HOW WAS I T FOR YOU?
With stunning mountain and coastal scenery lining the course, Celtman has to be one of the most beautiful long-distance races in the UK. But it can also be one of the most brutal, as Dave Harcourt discovered one weekend in June…
’m halfway through the first part of the run, at the top of the route’s mammoth ascent. Next is the downhill, and I like downhills. But as soon as I start to run I get stomach cramps, something I’ve never had before. Generally speaking I have the constitution of an ox, so it’s a bit of a surprise. I try running again but to no avail; the cramps are debilitating. I’m in disbelief. Here I am, immobile, with time ebbing away and vomiting every time I try to run.
I’m Dave, and I’m not your average extreme triathlete. I’m a smidgeon under six foot tall but weigh in at 100kg, and that makes me obese. But I’m proving that large people can do these events, too. This is my fourth Celtman and I already have one blue finisher’s T-shirt (awarded for completing the high-level mountain route) and two white (low-level route).
My mission is to show that anyone can do an extreme race. Yes, you have to train, and train hard, but they are achievable. I did the very first Celtman in 2012, then again in 2015 and 2018, so it seemed only natural to do it in 2021. Plus, my fellow adventure racing teammate, Helen Farquhar, was doing it this year and there’s nothing like a bit of inter-team rivalry.
Celtman is special. It takes place in such stunning surroundings that you really have to concentrate when cycling, otherwise you’ll go off the road as you marvel at the views! It’s not like other triathlons. You’ll take six or seven minutes in transition and will help anybody else in any way you can. It’s just that sort of a race. You’ll form lifetime friendships with the people you meet
There’s such a community around Celtman, too. The locals go out of their way to welcome and help you. They give up their homes so that you have accommodation, while the local school children paint and put up lots pictures wishing us good luck with the race.
The nerves ahead of this year’s race are significant. I didn’t get to race at all in 2020 and I’ve only had four pool swim sessions, so my swim speed isn’t where I’d like it to be. On the plus side, I’ve done considerably more open-water swimming than usual.
SMOOTH BEGINNINGS
As usual, I go to bed at 8:30pm the night before and then lay awake reading for a couple of hours. I toss and turn for a couple more hours while my stomach ties itself in knots, before falling asleep. I sleep solidly for a couple of hours, but then my alarm starts going off. The clock reads 2:16am and I know I have to get up. It’s horrible trying to eat, but I mange to force my porridge down and, more importantly, get the morning ablutions in.
At 3am I’m signing in with the organisers and racking my bike. Making last-minute kit choices for the cycle, I decide to make a switch to 3/4 cycling bibs and my winter cycling jacket with long gloves. The lovely weather the rest of the UK is basking in doesn’t arrive in northwest Scotland, but it’s relatively warm and mainly dry.
A bus takes us to the start of the race and at 5am I’m stood on the starting line, ready to take on Celtman 2021. I’m so happy to be racing again and simultaneously crapping myself. But before I can worry any more, we’re off, with a time-trial start replacing the more traditional experience due to the impact of Covid-19.
More than a few of the swimmers get blown off course, with some doing an additional couple hundred metres, but I’m swimming a pretty good line between the islands. Rounding the last one and sighting the finish a few hundred meters away, I up my pace to pass a group of half a dozen swimmers a few meters in front. I’m over the moon as I complete the swim in just over the hour, a whole 15 minutes quicker than I was expecting.
TIME TO DANCE
Sticking with my pre-race plan for cycle kit, I dance about bollocknaked while trying to pull my bib shorts up over my barely dry body. Thankfully, the race isn’t run under British Triathlon rules, while the local Bobbies, who do a great job closing the roads for T1, turn a blind
eye. Chris, my race support, does a sterling job of pulling my wetsuit and socks off while I sit on my chair (top tip, you’ll want a chair at the transitions in this race).
The 200km cycle route is simple enough to navigate, going from Shieldaig to Kinlochewe before venturing off on a clockwise loop back to Kinlochewe. The whole course is simply stunning, taking in the turquoise seas off Gruinard and majestic views of the mighty An Teallach.
