I felt good and was going strong. More so, I had the psychological edge by pretending I was Patrick Lange and wearing a snapback. What could go wrong?

With 1/3 run distance down it was time to turn the screw a little… and then it happened again.

Race stitch number 2. If you’ll allow me to summarise my emotions at the time through the immortal use of Dwayne Johnson and a gif:

Thanks Dwayne.

So I wasn’t going to get the dream race execution I wanted. But in a way, I was going to get something better – a chance to gather data against something that was clearly a recurring problem. Here I was, in a race, with a stitch, and the ability to try a few different things without the outcome mattering too much. Call it experiment conditions. So that’s what I did – I trialled:

Trial 1: Extra energy gel. Negligible effect.
Trial 2: Extra energy drink. Negligible effect.
Trial 3: Water cup. Negligible effect.
…all the while I’m slowing down…
Trial 4: Undo the trisuit zip all the way down. Here we go – that’s helped.

Somehow – maybe something to do with my airway – undoing the trisuit gave me back my ability to push, so I finished the race doing what every satisfied finisher (read complete nutter) wants – to finish by going all out for the last few km.

The first 7km had been fast. The middle 7km had been slow. Now the last 7km was going to be my best.

For the rest of the race, I interestingly hovered around the 3:59 mins / km mark; not as fast as I wanted but an indication of my form nonetheless. Then, most importantly, I crossed the line at a sprint. Satisfied. Completely exhausted. That’s more like it.

 

Reflections

I entered the race for a bit of fun and to fine tune my race execution. I’d call this more ‘rethinking’ than ‘fine tuning’, but I got the lessons I wanted nonetheless. And had SUCH a good time, as I always do when putting myself through exhaustive pain for several hours…

Final result, 3^rd in Age Group and 10^th overall. This field was impressively stacked with incredible talent – seemingly some of the best in the UK – so I’m happy enough with that!

Kona is now four weeks away. Four weeks to max out on my heat acclimatisation training (see video below for visual representation), sort this stitch out (I hear they can be muscular, so a trip to the physio is in order) and taper before the final big dance.

Getting real now, and I’m excited.