I have a lot of big news to share with you.

On Monday night I appeared on the telly and not somewhere shonky like channel five but the Beeb no less.  Unfortunately Shakey the media ho went all me, me, me and muscled in and got in my way.  Being a gentleman I took a step backwards.

Despite hiring Max Clifford, Shakey has done such a great job raising money for the Stroke Association that she was interviewed on the finish line of the Great Edinburgh Run at the weekend.  The whole story of what she has been up to was in the Half Iron Shakey post and you can find her just giving page there if you would like to make a donation to a great cause.  This link will take you straight to the start of her interview where you can take the opportunity to wonder at her glowing red heid and why the Beeb didn’t use subtitles like they do for some other foreign nationals.

So this week saw me re-visit the Great Edinburgh Run over two years since I targeted that as my first run to recover my health and my soul after years of abuse culminating in a week long bender in Berlin.  Preparation was sketchy at best having only run 6 miles once since the Ironman so my target was to finish faster than my first run which was tantalisingly just under 60minutes.  Last year in this event I ran the fastest 3k I had ever run however the race was unfortunately 10km long.  When I unpleasantly popped my calf muscle at the bottom of the Pleasance I suffered my one and only DNF to date at ceased to threaten the Kenyan front runners.  To be fair I wasn’t even much bothering the guy in the Womble suit at the back but I was a little faster than normal.

Waking up in the morning I could hear that the rain was dinging down.  I got up and had some peanut butter on toast and a strong black coffee while I contemplated the implications of the climate and the fear that it struck in me.  Two years ago I discovered the perils of running in the rain when I finished the Forth Bridge 10k looking like I had been shot in the chest.  This post captured the dual humiliation of crossing the finish line looking like an extra from the Kennedy assassination behind an old lady in dayglo.  The shame!

With the pain still fresh in my mind I flip-flopped through the whole running wardrobe that I had with me before dispatching a text to Shakey to ask her opinion.  I pinned my race number on one t-shirt, then took it off and put it on another.  I packed under armour, I unpacked it to wear it.  I thought single layer with foil blanket to stay warm at the start.  I was in turmoil.  It was warm as well as wet which made the conundrum even worse as I really suffer in the heat but the only sure fire way for me to guarantee to retain my nipples is through compression layering which is hot.  After about the third exchange of text and clothes options Pam commented that we were a pair of fannies and asked what Shakey had settled on.  With exasperation, fear and despair at the lack of understanding I blurted out “she’ll be fine, she wears a bra!”.  After which kind offers of additional supportive apparel were made through howls of laughter.

I coralled Pam and Rory out the door as they were wanting to watch the start and we made our way out with the rain seemingly getting heavier.  After 5 minutes I realised I had forgotten my timing chip and had to run back and get my chip.  By my reckoning I had now used up about half a mile of my 6 miles that I had in me.  After catching up with the sherpas again we watched the elite ladies shoot by and I got spooked that I had misjudged the start time so I started jogging again.  This time faster and farther.

As usual all plans to meet up beforehand were shot to hell.  Of the original five participants in 2009 not all could be at the meeting point.  Shakey was on time but was obviously in her favourite portaloo.  Really Long Socks may also have been on time, and may have tried to look for a portaloo but was more likely to be away peeing somewhere totally inappropriate desperately trying to cover his race number in case anyone spotted him.  HiViz was fighting his own battle against the rain in the Loch Ness Marathon and by all accounts took full advantage of St Johns Ambulance to sort his chafing.  And finally Hairy appears to have retired, possibly because his shorts got too tight if that is possible or possibly because he is the only one of the original five not to have tried a marathon.  Remember Hairy Boy – it is better to have tried and failed than not to have tried at all.

Anyway, as we prepared for the start I got an unexpected round of hugs.  I miraculously spotted Shakey amongst the crowd and we had a quick good luck hug.  Either that or she was cleaning her hands on me post portaloo.  Then as I approached the portaloos myself I met Sean, a fellow recent Ironman and we shared a brief (Iron)Man Hug and finally I bumped into Lee one of the Regensburg Pirates and we also had a hug.  Then the lady who used to be in Spooks hooted the hooter and we were off.

The race was actually really nice and the route was much nicer than I remember.  My plan was to go canny for the long haul up to the Commonwealth Pool and then to push as hard as I could after that until I blew up.  On the way down the Pleasance I saw Pam and Rory and it was great to chuck the torn calf monkey off my back as I burrelled around the corner and up the Cowgate.  Three years ago at the top of the West Port a blind man with a guide dog overtook me and then stopped to tie his laces and then overtook me again.  This year no-one overtook me on that stretch.  At the water stop half way around the Meadows I had to walk through the water stop and take about three mouthfuls of water but then douse myself with the remainder as I was starting to overheat.  Just through 7k on Potterow I saw Pam who had done a decent dash up from the Pleasance and then it was downhill the whole way home.

The Great Edinburgh Run had a great atmosphere this year with speakers and music through a lot of the course and there were loads of kids high fiving down the High Street.  I knew I was well inside the target hour but when I passed the 400m to go sign and glanced at my watch I realised that 54 mins was on so I went head down, arse up for a sprint finish scraping into the 54s.

After the race the whole of Holyrood Park was a quagmire so deep that the tatt was obscured by the clart.   End of season pizza and beers with Shakey rounded off a good day and a good year.

So, I said I have a lot of big news to tell you.  Well as mentioned a couple of posts ago I entered the ballot for the London Marathon of which there is a one in five chance of getting picked.  For years I have got up early on a Sunday morning in April, even in my drinking days when sometimes I hadn’t long been in bed, to watch the elite, the inspirational and the mentalists complete the most iconic 26.2mile course that there is.  And now I have only gone and got myself picked at the first attempt and in olympic year – it really is a dream come true!!  That kind of settles the survival of the blog for another few months anyway!  And to top off the good news Shakey, who is not as lucky as me, got a charity place from the Stroke Association which is a fitting tribute for the selfless effort she has put in this year.  I can picture the sprint down the Mall already – like the race in Run Fat Boy Run – with Sue Barker tutting on the commentary as I will not discriminate against Shakey as a girlie in my competitive enthusiasm.

