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.

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..?

Epilogue

Swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, run 26 miles. Brag for the rest of your life.

I’m only two weeks into my lifetime of bragging and it’s showing no signs of losing momentum just yet. I’m boring anyone who’ll listen with my tales from Pembrokeshire and most are impressed, at least they appear to be.

As with any life changing event, the individuals involved are touched deeply by what happened but, when you return to the real world, you realise that nothing has changed. Although I’m now an Ironman, I was still stuck in traffic for ages on the way to work this week, I still had a thousand emails to answer when I got there and the kids still needed dropping off at school. The world doesn’t change if you complete an Ironman, but you do.

Now I’ve had time to reflect on the events in Tenby, I’ve come to a few conclusions about my performance.

I can’t deny that I was a bit disappointed with my time. I always thought going under fourteen hours was possible, so to come in with over two hours on top of that was frustrating. But when I see stories from people who dropped out completely and look down the results sheet to see all the DNF’s, I feel lucky to have finished at all. There were also about 200 people who entered and who didn’t even make it to the start line.

Make no bones about it; the Ironman Wales course is hard. Others I’ve spoken to who have done long distance triathlons say that no Ironman in Europe compares and certainly not in the UK. The cold of the sea is what proved to be my undoing, so I was fairly doomed from the first hour onwards. I think my 2mm wetsuit was simply too thin to keep my skinny frame warm in the Atlantic for 97 minutes. This is my inexperience shining through as it was my first wetsuit purchase and, although it fits me well, it clearly is lacking in other areas. Lesson learned, the hard way.

I can’t really complain about my bike ride. It was very annoying to finish 45 minutes slower than predicted as I know I can achieve better and to have lost places overall on the cycle is something I didn’t even contemplate before, but getting warm after the swim was hard and the damage was done before I jumped on my bike.

My nutrition also went awry on the run but I’m not really sure what I could have done about this as you can’t really train to prepare for those kinds of things happening; you just have to deal with them when they do. I didn’t use anything for energy; drink, food or gels, which I hadn’t used multiple times in training and I followed all the advice there is on how to get it right.

Maybe I’m just a delicate little flower.

I can pontificate all day as to why this was but I think that I have to face facts and admit that maybe I’m just not able to go much quicker over a tough course like Ironman Wales.

So, to the question that several people have already raised with me – will I do it again?

I need to pay attention to my work a bit more as I’ll never go up the ladder whilst I spend all my time in a lake or on a bike and I’ve signed up to study for a Masters upper degree which will take up a lot of my time too.  But, to be frank, training and completing an Ironman has kept me from going completely mad. I have a lot to thank it for and I can’t ignore that as I go forward.

The answer, therefore, is a resounding, er, maybe but probably not.

I loved the big event feel of Ironman Wales so, if I do another, I’d want to do a big one. Outlaw and Ironman UK have already sold out, Challenge Henley is not confirmed for 2014 and I can’t afford to go abroad. That leaves Ironman Wales and I’ve been there, done that. I may re-adjust my sights and do a 70.3 half-Iron distance event. Ironman UK 70.3 is a possible but it’s expensive and the Exmoor location is a bugger to get to. I could just stay more local as we have a couple of half-Iron events within 30 minutes of home which are considerably cheaper alternatives to the Ironman brand. We’ll see.

One thing is for sure, I’ve enjoyed immensely writing my posts on Chase The Potato. It’s helped to keep me sane by sharing my experiences and I’ve been humbled by the positive responses I’ve received from complete strangers saying how much they enjoy reading it, so I want to continue.

I may just be a better writer than I am triathlete, albeit an Ironman triathlete.

Tin Foil on the Outside, Iron on the Inside – Ironman Wales 2013 race report

3.12am. Not too bad.

I was in bed by 8.30pm last night and I woke up once at around midnight but nodded off again. Mercifully, my earplugs kept the worst of the din from the noisy pub beneath our rented Tenby town centre flat.

I got up just before 4.00am and dived straight into the routine that I’ve rehearsed a hundred times in my head over the last few months; kettle on, tea made, tunes on my iPhone. I start with George Harrison , something gentle to ease me into the day but most of my listening is to Pearl Jam and The Alarm, so inspirational.

