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“I hate this part”… I say to Chris. Sat on a kerb in the dark, at about 5am, hoping I’ll manage one last nervous poo. I’m always anxious before a race. And having arrived so farcically early that I walked here from the car park with locals still drinking the night away, I’ve had more time than usual to stew in self doubt. Should I have gone for that long walk yesterday? Is my shoulder/knee/ankle really hurting or am I inventing injuries? Should I have changed my front tyre since the last race, perhaps it was lucky? I bet I get a puncture there… 

I’m a psychological wreck.

There’s some excitement mixed in there too. I won Dalesman four weeks ago, then set a half marathon PB two weeks later. I know Chris is feeling stronger than for our last race, but the fact I finished 14 minutes ahead of him recently gives even me some confidence. Other than Chris, I haven’t recognised any other names in my age group on the start list. A good result could be on.

There’s also no pro field. My mind has occasionally drifted to an overall podium. It’s a foolish goal as the outcome is totally out of my control – I don’t know many of the people here or how they’ll race. But it’s a thought I can’t quite shift. I do know Alex Jones is a top athlete in the age group below me. He won the Cotswold Classic earlier this year with some impressive splits – especially on the run. But a few mutual friends think we could be evenly matched, so he becomes a marker for me. If I can finish close to Alex, I’ll have had a good race. And if I do, I might just get top 3 overall.

Dawn breaks to reveal perfect conditions. The sea is calm and a balmy 18 degrees. This event has a track record of grim weather and shortened swims – perhaps there is luck on my side today. It’s a self-seeded rolling start, with each wave going off four seconds apart. I decide to put myself right at the front, standing fraudulently underneath a sign saying “Swim Time 25 mins”. I know full well I’m not that fast, but it can be a huge advantage to hold onto the feet of faster athletes…if I can latch on. 

It’s hard to deny there’s something special about official “Ironman” branded events. Big fields (>2000 athletes) and even bigger crowds. Hype building on the tannoy and loud music shaking sleepy seaside towns in the small hours. This is rock and roll triathlon, with every athlete made to feel like a superstar. You might pay a bit more, but Ironman absolutely know what they’re doing. No swim start would be complete without AC/DC, and after a somewhat muted rendition of the national anthem, there was much more enthusiasm for the unofficial anthem of Ironman…Thunderstruck.

Not much time to enjoy it – a klaxon blares and we’re underway. An explosive start with full gas required to stay in contention. I’m not quite on any feet but not being fully dropped either. I suffer my way to the first turn buoy and find I’m still pretty much with the front pack. I realise I’m fighting pretty hard to level peg alongside another swimmer, and make the choice to ease off and drop in behind them. This gives me a better draft and I still seem to be keeping up with the majority in front, but at a more sustainable effort. We start to stretch out a little on the home stretch, with a noticeable acceleration after the turn back to shore. A few have obviously broken clear because I’m 2 minutes down on the leader as I leave the water in 9th position.

There’s a fairly long run to the changing tent, followed by a clumsy feeling transition. The time turns out to be OK but I feel very amateurish clacking my way around the racked bikes in my cycling shoes whilst others dash along gracefully in socks before smooth flying mounts onto bikes that have shoes already clipped into the pedals. Something to work on for next year…

Onto the bike, I initially focus on staying aero. I know there are a couple of flat miles before the first climb and need to get my heart rate back under control after the swim. Although I’d done well at Dalesman, I probably went a bit too hard on the bike and am hoping to deliver a little more on the run today. It’s a difficult balance to strike though, as there’ll be no point going five minutes faster on the run if I take it too easy and lose five minutes on the bike…

The bike course is perfection – closed roads, immaculate signage and beautiful conditions. I might not have enjoyed the pre-race, but I am loving this cycle – feeling strong, fast and moving my way up the field. I overtake one athlete who shouts “1:30 to first place”. Ironman races are non-drafting, but there’s still a decent advantage to be had at the legal distance of 12 metres. He suggests working together to bridge the gap to first place – something I know happens and is within the rules if 12 metres are maintained. Whether it’s down to my lack of experience racing at the sharp end of big races, or empathising with first place having led out a number of smaller races, the idea doesn’t sit right with me. In the end, my morals aren’t compromised as this athlete doesn’t seem to have the legs to take his turns. I’m just starting to get frustrated with the tow I’m giving him when we hit the biggest climb of the day and I’m able to shake him off. I’m now clear in second place.

I spot a bike near the top of this climb and make steady progress reeling it in. My excitement gradually builds at the prospect of taking the overall lead in an Ironman race, until I catch the cyclist and find he’s just a spectator out enjoying the empty roads… Disappointment quickly forgotten, I attack the long, gradual descent towards Dorchester. I eventually do catch sight of the leader at the top of the final climb a couple of miles from T2, and with no athletes in sight behind me put my sole attention into closing the gap.

I roll into T2 only 30 seconds down, and after an impressive transition (despite a second round of clacky shoe running…) find myself out on the run course 10 seconds in front. Just in time to see a swarm of cyclists swing into T2 – led by none other than Chris. They can only be 3 minutes behind – meaning Chris has had an outstanding bike leg (the fastest of the day). I’m delighted for him, but less pleased to see Alex next in the chase group. He ran 10 minutes faster than my ‘off the bike’ PB in his last triathlon, making my lead feel distinctly insufficient. I’ll need to run better than ever to have any chance. 

Nevertheless, for now I am the overall lead in an Ironman race, something I’m unable to forget as there’s a marshal cycling behind me the whole way referring to me as “lead male” on his walkie talkie. This is all very new and exciting. I start thinking through different tactics, but for now the simple approach seems best – don’t let anyone catch up.