Sometime tonight or tomorrow I should find out if I have got into Escape from Alcatraz on the first ballot which would provide a lovely main event for next summer.  If not I might have to do some other silly event.  I’ll keep you posted.

Rory hangs out in cocktail bar on daddy’s 40th

OK, admittedly it has been a while but I’ve not given up.  Yet.

As mentioned in the last post I turned 40.  Pam organised a very nice party with some of my closest friends which was brilliant.  It didn’t really hurt.  No depression this year.  Enough said.

Oh, and I got a tattoo.  I got it in Germany and didn’t mention it until now because I hadn’t told my mum but someone has now blabbed so I might as well tell the whole world wide web.  Hopefully the design is self explanatory of which more later.  Training has been poor and the weight has been creeping back on.  I still have the hunger of someone who is doing 14 hours of hard training a week but I’m not.  And I have allowed a few stellas and a packet of Monster Munch or two to slip in to the diet.

I have had 3 swims including one on the morning of my birthday; saddle sores have prevented much enthusiasm for the bike; but I have had the odd jog.  On the Saturday evening that I decided to try a long run my trainers that I had worn in Regensburg were in the garage.  I have another newer pair that I keep in the office for lunchtime runs but it was time to face down the ones that blistered me until my feet were too swollen to fit in them.  Anyway, I took no joy on a windy evening to look at the mud encrusted trainers with the charity Chrissie Wellington laces that had been so pristine looking truly sullied.   And my evening didn’t get any better.  Every step of the 6 miles was absolute purgatory – I think partially because my body was still healing and partially because my mind was still a little run fragile.  Anyway as I have already said I have put on a little cuddliness in the last month and as I rasped past the lady drawing on a fag in the bus shelter outside ASDA she looked at me with the kind of pity that is reserved for chubby novice joggers in cotton shorts that are going to chafe their thighs.  I was offended, I wanted to shout “I AM AN IRONMAN”, I wanted her to notice the tattoo that signified the journey that I had been on, I wanted her to know I wasn’t just another chubby jogger wheezing on a downhill.  But really she was just a big, big lady, puffing outside ASDA wondering whether to have chips or pizza or both or a pie on a roll for her tea.  She was more likely to understand if I said I was America’s Next Top Model or I had an Embarrassing Illness rather than an Ironman and that was when I realised that the Ironman is done, I’ve got the tatt and now I need to think about how I am going to challenge my mind and body next.

So, to the point of the blog – I did the Great Scottish Swim at the weekend.   While travelling during the week I received an email from Shakey with the longest woooooohooooo you have ever seen in the title line.  I don’t do the Spacebook so I tend to find out things second hand and old social network Shakey had just found out that the GSS had been shortened from 2k to 1.6k because of the cold.  I have been known to be unsympathetic in the past but hear me out.  An open water swim is organised in Scotland for the 24th September and people enter it.  They are hardly expecting the Indian Ocean are they?  And why knock it down by 400m and not half it or cancel it.  Seriously there is a great deal of MTFU required in the nanny state.  Anyway, now grumbling that I have been robbed of 400m I am also faced with the prospect of several days of Shakey whingeing about how cold the water is going to be.  Pitiful.

Saturday morning arrives and I set a departure time to pick up Shakey and Allister at 815am.  As we leave our appartment at just after 815 Pam points out that we are late so I have to confess that I don’t think we really need to leave Edinburgh until 830 but I am giving both Pam and Shakey 5 minutes each to run late and 5 minutes for general fannying about before I even have to start thinking about getting stressed.

On arrival at Strathclyde Park the sun was shining and the loch looked like a mill pond.  We didn’t really waste a lot of time and we were pretty quickly through the changing marquees and into our rubber suits.  Pam and Allister by this time had steaming coffees and Rory was fast asleep under several really thick blankets so we headed off to the warm up area.  We got a quick race briefing from Bryan Burnett off the telly and then mid briefing this official looking lady with a walkie talkie asks Shakey if she is Shakey (that’s not strictly true but I’ve written that to protect her anonymity – that is Shakey’s anonymity and not Walkie Talkies.  I don’t have a clue who Walkie Talkie is.).  It turns out that because Shakey is such a media ho that they want her to wear a different coloured cap so that they can take photos of her.  Tart.

Things then started to go awry when we got into the warm up area.  When I did this race a couple of years ago you could warm up (acclimatise is probably a more appropriate term) for 10 minutes which was insufficient even at that but this year you got to do one circuit which took about a minute and then you were lobbed out.  We were only in long enough to lose sensation in the extremities (which was a blessing compared to the pain when we first got in) and for uncontrollable shivering to start.  While waiting for the start Shakester asked how to stop her goggles misting so I said to spit in them – an old swimmers trick.  There were some unattractive noises and then I looked round and to my horror, a few seconds before the start, Shakey’s goggles were literally brimming in snot and gob.  We grabbed a bottle and rinsed them just as the gun went.

Now there are times to race and there are times when you just have to stick by a friend in need.  And I needed to be a friend to get us both to the end.  We got in the water last and while I am not used to being there in the water it is a familiar position for me in a run.  It was a little intimidating to have the rescue boat right on our asses but we pushed on.  Our swim shall largely remain private however there are a couple of highlights that I would like to tell you about.

