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My main target for this race was to improve on my PB of 8 hours 16 minutes set at Roth last year. I’d heard Copenhagen was an even faster course, so with perfect weather conditions expected I was confident this was on the cards. After a few age-groupers went under 8 hours at Hamburg earlier this year some people mentioned I should target doing the same, but whichever way I crunched the numbers I was struggling to see how that would happen without a fairly outrageous marathon split.

As an age-group only race, I was also dreaming of the overall win. From a quick stalk of the startlist one name stood out as a contender – Olaf van den Bergh. He’d run 2:41 in his last two Ironmans (7 minutes quicker than my PB) so I made a note of his white trisuit which I suspected I’d be keeping a nervous eye out for all day. My training partner Alex Jones was also competing. Like with Henry James last year, it was exciting to be sharing the course with a friend in their first ever Ironman, but despite his undoubted ability I suspected Alex wouldn’t really be “racing” on his debut so we might not get to spend too much time together if I was pushing my limit to try and be near the front.

I lined up for the rolling swim start in the second row, directly behind Alex. I also clocked Olaf on the third row, so knew we could race head-to-head without worrying about invisible time gaps. After a long wait with various steam cannons nearly causing some false starts, we sprinted off towards the first buoy. As usual, I lost a bit of ground during this section, but generally managed to track the moves of those around me. I thought I was following Alex at one point, but decided he was swimming a bit slow for me and managed to overtake onto some faster moving feet. It was a really fun swim – in the sea but incredibly well sheltered and even a few accidental gulps of water didn’t taste too salty. At one point the water got so shallow that weeds came right to the surface and we were essentially pulling ourselves through a swamp, so I suppose you can’t have everything. 

I stayed happily on my new feet for most of the return leg. Some brief amusement came when someone nonchalantly overtook us both whilst doing backstroke. He put a decent gap into us but at the final turn buoy went off in the wrong direction. Should have looked where he was going… A brief moment of indecision for me as I tried to work out which was the correct way. I picked the right option but lost my guiding feet, who at the swim exit I realised had been Alex all along!

A quick change in T1 and I was sprinting towards my bike directly behind Alex – a familiar position for us, including at our last race in Eastbourne. The first few miles took us through central Copenhagen, with plenty of turns and care needed to avoid potholes and kerbs. There weren’t many athletes visible either in front or behind us, so I knew we must be in a pretty good position and Alex was pushing the pace to make that stick. It was useful to have someone in front to take the navigational strain, although I was surprised just how hard I was having to ride to keep up. This trend continued as we hit the open coast road. In the past I’ve tended to hit the start of the bike harder than Alex but today his pace was relentless. We settled into a familiar training formation, with Alex leading the way and me riding around 30 metres back. I was pushing well above my target power (which itself was a significant step up on my races last year) and knew this wasn’t sustainable for me. I wondered if Alex’s power meter was broken and didn’t realise how hard he was riding – this didn’t fit with what I thought his race plan would be at all.

On the first “hill” I heard a spectator call out something that sounded a bit like “third” – meaning there was probably one more athlete up the road on their own. Alex continued to fly and I was acutely aware I hadn’t gone in front to pull any turns, but frankly the pace was too hot and I’d only end up slowing him down. The best I could do to not piss off my friend was sit an exaggerated distance back, where he was purely acting as motivation / corner guide rather than pulling me along. After 35 miles a German athlete – Niklas – came past and slotted into the large gap between me and Alex. He was also clearly riding stronger than me and as the two of them began to take turns pushing the pace I was reminded of Roth where I burnt too many matches on lap 1 trying to keep up with stronger bikers. I decided to get dropped on my own terms, rather than after my legs had fallen off, and immediately felt happier riding my own consistent power. 

My view of Niklas and Alex was completely lost as I entered the second lap, which was now packed with athletes on their first. This provided plenty of motivation and more achievable targets to chase. It was impossible to hold a fully aerodynamic position or consistent power but the micro draft from each overtake compensated for this – riding this lap slightly faster with 20 watts less. As I hit the final straight back into Copenhagen I was pleased to see there was still no-one behind me, but a bit disappointed to hear I was 5 minutes down on third place – even if this was about what I expected after getting dropped at halfway. My legs were getting noticeably tired, but not completely broken like at Roth, meaning I’d paced my effort pretty well. I focused on the fact I was experienced at this distance when those in front might not be. I knew what I was doing, had paced myself well and got all my fuel and hydration spot on. And my bike split of 4:20 meant I’d need about a 2:44 marathon to go under 8 hours. Still all to play for.

Out of T2 and the run course was eerily empty. Sitting in 4th place there was no bike to follow and was a bit unsure which way the course was going to twist and turn. During an early out-and-back I high-fived Alex and calculated he was 4.5 minutes ahead in second place, with Niklas 30 seconds behind him in third. This was confirmed by a friendly spectator who shouted “4 minutes to third”. “What about first?” I asked, “Ha, forget about it, he’s miles ahead, like 10 minutes”. That sounded difficult, but not impossible to overturn if the leader wasn’t much of a runner. One man who definitely could run was Olaf, and I was surprised to see him only 2 minutes behind me. I’d hoped for a bigger gap off the bike and now felt in a really tight battle for a podium place. I tried to focus on my own race with a mantra to keep calm. I’d started off at 2:40 marathon pace, which until a few days earlier would have felt recklessly ambitious. But if Olaf can do it, maybe I could too. 

The run was 4 laps, and the first went by without incident. It wasn’t too hot, but I still stuffed wet sponges down my top at every opportunity. Cool is fast. At the start of the second lap the same spectator updated me “Ha, remember you wanted to know about the leader? He’s like 15 minutes ahead now, haha!”. I know you shouldn’t shoot the messenger, but he delivered that one a bit too gleefully. I was on track to finish sub-8 and this guy was going to beat me by over 20 minutes. I was starting to really question the standard of age group racing when Alex told me at the out-and-back “the leader’s dropped out”. That leader turned out to be Emil Holm – a local pro triathlete who’d decided to do the race as a bit of a training day, always planning to drop out during the run. A third place bike pulled up alongside me and the race for first was back on. Keep calm.

I hadn’t closed the gap much on Alex – who I now realised was leading in his debut Ironman. I was absolutely stunned by what he was doing and if the pace I was holding wasn’t enough to catch him, there’s no-one I would rather be beaten by. I settled into a comfortable rhythm. Keep calm. The laps took on a familiar pattern – out and back around the finish line, collect a lap band, cobbles by the harbour, spectators dancing to heavy metal, steep ramp over a bridge, straight section into a dead turn to check time gaps, back into town and over a bridge with live music. Repeat. I tried to balance maintaining focus with taking in the energy of the crowd. For example, I’d high five children holding their hands out, but only if they were on the racing line…

Towards the end of lap 2 I overtook Niklas and moved into second place. Olaf was now around 3 minutes back as I went through the half marathon point in 1:21. By the start of lap 3 the gap to Alex had materially reduced for the first time and by the top of the course I’d almost caught up. As I moved past he asked if I knew the gap to the person behind me, which of course I did because I’d been watching Olaf like a hawk (without letting him see me check my watch every time we crossed over!). I see my friends Paddie and Henry in the crowd as I return into town. Henry shouts “come on” and I shout back. Getting pumped up now, not quite so calm.

By this point, the race was mine to lose. On the last lap, I wouldn’t need to maintain my pace, just avoid falling apart. But I did want to secure that sub-8 finish and wasn’t sure how much spare time was in the bank. I kept checking my heart rate, each time expecting to see it spiking but always reading “Easy” to slightly undermine the effort I thought I was putting in. I still felt really good though and was on course to run the second half quicker than the first. I could enjoy the crowd a bit more and tried to whip up the energy on my final run through town.

The finish line at Copenhagen is awesome and as I entered the red carpet there was a wall of noise. The announcer held out Thor’s hammer, which I high-five (but with hindsight was possibly being offered to carry across the line). No time for that, I’m too busy roaring with the crowd, enjoying my once-per-year release of emotion as all the training and race effort pays off in one glorious moment. I saw Henry shouting again and responded in kind. No need to keep calm now. After crossing the line I saw my time – 7:54:50, with a 2:39 marathon. Much faster than I thought I’d done and that excitement prompted even more jumping and air punching! A lot of time, effort (and money) goes into this sport, so you have to enjoy it when things go well. 

I was really happy for Olaf who crossed in second place and celebrated finishing sub-8 just as hard. Then especially for Alex who finished third in a spectacular and record-breaking debut of 8:03 in front of friends and family. Throughout the day it had felt like we were racing together, rather than against each other, and for us both to stand on the podium was a special moment. Ultimately, I just loved the race from start to finish and was thrilled with my performance. Copenhagen is a fantastic city to visit so this is a race I would strongly recommend to anyone! 

As far as what comes next, this race both confirmed that I wouldn’t be out of place racing in the elite field, but also that the level of the professionals is something else. I never even saw Emil at this race, and he’d have been showered and back home before I crossed the line had he continued racing to the finish. So whilst my eyes are open to the fact I might not get triumphant moments like this for a while, on balance I do think I should take the opportunity to experience racing with the top guys who I idolise. I’m an age-grouper at heart, but I’ve decided – for next year at least – to try a new challenge in the pro field. 

After a solid, if not blog-worthy, attempt at the Long Course Weekend (where I did the swim and bike but couldn’t risk the full marathon), I came into this race highly motivated. It was arguably my “A-race” for the year – a chance to test myself against the strongest British age-groupers and hopefully prove I was still right up there. Winning would also make me eligible for a pro licence next year, something I’d been persuaded to apply for last year only to be told I wasn’t the required standard by British Triathlon. I still hadn’t decided if I really wanted to race in the pro field, but was very motivated by the rejection to prove myself worthy!

Whilst there were lots of familiar names on the start list, the pre-race build up was largely focused on a match-up with Will Grace, who had been dominating the age-group scene this year with wins at Challenge Wales, Bolton 70.3 and Challenge Championships (where in beating me by 2 seconds he’d earned his own pro licence for next year). Having set off in different waves 10 minutes apart in Samorin, I was looking forward to what should be a close head-to-head battle this time around, along with the fun of racing with two of my training partners Henry and Alex.

This race had a unique start, with athletes jumping one at a time off Eastbourne pier, before navigating a swirling course that required savvy navigation of currents to avoid swimming extra distance. I positioned myself as the first athlete into the water – I knew I wouldn’t be the fastest swimmer, but thought this gave me the best chance to latch onto some fast feet after the initial sprints had burnt out. Whilst the idea was sound enough and I made it to the first buoy surrounded by familiar wetsuits, it quickly fell apart as we turned towards the bright, low sun which destroyed my awareness of who was around me, or indeed which part of the pier we were supposed to swim under.

I tried to follow the pre-race advice of swimming close to shore, but doubted myself a few times as more fast athletes seemed to be taking the inside line. I was fairly certain I’d messed things up but plodded on solo until I was unexpectedly re-caught by Henry around the halfway mark, who by luck or judgement (certainly not swim speed) I’d managed to overtake without noticing. I do struggle to get into my rhythm in the sea though, and despite fairly calm conditions found the waves enough of a distraction to make me lose Henry’s feet for a second time. Whilst I soon found Alex’s, I think we underestimated the current in the last 500 metres and slightly overshot the swim exit. I didn’t know if I’d had a good swim or not really, but looking back at my time relative to others it was probably about par.

