Trains, Travels

“It’s a bit too tight”, I thought as I walked to the car this morning. Last night I’d run well – a surprise and relief given my recent illness – the pace had been good. Too good, my body wasn’t ready, I lacked the mileage of the past and the moment I stopped muscles tightened, hamstrings clamping down. As I drove home I pondered the day’s plans, negotiating a shorter, easier run with myself. Alarm bells rang, triggered by the subconscious calculation of weekly hours, this wasn’t enough; I know where I should be and it doesn’t involve a gentle six kilometre loop. I felt torn between an innate need for more and the reality of the harm that might cause.

This season is a write off. Mid-February and I’ve nothing to show, no fitness to speak of, nor form to race. Disaster.

I’ve fought these feelings for the last fortnight, following the optimism of a training camp with the disappoint of days of distraction and illness. I remembered how I’d struggled to start last year, but if anything this was worse – I was nowhere. My inbox proved I was not alone, amongst the regular mails were plaintive concerns that things weren’t going well: failed sessions, targets seemingly missed, training not to plan. On the phone my girlfriend mirrored those athletes – disaster – she wasn’t where she should be.

Last season had started poorly, January a write off, but then a rapid return to form and, at least in cycling, some success later in the year. However February was trickling away, the bulk of it gone, my season hasn’t started. I turned to my training diary for solace, perhaps I could glean something to give me hope for the months ahead. In January 2011 I rode my bike three times, I swam twice – a pattern that didn’t change throughout that year – and I ran a surprising twenty times. By comparison, this year I had been more balanced and generally trained more each week. February’s illness has set this season back, but I’d hardly shined the year before, cycling an impressive eight times and running much less. Where was the rapid return to form I’d distinctly recalled? March. I’d barely sat on a bike till three months into the year; once I’d started I’d pushed myself hard.

I was reminded of the self-deception we play on ourselves: the rose-tinted view of the past and the fantastical vision for the present. As I picked through those concerned mails I found a pattern repeating itself – we overlook what’s been achieved and focus our attention on perceived shortfalls. Somehow I’d missed how much more I was swimming this year, how well I was riding in January and – much as I lacked endurance – how fast I was running; instead I’d focussed on the days I’d lost and the tightness in my hamstring. Case by case I could pick out positives, buried amongst the moments of angst and self-doubt.

Realism works both ways. Things aren’t that bad, I am in a better position than this time last year, but then again last year was a disaster! Better than a terrible season – that’s not something to strive for. I want more, I want some measure of success on the scale of previous performances, not just dragging myself round yet another Ironman. I may not be heading down the same path as 2011, but I shouldn’t rest on my laurels because of it; not yet on the brink of failure, it’s the steps I take now that determine how much more I achieve. As I pick out the positives I also have to ask what more can be achieved, how can I go further?

So knowing that I’ve been deceiving myself and was ahead of the game, but also that I needed more, I compromised on an easy thirty minute run this morning. Perhaps I could have gone further, but I would be deceiving myself – again – if I didn’t recognise my current fitness. Progress is tempered by the limits of my body. Rather than dwelling on the past or questioning my progress I should be focussed on achieving the most I can at this moment.

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In the past nothing highlighted the difference between the way I coach myself and the way I coach an athlete than the issue of sickness. Being self-coached – a slightly pretentious way of saying, doing what I like – illness leaves me choosing between how bad I feel and how bad I will feel if I don’t train; a matter of health versus guilt and typically guilt wins. Not to say I disregard my own health, rather I am very bad at judging the extent of an illness, requiring strong symptoms and extreme discomfort to stop me training. Effectively I gamble the short-term advantage of another workout against the potential risk of prolonged sickness. Mostly I’ve been lucky. In contrast, I prefer not to gamble with my athletes’ health, when I’m aware of illness my advice is far more cautionary; perhaps I cost them a fraction of their race fitness, but I never risk more.

As last week’s Lanzarote training camp drew to a close I was faced with a self-coaching dilemma – train or fold? The hint of a cold, that had been there from day one, advanced rapidly under a heavy training load, halfway through camp I had all the symptoms of a head cold. I didn’t stop. By the fourth day I would have rated the ache in my legs more of a limiter than the phlegm in my throat, but this was the turning point. Stronger symptoms and lack of sleep didn’t stop me, with blocked sinuses making every tumble turn uncomfortable and my spit lining the roads, I trained through till the final day. As I shivered in the early morning warmth it was obvious I couldn’t handle a six hour ride, the others left to circuit the island and I allowed myself to imagine I’d go for a spin later before collapsing into bed. I stopped. Drifting in and out of sleep I pondered how I survived Epic Camp Italy.

There are two stories I recount from that camp: one involving a watch, incorrect timezones and a mad dash to ensure camp completion, and the other a head cold so thick it drove my roommate to a quiet sofa for the night. My time in the Dolomites was marred by sickness, the cold developed early and with the constant stress on my body, persisted. I never stopped. Motivation was strong – I’d spent months training just to complete this week in the Italian mountains, I was surrounded by strong athletes and I wasn’t about to be the weakest among them. Laying on my bed in the spartan La Santa apartment I wondered if I no longer had that motivation, was that drive gone? Memories fade, I couldn’t compare the two. Perhaps the Italian illness had grown with each retelling, maybe a points game was all that was required to drag my weakened body round the island now. At the time it was moot; I lacked the energy to decide.

