LEAP INTO THE UNKNOWN
Attracting the toughest triathletes in the world, Norway’s Norseman isn’t for the faint-hearted. We sent one writer on a quest to battle freezing cold and ferocious inclines to return with one of the fabled black finishers’ t-shirts
It’s 4:30am and I’m standing on the lower deck of a ferry in the middle of a Norwegian Fjord. Above me, a member of the boat crew is using a fire hose to spray me with freezing cold water taken straight from the water below. I feel the icy cold blast rushing through my wetsuit and start to shiver. I look to my right and hear the hollow sound of the ferry doors opening. My heart starts to beat faster, my mind’s racing as I head towards the edge of the ferry and I look down into the darkness. The legendary jump has arrived.
The Norseman Extreme triathlon is one of the hardest multisport events on the planet. Even gaining entry to the race is tough, with over 3,500 athletes attempting to claim one of the 250 places available. Started in 2003, the race has become legendary among endurance athletes, eager to tick off the point-to-point, irondistance triathlon.
TOUGH REPUTATION
The race starts in the cold but beautiful waters of Hardangerfjord with a 3.8km swim. On race day, water temperatures can vary from 10°-14°C. Inevitably, wetsuits are always required. Two hundred and fifty athletes from around the world then jump off the ferry and swim towards T1 in the town of Eidfjord.
The 180km bike ride encompasses 3,280m of climbing, reaching 1,200m above sea level. The first climb is a brutal 25km long and carves through the mountains.
The marathon is undulating for the first 25km with a further 18km of ascent reaching the summit of Mount Gaustatoppen at 1,880m above sea level. Only the first 160 athletes through are allowed to reach the summit to claim the hallowed black finisher’s t-shirt; everyone else has to take a different route to a separate finish, where a white t-shirt awaits them.
The total ascent across the entire course is an intimidating 12,000ft. Throw into the above lashing rain for hours on end and golf ball-sized hailstones, and you begin to understand why the race has its ferociously tough reputation.
I arrive in Oslo on the Tuesday before the race with my support crew: Chris Wilson and Phil Coulson, both seasoned triathletes and great friends. We pick up our hire car and drive the 300km from Oslo to Eidfjord, where we swim in the fjord as much as possible to help acclimatise to the cold temperatures. The race is unsupported so you need your own crew to provide food and water throughout the day, making them absolutely vital to your attempt.
DISTANT FIGURES
The alarm goes off at 2:35am and I force down a peanut butter sandwich at the end of my bed in the dark. It’s one of those moments where introspection takes over and you start to question your own sanity. Chris and Phil have a few minutes more rest, as their job is going to be as hard as mine.
I put on my wetsuit and board the ferry, sitting on the cold deck with a bitter wind slapping us all in the face. The atmosphere is heavy with tension. The ferry ride takes 20mins to get to the drop-off point – the longest 20mins of my life. I just focus on the impending swim, knowing that my fastest 3.8km time is 54mins, so anything under an hour on this course and I’ll be delighted.
I stand next to pro Jordan Rapp at the edge of the ferry and decide to try and pace off him during the swim. We jump off the ferry, I hit the water and am immediately consumed by the darkness and cold. The horn sounds and we’re off. I manage to jump into the lead pack but find myself losing ground as the race progresses. The pack’s working in surges, and as the pace switches up I start to lose feet.
Halfway through I find myself alone, a mere spectator watching the fast-disappearing figures ahead in the distance. But determined not to lose focus, I keep my eyes trained on the burning bonfire on the horizon and settle into my own rhythm. I exit the water in 16th place after 59 minutes and am very relieved to see Chris smiling at me and saying well done.
Into T2, cold and slightly lightheaded my sensory perception is disorientated, but I know there’s a TV crew thrusting a camera into my face. I pretend it’s not there as Chris and I stay focussed on our plan. I grab a base layer, jacket and toe covers for my bike shoes, and head out to start the 180km course.
NOT ENOUGH PRACTICE
The first 10km of the bike is flat and weaves through tunnels on an old tourist road. For this reason, you’re required to have bike lights (front and back) and a reflective vest. But it’s dark and I still can’t see the road! After the first 10km, you hit a 25km climb – the longest one of the day. I start to get hot and decide to settle into a nice rhythm. A couple of elite numbers (1-20) pass me but I focus on reaching the first support check point and seeing my mates.