“Lead male through 3 miles”

Perceived effort is lower than in my last race. I run to heart rate rather than pace, keeping it in the mid 170s which I know I can sustain. My first mile split is worryingly slow, which I hope is down to my watch still searching for satellites. The next two are reassuringly fast and morale is high as I tick along the stunning 3 lap course along the Weymouth seafront. 

I receive a huge boost from seeing my supporters – first my parents (buddied up with Chris’ parents who are also cheering me on), then Tom and Loren from PassionFit in Cheltenham, then Dave my soon-to-be run coach. Having gone from no supporters at the epic, isolated challenge of Celtman and in the chaotic crowds of Dalesman, I’ve now got more encouragement than ever. “The gap’s too small, they’re going to catch me” I shout to my Mum, hoping she’s not getting carried away with my position and preparing her for the likely disappointment to come.

“Lead male through 6 miles”

Tom and Dave both reassure me the gap to second place is growing – now over 30 seconds – and that I’m moving well. Alex is gaining on me, but if I hold my current pace he won’t catch me in time. My heart rate is slowly climbing though, and my pace is creeping down. I sink another caffeine gel. Caffeine always helps.

“Lead male through 8 miles”

The public support is incredible, even if my marshal friend is having to blow his whistle constantly to try and clear my path from wandering pedestrians and other athletes. I spot an athlete in PassionFit kit and – not knowing his name – shout “Go on Cheltenham!”. He’s confused but appreciates the sentiment.

I tell my Dad “I’m like a doomed Tour de France breakaway” – still convinced I’m going to be caught after leading for so long. With just the final lap to go I’m told the same as last time – if I hold my pace I won’t be. But the sun is out and – ridiculously for a UK race in late September – I’m overheating and my pace has crept down a touch more. I take to drinking a sip of water and throwing the rest over my head at each aid station. Might as well pick up another caffeine gel. Caffeine always helps.

“Lead male through 11 miles”

I taste a bit of sick in my mouth – caffeine might not have helped. But I’m determined not to let this slip now. Supporters are telling me I’ve got it in the bag, like it’s the easiest thing in the world and I’m not fighting a constant battle to balance my heart rate and pace. Others are telling me I look strong – I must have some poker face. My marshal friend can’t be fooled, he’s had to put up with my anguished grunts that started about 15 minutes ago. Dave tells me to stop looking at my watch, drop my head and relax into a rhythm. It helps.

“Lead male at 13 miles – prepare the finish”

Having been told no-one was within 90 seconds as I entered the last 1.5 miles, I start to believe I can do it. When I take the final U-turn near the finish line and see no-one is catching me, I know for sure. I give my marshal a big thumbs up in gratitude for his 80-minute whistling marathon, then finally celebrate.

I’m always pretty pumped up at the finish line – I’ve joked before that “no-one celebrates finishing mid-pack like me”. The joy, relief and excitement this time is something I’ll never forget. Caring too much might add to the nerves going into a race, but it pays off big time when things go well. My victory roar leaves Joanne the race announcer in no doubt how I feel and she then lets me experience the finish a second time. I run up and down the finish chute high fiving, spinning, clapping and blowing kisses (?!) before collapsing to the floor in what I quickly reassure the St Johns’ Ambulance crew armed with foil blankets is joy not exhaustion. 

A volunteer asks for a selfie with me, and doesn’t seem to realise why I’m more excited at being asked than she is in getting the photo. “But, you’re the race winner” she says, showing that – for a few hours, in a small corner of Dorset – I’m a moderately big deal. I give an interview saying I’m absolutely ecstatic, leading to the headline on Tri247 “Ecstatic Derrett fights for victory”.

Chris arrives in the finish zone and I feel guilty that I’d almost forgotten him, having been so engrossed in my battle with 2nd and 3rd place. He’s finished an impressive 7th overall and 2nd in our age group, meaning for consecutive Ironman races we’ve completed the friendship one-two. I’m so pleased we’ve both had successful races, but not as pleased as he is when I reveal I won the whole race. It’s amazing to have a friend who takes such genuine, unselfish pleasure in someone else’s success. One day our roles will be reversed, and I hope I can do the same for him. It didn’t take long to convince ourselves to take our slots at the 70.3 World Championships in Utah next year.

I came to Weymouth with my parents a year ago, having already booked accommodation for the 2020 race postponed by Covid. At that time I was in the midst of six months of injury trouble, not having run at all in that time and still suffering pain on the bike. I felt quite emotional returning to the same bedroom of the same Airbnb exactly one year later. Placing a winner’s trophy on the same shelf my foam roller had been. Standing on the same floor where I’d done hours of rehab exercises. Remembering how I doubted that I’d ever be able to do another triathlon and certainly not at the standard I’d set in the past. As Tom said after this event – racing is a privilege. That’s something I’m more aware of than ever. Winning this race was incredible, but to be able to do what I love and push my body again is what I’m really, unbelievably grateful for.

This one was a fairly late addition to my race calendar. I’d originally planned to do Ironman Tallinn (having registered back in late 2019) but hadn’t appreciated just how much Celtman would beat me up. At the risk of being a broken record, that event really did take it out of me. The main physical toll was an injured rotator cuff and ankle that put me out of swimming and running for a month. Psychologically, I discovered that pushing myself to the limit wasn’t as fun as I thought, and my enthusiasm for another full distance triathlon just completely evaporated. Hopefully I’ll rediscover it for 2022…

I was excited for my first half distance race in 18 months though. It’s such a different experience and frankly a lot more enjoyable. Not only could I really race hard and not be in a world of pain afterwards, but my record had been surprisingly good. In my last five events I’d won four outright and my age group in the other. So with its hilly bike course, Dalesman Half was right in my sweet spot. And with half the triathlon world in Aberfeldy for the British Middle Distance Championships, I came into this one quietly confident. 