I got an early morning text wishing me luck from my mate in China which was a nice touch. I replied that I was nervous as hell, shaking.

I check the weather on the BBC website. Sun and low winds, result! Hang on, I’m looking at Monday and today is Sunday. Rain and wind, bugger.

My porridge was hard to eat, as ever, but my tea was good and the energy drink passable. I stick on some Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds on the iPhone which is surprisingly uplifting by Nick Cave standards. As I eat I glance over to the pile of Ironman merchandise I’ve bought at the registration expo and I have to smile even though I spent a small fortune.

I take a dump and then go back to my porridge; I won’t miss ploughing through breakfast like this. My cold from earlier in the week had subsided under mountains of echinacea and vitamin C and my sore leg felt better after a sports massage the day before.

I check the time; 4.50am already but no need to panic as I’m only five minutes away from transition.

Porridge finished, at last.

I take off my wedding ring and leave it in the kitchen as I won’t win any prizes if I lose that in the cold Atlantic Ocean. Mrs CTP is awake now. She gives me a hug, tells me I’m ace and waves me off into the early morning darkness.

Transition is already buzzing when I get there. I find my bike, remove the rain cover and check it over just in case the gremlins have played with it overnight but it all seems ok. I put my three bidons, one H5 4.1 energy drink, one H5 Zero caffeine drink and one with seven diluted gels, into their cages and attach my bento box that’s stuffed full of pretzels, jelly snakes and mini-Dutch stroop waffles. Pop across to the portaloos for a final nervous visit and then back to my bike, put on my wetsuit and leave my bag at the transition marquee.

There’s a lot of nervous chit-chat as we walk down to the beach start but I keep myself to myself, too anxious to talk. The crowds are up early to see us and they clap and cheer as we are paraded through the narrow streets. I feel like a rubber clad soldier off to fight the good fight.

Tenby North Beach looks incredible bathed in the early morning glow of sun which is struggling to poke out from behind the dramatic grey cloudy sky. Thousands of people are there to watch us, seemingly clinging to every vantage point in all directions. I wonder what they make of it all?

The sand on the beach is freezing cold so I find myself a spot on a huge red ‘Welcome to Tenby’ tarpaulin that’s been secured to the floor and which insulates my feet from the cold ground. I jump up and down to keep things moving and pace up and down like an expectant father but soon enough the Welsh national anthem bellows out from the PA system and the start claxon sounds.

I walk into the sea towards the back of the field, no use getting beaten up by hundreds of others in the first few minutes. I notice two things straight away; the sea isn’t too cold (the announcer said 18 degrees) and I can feel the strong tow developed from hundreds of people wading into the swell around my legs.

I soon got going and the fabled ‘washing machine’ effect of an Ironman swim didn’t materialise. I got a few bumps but nothing too bad. I found my stroke quite quickly but my goggles soon let a bit of water in so I had to turn onto my back to clear them. I was amazed at the sight of hundreds of swimmers pounding away around me, completely surrounding me in each direction. The crowds also looked fantastic on the shore, bright flash bulbs punctuating the morning gloom.

The swim to the first buoy took ages and I struggled to sight the turn marker. I then I got thumped on the chin as the swimmers congested around the tight turn and my mood dipped a little. The next marker was easier to spot, just head for the lifeboat house which was lit up like a Christmas tree, and it was easier swimming parallel to the beach than it was coming out from it.

More biffing and bashing at the next turn and head for the beach. By the time I got there I was already wishing that it was the end of the swim but I had another lap to go. My confidence wasn’t helped as I was wading back into the sea, only to hear the announcer tell the crowd that the leaders were approaching the end of the second lap. Oh crap, I’m slow.

The second swim lap was hard. There was more swell than on the first lap and the field had spread out more which made my life harder. I actually quite liked being surrounded by other swimmers as sometimes I felt vulnerable in the open sea as my irrational fears, inexperience and rubbish swimming technique started to become clear.

I was also starting to feel cold. I tried to push it to the back of my mind but I couldn’t deny I was chilly. I got a little bit of cramp at the furthest point away from the coast which freaked me out and I immediately turned on my back ready to wave my hand in the air for help. Fortunately there was a kayak about ten metres away which eased my fear so I stretched my leg and feet and the cramp left as quickly as it had appeared. As I approached the beach for the second time I was relieved that I’d never have to swim like that again.