I ran the long stretch to T1 as quickly as possible whilst anxiously waiting to try and mount the bike with shoes attached to the bike for the first time. My T1 has always been a source of ridicule – largely driven by an attachment to wearing socks and not wanting to fall over – but the lost time had become so significant that now was the time to take those risks.

Luckily, the moment passed incident-free and I set about pushing strong power to try and bridge up to the front. An early out-and-back section showed the lead group 90 seconds ahead of me, including Will who I’d expected to have that kind of advantage at this stage. I was confident I would catch him, the big question was whether I could then pull away from his group as I really needed to be off the bike in front of him to have any chance of winning.

The first 25 miles were on fast main roads, with gentle gradients and no tight corners. This was perfect for me and I knew I both needed, and could afford, to push an unsustainable power to gain on those in front. The lead group had splintered, and I caught Will and Henry after 20 miles. This was now a key moment, could I make an attack strong enough to break clear of Will? Almost as soon as I arrived, Henry and Will missed a (slightly unclear) left turn. Whilst they didn’t go far wrong, they had to perform a quick U-turn which gave me a free 20-30 metre advantage. I knew this was my opportunity and I put in a strong surge to break clear.

A moto marshal rode past and stayed about 200 metres in front of me. I wondered if more athletes had gone the wrong way at the turn and perhaps I was now out in front, and this was a lead bike just holding a respectable distance so as not to interfere with the race… No such luck, as I gradually caught it I found it was keeping a beady eye on a group of three riders I was now fairly sure were at the front. The marshall waved me through and I joined the group in fourth place, maintaining a large gap to third which yo-yo’d between 20 and 30 metres depending on how poor my cornering was.

Whilst the temptation was there to try and keep attacking (I knew I’d ridden the first half of the course quicker than them), the smart play was to stick here for now and save some energy for the run. It was also unlikely I could have pulled off an overtake on this section of narrow and winding lanes, both from a safety perspective and a bike handling one. The race seemed to be panning out pretty well at this stage though and my thoughts were all positive, except for the increasing loss of skin from unaccustomed bare feet. I was conserving energy whilst still riding fast in the front group. I was probably a stronger rider than these guys so I could attack on the two big climbs at the end of the course and lead into T2. These front riders were likely to be bike specialists and not as strong on the run as me. And I’d successfully created a gap to Will which I assumed was now growing…

Incorrect on all counts. My attempted “attacks” on the climbs only saw me move from fourth into second and no-one dropped out of the group. I then came into T2 firmly back in fourth after some cars pulled out in front of us and I was the only one not willing to risk overtaking them down the hairpin descent into transition. As soon as we set off on the run I could tell one of the athletes – Morgan (who it turns out is an elite off-road triathlete) – was a strong runner moving every bit as fast as me. And as we hit the first U-turn Will and Henry appeared much sooner than I expected and were only about 90 seconds back. I knew from this point it was going to be close and after coming into the race thinking I needed to win it on the bike, my best running was now needed to get me over the line.

The run was over two laps, and I set off much faster than expected – on pace for an unlikely 1:10 half marathon and not over-exerting myself. Wow, I must be fitter than I thought. At the lap halfway point, the immediate slap in the face of a strong headwind provided the explanation. On the tough graft back to the end of lap 1 I did slowly start to catch up with Morgan, but just as I prepared to make the pass received the disappointing news I was still nearly a minute behind him on the clock, as he’d been further back in the queue to jump off the pier. Behind me, Will was well clear of Henry now and still running well, but the gap between us was holding steady. 

Onto lap 2, I was now breaking the run into chunks between U-turns and was determined that every time Morgan and Will had a chance to measure the gap to me they didn’t receive any encouragement. The gap closed to Morgan. It stayed the same to Will. On the last tailwind section I made a conscious move to overtake and put time into Morgan. He’s based in the local area and people in the crowd recognised him from some way off. The crowd kept shouting  “come on Morgan” just as I passed them, making me think he was right behind me. But the gap was growing. I had my own supporters in the crowd and in the race though, and it was great to receive cheers from familiar faces built up over 10 years in the sport. At the final U-turn I knew the time to both Morgan and Will should be enough, but I couldn’t afford to let up. I emptied the tank in those last three miles, where sheer effort managed to offset deteriorating run form to maintain my pace.

I crossed the finish line without too much celebration, conscious of the risk that someone from behind might still record a faster time. I was pretty sure I’d won, but I also really needed a lie down… It turned out I had done enough, with Will overtaking Morgan late on the run for second place. It had been an epic race and one where I felt pushed all the way, helping me set my fastest ever run off the bike. I could then enjoy a first champagne (prosecco) shower on the podium and field lots of questions about whether or not I would be taking the pro licence I’d now unambiguously qualified for. 

My honest position on that is that I still don’t know. I instinctively feel like an age grouper – I work full time, have zero sporting background pre-triathlon and have never considered myself an “aspiring pro”, I’m just a hobbyist that got better than they ever expected. The standard of age-group racing is improving all the time and I always find myself in close, exciting battles at the pointy end of races. And, being honest, I do enjoy winning sometimes, which frankly isn’t going to happen in the elite field. Racing the likes of Liam Lloyd and Josh Lewis at Long Course Weekend was eye-opening in terms of how big the gap to the professionals really is. I worry about spending next year having an unenjoyable time getting routinely battered and losing my love for the sport.

But I’ve also experienced most of what can be done as an age grouper, and I do think you can regret the chances you don’t take. So I know I probably should roll the dice and go for it, just for a year. That’s certainly the view of most other people. I’ll spend the next few months reflecting on which route excites me more and come to the decision that’s right for me.

I always read a lot into my first race of the season. To me, it sets the tone for how things are likely to go for the rest of the year and is the real test of how the last 6 months of training has actually gone. If I haven’t improved, it’s too late to do much about it… Last year, winning in Ibiza set the tone for a great year, but things were a little bit different this time around. Whilst I’d had a brilliant winter up until the start of March – setting multiple running PBs – a hip injury had since kept me off run training for around 2 months. I had to miss a few run races as I put my efforts into rehabbing for the start of the triathlon season, but it wasn’t until 10 days before race day that my physio finally gave me the all clear to start running anything close to properly again. Going into the race I knew my swim and bike were in good shape, but I didn’t know either how fast I could still run or how much of a risk trying to find out would pose.

Challenge’s “The Championship” is a qualification-only half iron distance race. It brings together people who’ve finished in the top few of their age group at one of Challenge’s other events during the previous year, meaning the standard would be pretty high. It’s based at the X-bionic Sphere in Slovakia, an Olympic training centre most famous for its large horse sculpture which it’s obligatory for all visiting triathletes to get a photo underneath. It’s become so synonymous with this race that as part of registration we were heavily promoted T-shirts with the slogan “TRAIN LIKE A HORSE” emblazoned across the front. In the last 2 months I’d spent most of my time on an indoor bike trainer, so safe to say I hadn’t followed this advice.

After a dramatic thunderstorm on the day of our arrival, race morning arrived with bright sunshine and athletes seeking shade by the Danube canal to avoid cooking in their wetsuits. Age groups were being set off 10 minutes apart, so I wouldn’t know how the overall race was going, but I positioned myself at the front of my age group wave ready to sprint down a sandy bank and into the (much-hyped) cold water. One guy really committed to this part and got an early lead, but I managed to close it. Once I got on his feet the pace felt pretty easy and after 300m another person came past so I put another sprint in to follow his move. These faster feet guided me to the turning buoy at 1300m, after which we started to catch the back end of the wave who’d started before us. Whilst I hadn’t found the cold too bad, I noticed my hands were starting to get a bit numb and clumsy. Perhaps a combination of this, a few extra bodies to navigate and the lead swimmer upping the pace meant I lost his feet in the final stretch. A bit disappointing, but I still exited the water second from my wave in 25:53. Not a record breaking swim, but tactically good. 

Despite spending some time practising transitions over winter, I hadn’t yet worked out how to do a flying mount or avoid blisters riding without socks, so I lost the usual chunk of time. Only about 30 seconds to most people around me, but enough to drop a few positions before setting off the flattest and straightest bike course I’ve ridden.

With extra bike volume replacing my missing run training, I’d come into the race cycling as well as ever. Combined with the uncertainty around my run, I’d decided to push pretty hard on the bike – targeting an average power of 300 watts and a sub-2 hour time. The course really was very fast, with good tarmac and less congestion from the wave in front than I’d expected. I overtook a French athlete called Ludovic around the 15 mile mark who I didn’t realise at the time was in the same age group as me (and was one of the people I’d beaten in the swim but been overtaken by in T1). He was able to tag along behind me, at a respectful but still beneficial distance, and without any hills I found it impossible to shift his white and red tri suit from my rear view mirror for the rest of the ride.

The bike was very uneventful, but I held my target power and aero position well, despite my shoulders crying out towards the end. The weather forecast had suggested we’d have a tailwind for the home stretch, so it was disappointing to hit a bit of a headwind which scuppered what had looked like being a really fast time. Nevertheless, I hit my time and power goals (1:58:38) and even managed my first ever flying dismount. I’m not sure it saved me much time on this occasion, as I was so nervous about getting my feet out of my shoes before the dismount line I ended up doing it way too early, allowing Ludovic the opportunity to come past me and enter transition just in front.

With socks already on, I managed a quicker T2 and was out on the run course back in front of Ludovic in what I hoped was the age group lead. We passed an aid station in the first 500m but I was just trying to find my rhythm so ignored it, knowing these would be every 2km. Whilst it was nice the race had started at the more sociable time of 9am, this did mean we were now running under the hot midday sun. The run course was a twisting route of 4.5 laps round the X-bionic sphere, with mixed terrain and a confusing enough route that the main advice was to count how many times you’d seen the horse sculpture to follow your progress. I knew it wouldn’t be a particularly fast run course but set off at what I thought would be a respectable 1:16-1:17 split and back off drastically if I felt any hip pain.

I joined the main course just as pro athlete Jesper Svensson was starting his final lap, and as we were running a similar speed he helped to pace me round my first lap before he turned onto the red carpet to finish in 8th place. That first lap seemed to last forever, with each demoralising glance at the watch confirming I hadn’t gone nearly as far as I thought. This was going to be a long slog. Having not run anything near this fast or far since my injury, I’d not only missed the physical conditioning but also the mental preparation for how tough running can be. 

Morale wasn’t helped by a creeping sense of dehydration as the regular aid stations promised didn’t materialise. Ridiculously, the two water points were about 500m apart, meaning you had to make the most of both before taking on the long, barren stretch in between. I took sips from every cup I could grab, but knew things were getting worse. Once I lost Jesper’s company my pace started to slip as my temperature continued to rise.