The biggest known threat was my friend Chris – who’d improved drastically since we last raced. Not only had he won Hever Castle Half this year, but he’d spent a week comprehensively out-cycling me around these exact roads a month earlier. His new blue tri suit was definitely one I’d be looking out for nervously all day.

The race had a brilliant base location at Ripon Racecourse, which I didn’t realise had a big (if shallow and weedy) lake right in the centre. Turning up for registration, I ran into some old university friends who politely asked what my target was for the race. I’m not sure if I was more surprised than them when I instinctively said “To win”. So much for quiet confidence. I went to bed slightly embarrassed and convinced I was heading for a slice of humble pie.

Onto race morning and a civilised 8:30 start (another benefit of half distance). My tendency in the swim had been to go at my own pace and conserve energy. But by swimming with a squad over I’d realised what a difference it makes to hold onto fast feet. With a mass start, I decided to go all out to keep up with the front group – accepting that the first 5 minutes might be a bit of a sprint but worth it in the long run. I managed to hold onto two quick swimmers until the first buoy, before they incorrectly turned off to the right. As they were put right by the safety kayakers, I took the lead and pushed the pace for the next 15 minutes. I knew there was someone right behind me and was pleased when they overtook me for the last section, meaning I was able to keep the same pace at much lower effort. When they struggled a little getting out of the lake, I found myself running into T1 first with the fastest swim split.

I thought my T1 was pretty quick as I absolutely pelted around the transition zone (later found it was average at best) and saw my heart rate was in the mid 180’s as I hopped on the bike. Needed to calm things down. Then I got confused at the very first roundabout less than a minute in – first circling all the way around not knowing which exit to take, then taking the wrong exit and having to double back. I was still in the lead but now had second place right behind me. The route had been poorly signposted (a theme that would continue), but this one was my mistake really. Fuelled by frustration I doubled down on effort to distance myself from the chasing pack. So much for calm.

The bike course could be split neatly into thirds – flat, hilly, then flat again. It was a huge advantage to have cycled the course a few weeks earlier – knowing which bends I could take in aero or not and where I needed to change gear in advance of some sharp inclines. I was feeling strong and didn’t think anyone would be making significant time up on me. At the top of a couple of hills I could see empty road behind and knew I was leading by at least a couple of minutes.

There were annoyances ahead in the last few miles though. We’d been warned of some temporary traffic lights, which were inevitably on red. I stood there hitting my handlebars petulantly as hard-earned time slipped away. Even worse was the final three miles into T2, where I caught up with the slowest athletes doing the full distance race. Cars were struggling to overtake and lining up behind, creating a queue I just couldn’t get past safely with so much oncoming traffic. I was forced down from 30mph to about 17mph in that last section.

Already wound up, I then couldn’t find the turn to take me back into T2. Shouting at marshals and supporters along the road next to the race course I kept getting told to “keep going” and “you’re doing great – one more lap to go”, not realising I was in the half distance race and was very much done with cycling. After heading up and down past the race course with cars everywhere, I found out I should have followed a sign reading “Triathlon camping” down a track completely covered by spectators and with no marshals to direct. Shambolic. Safe to say I wasn’t as happy coming into T2 as the friendly helpers expected from the first cyclist back!  

Onto the run, I was immediately suffering. My heart rate was over 170 which didn’t feel sustainable. I later found out that was typical for the run in my previous half distance races, I’d just forgotten how hard it felt. I’d not trained particularly well for this discipline having spent the last 18 months preparing for a 4.5 hour trail marathon at Celtman and neglecting any sort of speed work. Then with the ankle injury and subsequent niggles from trying too many intervals too soon, I knew I’d have to work hard to hold on to first place.

The run course was two laps, each with a sizeable out and back section where I could gauge the distance to those chasing me down. Unfortunately I was quickly joined on the course by athletes doing the quarter distance race, making it hard to know who I was really competing against. I basically took the view that if no-one overtook me, regardless of the event they were in, then I was going to win – possibly pushing me a bit hard on the first lap as I worked to outpace athletes doing the shorter distance.

I clocked Chris at 6 minutes behind me on lap 1, but he also had no idea what position he was in. I was fairly sure he was in second based on who else I’d seen, but couldn’t really relax until the same point on lap 2 where Chris was now 10 minutes behind. I started getting some weird hot flushes in the last few miles – I assume from overexertion – so tried to calm things down a little and not sabotage what seemed a comfortable margin. By the last couple of miles I was making my usual animalistic groans though.

I put in a little sprint across the finish line, with a fist bump and a punch of the air. The commentator was bewildered as to why I was so excited, thinking I was finishing somewhere in the middle of the quarter distance race and so my celebration seemed somewhat excessive. “Wow, he’s really happy about that one”… (although there were no photographs of me looking happy to prove it!)

Despite some timing system confusion, it was eventually confirmed that I had indeed won – which seemed pretty likely having led the race all day and never being overtaken. Chris gritted it out for third (there had been a closer competitor all along who I’d completely missed, but luckily there was always a safe margin between us). 

The complete lack of awareness around the result was reminiscent of my first race win at the 2018 Day in the Lakes. As was the 3.5 hour wait for the prize giving so that the last athlete could finish – by which time the vast majority of winners had been forced to go home. I stuck it out so I could claim overall first prize, which turned out to be a fruitcake. A very nice cake, but probably not enough to quit my job and take up triathlon full time.

Overall this was a really well executed race that got everything out of my current ability. It was great to feel so strong and lead it out from start to finish. I had my usual few hours of self-confidence after a good result, until I looked up those results from Aberfeldy. The top age groupers there would have absolutely destroyed me, gaining >10 minutes on the run alone. Always good to get a reality check – it’s clear where I need to get to work for next year. In the meantime, Chris and I will go again at Weymouth 70.3 in September.