I’d done it and it was behind me now.

Swim: 1 hour 37 minutes.

I was very cold by the time I got to my bag with my trainers in for the one mile run through Tenby town to T1. I rinsed my feet of sand from a small bottle of water I had and dried them on a tiny towel Mrs CTP had bought for me the day before. As I ran through the town I could see that most people were in front of me as the streets didn’t seem that full of triathletes. I saw Mrs CTP and the kids and gave them a big hug. “How was it?” she asked.  “Horrible” I replied.

In the T1 tent, I found my bag and grabbed a seat. As I began to get changed I could see several people wrapped in space blankets and sipping hot drinks. “That was so cold” I said to a bloke sat opposite. He just nodded and looked away.

I purposely didn’t rush as I didn’t want to leave without anything I might need on the bike, so I methodically got ready and downed a piece of flapjack. I’d put my rain jacket and long fingered autumn-weight gloves in the T1 bag  at the last moment the day before and I was so pleased now to feel the extra layer of material over my cold skin.

The bike park was desolate as I walked out and I instantly felt a wave of disappointment as I hadn’t realised how far back from the rest of the field I was. This was going to be a long day.

T1: 23 minutes

Not wanting to fall off and embarrass myself in front of the thronging crowds in Tenby town, I waited until I was on the open roads before I started to pick at my food. A small piece of dark chocolate first as a reward for surviving the hideous swim and then onto a High 5 energy bar.

My bike strategy was to take it easy for the first thirty kilometres then pick it up a little. My lack of energy and frozen core meant I had little choice but to stick to this plan. At least I was back in my comfort zone on my bike. The roads were damp; I hadn’t even noticed the first heavy rain of the day when I was in the sea.

The rolling hills and coastal views of the first lap were beautiful and windswept. Other riders were passing me but I didn’t worry as I didn’t know what to expect but I did know it would be unwise to go mad now and pay dearly at the end of the bike ride.

The weather was ok but as we neared Angle I could see very dark clouds just out to sea. Soon after, the heavens opened, not with rain but with hail and combined with the coastal wind it made for very hard work. As I neared the top of a steep hill, there was an event photographer snapping away at the riders and he looked completely miserable, drenched and cold. I waved at him but he didn’t smile. I don’t blame him.

The ride back towards Pembroke was great as I had the wind behind me. I really put the hammer down and my average speed leapt up but I also became aware of riders who were drafting me and anyone else they could latch onto. A woman overtook me and she had a bloke clamped to her back wheel and it really annoyed me, so I beckoned over the next motorcycle marshal that came by and pointed out this misdemeanour to him. He seemed equally annoyed and whizzed off to find the offender, muttering something about him being a cheating so and so from underneath his crash helmet.

The first big loop was much, much hillier than the Angle loop but it didn’t bother me. I just stuck my trusted Planet X bike into the lowest gear and span away up the hills. It was towards the end of the first big loop that the pro’s started to over take me. They were seemingly effortless and I was in awe of their raw speed up the hills.

I was enjoying the ride.

The crowds were everywhere, despite the weather, and the course was challenging but good. The hills at Wiseman’s Bridge and Saundersfoot were steep but fun, particularly in Saundersfoot where the crowds massed on the roadside were noisy and right in your face. Brilliant.

However, I was becoming more and more aware that time was an issue for me.

Simply put, the cold swim, sluggish T1 and the knock-on effect during the first hour or two of the bike ride had meant that I was up against the clock and making the ten and a half hour cut-off, or not, started to play on my mind.

Being a reasonable, but not amazing cyclist, I hadn’t even contemplated this before now but I had to face facts. I wasn’t on top of my game and cracks had appeared in my armour. As I came through Tenby I could see riders peeling off left to head for T2 but I had to turn right onto the second big loop. Frustrating is not the word and I felt deflated again as reality started to bite.

