Trains, Travels

Standing on the bank of the Thames, shivering in the cold morning air, I questioned the wisdom of entering a late season Ironman. Wetsuit and swim cap did nothing to warm me; if the riverside was this cold, what would the water be like? I sorely missed the warm bed I’d left a couple of hours before. Was there was a way I could graciously back out? Huddled in the start pen, it was too late.

A short delay did nothing to clear the mist, so we filed into the water ten minutes later than planned. In comparison to the bank the river felt warm. Relieved I swam to the start line and positioned myself mid field. Lacking confidence and unsure about the race I held back, unwilling to commit to my original, more aggressive plan. My mind wasn’t in the race and the conditions were doing nothing to improve it. I wanted the day over before it had even begun.

A whistle was blown, the front ranks started moving, the horn sounded in response – we were officially off. I found gaps amongst the swimmers and felt comfortable. I weaved my way from buoy to buoy, poor goggle choice and the mist conspired against me, but I was making good progress. Perhaps my doubts were unfounded. As time dragged this temporary positivity vanished, replaced with frustration and impatience, it seemed an age before the far turn point emerged from the mist.

The return leg should have been easier – we were swimming with the current. Instead I was swimming through treacle, being passed at an alarming rate, the flow of swimmers passing never stopped. I tried to dig deeper, but my lack of training shone through; I could bluff a kilometre, but 3.8K was a different matter. I plodded back to T2.

The slow pace carried into transition. A tent filled with freezing, confused triathletes struggling to warm up. Each of us putting on any extra layers we had; socks, arm warmers, a gilet – I wondered if I should have packed a jacket. I contemplated abandoning the race, but unwilling to quit my only hope was a mechanical on the bike. It was fine.

My mood lifted on the road, this season has turned cycling into a strength, I hoped it would show despite the terrible month before. The ride started well, I was rapidly up to speed and felt good. Familiar with my home course I was confident of my ability to pace it well – push a little harder on the hills and keep steady elsewhere. Fast descents gave time to recover and take in food. Everything was under control, though perhaps I pushed too much first time round, I promised to hold back on lap two.

Instead I pushed on, power was a touch lower, but it felt hard. My legs ached more than they should, was the lack of recent training about to bite? Despite the reduced output I was making progress and taking places – I may be slowing, but so was the rest of the field; all that mattered was I was slowing less. Holding pace through the second lap hit hard, I started the third in a terrible state. Negative thoughts remained – I wanted to stop, but couldn’t give up.

I struggled through the final lap. My only motivation was not being overtaken, but well aware I couldn’t raise my heart rate or match my early power it seemed inevitable. A moment out of the saddle warned me of imminent cramps; at the steepest point on Pishill I didn’t dare stand for fear I’d lock up. Unable to imagine running after this, I nursed myself back to T2. Perhaps I finally had a suitable excuse to quit.

Entering transition on auto-pilot, I changed shoes and headed out on the run. Despite everything that had gone I felt fine and had to reign myself in. I’d decided on a strategy of consistent slow pacing from the beginning. At the Outlaw my high placing in the field had spurred me on, the effort was unsustainable and ultimately I’d walked far more than planned. I didn’t want to repeat that experience, this time I’d run no faster than 5 minutes per kilometre.

The pace felt comfortable and my doubts finally vanished – one way or another I’d complete the race. My stomach had been unsettled most of the day, sick of gels and energy drinks I decided to switch to coke. I’ve always avoided it, the slightest hint of gas upsets my stomach, but I needed fuel. It worked, I could cope with the gas and the potent surge of sugar and caffeine lifted me. I ached, it was tough work, but I no longer wanted to abandon. Steadily I progressed through the field, like the tortoise against the hare.

Starting the final lap I pushed. If I could run 4:45 minute/kilometres I could make a 3:30 marathon. The fantasy lasted two kilometres – the risk of being reduced to a walk was too great. I eased back, returning to my plan, there’d be time to push when I reached the 40.5km marker. I was disciplined, continuing my final walk break as a couple of competitors ran by; a decent finish would bring them back to me.

With two kilometres to go I lifted the pace. It wasn’t spectacular, but I wasn’t slowing as much as the athletes around me. I soon caught one of my competitors, but the other was nowhere in sight. Forgetting him I maintained the pressure until I entered the finishing shoot. Just as I took the turn that second competitor darted around me having been sent the wrong way; I pondered a sprint, but lacked the competitive urge – I just wanted to finish. It transpired he was in my age group and bumped me out of fourth place!

Finally the race was over. The pain had stopped and despite all the doubts I’d finished. A month of poor preparation took its toll, but in the circumstances I’d performed well. Most importantly I’d paced a more respectable marathon, taking a step towards my previous form. I’m glad I never succumbed to the temptation to quit.

The truth is I had a bad race, preparation was poor and I was off focus. I know I’m capable of much better, but I’ve consistently failed to deliver. I can’t keep turning out mediocre race performances. This year has been productive in many areas of my life, but I’ve been coasting in training, relying on years of progress to shore up my results. I suffered in the swim because I’ve not trained; my bike fitness may be good, but once again I arrived poorly prepared; and I can make excuses about run injuries, but need to do the work to fully overcome them. I won’t take these excuses into next year. No more casual racing.

Challenge Henley was a superb event. I just need to be a better athlete. There are many positives from the day and signs of returning form, but equally much frustration as I’m still not there.

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An ironman distance event right on my doorstep, my entry was in within hours of Challenge Henley opening. The start is thirty minutes from my front door, I would know the course and could train on it daily. Perfect preparation. If that wasn’t enough, the prospect of sleeping in my own bed on race night sealed the deal.