The course had several out-and-backs, which showed me Ludovic had been holding a steady position 10 seconds behind me. Now, on lap 2, he caught me and my plans to stick with him were dashed almost immediately as he gradually moved ahead. At this point I thought the age group race was slipping away, but my hip still felt OK so I counted my blessings and was enjoying the ability to push myself and race. I was losing a bit of time to him at every aid station, but stuffing the wet sponges on offer into my tri suit turned out to be a bit of a game changer and those soggy shoulder pads started to revive me.

I managed to hold a constant deficit of 20 seconds to Ludovic on lap 3 and decided on the last lap I would try to bridge up and attack. I’ve never had much luck with sprint finishes (and wasn’t sure any sort of sprinting would be a good idea today) so I planned to make my move with 3 miles to go and see if he could respond. After the first mile I’d pulled level. After the second I’d opened a small gap. And in the final oneI managed to speed up again and finish a decent way clear with a run split of 1:15:29 – without doubt the best I could possibly have asked for going into the event. 

I’d been so focused on the fun battle with Ludovic, and pleased to come out on top of it, that I didn’t check the actual results for a bit of time. I was pleased to see my time of 3:45:18 had indeed won my age group, but have to admit being a bit annoyed to see I’d finished just 2 seconds behind the overall age group winner Will Grace from the wave in front. The overall competition hadn’t really been on my mind during the race, it was just the tiny margin – and the fact we hadn’t been able to race head to head – that touched an ungrateful nerve after what had been a fabulously fun day of racing which I didn’t think I’d be able to have.

I’ve managed not to dwell on where I could have shaved 2 seconds off – it’s never that simple as other aspects of the race would have panned out differently too. I’m comfortable knowing I gave it my absolute best all the way to the line, and that I massively exceeded my main aim of simply finishing without aggravating my hip. There’s a good chance I’ll see Will at another race this season and hopefully we can have another close battle, this time racing side by side!

I came into race week with three main problems, all adding to a sense that Weymouth might be one event too far this season: 

1. My race bike was still in the shop after damage from Ironman Cork. After tracking a component creeping its way from Denmark, when it finally arrived it was the wrong part.

2. I rolled my ankle eight days before the race and had to take the week off running.

3. I’d got an overuse injury in my shoulder and had to take the week off swimming.

I’d made peace with the fact I’d be riding my old bike and somewhat liked the romantic narrative that it had last been ridden outside when I won this same race in 2021. It’s a great bike and wouldn’t have been an excuse, but its two main drawbacks are that it handles poorly in windy or wet conditions. We were forecast to get both. When the bike shop was able to find a workable solution on my regular bike the morning I had to travel, I didn’t hesitate to use that option. Farewell romance. Hello disc brakes.

Once in Weymouth, the nostalgia from two years ago gave me a morale boost. I was also excited for what should be a tight race with my training partner Henry James. I’d always been the favourite to come out on top over the longer distance at Roth, but in a hilly 70.3 it had the potential to be very close. We’d tried to convince our Western Tempo teammate Alex Jones to join the party but he’d turned us down…only to be spotted secretively racking his bike on Saturday afternoon! The news that all three of us would be lining up together for the first time really lifted my spirits – with all of us having the potential to win the thing.

The weather forecast had looked unpromising all week, but going to bed on Saturday night the radar was pretty certain that no rain should fall until late morning. Naturally, I woke up to a thunderstorm. On the drive into Weymouth one flash of lightning wiped out every radio station and, as it turned out, led to a power cut for half of Dorset. The Jubilee Clock on the esplanade stayed stubbornly stuck at 5.05am all day to mark the moment. Smarter folk than me walked to transition in their wetsuits, smugly unconcerned by the torrential rain, whilst I got drenched before sadly squashing my soaked clothes into a white streetwear bag to deal with later.

Henry and I slalomed our way through 2000 other athletes to get to the front of the swim queue. With 20 minutes to go, just as I was eyeing a pre-race caffeine gel, it was announced there would be no swim because of electrical storms in the area. A bit surprising, as we hadn’t seen any lightning for an hour and were probably enjoying the best weather we’d get all day. But safety comes first, and given my dodgy shoulder I wasn’t as upset as usual. The main disappointment was that Henry would have expected to get a 90 second advantage over me across swim and T1, and without this we might not get the close battle we were hoping for. 

The wetsuited masses shuffled back to transition for a rolling bike start – with three athletes setting off at a time, six seconds apart. I was on the same row as Henry but made sure he rolled over the start mat a second in front of me, just in case it came down to a sprint finish later on… A bike start doesn’t give you quite the same adrenaline rush as a swim, but after a mile or two I was settling into my rhythm and enjoying the sight of Henry and Alex just ahead. This was going to be a lot of fun, just three mates in their element ready to go head to head. I noticed my handlebars were sprayed with white liquid. Had I ridden through something? Was my drink bottle leaking? No… my front tyre had punctured and was spraying sealant as well as rainwater. A persistent white dot on the tyre every time it rotated showed it wasn’t sealing and I realised I’d have to pull over to assess the damage. I cycled up next to Alex, who was climbing surprisingly slowly

“I’ve punctured, I need to pull in – it might be game over for me”

Alex: “I’ve got no gears – I think I’m done too”

That explained the slow climbing. I rode up to Henry and told him I had a puncture. He took a look at me sprayed with sealant and quipped “are you sure you didn’t just get overexcited?”. I told him it was up to him to win now and stopped on a grass verge with Alex. My tyre was bubbling away – but only losing air and sealant slowly. I tried to plug the hole but the tyre was still too inflated. I then turned the tyre over, applied pressure to the hole and let the sealant pool for about a minute. It seemed to solve the problem, but I couldn’t be sure how long for. A motorbike marshal had pulled up and was commiserating Alex on having to drop out. After a 2.5 minute stop, I apologetically set off again, telling Alex if I dropped out later he could explain to people why. 

Normally I would be frustrated at the bad luck of getting a puncture, but instead I was feeling relieved and grateful that I was still racing. Seeing Alex drop out must have been a big part of this, but also the fact we were so early in the race, it wasn’t as if I’d been in a great position and had my hard work undone. I had a fresh slate and, ironically, given Henry the head start we both wanted to have a fun battle between us. I also felt like the pressure was off me at this stage – anything I could retrieve from this position would be a bonus.

I set about working through the cyclists who’d passed me during my stop, worrying about my tyre every time I went over a patch of rough tarmac or plant litter. I was working at close to maximum effort – remembering the advice of a triathlete-turned-Youtuber that “there’s no such thing as overbiking a 70.3”. Two guys in matching kit were shamelessly drafting so closely they might as well have been on a tandem. I politely told them as much, which must have annoyed them as they then worked together to try and stay on my tail for a good 10 minutes. I then spent nearly an hour without seeing anyone, all the while keeping an eye out for Henry’s orange kit on the horizon. 

When I reached the main climb of the day, I finally saw seven cyclists again riding shamelessly close together. To be fair, the climb might have caused some bunching but for the first time my zen-like gratitude was threatened by a pinch of irritation. I rose above it, and despite being at the bottom of the climb enjoyed the view from my moral high ground. 

I was pleasantly surprised to see the group break apart on the rolling plateau and descent into Dorchester, where a crosswind caused a few stomach-dropping handlebar twitches and the rain started to pelt down in earnest. I caught three more people up – including Henry in the last five miles. We exchanged a few words about how we’d been doing so far, then I tried to put a surge in on the final approach into T2 and achieved a small gap. I was pretty pleased by this display of power until Henry later told me he’d eased off for a wee.

I saw the race leader John out on the run course as I pulled into T2 in around 4th position and estimated he was about four minutes ahead. Henry overtook me again in transition and I held a consistent gap about 20 seconds behind him for the first two miles of the run. We quickly overtook a handful of remaining faster cyclists to move into second and third place. I saw him briefly pull up when he lost his foot down a pothole. I was so invested in him having a good race I shouted out loud “oh no!”. He was fine, but the pause allowed me to catch up so we could run together.

The rain really started to lash down and whilst I always prefer to run in sunglasses had to concede I couldn’t see a thing with them on. I mainly noticed their absence when I grabbed a cup of red bull, aimed it in the general direction of my mouth and only succeeded in getting it specifically in my eye. No matter, it washed out quickly enough in that weather.

My coach, parents and some friends were on the sidelines giving me splits at different points around the course. I spotted mum and dad where I expected – under a shelter on the esplanade, keeping their umbrella over our miniature dachshund Jasper who is not a fan of the rain. Unlike him, the rain couldn’t dampen me and Henry’s spirits at all – we were just two mates enjoying the hunt for the overall win. For now we were working together, but if it came to it later we’d enjoy racing against each other just as much. We were grinning and chatting quite a bit. “This is so much fun” I remember saying. I nearly tripped him up as I dodged a deep patch of flooded road, but otherwise we were a well oiled machine working in harmony.

It became clear that if we maintained our current pace we’d catch the leader. Two years ago I’d had people hunting me in the lead – doing the chasing this time round was much more fun. It occurred to me that someone who started later could end up setting a faster time so maybe I ought to push the pace. As soon as I did, Henry told me that I was dropping him. But within a couple of minutes he was back at my side. I gave him a pep talk and to convince him he could beat me, that my legs were tired and that he’d be quicker in a sprint finish. I’m not sure why really, I obviously didn’t want him to do that, but I did want him to believe in himself and finish the race strong.

Before I knew it, we’d completed two out of three laps. After a season of racing full Ironmans a half felt ridiculously short. I kicked on and Henry dropped back for good this time. I was now 40 seconds behind John – for the first time I could see him and he could see me. There was a sense of inevitability about it when I caught up and made the pass. I patted him on the shoulder, said “good racing” then accelerated again just to make sure he didn’t try to latch on. There was no response, and on the final stretch I opened up a decent gap. 

Enjoying myself on this final stretch, running under 5:30 per mile, one guy gave me a brief panic as he came flying past. To my relief, he told me he was on his first lap and it makes me think he must be a much better runner than cyclist, not thinking he could actually have started the race much later… I savoured the finish line as usual. It was much sweeter for having to make such a long comeback and for how close I came to not reaching it at all. 

As it turns out, the mysterious fast guy Jonathan ended up in second place overall. I only found out an hour later – if he’d run my time down it would really have take the shine off things whilst I was shivering in my wet clothes under a foil blanket, drinking my fifth hot chocolate. Henry had been so close to a top 3 result, but some stomach issues in the last few miles saw him lose several places. The race wouldn’t have been the same without him though and I hope we can share a course again next year.

It’s hard not to use this race as an opportunity to reflect on the last two years. In 2021, I genuinely hadn’t considered it possible I could win and was completely overwhelmed by it – seeing it as a complete one off that would never happen again. This time, even after a puncture, I stayed calm and always believed I could win. On the other hand, some things don’t change – like the elation of crossing the line first, Jo Murphy quipping “I think he might be happy” at my shouty exuberance or the same volunteer asking for a selfie with the Z-list celebrity who will soon be featured on page 7 of the Dorset Echo. 