About 400m in a boat pulled up alongside us and I asked Shakey to do 10 strokes of front crawl and make it look good.  She obeyed because sometimes she does what I say.  I then told her that we had a camera boat filming us but not to worry about her make up as they were filming me because I was an Ironman.  How she laughed, well I think it was a laugh.  Anyway, the camera boat stayed with us a long time and at one point had a camera on a long boom about 6 inches in front of her face.  I probably should have told her about the big snot.  I wonder if Shakey will be excised from the programme so as not to people off their breakfast at 7am on Nov 6th.

The second highlight was how I eventually got my frozen ass out of the water.  Going nowhere quickly I thought I would appeal to Shakeys’s competitive spirit I suggested we might want to start picking off the weaker swimmers and before we knew it the rescue boat wasn’t right behind us anymore.  In fact we overtook loads of people including 3 in the last 200m to have a very respectable finishing position.

Before we set off I did point out that as a condition of swimming together she had better not put her foot across the timing mat before mine and true to her word she offered to let me get out of the water first.  But after the epic swim of 44minutes I could only insist that we finished together.  I don’t know if this link will work but the moment was captured for posterity here.

Pam and Allister were busy getting another (!) coffee when we finished and missed our heroic last few metres.  When we found them they didn’t even have spare coffees for us.  We had a quick photo for posterity that could only ever be classified as “special” and we hit the road with only  pee breaks and nappy change at Mothercare on the way home to interrupt the journey.

This season officially ends next week with the Great Edinburgh Run.  It is wonderful symmetry for me as it was that race that inspired me to do The Ironman in the first place.  Ironically I am so deconditioned I will probably do it in about the same time as I did 3 years ago.  After that I’ll decide whether to keep the blog going or retire it once and for all.

THINGS I WILL MISS ABOUT IRONMAN TRAINING

1.  Still early mornings.  Whether running or cycling being out on a still morning as the sun rises when the streets are deserted is one of life’s greatest pleasures that most people miss because they are in their bed.  Early mornings in the pool, however, are about as much fun as punching yourself in the face.

2. Hurting.  Somebody said recently that we live such comfortable lives that it is important to push yourself until you hurt to remind you that you are alive.  Bizarrely, I agree with that.

3. Thinking.  Sometimes it is thinking about “things” and other times it is the wonderfully vacant experience of thinking about absolutely nothing.  Spending a lot of time in the pool, running or biking means that you always have a clear head.  You just can’t beat that.

THINGS I WON’T MISS ABOUT THE IRONMAN

1. Snot and gob.  For some reason no matter what direction the wind is going I always end up looking like a snail has passed across my face several times when I get in from a training session.  Admittedly, the snot rocket gives you some facial clearance but in the winter your gloves just end up soggy and cold.  Of course it’s better out than in but I’d rather not wear it.

2. Smelly kit.  6 run and bike and one open water swim session a week leave a lot of smelly kit.  You have a choice to wash it every day or have a washing basket that smells like a locker room.  Apparently I err towards the latter.

3. Idiot drivers.  It’s not fun being a cyclist a lot of the time when every clown on the road considers you either a target through incompetence or as a personal affront to them as BMW drivers.  I can recommend, however, that unless you are in appropriate footwear for a fight not to signal your thoughts to the driver of any blue vans in the vicinity of the Kincardine Bridge – they are fat and very angry.

As I start to contemplate the final events of this year and to rev up the winter training I am now starting to think about what will replace Ironman in my affections next year.  The pain has passed and having taken just slightly less time than a man in a deep sea divers suit to complete the marathon I have unfinished business with the Ironman.  The pain of 42 weeks of training seems to be fresher in Pam’s mind however so at present I am currently, officially banned from going long next year (but I have my fingers crossed).  The basic shape of the year then hopefully will be two half iron events at the start and end of the summer and in the middle I will do the swim in an iron distance Pirate relay at the Outlaw.   But it got me thinking about stuff I want to do……….

Virgin London Marathon – back in April I entered the ballot and next month I will find out if I get a place.  It’s an iconic marathon and apart from NYC (and possibly Berlin, oh and Venice etc) the only city marathon I want to do.

Escape from Alcatraz – just this morning I entered the ballot for the notorious Escape from Alcatraz triathlon.  The race features “a 1.5-mile swim through frigid waters from Alcatraz Island to the shores of the St. Francis Yacht Club, a grueling 18-mile bike ride, and a demanding 8-mile run through the trails of the Golden Gate Recreational Area.”   Now these surfer dude Californian girl-boys may think that the water is frigid but having swum in Threipmuir in May until I couldn’t feel my face and my teeth started to hurt I am thinking the description should probably be tepid to balmy.  On the other hand however you have to jump off a boat and I am paralysed by a fear of heights so they may have got me there with their challenge.  Anyhow, hopefully I will get in for a nice holiday!

Marathon du Medoc – now Shakey and I have talked about this since we started running and it seems a nice way to celebrate my 41st birthday.  It is a marathon through the Medoc’s famous chateaux – including Chateau Lafite Rothschild, Chateau Mouton Rothschild and Chateau Latour – who open theircellars to offer runners some of the world’s most respected wines at 23 drinks stations along the route, as well as countless food stops serving local delicacies from foie gras, oysters and entrecote steak, to ham, cheese and fruit.  They have put a 6 and a half hour time limit on it to stop excessive boozing.  And it is pretty much compulsory fancy dress.

Swim the Gulf of Corryvreckan – this isn’t a race and it is only 2km frrom Jura to Scarba – what’s the challenge? I hear you type.  Well Corryvreckan is the third largest whirlpool in the world.  Haven’t quite got sign off for this next year due to the high risk of being sucked into the whirlpool and never being seen again but I think it would be a giggle.  I will not be taking Shakey the Brick on this trip.

And depending on which combinations of these events I actually get into I will fit Half Ironman around them.  One very tempting one is Ironman 70.3 Ireland which runs in Galway this weekend and I will be watching the race reports with interest.

