Golly gosh, my oh my, a lot has changed in a year. If you'll excuse the pun it has been a year of 'transition' with this little terror, sorry, honey-pie entering the world.
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| Boo hoo |
If all had gone to plan little Tabitha would have been supporting Daddy at just four weeks old ("she'll be fine, right?") but such is life, she chose to 'pop out' six weeks early up in Dundee of all places where her Mummy was working - 470 miles from home. Whilst it was appreciated that she clearly didn't want to miss out on Ironman, it rocked our world and to a (much) lesser extent my training schedule. July was practically a write-off, as I spent the month changing nappies, clearing up sick and kissing little feet! In August I made a real effort to train hard whilst balancing fatherhood, work commitments and sleep deprivation. A little tired, a little frazzled but feeling fit and strong physically it was time to pack up the bike, triathlon gear and baby and head to Tenby once more.
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| Can't quite reach the pedals |
Whilst my athletic achievements are nondescript, I do fair well against my old self. Indeed not once have I failed to PB at a race I've ran previously. The London Marathon, Beachy Head, The Picnic, London to Brighton to name a few, I always improve over the then younger Craig Norris. It's all rather gratifying. The key is to never train too well, as to not be able to train to a similar level the following year! Ultimately as I get older and my child becomes more demanding, this will get harder to maintain, but for now at least for someone who's never going to be competitive my old self is my benchmark to beat.
It therefore made sense to suggest that having completed it in 12:35 in 2014, this year sub-12 was on the cards. The swim is the swim, my aim will always be to simply survive it in one piece. One could train like a pro for a year all to knock off five, maybe ten minutes. Sadly the fruits will never be worth the labour. I struggled on the bike last year, with a shooting pain in my knee for much of the second lap, so there was surely half an hour to be made there, together with the slight improvements in my cycling technique. It had been rather pleasing to lay down a sub-4 hour marathon so any improvement on that off of a faster bike would see me cross the line with 11:XX on the clock. Oh, and there would always be potential to make up time in transition. Getting ready fast is not a strong point of mine!
It therefore made sense to suggest that having completed it in 12:35 in 2014, this year sub-12 was on the cards. The swim is the swim, my aim will always be to simply survive it in one piece. One could train like a pro for a year all to knock off five, maybe ten minutes. Sadly the fruits will never be worth the labour. I struggled on the bike last year, with a shooting pain in my knee for much of the second lap, so there was surely half an hour to be made there, together with the slight improvements in my cycling technique. It had been rather pleasing to lay down a sub-4 hour marathon so any improvement on that off of a faster bike would see me cross the line with 11:XX on the clock. Oh, and there would always be potential to make up time in transition. Getting ready fast is not a strong point of mine!
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| Entering Wales |
That was the plan at least. It had also been the plan to drive to Tenby in six hours on the Friday, but traffic and three baby stops took this to just shy of ten. Kids. Pulling into Tenby in the dark of night, with the rain pouring down, the day was practically over so a busy Saturday would see me register, recce and rack.
Up early (#obvs) on the Saturday, sleep deprived, I chose to sack-off the practice swim as it had been moved back to silly o’clock and I kind of knew the drill. Not to be a complete slob, I went out for a run that took me around town and down to the beach – ooh the sea is so calm I thought. It was a lot less intense this time around not having to worry about inane stuff such as why the pegs for our swim bags weren’t in numbered order (they’re corrected late on) or whether I should or shouldn’t strip off my wetsuit before running to T1 (you most certainly should). From the beach I rehearsed the swim exit up the switchback slope to street level – deep breaths – and made my way to registration.
Up early (#obvs) on the Saturday, sleep deprived, I chose to sack-off the practice swim as it had been moved back to silly o’clock and I kind of knew the drill. Not to be a complete slob, I went out for a run that took me around town and down to the beach – ooh the sea is so calm I thought. It was a lot less intense this time around not having to worry about inane stuff such as why the pegs for our swim bags weren’t in numbered order (they’re corrected late on) or whether I should or shouldn’t strip off my wetsuit before running to T1 (you most certainly should). From the beach I rehearsed the swim exit up the switchback slope to street level – deep breaths – and made my way to registration.
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| Flagging |
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| Oh so calm |
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| Rolling the red carpet |
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| Swim exit and run to T1 |
Did I say registration? I meant the Ironman Expo where you are forced to wind through hoards and hoards of Ironman memorabilia (if they can print on it, they'll sell it) from t-shirts to mugs to baby-grows (no I didn't) before finally reaching the registration desk, to well register. Whilst I love the event, the discipline, the history, there is more than a slight whiff of Coca-Cola/McDonalds-ism about the brand nowadays. My slightly cynical self is saddened by the diminishing race purity to business profitability ratio. When you've spent £400+ on an entry fee, the big sell across the weekend grates. We'll expand on this on another blog post, another time.