The wind had picked up considerably during the day and was now right in my face as I headed out of Tenby. It wasn’t cold anymore and I’d taken my rain jacket off some time before but I could feel the gusts sapping my energy. My stomach was holding up well and I was eating every fifteen minutes, with the mini-Dutch stroop waffles being the jewel in an otherwise sickly and gloopy crown. My pretzels had gone soft after getting wet in the heavy rain. I also had taken a few Saltstick caps to fend off the cramps and these seemed to work alright.

There were noticeably fewer riders around me than before and I also noticed that the crowds were thinner, probably beaten back by a combination of bad weather and boredom.

I passed one woman who was in tears at the side of the road. “You alright?” I asked as I slowed down beside her. “I’m fine” she replied, which she clearly was not. I asked again. “I’ve broken my pedal cleat, you go for it, there’s nothing you can do” she sighed. “I’m really sorry” I shouted back at her. I felt so much for her, all that effort ended by a stupid mechanical. It could happen to any of us.

I was becoming increasingly angsty and tired, more and more aware that 112 miles is a bloomin’ long way. The heavy rain closed in again as I neared Narberth for the second time and I had to stop to put on my jacket. Annoying and time consuming, but I was pleased to have it with me.

The terrain was consistently either up or down, meaning you could never settle down to a steady rhythm or let your concentration slip. One pro fell off badly right in front of me on a wet corner and I saw another sat at the side of the road wrapped in a space blanket and his carbon fibre front wheel, which had been snapped right in half, by his feet. If it can happen to them, it can happen to me, I thought again so I took things very gingerly every time I came to a downhill section. I also overtook more and more cyclists who were going very slowly or who had stopped completely by the roadside. Some of them looked shattered and they clearly weren’t going to make it to T2 in time.

I was still enjoying the hills and the support but was relieved to get back to town, only to be faced with another demoralising shock during the ride into T2.

I could see the run course from the bike and it was packed with runners who were already well into their marathons. I was gutted. My bike ride had taken me 45 minutes longer than predicted and, coupled to the poor swim, I was really on the back foot and the marathon seemed daunting.

Bike ride: 8 hours 16 minutes.

T2 was much quicker as I was now very aware that I had to get my skates on (I wish!). Bike kit off, t-shirt on over my tri-suit, dry socks, trainers and cap on and off onto the run course.

T2: 4 minutes

The first thing I can tell you about the run is that it’s very well supported. The crowds were everywhere, screaming encouragement as soon as you hit the course from T2. The second thing is that it only has one proper hill. But it’s big and long. Very big and long.

I started well enough. I had set my timer and was running for seven minutes and walking for three. This worked well and I was picking up places and time. More demoralising sights came in the form of many, many runners who already had one or more coloured bands on their arms, denoting they had completed some of the laps already. I wished I was one of them.

I took a caffeine gel and a banana from one of the always helpful volunteers and carried on. Soon after I picked up my first lap arm band but then disaster struck.

The gel hadn’t agreed with my stomach at all. I headed for a toilet and did what I had to do and I felt awful and not a bit upset. I had been sure that I’d do alright on the run and could claw back a little time but I could not do so without the help of some energy foods. But there it was and I’d have to deal with it.

I’d arranged to see Mrs CTP and the kids in the middle of Tenby right outside our rented flat. I’d been really looking forward to seeing them all day as we’d already predicted that it would be near on impossible to meet up during the bike ride and I was quite emotional when I spotted them and I gave them a big hug.

The next lap was slower but not too bad at first. I picked up the next arm band and headed again for the portaloos. This time I felt very bad indeed. The only sugary thing I took on that lap was a small sip of coke and I’d stuck mostly to a few Ritz crackers and water at each aid station but the effect of a day eating energy bars, gels and drinks with only the odd salty pretzel for relief, was obvious.

Eating only Ritz crackers wasn’t enough and I began to slow rapidly and, by the next time I saw Mrs CTP, I’d lost all my energy and mentally I was gone too.

I wanted to stop. I really, really wanted to stop.

Mrs CTP listened intently and hugged me. She told me I couldn’t stop. I knew this but needed to hear it from someone I trusted. My five year old son had stayed awake all day and he too told me to carry on. “You told me months ago that you’d walk the marathon if you had to” said Mrs CTP. She was right, I had said this and it struck a chord in my head. They walked with me for a few steps and then I carried on.