I returned from Lanzarote to more illness. Head cold passed, stomach bug arrived. The days off extend from one through to four. Four days of recovery after five days of training, I felt like a foolish weekend warrior, where was the consistency? Here was my guilt, after a year of inadequate performance a voice in my head responds to hints of failure: you’ve lost it, the drive is gone, put your racing behind you. It falls on deaf ears. My attitude has changed, I balance training differently, but I still know how to push and to hurt, I know how to dig deep when I need to. Weathering illness, toughing out training on a camp makes for great stories, they’re the stock of coffee stops, but history inflates the circumstances. I’ve no measure of how ill I was in Italy, but I know that despite toughing it out and training hard I did not race well after that camp. I’ll never know the impact resting might have had, perhaps I should feel the same guilt for training through as I do when I rest?

Coached or not, the choice to train comes down to an individual and I’m not sure we are well equipped to make it. We’re poor judges between short-term and long-term impact, overestimating the cost of a missed session and undervaluing the price of extended illness, there’s a bias towards training. Aware of my nature I increasingly err on the side of caution, recognising that recovering and effectively training may prove more productive than my default of training through. As I did in Lanzarote, I will take a day in bed. This recent reluctancy to gamble may indicate weaker motivation, but I prefer to see it as a sign I’ve matured, recognising the value in good training and good health. I won’t let guilt drive the choice to train.

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With a slight creak and sudden easing of tension a seatpost clamp changed the nature of my week in Lanzarote. Years of tyre spray and dirt corroded the bolt till it stiffened, seized and finally sheared leaving this last minute packer with little choice – rapidly disassemble and pack the time trial bike instead. Camp was going to be a grind, the 54-42 on my Blue Triad combined with a 25 cog on the rear guaranteed some choice moments of low cadence, high force pedalling in the face of hills and headwinds on the island. But at least I’d noticed the missing trainers and wouldn’t be taking an unplanned initiation into barefoot running in the scrubland around La Santa. Bookending camp misfortune was the cold that indicated its presence with an innocuous sniff on arrival at Arrecife; seemingly innocent, but it would bring my training to an early end, sleeping out the final day in our apartment. Sandwiched between those moments was a quality training camp with a great group of athletes.

I’m a relaxed person and this was to be a relaxed camp. I had no intention of burying myself in January and wasn’t planning to take anyone else down that route. While Dave was closing in on the peak weeks of his Ironman South Africa build, Neil and Rich had plenty of time before Roth and Germany arrived. Swim, bike and run lots. I started camp big: three kilometres in the pool, circumnavigate the island on our bike, then run; hopefully sufficiently tiring to put pay to silly games. I wasn’t surprised that the first few hours were high pace, nor shocked to shoot out the back, as I dropped through my limited gears at any hint of ascent. If it didn’t kill me, I was sure this would make me stronger. My legs might have been suffering, but illness struck the camp early, forcing Neil to retreat home; shortly after Dave wisely called it a day, leaving a small group to ride El Golfo. We sped down the highway assisted by a firm tailwind only to meet road closures and no access to the scenic circuit, instead we were left with a monotonous drag, back into the headwind, before climbing Fire Mountain back to La Santa. Not to plan, but a big day none-the-less.

Each day followed a similar pattern: attempt, in a mildly disorganised fashion, to complete – or for some compete at – all three sports. There was an element of trial and error to determine optimum – meaning warmest – times for swimming and running; Lanzarote may be hotter than the UK, but early morning and late evening swimming was a cool affair. Runs on the hills and trails posed less of a problem,you easily kept warm, the question was whether you wanted to be running after the bike? A rough routine was established and health allowing we all managed to complete a very full weekend of training.

Not unique in our desire to abandon the cold homeland, Lanzarote was packed with British triathletes. It was particularly pleasing to be able to catch-up with Steven Lord; always good company for a long ride and with plenty of experience, I was sure the others would be happy to have him along, if nothing else he could drag us round the island. It was an opportunity to educate them in proper long riding, complete with coffee stops. A slight confusion on my part ensured our first ride together was ‘proper’ – climbing over Haria, descending to Orzola, back up to Mirador del Rio, back over Haria from the other side, and then – down the centre of the island, over Fire Mountain once more and roll downhill to La Santa. Perhaps a little much when we planned a hard blast up Tabayesco the next day? My legs felt that 42.

Tabayesco was my peak, not in performance – I summited in a time I can’t be bothered to check – but from that point on I descended into illness. It was a general camp high point with some great climbing from everyone, pleasing to see a hard effort after three solid days of riding, particularly Rich pulling off an impressive 26:30 to the cafe. We’d worked enough, that time trial took us into an easy day, camp easy, three hours choice training. Despite a cold I struggled through 2.5 hours of lighter intensity sessions before admitting defeat, in hindsight I should have rested, because I woke on wednesday dead to the world.

I’d spent a restless night, struggling to breathe and concerned at the prospect of the final long day. Having set the target of a second round-the-island trip I didn’t want to let the group down, but it was clearly a bad idea; reluctantly I sent them on their way and returned to bed for the morning. By all accounts while I dozed in a darkened room they had a decent finale to the camp, hooking up with Steven and covering a large part of the island. It was disappointing not to be there, but realistically I’d have been a liability. My goal was to return from camp able to build on the training I’d achieved, twenty-five hours was plenty after a winter barely touching double figures.

A day lost to illness, a day lost to travel, to cap my frustration off more sickness on my return; moving from head to stomach I seem to have picked up another of the bugs that plagued our sick camp. Out with a splutter not a bang, I would like to train now, and all the rest leaves me able to train, but I’m forced to wait another day. Broadly camp was a success – I believe I got the kickstart I needed and recovery allowing I’ll be out training tomorrow. First steps on an uphill road to race fitness.

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