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| That beach |
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| Pastel period properties |
Last year, my first year, I really struggled on the Saturday getting my bags packed and bike racked. Give me one thing to do and I'll carry that task out with aplomb. Give me two things to do simultaneously and I'll jump from one to t'other, ooh-ing and ahh-ing about what to do first and ultimately achieving neither. When presented with three transition bags, special needs bags and a bike setup, well you'll understand my plight. This year around, safe in the knowledge that no mishaps were had the year prior, I packed relatively fast, dropped off my bags and racked my bike without breaking a sweat. Later that day, with the sole focus being 'family' I headed out for a stroll with my beloveds down to the beach as the sun set. I must say, to all you beach-lovers, one really must visit Tenby.
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| Racking bikes (#BikePorn) |
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| Tucking her in |
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| Night night Daria |
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| T1's and 2's |
That night I slept remarkably well. Was is due to my dear baby sleeping through in deep slumber. Not quite, rather that my girlfriend had taken a whinging baby into the bathroom, sat in the shower enclosure with doors closed in darkness for best part of three hours to drown out the sounds. It's a team game. Up at five, with porridge in the system I checked in on Daria to load nutrition and check tyres. F**k, f**k, Fuhahuck! How could my front tyre be flat? On with the pump, nothing. Air was escaping. Now my tyre was completely deflated, I felt much the same. Now being rushed by the marshalls, telling me that transition was closing sent my stress levels soaring. "Come on Craig, think...". Checking the valve (on my new 80mm tubes) it was loose, was that the problem? Tightened within an inch of it's life, back on with the pump and up to 120psi. Ok good! Praying to my Atheist equivalent, that come T1 the tyre would greet me rock solidly I scarpered to the beach.
There was no procession this year, which was less eventful but ultimately logistically beneficial. Following what would be the run to T1 from the beach, the crowds lining the route were incredible. More so given the fact it was yet seven in the morning. Adrenaline peaking. The task ahead to complete 'another' Ironman was now real. Something I had been quite lackadaisical about up to this point. Kissing goodbye to my little support team, I preceded down to the beach to join my neoprene brothers and sisters.
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| Head down and focused |
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| Orca 'Wales' |
Now, I'm no oceanographer but is it possible that sea waters are more tumultuous of a Sunday, the day of rest? Again, calm waters the day before now unnervingly boisterous for race day. I joined in the rolling start with the 1:10 swimmers. All being honest, this meant that those ahead would stay ahead and there would be no risk from faster swimmers wanting to swim over me. Is it easier second time around? Is knowing better than not? Well, I felt calmer for sure this time around. That was probably down to me not knowing what I had once known. How easily the mind forgets.
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| The start line |
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| In I go (blurred white sleeve) |
After a rather powerful rendition of the Welsh national anthem (boy the Welsh can sing), to the sound of the klaxon we funnelled into the mixer. As expected it was sculling for a not too brief moment, following the masses to a buoy I hoped someone up ahead was sighting. It seemed to take an age to reach the first buoy, against the tide and fighting for space. From early on I sighted the surfboards of the RNLI (they themselves struggling to remain in position) with panicked swimmers taking respite. My sensibility saw me take a long line around the course, keeping out of harms way. Across the bay I sighted off a cliff-top building, now swimming fairly undisturbed. Turning at the final buoy, on the crest of a wave proved quite fun, landing on the beach like a shipwreck survivor. Up the beach, jelly-legged for the turn-a-round for lap two. The swell had risen notably, now some strokes weren't hitting water rather clean air. At the buoys, it was a little sketchy second time around with swimmers crashing in to the side of me such was the strength of the waves. Mental stress aside, physically the swim was comfortable and I exited in 1:16 a couple of minutes up on 2014.
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| At the 'Aussie exit' - no idea my girlfriend was there |
Wetsuit off, trainers on and up into town for the kilometre sprint to T1. The crowds were now double as too was my adrenaline level. It's an odd part of the race, for most there's a feeling of great relief having completed the swim leg and survived all that can go wrong there. But the swim is all but a small slice of the Ironman pie, and ahead lies great distance. For me I also had the worry of my front tyre. Head down and focused (and a tad apprehensive) I switched into my bike get-up, and into transition to feel some rubber.
