Permanent Vacation

I often find that going on holiday can be an odd time. It’s a time to relax and enjoy a bit of extra time doing things with the family, eat nice food, read a book or two and maybe enjoy a few beers along the way, all without having to worry about getting up in the morning for work, dropping the kids at school and enduring a mammoth commute for ninety minutes each way. It also gives me more time than usual to engage in swimming, biking and running.

This year, as is the way in the CTP household, we took ourselves off to France for our annual holidays. We did a bit of a grand tour around the beautiful country, clocking nearly 2500 miles on our tiny Renault in the process and I was really concerned that chances to exercise would be slim. But how wrong I was.

Swimming

About two weeks before we left, I’d decided to buy a new wetsuit as my existing Aquasphere Challenger had never quite fitted me properly and, as I have improved my swimming considerably in the eighteen months since I bought it, I was finding that the extra buoyancy provided by the thicker neoprene in the legs of the suit was lifting my legs too high in the water and I felt like I was being bent in two along the waist as I swam. After much deliberation, I got myself a Zone 3 Aspire, based on consistent good reviews, a keen price in the end of season sales (£200) and I liked the name and logo, which is daft but true.

I used my new suit a couple of times in the sea off of the Brittany coast but the majority of my swims were ‘skins’ as the water was around 19 degrees and I didn’t need it. The beach near where we were staying was excellent for swimming, about 350 metres long and closely guarded by three classic, almost caricature Baywatch-style lifeguards, complete with tiny Speedos, who spend most of their time working on their tans and chatting up pretty French girls as opposed to actually watching over people who are swimming. I’d swim about fifty metres out from the beach then go along parallel to the beach, turning at each end of the controlled section. I swam for around 45 minutes each day and it felt great. I also got the chance to swim a few times in a beautiful lake in the Jura mountain region a week or so later, again without a wetsuit. It was stunning, a huge 4km long lake, lined by big hills and with the clearest and cleanest water I’ve ever swum in outdoors. It too had a full-time life guard, which was cool and amusing at the same time. So, taking my new wetsuit 2500 miles around France was a waste of time but, apart from that, I had a fab time in the water.

Cycling

I went to France not expecting to cycle at all. I’d bought a nice new Boardman Air 9.0 frame only days before we left, finishing building it up at five o’clock the day before we left and I would have loved to test it out in France but our car is simply too small to include a bike along with all of us and our luggage. However, I did manage to borrow a 21kg (yes, 21kg!) shopping bike for a nice amble along the coast for a couple of hours and I also borrowed a mountain bike for a spectacular ride up the wonderfully titled Col de la Machine in the Vercors mountains.

The ride was completely unexpected, the people we were staying with offering me the chance to use their old, heavy and not used for two years aluminium mountain bike to go and explore the region for a couple of hours. They’d told me about this road up the mountain, not expecting me to take the challenge, but I couldn’t ignore the opportunity to climb a decent 12km, 6% average French col complete with hairpins and thirty degree heat, so I grabbed a bottle of water and a comedy looking kids’ helmet and off I went.

The climb started pretty much as soon as I left the house and I was feeling good and the bikes gears were working properly, which was a relief. All was going well and I was loving the steep gradient, smooth tarmac and lack of cars.

After about twenty minutes when I spotted a 3.5 tonne beer delivery lorry hurtling towards me down the road. Not wanting to get squashed by it if he lost control, I quickened my pace and moved to the side of the road. As the lorry got about 20 metres from me, I heard an almighty metallic crash and, to my horror, spotted three aluminium beer barrels fall off of the side of the lorry and start bouncing down the road towards me.

I really thought that this was it, I was going to get wiped out by a barrel of Heineken on a quiet mountain pass. If you picture the old footage of Barnes Wallace’s Dambusters bouncing bombs being tested on the sea, then that’s what these barrels looked like as they pinged off of the tarmac towards me. One barrel clattered past me and another went in the ditch ahead, leaving one heading for me. It’s amazing how quickly your brain computes things in these situations and, although I had nowhere to go as the road was lined with a wall of granite, I quickly calculated that the barrel seemed empty and that the bouncing was decreasing so meant it would probably not hit my head. The rouge barrel finally came to rest about five metres in front of me, no harm done. The driver had stopped the lorry but didn’t seem at all concerned that he’d been driving way too fast down a mountain with the curtain sides of his lorry open. My French is usually alright, but I was lost for words, so I just told him I was fine and then cycled off, pleased to get the hell out of there and away from the lorry. On reflection, I wish that I’d given him the verbal bollocking of his life, but that was an opportunity missed, sadly.

I carried on my way and got to the top of the col, only being passed by two deeply tanned, fluorescent jersey wearing Italians on their lovely Colnago bikes. Judging by the quizzed, half-laughing looks I got from them, I think they thought I was a bit bonkers as I made my way on a knackered mountain bike. I turned round at the top of the col as it was, without exception, the most dangerous yet stunning road I’ve ever been on. The road clung to a sheer cliff face with a 100m vertical drop to the left hand side, protected only by a knee height wall that a puff of wind would have had me over. I basically nearly wet myself and, coupled with my near death by beer barrel encounter, decided that enough was enough, wimped out and made my way back down the hill to engage in a spot of cheese and baguette eating.