After a series of challenging half ironmans in 2019, the plan was to take on my first full distance “XTRI” in 2020. Norseman is the original and best known of these, but the odds of earning a slot are only around 1 in 20. So after a few years of applying unsuccessfully, I decided to try and earn a slot not through luck, but by finishing in the top two of another XTRI race. 

The obvious choice – and only XTRI in the UK – was Celtman in the North West Highlands. My initial research revealed a lot of things not to like / to reframe as positive “challenges”:

• The swim is freezing cold and full of jellyfish

• It’s in the middle of midge season

• The weather is always terrible

• The marathon is entirely off road, up and down two munros

After an injury-affected 2020, training had gone pretty well this time around. A finish time of around 12 hours felt achievable, which had always been enough for top two. However, I couldn’t be sure what was realistic in my first XTRI – not least because I had nothing like the Highlands to train on.

One unique aspect of XTRI is the need for a support team – there are no aid stations providing water or food, so you need a crew to drive around the bike course with supplies and accompany you on the mountain part of the run. Whilst most have a few people in support, I was accompanied only by my “triathlon friend” Chris (featured in previous race reports). Driving to the furthest corner of the country, taking care of logistics and running the hardest 15 miles of the event certainly wouldn’t be for everyone. I not only felt grateful for his selflessness, but also some extra pressure to put in a performance that would make his effort worthwhile. 

Our trip got off to a bad start with my car breaking down, meaning we arrived late in the evening, two days out from the event. We then woke up to howling wind and rain battering on the windows – confirming long range weather forecasts had been wildly optimistic. We were now being warned of: “Severe gales, sudden powerful gusts and considerable buffeting – arduous conditions”. Welcome to Scotland.

As the wind looked set to be similar on race day, I thought I’d take a quick test ride to gain confidence in the conditions. 5 minutes later I was being pushed off the road at high speed and onto the verge, somehow remaining upright and turning back very shaken. I started to worry I was heading less into a race and more towards an unenjoyable survival mission.

As we were staying an hour’s drive from sign-on in Shieldaig, we reluctantly had to set our alarms for 1:30am to make sure I was on the buses to the remote swim start. This was the first time I’d been on public transport for about 15 months, and doing so in masks and full neoprene in the middle of the night was a bit surreal. A short wait by the loch followed – fending off midges and stepping in sheep poo – before a quick group photo and the race got underway. 

Instead of a mass start, we were set off five seconds apart to maintain some social distancing. I ended up towards the back of the queue, meaning my time started a few minutes later than those at the front. This had potential to make positions a bit confusing out on the course, but across 12 hours of racing, things were unlikely to come down to those margins in the end.

At 10 degrees the water was colder than many years, but my winter of swimming in the River Avon and investment in thermal wetsuit accessories meant I stayed comfortable. With most athletes starting in front I had plenty of pink hats to follow, and working my way past them was good for morale. The swim was pretty uneventful and with slight tidal assistance I completed the 3.2km in 48 minutes.

The first 20 miles of the bike had a strong tailwind and everyone was pushing a bit too much in their excitement to be racing again. I managed to move from 13th to 7th along this section and was surprised to continue the fast pace as we turned to head North West. Whilst the pure tailwind was over for the day, for the next 80 miles the cross-wind seemed broadly favourable and I couldn’t believe the pace we appeared to be setting.

Having been scared into thinking I might not use my aerobars at all in the wind, I ended up spending more time in this position than any other race. Most climbs and descents were gradual, and it was only on fast downhills with strong cross-winds that I adopted a more stable position on the brakes. I had one frightening moment in this “safe” position, when at 35mph the wind seemed to gust in two directions – causing my front wheel to wobble ominously before settling back into a straight line. I remained pretty nervous the whole way round though, and my arms became pretty exhausted from gripping onto the bike a bit too tight. 

I tried to keep a steady effort for the first 60 miles, knowing that in most of my Ironman races I’ve blown up in the second half of the bike. Once I hit this point, I was feeling good and decided to make a caffeine-fuelled push to move up the field. This coincided with the two biggest climbs, and being relatively strong uphill managed to overhaul the 2 minute gap on third and fourth place – leaving me 8 minutes behind the leader on the road. 

Then things changed. At my last support point with Chris (who’d seamlessly developed a technique to change a bottle, hand over food and share my position without me having to slow down) I let him know I was starting to struggle. My legs hadn’t fallen off as early as other races, but by mile 100 they were shot. Inconveniently, at mile 100 you turn into a slow uphill drag for 20 miles into a block headwind.

I found myself struggling to hold even 150 watts, even at maximum effort. I was soon overtaken and saw third place quickly disappear over the horizon. It makes a huge psychological difference when you start slipping backwards in a race. I found myself looking nervously over my shoulder expecting more athletes to cruise past and imagining how much that 8 minute gap to the front would be by the time I crawled into T2.

Counting down to the end of the 120 miles at Kinlochewe was some of the hardest cycling I’ve ever done. Mile 115 slowly rolled around and I saw a road sign – “Kinlochewe, 10 miles”. An absolute gut punch. 5 more horrendous miles than I’d counted on. Having averaged over 23mph up to this point, I was now ticking along at a steady 10-12mph. Grim. I dragged myself to T2, telling enthusiastic spectators “that was awful, never again” and apologising to Chris that I’d ruined our race. But amazingly, no-one else had overtaken me – perhaps it had felt that bad for others too. And despite the gap to the leaders doubling to 16 minutes, I was still in the race.

I usually find a fresh set of legs for the run and so it proved again. The first 12 miles were on hilly trails, with the slightest hint of a path overgrown with bracken. I’d checked out this part of the course before the race, so was able to approach it confidently and quickly moved up to 2nd place. I started receiving split times to the leader – first 8 minutes, then 4.5 and by the time I reached the foot of Beinn Eighe it was under 2 minutes and we found ourselves getting our kit for the mountain checked at the same time.