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| Getting my sprint on toward T1 |
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| That heelkick |
Panic over. As hard as...well you know. Phew. Out through town, collecting myself, focused on getting some decent nutrition in early on I set about keeping to 30kph for as long as possible before the hills and fatigue inevitably took hold. It's interesting at the early stages catching the strong swimmers that are weak on the bike and being passed by strong cyclists that clearly struggle in the water. My average/average was up and running but I was struggling to hit 29+kph from the outset. For some reason I chose not to use let's say 'the big ring' - to highlight just how poor my bike knowledge is - so I was not building up maximum speed on the flat and therefore having to work harder on the incline. This clearly cost me. Evidently there was no reason to believe that I would be faster on the bike than last year. I lost my mojo right there and then. In life, if I'm not improving on something, or accomplishing something new I don't quite see the point nor take enjoyment from it. This attitude was beating me up. Maybe I would be stronger toward the end and my speed wouldn't drop off so dramatically. But I knew the course now, and was aware that the crippling climbs were in the second half of the race. A course that doesn't allow you to maintain the same speed.
Under-performing, but feeling physically solid none-the-less, all the while cursing to myself. Ensuring that I was taking on board enough calories was just as important as turning the pedals. At the aid stations, I knew the drill. Switch over bottles, pick up what you can - Powerbar cookie...really rather tasty FYI - guzzle, guzzle, guzzle. It never ceases to amaze me just how difficult it is to shove in a tenth energy gel. When running an ultra, the aid stations are stocked with cake, sandwiches, pasta, you name it, there's a break from the sugar. With Ironman you're hardly going to stuff a pork pie in your tri-suit, so sugar it is. I must have bonked, that's all I can put it down to. I found the climbs tough on the first loop but none-the-less came round to the turnaround at 70+ miles in four hours and some. From halfway onwards I felt a little empty and wayward. The second loop was a struggle and I limped round. It took a lot of effort to consume yet more sugary gloop, even though I knew it was essential. The support was incredible, dotted along the entire route and overflowing in the towns and villages. I smirked and chuckled at various points such were the outfits, energy, signage and remarks. Ironman Wales is infamous for its outstanding support and it's certainly well deserved.
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| Meanwhile...in la la land... |
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| ...the race day excitement had got too much for one young supporter |
There was one particular moment where I made myself chuckle. It was during a toilet break on the second loop. You know those triathletes who show a bit of belly when they're running and you think my Lord why would any man choose to wear such an outfit? Well I'll tell you why in two words: Toilet break. My outfit du jour was a one-piece tri-suit beneath a rather fitted cycling top. My time in the portaloo, went a little like this:
Cycling top off, no, helmet off, no glasses off rather, now helmet, now cycling top, oops the contents of my pockets are now on the floor, oh well. Tri-suit unzipped...la la la...might as well eat an energy bar while I'm at it. Ok, tri-suit up, stuff pockets, now on with the cycling top, sh*t, contents back on floor, glasses on...ah, helmet first, now glasses...oh can't see, off with the glasses, stuff pockets, how long was that...and where's my f***ing bike...oh ok a nice gentleman is holding it for me. Tally ho.
I had certainly forgotten just how tough the race (and an Ironman per se) was. It was beneficial in that I came into the race calm, but thinking finishing was automatic was wrong. Constantly checking my watch and calculating my ETA into T2, it was clear that a fast marathon was going to be required if only to equal last year's effort. Tackling those mother-f***ing hills for a second time and on the home straight to Tenby, I felt re-energised, taking a number of competitors and finding the strength to charge up the inclines. Back for some of that adrenaline inducing atmosphere, no mechanicals, no punctures, the bike was over, hoorah. 'Just a marathon' remained.
In an Ironman I find it rather advantageous that running be my strong point. After eight hours of exercise I'd hate to get off the bike thinking "dear Lord, now for the tough part". At this point of the race, feeling physically spent and mentally weary, I know I'll have no problem running a marathon. Racing out of T2 my spirits are raised safe in the knowledge that I need only worry about myself, not whether someone's going to kick me in the face nor whether my bike is going to let me down. It is also rather fun and therapeutic overtaking a couple hundred competitors and finishing strong.
Given the rolling start, my race had not started at 7am on the dot, rather 7:04 or was it 7:09 even? With a frazzled brain I found it hard to recall and therefore calculate just how much time I had for the marathon in order to PB. Regardless, I left T2 with an over-enthused sprint start - that I was forced to reign in - set on the task ahead and one last big (four hour) push to the finish. I stuck to the plan which was to walk the aid stations, taking this time to fuel and digest, then run all else. The route consisting of four laps, is basically uphill out of Tenby, then back down into it with an undulating parade of the town itself. For the most part you are running on a slope. The first lap whizzed by, picking up my first armband as the pros headed for the finish line with all four! I felt strong, I felt happy, buoyed by the oh so super support and engaged volunteers.