Running

My running whilst on holiday wasn’t anywhere near as exciting as the cycling but quite rewarding, none the less. It was the first time I’d run since the Slateman triathlon in May, which was the only time I’d run since January because of my knee injury, so I was a bit nervous because of my lack of form. On the whole, it went ok, helped hugely by having either lovely rugged Breton coastline to stare at or amazing forest trails in the Jura to keep me occupied. I was encouraged and it didn’t hurt too much, so I’ll probably do a bit more in the autumn.

So there we have it, from my initial concerns that I’d get hardly any triathlon training done on holiday, I managed to come home feeling really fit and relaxed after doing some exercise just about every day and also fulfilling my family and dad duties and hugely enjoying that too. I even managed to watch a couple of stages of the Tour de l’Avenir (Tour of the Future) cycle race as it passed through the Jura region, which was a bonus.

As triathletes, we usually feel we need all the kit under the sun to do anything, but I managed to really get my training back on track having taken just very basic running and swim kit with me. Having time to train was probably the biggest difference between what I did in France and my usual routine at home, giving me the space to train, recover and then do it again. How nice it would be to be able to do that all the time.

Le Tour et Le Tour

I’m fortunate enough to have seen the Tour de France on many occasions and it’s always fun and different to the last time.

Amongst my many great memories are cooking to near death on the Champs Elysees as the sweltering sun beat down on us for hours before the race came by in 2008; watching in breathless awe on the final few metres of a completely flat sprint stage that finished down a dual carriage-way and which Robbie McEwan emerged from the snarling bunch to win; waiting by the start of a team TT, close enough to touch the likes of Cadel Evans, Cav, Gilbert, Greipel, Wiggo, Thomas, Voekler and Schleck; witnessing a big pile-up under the flamme rouge on a steep-hill finish in Les Herbiers; seeing Tom Boonen get mobbed, One Direction style, by fans maddened by too much sun (including me, I love Tom!) about a minute after he finished a TT in Rennes and, of course, witnessing Wiggo triumph in the final TT of the 2012 Tour edition in Chartres. And then there were two glorious days in Yorkshire last year, which was bonkers.

So, with the Tour de France starting this year in Holland and then working its way along the north coast of France, the lure of the Grand Boucle proved to be too tempting to resist and I made a late decision to pop across la Manche and watch Stage 6 of my favourite yearly sporting spectacle.

Simplicity was the key to my adventure being successful.

I put the kids to bed at 7.30pm, kissed Mrs CTP a fond farewell and headed in the car to Newhaven with my trusty single speed bike in the back. Once there, I unloaded, got changed into my cycling kit and headed for the midnight ferry to Dieppe. I was travelling light, just a tiny rucksack packed with arm and leg warmers, a lightweight rain jacket, earphones, ear plugs, iPhone and emergency charger, sunscreen, tooth brush, credit card, 40 Euros cash, a hat, a magazine and a pair of lightweight trainers.

There was a gaggle of about 40 cyclists gathered waiting to get on the ferry for the four hour crossing. Once we had perched our bikes in the car deck and made our way upstairs to the lounges, I bought a nice ham baguette and a bottle of beer, then settled down for a short kip. After four lumpy hours on the channel, we got to Dieppe and unloaded onto the quay.

I cycled into town, which is right next to the port, and it was empty of all but a few workmen putting up barriers and advertising hoardings. The intrepid few British cyclists who had made the trip slowly dispersed as we made our separate ways onto the Tour route. Not knowing the area at all, I decided to turn right onto the stage route and head for the stage’s two Category Four hills just outside town.

The roads were pretty much clear of any traffic and the weather dry, so I decided to keep going past the climbs until I found a nice café. This was a slight mistake as there weren’t many cafés around and the ones that were dotted along the route were closed as it was still only 6.00am. I was getting a bit cranky from a lack of food and caffeine but, two hours after getting off the boat, I got a waft of baking bread as I passed a small village, so I stopped to find the boulangerie nestled on the square of a picture perfect Normandy village. I was so hungry as purchased a tasty croissant aux amandes that I forgot to be embarrassed about how my French linguistic skills were escaping me, I was just happy to eat something. Then I turned round and headed back to the second climb again as I knew there was a small town at the foot of it, which meant cafés and coffee.

By now people were waking up and I got a few cheers as I made along the Tour route in the wrong direction from crazy Belgian fans as they sat outside their campervans. Once I got to the town, Pourville-sur-Mer, the crowds were thickening, so I got a coffee and a baguette and watched the world go by for a while, taking in the wonderful atmosphere that the Tour brings as small French towns light up with excitement for the day. I then went back up the climb, just for something to do (no mean feat on a single speed bike, I assure you), found a spot near the top and parked myself there to wait for the Tour.

Now, some people question the wisdom of spending five hours waiting to see a bike race go by for probably no more than twenty seconds, but that’s not the point. It’s the atmosphere, the smiling faces, families and friends huddled in groups on deckchairs eating enough food to feed, well, the Tour de France. It’s the wiry, leather skinned retired gentlemen on ancient steel framed bikes and wearing faded cycling club kit who nail the climb before sitting down at the road side with a bottle of beer. It’s the incredibly serious local police officers urging the crowds to move back hours before we even get a scent of cycling action. It’s the way that normal people, men, women and children, turn into rabid animals as they fight for a sample of washing powder or a cheap keyring thrown from a Caravan float as it flies by and it’s also about the rather clueless British MAMILs who stand out completely on their expensive bikes, breathless and exhilarated from the short climb.

It’s warm, amiable and quite beautiful to witness.