Since Challenge Roth, I’d had some patchy training with a few illnesses stopping me getting back into a full routine. However, one thing I really enjoyed was giving my first ever talk about triathlon to a local primary school, where I was surprised how much the kids already knew about the sport. I felt like I really had them onside and suitably impressed (mostly by some GB branded trisuits and a flashy bike) but things slightly fell apart in the Q&A:

Child: “What’s your favourite ever win?”

Me: “Probably the Half Ironman in Weymouth”

Child: “No. What’s your best proper Ironman win?”

Me: “Um…well…I’ve not actually won a full Ironman before”

Entire school: *visible disappointment*

As my form in training started to come round in the couple of weeks before Ironman Cork, I knew this could be a chance to regain the respect of the 6-10 year olds of Cheltenham…

Ironman Cork is actually based in the small town of Youghal. The main reason I’d signed up for this race was I’d heard how much the local people embrace the event – with many comparing it to Tenby in Wales which is the best community welcome I’d experienced to date. There was also the prospect of Windmill Hill – a short but painfully steep 21% climb in the centre of town – which after only two previous editions already had a legendary reputation for its crowd support. 

Originally, the 70.3 race was planned for Saturday with my full distance event on the Sunday. I drove the bike route on Friday for familiarisation just as Storm Betty was starting to roll in and decided it was going to be horrendous. With hindsight, this was unfair on the course – nowhere looks good in torrential rain but the debris and flooding across the road were a big shift from the wide, smooth, open roads I’d been treated to at Roth. The storm continued overnight, which rendered the roads completely unrideable, and the 70.3 was postponed to the same day as the full Ironman – meaning an extra 2000 athletes would be on the course setting off in front of me. Congestion seemed likely, but it would be the same for all of us.

Sunday arrived, and the 70.3 race would start 30 minutes before the full Ironman. The weather forecast was good, but as we got closer to start time the sea began to get rougher. A decision was taken to shorten our swim to match the 1.9km of the 70.3 race, and the start for everyone was delayed so buoys could be moved to mark out a new course with less swimming required against the tide. By the time the professional 70.3 race got going, the waves were even choppier and I’d never seen a pro field get strung out so quickly. There was no real group, but there were clusters of athletes who seemed to be going in completely different directions. This suggested both sighting and navigating the tide must be tricky.

As the weaker swimmers towards the back of the 70.3 field set off from the beach, it was clear some were finding the first 400m against the tide very challenging. Whilst everyone was getting out beyond the initial waves, a large group were struggling to make further progress – as if they were swimming in an endless pool. Eventually, a decision was made to adjust the course again – with kayaks coming over to athletes already in the water to direct them to a different buoy less against the tide. I’m sure the experience for these athletes was chaotic and in some cases quite frightening.

After another delay, our full distance race was off. Even with the easier swim course, the conditions up to the first turn buoy were indeed very difficult – the hardest I have swum in. Waves coming in were huge walls that made sighting difficult and impossible to monitor any sort of race dynamic. We’d been told to aim to the right of the buoy and this advice served me well as I seemed to arrive there fairly accurately. After turning, the swim was really very fast (under 60 seconds per 100m) as the strong current was now pushing us into transition. I quite enjoyed feeling the sea boosting me along, even if it did mean my swimming effort felt somewhat irrelevant and I could have just coasted to the swim exit, where I began to catch up the back of the 70.3 field.

Overcrowding meant the run into T1 was more of a frustrated walk, and the tent where our bike kit was waiting was even worse. Again, the same for everyone (and I actually had a faster T1 than other athletes who exited at the same time as me – a real rarity) – but the spacing between 70.3 and full distance races needs to be reviewed if Ironman are going to put them on the same day in future. This theme of overcrowding continued through most of the first lap of the bike, but was particularly bad in the first 10 miles or so where I must have broken the world record for shouting “on your right” to warn people I was trying to come through.

Whilst I expected this would lead to a slower bike split, the need to maintain power to keep on overtaking meant that I was definitely pushing too hard. Annoyingly, my heart rate monitor wasn’t working, but I still had power and could see this wasn’t sustainable for 112 miles. In my head I’d already built the narrative “I’m ruining my race, I’m over-biking the first lap and will struggle later on” and it took me the best part of an hour to realise it was completely in my own power to rectify the situation by just calming down a bit…

It was impossible to know where I was in my race with so many 70.3 athletes around, but I was feeling good and quite enjoying the morale boost of gradually overtaking well over 1000 athletes. So it took me by surprise when someone pulled the same trick on me – a lean and fast looking French guy called Gael whose green bib number signified he was in the full distance race. He wasn’t pulling away from me quickly though and I just kept him in sight about 30 metres up the road to ensure no potential drafting issues. At the end of lap 1 we hit Windmill Hill, where Gael put a bit more time into me (he recorded the fastest split up there of the day). The experience up here was immense – perhaps even better than Solar Berg at Challenge Roth. The main difference is that Windmill Hill really is very difficult – especially on a heavy TT bike – and you rely on drawing energy from the crowds just to make it to the top.

Onto the second lap, and we were still both riding strongly. I thought it was likely we were at the front of the race but now there would be no 70.3 riders on the course I was also checking behind me for anyone catching up. The most likely candidate was George Martindale – winner of Ironman UK last year – who I knew was a strong contender and at the top of every hill glanced back hoping I wouldn’t see his distinctive orange suit. After 60 miles I was surprised when a spectator said I was 10 minutes off the lead. It was a shame to be so far back – but there must be a serious athlete at the front and I was excited to have such a challenge. If I could get into T2 with the same gap, I reckoned I still had a chance of catching them on the run. It would be nice to be the hunter rather than the hunted for a change.

I tried to maintain decent aerodynamics, but the technical course didn’t really suit my amusing Poc helmet – needing to pay close attention to the tarmac surface and twisting turns at all times. The visor was also smashing into my nose with every vibration from the road, which meant it was actually much more sore than my legs. Gael disappeared at an aid station – most likely needing the toilet – but was replaced by another athlete in front who I caught and overtook with surprising ease. Had he gone out too hard and blown up? I didn’t dwell on it, and continued to ride strongly. At Roth the metaphorical wheels fell off after about 70 miles – but here I was riding much better in the closing stages of the bike leg.

With 10 miles to go I overtook another athlete – again with ease – and now had a police motorbike in front. I had suspicions this might mean I was at the front of the race but couldn’t work out how I could have closed 10 minutes on the leader so fast.I reached Windmill Hill for a second time and thought I heard a friend say I was in third. I said “OK, third” and he chased back up to me (the road is that steep…) to correct “no – in first, a few minutes up”. This was welcome news compared to being 10 minutes down and massively shifted the dynamic for the marathon ahead. As it turned out, the last two athletes I’d overtaken had set off with the 70.3 race by accident and so me and Gael had been leading the race on the clock since the very start of the bike.

I was just processing the news I was in the lead when *CRACK*. My chain was off and wedged against the rear disc wheel. My front derailleur was bent and nearly sheared off, crank wedged between it and the frame. It was a game-ending mechanical as far as any form of pedalling went. But the bike could still roll and I was less than two miles from T2. Without wasting time on a pointless repair attempt, I hopped off and started to run. Cleats clacking, chain screeching against the disc wheel, already silly Poc helmet lolling at a comical angle… It wasn’t a scene that screamed “potential race winner” and certainly confused my police escort. After sprinting for about three minutes, I reached the crest of a hill and realised I could possibly freewheel down at a slightly faster pace. I hopped on, sat for what felt like an age whilst I waited for gravity to take effect, before gradually picking up the momentum to trundle loudly into T2.

I saw second place arrive behind me just as I left, meaning I still had at least a couple of minutes’ advantage despite my Chris Froome up Ventoux moment. The run course would be four laps, with multiple out and back sections to keep track of those behind me. I saw George Martindale for the first time, running well and about five minutes behind. He quickly established himself in second place and became the main man to watch for. I was missing my heart rate data which I usually use to manage effort, but based on pace the first lap at 6:20 min/mile was probably a bit too fast. This was fairly deliberate though, as I wanted to make sure I didn’t give George any encouragement that he was reeling me in. I was accompanied by a “lead male” cyclist who did a great job relentlessly blowing on a whistle to move 70.3 participants out of my way, and these athletes in turn were extremely friendly. Whether overtaking on the bike or the run, I received as much support from other athletes as I did from the crowd – the atmosphere was brilliant.

I was doing regular mental maths at each out and back section. The gap to George was staying consistent at five minutes so I gradually allowed myself to target a slightly slower pace – knowing George had less and less distance to make up the ground. My legs were still in pretty good shape, but my stomach was starting to struggle. Forcing down each Maurten gel became a mini endurance challenge in itself – my stomach complaining but my energy levels thanking me. On lap three, the gap slowly started to grow and by the start of lap four it was close to nine minutes. I was able to really savour the final lap, not worry about pushing myself too hard and celebrate with the crowd. I was also able to chat to my cycle escort, who said that winning the race alongside me had given him a good birthday present (although as lead male cyclist the win had always been likely!).

I crossed the line in 8:13:52 – a pretty irrelevant time due to the shortened swim, but with a 3 hour marathon that had felt relatively comfortable (stomach issues aside). The energy of the crowds at the finish was fantastic, the mayor had about 100 photos with me, I took more selfies than I can remember and gave multiple interviews where I tried to say all the right things about how wonderful Youghal had been.

And every word of it was true. The atmosphere in Youghal was beautiful and the athlete experience – whether you were the first or last finisher – was incredible. When the pub I was celebrating in found out I’d been the race winner we got two free rounds of drinks and a procession of the owner’s children and staff came out for photos with me. In five minutes sat on the pavement waiting for a lift back to my accommodation I was given some chips and then some pizza by enthusiastic passers-by who had no idea (and wouldn’t have cared) how I’d got on. Every finisher was treated like a hero.

Sadly two people would never experience any of this. After the race, we found out the tragic news that there had been two deaths during the swim that morning. Whilst there’s been a lot of speculation around what decisions should have been made when, and by who, for now my thoughts and sympathies are simply with their families and friends. This race reinforced for me that the triathlon community is the best, and we lost two of our own.

After a relatively trouble-free build up to this race I was setting my aspirations high to set a much faster Ironman PB than my previous best of 9:18, set at the same race in 2018. In public I’d mentioned anything from 8:30 to 8:20 as my target, which usually led to a degree of shock followed by congratulations. “Wow, that’s amazing” they would say. Well, I had to actually do it first…

I felt a lot of belief and support from training partners and the triathlon community though. After winning the long distance world title in May I really tried to shift my perspective too. I wasn’t coming into this race as a plucky underdog, I was one of the top age groupers out there on a mission to prove I could hack it over the full ironman distance. I hadn’t done a full distance triathlon (except the slightly unique Celtman) for five years and wanted a statement result to prove myself at long course racing. Roth is fast, but also honest – with plenty of hills and corners on the bike and an often scorching run in the Bavarian sun.

