Why that fit, fantasy version of myself is having last laugh
FROM the age of about 15 I have always worked under the assumption that in six months I will be in really good shape.
Now aged 28, I have spent 13 years of life just six months from stunning levels of athleticism.
This has resulted in almost a decade and a half of my mouth writing cheques that my legs and lungs can’t cash.
It was back in January when my editor sent round an email asking if anyone wanted to take part in the Cardiff Triathlon at the end of June. I immediately said yes.
My mind was flooded with visions of me posting an incredible time to the adulation of friends and colleagues (oddly, I am also about three inches taller in these visions).
I have never done a triathlon before but know people who have. I wasn’t concerned, though. Although these people are fitter than me they are not fitter than me in six months.
After signing up in mid January, the next time I considered that I would actually have to do this thing was at the end of February. That was when I checked the distance.
It turned out this was not the sprint triathlon I thought it was but an Olympic triathlon. A mile-long swim, a 40km bike ride, and a 10km run. B **** r.
As the days, weeks and months went by, the race crept up on me. In the six months leading up to it I managed to go for seven swims (all under the distance) and eight 5km park runs.
Cycling I did every day but unfortunately this was the 1km ride to work and back everyday. More worryingly, I hadn’t done any of these one after the other.
A month before the race, in a classic case of my enthusiasm outweighing my preparedness, I thought I should check the details of the race rules and plan the day.
I made the mistake of looking on a triathlon forum. It turns out that my £35 Cash Converter-purchased bike was probably not going to cut it. It would also seem that I would most certainly need a wetsuit.
The wetsuit wasn’t much of a problem, I borrowed it off a more athletic friend. He is quite a bit taller than me (even my six months in the future version) so the suit hung off the end of my feet a little. This was a fact I only realised on the day as that was the first time I swam in it.
The bike was also a ‘beg and borrow’ job. I was lent a hybrid bike by a friend.
It was by no means a road bike but it was a bit lighter than my Cash Converter lump of rust.
So race day arrived. I was down at Cardiff Bay at 5.30am with my elite support crew (my buddy Jimmy with a bag of water bottles and Mars bars) getting my gear together.
I then waited nervously with the rest of my wave by the Doctor Who exhibit for the off.
As I waited in my swimming hat, bare feet cushioned by the oversized wet suit, I looked around at my competition.
I tried to memorise faces so I could see how I was doing later in the race. This was a waste of time – I would have been better off memorising the backs of their heads.
The starter horn went and we were off across the bay. That first inhale of horrible, diesel-tasting sea water made me realise I was probably illprepared.
The water was fairly choppy – nothing like the quiet waters of Star Hub pool in Tremorfa where I had done my seven preparation swims.
The hardest part of the swim was not actually the water, it was the splashing and kicks of my fellow competitors.
I took multiple kicks from the people in my wave (and after 10 minutes the wave that was behind me).
Half an hour later, after swallowing most of the Bristol Channel, I reached my goal near Roald Dahl Plass.
I emerged from the water not like Daniel Craig in Casino Royale but instead like a pregnant turtle that had battled through an oil slick.
Next it was the transition to the bike. Every other competitor had a specialist suit under their wetsuit. They ran to the bike unzipping their wetsuits and were on it within seconds.
The little electronic tags on our ankles recorded the time it took to get from the water onto the bike. Most people were about a minute. I was five.
Unwilling to invest in a proper triathlon suit I opted to do a full change. Towel wrapped round me to conceal my unspeakable parts (completely unnecessary because I was cold), I managed to put my pants and shorts on under my towel without the onlookers seeing much.
Then I was off on the bike. As soon as I got onto the road I couldn’t help but feel I had brought a knife to a gun fight.
The other athletes all had bikes that are worth considerably more than my car (no joke) and were flying past me from the off.
To make matters worse, I had adjusted my mate’s saddle the night before and had clearly not tightened it enough. A kilometre into the 40 the saddle dropped down to the lowest setting and my knees were far higher than was comfortable.
I couldn’t lean forward at all and I looked more like a French maid on a leisurely cycle through Paris with a baguette in her basket than a triathlete.
In what can only be described as the most uncomfortable hour and 40 minutes of my life (and I am a West Brom fan) I slogged through the rain as I was overtaken by real cyclists again and again.
The most humiliating moment was when a rather larger gentleman, bursting out of his Lycra, gave me an encouraging pat on the bum as he sped past.
The whole way round I could see and hear my dad telling me over and over that “proper preparation and planning would prevent piss-poor performance”.
Last was the run. ‘Finally’, I thought, ‘an event I am good at’. I do enjoy a run and was not worried at all about the 10k.
Oh, my hubris. Within a kilometre I was seriously regretting not training. It was the only point in the race I considered stopping. Luckily my support crew (Jimmy) was on hand with a Mars bar. I stuffed it into my mouth and got a Popeye/spinachlike second wind.
I actually thought I was hallucinating during eating the Mars bar as it tasted so odd. Luckily it turned out it was in fact a Bounty and that is why I could taste coconut.
Powered by my masculine confectionery I got over the line and was devastated to find out the medal I received was the same as if I had done the sprint distance (half the length). So, on the positive side I did it. The negatives are that I haven’t been able to sit down properly since.