The vehicles flying by us towards the finish in Le Havre increased in number and speed and I cheered Dave Brailsford as he wafted past in his Jag. Then, eventually, the Tour came by.

I got a great view of the breakaway battle for the KOM points and then the peloton flowed past with Cav right at the front, conveniently, for us British fans who needed to spot at least one star from the UK to tell everyone about. I shouted his name but I don’t think he heard me. Even on a climb, they go by so quick it’s hard to properly identify anyone in particular, so I was happy with seeing Cav and getting a positive IDs of Ian Stannard, Michał Kwiatkowski in his rainbow World Champs jersey, the back of Chris Froome’s head and Tony Martin in the yellow jersey. The rest were just a blur of matching helmets, colourful jerseys and finely shaved legs.

Once they’d passed, I had a very broken yet convivial chat with a French bloke and his son who were amazed that I’d ridden a single speed bike up the hill and then I made my way back to Dieppe and the ferry. The town was still humming with happy crowds and the couple of dozen or so of British cyclists who were waiting at the port for the boat enthusiastically swapped ‘spot the Tour rider’ stories from their day.

The ferry ride home was perfect with sunshine, calm seas, tired legs and listening to Pearl Jam on my iPhone.

We landed at about 9.00pm and I was home by midnight, totally knackered. I did the whole thing using up one day of leave from work and spent £80 in total, including ferry, food and fuel for the car.

The Tour is one of the greatest sporting spectacles on the planet and it happens right on our doorstep every year. The French put on a very good bike race and all we have to do is turn up and enjoy it.

Allez, allez!

Handbags and Gladrags – Jubilee River Swim 2015 report

In January 2012, I decided that it would be a good idea to enter a triathlon. I’d been playing with the idea for several years but one discipline had always put me off actually doing it – the swim. But I was lured by the prospect of being a super-fit Ironman and so I went to the pool and really struggled to do two lengths without stopping, it was not at all pretty and certainly not efficient. In fact, I hated it, mainly because I was completely rubbish. But I ploughed on, got over the embarrassment of being a middle aged man wearing a pair of jammers, and entered my first standard distance triathlon.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Since doing Ironman Wales, during which I found the swim to be a tortuous hour and a half of engaging my basic survival skills in the cold Atlantic, I’ve really worked hard on my technique and, with the admirable help of Keith Lewis at the Swim Shed, I’ve improved significantly and have actually started to look forward to my swimming sessions.

Bearing this in mind, I sit here writing this blog post in genuine amazement that I completed, and enjoyed, a 10km swim in the Jubilee River in Berkshire last Sunday.

The Jubilee River is a man made flood defence which runs alongside the Thames between Maidenhead and Slough, although it really looks like a natural river. I decided to enter the 10km swim as a bit of a consolation for withdrawing from the Outlaw triathlon, just in the spirit of adventure and with no desire to do anything more than finish it.

Despite some dodgy and cold weather throughout most of May, the weather on Sunday 7^th June turned out to be really quite lovely; is there anywhere nicer than Great Britain when the sun is shining in early June? I don’t think so.

As ignorance is bliss, I hadn’t been at all nervous about the swim during the few days before and was just looking forward to a pleasant day out by (in) the river. Me and the CTP family drove down on the morning of the event and arrived at registration at the Thames Valley Athletic Centre with plenty of time to soak up a bit of pre-swim atmosphere. The vibe at the registration point was great, very relaxed and low-key, with participants and their supporters milling about, queuing for bacon rolls and generally being nice to each other. It reminded me of how cycling events used to be before the MAMIL’s took over.

After a while, I bid my farewells to everyone and got on the bus to the start, munching on a Clif Bar washed down with water as I stared at the glorious sights that Slough has to offer as we passed through.

Once we got to the start, there wasn’t that much fanfare, just a quick chat with some friends from my Swim Shed sessions, a good humoured briefing from the organisers and then we got into the river ready to go. I was relieved when the organisers announced that the river was 16.7 degrees (as was everyone else, judging it by the cheer that went up) but, being a bit of a lightweight, I still found the initial chill took a bit of getting used to. Soon enough, we were off.

I quickly established that the river visibility was virtually nil and I quite literally couldn’t see me hands in front of me. I’d been going for approximately seven seconds when I swam straight into a submerged tree. I didn’t hurt but it wasn’t the best start I could have imagined. It didn’t bother me though and I simply made the most of the lovely blue sky and green foliage on the banks every time I came round for breath. There was a bit of biffing and bashing with other swimmers but I couldn’t get annoyed with anyone as it was simply impossible to see the feet of people in front of you, so some contact was inevitable.

The swim is split into four sections of 1.9km, 3.6km, 2.6km and 1.5km and which are defined by big weirs that you must walk round. I got to the first checkpoint without any problems and was loving it; sunshine, amiable encouragement from the helpful and friendly volunteers and spectators and plenty of flat coke and Jaffa cakes to keep my energy up. As I was in the slowest ‘social’ group of swimmers, we were told to wait at each checkpoint for the slowest swimmers, re-group and head off again together. Whilst I’m no Michael Phelps, I was towards the front of the group and I quickly decided that this would become frustrating as I’d been out of the water for a good ten minutes before we were asked to make our way downstream of the weir, so after the next stop, me and a few others decided to make my own way ahead of the group.