This would also be my first race with my main training partner Henry – only 20 years old but a really talented athlete who routinely shows me up in swim and run (but tends to sit on my wheel on the bike…). It would be his first full distance race and was targeting under 9 hours, which I privately thought might be optimistic as he’s such a competitive racer. I guessed he might go off too hard or not eat / drink enough – leading to a spectacular blow up. Ironman is such a long day, and it’s so hard to get it right first time. Frankly, I had my own reservations about getting the formula correct after so long out…

For the swim, we positioned ourselves right at the front of our wave of 200 athletes all targeting “sub 9”. We spent 10 minutes treading water waiting for the gun, feeling the pressure from all the bodies behind us slowly build, getting increasingly certain I would be swum over and beaten up by every single one of them. Predictably, the first few minutes were frenzied chaos. Bam. Punch in the mouth. Bosh. Goggles smashed into face. But apart from a few gulps of canal water, things soon calmed down and we quickly settled into a comfortable rhythm. In fact, I was quite worried we were going too slowly, but other than a couple of guys solo off the front, I seemed to be in the front pack. Around 15 minutes in, I recognised Henry’s wetsuit and managed to settle onto his feet. Having been frustrated by toe tappers in recent races I knew how annoying my frequent touches on his feet must be, but with the murky brown water and bright sun it was really hard to see where people were, and keeping the draft was more important than being polite. The only brief drama came when Henry tried to perform a U-turn one buoy early and I had to surge briefly to close the gap for both of us to the lead swimmer. This outrageously meant I ended up exiting the water in front of Henry and I was impressed he hadn’t pushed to try and lead our group out of the water (or at least exit in front of me). This was my first indication he was going to pace the day sensibly. I finished the swim in 51:35 – the same exact time I’d recorded in a solo lake swim a couple of weeks before – but with the benefit of a draft this had felt a much easier effort. A perfect start. 

After a relatively trouble-free T1, apart from a child trying to run out in front of me, I hit the two lap bike course. Last time here, I’d gone off too hard and ended up biking the second lap 10 minutes slower. This time, my mantra was to pace it more evenly and I set off at a modest effort. I knew Henry would have overtaken me in T1 but couldn’t have gained more than about 40 seconds, so was surprised I couldn’t see him up the road. In fact, after 45 minutes I still hadn’t caught him and started to wonder if he was actually behind me. Having dominated most of my races on the bike recently, and seen Henry struggle on the bike relative to other disciplines, I’d been really quite confident of putting a lot of time into him here.

At this point, I was overtaken by two really fast guys. Age group guru Ross Harper had tipped me off that someone called Lars from the Zwift Academy team was my “ticket to the front of the race” and his matching orange trisuit and bike were hard to miss, even if they did come past me very quickly. I decided to try and stick with him and his blue-suited companion and we soon caught Henry to form a 4 person group leading the age group field. We were monitored almost permanently by a marshal on a motorbike, keen to ensure we maintained a 12m distance between us. I’m so scared of penalties that I was holding about 20m off the back, and often more as my bike handling skills were repeatedly shown up – having to work hard to get back to the group after any descents or cornering.

However, after a while in this formation I decided it wasn’t a good look next to a marshal to always be off the back, so I did my best to take a few turns on the front. Henry started to get some stick from Lars for not doing the same – I could understand why as he was getting a bit of a free ride, but equally, he was playing by the rules and sticking to 12m. It probably wasn’t good etiquette from Henry, but it was smart racing. As we approached Solar Hill – the most famous part of the course where crowds line the road on both sides like the Tour de France, only separating to let one bike through at a time, Henry tried to take over from me on the front. I told him quite directly that I wasn’t having it for the photos to suggest he’d been anywhere near the front of this group – probably a bit harsh…

I’m not sure if it’s because my words carried more weight than Lars’, but Henry did then take a decent turn on the front. I knew I’d been riding unsustainably hard, so worried Henry might really be breaking himself at this point. We finished the first lap in 2:09, and soon after Henry dropped away. Lars was really pushing the pace at this point and I was struggling to keep up too. But I knew I was quicker on the uphills, so it was just too tempting to keep surging to get back with them, the tantalising carrot of Lars’ orange trisuit repeatedly tempting me to go into the red. It had been the right call to go with him and try to stick with the front of the race, but I conceded it was now necessary with 45 miles left for me to let him and the guy in blue go. 

I began to get caught by other age groupers as the second lap wore on, and found myself with the unfamiliar sense of moving backwards in the race. The crowds kept my spirits up (although the rattles they’d been issued with kept giving me a panic attack that I’d suffered a mechanical) and overtaking age groupers on their first lap helped remind me I was still moving fairly fast. I was really being humbled by a number of stronger cyclists though. Every overtake was an opportunity to ride with someone and every time I couldn’t. I just tried to focus on staying as aerodynamic as possible, knowing I could ride pretty quick on this course even without much power. Last year’s age group winner Fritz overtook me just as we headed into Solar Hill the second time – I told him I wouldn’t be able to ride with him as my legs were cracked. “Maybe I’ll see you on the run though” I suggested, optimistically.

I was convinced I was doing pretty badly at this stage – being repeatedly overtaken will do that to you – so was surprised when Dan Plews rode past me with 10 miles to go. Dan is the course record holder for an age grouper in Kona and I knew going into the race he would be one of the fast guys to watch out for. I managed to stick with him for the rest of the ride and we arrived together into T2, with my bike split of 4:32 just two minutes over my target and the second lap only two minutes slower than the first. No drama afterall.

I was out of T2 just ahead of Dan but he quickly ran up to join me. The first 16 miles of the run course goes straight up and down a canal on a gravel path. Whilst this is flat, and the gravel a little more forgiving on your legs, it’s very exposed to the sun and psychologically quite draining. I was happy to have someone to run with, and was confident that with his experience Dan would be able to pace this section well. We were running consistent splits for a 2:50 marathon and whilst this felt really easy to start with, I knew being sensible now was essential for later on. With a couple of U-turns, it was fun to spot a few male pros on the course, along with seeing how the front of the women’s race was evolving. Dan and I began to steadily run through the age group field – catching some familiar faces who’d overtaken me on the bike. I couldn’t tell our position or how far ahead the leaders were but I hadn’t spotted Lars at all. My focus was really on getting the best time possible, and maybe a little on winning the battle with Dan now we were in this together.

At this stage, I assumed Henry had probably cracked quite badly, so I was surprised to see him so quickly after the first turnaround – only about 10 minutes back and looking strong. 7 miles later I went through the same process and was again pleased to see him running well. We high-fived as we crossed and shouted encouragement. I overtook Fritz, who recognised me immediately – “ah, you said see you on the run” he grinned and we fist-bumped. The spirit between athletes was great all day.

The weather was really getting hot at this point. I was taking on as much fluid as possible at aid stations every mile – often walking them to drink from several cups and losing a few metres to Dan each time. I was also taking a gel and a salt tablet every 20 minutes based on a carefully planned fueling spreadsheet. But despite the heat and the tough bike leg, my running felt strong and smooth. 

The final 7 miles featured a gradual uphill to the town of Buchenbach, a quick loop around a duck pond, and then the same route back down into Roth for the finish line. I’m usually strong at downhill running, so planned to keep it steady until the duck pond, then try to drop Dan on the descent. As it happened, I pulled ahead just before we hit the uphill section without any deliberate increase in pace or effort. Ironman racing really can come down to who slows down the least. 

In the closing miles I started to get very thirsty and took the aid stations even slower – swigging water, isotonic drink and coke at every one – grabbing at each cup I could see. I knew at this point fuel or hydration were all that could stop me. I clumsily missed one gel as I jogged past and a volunteer ran back up alongside me to ensure I got it. I know it’s the done thing to thank volunteers at races, but they really are amazing at Roth and go the extra mile. 

I picked up that I was in third place in the age group race, and with two miles to go was told I was only a minute behind second. To be honest I didn’t have any killer instinct to try and catch up – maybe for first it would have been different. My focus was on holding onto third and finishing ahead of those I’d been battling with all day. And also to not blow up, as I could tell I was on track to finish just under 8:20.

I had a final chance to check on Henry at the bottom of the hill. This time he was walking, flanked by a volunteer. “I feel dizzy” was all he could say. “Just walk to the finish if you can” I replied – not sure if he could. I pushed the pace as I entered Roth for the last mile and was pleased to see the green gorilla’s bottom welcoming me to the finish stadium. I was handed some flowers for finishing under 9 hours and soaked up the atmosphere, finishing elated and on the finish line video amusing Jan Frodeno with a celebratory roar that got an amazing response from the crowd. My time was 8:16:03 – a huge PB and faster than my best case scenario. I’d finished third, with Lars in second and “blue guy” Hans Christian in first – the winner of Norseman from 2019 who I actually recognised quite a few times on course, but had thought he raced as a professional. Henry came home in 9:25 to complete a strong debut, despite walking most of the last 10km.

I finished feeling strong and euphoric. It wouldn’t last. First, I was taken away for my first experience of anti doping, which mainly involved feeling embarrassed at not being able to wee for several hours and making myself sick drinking too much water to aid that mission. For the next 12 hours I felt really dizzy and unwell – I still feel I paced the event correctly, but will definitely think twice about entering hot races for a while. Hopefully Cork and Weymouth won’t give me that problem again this year! 

After a good winter of training and only a few run niggles in the last month pre-race (which are now so common even I’ve stopped worrying about them), I came into this event feeling relatively confident. I’d taken part in this same World Championships in 2019, finishing 4th overall in the amateur race, and found the unusual “three-quarter Ironman” distance quite good for me. Like 2019, the course was a hilly but not technical bike (2 laps) and a run with some challenging sections through the old town up and down steps and over cobbles (3 laps). In theory, it looked like an interesting and fun route that would play to my strengths, even if it wouldn’t allow for record-breaking pace.

I enjoyed watching the PTO European Open the day before, feeling slightly starstruck and embarrassingly shouting out to everyone by their first name as if I was their friend. I always have pretty terrible T1 times, so took a video of the mount line to see how the best in the world do it – only for Jan Frodeno (arguably the greatest of all time) to nearly fall off his bike into me, doing a good impression of how I would look attempting a flying mount on a steep incline.

Onto Sunday, and it was our turn. It’s always nice to have someone in the field to measure yourself against, and this time round it was Alex Jones – someone I train with regularly and with whom I’m always pretty evenly matched. He’s a strong swimmer, so I lined up behind him hoping to try and hold his feet and guide me towards the lead group. The starting horn went, and despite my best lolloping sprint into the sea, within 20 seconds he’d got away. No matter, I found someone else’s feet to follow and whilst they weren’t towing me at breakneck speed, it allowed me to take things very easy for the first 10 minutes and not worry too much about sighting the course. 

I thought I saw an athlete make a break to the right, so made an attack to follow. They turned out to be one of the para-athletes who’d set off in a previous wave though, and when I tried to return to my nice sheltered position in the pack found no charitable strangers willing to give up their own free ride. I was now swimming side-by-side with the group leader, and whilst not as easy as before, quite enjoyed having a friend next to me (less so the impatient folk tapping on our feet).