So, training has started in earnest for the winter with two 4 miles jogs with Shakey this week.  Next event is the Great Scottish Swim on 25th Sept so I really must find the pool sometime before then.  With one week to go until Ironman39 becomes Ironman40 it is hard to believe that the rasping cripple running around Dunfie today was fit enough to become an Ironman only 4 weeks ago.  Hopefully it should be easy to get back despite the advancing years.

A few months before I went out to Germany an Ironman had advised me to take an IV drip as I crossed the line to boost recovery.  I also suspect it was a badge of honour to be recounted in war stories for years to come.  I had fully expected to be a veteran of the medical tent; I also expected to be a blubbering wreck as I crossed the finish line to end a two and a half year journey from michelin man to ironman.

As I ran down the finishing chute I high-5′d the whole right hand side of the bleachers, then the man who may or may not have shouted (and I couldn’t have cared less) “Dougie, You are an Ironman!” and finally I fell into the arms of the lady who would escort me out of the finish area.  She put the medal over my head and gave me a rather dapper gold foil blanket.  After a few steps she tried to pinch my blanket which almost got her into a lot of trouble but she explained it was just so that she could get my finishers photo.  OK then.  She then, however, crossed the line.  Admittedly I was walking on medieval, cobbled streets on feet that had blistered within an inch of being mince but I don’t think there was any need to direct this hobbling, hunchbacked shrek in the direction of the medical tent.  Oh no, I didn’t need no doctor assessing me.  In fact, as opposed to a badge of honour there was no way wild horses could have dragged me into the medical tent even if my ass had been doused in petrol and set on fire.

Instead, with clear presence of mind and an inexplicably recovered digestive system I headed straight for the first food tent and inhaled two salami rolls.  A volunteer then gave me my white bag and I had instant recall that in it was a soggy pair of shorts, no flip flops, no towel and no underwear.  I hobbled to the shower block with another salami sandwich and a bit of cake and proceeded to take off my filthy, cold wet tri suit and socks and put on clean, cold, wet shorts and put my bare blistered feet back into my trainers that I had just run 26.2 uncomfortable miles in.  I just kept telling myself I was now an Ironman and I could handle it.  I also had my mobile in my white bag so I made contact with the sherpas.  They wanted to know where I was – “I’m getting another salami roll”.  Then – we are at the food tent – oh, I’m at the medal engravers.  Then – we’re at the engravers – I’m getting my finishers t-shirts. We are at the t-shirts – I seem to be on a shuttle bus.  To where?  I’m not really sure.

The Sherpas eventually track me down at the beer tent

It turned out that the shuttle bus was going to T2 and the beer tent.  My next update caused general concern – “I’m just having a beer, a sausage and a bit of cake”.   It made perfect sense to me to have a beer – I had barely drunk in 6 months, I was in Germany and I was a brand new Ironman.  With hindsight I can see why it may not have been an obvious choice as a recovery drink if you hadn’t been thinking about that beer for over two years.

I chatted to Pam and the Farkies for 10minutes before they headed off to the appartment to get the kids to bed and then Grant would come back for me and my kit.  With half an hour to kill I did the only thing I could think of – wrapped myself in my foil blanket, got another beer and sausage and watched the Ironman world go by.  I sat on the end of a long beer hall type bench and saw an Italian lady that I had seen earlier in the day – she had been a spectator but she had been running alongside her boyfriend who had been in particularly bad nick.  I could only assume that the prone lump under the foil blanket was her boyfriend and I watched as she pulled little bits off a piece of bread and put them into his mouth as if he was a baby sparrow.  Looking at the state of him I was devastated until I saw the unmistakeable flash of bling and it all became clear  – he was an Ironman and he would be fine.

After I finished my beer I went and got my transition bags and made my way to the bike racks.  As I went through security there was a girl in her foil blanket sitting in the road who looked like she sat down for a rest and then fell asleep.  When I found my bike it took me about 10 minutes to work out how to get it off the rack – it wasn’t difficult, I just wasn’t that bright.  I wrestled my bike back and bags to the beer tent, got another beer and settled down until Farkie got back.  For the first time, again huddled in my foil blanket, I think the magnitude of what I had achieved and what I had put my body through hit me and I had a quiet moment to myself.    At this point, probably about an hour afteer I finished, I thought I had better let a few special people that had been on the journey with me know that the mission had been accomplished and I had survived.  It was only over the next couple of days I really appreciated the number of people that had followed my progress hour by hour and the sheer volume of messages of support that I had received.  That Ironman Live collapsed when I only had 700m to go seems to have spoiled a few Sunday evenings and filled Pam’s inbox for days to come.

Farkie collected me and when we got back to the appartment asked if my bike would be safe in the car.  My genuine, and totally honest response – “If I ever see that effing bike again it will be too effing soon”.   Once I had bounded up three flights of stairs I cracked open another beer, had a giant bag of crisps and bored everyone else to sleep.  And then I slept the sleep of a brand new Ironman.  That means that between adrenaline, caffeine, sunburn, blisters and muscle pain I slept for an uncomfortable acccumulation of about 8 minutes.

A quiet moment with Ironbaby

The morning after I did a short blog update that I signed off “At the moment I hurt and the memories of the low spots are still fresh in the mind.  The mental scars will fade and the physical scars will be covered by the the late summer sun but I will always be an Ironman.” And that remains so true – I still have a few contact scars, my feet and back are not in the best of nick and my current outbreak of either manflu or ebola (only time will tell but my money is on ebola because my nose was bleeding) may mean that my immune system is shot but I still get a bit choked in quiet moments when I think about what I have achieved.  Back to the words that originally inspired me in Becoming an Ironman – this was my own challenge, it wasn’t to prove anything to anyone else but I have become my own hero.

