HOW WAS I T FOR YOU?
The Celtman has been drawing the world’s toughest athletes to Torridon since 2012 with the promise of jellyfish, kinship and memories to last a lifetime. We followed one athlete on their fifth trip to the mountains
Every orifice of my face is leaking. At 50km into the bike, I’m utterly exposed. What I am subjecting my body to today feels less like exercise and more like exorcism. In a lucid state of questionable sanity, between bouts of vomiting stomach bile with a side of indistinguishable breakfast, I wonder: Have I traversed seven time zones, lost countless hours of sleep, and spent obscene amounts of money, for the pure thrill of spewing seawater from my gut at 8am on a Saturday? I really must be a terrible vacation planner.
As I recover my slightly blurred vision, focus on the firm ground, and reconnect with my support crew, the gravity of the day sinks deep into my core. It’s here that I find myself, for the fifth consecutive year, in Scotland’s stunning Northwest Highlands for the 2019 edition of Celtman.
A SECOND HOME
Inspired by Norseman and initiated in 2012, the Celtman Extreme is a founding member of the Xtri World Tour Series of extreme triathlons set in the most spectacular locations. Centred in the mountainous landscape of Torridon, Celtman sets itself apart by weather that pulls no punches, terrain that torments all matters of mind, and a small insect, called the midge, which bites with more muscle than most men.
At 4am, you depart from the small seaside village of Shieldaig to begin an all-day adventure. A 3.4km shivery sea swim through jellyfish starting at 5am, followed by a 202km cycle across unrelenting and exposed highland roads (where 30km/h headwinds are the norm), and all wrapped up with a rocky, often rainy mountain marathon over some of Scotland’s highest peaks.
As my first-ever tri, the Celtman is the only race that calls me back each year – a trait shared by many. This is an event that connects people to place, place to people. International racers and supporters are fully embraced by the local people in this remote part of Scotland. For many, myself included, the people of Celtman are kin; the landscape a second home.
Like any challenging endeavour, Celtman is about so much more than the event of the day. It’s about trust. It’s about trusting yourself. Trusting your equipment. Trusting your training. Trusting your crew. An all-day lesson in finding a balance between letting go and holding on. And learning how to be okay with not being okay.
One of the greatest challenges of Celtman is getting to the start line. This year, in a delinquent haste of last-minute logistics, I convince my dear friend Stacy to adventure with me from Boise, Idaho, across most of North America and the Atlantic Ocean, for a “spontaneous weekend in Scotland.” But I still need a support runner for the second half of the marathon as required by the race to ensure safety on the mountain section of the run. With only days before race day, Liam, a Celtman hero, helps us secure Andrew – a seasoned supporter and finisher – to complement our crew.
We arrive at the start at 3am. It’s hard to tell whether my body is more confused by the time zone or two hours of sleep. At 57° north latitude, within a week of summer solstice, low twilight confounds day for night and night for day, the sky shifts darkness to hues of blue. Despite the slight drizzle, the sea resembles glass.
Every competitor is irresistibly drawn to this moment by a unique purpose. On the bus to the swim start, I sit next to a fellow female athlete from Norway. She’s here for a greater cause. Our conversation reminds me of life’s fleeting nature and empowers me to embrace every moment of this epic day. Exiting the bus, excitement ensues. Bagpipes blare. Drums thunder. Fires flare. Race directors add to the theatrics and dance joyfully in anticipation, before gathering the group for a collective celebration of a Celtman legend, Chris Stirling, a life lost far too soon.
As a neoprene-clad clan, we progress to the water; the destination not in sight. Shortly into the swim, the once calm sea awakens violently on the wrong side of the bed, and I take my first full gulp of sea water. I pause to drain
“This is an event that connects people to place, place to people. For many, the people of Celtman are kin, the landscape a second home”
the water intermittently filling my goggles, punctually piercing my eyes throughout the swim. I know better than to try new gear on race day. I also know that whitewater kayaking is not a substitute for open-water swim training. But I just keep swimming.
Moon Jellyfish are Loch Sheildaig’s star species – loved for their vibrant luminescence, feared for their venomous sting, and legendary enough to make Celtman’s marketing materials; somehow swimming through ‘jellyfish infested waters’ sounds enticing. I’m grateful for the hyperbole as I encounter very few infamous floaters on my swim. I survive the swim. Frigid, but elated, I stumble onto shore.