I cycle well along Loch Maree, then through Gairloch and soon enough the first 60km is done. First climb of the day, over to Poolewe, is all good, too. Lots of cyclists are passing me but I’m bang on my numbers. I don’t panic and try to keep up, but stick to my numbers. The next 50km are much the same, as I climb over headlands and down into beautiful bays.
The big climb of the day out of Dundonnell goes okay and then it’s down to Corrieshalloch, but my numbers are beginning to slip. I can see my eight-hour target time for the cycle may be in jeopardy. I’m feeling tired and my head begins to loll. For the first time in 16 years of racing in triathlons I realise why they do caffeinated gels and bars – sometimes I can be very slow! Alas, I have nothing caffeinated.
My power falls off a cliff and my speed is decimated, which is brought into sharp focus when two bikepackers go past me… this says it all really. I’m struggling for the last 50km of the cycle and the stiff headwind from Garve doesn’t help. At least it’s warm and dry.
I trundle into T2 after eight hours and 30 minutes on the bike. I’ve now been going for nearly 10 hours. Although disappointed with my cycle finish I’m still feeling pretty
f“I’m so happy to be racing again and simultaneously crapping myself, but before I can worry any more, we’re off”
happy – I have more than three hours to complete the first 20km of the run and make the T2A cut off of 13 hours. I’m so happy that I grab an extra minute just sitting in my chair in the sun, which has finally made an appearance.
DOWNHILL DISCOMFORTS
I shuffle the first few kilometres to the hill start, then stomp the next couple up the hill. The view down Glen Torridon has to be one of the best I’ve ever seen. I’m soon halfway through the first part of the run and I have a very welcome downhill ahead of me. But when I start to run again I get stomach cramps. I try running a second time but have no luck; the cramps are debilitating. I walk down the hills and decide I will try running on the flat at the bottom.
My friend Claire catches me up and is super nice about it. She holds back to accompany me all the way down, but I can see she’s clock watching, as it’s getting close to the cut-off time at T2A. I persuade her to run on without me and off she goes.
I can’t believe it. I was easily going to make the cut-off at T2A but now here I am, immobile with time ebbing away, vomiting every time I try to run. I’m unable to keep water down. I rationalise that this will pass so decide to just walk as fast as I can in the meantime.
Eventually I get back onto the road and I’m just a few kilometres away from T2A, but I still can’t take water on. I decide to have a chat with myself. If I don’t start to shuffle now I won’t make the cutoff and the months of training, my support crew’s efforts and all the family time I’ve missed will be in vain. Slowly, I start shuffling and a kilometre or so out I meet a race marshal doing a sweep. He tells me if I push on I’ll make it. Thankfully, I do, but it’s close.
BY ANY MEANS
Chris, my support, is a star. He ditches my juice and bars, re-fills my water and nuts, and then does a full kit check while I do the compulsory two-minute wait plus a few more in the loo.
I have a good chat with the race director about my predicament. He’s an endurance athlete himself and has experienced suffering in similar circumstances, so is happy
for me to continue. Chris, who’s also my support runner, and I set off to Liathach.
It’s compulsory to have a support runner for this second mountain part of the run, but my chances of actually running now seem slim to non-existent. Chris doesn’t seem too upset. There are a few competitors behind us that’ve sprinted into T2A to make the cut-off and slowly but surely they begin to pass me.
As I start my descent I’m caught by Helen Farquhar and her support runner Megan Davey. We’re part of the same adventure racing team and are racing ITERA together next year. Helen literally had to sprint the last few kilometres to make cut-off, so much so that Megan had to bag a lift to T2A. I march with them for the last 10km to the finish, now able to at least drink water again.
I eventually finish last in just under 18 hours and, although disappointed that my race went a bit pear-shaped, I’m still elated to have finished, especially after this year and a long break from racing. Plus, I’m fairly certain that I’m the only Celtman to have the dubious honour of being the last-placed finisher in both the blue and white T-shirts. The only question is, will I be back to get the coveted red t-shirt?