The waves began to grow as we went on, whilst the buoys marking the course seemed to get further and further apart. Sighting the course was becoming quite a challenge and after one turn neither of us at the front could see where to go. After a bit of breaststroke (which the pack behind were really patient and understanding about), I spotted the next buoy away to our right – not quite where we expected it to be. Course set, I led our merry band towards it. As we got close, a boat appeared next to it. As we got really close, that boat started dragging it away… It turns out the buoy had come loose from its correct position and we now had to take a 90 degree turn to chase both buoy and boat to wherever it should have been. Despite the moving goalposts and choppy sea, I enjoyed the swim and as we exited the water was surprised to hear us announced as the leading age groupers. It turns out we’d recaught Alex fairly early on, after which he’d sat in as part of the toe-tapping club (that I secretly wished I’d been in).

I knew T1 was going to be a shambles. Pre-race I’d realised the mandatory GB trisuit was extremely uncomfortable to swim in when worn over the shoulders and having it rolled down under my wetsuit would save me a lot of time and energy. However, it also risked a “nudity disqualification” if anyone were to see my scandalous exposed torso (on a beach filled with topless sunbathers), meaning I’d have to pick up my bike kit then change in a designated tent rather than on the move. As I picked up my bike bag, a marshall told me I had to change on a seat in front of him:

“I can’t, I’m naked!” I shouted ridiculously. 

“Change here” he said again.

“You’ll disqualify me!” I argued stupidly

This debate continued from a distance as I tried to remove my wetsuit in the changing tent, which I bungled spectacularly, all the while getting covered in sand off the beach. I then looked for somewhere to return my swim kit – there was supposed to be someone in the tent to throw it to, but they weren’t here. “Back there” someone pointed, forcing me to run back 30 metres against the flow of, now many, athletes exiting the water who must have wondered why this sandy Brit wanted to go back in the sea with an aero helmet on. I eventually got onto the bike in 12th place, shaking my head, pissed off, and 2.5 minutes off the speediest changer. 

The frustration lit a competitive fire and I managed to bridge up to Alex within the first 5 miles of steady climbing. I briefly considered sticking with him, knowing he would probably pace the ride more sensibly than me, but after watching Alistair Brownlee blow the PTO race apart with pure aggression the day before, decided I preferred a similar gung ho approach today. I tried to ignore that Brownlee had ultimately finished 6th after going out too hard… 

I passed Alex and together we soon caught up to another 4 athletes at the front of the race. They were climbing up one of the many steady hills and being closely monitored by a motorbike for potential drafting. I’d have preferred a more gradual effort to pass them one by one, but with no legal gaps to slot into between them, felt forced to put in a big surge and overtake them all in one go. This worked, and I kept the effort high to the top of the climb to try and form a gap. 

The bike course had several out and back sections where I could estimate gaps to those behind. At the first, Alex was leading the chase group 20 seconds back from me. The next section had the most climbing, which I hoped would benefit me, so I pushed this hard and was rewarded with a 2 minute gap at the quarter way point. The final section was faster and overall downhill, where I suspected my rivals might regain some time. I focused on keeping as aero as possible and was surprised to find the gap to Alex had grown again to 3 minutes at the halfway point. 

On lap 2, I could tell my power had dropped a little but continued to throw caution to the wind. We were now lapping athletes from later starting waves and the course became quite congested. It was difficult to track how the race was evolving, except checking for Alex’s trisuit at each turning point. At one of those U-turns, the inspiration for my do-or-die strategy Alistair Brownlee was stood supporting – “thanks Al” I shouted. Apparently I call him Al now… 

The gap to Alex was still increasing, if more slowly. My chain came off shifting to the small ring and I lost 15 seconds or so, but the lead still went up. 4.5 minutes, then 6. I couldn’t be sure if Alex was still in second place but despite my failing legs the damage was done and my aggressive strategy had worked. I just needed to get up this last climb and then cruise safely into T2 and

*BANG*

I was on the floor. Every other crash I’ve had I’ve felt coming – sensing the panic and loss of control before hitting the deck. This one came out of nowhere and the first I knew was my helmet echoing loudly in my ears. Completely my own fault, I’d stared down at my bars a few pedal strokes too long grinding up a steep climb and obviously hit something that made me lose balance. My first concern was for the bike – as a mechanical issue would put me out of the race. I was very lucky, as despite some deep scratches across the right hand side – including on the rear derailleur – it seemed to be working fine. I didn’t feel too bad either, a finger was bleeding and my right side was scuffed – but unless adrenaline was masking the pain I’d got away with it. 

I took the last 15 miles more cautiously, determined not to waste my fortune and cruised towards T2, where the marshalls were perhaps not ready for age groupers as they didn’t seem to be paying attention. I shared some relatively impolite feedback to no-one in particular (“show me the f*cking way!”) which apparently did lead to them rearranging the signage for subsequent athletes. Just my bit of angry public service. 

As I racked my bike and headed towards my run kit another marshall brought me to a stop. “Where do you think you’re going?” she challenged. I thought I was about to be directed to a penalty tent for my outburst, but apparently saying “to do the run course” was the only explanation needed and I was free to be on my way, having recorded the fastest bike split of the day. 

As I started the run, some of the faster pro men who’d started 20 minutes before us were just completing their first lap. James Teagle came past and I managed about 20 seconds at his pace before seeing the error of my ways. With 18 miles still to run and feeling pretty sure I had a solid lead, it was best to be sensible. When I was overtaken by another pro Ondrej Kubo a mile or so later, he was running much closer to my target pace and I latched on. If I could stick with him for most of his remaining 2 laps, it would see me most of the way home.

I really enjoyed having someone to run with, we even had a few chats which were mostly me thanking him for the pacing help and him saying how crazy the cobbled section of the route was. I briefly ruined my pro athlete street cred by shouting “thanks Magnus” when I saw Magnus Ditlev cheering from the sidelines. I’m incredibly lame. 

As the race went on and the course got more crowded it became difficult to know where my competitors were. I was keeping an eye on Alex, but knew he was no longer at the front of the chasing pack. I was craving information and stressed, shouting at every spectator I knew for reassurance, feeling like a hunted animal. Apparently there was a Moldovan in a black trisuit closest to me, and I could tell the gap was still 5 minutes heading into the final lap, just as Kubo dropped me for a kick to the finish where he ended 6th pro. 

I was struggling to sustain my pace, but allowed myself to ease off by around 30 seconds per mile. With a 5 minute gap and 5 miles to go, this should still see me home comfortably. Unless there was someone closer than I realised, or someone really motoring behind. 

As it turned out there was and they were the same person. At the final out-and-back with nearly 2 miles to go I saw a French guy absolutely flying through the crowds. He was only a minute behind and looked far too quick to be someone I was a lap ahead of… Time to dig deep and try to recapture some speed – it would be gutting to miss out now having led pretty much all day. Luckily, I managed to get somewhere close to my starting pace, and I crossed the line first overall, with my stealthy French rival just 40 seconds back, having run the 18 miles quicker than all but one of the professionals. I had the second fastest age group split of the day, and he’d still put over 6 minutes into me! 

I enjoyed my usual release of emotion at the finish, and was complimented by a photographer that I could teach the pros a few things about how to celebrate. If they could teach me how to swim, bike or run like them in return, that would be great. In fact, we should probably start with transitions. 

These age group races show triathlon can be a sport for life, with some impressive performances right up the age groups. And having escaped the awards at Pacha nightclub as soon as possible in favour of a quiet glass of wine in the historic town square, I already feel like I fit in with those older categories just fine. 

Things haven’t really gone to plan since my last post about Staffordshire 70.3. I expect most people reading this will know the basics – but if not the fact that friends have rebranded me from “Ironman Steve” to “Covid Steve” is probably enough to work with. For several months over summer I suffered from post-viral fatigue / long Covid. This manifested itself as an overwhelming and all-consuming tiredness, where I had no energy and was left feeling a complete shell. I had the occasional good day where I managed a bit of exercise. Other days I would think I was fine, only to get in the pool – feel every fibre of my body shout “nope” – and get out after 2 lengths. Then there were bad weeks where I was so crushingly dazed and fatigued that I was unable to function in day-to-day life. Symptoms went up and down with no obvious cause – there was no general trend towards improvement and no real idea on how long it might take to get better.

I won’t go into great detail on how I felt during that time, which is somewhat hypocritical as I found the honest accounts of others going through similar challenges a huge help when I was struggling to identify with my friends living normal lives. I appreciated all the well wishes I received, but the conversations with people who could actually relate – and who in some cases continue to suffer much more than I ever did – were invaluable. My heart still goes out to them and I’m rooting for their recovery, however long that might take.

Whilst I was perhaps unlucky with my Covid experience, I was fortunate in chronic fatigue terms that my health returned quite suddenly in mid-September. There was no magic cure, that was just the time period needed in my case. I remember euphorically cycling back from a short morning swim grinning from ear-to-ear feeling that I was returning to myself. I now had my routine, social life and hobbies back.

What I also had was only 6 weeks until the 70.3 World Championships in Utah. Having booked the trip almost a year ago, this had until recently been feeling like an expensive mistake. In fact, if I could have made any money back through cancelling it, I would have written the whole thing off. I still wasn’t really in the headspace for a big holiday, and I certainly didn’t feel confident of finishing a half ironman. 

Having said that, my fitness wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. My pace / power were only down about 10-15% depending on the discipline. And as I gradually increased my training volume over those 6 weeks I felt I was making some progress. As someone who used to get stressed if they missed a week or so of training with a niggle, it’s reassuring to know you don’t lose fitness overnight. However, I was still worried about the run, which always feels like an injury waiting to happen. I wouldn’t have the time to safely build up both the endurance needed for a half marathon and speed. Ultimately I plumped for safe, slower miles – even at my best I would probably struggle to compete at the front of a World Championships, so better to be in the condition to keep running the whole way round and enjoy the experience.

This opinion was only reinforced when I got out to Utah and started doing a few race week training sessions with my friends, where I constantly felt I was pushing very hard to cling onto people’s wheels and avoid being dropped (not always successfully). Alex, Harrison and Chris are all age group champions – so the bar was pretty high – and during a run to recce the course a few days out I ended up giving myself a problem in my calves and hamstring pushing too hard whilst failing to keep up. The day before the race whilst watching the women compete I was still hobbling tentatively and feeling like I’d just done a triathlon, not raring to take one on.

That evening my coach asked if I was getting excited, my message back read:

“I’m really not up for this one and mainly just don’t want to injure myself for winter. Focus is completely on next year. I still don’t really want to be here.”

Normally I care a bit too much about races – counting down the weeks and days with nervous excitement. This time, I wished I cared a bit more. I wanted to soak up the party atmosphere, high five supporters, thank every volunteer and support my friends to much-deserved success. Fundamentally I wanted to be a positive influence on those around me and not a downer. But I was in a rut and worried about how much this was going to hurt.

Race morning arrived, and we filed onto yellow school buses to make our way to the swim location. Squeezing myself into an undersized children’s seat, I received a text from one of my aforementioned fatigue friends, just checking in on how I was doing. I hadn’t updated him on my recent improvement, partly because I hadn’t wanted to flaunt my recovery to someone still struggling, and he couldn’t believe I’d gone from illness to Ironman in such a short time. His excitement for me, and sadness that he can’t imagine being able to do these things again himself, had a big effect on me. It forced me to reflect how far I’d come and how grateful I would have been throughout summer to have been offered this opportunity, regardless of how imperfect the preparation. It shamed me into feeling the gratitude and excitement I knew I should. And it left me emotionally charged to give my all for the sake of all the people who would trade places with me for this opportunity. The timing of that message changed everything.