The Pirates abandon yeller and black to go incognito

The afternoon saw the Pirate Party and that reminded me why I became a Pirate.  Your own drive, resilience and sheer bloody mindedness can get you so far but in the really dark moments when you get an “AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR” or a “Go Pirate” you get a massive tailwind that takes you a long way forwards or just makes you smile.

Back into the realms of TMI but when I thought about it afterwards despite drinking litres of water and beer across both the Sunday and the Monday I didn’t actually pee from the time I took my wetsuit off at 8:06 on Sunday until late on Monday afternoon.  Now thats dehydration!

And eventually after 4 months of waiting, two days after the Ironman I got to take my wee boy for a swim. I may be biased but I would say he is a natural.

Yes dad, you have told me the story about the day you became an Ironman

March 2010. Rome. I spend 30 minutes preparing my feet to run the marathon – vaseline between and over the ends of the toes, compeeds on the heels, carefully align the seams on the socks, tighten/loosen/tighten the laces until I have them just right. Good decision.

Regensburg. Refuse to take off my sopping wet socks that I have worn for the last 7 and a half hours, refuse to have my feet dried by a volunteer, refuse to put on clean, dry, warm socks that would have felt like running on clouds, and refuse to tighten my quick release shoelaces. Set off to run marathon. Really, really dumb decision.

The only explanation that I can offer is that my back was murder by this stage and I thought that just getting on with the run would loosen it up. About a kilometre later I had moved from being stuck bent double to being stuck fully upright and I could feel the flesh on my feet tear a little with every step. But hey, not far to go now…….

At race briefing the course was explained – the first half through the old town with music, commentary and massive crowds and the second half much quieter along the side of the river and around the lake in the park. Something for everyone. I remember thinking the park bit was a pity because it would be great to have support the whole way round. Stupid boy.

The lap was very roughly 10.5k and on the fourth time around you would go right into the finishing chute rather than back on to the lap. In training and visualising the race I thought I knew where I needed to be mentally – lap 1 – glad to be off the bike, enough energy to enjoy the lap; lap 2 – coming up to half way, getting more tired but still bundles of energy; lap 3 – this was going to be the ball-breaker, over the hump but energy waning and most of all it is not the last lap; lap 4 – the last lap, a valedictory trot round the course probably sprinting the last 2k in. Stupid boy.

Before I got to the first kilometre marker the internal whinger was already sitting on my shoulder and nipping away at my ear. “Sore stomach, sore feet, blisters forming and back in agony” it said, “you’d better take a rest”. And so the theme for the first two laps was set. My planned 9minute run, 1 minute walk strategy never got through it’s first cycle. This was going to be a long 26.2miles.

The first lap was unadulterated purgatory. Every step sent a shooting pain through my back and my stomach was balanced on a precarious precipice. If you are a of a sensitive disposition I am about to go into too much information – a theme will develop here; this may be a good time to give up reading my blog. OK, suckers for punishment – still here? Lets begin – if you hang around triathlon forums and youtube long enough you become very familiar with the “shart” where endurance athletes don’t have full control of their sphincters and this phenomenon is normally demonstrated on said internet forums by folks in white lycra. Feeling pretty nauseous by this stage the portaloos were not really an option for me as the smell from about 300m away was causing quite violent gagging. The only option was to run until the shoogling made the stomach unbearable and then walk until the pain ebbed away and repeat.

At the end of the first lap I passed under the bridge at T2 to uproarious cheering from the bridge and a saltire draped over the bridge. My sherpas were back in town.

Just after the start of lap 2 I saw Andreas Raelert, Ironman world record holder and world championship runner up just up ahead and after putting in a burst of energy I overtook him. Well, that’s the grandkids story – the real story is that he was being interviewed by a TV crew and he was just about to go into the finishing chute but the fact remains the same – I ran past him. It turns out that he was injured and couldn’t race but had to complete an IM race to validate his invitation to Kona so he did Regensburg for charity. He donated 20euros for everyone that crossed the line before him. He saved 20 euros on me!

My second lap I think was where the noise hit me. As you entered the old town you went up a narrow street that doglegged to the left into another narrow passageway and then right into the main old town area. Up the first street the crowds were 1 or 2 deep and there was a commentator who faithfully on every lap got a cheer for “Doggy the Pirate”. At the first turn the crowds were thicker and over the barriers sounding their cowbells and cheering and by the main square they were probably about 4 deep. I would loved to have run for the crowd but my stomach was my only master by this point so I took a quick walk. The Germans and the Brits were great cheering you, slapping you on the back, high 5ing and occassionally bowing down and prostating themselves on the ground. The Yanks, however, were a mixed bag. The best gave you a long “Gooooooood Jaaaaaaawb” the worst gave you some constructive feedback on running as opposed to walking. One chap from the US whose clothes must have shrunk in the wash several times, just after they had to get a JCB to lift him out of bed in the morning gave me just such feedback from behind a giant ice cream sundae just as I had a particularly bad moment of intestinal churning. The referees didn’t cover it in their very detailed rules briefing but I was pretty sure that punching out the lights of a man the size of a blue whale during the race might incur a yellow card. Had I picked up the shitty Oakleys I would have launched them at him with gusto but instead in a moment of serenity I just smiled and waddled on. About a 100m further on was the main Pirate cheering spot which really lifted the spirits for the run along the river.

Bored with listening to myself moan

Just over half way through the second lap with my stomach swollen and distended and my back aching I eventually met Pam and the Farkies and I slowed down for a chat.

Pam: “Keep going!”

Me: “no, I’m stopping for a chat”

Pam (or possibly a Farkie, I can’t clearly remember now): “how are you feeling?”

Me: “I’ve just been sick, my stomach is in knots, my backs really killing me, I’ve got pains in my feet and my blisters are murder”

Pam: “Shouldn’t you just keep going……….”