As usual signed up months in advance, the next season planned before the current one had finished. Henley was an opportunity to perform on home soil, with family and friends there to watch. Months of training would see me in peak fitness and ready to race better than ever. That was the plan.

The wait is over, Challenge Henley is a couple of days away.

A month ago I was in the Alps experiencing a new level of fitness; prospects looked good and I was optimistic. What followed was the subject of Monday’s blog – three weeks of fatigue and illness. Definitely not the plan. A peak of fitness, followed by three weeks off – where does that leave me? Confused. As I’ve recovered I’ve been testing swim, bike and run, the results are surprising. Sessions are short, but I feel fit and can work hard; I expected much worse.

I have to assume I am race fit. Sunday may find different, but there is no point planning otherwise. I’m approaching the race as if it is mid-August and I’m about to head to France – I can manage the swim, my cycling is better than ever and after months of problems my running is showing signs of improvements. My expectations are an average swim, an exceptional bike and then a cautious run. I believe I am better prepared than I was for the Outlaw Triathlon in July.

A good day in Henley will see me start the marathon near the front of the age groupers. A great day will see me hold that position through the run.

Swim

A short swim in the Thames has confirmed I still know what to do, but also suggests swimming fast will hurt. I have to accept I’m not at my best, I need a good start and a draft to get round in a respectable time. Placement is up near the front, rougher, but the best chance of that draft. Once the gun goes it’s a matter of hanging on for the next hour and getting myself to T1. Minutes lost due to lack of pool time should be easily regained on the bike.

Bike

Every kilometre of this course is familiar. I’ve climbed Pishill dozens of times in every condition possible. Whatever the weather throws at us I can handle; some wind would be good, a strong southwesterly would make the descents more of a challenge. A tough bike will favour me. I’ll be riding to power, looking to hold 240 watts throughout. A month back I’d be confident of this, now we’ll see.

Cycling has been my emphasis this year. I want to see the gains I’ve made. The marathon is going to be tough whatever happens, so I’m willing to stretch myself further.

Run

Running has been an unknown all season. At the Outlaw Triathlon the lack of consistency had a far bigger impact than I hoped – an hour spent walking. The situation has improved and had it not been for the recent interruption I’d be starting this race confident of a better performance. In the circumstances I am sure I can match it, but whether I can reduce that walk is a different question. I’ve learned from the Outlaw – I’ll slow my initial pace and put more emphasis on walk breaks. Steadily run 3K, walk for a minute; I’m not going to gamble on a miraculous 3:20 marathon at the risk of a 4:15, the latter wasn’t much fun.

My goal on the run is to manage it well, to be in control of my pace and carry that through to the end.

As plans go it lacks detail. My options are limited, most of the day is about working my strengths and managing my limitations. I won’t make predictions. I have no idea. I will race to the best of my ability and see what Sunday brings.

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A week until my next Ironman and once again I feel woefully underprepared. Pre-race nerves have a schedule as well timed as my final weeks of preparation. Anxiety grows, doubts form and I look to my training diary for reassurance. Ultimately this blog relieves the tension, giving me the means to express those doubts and excuse the performance to follow. Then there’s a calm acceptance, knowing there’s nothing more I can do I focus on the task at hand.

This time it’s different. This time I may genuinely be underprepared. The doubts have a basis in fact; they’re not driven by nerves – I’m surprisingly calm. I have no idea what race day will bring, but I know there’s nothing to be done now. The three weeks gone have been the worst this season, it would stretch credibility to claim I’ve trained.

Week one was expected. Following Epic Camp and the huge training load that entailed, a week off was in the plan. The fatigue was remarkable, my intentions to utilise the free time productively proved well meaning, but unrealistic. I slept, I ate and seven days later I raced. The National Relays were a mistake – seven days of nothing and then intensity, it was too much. One week of recovery was optimistic.

Week two I hoped to return to training, but the relays seemed to have deepened my fatigue. Normally a sprint would go unnoticed, at most a little soreness the following day. I was tired, motivation was low. Just as I seemed to be picking up I succumbed to the cough that had spread through camp a fortnight before. Tired and sick, I lost the remainder of the week and my morale dropped further. Two weeks of recovery was still acceptable.

Week three was an opportunity to put things back on track. I couldn’t build fitness, but I shouldn’t need to; I simply needed to get the body used to exercise again, rebuild some form. I tried. Motivation wasn’t there. Some days I felt drained, others ill, it seemed to be one or the other. No consistency, volume, or intensity. Three weeks of recovery felt like fitness was slipping away.

Which leads to week four, race week. Since Epic Camp I’ve averaged two hours training per week. Nothing. But this is the confusing part – when I have trained, I’ve been fine. Pace, power, heart rate, whatever the metric they’ve been good. The original lethargy has vanished, replaced with the aches and pains from unfamiliar actions. A huge weight of fatigue has been lifted from me, but I don’t know what it’s left behind. I feel surprisingly fit for someone who has done so little.

What can I do in race week? I’m so far away from any plan there’s no point trying to conform to a conventional taper; I don’t need more recovery. Rather than reduce the load, I’ll increase it – daily training to re-familiarise my body with exercise. What the last three weeks might have cost in fitness I’ll try to compensate for in freshness and form. I was very fit before this, it might just work.

An unintended tapering experiment. This season has already raised question about my training, particularly in the area of recovery. Three weeks of rest following the most intensive training block I can recall may be what was needed. The experiment concludes on Sunday and should I race well I’ll be pondering my approach to tapers.

These aren’t my usual excuses – I have no idea how I’ll perform next weekend. I’ll deal with the day as it comes. I have the fitness and the experience to handle whatever is thrown at me. There’s nothing more I can do, but execute the plan.

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