At this point, I felt the race was mine to lose as the evidence suggested I was the stronger runner. I’d also gained a lot of time over better runners on the mountain part of Snowman in 2019, so I felt we were heading into the strongest part of the race for me. However, I’d also heard a rumour that the leader Ewan was a specialist fell runner or “mountain beast”, which sounded more convincing than my “once did well in a hilly triathlon”.

I was now joined by Chris and felt relieved he could be part of an exciting race. I felt great as we started the big climb (which you can only really walk, aside from a few short sections). My heart rate was under control, my fuelling and hydration had gone well. I just had to keep walking and avoid overexertion. I was chatting to Chris about how the race had gone, and spreading optimism, confidence and sunshine.

SD: “How long have we been climbing for?”

CP: “10 minutes”

SD: “Oh f*ck this”

So ended all optimism, confidence and sunshine. In its place came a relentless 3 hours of swearing, shouting, moaning and what can only be described as animal noises. Chris really had drawn the short straw to join me on this section. 

Apparently the views were incredible, the bagpipes at the summit were magical and the cheering supporters were brilliant. All I remember is trying to pick a path through indistinguishable rocks, telling Chris to slow down and trying to absorb his motivational commentary on how well I was doing (which I later discovered to be a series of complete lies). And stripping off on an exposed mountain top to experience the first of several bouts of “gastrointestinal distress”. My layers went on inside out and back to front too – I was quite visibly a shell of the athlete that had entered the mountain.

Doubling back from the second munro, I was at least 10 minutes behind Ewan and now only 5 minutes ahead of several athletes gaining on me. My mindset shifted to holding onto second place and that Norseman slot. Really, I should have been hoping just to finish at all…

The next challenge was to descend off Beinn Eighe. On steep slopes, with a tired mind and body, this was going to be just as hard as going up. The initial scree descent, without any discernible path for a couple of miles, was pretty silly. I picked a path carefully, then heard someone shout I was going too far to the right. I ventured back left and onto the loose scree, where a rock fell on my ankle. I swore and carried on, adrenaline dulling the pain.

As we charted an unconvincing route towards the corrie loch at the bottom, I lost my balance and tipped over forwards – taking a hard fall on my shoulder. More swearing. More pain-concealing adrenaline. I got up and ran but within a minute took another heavy fall, sprawling onto my front. The “path” (where one existed) was very uneven, and fatigue meant I was misjudging both the terrain and my feet. Chris suggested I stop and regroup – I’d been lucky not to be more seriously injured. But I refused, out of stubborness as much as anything. I couldn’t afford to lose any more time.

Once we reached the lower slopes I started to move a bit better – the gradient was less severe and the path had bigger, flatter rocks to land on, allowing me to open up my stride. I felt a bit of confidence return as I enjoyed this second wind. Then fell again with rocks under my calf and hamstring. Both cramped. I shouted and swore some more. Luckily, the pain eased and I was able to make it back to the main road running somewhat convincingly, even with a fourth and final fall thrown into the mix.

With our car parked at the bottom of the mountain, I could drop off my rucksack before the final 4 miles into Torridon. Stupidly, I only realised my GPS tracker (separate to the timing chip on my wrist) was still in that bag once we got a mile down the road. I was suddenly panicked that the organisers would think I was injured and send out support, or even worse give me some sort of penalty. So I sent the long-suffering Chris back to the car and ploughed on myself – hoping he might be fresh enough to catch me up so we’d be able to share the finish together / avoid being told off for the GPS mistake.

This plan went out the window when I spotted a competitor and his support runner about a minute behind me on the road. Suddenly, race-mode flicked straight back on and I remember feeling quite … affronted. How dare this person try and take second place off me after I’d held this position for hours, worked so hard on the mountain and kept going after all those falls?! This wasn’t how the narrative was meant to play out… I remembered the staggered swim start all those hours ago and the possibility that he could have set off behind me, giving him an invisible advantage on the clock.

I recorded my two fastest miles of the day – around 6min 30 secs (my slowest mile was 28 minutes up Beinn Eighe…) but this was only enough to preserve the gap. I arrived in Torridon absolutely exhausted, only to have a repeat of the bike course finish and discover an extra 1.5 mile loop at the end I hadn’t expected. Cue more pained grunts as I forced my way around this as fast as possible, no doubt bemusing the cheerful local supporters.

I finally crossed the line in second place, providing more confusion as instead of celebrating I hurriedly sought out one of the organisers to explain the GPS situation and ensure I wasn’t in trouble (I wasn’t). Unusually there were no photos at the finish to capture my worry and general  dishevelment. My time turned out to be 11 hours 19 minutes – unbelievable considering how terrible it had felt for so long and more than 20 minutes under the old course record (of course, Ewan had just broken that record by considerably more…). Despite how close we were on the road, my time was 5 minutes clear of third place, so I needn’t have suffered quite so much at the end (though it was satisfying to have pushed to the absolute limit). Chris came over the line with my GPS tracker a short while later, pleased I’d held on to second but annoyed they’d made him do the extra 1.5 mile loop too, despite not being a competitor. 

Overall, my memory should be of a stunning course and friendly atmosphere amongst organisers and competitors. It should be pride for a brilliant performance and relief the event could go ahead despite Covid. Or gratitude for the support from Chris, who earned his desired status as an “elite support athlete”, doing everything asked of him and more only to be sent on a 2 mile detour rather than share any glory at the finish line.

However, my abiding memory is simply of how hard and painful this race was. How hard XTRI is. And the respect I have for anyone with a Celtman finisher shirt.

Norseman in 2022? Can’t wait.

