Trains, Travels

As a race approaches I like to put my goals in perspective. I attempt to estimate my potential from a brief history of training data and race results. It’s speculative at best – there is as much interpretation as there is extrapolation; the word ‘feel’ crops up all too often in the analysis. With Ironman Lanzarote four days away – much as I’d like to ignore it – I need that feel for race day. My problem is I have never trained like this before: fewer hours, more inconsistency, I’ve not raced at such a low fitness. I lack a frame of reference from which to judge my potential on Saturday. It’s unnerving.

Wanting to quantify the situation I inevitably turned to the logs, totalling training hours over the past sixteen weeks – a sufficient period for an Ironman build. Unsurprisingly it was less than previous races, but my perception that I’d barely trained was equally far from the truth. Over the four month period I average roughly ten hours per week. More than nothing, but less than I used to do.

Although hours give a limited account of preparations, I couldn’t resist comparing with previous races. Only my recent run training approaches the volumes of my more successful endeavours. But perhaps comparison with last year is more relevant, overall training volume is closer; should I expect a similar swim, a slower bike, but a faster run?

But it’s not just how many hours you do, it’s how you do them. The 2010 Ironman World Championship or ITU Long Distance Worlds in 2009 demonstrate the point – performances failed to live up to the investment. It may be reassuring to know I’ve trained more than I imagined; it just doesn’t say much about how I might race. And that perspective on performance is what I’m after.

Those slim blue lines that pass for swim training worry me. I vividly remember my arms abandoning me during the second half of the Challenge Henley swim; and I suspect I may be lining up for a similar experience. I am concerned enough that I made a rare visit to the pool. With a Wetronome beeping under my goggle strap I performed a set of 200s hoping to gain a feel for my current race pace. The choice of 200s over 400s says it all; it’s depressing to think how I would have cruised through that set in 2010. That’s what you get for dodging the water. I might – with careful pacing – manage around a 1:10 with minimal suffering. It could be worse.

The cycling and running I do is of good power and pace, but I lack the volume I’ve had before. With less data to guide me I turned to another source of information – the disastrous race of 2009, when an abscess kept me out of the saddle leading to a 6:18 bike and a 4:30 run. I am confident that being able to sit and pedal for the entire 180km course will see me circuit the island faster than that; and last season assures me I can run a better marathon. It remains unknown what will happen when I combine those two and throw in a swim, but I’ve dragged myself through enough tough days to get the job done.

Race day remains a mystery. But I can put the spectre of a nightmare day to the back of my mind. I am less prepared than at previous races, but there’s been sufficient work to get me to the finish time in a respectable time.

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I opened the curtains in our Tenby apartment to be greeted by a bright and sunny morning, the air was still and the sea was calm, I could only hope for conditions like this on race day, in seven months time. We were lucky, many a childhood summer has been spent on British beaches, sheltering behind a windbreaker under grey skies, but this late February weekend was unseasonably mild; perfect for exploring the Ironman Wales bike course. Assuming we could find it – in my haste I’d forgotten maps or GPS files – a scribbled diagram and terse notes taken from the web site were all we had to guide us. Success was dependent on my girlfriend’s cartographic skills and given the momentarily heated debate we’d had on the previous weekend’s ride, I had my concerns. Wholly unfounded, during the two days we took one wrong turn.

The bike course comprises two laps – the first incorporating both a western loop out to Angle and a northern loop to Narbeth, and the second repeating only the northern loop. For our reconnaissance rides we reversed the order – prioritising the more challenging northern loop by riding it on the Saturday, followed by a trip to Angle on the Sunday. With the exception of a short out and back into the centre of Pembroke and the one turning we missed, we covered every section of the course in those two days.

It’s challenging. The undulating terrain and constantly changing gradient makes pacing difficult, each hill draws you out of that comfortable Ironman steady-state and tempts you to push harder. Red line once or twice and perhaps you’ll get away with it, do it too often over 112 miles and it will be a different story.

While it’s the bottom-gear-grinding hills or the out-of-the-saddle walls that are easily remembered, the good news is much of the course simply undulates, gradually climbing or descending, but under the right conditions fast. Should race day replicate last weekend there will be many opportunities to regain time lost to the hills. But those steep, slow climbs that divide these, potentially, fast sections define Ironman Wales – none are very long and few are very steep, they punctuate the course and sap energy; even cruising round in training they take their toll. After Lanzarote I was glad I’d left the TT bike at home, the standard gearing of my road bike was kinder on my legs, but a 27 cog on the back would have been a nice touch. I am under no illusion that this course is quick.