The second section was the longest one and only 200m short of an Ironman swim. There seemed to be more biffing and bashing at the start this time, I think because of over enthusiastic relay swimmers who continued to plague me for the rest of the day. It was no real bother though and I soon found my stroke. As before, I was really enjoying the sensation of swimming along in my own little world and I found myself sometimes going into a Zen like state, drifting off in my mind, but not my body, fortunately. The long section of river did seem to go on forever though and I was quite pleased to see the exit point to the feed station before the next weir.

More flat coke, water and crisps and I threw in a cheeky half of a banana too, just for variety.

Despite enjoying the whole ride, I was now into unknown territory. I’d never swum in a river before and also I had not done more than 4.5km, and that was in a pool. I was feeling tired and decided to take an extra few minutes by the river entry point to gather my thoughts. The next leg was much like the one before but I had to concentrate more and fight the chimp in my head from becoming dominant and crushing all the positive vibes I’d been experiencing all day.

I was looking forward to the last checkpoint as Mrs CTP said she’d see me there with the kids. I got out, which was rather unceremonious because I slipped on the wet wooden decking and ended up on my arse in front of about a hundred people. Once I did manage to get a footing on dry land, I looked round for them but couldn’t see them. I hung around a bit, eating yet more crisps but no Jaffa cakes this time, then decided that I’d missed them so got back in the water for the relative sprint of 1500m to the finish.

By this time, my stroke had fallen to pieces as fatigue started to take over. After a while, I spotted Mrs CTP on the bank and even managed a few waves to them without stopping swimming, which I was quite proud of. The last kilometre or so was excellent; I knew that I’d finish, I could see my family running along the bank and waving at me and the sun was still shining.

As with the start, there was little fanfare at the finish, just a slippery walk up the river bank. I was handed a medal by a volunteer and I selected half a Mars bar from the table because it had been at least half an hour since I last ate anything (!) and we headed back to the car park.

I’d finished in 3 hours 51 minutes, ten minutes quicker than I thought I’d do it in, not that I was that bothered about my time.

It’s taken me a long time, most of my life in fact, to realise that life is indeed a journey, not a destination. The Jubilee River Swim wasn’t a huge ‘goal’ event for me and I therefore didn’t get wound up with nerves before doing it and I was way better off for it. No bells, no whistles, just a well organised swim supported by friendly volunteers and plenty or reassuring canoeists to keep you safe.

Slough, I salute you, which really is something I never thought I’d write in this blog.

Snowdonia Slateman 2015

I wasn’t sure what to do with myself following my withdrawal from Outlaw and I remained at a bit of a crossroads in my triathlon odyssey. I had signed up to the Snowdonia Slateman as far back as last September as part of my preparation for the Outlaw and so decided to stick to my guns and do it anyway, mainly because it was paid for, the accommodation was booked and I love going to north Wales, particularly if it involves hauling myself up very big hills.

My preparation for the event hadn’t been exactly ideal. The knee injury that forced me to quit my Outlaw training had meant that I hadn’t done any, and I mean any, run training since the last week of January and my cycling had been consistently sporadic, with some very good weeks of quality rides mixed in with some other weeks of doing just about nothing. At least my swimming had been going well as I continued to prepare myself for the 10km Jubilee River Swim in June. So I wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence as we drove up the motorway towards north Wales two days before the event. But worse was looming just around the corner.

During an unscheduled stop near Stafford, I decided to check my bike was still securely fitted to the roof rack. It was. But, as I prodded and wiggled it, something caught my eye that I missed the night before when I checked it over. There was a small crack along the seat tube, right under the band-on front mech. I wasn’t angry, just sad. Me and that bike had climbed Alpe d’Huez, done the Etape du Tour, climbed Mont Ventoux, completed countless sportives, triathlons and training rides and, of course, it had carried me through Ironman Wales. I knew this day would come as carbon fibre always breaks in the end, but I was still glum.

We carried on towards Llanberis with our plan being that I’d get it properly checked out at the triathlon the next day and, assuming the worst, I’d just do the swim and then retreat to a café for a nice brunch with Mrs CTP and the kids.

We found our accommodation, which was great, and settled into a nice family weekend in beautiful Snowdonia. Mrs CTP bravely took a ride on the fastest zip wire in the world (http://www.zipworld.co.uk/what-to-expect-at-zip-world-velocity/ , have a look, it’s bonkers!) which got us off to a good start and then I took my bike down to the resident mechanics at the Slateman registration. He basically told me not to worry about it as the frame, a Planet X Pro Carbon, has an aluminium insert beneath where the crack is and it shouldn’t be a problem. He said it was terminal, but just not yet. So I duly registered and prepared myself for the next day to dawn.

The next morning, I left our accommodation early and cycled the 6km to transition. I got my kit ready and, as I did so, heard over the PA that the water in Llyn Padarn, the lake we were swimming in, was just 11 degrees, which is very cold indeed, and so the organisers had no choice but to shorten the swim to 500 metres, as British Triathlon rules stipulate. I nervously finished preparing my stuff and then waited a ludicrous full hour between transition closing and the swim starting.

Anything you’ll ever read about not freezing to death in cold water will tell you that it’s mind over matter and you have to think yourself warmer so, as I got in the cold water I dug deep and pretended that it wasn’t cold. It didn’t work. I was frozen in seconds and anything that wasn’t covered in rubber was numb. Once the gun went, my swim stroke was alright but I struggled to take decent breaths as the water sucked the heat from me. The only good thing was that I was near the front and that it would only last a relatively short time.  I got out and wobbled off to transition on my frozen stumps and then, knowing I wouldn’t trouble the leader board at all, proceeded to take as long as I needed to get ready for the 51km bike.