The Sandman is the last event in the Always Aim High Adventure Series, based in North Wales. After winning at the half iron-distance Slateman and Snowman Legend races earlier in the year, I couldn’t help heading to Anglesey hoping to end my season by completing the set. Setting off on the same drive that had taken me to the ferry for my last event in Dublin three weeks earlier, I arrived to the most scenic race venue I’ve been to. Endless sandy beaches with panoramic views of Snowdonia to one side, the tranquillity of Newborough Forest to the other – all lit up by unseasonable (and un-Welsh) sunshine. I would soon be joined by my biggest ever support crew – with several family members who’d never seen me race before (including a new dachshund puppy) – and I was determined to give them a good performance.

It felt strange setting my alarm for a normal time, with the race starting at the unusually sociable 9:45 due to the tide. This also meant pre-race transition was far from the normal cold, dark affair and I felt very relaxed chatting away to other competitors. That was until the call to head down to the beach came, I went to do my wetsuit up, and the zip came clean off. With the water temperature at 15 degrees a wetsuit wasn’t mandatory, but being officially “nesh” competing as the only non-wetsuit swimmer wasn’t going to be an option! I was hugely grateful to the swim sponsors Aqua Sphere for sorting me out with a loan wetsuit free of charge, and I made it down to the beach just in time to see my supporters and be told “the new wetsuit makes you look a bit chunkier, especially around the bottom”. Thanks Dad.

The weather forecast had been consistently good all week, so inevitably as we looked out to sea waiting for the starting gun we were faced with driving rain, choppy seas and no visibility across the Menai Strait to aid sighting. At least we didn’t have to wait in the water getting cold, instead doing a mass sprint into the water (in my mind aggressive and heroic, on video evidence slightly camp as we tried to hop over the incoming waves). I quickly found myself towards the front and in the rare position of not having any feet to follow, giving me unwelcome responsibility to identify the course myself. The waves made this increasingly difficult, with most sighting attempts yielding only a wall of salt water rather than any yellow buoys. I’d had practise with foggy swim conditions in Ireland, but this time it was combined with a battle against the current and waves. I’m a confident swimmer, but without the usual group swimming machine and little visibility of the shore I felt fairly alone and vulnerable in the sea. This already felt like an adventure. Luckily, I didn’t go too far off course, and made it out the water in second place.

After a quick transition run over a sand dune, the cycle started with a climb up a narrow track covered in speed bumps to the main road. The course was then a single loop around the southern half of Anglesey, beginning with a flat eastwards section to Llanfair PG (of long name fame) and Beaumaris. The forecast had suggested a strong tailwind in this first section, so I was disappointed to see my target power wasn’t resulting in the pace I was hoping for. The later start time meant more traffic on the roads than usual and several frustrating waits behind queuing cars. I was actually riding more cautiously than in training – I didn’t want to take any risks as I had such a big lead in the overall series – so I was able to remain calm from these early delays. I struggled to quite hit top gear in the first 20 miles though, and perhaps this lack of aggression was why.

I was glad to have a few hills and also no raging headwind after the turn at Beaumaris – perhaps I hadn’t been wasting a tailwind on the first leg after all. I’d been riding solo for over an hour before I overtook another athlete, which I was fairly confident meant I was at the front of the course. After not being overtaken on the bike leg all year, I probably felt a bit complacent that I was now on a one-way ticket to arriving at T2 in the lead. This confidence was keeping me relaxed as I sat waiting for over half a minute for cars at a right turn when, out of nowhere, an athlete with “George” on his bib zipped past me and across the junction without having to pause, just as the traffic cleared. My Zen was quickly replaced by righteous indignation at being overtaken in this manner, and I immediately kicked into massively upping my efforts to keep the new frontrunner in sight.

About two minutes later, a sharp pain hit me in the neck and I knew immediately I’d been stung by something nasty (or, equally, I’d cycled into it…). I could feel the barb still stuck by my throat, but decided it was better to leave it in there than risk making things worse with some blind treatment at 24mph. It’s strange to suggest being stung helped, and I didn’t appreciate swelling up to look like a bullfrog the next day, but it certainly added another kick of adrenaline. Combined with some caffeine tablets, the pain drove me to dig even deeper to try and keep George, wearing bright orange, in sight ahead. Despite this, he was gradually building his lead and eventually disappeared out of view. I continued to push hard, now in a blind chase, trusting that if I could sustain this effort I should be within two minutes at the start of the run. Having come back from a similar deficit at Snowman, this would still give me every chance. Just as I was reconciling myself with this, he appeared on the horizon and over the final five miles I was able to reel him in – descending the final winding section back over the speed bumps just a (draft-legal) few metres behind to roll into transition only three seconds adrift.

After a slightly quicker T2, I’d converted this into a nine second advantage, and spent the first few miles of the run repeatedly looking over my shoulder hoping to see the gap grow. Unfortunately George was holding steady, and I couldn’t help slipping into a victim mentality about how annoyed I’d be if he ended up winning by less than the time I’d lost at that junction… Eventually I shook myself out of it – he’d been riding faster than me, would have caught me regardless and wherever that had happened I wouldn’t have got myself into a better position than I was in now – leading the run, with the race mine to lose. I didn’t have any real tactics, just to not let him gain any ground that might give him encouragement and to match any attacks he made. Essentially, to refuse to let go of the lead no matter the effort it took.

As with the Slateman and Snowman, the run was unique, technical and scenic. Twisting trails through Newborough Forest, sharp hills and plenty of deep sand kept things interesting. The Sandman was certainly living up to its name and I was glad I’d worn trail shoes with aggressive grip. I felt a stitch developing early on and decided not to eat or drink anything on the run – preferring to risk dehydration or burnout seeing as this was, relative to Ironman, a short event. My lead was slowly increasing, but by margins that were hardly enough to notice – let alone to relax. 20 seconds after three miles. 40 seconds after six miles. Things were moving in the right direction but George was still on my tail, with a gap that could easily be closed within a mile if either I dropped off or he stepped it up. I didn’t know if I could sustain my pace or whether my rival was holding things back – it was still all to play for.

