Triathlon: No Turning Back (Saturday 19/08/2017)
One of the drawbacks to a gilded start to life is a relaxed attitude to endeavour and casual approach to jeopardy. Some regard this as laziness but to the critical eye, these are the characteristics of most great trail blazers.
As the loosely affiliated Portishead Triathlon team slowly came to their senses, the excuses began to materialise. One by one the drop outs started to accumulate as realisations slowly dawned that race day clashed with hair wash day, duvet day and corporate away day. Back up plans were trailed long in advance; terrible but previously quiescent ailments surfaced and medical advice definitely precluded exertion.
In the end, the doughty band of heroes was whittled down to two; me and Adrian. Had we done some preparation, then he would have been my ideal training partner but even he was making noises about the pressing need to be somewhere else other than the start line.
I have to confess that I too had my doubts. Secretly, I flirted with the temptation to sidle to the metaphorical tent flap muttering "I am just going outside and may be some time".
Somewhere at the back of my mind, where most of my self delusion resides, I too had already begun to construct an alternative narrative.
Surely the expensive new bike was an unnecessary extravagance when the purchase price could buy a respectable car with enough left over for plenty of donuts? My wife's city-shopper, complete with comfortable ladies' seat and fetching basket, was ready and waiting to roll into any bicycle shaped hole created by my false-economising.
It may have weighed 30kg but that was tomorrow's problem.
Equally, what could a flashy helmet really offer that a strategically secured colander could not?
And lycra? There is no man on earth whose lunchbox is not diminished to a stubby afterthought when shrouded in cold and wet polymer polyurethane.
Spandex offered nothing that a stout garment fashioned in tweed couldn't provide just as effectively.
And anyway, at this stage August 19th was so far away, that it invited a risk management tool that has served me well for many years; a problem ignored is usually a problem solved.
However, time passed and March 1st soon became August 18th. It was at this stage that panicked thoughts of abandoning Adrian to his fate began to gain traction.
After all, did he really deserve any loyalty? It was common knowledge that he had been preparing secretly and as everyone knows, training is no better than cheating in advance.
Even at that late stage though, disaster could still so easily have been averted but for the prospect of losing £56, which somehow seemed a fair price for a painful, lingering death.
And then, inevitably it was too late. Logistics were finalised and complex arrangements involving children and car seats were set in motion. There was no turning back, not least because a hair appointment had been cancelled and two oily bikes had been forced rudely into the back of a Passat.
It augured badly that we commenced our 40 minute journey to the event, 35 minutes before my start time, a miscalculation made worse by the need for an early but abrupt U-turn to retrieve cash for the bridge toll. However, after patiently explaining matters to a clearly jaundiced race marshal, I was slotted into the pool for the 1st leg, with barely a murmur of dissent about either my tardiness or the tweed.
Four hundred metres sounded like a manageable commitment, disregarding the fact that I had not swum anything approaching this distance for forty years. In 1977 the return on investment for retrieving a rubber brick whilst wearing pyjamas, was a badge. Now my very survival depended on it. The interval was admittedly very long but now I was here, it felt like nothing more than a momentary lapse in an otherwise dedicated training regime.
Two brisk lengths of front crawl kept me in contention with the over weight balding man in front. Admittedly, by the fourth turn, losing the feeling in my feet was mildly disconcerting but a third consecutive lungful of pool water began to sap my enthusiasm and so I resolved to take a breather whilst doing a length or two of doggy paddle.
By length ten I had even been lapped by the limbless octogenarian and was bitterly resigned to the ignominy of being subjected to poolside mouth to mouth resuscitation.
The pouty Baywatch beauty was clearly on her break and her deputy was a burly walrus in a brown tracksuit, sporting a frighteningly thick moustache. The prospect of being simultaneously electrocuted by an over enthusiastic teenager at the controls of a defibrillator was just the tonic and I dug deep and ploughed on.
Eventually, summoning the fast ebbing reserves in my now trembling arms, I hauled my leaden form from the pool and stumbled blindly into the 1st transition area, all semblance of competition having long since evaporated.
Transition is a place where any self respecting triathlete spends no more than 10 seconds before disappearing over the nearest brow on a carbon fibre spatula.