Although I quite literally couldn’t feel my feet in my cycling shoes, the first half of the bike ride went well. The first 10km or so is a pleasant jaunt up the Pen-y-Pass, a long but not too steep climb to the foot of Snowdon. There was then a quick descent which, despite what the mechanic man told me, I took very gingerly due to my broken frame, and then a long drag back up the opposite valley. The wind on the return leg of the bike ride was really strong and quite demoralising. It was very tough going and I was struggling to keep up with some of the competitors who overtook me, so I wasn’t sorry to reach Llanberis again and get ready for the run.

Unbelievably, my feet were still numb, and the first few kilometres of the 11km run were slow and quite painful. Although I’d popped a few Salt Stick Caps on the bike, I’d fought cramp in my calves all around the bike course and it wasn’t showing any signs of going away. Then I saw the mighty slate quarry for the first time and it was both magnificent and terrifying; a huge, grey, slate cliff rising up in front of me with a zig-zag gravel road winding up it. I’d been given advice to walk all the way up this brute as running would sap all my energy which was sound advice, although I really didn’t have much choice as it was so steep. The climb felt good though, I think because I was stretching out my calves as I walked, and I actually started to really enjoy it.

Once at the top, I started running again and I even had a nice chat with a few people I’d met in transition – age-group triathletes are always so friendly. A nice aid station appeared after a while and I took a few handfuls of salty crisps and some water, then headed downhill. This downhill trot hurt like hell and my cramp returned with vengeance. I tried to keep going but it eventually got the better of me less than one kilometre from the end and I had to stop and stretch. It didn’t do much good as every time I lifted my right foot my calf cramped.

By now, the crowds were thickening towards the finish and, as I was wearing an Ironman top, I had to do the jersey justice and run in front of everyone. So I gritted my teeth and jogged on. Due to the pain, I was really focussed on the finish and, just like in Tenby, I nearly ran straight past my family who had waited patiently all day for me. At the last second, they jumped out on me and I grabbed the kids’ hands to run down the finishing chute with them.

I wasn’t too tired at the end but my right leg hurt like hell from three hours of constant cramps. I was a little disappointed to finish way down the order but bearing in mind my consistent lack of training, I can’t grumble too much and at least my knee felt alright.

All in all, it’s a great event in a brilliant location, but don’t be fooled by the relatively short distance, it’s a tough one too.

Unbelievable!

Christmas presents often give us a real challenge when it comes to buying the loved ones in our lives something memorable. But last year, Mrs CTP came up trumps with my birthday/Crimbo combo (they’re both in December).

First up came tickets to the UCI World Track Cycling Cup at the London 2012 Olympic Velodrome, now renamed Lee Valley Velopark.

Whilst I’d watched, first-hand, various 2012 Olympic sports such as athletics, triathlon and the glorious moment Wiggo took gold in the time trial (you can see fuzzy shots of me in the background, resplendent in a yellow Tour de France bucket hat, in the finish line photos), I didn’t get to see any track cycling.

In the velodrome, I was instantly in awe of the beautiful steep banked curves of the wooden velodrome and sheer speed that the world-class cyclists got up to on it. I found the race rules and tactics used by riders fascinating and I came away really wanting a go but, being a carrot munching non-London type, I didn’t realise that you could actually book novice ‘taster’ sessions. Fortunately, my wife is a lot more savvy than me and figured it out, and so booked me a session for Christmas.

Wanting to make a full day of it and fire the kids’ enthusiasm for what could have been yet another day getting bored watching me do a sporting endeavour that I really should have got out of my system 20 years ago, we decided to get the full 2012 experience by going swimming in the London Aquatic Centre (the Olympic pool) in the morning, have a wander around the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park afterwards then go to the velodrome in the afternoon.

The 50m Olympic pool is epic. We spent the first ten minutes in the building running around like kids, pointing out where Tom Daley dived and the spot where the lovely national treasure who is Clare Balding sat and interviewed Chad Le Clos’s dad, Bert.

Cue plenty of ‘unbelievable, it’s the best day of my life’ impersonations in dodgy South African accents.

I’ve never swum in a full-size competition pool before and I loved the vastness of the 3m deep clear blue water and the nice wide lanes. Despite having swum 4.5km the day before, I didn’t embarrass myself during my 1500m dip, although I was overtaken by a couple of very over-enthusiastic middle-aged blokes whose desire to be an olympian clearly out-stripped their potential to actually be one. I usually get very annoyed by the increasing number of Alpha male types churning up the lanes in the pool, but I let these two off as it was quite exciting to be there and pretending to be Michael Phelps.

Having drunk half a pint of grade one rocket fuel like coffee to stop me taking a premature afternoon nap in the April sunshine that bathed the park, I was completely pumped by the time I actually got onto the velodrome track. The handling of my hired track bike seemed quite nervous and twitchy compared to my own road bikes but I soon got used to it and the fixed gear crank-set and no brakes at all were soon easy enough to accommodate.

After a few very slow laps on the flat safety zone to get used to the environment, me and fifteen other, mainly 30-50 year old, grey and/or balding, types were let loose by the instructor on the steeply banked wooden boards.

And what a thrill it was!

