The
alarm chimed quietly. Nobody
stirred. Not even the grinding of the
zips of the giant tent made the slightest difference. Lynn and the girls slept peacefully. Darkness.
Quiet all around the packed campsite.
4am and I seemed to have the early morning tranquillity to myself. With most of the preparation taking place
last night, I methodically prepared myself, dressing and eating in the gloom and
the shadows of the phone torchlight.
Race kit – the white, black and red Fusion Speedsuit that has been a
feature of all my races since 2014 – was chosen, the Ironman tracking and
timing chip carefully placed around my left ankle and suncream liberally
applied. Breakfast was light, consisting
of a Trek flapjack and a Clif bar followed by a banana.
Almost
an hour later and well wrapped up to avoid the early morning chill, I began my
2k walk up to the Ironman transition and race start area. Walking slowly, lost in my own thoughts about
the day ahead. Reminding myself that
over the past few months I had done plenty of work – not as much as I would
have liked – but still enough for a good, solid performance.
I
met up with Paddy in transition – as due to the Ironman TriClub initiative we
were racked next to each other. He
looked relaxed and confident. I went
through the usual pre-race routine of pumping tyres, calibrating my new Garmin
Vector pedals, filling my two water bottles (one on the frame and one on the
aerobars) and placing my Torq strawberry and banana gels in an open tub on my
bike. I didn’t bother checking my bike
and run bags that I’d placed in transition yesterday – I knew everything I
needed was already safely packed away in there, ready for the moment they would
be called upon.
I
went through the painful routine of putting my super-tight wetsuit on before asking
a complete German stranger to manhandle me and zip me up. Into the 21 degree water for a short warm up
and I was ready to start the race, as ready as I was ever going to be.
The
swim is self-seeded, meaning that the faster swimmers – in theory - should be
at the front of the queue to enter the water and the slower swimmers at the
back. I walked over to the area where
swimmers were expecting to swim for 60 minutes or less, the fastest swimmers in
the race. I wasn’t feeling super
confident about the swim so I positioned myself about two thirds back in this particular
section, allowing others in front of me.
I had a strategy of trying to keep the swim easy, or as easy as
possible, saving energy for the parts of the race that would require the
greatest effort.
The
rolling start meant that there were eight ‘lanes’, with eight swimmers starting,
before another eight swimmers joined the fray, separated only by 5 second
intervals. There were eight or ten
groups of eight before me, maybe more. My
biggest concern before the swim start was the state of my goggles. They were
completely fogged up and no matter what I did, visibility through the lenses
was poor. My plan, if I absolutely had
to, was to swim into some clear water and wash them with the clear lake water.
6.45am
and the age group athletes had started.
One wave, five seconds gap, another wave, five seconds gap. I was inching closer to the lakeshore. Another wave.
Heart was bumping. Another
wave. Goggles still fogged. Another wave.
Very soon, I no longer had a close up view of large men in black rubber
suits, but a clear, uninterrupted view of Lake Zurich. A Lake Zurich that shone brightly with the
reflection of the early morning sun.
Three … two … one. This was it. Go!
Running
through the sandy shore and into the cool waters, with fellow enthusiasts for
company. This is why I’d subjected
myself – and my family – to hours of training, to a thousand mile road trip, to
a camping trip that revolved around race preparation and the enormous guilt
that accompanies all of that. Entering
the water in this environment was a marvellous feeling.
Dive. One stroke, two strokes. I was in and I was swimming. I immediately knew that many of the swimmers
in front of me, the people who I’d let go in front of me a few minutes earlier,
were not ‘sub-60 swimmers’. I caught one
guy, then another before colliding with several more. I hit (accidentally), I got hit. I swam over legs, I bumped into bodies. It was all a bit rough. After swimming for 400 or 500m and reaching
the first turn buoy the field thinned out a bit. Most of the athletes around me were now
swimming at a sub-60 pace. This was much
better. I swam alongside a group of
swimmers, swimming in their wake, conserving some energy.
Outside
of the bumping bodies and the clashing arms, the water was clear and calm. Sunshine and blue skies. And the hills across from the lake. A beautiful setting for a swim.
I
stayed in a group of swimmers, moving up through the field all of the time,
until about 2,000 metres when I found myself slowing down to remain behind the
leader of the group and stay in the draft zone.