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| Spotting my support crew (and photographers) on loop 1 |
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| Oh surprise, another slope |
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| 10 yards closer to the finish |
I made a conscious decision on that first lap to focus primarily on enjoying the moment, however I faired. The moment that costs £x,xxx, that I devote so much of my time in training for and that sacrifices time with my family. Either way, I would complete another Ironman. I'd become blasé about how much grit and determination this event took to even complete, let alone continue to set faster and faster times. It was with these airy thoughts that I chose to embrace my mother and child unit, as I spotted them awaiting me (not so much Tabitha, she was soundo) at the end of lap one. I'm not sure if the salty, stinky, snotty kiss was appreciated, but it was my way of showing my appreciation for her year-round support.
I had to dig in deep on loop two and three, the uphill was quite an effort with tiring legs and with the finish line still far on the horizon, mentally I was wavering. At points I would give myself an excuse to walk, limiting it to say 'three centre lines of the road' (a learned ultra-running technique) as to keep me from losing too much time. I was very disciplined with this self-imposed rationale, and pushed hard on the return to town with an upped pace. Running through the town was something to look forward to at the end of each lap, such was the corridor of support that we funnelled through. The little kids itching for a hi-five was just adorable and I done my utmost to honour as many as I could. Even though I felt tremendous guilt in knowing just how germ ridden my hands were at that stage!
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| Keep smiling, project strong |
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| Into town once more |
Turning away from the finish chute for the final time and on to loop four, the maths was quite clear that a maintained pace would see me cross the line faster than 2014. One final loop, one final hour. It’s amazing how the mind can switch when the end is nigh. For the pros maybe they carry this strength of mind throughout the race, but for me it’s really those last few miles where I’m able to give it everything and put the discomfort in a box. On the last loop I managed to keep to a run up to the turn point before busting a gut toward the finish line. Oh the relief on receiving that fourth armband. The support and cheers take on another level when they sight your full collection of bands, a victory lap of sorts. Drunk on the atmosphere and ecstasy of knowing a chair awaited, I finished on five sub-five minute kilometres like a man possessed.
Such was my hurriedness that I entered the finishing chute at breakneck speed catching the heels of those in-front, sensibly soaking up their moment. I failed to spot my screaming/waving girlfriend and daughter (what happened to fatherly instinct?) and crossed the line in the photographic shadow of a fellow athlete. Brilliant, after all that. The occasion was then heightened further upon news that my girlfriend (later spotting me) had to rush back to the room to attend to our baby’s ‘nutritional needs’. Scoffing a questionable pizza with my medal on, stooped over, cutting a lonely figure, I wasted no time in collecting my bags and checking out my bike (probably quicker than I had at T1) to head home.
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| Don't rush the finish line |
No video of the finish, no champagne celebrations, no back out to watch the late finishers sadly. A child changes all this. That said, the child didn't stop her mother from going out in the dark of night to buy me fish and chips, so let's not open up the violin just yet.
I had already signed up for next year's Ironman UK (Bolton) before the race and after finishing, with the pain and lack of enjoyment (for the most part at least) still fresh in my mind, I was adamant that I wouldn't return to Tenby for a third time. It was probably the truest "never again" I've felt post-race.
That sentiment lasted a week. My thoughts then turned to "well, you know what Craig, if you train hard on the bike this year it'll be far more enjoyable won't it..."
So that's two Ironman races now for 2016. I haven't made any ultra-marathon plans as yet, well apart from London to Brighton (100km) but then that's a yearly staple. I've been saying "never again" and "why Craig" a lot this year, just 30km in to L2B and halfway into the South Downs Way 100 miler, and on February 26th in fact during that stupid RUYD idea. I need to turn that frown upside down more, or what's the point. The Ironman thing might end next year. If I don't improve my times dramatically, I see little point in notching up another finish for finishing's sake. We'll see. Oh actually there's this...
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| The morning after |
I told myself I'd keep this short ("just write a quick recap Craig...nobody reads it anyway"), but I've gone all introspective again. So for my seven readers and a cat I'll end on this thought.
There's a great similarity I'm finding between these endurance events and parenthood. For the most part it is rather dull and difficult, there's a lot of feeding involved and you are tasked to deal with various bodily discharges in awkward positions. But then there are those moments that make you smile and feel absolutely alive that far surpass any distress. That said though, not sure I'll have a second one.
Ironman Wales 2015 / 12:30:45 / 376th overall / 51st in Age Group