All of that had been rattling about in my head but it was only when I said it and saw the reaction that it had on others that I realised what a whinge it sounded out loud so I resolved to HTFU, stop thinking about it and just get this marathon finished. And then a small miracle happened. A few hundred metres further on I came to an aid station and as I walked up it I knew my stomach couldn’t take any more water or powerbar or gel. I then came to a cake which I hadn’t tried before – a bit like an apple crumble and as I was now looking for anything I could keep down I gave it a go. Definitely tasty but I was so dehydrated that it turned into sawdust in my mouth and I had to spit it out. And then I took a Coke – the impact was instant – I was getting sugar, caffeine, salts and hydration in each mouthful and even better it settled my stomach right down. From that point to the end of the race I consumed nothing but Coke.

As I went through the half marathon my splits started to pick up and for the first time since I left the lake in the morning I started to overtake people. The third lap was really just more of the same with the exception that I found myself shepherding a young guy that had crashed and burned. I got him to an aid station and left him there but then I saw him again in the athletes village at the end waiting for an ambulance……..but he was wearing a medal. He was an Ironman!

The supporters really made the run for me with two notable groups outside of the Pirates. Just after T2 there were a group of Scottish girls with a saltire who cheered like there was no tomorrow all day and I looked forward to seeing them on every lap. They promised as I started the fourth lap in the dark that they would stay out for me and they did. And then there was the “party aid station” at the end of the lake which was just the most gorgeous spot with a constant loud beat of euro rock and roll. They were particularly good at remembering names and favourite drinks and made sure we were well looked after all night.

Rory gets unwelcome kiss from daddy in lycra

Pirate chases man in head to toe white lycra

Towards the end of lap 3 I saw my sherpas for the last time before I crossed the line. Stopped for a kiss from the wee man and got on with finishing the marathon. I was elated – all doubt that I could finish within the time limit had evaporated and I was loving the final hours of my epic Ironman project.

My main coping strategy that I had planned was that I would dedicate each mile to someone and think about them while I was running. That didn’t go quite to plan as I didn’t really fancy talking to 26.2 people and the course was in kilometres anyway! However, it really sorted me out when I thought about people and the effect that me doing what I was doing had on them – bizarrely that was the only time really that I got choked up during the day including crossing the finish line and the aftermath. It certainly took my mind off the pain and frequently took my mind off the state of others that were talking to themselves and wandering aimlessly.

On the final lap I constantly reminded myself to thank the volunteers and I gave everyone that I passed a clap and a cheer. By the time I reached the park it was pitch black and the route was lit by glow sticks which was stunning. At the party aid station they stuck glow sticks round the runners necks and all you could see in the distance was pink glow sticks on the ground and yellow glow sticks in a long procession of runners. I met Pirate Iron Swiss Bobby in the park whose feet had given up on him and hating to leave him behind I walked with him for 20 minutes until we reached the last bridge. I then started to run with 2k to go.

As I passed around the back of the finish line I could hear the cheering and at the final aid station I stopped to thank everyone and delivered about 20 disgustingly sweaty hugs to fine volunteers who surprisingly were willing recipients. With 200m to go I was flying and as I turned the corner I saw the Pirate support and started a 200m high 5 right through to the finish line. I can honestly say I have never had an experience like the last 200m before and I doubt I ever will again. Where I expected profound emotion I reached the highest high and I’m not sure I’ve come down yet.

I can’t recommend a 6hour 10minute run. It’s an awfully long time to be on your feet.

I can only assume that the first 10k or so was largely downhill or the wind was blowing a hoolie on my back as I averaged about 38kph which is the equivalent of a land speed record for me. I knew that pretty broadly between 10k and 30k the course climbed and very quickly I got my first Pirate cheer from Orange Cannon who was going at speeds I can only assume make your eyeballs bleed a little. The rain came and went, got lighter and heavier and got colder and warmed but I ploughed on. I found the climbs tougher than I expected to and, combined with the foul weather, as a result I made my first schoolboy error by not taking on calories when I knew I should. After a while I had lost track of what I had eaten and what I should have eaten and a whole year’s work on practising nutrition went out of the window.

At each little cluster of houses there were people gathered who clearly moved from coffee in the morning on to hard core schnappes by the time we saw them in the afternoon. My favourite supporters were a bunch of paddies just before the top of one of the hills. Without the dulcet tones that echoed around the hills you could still see their tricolour from some distance out. On the first lap they reassured us that we only had 100m of climbing to go. On the second, when I was dead on my ass, they ran along with me assuring me that the rest of the course was pan flat. Having done one lap already and knowing it wasn’t pan flat I asked if they had ridden it – yes, apparently, they had ridden it the previous day, on a tandem, for the craic!

At about 50k we hit Sunching which had been the anticipated Pirate cheering spot but presumably the rain put paid to that plan. There were individual and groups of Pirate sherpas scattered all around the course which were always a welcome distraction wherever they were found. I had expected Pam and the Farkies there but wasn’t surprised when I didn’t see them given the weather and the totality of the road closures. Just before the end of he first lap we went through a little town where they must have had jaeger bombs for breakfast. The town ghetto blaster had been dragged into the street and had been turned up to 11 and what must have been the entire population was out on the street. The crowd narrowed the road down to about one bike width a bit like on the mountain stages of the Tour de France and the locals supported and high 5′d wildly. Their cheering on that lap was trumped only by their cheering on the second lap where it felt like I had intruded by cycling through their own personal Soddom and Gomorrah.