SUBAERIAL SAFARI
Though the midge is no match for the wind on the bike, the Celtman’s subaerial safari continues along the single-track road through Glen Torridon. A product of the past winter’s cycles of freeze and thaw, the pavement is peppered with potholes – deep and cavernous features that seem to circle like land sharks with a carnivorous appetite for carbon fibre wheels.
Thirty minutes into the bike and I know I need to eat. Weathering the wind at my face forces my hand. I sacrifice sustenance for survival. It’s early in the day, so I hold tight and tuck in, picking up my head in protection from potholes, and to say hello to athletes passing by.
A Scottish woman strikes up conversation and we ride for a few miles along Loch Maree, hashing out swim experiences, and accepting the reality that the mountain may be an unlikely future in our days. I drop back for a passing car, reach for a snack, and she’s off cranking away. Curious of my pace, I glace down at my Garmin, but no data appears. My new watch is even less effective than my new leaky goggles. Data-less, and eyes burning of salt, I settle into an intuitivelypractised pace. On the descent into Gairloch I hit a bump that triggers a rise of all I’ve failed to eat.
Finally meeting my support crew for the first stop, I tuck behind the car to pee. In my jet-lag fuelled exhaustion, I’ve lost control of all emotion. Tears flow freely down my face. I’m breaking the seal in the hope of returning to rally the remainder of the race.
HOPE IN COKE
I get back on the bike and find power in my legs to push through the arduous ascents that lie ahead. As I drop through the gears, my mind shifts to a mantra I repeat rhythmically, ‘I am joyful. I am powerful. I am inspiring.’
“The deep potholes seem to circle like land sharks with a carnivorous appetite for carbon fibre wheels”
One pedal stroke at a time, I ascend in an aspirational state of meditation. My mind is powerful. My legs are strong. But my tank is empty. Eating anything at this point is like putting gasoline into a diesel engine. The fuel can’t combust and no energy is released. The engine seizes. I find hope in small sips of flat coke – a cure-all so potent in triathlon, I’m surprised it doesn’t cure cancer.
Approaching the course’s largest climb I’m eager to meet my crew. On the descent into Dondonnel, my mind sinks to the sickening feeling, now a rising boil from the depths of my gut. I ponder child birth as a more enticing form of pain. The feeling originates from my abdomen and overwhelms my mind. For me, the race ends here. My mind is racing, but my body is stalled.
In the comfort of the car and company of my crew, I remain humbly connected to the bravery and perseverance of my fellow athletes, rather than removed from the race. I don’t wallow in dissatisfaction or personal pain.
In the most exposed section, fellow competitors and friends are pushing against unrelenting winds. Two athletes and one supporter pause for mechanical troubles. They huddle against road side heather, as if this stunted shrub stands any chance at shelter. On the descent into Garve, before the course takes its second of only three right turns, a rider stands in the pedals to stretch in a way that screams of lower-back beat-down from over 150km of rough roads on a rigid TT bike. My back twinges in empathy.
Before the final push into T2, we rise up to the most iconic view of the course, which overlooks the winding road in the foreground of a limitless Loch Maree on the horizon. I gaze up at Beinn Eighe towering above the T2A cut-off and realise a feeling that blends wonder with familiarity. I’ve been there before, and I can get there again.
THE CELTMAN FAMILY
Back in Edinburgh, and immersed in city shenanigans with Stacy, my supportive soul sister from the States, an overwhelming sense of gratitude hits me. I’m reminded that it was never about finishing; that stepping up to the start is also an admirable accomplishment.
Celtman finishers earn either of two coloured T-shirts, set by an 11hr threshold, roughly halfway through the run. A select but growing set of dedicated athletes return five finishes for a red T-shirt. Sporting a finisher’s shirt with pride through the airport like athletes the previous day is an obvious preference to my DNF. But it’s much more than a t-shirt that keeps me, and many others, returning every year. It’s the community, the camaraderie, the chosen family that is Celtman.
I may be disappointed, but I’m not defeated. If anything, I feel more determined than ever to return to Torridon to make new lasting memories. It’s Liam’s comment that sticks with me as a true definition of this great race. The hardest part is getting to the start line.