By the second lap we were joined on the course by athletes in the shorter “Classic” distance race, which provided some welcome company. I was enjoying the run more than any I can remember – the varied terrain, bending course and intense competition making it great fun. Entering the last four miles I seemed to have pulled further ahead and could no longer see George behind me – I felt it should be in the bag, provided I didn’t overdo things from here. Which is, of course, exactly what I went on to do… After a mental lapse where I must have overtaken an athlete in orange without noticing, a routine check over the shoulder convinced me that I’d been reeled in and George was on the attack just behind me! I proceeded to counter attack, putting in a massive, and ultimately unnecessary, effort over the last two miles to pull away from this non-rival. Luckily, I had enough in the tank – actually recording a faster second lap than the first – to make it across the line, ultimately with a few minutes to spare.

I was absolutely delighted with my performance and to have won all three Legend distance titles. I even managed to lift the finish tape at the first time of asking, following pretty clumsy attempts at the Slateman and Snowman earlier in the year. I was also pleased to win for my supporters – especially Jasper the dachshund who’d earned an army of admirers whilst I’d been out racing!

The Always Aim High Adventure Series was an incredible set of races – I genuinely couldn’t pick a favourite as each has its own unique charms and challenges. I’d encourage any triathlete to try them all! Sandman marked the end of my races for 2019 – a “rest season” from full iron-distance which turned into a breakthrough year, marked by five really successful events. I’m not sure if this proves I’m better suited to half-distance, or whether my results were simply down to better training and choosing hilly courses that play to my strengths. Either way, my plans for 2020 – including a return to full distance – should help me find the answer and I couldn’t be more excited for the adventures ahead.

Dun Laoghaire 70.3 in Ireland (pronounced, I now realise, “Dun-Leary”) was a late addition to the season. I’d never done an official “Ironman” branded half-distance before, but spotted this had an unusually hilly bike course as part of my event research for 2020. I then noticed that despite only being 6 weeks away there were still places available to race this year. Once I saw it slotted right in the middle of my remaining races, it only took an impulsive 30 minutes to convince a friend to race with me and we were registered…

The friend in question, Chris, had recently qualified for the full Ironman World Championships in Hawaii and would theoretically be coming into this race in great form. We’d spent a weekend training together in July and had been as evenly matched as we expected – having never raced each other before we expected a close and enjoyable contest! Dun Laoghaire is a qualification race for the 70.3 World Championships – taking place in Taupo, New Zealand for 2020. Unfortunately, commitments next year meant such a big trip wouldn’t be possible – but Chris and I both set an aim to earn a slot (so we could be oh-so-generous and give it to someone else). This would mean sharing the 25-29 age group podium, which felt both challenging and realistic from a brief assessment of the course and last year’s times.

After a much-needed week of rest to recover from Snowman, I made the mistake of trying something fun and non-triathlon specific – a “Total Wipeout” style inflatables course at a water park. On the final obstacle, I slipped on a wobbly stepping stone, twisting my knee and swearing profusely in front of everyone (mostly children on school holidays…). This injury would prevent me from cycling for another two weeks and running for all three weeks until Dun Laoghaire, which I knew was annoying to complain about but also something I couldn’t keep to myself! The only upside was it allowed me to put an obsessive focus on swimming – the only discipline I could still train – including my first swimming lesson for 15 years in an endless pool. The technique tips I picked up made an immediate impact and I was at least excited to put these to the test in Ireland.

Combining poor planning and subsequent ingenuity, Chris had realised after registering that he was due to attend a wedding in Surrey the day we needed to travel to Ireland. Not to be deterred, he worked out a logistical plan involving a 6 hour round trip to drop his bike off with me, then a last minute flight to Dublin the next day to meet his bike just in time for registration and racking. Returning with me, he would use a car, plane, taxi, ferry and train to complete the trip (along with some swim, bike and run in the middle) – an impressive level of commitment! I hoped that despite my knee problems I could give him the close race his efforts deserved.

Our varied travel plans executed successfully, we assembled by Scotsman’s Bay at dawn with the morale boost of a good weather forecast. “Perfect swimming conditions” were duly announced before the professional race started – containing some big names including Alistair Brownlee (global superstar) and Tim Don (Ironman World Record holder and all-round inspiration, whose journey back from a broken neck has added to his legendary status). I’d been starstruck just to see the latter queuing to use the same toilets as me before the race!

Once the pros had set off it was our turn – a phased start with six athletes sprinting into the sea every six seconds. I liked that this left no time waiting in the water to get cold, but it was a shame I couldn’t quite get in the same starting wave as Chris – ultimately setting off 24 seconds back. Knowing how close our race might be, I made a mental note of this – glad that if we were neck and neck on the run I would still be a fraction ahead on the clock.

Determined to make the swim count, I set off as hard as possible. Having self-seeded at a slightly ambitious expected time of 28 minutes, I found I had been far from the most optimistic – overtaking dozens of athletes quite quickly. I recognised Chris’ wetsuit on various athletes before finally being fairly confident the swimmer I was passing was indeed him. I knew he would be a stronger runner, so needed to build a lead over the swim and bike to have any chance in our personal contest. But whilst my swimming felt strong, the perfect conditions were heading decidedly off-script. I realised it was gradually getting harder to sight any landmarks or see the shore, then a few minutes later found I couldn’t even spot the next buoy marking the course. I was still surrounded by plenty of athletes though, so was happy following the no doubt eagle-eyed in front.