At that point, if someone had offered me a blanket, a seat and a warming bowl of poison, I would still be there now.
 |
| Avoid anything containing the word Max. |
As the loosely affiliated Portishead Triathlon team slowly came to their senses, the excuses began to materialise. One by one the drop outs started to accumulate as realisations slowly dawned that race day clashed with hair wash day, duvet day and corporate away day. Back up plans were trailed long in advance; terrible but previously quiescent ailments surfaced and medical advice definitely precluded exertion.
In the end, the doughty band of heroes was whittled down to two; me and Adrian. Had we done some preparation, then he would have been my ideal training partner but even he was making noises about the pressing need to be somewhere else other than the start line.
I have to confess that I too had my doubts. Secretly, I flirted with the temptation to sidle to the metaphorical tent flap muttering "I am just going outside and may be some time".
Somewhere at the back of my mind, where most of my self delusion resides, I too had already begun to construct an alternative narrative.
Surely the expensive new bike was an unnecessary extravagance when the purchase price could buy a respectable car with enough left over for plenty of donuts? My wife's city-shopper, complete with comfortable ladies' seat and fetching basket, was ready and waiting to roll into any bicycle shaped hole created by my false-economising.
It may have weighed 30kg but that was tomorrow's problem.
Equally, what could a flashy helmet really offer that a strategically secured colander could not?
And lycra? There is no man on earth whose lunchbox is not diminished to a stubby afterthought when shrouded in cold and wet polymer polyurethane.
Spandex offered nothing that a stout garment fashioned in tweed couldn't provide just as effectively.
And anyway, at this stage August 19th was so far away, that it invited a risk management tool that has served me well for many years; a problem ignored is usually a problem solved.
However, time passed and March 1st soon became August 18th. It was at this stage that panicked thoughts of abandoning Adrian to his fate began to gain traction.
After all, did he really deserve any loyalty? It was common knowledge that he had been preparing secretly and as everyone knows, training is no better than cheating in advance.
Even at that late stage though, disaster could still so easily have been averted but for the prospect of losing £56, which somehow seemed a fair price for a painful, lingering death.
And then, inevitably it was too late. Logistics were finalised and complex arrangements involving children and car seats were set in motion. There was no turning back, not least because a hair appointment had been cancelled and two oily bikes had been forced rudely into the back of a Passat.
It augured badly that we commenced our 40 minute journey to the event, 35 minutes before my start time, a miscalculation made worse by the need for an early but abrupt U-turn to retrieve cash for the bridge toll. However, after patiently explaining matters to a clearly jaundiced race marshal, I was slotted into the pool for the 1st leg, with barely a murmur of dissent about either my tardiness or the tweed.
 |
| Proof I could swim and survive 40 years ago. |
Four hundred metres sounded like a manageable commitment, disregarding the fact that I had not swum anything approaching this distance for forty years. In 1977 the return on investment for retrieving a rubber brick whilst wearing pyjamas, was a badge. Now my very survival depended on it. The interval was admittedly very long but now I was here, it felt like nothing more than a momentary lapse in an otherwise dedicated training regime.
 |
| Portishead outdoor pool. |
Two brisk lengths of front crawl kept me in contention with the over weight balding man in front. Admittedly, by the fourth turn, losing the feeling in my feet was mildly disconcerting but a third consecutive lungful of pool water began to sap my enthusiasm and so I resolved to take a breather whilst doing a length or two of doggy paddle.
By length ten I had even been lapped by the limbless octogenarian and was bitterly resigned to the ignominy of being subjected to poolside mouth to mouth resuscitation.
 |
| No so bad? |
The pouty Baywatch beauty was clearly on her break and her deputy was a burly walrus in a brown tracksuit, sporting a frighteningly thick moustache. The prospect of being simultaneously electrocuted by an over enthusiastic teenager at the controls of a defibrillator was just the tonic and I dug deep and ploughed on.
 |
| Very, very bad. |
Eventually, summoning the fast ebbing reserves in my now trembling arms, I hauled my leaden form from the pool and stumbled blindly into the 1st transition area, all semblance of competition having long since evaporated.
 |
| Transition One. |
Transition is a place where any self respecting triathlete spends no more than 10 seconds before disappearing over the nearest brow on a carbon fibre spatula.
At that point, if someone had offered me a blanket, a seat and a warming bowl of poison, I would still be there now.
Comments
Post a Comment