I was swimming slowly. In
hindsight, this was probably an ideal pace, using minimal effort and conserving
energy. I spotted four swimmers about 50
metres ahead. “Let them go” I thought
repeatedly. The temptation was too much though,
and I decided to push on, swimming at pace to try and catch them. It took a few hundred metres of effort,
effort I probably didn’t need to spend, to draw level with them.
I
stayed behind this group, benefiting from their efforts by swimming in their
moving water, whilst I had a little rest.
After 3,000 metres, I started to feel the earlier efforts. My stroke, never the most smooth, was
becoming ragged. My arms were
tiring. The power was still there, but
the effort needed to stay ‘on pace’ and with the remaining two guys was
becoming greater. I decided the benefit
of swimming in their wake, using a little extra effort, was worth it.
The
big, yellow inflatable swim exit was a welcome sight. I could see twenty or more volunteers at the
waters edge, ready to give swimmers a helping hand onto dry land. I reached up and grabbed the hand of the
first volunteer, a petite lady, hoping I wouldn’t drag her in the water with
me. Onto dry land. Yes!
The
first thing I noticed was the noise. The
crowd was thick and making themselves heard.
Cheering, shouting, yelling. My
smile widened. This is what it’s all
about. This is why we do it. I spotted Eric and the rest of Paddy's family
and entourage, or should I say they spotted me.
Brilliant. I made the long run
through transition area, struggling (as usual) to unzip and remove my wetsuit
as I ran.
My
swim was 57 minutes. This was the 35th
fastest swim of the day, including all of the professionals, out of more than
1,700 athletes. I was also 2nd (by 13
seconds) in my age group! In Barcelona
2014, with a swim time of 54 minutes, I was 66th out of the water
and 6th in my age group. In
2015, my swim was 53 minutes and I was 36th overall, 5th
in my age group.
After
the struggle with my wetsuit, I put my new Rudy Project aero helmet on. Never try something new on raceday,
right? Shoes, race number and Oakleys
on, I ran over to pick up my trusty race bike. The Trek Speed Concept is now
seven years old and is a super bike, but is probably showing its age a bit. This was to be my 10th Ironman race on this
bike.
After
mounting the bike, I was off along the flat section, through Zurich town centre
and out of town. The road surface was good - not super-fast but mostly very
smooth. The early morning sunshine and
blue skies were a welcome sight, as was the lack of wind in the air. My plan was to be restrained in this section,
ignoring the pleas of the road – flat and smooth - to go faster. I was trying to keep my heart rate relatively
low whilst keeping a watchful eye on the numbers on my new powermeter. The first section of 30k was covered quickly,
an average of 35kph, yet my heart rate had stayed in the 140’s. I made the left-hand turn at the roundabout
and headed into the hills. I was feeling
pretty good at this point.
I
went through the first aid station, picking up a cold, fresh water bottle. It was 9am and it was already getting hot out
here! I took the hills easy, clicking
into my low gears and not putting too much pressure through the pedals. As well as some ‘normal’ hills, there were
two long climbs in the middle of the course – The Beast and Egg - and a
shorter, steeper section towards the end of each lap called Heartbreak Hill. Not knowing the course particularly well, I
was expecting to tackle The Beast at every turn. The anticipation of the climb was finally
rewarded after about 55k. The Beast was a 4k ascent - not ‘out of the saddle
steep’ but a long, winding grind upwards - maybe 6% or 7% gradient? Conditions definitely made this section harder. It was so hot. Gripping the handlebars tightly during the
climb, I noticed how much sweat was dripping off my arms. Reaching the summit was rewarded with a very
quick descent followed by another 4 or 5k climbing up Egg. This was a shallower gradient, but the road
was never ending. Once over the top of
the hill, there were some fast, flat sections followed by a screaming fast,
twisting descent which tested both my nerve and my brakes! Down the hill and
back onto the flat section, returning into town feeling relatively fresh. The heat continued to rise.
On
the way to Heartbreak Hill I passed our campsite, our home for the past four
days. Lynn and the girls were waiting to
give me a boost, a super cheer. I slowed
down, came out of the aerobars and sat up to see Lynn and the girls - dressed
in their matching Ironman supporters t-shirts - enthusiastically cheering,
waving and ringing cowbells! Amazing
enthusiasm and support.