As I passed the lake noting that the whole transition area had already been dismantled I passed Pam and the Farkies on the first corner of the course. Not expecting them I got distracted and had a bit of a slide on the corner almost leaving a large stretch of Lycra and DNA along the road. I almost fell off my bike a second time when I realised how fast I had done the first lap – just over 3 hours at the half way stage – by far the quickest I have ever cycled. However, it is easier to cycle really fast if you are not pausing to eat anything. At the start of the second lap I realised how much trouble I was in when my triceps kept cramping either through dehydration or just the cold. And it this point my earlier error started to unwind – realising that I hadn’t been eating I started double dipping to catch up and downed gels and bars and bananas with sports drink. Pretty quickly a bit of a bubbling sensation in the belly suggested that I might be in trouble. About the same time I realised my back was hurting. Not so bad that I couldn’t get into the aero position but bad enough that I struggled to get out of it. So, the second lap was going to be slower and tougher.

The Pirate Boys

Having gone backwards since the end of the swim it was nice when somebody paused to say hello rather than just cycle past you as if you were going backwards. A Scottish chap who was obviously also having a tough time rode alongside me for a while but he just kept talking about his demons so I think he was a bit disturbed and then Pirate Cougie paused for a few words of much appreciated encouragement. Other than that I just did a statistical sample of common German names from the backs of people’s shirts (Karsten and Wolfgang being the most common in my sample – crap swimmers, good bikers) and pondered why hairy arsed Europeans had decided to go for white sportswear on a rainy day.

With 10k to go we were waved towards the city centre which should have been a relief but with a very grumbling stomach and the back of an 80 year old hunchback every second in the saddle was pure purgatory. When I came to the final turn I took the race briefing warnings about the corner very seriously and just about fell off I went to slow. At the dismount line, my back was so sore I simply couldn’t work out how to get off my bike – if I tried to lift my left leg to dismount I was sure my back would go into spasm but I didn’t think it could hold me up on it’s own if I went for the other leg. I contemplated just letting the bike drop and then trying to disentangle myself from the ground. Marshalls looked on mainly bemused and a little amused as I tentatively tried all of the options. Despite a supersonic start the bike was eventually a pedestrian 7h 23m.

The Pirate Girls

Once eventually off it my racking point was about as far away as was possible to get in T2 and by this stage I had no intention to race into transition. I did what I could only describe as a very painful mince to the bike rack and thought about just leaving my cycling shoes on the floor to their fate but eventually hobbled towards the changing tent. En route I spotted the portaloos and decided that I had to visit to save my race. Once again I will probably share a little too much of the logistics but sharing is caring as they say. A portaloo does not require a picture to be painted to describe what it might look like after 1800 people have passed by – suffice to say that there was a pair of Oakleys on the floor that me, the original owner and possibly hundreds of others had thought better of picking up. So crippled by back pain in I went and my first crisis was where to put my bike helmet and shades while I wrestled my way out of my trisuit – there are just no handy storage hooks or shelves in these black holes. And then came the biggest issue – I was pretty certain I could get myself on to the pot (I had one shot at getting the aim right) but I had no confidence that I could get back off again while maintaining my dignity with the ironman world that was just outside the door. I left a little lighter, with (most) of my dignity intact and only spent about 4 or 5 minutes on the scenic detour.

In the transition tent I didn’t think I could sit on the bench – bending forwards from the waist literally made me want to vomit with pain. A young lady and old man volunteer got me my run bag and lowered me in to a sitting position. I then had the added problem of changing my socks and getting my trainers on. Inexplicably, I went all independent at this point and told the volunteers I would be ok and as a consequence I started a marathon in wet socks and loosely fitting trainers, unable to straighten with back pain and with palpitating intestines.

At least I didn’t have long to go…….

530am, half a bottle of sunscreen and then it rains....

As soon as we parked I jumped out, grabbed my wetsuit and made my way to the shuttle bus.  Upon seeing that there were about 20 people in the queue already my patience snapped and my need to keep moving overwhelmed me so I decided just to walk to the lake.  With 140.6 miles to cover, what difference was another mile and a bit going to make?  And then after a few minutes the heavens opened.

T1 was pretty chaotic as people grabbed the giant plastic bike bags and put them over their heads and passed them over the fence to their Sherpas; so being a newbie I did the same thing.  I guess as it was hosing down people started putting on their wetsuits before 6 am so, being a newbie, I did the same thing.  They were also doing stuff with their transition bags but that is where my imitation had to end as I’d already forgotten what had been explained at length at the race briefing.  I found some friendly nearby Pirates – Happy Chap, Toucs and Ironwolf – and they pointed me in the right direction. Clothes for after into the lorry, blue bag next to the bike and chuck your wetsuit in when you finish – simples.

I was by now soaked to the skin and the flaws in my plan were starting to become more apparent.  With economy of packing in mind I had only brought one pair of shorts so at the end of the race I was going to be slipping into some sodden shorts. And to make that a little more uncomfortable after 112miles on a bike and 26.2miles running I had forgotten my undies. And I had forgotten to pack a towel so showering was going to be interesting. And worst of all, I had launched my White bag into the lorry with some gusto, walked back to my bike and then pondered why I still had my flip-flops on.  This meant that after the race I was going to be wearing my trainers until I eventually got to bed. Mmmmmm, going commando in cold, wet shorts with the same shoes I had run a marathon in and no massage because I would be absolutely stinking and salt encrusted as I’d had no shower.  With hindsight, the finish didn’t look like the nirvana it once had so may explain why I spent so many hours loitering out on the course rather than just getting finished.

I'm just about the middle in a black suit and blue hat

The swim warm up was really calm justas the sun was rising.  The rain had eased, the air was really still and there was a general hush across the millpond as the mist lay low on the water. With 10minutes to go we were pulled out of the water, did a bit of hand clapping, Mexican waving and mumbled along to the German national anthem.  Out of 2100 rubber suited characters I found myself next to one of the Pirates – Wild Will – who gave me the best advice I got all day – “Don’t take anything personally in the swim”. Given my short fuse that was very sage advice as time and time again my patience was tested.

Did this pair not get the dress code email?