I loved the sheer speed of it all, zooming round the track like Chris Hoy but with much smaller, hairy thighs. Goaded to go faster by my cheering kids, I wound it up and overtook as many other riders as I could, which was just about all of them, I’m pleased to say, fighting to maintain concentration and effort so as not to crash. It was very hard work but incredibly exciting and it all too soon came to an end. I was knackered. The main spin was just 15 minutes duration but the large gearing of the track bike coupled with the constant pedalling required by the fixed-gear set-up really is very tiring and a fantastic workout.

I left clutching my certificate and wearing a huge grin and I barely slept the following night as the adrenaline seared around my system. I need more of this, it’s exhilarating, fun and a bit different.

So, I’d swum in the pool in which Michael Phelps cemented his legend status and I rode a bike on the track where Team GB smashed all-comers, and both in the same day.

As Bert would say ‘unbelievable’.

Cutting some slack

Months of indecision and doubt over what to do regarding my knee injury and the looming question mark that was increasingly hanging over my Outlaw 2015 entry has now drawn to a close.

And, unfortunately, it’s not a happy ending. I’ve pulled out of the event.

The triathlon Gods, who hitherto have looked down on me quite favourably, have not been kind this time. My knee just doesn’t seem to be getting much better and, whilst I’m not in crippling pain at all, I don’t want to do loads of run training for an ironman marathon and risk any longevity I may have in triathlon or anything else. I also think I’ve been trying to juggle too many things at once outside of triathlon, leaving me feeling disorientated and lacking focus on my triathlon training.

With the on-going building work I’ve reluctantly been carrying out on our house taking up a huge amount of time and also studying for a Masters, I’m simply not putting enough hours in on my bike which is the most important triathlon discipline to get right. Now, as I said in my previous post, I wasn’t flapping about this and was fairly confident that I’d get round the Outlaw bike course with few issues but the sands of time were running low and I certainly wasn’t going to make my life any easier unless I got out on a few long rides. Unfortunately though, life has the habit of getting in the way of having a good time, and I don’t think that my two or three turbo sessions each week were going to be enough to cut the mustard on an iron-distance triathlon.

Something had to give as I wasn’t putting enough effort into my training and, being quite a goal driven sort of chap, I found this hard to accept. So I contacted the Outlaw organisers and asked to withdraw. They said this would be fine and have given me a reasonable refund, definitely more than I would have got if I faced similar circumstances but had been entered in an M-Dot event.

Whilst disappointed not to be toeing the line in Nottingham next July, I have to say that I feel quite relieved it’s out of the way and that I can now focus more on getting the house done, resting my knee a little bit, building my TT bike and giving a bit of brain space to my studying.

It’s not all been lost on the training front though. I’ve had a couple of months of good base training over the winter and I’ve learnt quite a bit from it:

1. The Fink plan is good as a guide but I found it hard to adhere religiously to a proper schedule.
2. Mixing your own energy drinks is not only cheaper than buying them but they work well and they taste better too. I use a mix of 50g maltodextrin, 10g honey, lemon juice and a pinch of sea salt in 1 litre of water.
3. I’ve been playing around with MAF training (http://www.trifind.com/a_1042/maf_180_heart_rate_training.html) and I like it. I found doing the majority of my turbo sessions at below MAF (180 heart rate minus your age) plus one weekly full-on intensity session using the 95 minute Chrissie Wellington Audio Fuel session to be quite beneficial and I’ll continue to do it.
4. I’ve discovered SIS Rego for post-workout fuelling and it really is good. I now consistently ask myself why I didn’t use recovery drinks before.
5. Swimming tempo trainers are the nuts! I’ve been properly training with one for a couple of months and it’s allowed me to not only focus on my technique but has given some structure to my swimming and also encouraged me to up my stroke rate quite a bit, resulting in quicker times and less effort.
6. You can’t run through a knee injury. It just doesn’t work. Doh!

So it was a brief and ultimately unfulfilling love affair with the Outlaw triathlon. Will I be back? I really don’t know. Doing an Ironman is hard. Doing an Ironman and having a life and a family is even harder and, if I’m being truthful to myself, I’m not sure the will is still there to train for another one as I feel I’ve been there, done that. There’s a whole world of other opportunities waiting out there, I’ve just got to figure out which ones are for me.

No matter how cold the winter, there’s a spring time ahead

It’s been a long winter here at CTP Towers, mainly because there was a danger that CTP Towers would crumble into the ground at one point.

We’ve been having an extension built on our house but the builder went bust a few months ago, leaving us, in the middle of winter, with a hole in the back of the house, no roof on the extension and a major stress headache. It’s all sorted now and the work is nearing the end but a project that was supposed to take three months from start to completion has now taken nearly eight months and I’ve had to do far more DIY work than I originally hoped. Both me and Mrs CTP have had a gutful of endless conversations with builders, juggling budgets, laying floors, painting and going to B&Q many, many, many times. Mercifully, I’ve only visited the nightmare that is shopping at IKEA twice and it was reasonably empty of browsing shoppers, so I should be thankful for that.

All of this hassle meant that training for anything, let alone an iron-distance triathlon, has been hard to fit in around the chaos. To rub salt into the wounds, I’ve been carrying a knee injury for months and I’ve not run properly for seven weeks. The physio thought it may be a small meniscus cartilage tear but has said I can start running gently on it again. I’ve done a couple of turbo-brick runs of about 1km but it makes me very nervous that I’ll do lasting damage. I have seriously considered pulling out of the Outlaw but decided to soldier on and see what happens.

Strangely for me, I’m not panicking at all.

