DAY OF DESTINY
Inspired by Kona? Then the 70.3 Series offers an introduction to the Ironman racing experience. Attempting her first-ever triathlon was Kate Milsom on the Jurassic Coast
The waves wash over my head again and again. With each swell I rise and catch a glimpse of the other swimmers thrashing among the waves, trying to keep their heads above the water. The yellow marker buoys dip in and out of vision between curtains of rain and sea spray. Choking on seawater, I desperately try to stay afloat and paddle in the right direction. It’s not about speed now, it’s about survival.
Each lifeguard has several frozen, gasping athletes clinging to their surfboards, over 40 will have to be rescued today. I’m determined not to be one of them. It’s only been a couple of minutes since the start of the race, the start of my first-ever triathlon. Huddled on the grey beach with thousands of other shivering triathletes, the lights of Weymouth wink at our backs, more than one of us joked ‘And I actually paid to do this?’
Ironically, Ironman 70.3 Weymouth won Athlete’s Choice Award for Overall Swim in 2016. Settled in a sheltered and accessible bay, it’s no wonder that Weymouth has been the desired location for international and Olympic Games sailing events. On a calm day, the town boasts stunning views of the Jurassic coastline, framed with its picturesque Georgian seafront and iconic Jubilee Clock Tower.
In only its third year running (Ironman took over the existing Challenge Weymouth event in 2016), Ironman 70.3 Weymouth is already popular with both pros and age-groupers alike and is known for its scenic bike course and fast and flat half marathon run leg. No wonder it’s frequented by the likes of India Lee and Elliot Smales, this year’s pro winners. On the other end of the scale, Ironman 70.3 Weymouth seems ideal for the first timer like myself. Although arguably not the 2018 edition…
A TEMPEST AWAITS
It’s the day before the race and I’m already drenched through. I juggle my bags and trusty Boardman, and squelch along the esplanade to the Pavilion where a buzzing hub of activity awaits. After collecting my shiny new Ironman rucksack and registration envelope, I rush to the race briefing. The Pavilion Theatre is packed to bursting with excited athletes and as the lights dim, I feel the excitement, energy and a hint of fear. The Ironman slogan bursts across the screen and as music pulses around us, the announcer asks, ‘Are you ready?’ But really, there’s only one thing on everyone’s mind: the weather.
A few days ago, Storm Helen ripped through the country bringing with her extremely high winds, torrential downpours and all things in between. My stomach is in knots as I read that the wind speed for race day is forecasted a mind-blowing 95km/hour and with heavy rain as well. I’m in trouble. The race director promises that they’ll do all they can to provide a full 70.3 triathlon. Having not attempted a triathlon before, I begin to question whether I can finish in normal conditions, let alone in the tempest that awaits us the next day. I know that whatever happens though, it will be an experience.
Feeling like I could burst with all of the information and regulations, I stagger over to the nearest table and start to line up my transition bag contents, checking them off from the list I’ve made the night before. Much to the amusement of the athletes around me, I carefully line up the contents of my blue bike bag and take a picture, since I was sure I’d read somewhere to do that. The table next to me are very impressed and ask if I’m a pro. Once I confess to how clueless I really am, they kindly offer advice and encouragement and I head off to rack my bike in high spirits.
SHIVERING HOARDES
4:30am. Grey. Rainy. Tired. I roll out of bed after an utterly sleepless night and throw on my tri-suit, warm clothes and headtorch. A steady stream of groggy triathletes trickles out of our hotel and into waiting cars. Like a confused nocturnal convoy, we all head in the same direction through the silent streets. Despite being far from hungry, I manage a bowl of apple and peanut butter overnight oats.
“Weather affects everyone’s mental willingness to endure... Don’t give up before the gun goes off!”
I hope that it’ll serve as a reserve of energy for what’s ahead but, for now, it just feeds the big ball of nerves sitting in the pit of my stomach.I pump up my tyres and attach any nutrition in transition, say farewell to my bike and join the hordes of triathletes shivering together on the windswept beach. My poor parental support crew are drenched through as we all huddle against the nearest building for shelter. Half an hour until the start, the sea is a black writhing mass, the sky is still dark, and we hear across the loud speaker that the swim course is going to be halved to 950m thanks to the dangerous conditions.