I
approached the hill, put my bike in the right gear and began the short, sharp
1k climb (10-12% gradient) through the crowds to the summit. Loud and colourful
supporters lined the hill, giving me goosebumps and broadening my smile. Down the steep descent and back onto the flat
roads, past the campsite and my amazing support and onward, towards the start
of lap 2.
I
checked my Garmin, looking at the time taken to complete lap 1 and my average
speed. I concluded that a fast time
wasn't likely today – and the bike leg was likely to be about twenty minutes
slower than I optimistically predicted.
Onto
lap 2, through the city centre and back onto the long, flat stretch of
road. I noticed that the trees were
swaying a little, and I was now heading into a slight headwind. This dented my speed. On the first lap, 35 or 36kph was a common
sight on the display of my Garmin, but I was now seeing 32 or 33kph for the
same power output and heart rate. I had
strength in my legs and enthusiasm in my belly, so it was now my turn to overtake
some of the tiring triathletes around me.
During
this section, I realised that I had been sitting on the bike for almost 4 hours
and hadn’t yet needed the toilet. It was
in excess of 31 degrees and I was sweating – a lot. I stopped at an aid station, put my bike down
and headed for the toilet, forcing myself.
Without going into too many details, it was quite painful, indicating some
level of dehydration. I left the
toilets, immediately feeling better. I
resolved to drink more fluids on the second lap.
I
felt more confident on this lap, as I knew the course a bit better, knew when
to push and knew when the hills were coming. However, the second time up The Beast, and it
was like an oven. Inland, there was no
breeze, it was 33 degrees and I was cooking.
I made sure I stayed medium rare and not well-done by staying behind
another guy who seemed to be wrestling with his bike to make it go upwards,
further up the hill.
The
last third of the bike leg and I felt pain in my right hip. I wasn’t sure if it was my hip or I had tight
glute muscles. As I sit here writing
this 12 days later, this area is still painful when I try pedal or run. It didn’t stop my pedalling or interfere too
much with my riding, it was just something I noticed.
More
slow climbing up Egg, then the screaming descent back down - still as
exhilarating as the first lap – before pedalling quickly through the flat
section – assisted by a tailwind - back into town.
Passing
the campsite again and sure enough there they were. Once again, I slowed down to wave and blow
kisses at Lynn and the girls before cycling up towards Heartbreak Hill for the
last time. The crowds had thinned and my
legs had done 170k at this stage so this felt a bit tougher than the first time
around.
180k
of hot, hilly riding after a solid 3.8k swim. That's seven hours of effort, of
my heart beating at least 150 beats per minute. My longest training session
leading into the race had been four hours. Energy levels had not been
conserved, as much as I'd like to think they had.
Into
the welcome sight of transition. Relief. Seven hours into the race. Boiled.
Right hip / glutes hurting. Dehydrated. I got off the bike and started to run,
pushing the bike along as I went, to put it back in the rack. After the first
few steps I realised that I would be better to walk it back into transition and
settle myself before starting the marathon. It also dawned on me, for the first
time in the race, that perhaps I was a little underprepared for today. I would
soon find out.
Bringing
my bike back into transition and back onto the steel racking, I was deflated
when Paddy's Scott bike wasn't there. I
know he was aiming high, aiming for a fast time. I didn't see him at any point on the road, but
I had assumed that he had zoomed past when I stopped at one of the toilets en
route.
Once
the bike was racked, I grabbed my red run bag, which was hanging on the hooks
with hundreds of other identical bags, and ran into the change tent. I changed
into fresh socks, laced up my On Cloudflyers, grabbed a plastic food bag
containing my Garmin run watch, Torq energy gels and sun cream and ran gingerly
out of transition.
Running
along, I reached into the plastic bag and found my Garmin, switching it on
before putting it on my wrist. Nothing happened. I switched it on again. Nothing. "Oh come on!" I yelled. I had a few issues with the watch on Saturday,
but thought I had solved them. Apparently
not. I was going to have to run a
marathon with no idea of time, of pace, of distance or of heart rate. This would be a first! I was so disappointed. So frustrated. Of all the times the watch chooses to give up.
Race day. Soon after, I spotted Lynn and the girls. What a welcome sight they were! I dumped my useless watch, took off my now
redundant heart rate monitor and threw them to the ground for the girls to sort
out.