My cycling has definitely suffered, more to do with the time restrictions imposed by the building work than my injured knee, meaning that long rides have been few and not that long with the best being about 40 miles. I’m roughly following the Fink intermediate schedule and my indoor turbo training has been carrying on without too many issues. As for building my new TT bike, it simply hasn’t happened. I’ve just about got a whole bike but it’s in many pieces in boxes as I didn’t have a shed or garage to build it in until about two weeks ago. I will do it, maybe over the Easter break. Maybe.

My swimming is fantastic! Well, for me at least. The positive thing about not running is that I’ve been going to the pool more than usual and I’ve also started to structure sessions using a tempo trainer which appears to be working well. Bizarrely, swimming has gone from being my least favourite of the three disciplines to the one I look forward to most, mainly because it doesn’t hurt me when I’m doing it and I don’t feel like an 80 year old man the following morning as I creak down the stairs.

If I do pull out of Outlaw because of the running drought, I may enter a 10km swim and there’s an outside chance of doing the Le Mans 24 Hour Velo race in August as a solo entry, which is something I’ve fancied doing ever since they launched the event six or seven years ago. Or I might just enjoy the summer doing nothing at all which, right now, is very appealing.

True

On reflection, in the crazy days of being a teenager in the 80’s, I actually think I was quite cool.

Everything I did, and I mean EVERYTHING, was about music. It’s pretty much all I cared about at the time although sport; athletics, cycling and motor sport; did get a look in, particularly when I realised I was the best 400m and 800m runner in the school. Unfortunately, that particular moment in the sun didn’t last that long; I joined an athletics club with illusions of grandeur, trained far too long and hard for a teenager, severely injured my quadricep sprinting in a silly regional 100m race in Peterborough that I should never have entered in the first place and then never got back to anything near the form I had before.

Anyway, I loved my music, and I immersed myself in everything about it every day from the age of 11 onwards. I loved rock, mostly, but did listen to all sorts of weird and wonderful bands and even once proclaimed the song ‘Through The Barricades’ by Spandau Ballet (who I really didn’t like very much) to be ‘pretty good’ but I think this had more to do with haplessly trying to sound cool to the tall blonde girl I was disastorously trying to chat up on a snakebite charged Friday evening at the local disco than any latent admiration of post New Romantic ballads. I’ve regretted it ever since (admitting to liking Spandau Ballet, not chatting to the girl, although it was fairly cringe worthy).

All I wanted to do was be in the music industry, preferably as the lanky but interesting guitarist who didn’t hog the limelight but all the real fans knew was the creative one, in a cool but commercially super successful band. Think Radiohead before they ditched their guitars for a somewhat more eclectic direction. I spent every hour listening to the radio and watching videos I recorded of Live Aid and Channel 4’s The Tube and I spent every penny I had on records, tapes, CD’s, music magazines and guitar effects pedals. If I didn’t make it in a band then I’d be either a music or sport journalist, preferably on the radio. Nothing would stop me realising my dream, nothing!

Thirty years later, I work in a job that is further away from the madness of rock‘n’roll than even my endless imagination could have envisaged and most of my money goes on the mortgage, petrol and keeping the kids in the manner to which they have only too quickly become accustomed. Most of my dreams have been replaced by harsh realities. I do still love music and get to gigs every now and again. It’s always great to be there amongst kindred spirits in a sweaty dive somewhere but I have to admit that I sip, rather than quaff, my cider and I do wish those youngsters would calm down a bit at the front with all their shouting, I can’t hear the words.

I’m not at all unhappy with my lot, many people would willingly have what I do, but it’s not exactly worked out as I planned it would and I don’t think I’d be human if I didn’t sometimes wonder ‘what if..?’.

Being true to yourself is now something which I really admire in other people. I look at those who make their way in life by creating music, art, fashion, literture, motorbikes (honestly, I’d LOVE to build a chopper in my shed, although I would look a bit daft cruising down the road to collect the kids from school in a bandana and leather chaps), tattoos (not that I have one, that’s a whole other story), flower arranging, in fact absolutely ANYTHING, in total awe, enviously admiring the fact that they’re doing what they want to do.

And some of them become very successful doing it too.

I’ve read a couple of really excellent blogs that relate to this kind of thing recently. The first is Challenge Sophie. Sophie has done Ironman Wales twice and she wrote a wonderful review/reflection of the 2014 edition in her blog. She also talks about making those life decisions which can be scary at the time but fulfilling in the long run. Have a look by clicking here.

The other is called Lost in Transition. It challenges the notion of having a bucket list to run your life’s goals by and makes for a very good read. Click here and check it out.

Triathlons, and iron distance events in particular, do seem to attract a lot of people who are searching for that bit of themselves which they’ve lost or maybe never had. It might manifest itself in just trying to achieve the goal of finishing 140.6 miles of gruelling swimming, biking and running or it may be that plus something else, something deeper that it harder to define. I certainly fall into the later group. I’ve finished an Ironman, a tough one at that, but I’m still looking around and wondering what I can do next.

I’m doing Outlaw, and that’s super cool, but will it stop there? I doubt it very much. Midlife crisis? Maybe, but I still might buy another guitar one day.

And now for something completely different

 

For months I’ve been quite happy to be reasonably inactive, at least compared to when I was training full-on for Ironman Wales. I’ve been keeping fit and not even thinking about another Ironman but now, just a few weeks after signing up for the Outlaw 2015 triathlon, I’m preparing myself for another long one and it’s consuming all my thoughts again. In fact, my big problem is that Outlaw is so far away and I have to fill nine or ten months until I get to the start line.