It was now getting dark and the rain had again closed in. Stupidly, I had made the decision in T2 to leave my rain jacket behind as the weather was forecast to clear up during the evening. But it didn’t. I managed to get a space blanket from a volunteer and I tied this around my shoulders to keep the worst of the rain and cold out and my body warmth in.

My run/walk strategy had gone out of the window now and I was reduced to walking up the huge hill (and several smaller ones) and running/wobbling down them.

Another arm band, more crackers and water, another portaloo horror.

The crowds were thinning but still amazing. The town was full of mad cheering people who were at various stages of inebriation but it was all good natured. One bloke was outside a pub with his mate. He spotted my shining space blanket, which was hard to miss, and shouted in a broad Welsh accent “I like your style mate, tin foil on the outside, iron on the inside!” This completely cracked me up. I replied that it was my David Bowie look and he laughed too.

The exchange of banter only took seconds but it meant the world to me. Cheers dude.

The last time I saw Mrs CTP and the kids in town is a bit of a blur but no doubt it was much like the previous two encounters; emotional and bewildering. I walked the entire last lap in the now pouring rain, assisted by swirling wind. I hadn’t even dared to think I might finish as I’d spent the first two laps regretting by performance on the bike and the impending doom of the cut-off time, but after I collected my last band and managed to pass my favourite portaloo without rushing into it, I knew Ironman Wales was there for the taking.

The dwindling numbers of runners left on the course were a mixture of determined types who wanted to chat, pass the time and encourage one another and other, equally determined, types who looked like they would thump you when you said anything to them. Fair enough, I wasn’t exactly amiable myself and I even began to find all the high-fiving of kids tiring. I did thank most of the people who were still stood on the course in the rain under their umbrellas in the cold, giving genuine encouragement that I will always appreciate. It’s good to know that, in these troubled and selfish times, the warmth of human spirit prevails.

The final time through town was great. By now I knew I would finish within the allowed seventeen hours and so I could properly take it all in for the first time all day.

As I passed the last pub, someone said “one more corner and you’re an Ironman!”

I nearly burst with happiness.

I passed my space blanket to a nice lady who had amassed a great big pile of them by her doorstep (apparently, I’d have been disqualified if I went over the line with it on, even if it was given to me by an official volunteer and did save me from hypothermia) and I actually broke into a jog for the first time in two hours.

The finish line red carpet on Tenby Esplanade was everything I hoped it would be. It was incredibly dark, wet and windy but the hardy supporters had stayed on to cheer us home. I was elated, so much so that I nearly passed Mrs CTP and the kids without seeing them stood by the barrier. She shouted out to me and I stopped. I nearly cried but I was too tired to even do that. She looked so happy, my son looked so proud and my daughter looked so asleep on my wife’s shoulder, completely missing the whole thing, that it just made me beam with contentment.

A drunk man from Tenby had walked alongside me in the town during the last lap and told me to savour every moment of the finish chute, as he had done a year ago when he completed Ironman, so I took his advice and I high fived even more people as I walked up the red carpet, stopping every few steps to clench my fists and punch the air.

YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!

I heard the announcer say “let’s welcome him home from his Ironman journey” and the crowd whooped and cheered but I was so taken back by the whole thing and the flashing camera bulbs that I didn’t actually hear him say “YOU ARE AN IRONMAN” as I crossed the line, but my wife assures me he did.

Run: 5 hours 48 minutes

Total time for Ironman Wales: 16 hours 11 minutes

The winner of the whole thing, Scott Neyedli, gave me my medal. “Congratulations, you’re an Ironman, that was a tough day wasn’t it” he said as he hung a medal round my neck. I couldn’t reply, I was too emotional. “I don’t know what to say” I told him. He smiled and patted me on the back. Nice chap.

We headed to the finishers tent where I was presented with my finisher’s t-shirt and the most disappointing piece of pizza I’ve ever had. The tea was alright though and Mrs CTP was more than pleased to take a cuppa from the event organisers too. She’d earned it. We sat around for a bit whilst I sent a text to my friends and family and then we headed out into the wet night again to collect my bags and bike.