A mass of wetsuits, swim hats and chattering teeth, we huddle together as the swim team mark out the buoys for the shortened swim and get into position. An hour later and what feels like one step away from hypothermia, we’re off. The rolling seeded start is slowgoing, and the pros benefit from the best conditions, as each minute the wind picks up and the waves continue to grow. Finally, it’s my turn. I set off with a few others alongside me and bound into the waves, bracing myself for the freezing impact. Instead, I’m hit by a wave of surprising warmth and realise just how cold we must have all become while we were waiting on the shore. I pump my arms and get my head down, following the splashing mass of bodies. Except I can’t swim. I can’t even breathe. Great big swells wash over my head as I try to breathe in, swallowing instead gallons of sea water and resurfacing with a gasp. I’m grateful at least for my Zoggs Predator Flex goggles, which are leak-proof and cast the dismal sky in a golden glow. All those months practising smooth bilateral breathing in a pool seem a world away from these heaving, messy waters. Paddling for dear life, I find everyone around me has the same problem. The woman next to me promises that we’ll paddle together, as we watch others struggling all around us.
RAZOR-SHARP FOCUS
I don’t care if I have to breaststroke the whole way, I fix my eyes on the next buoy and vow not to give up.
Twenty minutes later – and several elbows to the stomach – I finally find my rhythm. I emerge from the swim and break into a victorious jog after 25mins, fly into transition and change as quickly as my shivering body will allow (which isn’t quickly at all).
Onto the bike and the wind attacks in full force. Though I don’t really have a clue how to use them, I hunker down on my tri-bars and cut through the worst of the gusts.
“Each lifeguard has several frozen, gasping athletes clinging to their surfboards, over 40 will have to be rescued today”
The single-loop bike course is undulating but not too hilly, my Wahoo recording 1,000m of elevation over the 90km. Initially, I’m terrified of accidentally drafting but, in reality, the roads are so packed its mostly impossible to keep enough distance between each of the cyclists.
Only five kilometres in and I let out an involuntary yelp as two cyclists collide on my right and go down with a huge bang. It won’t be the only crash I witness today. Around every corner is a competitor desperately trying to fix a puncture. I pray that I’m not next as I doubt my frozen fingers could handle a swift repair. They certainly can’t handle unwrapping energy bars, so I give up trying, deciding instead to stick to gels.
A few kilometres down the line and I watch in amazement and envy as one cyclist leans against a house with a brew in his hand, chatting to a local. Like an unsaid agreement, I know we’re all holding on until the 60km mark, where we’ll change direction and hitch a ride with the tailwind back to the coast.
ESPLANADE GLORY
The rest of the ride is a breeze, literally, and I’m finally able to appreciate the stunning Dorset countryside. As we descend into Weymouth, I catch sight of the glittering sea, now looking innocently flat. Having not run for a month due to a sore shin, I’ve no idea how the run will go, or if I can even remember how to run. But the local population has come out in its masses.
Since the half marathon is a 3.5-lap course along the esplanade, runners are never short of encouragement, and the crowd simply carry us across the line. Every lap, I search the crowd for my parents’ beaming faces for a great distraction and the kilometres quickly pile up until I find myself arriving on the finishing straight.
BRING ON 2019
I cross the line in 6:29:49. I’m immediately disappointed. Not with my time, but because it’s over, and I instantly want to do it again. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. A challenge, a journey and such an amazing experience. I’d recommend Ironman 70.3 Weymouth to absolutely everyone. But it was a hard race this year. Out of the 2,098 starters, 200+ age- groupers and over half of the pro field didn’t finish. So many aspects of the race are out of the athletes’ control and I really feel for those who weren’t able to continue; it could so easily have been me.
I’m writing this now with my legs up, compression sleeves firmly on and my refuelling in full swing. Since I can now call myself a triathlete, it may seem strange to admit that simply walking downstairs is somewhat of an issue at the moment. The race has left me me stiff but uninjured and, most of all, grateful and completely humbled. Until next year, Ironman 70.3 Weymouth!