There had been speculation that low air temperature in the morning could see the swim cancelled, but after the women’s swim had gone ahead in about 4℃ the previous day, we knew our balmy 6℃ should be fine. Nevertheless, I’d preloaded a bin bag down the front of my trisuit to keep the worst of the chill off and would add gloves in T1 to complete the “continental footballer in summer” aesthetic. 

Each age group would set off separately, with a rolling start within each wave. We were the 6th wave to go off behind a number of older age groups, meaning we’d likely be passing a fair bit of traffic during the swim and the rest of the day. I managed to get myself pretty near the front of our wave, just behind another British athlete Tom Bill who I’d swum with at other races this year and hoped might be somoene to try and stick alongside. By this point I was feeling really happy, bouncing along to the hype music and looking forward to a fun, less intense race day.

The swim was very straightforward to navigate and I managed to follow someone at a good pace for about 800m, whilst someone behind insisted on hitting my own feet like a set of bongo drums. I received a few punches in the face when things got a bit congested catching up packs from previous age group waves. I don’t think I hit anyone myself, but I gave a few strong kicks in the vain hope that the drummer behind me might take a hint. I ended up leading him and a few others back on the home straight and exited the water in what turned out to be 22nd place.

I went against the habit of a lifetime and actually gained some time in T1. My usual approach of faffing around with socks and gloves acting as good practice for these colder conditions. I didn’t even have to take my own wetsuit off, you just had to lie down and two volunteers yanked it off effortlessly. Honestly, these World Championship events spoil you… I set off on the bike already up to 8th place. 

As soon as I started cycling I was both cold and loving it. The volume of athletes on the road ahead acted as constant morale boosts to pick off and the wide highways provided plenty of room to overtake. I started out unrealistically hard just to get my temperature up, and during this phase passed Kit Walker who I’d seen had started a couple of minutes behind me. Kit beat me at Staffordshire earlier in the year, when I’d been much stronger, so I’d expected him to put a good chunk of time into me on the swim. I was surprised I’d been able to overtake him on the bike though and make a gap stick. Admittedly, I was riding unsustainably so suspected he’d be back with me soon enough.

I continued to make outrageously rapid progress on these immaculate roads, managing to carry speed into the many climbs and hold an aerodynamic position. This was a fast, but hilly course – it suited me perfectly and I was having a blast. I decided to just keep putting as much power down as possible – I wasn’t sure if I’d have much to offer on the run, so why not give it everything now and see how competitive I could be over swim and bike at least?

About 20 miles in I caught up with Tom, who I didn’t realise had got out of the swim so far in front of me. I wasn’t sure if this meant I’d done poorly or he’d done well, but it didn’t really matter – we gave each other a thumbs up and I continued the assault.

By 35 miles at the bottom of Snow Canyon – the main climb of the day – the wheels were metaphorically coming off (and my bike had developed an unnerving rattle that I hoped wouldn’t turn this literal). The exertions of the last 90 minutes had seen effortless power descend into a laboured slog. But I had now engaged race mode and was able to force my way up the climb faster than our training intervals a few days earlier. I knew Graham from my local swim group was waiting at the top, and whilst I’d told him I didn’t want any updates on positions or splits, I was glad he’d ignored me and was ready with the information that I was in 5th place, about 2 minutes down on the lead.

The descent from Snow Canyon had absolutely terrified me on our first recce – hitting around 50mph which is about as fast as I’ve ever travelled on a bike. I was convinced my nervousness would cost me a lot of time on race day, but when it came to it the adrenaline cancelled out any cowardice and the same speed felt relaxed and controlled. I arrived at the second luxury transition zone – handed my bike to a volunteer (one can hardly be expected to rack one’s own bike at a World Championships…) and started out on the run just as Kit rolled into transition with a time gap that suggested we must be neck and neck on the clock (it turned out he was 1 second ahead of me). My bike split had been the second fastest of the day.

The first mile or two of the run would tell me a lot about whether I could continue this unexpected attempt at competing, or drop back into “here for the holiday” mode. My heart rate seemed under control, my legs felt much happier for being off the bike, and when the first mile splits came through my pace was ahead of any best case scenario. Boycey from my running club who was spectating told me I was now in second place – 90 seconds behind first and 3 minutes ahead of third. About halfway up the climb on the first lap, with my legs either not in pain or numbed by everything else going on, I started to get a bit teary behind the sunglasses not believing what was happening. I knew there was a lot still to do, but even with 10 miles to go was convinced I had the iron will to keep up this level of suffering, and that a top 5 finish was becoming realistic. I would do this for the past version of me who feared this would never be possible again. I would do it for all the friends who can’t right now. This was mind over matter, fuelled by emotion.

With several out and back sections I was able to see quite a few of my friends out on the course. Tom was still going well and we egged each other on, whilst Harrison and Chris seemed to be having fun and we high-fived. On the other hand, Kit and Alex had been forced to walk by injuries. Having half-expected that outcome for myself, I was both sad to see their races end like this but felt a lot of admiration that two champion athletes were able to force themselves around in those circumstances to make it to the finish. 

At the halfway point, I received an update that I was now only 60 seconds down on first place. Could I catch him up? Obviously that would be incredible, but I was already at my maximum and all I could do was keep that up. The result didn’t really matter to me at this point, the fact I was in a race and pushing myself to the limit again was everything. I spotted Harrison’s family and proudly announced I was “doing boss”, I saw Alex’s partner Jess and amused her with a spontaneous salute. Even in suffering competitor mode I was managing to play the crowd pleaser. I was having a blast and performing. I was having my cake and eating it. Yes, I was alarming other athletes with what were now quite regular howls of pain, but you can’t have quite everything.

With 3 miles to go I heard I was now only 90 seconds clear of third place and needed to hold on. Clearly first was out of the equation now, but the approach remained the same, just to leave everything out there and finish with no regrets. I was able to pick up my effort, if not my pace, and ran down the finisher chute in a bit of a blur, shouting in triumph, jumping across the finish line, immediately regretting it as my hamstrings cramped up and falling to the floor unable to stay upright. If my approach to racing could be summarised in one 6 second video clip, it’s that one.

After making it to my feet and reassuring everyone my collapse wasn’t as dramatic as it looked, I was able to give some of my friends a wave, race announcer Jo Murphy took a pause from her relentless schedule to give me a hug, and I found a quiet corner to sit and have a bit of a cry. I waited to see a number of friends come through the finish line and didn’t think to check where I’d finished for almost an hour – 2nd out of 476. And not just any 476, these were all qualifiers and would have included the majority of podium finishers from every race around the world in the last 12 months. In a triathlon “career” that has never failed to surprise me, this was by far my most implausible result yet. 

I still feel quite embarrassed by just how far I underestimated my prospects at this race. I’ve been telling anyone who would listen to lower their expectations, that I wasn’t here to compete, wasn’t ready, wasn’t looking forward to it. If I was a football manager I’d be accused of mind games. But those who genuinely know me understand that it’s all just good honest self-doubt, and not an attempt to craft some underdog narrative. I’m grateful to my friends who tolerate this, don’t try to undermine me for feeling that way, but also don’t indulge or encourage it. 

Having said that, it’s not completely unheard of for me to go into races with confidence. The uncertainty from being ill means I haven’t really planned 2023 just yet, but I hope I can head into whatever races I do end up taking on feeling a bit more optimistic and prepared. And if I don’t, it turns out that might not matter…

Taking place less than two hours’ drive away, Staffordshire 70.3 is almost a local event for me. However, I didn’t even know it existed until in traditional Ironman style they started advertising it at last year’s Weymouth awards evening. By the next morning, I’d signed up…

The race is point-to-point, meaning the swim, bike and run all finish in different places. This adds a bit of complexity as you spend the day before on a tour of the area dropping different coloured bags off in a variety of locations. Early morning shuttle buses promised to extend the logistical fun to race day itself, and I was so worried about queues that I ended up on the first bus and at Chasewater by 4:45am, before the site had even opened.

With there only being so much time you can spend in a portaloo, there was a fair old wait for the 7am start. Conditions were much better than when I’d racked the bike the day before, although the swim course remained slightly unclear. We were meant to be following yellow buoys and turning at orange ones, but a fairly pick and mix approach to colours had actually been used, along with some rogue yellow and orange markers that weren’t meant for us at all. There was extensive debate amongst the athletes on where we were going, and each conversation settled on swimming to the first orange buoy and hoping it became obvious from there…

Once again, we would be setting off in a rolling start – meaning the tactics of who to position yourself with at the beginning could be vital. I’d prepared as best I could, checking previous swim splits for some of the athletes and listening to who other people were trying to follow. I knew Malachi Cashmore and Ashley Hurdman had swum similar times to me at Nottingham four weeks earlier, Kit Walker had previously raced professionally so would be a good swimmer but wasn’t sure of his recent form and Ben Goodfellow was one of the strongest athletes in the race but was aiming for a slightly slower swim time than me. 

When it came down to it, I’m not 100% sure who I ended up following – I was certainly somewhere close to Ashley at the start and felt pretty happy with my position early on. However, after a while I became increasingly sceptical about the line my group was taking, seemingly going very wide around the buoys. At one point I saw a bronze “All World Athlete” cap make a break for it which I thought might be Malachi, and I tried to bridge across with about 400m of sprinting. I’d reacted a touch too late though and couldn’t close the gap. I was then stuck with the dilemma again of whether to stick with a pack not following a great course, or go off alone hopefully following a straighter line but putting in more effort. Neither option was optimal, and by this point I’d missed the opportunity to find the best feet to follow, so I ended up settling in to avoid burning any more matches after my failed surge halfway through.

As I floundered my way out of the slippery swim exit I was disappointed to see myself right next to Ben, who I’d hoped to gain about a minute on over the swim. My time of 27:38 was two minutes slower than at Nottingham, confirming that despite working harder the wide course had cost me. I did my best to complete a quick T1, and didn’t notice the others from my swim group set off on the bike ahead of me. I actually wondered if I’d miraculously left them all behind, but unfortunately after about 10 mins on the bike they came into view. The stats confirm that I lost about 30-40 seconds on all of them in T1. I really need to sort this out for future 70.3 races, and perhaps need to abandon my commitment to wearing socks on the bike, as whilst this might not sound like much time it translates to about a quarter of a mile on the road, which can make or break your ability to stay in touch with the race.

I attacked the first section of narrow lanes and recorded the fastest bike split over the first 12 miles – needing to work extra hard out of the corners and up the climbs to compensate for my mediocre cornering speed. I could still see Ben’s bright yellow tri suit in the distance working its way through the field about 45 seconds ahead, and I stayed on my limit to try and catch him up.

This strategy gradually evolved into staying on my limit to try and keep him in sight, as the gap between us slowly extended to around a minute. I had worked my way up to fourth, and just about kept Ben in view long enough to see him catch up with second place, when I finally lost sight of both at around the 30 mile point. 