Going into the race I’d hoped for a sub-7hr bike split. My 180km bike split is normally sub-5hrs but I only ride once a week. I’m a little old school when it comes to training, and having a busy fulltime job in London means I have limited time to train – like most age-groupers. I’d been using the weekends to do one ride at 230km, focussing on cycling economy and power work on what hills I could find. As I cycle up the first climb, it soon dawns on me that perhaps once a week wasn’t enough practice for this sort of race!
I reach the first support check point and stop to grab some new drinks and a mouthful of coffee. Chris and Phil tell me I’m in the top-40 overall, which really helps my mood. I came to get a black t-shirt so that goal is still in sight. I remember the words of the Norseman’s general manager, Dag Oliver, during the race briefing: “Enjoy the race and the course and don’t just look at your tri-bars. Enjoy the experience and the journey.” His words hit me time and time again during the race, I’m just thrilled I was listening!
My legs are tired and my back’s aching as I approach Imingfjell – Norseman’s infamous final climb. My support crew are parked halfway up and keep shouting encouragement. They tell me I only have a couple of kilometres left to climb, which I know isn’t true but it still does the job of pushing me on. I catch a couple of athletes as I climb and strangely find a rhythm by hanging off the back of the saddle and grinding up the hill. I reach the summit and enjoy the sweet taste of Coca Cola.
ROOKIE ERROR
The bike continues across a 10km plateau, leading onto a descent which undulates down for 25km. As I hit the downhill, the heavens open and hail starts crashing off my aero helmet and hitting me in the face. I have to squint to stop the hail going in my eyes while at the same time reaching speeds of what feels like 70kmph. I’m scared.
I reach T2 with a bike time of 6:56hrs. Very happy with that and bang on pre-race planning, even without any way of tracking how I’m going against the course. Chris and Phil are waiting for me in T2 and I change as quickly as I can. My feet are absolutely drenched but I’ve made the rookie error of having no
towel or talc. I change socks and start running. As I exit T2, the crew hold up a sign giving me my race position, so I can track my progress against the black t-shirt cut-off. I’m 63rd. Pleasing.
At 25km I reach Zombie Hill where Chris joins me for the power walk to 32km and the black t-shirt cut-off. As I walk up the hill, cars are beeping and spectators are shouting and high-fiving me. They know I’m one of the lucky finishers who will summit. The atmosphere is magical. Some athletes pass me but I couldn’t care less. I soak in the atmosphere, the breath-taking views, and the long walk with one of my best mates. I think about the 15hour training weeks I’d averaged for the previous seven months and the anxiety rollercoaster I’d been on to reach this point.
DICKENSIAN FOG
At 34km I start to get bad blisters, so I hobble to 37km where the Red Cross bandage up my feet and send me on my way. Phil has joined us and the three of us start the last 5km to the top of the mountain. Due to the severity of the climb, you have to carry a rucksack at this point, containing a head torch, warm clothes and water/food.
There’s no road at this point. There’s barely a path, just fewer rocks where they’ve been worn away over the years by ramblers and Norseman athletes before us. As we climb over the rocks we stop to take pictures of the surrounding landscape and bask in the glorious surroundings. We laugh about the course and our adventure together.
A Dickensian fog rolls in as my legs start to come back to me. I get a second wind, which I put down to eating a pack of Galaxy Minstrels, and we push hard up the last 2.5km. We pass 10 teams on the climb and a spectator tells us we only have 150m left to go. Through the fog we see a building and my heart starts to race. Our feet speed up, we jump over the last few stairs, and as we approach the finish I grab Chris and Phil by the hands and we cross the line with our hands aloft… and then unashamedly man hug.
In that moment, friendship means so much more than I’ve ever experienced before. I stand on the summit and feel like the happiest man in the world. Pure unadulterated euphoria. Magical. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Chris and Phil.
To me, finishing times are less important at this race (unless you’re going for the win). This one really is about the journey and experience, especially when you race it for the first time. But I can honestly say that the Norseman is both the best and the hardest race I’ve ever done. The Norseman crew are simply amazing and the race magical, so thank you to all who helped put it together. And I will be back to race Norseman again.