I’m itching to get going with my training. I’ve been looking at which training plan to follow and I seem to have settled quite quickly on Don Fink’s ‘Iron Fit’ book. There are three plans I could follow and I’m going to go for the hardest one, obviously, mainly because I’m a bloke and that’s what blokes do. I’m fairly confident I can fit in all the hours needed to train but I guess only time will tell. The plan won’t start until the last week of December, so until then I’ll busy myself with getting my fitness up and doing the other 101 things that life requires I do on a weekly basis. I’m really hoping that I can get our house extension finished by the end of the year and that will be a major headache out of the way. I’ll also need to build up my new TT bike, but that can take a back seat until about February.

I’ve been struggling somewhat with a knee injury but, thankfully, it seems to be sorting itself out. I was getting quite worried as it seemed to be getting progressively worse. About two weeks ago, I started to administer some self-applied physio based mainly on strengthening exercises I’d learned from multiple trips to see physios over the years. They seemed to have worked as, last Saturday evening, I was sat watching the Ryder Cup golf on TV and, to relieve the boredom, I was gently pushing my kneecap about when I heard and felt an enormous crunch from the joint that sounded like a bus jumping out of gear. I was a bit shocked at first but I actually think it was a good thing as it’s felt much better ever since. I’ve carried on with the strength exercises but, fingers crossed, I’m hoping I’m on the road to recovery.

Despite the fantastic warm weather we’ve had recently, I thought it would be a good idea to get my turbo trainer out of moth balls and fire up my Chrissie Wellington Audio Lab workout on the iPod. As mentioned earlier, we’re in the middle of major building work on our house and so I was faced with a problem in that my garage has now been more or less completely demolished and there’s nothing in its place until we build a new shed. That has left my bike in our little bedroom upstairs along with untold amounts of junk from the garage and conservatory (which we’ve also knocked down). When I want to go for a ride, it requires gentle and accurate manhandling of my carbon pride and joy down the stairs, through the lounge and out of the door and it’s a real faff. Great idea though it was to set my turbo trainer up again, once I had got it downstairs, I was left with few options as to where to put it.

Spot the bike…

As you can see, my temporary man cave is a tad open to the elements but at least I don’t have to worry about the windows steaming up.

Never say never again

One wasn’t going to be enough for me. I knew it, my family knew it and my financial advisor feared it. After much pontificating, I’ve decided; I’m going long again in 2015.

Even though I told my wife, as I clung to her in the rain in Tenby, delirious and completely shattered, to kick me if I ever said I wanted to do another, I was sure that another iron-distance triathlon in 2015 was on the cards. Ironman Wales topped my list, Ironman Switzerland was considered strongly and Ironman UK was in the running but unlikely to win. Outlaw was lingering in the distance but didn’t have much attention paid to it.

The main problem, for me, with those three Ironman events, was their date; all of them are outside the school holidays. For Ironman Wales 2013, I took my kids out of school for a day so we could travel back from Tenby on the Monday morning and I have no regrets in doing so. There is no way I would have wanted to drive home a couple of hundred miles after that particular ordeal and I don’t think Mrs CTP would have exactly jumped for joy if I asked her to take the wheel either. The kids, unsurprisingly, were quite happy to have another day off less than a week after returning from the six week summer break. But it’s hassle on top of all the usual training and preparation and it’s simply a lot easier to schedule an Ironman race that fits in with the school holidays.

I really fancied Ironman Switzerland as there’s a bunch of friends from my swimming sessions doing it and it would be cool to have plenty of people around for fun and banter. I looked carefully at the logistics but Zurich is stupendously expensive (over five hundred quid for a hostel family room with bunk beds and shared bathroom, for three nights!) and going abroad in our tiny Renault with two adults, two kids and enough triathlon kit to stock a small sports shop is not the easiest thing to organise. So that was reluctantly crossed-off the list.

Ironman UK would appear to be the obvious choice for me but a) is also outside the school holidays, falling on the same day as IM Switzerland in 2015, b) has split transitions and c) simply doesn’t appeal that much.

Ironman Wales falls at the other end of the summer but still outside the school hols. I could go without the family but that would be a shame and they do love Tenby. So that’s off the list, until I change my mind…

So that left Outlaw in Nottingham. Outlaw checks all the boxes for me at this time in my life. Iron-distance? Tick. Big event? Tick. During school holidays? Tick. Not too far from home? Tick. Plenty of affordable accommodation available? Tick. Single transition area with decent facilities for athletes and supporters? Tick.

You’ll note that one thing that attracts a lot of people to the Outlaw each year, that it’s supposed to be flat, is not on my list. To be honest, I’d prefer if the profile was a little hillier but that’s no big deal. I’ve heard some say that it’s easy, but it’s still 140 miles, come on people!

I watched the 2014 race on TV the week before entries went on sale and that whetted my whistle somewhat and Mrs CTP seemed to approve of what she saw too. I took the liberty of booking a ‘camping arch’ (read ‘insulated shed with electric points but only £25 a night’) on the camp site a short walk from transition before entries went on sale and then duly reserved a place on the race as soon as entry went live.

I’m really, really pleased to have another ironman (sort-of) to shoot for and can’t wait to get stuck into training once more, even if I do have a dodgy knee.

I mean, how hard can it be..?