Unlike Nottingham, there was no big group and very little drafting – with lots of hills keeping the race fair and making it a lot more interesting. After the initial narrow lanes, this turned into a great bike course. The persistent head / cross wind was not so welcome, but added to the sense that this was honest, hard racing. I was grateful for the course recce the previous weekend, and for my disc brakes, which helped me take some of the sharper corners and descents more quickly. 

I spent the remainder of the bike completely solo – with no-one in sight either behind or ahead – and the mission simply to limit my losses and keep the gap to something I might be able to close on the run. I’m confident in my running at the moment, and thought a two minute gap might be achievable, so was disappointed to learn I was over three minutes off the leaders as I arrived in T2. Whilst I might be able to close that gap on one or two if they had a bad day, it was unlikely I’d be able to catch them all.

Nevertheless, I set off with the mindset of hunting as many people down as I could. The run course had a couple of out-and-back sections where I could check the gap to those ahead of me and the race was panning out about how I expected. Ben was now leading, just ahead of Kit and Malachi a little way back in third. By the time I saw Malachi, I was only about a minute behind and I caught him up as we were circling Stafford castle on the first lap. I was pushing myself hard at this point to see if I could still challenge for the win, and later found I’d got the Strava KOM for the fastest ever time up and down this climb.

Unfortunately, despite running strongly, the front two were going just as well. By halfway, I’d only managed to claw back 30 seconds of Ben’s three minute advantage. Meanwhile, Malachi was now a couple of minutes back so I felt pretty secure in third place. I ended up taking the last lap a tiny bit steadier – there was no point risking injury or inflicting too much suffering on myself at this stage. 

I really enjoyed this part of the run. With the race pressure off, I could try and be more of a crowd pleaser like my earlier years in triathlon – engaging with supporters and being extra nice to the volunteers rather than ploughing on in cold-eyed pain. There were no anguished groans in the last few miles and no strained gurning along the finish chute. I even stopped briefly to stroke Jasper before crossing the line.

Ultimately, I’m left with mixed feelings about my performance. As an outcome, I’m happy with third considering who I was up against. Kit is a class athlete who’s had results well beyond what I’ve achieved and Ben beat me fair and square on the bike before grafting his way to a deserved win on the run. The difference with Nottingham is that I never managed to go toe to toe with those top guys and compete at the front end of the race, and I do think with different decisions on the swim and a better T1 I could have at least had a meaningful chase on my hands for the run. Putting that aside, I really enjoyed another well organised Ironman event alongside a number of friendly faces both on the course and the sidelines. I can now shift my focus to the very different challenge of Norseman in August. 

I originally signed up for this race in 2020 pre-Covid and distinctly remember mulling over one question on the application: “Do you want to sign up for the elite wave?” . This came with some accompanying guidance:

Have you gone sub 4:30? – At that time no (largely due to my focus on hilly and extreme courses)

Please note, you won’t be eligible for age group prizes – Well that sounds rubbish, getting into the top 3 of my age group was always one of my goals. Who doesn’t like a trophy?

Perhaps most relevant was a personal problem with the word “elite”. It’s not one that sits comfortably with me, but by the triathlon definition I’m objectively getting closer to that standard after some good wins last year. 

In 2020 I confidently answered “Not Elite”. By 2022, when my deferred entry rolled forward, I ticked the box…

Not only had I improved over the last few years, but also in the 8 months since my last race at Weymouth 70.3. I had (some would say, finally) got a coach involved to guide me on running and also found a swim training partner to keep me honest throughout the winter. Whilst I’ve always been relatively even across all three disciplines, these were my two relative weaknesses and I knew I’d brought both on a good amount – as proven by beating my half marathon PB by 4 minutes back in March.

Despite a few issues impacting my training in the month leading into the race, I managed to get injury-free just in time, and headed to Nottingham with the same goals in mind that I’d written down at the start of winter – “test yourself against some of the best, ensure your swim is on point to be at the sharp end of the race, it’s a fast course – how close to 4 hours can you get?”

The race start was unusually early for a half distance, and whilst I thought I was there in good time ended up having to do a lot of urgent running around barefoot in my wetsuit to find the right way down to the lake by 5.50am. I was really disappointed we were going to have a rolling start –  with athletes going off 6 seconds apart – rather than a mass start. I think this massively detracts from the race dynamic as you don’t know where you actually are in the race if you end up side-by-side on the course. It also means you have a VAR situation on your hands at the finish line where you can’t really celebrate anything until you’re certain someone behind hasn’t beaten you on the clock. At the very least our wave of self-identifying “elites” should have been allowed off together – and every athlete I spoke to felt the same.

Rant aside, this left me with a tactical dilemma – go off early and try to hang on to the fastest swimmers? Or set off a minute or two back, try to work my way up and have that hidden advantage on the clock? In the end, I thought the chance of a group forming on the bike made it too important to risk missing the front end of the race, so I made my way to the third starting row – right near the front.

We set off from a running dive, and whilst I saw a few people have to adjust their goggles after hitting the water, when my turn came they just slammed hard into my eye sockets but stayed painfully in place. I was hoping to find some faster feet to follow, but actually found the initial pace around me fairly comfortable. When a swimmer overtook me I latched onto his slipstream and was able to make good progress. There were a few times I questioned his sense of direction though, leaving me a dilemma whether to follow his feet or trust my sighting to be more direct. It seemed every time that question occurred to me, I made the wrong choice. More and more swimmers were catching up and building a group around me on all sides. This led to a general sense that I was moving backwards in the race and I was already cursing my hubris for thinking I could compete with these guys. I spent the whole swim with the phrase “You’re not a contender, you’re a pretender” on repeat in my head.

The swim seemed to go on forever, so I was surprised to exit the water in 25:39 – a PB, albeit one that didn’t quite live up to what I’d been hoping for pre-race. I was already regretting not setting off a bit further back as I’m sure I could have worked my way up to that same position from a slightly later start. My T1 was pretty slow, as usual, because I still have to put my shoes and socks on in transition. Or the positive spin, I know my limitations and that I’d probably crash attempting flying mounts onto the bike or trying to put my shoes on whilst riding. Maybe this is an area I should work on though…

Of the names I knew were starting, Finn Arentz and Donald Brooks were the two I mainly recognised as being strong and likely to finish sub-4. Finn in particular I was pretty certain would be stronger on the bike and run, so I thought my only chance against him would be to swim quicker and then get into a fast group on the bike ahead of him. When he came flying past me about half a mile into the bike leg with transition still in sight, my plan quickly shifted to simply sticking with him for as long as possible.

We quickly caught up with a group of about eight riders and I soon got frustrated with my first ever experience of “non-draft race drafting”. Even holding the legal distance of 12 metres there’s a significant advantage to be had and the pace felt very easy where I was sat. The sensible thing might have been to take it steady this early on, but this wasn’t my idea of racing – so I pushed on to the front, calling out to Finn to come with me and try and break this group up. 

We both took some hard turns to try and get free but we couldn’t drop the train. Just as I was starting to suffer from the surges, I was pleased to see Donald sweep past to take a shift. Having a third strong rider made a big difference, but the group remained stubbornly attached. I’ve got no real complaints with the other riders – everyone was trying to maintain a legal distance and taking it steady to save their run legs was a sensible tactic. Having said that, whilst Finn and Donald’s motivation for pushing on was to catch a group of three riders up ahead leading the race, I hadn’t even thought about them and was just annoyed by people getting a free ride!

It was definitely more fun trying to animate the race – Finn put in one huge effort which briefly earned us a bit of a gap, only for me to lose it on my turn. I’m not sure how much of this was my fault, and how much I can blame a car pulling out directly in front of me, which forced a slamming of brakes and not a little swearing. In fact, the only time I heard more swearing was watching Finn take a solid two minutes to try and get his drinks bottle back in its cage behind his saddle – this was only so funny to me as I’d gone through the same problem a few miles earlier!

The lead group came into sight, and three became two after one of them unfortunately crashed out. A sleeper agent in our group – Malachi – was suddenly activated and put in some good work to help us catch the lead pair. We then cruised into T2 as a group of around ten, with no-one too keen to bury themselves as the contest was clearly now going to be decided by a running race. 2:09:54 represented a pretty rapid bike split, over what had been a more polarised ride than my usual consistent time trial efforts.

Given my investment in putting socks on in T1, my T2 is always pretty fast and I came out onto the three lap run course in second position. This quickly became a lead group of six all running side-by-side and even having a bit of a joke together on lap 1 about how we were out for a group tempo run. I was feeling really good at this stage, but still a bit nervous having not done much running in the previous month and nothing up to half marathon distance. I was also aware that I was probably behind all of these guys on the clock having set off near the front of the swim, so I would need to make an attack at some point if I wanted to beat any of them.

On lap 2, an athlete I didn’t know called Jack took over the lead. The course was completely flat except for a couple of short grassy hills and I should have spotted the warning sign when, whilst I was absolutely gasping for breath to keep up, he was within himself enough to try and start a conversation about not expecting cross-country. He didn’t get much chat back from me hanging on in survival mode.

Jack ramped the pace up further on this lap and I went with him. Looking behind we’d now dropped everyone else. This effort was clearly unsustainable for me, but I wasn’t sure if Jack could keep it up either so decided it was better to cover every move and keep myself in with a chance of racing for the win. I hung in there until close to the end of lap 2, when I simply had to throw in the towel and admit I wasn’t going to finish if I tried to keep that pace up any longer. Jack immediately grew a healthy lead and I dropped my effort a bit in an attempt to get my heart rate back under control for the remaining five miles.

By the start of the final lap I was still in second place on the road but Finn was closing in. He made the pass fairly early on, and knowing he was even further ahead of me on the clock my goal shifted to third place and hoping I could hang onto Finn as long as possible to keep me ahead of the chasing pack. It didn’t quite work out, he seemed to have paced the run well and was moving faster than I could match – also opening up a gap. With two miles to go I saw Donald in fourth place about 45 seconds back on the road. I knew he’d set off behind me too so the real margin must be less, and I gave it everything I had to kick on in the final stretch.

I ended up crossing the finish line 30 seconds behind Finn and a minute ahead of Donald. But given the rolling start my time of 3:56:27 was actually a full 90 seconds down on second and only 18 seconds clear of fourth. That final sprint finish had done the job to keep me on the podium! 

I’m absolutely delighted with the performance, which more than matched my aspiration to test myself against some great athletes. I didn’t just finish close to the 4 hour mark, but came in well below it. Jack was a seriously impressive winner, who it turns out also won the age group race at Ironman 70.3 Mallorca the weekend before. As a late entrant, he hadn’t been on the start list sent round, which is probably why I hadn’t clocked him coming into the race but I’ll definitely be watching his progress now he’s moving into the pro field. Finn might also be getting his pro card from this result, which he’s been after for a while and fully deserves.

As for me, the next stop is Staffordshire 70.3 in four weeks’ time. And whilst I struggle to admit it, I should absolutely be going there trying to think of myself as a contender.