It feels premature to propose race strategies this early in the season and the relaxed pace of my trip leaves me unsure how hard I could ride. It’s clearly a tough race, but then I’ve not encountered an easy Ironman – whatever the terrain if you push yourself enough you will suffer; a course like this simply makes the process of pacing more challenging. How hard can you push the hills? How much can you recover on the limited flats? For now I’ll adopt one of my prepackaged strategies: two power caps, one for flats and one for proper hills; hold back during the first lap and save something for the second time up those climbs. It has broadly worked before, but a course like Wales will test the approach and my discipline to the limits. I think I’d like to ride it again in anger before I decide how I feel about this race.

Whatever equipment I choose and strategy I adopt one thing I’m certain of – I need to be very bike fit in September. Because when I enter T2, legs shot from every out-of-the-saddle climb, the run that follows is far from flat.

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Bags packed, breakfast eaten, kit on – ready to go. Then my phone rang. It was Aurelie, the GB Team masseuse, letting me know the swim had been cancelled. It was unconfirmed and seemed unlikely; the weather was colder, but we’d been in Lake Mead without a wetsuit two days before. Tension broken, our schedule slowed once the rumour was confirmed. We headed to Lake Las Vegas with mixed feelings – there was somethign exciting about a last minute change, but the race felt incomplete without a swim.

Transition was chaotic. More than normal. ITU officials confirmed the cancellation, but we were given no more information. It would be a bike-run starting sometime later that morning, nobody had a clear picture how the race would proceed. The morning was cold, it felt like winter outside the heated transition tent. Athletes crowded together waiting for some form of instructions.

I’d entered a triathlon, but would be racing a duathlon. It wasn’t what I’d expected, but not being swim fit I wasn’t too disappointed to lose the swim. I didn’t feel short changed. Whatever the reason for cancelling all any of us could do was race the course put in front of us.

At 7:45 we were called to our bikes and told to get ready for the start. Arranged in numeric order we queued behind the mount line, set off at five second intervals. It didn’t take long to reach the front and be on my way. Age groups were grouped by nation, all the 35-39 year old Brits set off in a block; five seconds after me was one of my housemates, Dave Francis, he came flying past in the first kilometer. I settled in, tried to control my heart rate and get into a rhythm, but the loop around the resort was a lumpy start.

The sun added a little warmth, but I needed the jersey and arm warmers I’d thrown over the top of my GB kit. There was a decent westerly blowing, nothing excessive, but enough to occassional twitch the front wheel. It ensured Lakeshore road was fast. I exchanged places with a few in my age group, falling back on the climbs and coming past on the flats. The 54 chainring was a bonus, but the 42 felt a bit much on some of the bumps. It felt hard, harder than in the week, negative thoughts filled my mind. I pondered retiring from racing (again!), wondered whether I’d been doing too much in the lead in (I had) and considered what it would take to abandon.

For fifty kilometres I was uncertain – I didn’t feel good and wasn’t happy with my race. I knew it was normal, I go through this most races, I just had to hold out. Sure enough as I turned onto Northshore Road I started moving through the field and my mood lifted. I kept in control, my plan was to push from the turn around and work the return leg into the headwind. Even so the slight gradients and the big gearing let me cruise through the athletes ahead. I turned and picked it up.

I knew there was the climb out of the National Park ahead of me and after a week of riding locally I knew how tough it was in a westerly; once I hit the base of the climb I dropped the gears and spun my way up. By now everyone was suffering, I continued to gain places. After a small reprieve we hit the Three Sisters – a trio of short, sharp climbs. Bottom gear again and out of the saddle, I hauled myself up and round stalling competitors. Then it was the grind, a gradual ascent that sapped tired legs. But I still had more to give.

I wanted the bike time so I pushed. I kept moving through the field, chasing athletes ahead well aware it was costing my legs. I have no run fitness, pushing the bike would make little difference to how I’d suffer later. I arrived in transition, sat in a chair and pondered the 30km ahead of me – I wasn’t looking forward to it. I hoped that like Challenge Henley my legs would work reasonably.

The run started with a downhill, lulling me into a false sense of security. It was short lived. After the turn at the bottom of the hill I slowed, hamstring and achillies tightened under the load and I struggled to the top. Again my mind became preoccupied with how I could abandon – I was torn between the fact I have never DNFed and the discomfort. I decided it would take a real injury and as the tightness in my legs had eased off that didn’t seem likely.

I counted down each painful kilometre of that run. The ones where I had stomach cramps and a stitch, and the ones when my knees ached from the continual pounding. I struggled through; walking aid stations and trying to keep the rest of the run controlled. A few words of encouragement from another GB teammate got me to pick up my effort 3km from the end and push the last stretch home. Driven by the desire to finish I found the energy to open up the pace.

Indifference best decribes my feelings to the day. I never felt at my best and whilst I know preparation was far from perfect I’m disappointed to yet again be racing poorly. Next year needs to be different – a return to form. No more racing until I’m run fit.

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