Bizarrely, I had expected the start to be an emotional experience but I found I actually became very calm and task focussed and through the whole day never really thought much further than the next milestone and never thought about the finish until I was about 3k to go in the last lap.  Eventually, we got the one minute to go signal and I knew that the start was now at any point in the next 60 seconds.  After what seemed like an eternity I saw the lead canoeist instruct his brood to get themselves the heck out of Dodge, the signal went and the maelstrom began.  After about 3 paces into the water, the bottom disappeared and we were swimming.  Well, swimming after a fashion – the water was white, there were feet, hands, heads everywhere and the punches and kicks rained down.  After about 20 strokes I found myself in about 8 meters of clear water and breathed easy.  After about another 10 strokes my dream of a simple swim in my own wee bubble was shattered when all hell seemed to collide right on top of me.  And at that point had someone offered me a way out of the water and back to my bed I would have grasped it with both hands.

Swimmer Soup

The first length was 1k down to a giant yellow Powerbar bottle on the far beach and I can safely say that through the fists, feet, splashing and darkness I didn’t see it until I was right on it.  Other than the general stramash the first length was un-noteworthy, however, at the turn things got interesting again as the field converged. By this point I had gathered my nerve and my old water polo instincts came into play and I gave as good as I got with sharp elbows and pointy toes.  I was swimming stroke for stroke at the same pace as a chap in a red suit (I don’t think he was Santa so he has some fashion questions that need to be answered) who had an absolute aversion to swimming straight.  One minute he would be next to me, the next he would be right across my face.  As getting way from him was the only solution I took a very long route to the outside of the field for the first return up the lake.  At this point something quite awful happened.  I literally came face to face with a pair of speedos and a hairy, beer enhanced belly.  I might as well have spotted Jaws underwater for the speed that my face recoiled and popped back above the surface.  I resisted the temptation to barf, again swam away from the offending obstacle and carried on.  Only later on the bike did I again come in contact with the speedos.

Pam and Rory are brave for the camera

The next turn was uneventful, however, for 5 or 6 minutes I presumed I had to be leading the race as I couldn’t see anyone else. Then it turned out that we were swimming in a channel that was about 50metres wide and I was at the wrong side of it. So completely disregarding Pythagoras (and I did actually think about it given the loneliness of long distance swimming) I swam diagonally for pretty much the whole length adding a huge amount of distance in the process and eventually finding all of the swimmers that were beating me who I had momentarily lost. The good thing about the extra distance was that it delayed the final turn.  This turned out, for some reason, to be where the roughest boys and girls played.  Normally I breathe every 4th stroke unless I need a breath sooner for any reason so when I took a punch square on the right goggle lens, I breathed on the very next stroke and by complete chance took another punch. After 4 punches I stopped believing in coincidences and I stuck my head under the water and kicked like I was being chased by the speedo man to get out of trouble.  It worked – I was out of trouble – however, my right eye was now squished right into my goggle lens and it was more than a little uncomfortable. So with great reluctance I stopped for a second to release my Marty Feldman eye and then got back on my way.

Its

I honestly had no concept of pace given the general physicality of the swim. I had given Pam and the Farkies an anticipated time of 1:15 to 1:20 primarily because every swim I have done this year was exactly on 1:15 pace. As I exited the water I was cramping a little in my feet and stumbled on the beach but I could see the Pirate Orca just getting her wetsuit off her shoulders a few metres ahead. I had problems with my Garmin all day and when I looked down and saw 1:06 I assumed it was just another problem. I only got confirmation from Pam out on the run that it had been 1:06. It is safe to say that I was delighted with the time and if I had got the amount of training time that I should have in the water in advance I am confident I could go well under the hour.  The sherpas it seems were less impressed with my speedy swim as they almost missed me – bless them.

T1 was less of a blur than usual for me and completely out of character I actually managed to find my bike on my own. I had had a long run out of the water which meant that I would have a short run with the bike. This was good as I run with a bike in hand with as much elegance as a cow walking downstairs.  I passed my Sherpa shouting party now armed with cowbells on the way out of T1 and then it was time to face the bike. Like it or not I was now clad just in a helmet and sleeveless Lycra for the next 180km.

Thanks to Sherpa Les Farky for the photography.

A selection of blisters after the first round of lancing

I am writing this having washed all my kit and lanced all of my blisters.  My kit smelt like a mangy dog had slept in it and was covered in all manner of technicolour stains and I had at last count 7 blisters which were all about the size of really big marbles. However, I am an Ironman.

To recap the story so far if you are joining late.  On January  1st 2009 I woke up in Berlin after a 7 day bender and thought that I had better get myself fit as I was not getting any younger or healthier.  By chance when I got back to work on the 5th I was cajoled, amongst others, by Shakey to do the Edinburgh 10k. This sounded about as feasible as climbing Everest in speedos and flipflops but after much contemplation ie checking how slow the last person had been the previous year and clarifying that it was OK to walk bits I bit the bullet and signed up.  4 months and 3 stone lighter I had done the 10k and needed a fresh challenge to keep me motivated.

So, it seemed pretty obvious that since I could swim, and I could now run, and that I still had a couple of stone to lose and that I was approaching 40 that I should do an Ironman.  Along the way I ran several more 10k, a marathon, two half Ironman, broke, dislocated and had my shoulder reconstructed, tore my calf, had a baby (OK, not me personally but I was there) and raised £4,000 for charity.  Oh, and I have got another couple of years closer to 40.

The next few posts will be my belated race report of 14 hours, 58minutes and 18seconds of absolute rock and roll.  Or more accurately a slow war of attrition against my own mind and body.

Racking the Temptress at the Lake

I will write a race report while it is still fresh in my mind but my priorities for right now are breakfast, shower, being an Irondad and then getting to the Pirate Party.

At the moment I hurt and the memories of the low spots are still fresh in the mind. The mental scars will fade and the physical scars will be covered by the the late summer sun but I will always be an Ironman.