My
plan was to run slowly for the first lap, then increasing the pace slightly for
the rest of the run. I also planned to walk through each of the aid stations,
taking in water and nutrition as I went along.
I
didn't know the run course at all so everything on the first lap was a
surprise. It is a varied run route, taking
in the park, the lakeside, Zurich city centre and the opposite side of Lake
Zurich, passing some pretty packed bars and cafes along the way. Each of the four laps of the run had six aid
stations. Six aid stations on a 10k
loop! As well as an assortment of drinks
(energy drink, water, coke, red bull), gels, fruit, salty snacks, soup (!), all
of the aid stations had plenty of cold, wet sponges. At every aid station I grabbed at least two
sponges and squeezed them out over my head to help cool down.
The
first lap went quite well. Running
slowly, yes, but cooling down at each aid station and seeing the sights of
Zurich. I was enjoying this and I was
convinced I could plod my way to a sub-4 hour marathon and a sub-11 hour
finish. Somewhere during the second lap
this seemed to change. I wasn't feeling
so 'fresh'. In fact I was feeling
dreadful. Still, I ran on.
The
running - such as it was - was painful. Each
foot strike sent pains into my leg muscles. My glutes had stopped working and we're
now just feeling the impact of the road and telling me to stop. Large
blisters were forming on both feet, due to the amount of water I was squeezing
and pouring over my head.
At
the start of the third lap I began walking, walking a lot. The running was less and the walk breaks
extended. I was defeated. I have never had a run as bad as this. There would have been a psychological
breakdown, no doubt, perhaps as a result of the Garmin malfunction or a
realisation that the race time would be below my expectations. However, this was definitely more of a
physical problem. My muscles were shot,
they hurt, hurt like I've not experienced before. Each stride making me wince.
At
this point on the fourth lap I was still walking. I had just seen Paddy overtake me. I was glad
for Paddy, but I was beyond caring about my own race. No amount of crowd support and words of
encouragement could shake me out of my slump. I walked up towards the town centre, with my
head bowed but still giving the occasional smile to the well-wishing and
encouraging spectators. I spotted a big,
shiny clock on the side of one of the high-end shops. I quickly calculated that I had been racing
for 11 hours and 20 minutes. 40 minutes remaining before 12 hours of racing and
I had about 6k to run.
At
that moment, something happened.
I
realised that, after putting in all of this effort, I really didn't want to go
home with an Ironman finish time of more than 12 hours.
Pride
kicked in. I simply had to run to make
it under this new goal, no matter how much it hurt.
One
step, ouch, two steps, argh, three steps, ooofff, this was hurting but I was
running again.
It
was slow, it was ugly, it was painful, it was running.
As
badly as I was moving, I was starting to pass people again. Come on, keep on running!
Keep on moving forward.
Soon
enough, I found myself running along the finish chute. I was scanning the deep
crowds for Lynn and the girls. And then I heard them. Cheers. Smiles. Cowbells.
Yelling. Jumping. The painful memories
of the last few hours extinguished in a single moment. My smile had a reason to be back. My arms shot out to high five any and all
spectators who dared stretch out their arms. I bounced along the carpet,
milking the applause, and realising what a beautiful place this now was.
The
Ironman finisher zone definitely causes acute memory loss and comes with a pair
of rose tinted glasses. Side effects include a confidence of ‘definitely
smashing future races’!
After
taking a year off triathlon and Ironman in 2016, 2017 was a hard road back to
speed and fitness. This was my first
race since Ironman Barcelona in 2015 and a reminder of how tough this sport is.
Although
an hour outside my original target, I had reached my new goal with 5 minutes to
spare, finishing in 11.55. This was my
second slowest Ironman finish, with my very first Ironman (in Switzerland in
2009) being 40 minutes slower. A 4 hour
and 51 minute marathon run was my slowest Ironman run, by some distance, 1 hour
and 18 minutes behind my Ironman Barcelona run of 2014.
Not
a time or performance to show off, but I’ve realised that each Ironman finish
is something to be proud of, to be grateful for and to celebrate. It takes a lot of effort and sacrifice to even
make the start line, and an enormous amount of energy to get through 140.6
miles to reach that glorious finish line, no matter how long it takes. It takes
generous family support and sacrifice in the months leading up and on the day
itself. All of which I am very grateful
for and appreciate immensely.