The end of an incredible, hard, emotional and truly unforgettable day. The rain continued but my journey had finished.

I’m just an ordinary bloke, but I’m also an Ironman.

Remember Luke, the Force is with you. Always.

I’m rapidly approaching the end of my journey towards Ironman Wales 2013. Any training I do from now on will purely be there to keep my bones and muscles ticking over and not rusting up.

My only goal now is to get to the start line in Tenby feeling rested and free from injury and illness.

Which is easier said than done.

My shoulder injury has been playing up during the last couple of days after I carried a very heavy suitcase up the stairs which, ironically, is how I damaged the shoulder in the first place. I don’t think it’s too bad but it has served as a warning that I should be a little more careful over the next couple of weeks. My sinus problem hasn’t gone away completely either. The doc has prescribed me penicillin based pills and I’m taking these and keeping my fingers crossed.

Again, it’s not the end of the world. I could do without it so near to the event but it’s out of my control.

Control the controllables and forget about the rest.

Mentally, I’m raring to go. I’ve been getting increasingly angsty recently as I’ve listened to stories from folk who have morphed from being triathletes to Ironmen. I know people who have completed Ironman UK and Ironman Austria in the past couple of months; they’ve been there, got the medal and the tattoo and I’m finding it frustrating that they are now basking in the reflective glory of their achievements and I’m still waiting for mine to start.

I do somehow feel I’ve wished the summer away as I’m so focussed on getting to the start line of Ironman Wales. This is probably true as the event has occupied my mind just about every waking hour and to the detriment of my work and social life. I have to always consider though the reason why I’m doing all of this. I took up the Ironman challenge to help me get control of my mental dilemmas and, whatever the outcome in Tenby, it’s returned dividends in this aspect in bucket loads and I feel I can justify the sacrifices that have been made in other areas.

Looking back at my training I feel that, overall, it’s gone reasonably well. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, of course, and I’ll only be know if what I’ve done was adequate or not on September 8^th but I generally feel as though I’ve prepared as much as I could do given my circumstances.

The last few weeks have been a bit of a write off due to summer holiday child care duties, foreign trips and the aforementioned sinus issues but, if I review my Ironman Wales training spreadsheet I’ve fastidiously filled-in since January, I’ve hit the vast majority of the planned sessions within 5-10% of the required volume, bettered that figure in a lot of instances and have missed very few completely.

Bike riding, ironically, has been the biggest hurdle for me to get over. I love my bike but the long rides have crushed me mentally and physically and just the thought of a six hour training ride leaves me cold. I have discovered the joys on indoor training and using the turbo trainer in my Ironman Development Pod has been a revelation and a definite positive addition to my preparation.

I probably could (and should) have done a few more big bike rides and I’ve not once been over the fabled 100 miles during the summer. However, I’m an experienced cyclist and can draw on many years of riding and training so the lack of mileage in my legs doesn’t trouble me that much. If I look back to my assault on L’Etape Du Tour in 2009, which was a bike ride that was pretty much as tough as you can find them, I wrote then in my reflective diary that, should I do the same event again, I’d focus my training more on quality hill and TT sessions rather than doing endless long rides. So I’ve stuck to this reasoning for Ironman Wales.

I can do 112 miles, even if they are hilly ones.

When I consider my starting point of not being able to swim more than two lengths only 20 months ago, my swim training has been hugely successful. Swimming will always freak me out as I’m no natural water baby but I now regularly swim 2-3km plus in open water, breathe on both sides and sometimes, if I’m feeling particularly brave, even venture into the fast lane at the pool which all show enormous progress.

Running is great. I ran when I was at school, I ran in my twenties, thirties and now I’ve re-discovered it in my forties. I’m not fast, not pretty and live in constant fear of getting injured but I’ve found the cross-training aspect of triathlon has strengthened my technique no end and I really enjoy my running at the moment. I hope to continue beyond Ironman Wales and I’m already looking at which spring events I can do in 2014.

Things I’d do different during my Ironman training? Join a triathlon club, even if only for the moral support. Take swimming lessons earlier in the process. Enroll in an Ironman event that’s earlier in the season. Start my training a month later to avoid peaking too early.

Things I’d keep the same?  Just about all of it.

I’m ready.