A while after the penultimate turn a sense of panic slowly started to build. My internal compass felt off – surely we should have turned back to shore by now? Actually, which way even was the shore? I stopped swimming to tread water briefly and couldn’t see anything except a few swimmers, a safety kayak and fog. Lots of fog. I heard the kayaker shouting out “I don’t know – it might be that direction…” It turned out we were all lost together, but his tentative advice turned out to be sound. A buoy emerged from the mist and our sorry group found our way to the swim exit. Apparently we completed about 2.2km rather than the advertised 1.9km – it could have been a lot worse!

At the time I put the blame for getting lost firmly on myself and was really frustrated – the one discipline I was confident and motivated to really go for and I’d messed it up not following the course. But getting back to transition I found the changing tent very quiet and bike racks almost full. I realised the whole train of swimmers had been the blind leading the blind and we ‘d most likely all followed the same meandering course.

I was pleased to find the bike course immediately headed uphill into the Wicklow mountains. I was less happy to hear how badly my chain was shifting – a lesson for me that dew overnight will strip a chain of dry lubricant, even without any rain. The fog that had blighted our swim was still a major factor, making the roads damp and slippery, and on the first sharp right turn into a steep climb I simultaneously skidded off course and dropped my chain trying to shift into the small ring. I was annoyed to lose another 30 seconds, but it had been my fault. With hindsight, this ensured I treated the dangerous descents ahead with the respect they required – including one particularly moss-covered deathtrap where the whole road had turned a patriotic shade of Irish green.

The first 45 miles of the route continued to build elevation and my knee was feeling good, working hard on every climb to try and capitalise on this section being my main strength. I overtook one athlete approaching the crest of a hill and responded to his encouragement with a burst of effort towards some cheering spectators at the top… only to find I’d actually sprinted to the foot of an even bigger climb. I suffered my way to the top regretting being so impressionable. My heart rate had been stupidly high from the off, going on to set several all time “records”. Power was down on other races though – a sign that my fitness had indeed started to drop, but my willingness to suffer and compete was as keen as ever.

The view was briefly spectacular, but any height usually came with low, dense cloud reducing visibility to no more than 15 metres. Glasses coated in mist, I balanced them on the end of my nose and peered over the top like a disappointed teacher to help navigate the winding descents. Slippery hands struggled to grip the brake levers, which were responding weakly against wet carbon rims. I played it sensible and whilst I knew I’d be losing time on my rivals the final cruise into T2 out of the mountains was fast and fun. The dismount line appeared somewhat abruptly, but I just about managed to stop in time before sprinting through transition. I’d not been overtaken at all on the bike course, meaning I was still ahead of Chris. Given my respect for his form, this was sure to mean I was in a good age group position.

The run was always going to be the biggest test for my knee, but the first mile felt good along a pier to the first turning point. Doubling back, I had a chance to gauge my lead on Chris and was pleased to see him come into view not long after. We met two minutes from the turn, representing a four minute lead (plus the 24 seconds from my later start). Based on my target run of 1hr 25 and his of 1hr 20, we looked set for an exciting battle that we were both relishing. I shouted “it’s on” as we crossed, before returning his grin and salute.

The three lap run was ideal for this kind of contest, with several turning points per lap to perform a time check. I continued to overcook the early miles at 1:20 half marathon pace – not wanting to give Chris early encouragement but also curious to see how hard I could push myself. The time gap held over the first lap, meaning Chris was on target too, but I inevitably started to flag on the next one and couldn’t hold the pace. Despite this, I found my lead over Chris starting to grow slowly – which I later found out was due to him suffering a stitch – and by lap three it was clear I just needed to ignore the growing complaints from my knee to come out on top in our personal showdown.

Racing sensibly isn’t really in my nature though, and I couldn’t resist upping the pace again for no real reason in the last couple of miles. If nothing else, it meant I was extra pumped up for the finish line. One thing Ironman do well is the red carpet experience and after a week where I’d been pretty down on enthusiasm and expectations I celebrated even more jubilantly than usual – sprinting from side to side to high-five spectators and feeding off their energy in an outpouring of relief and joy. I think I looked even more ridiculous than usual, but there’s no point trying to hold anything back – these are the moments it’s all for!

On crossing the finish line I was told I was the third fastest amateur overall, having reeled in ex-Team Sky cyclist Peter Kennaugh on the run (I’m not sure if my achievement is impressive, or his performance after self-confessed “zero training” is…). I was also the fastest aged 25-29, with Chris taking the next podium step when he crossed eight minutes later.

The results weren’t quite that simple though… What we hadn’t known was after the dangerous fog closed in over the sea that morning, most people hadn’t set off – in fact they’d nearly cancelled the swim entirely. Only the first 150 strongest swimmers had been allowed off, with the rest waiting for the weather to clear before completing a half-distance 950m route. This essentially meant 1000 athletes had saved about 20 minutes on our group who had done the full swim (plus extra). A few strange results started to emerge as athletes finishing some time later began to appear in podium positions as a consequence of their later start and different course.

All of this was a nightmare for the organisers, who had to be fair to both the first 150 athletes and the subsequent 1000, not only in determining podium spots but also awarding qualifying slots for the World Championships. Whilst they worked out what to do, we did some celeb spotting. Alistair Brownlee hadn’t hung around, but several well-known faces were still in the recovery area and more than happy to chat. Soon we found ourselves at a cafe sharing coffee and triathlon-chat with a group of pro athletes, including female winner (and fellow Cheltonian) Nikki Bartlett and the aforementioned legend Tim Don – a man I’d felt privileged to share a portaloo queue with only hours earlier! As I’ve come to expect from triathletes, all were lovely, down to earth people.

This took our mind off the results chaos and in the end there was no issue for Chris and I. We’d finished well clear in our age group – even against those who had done the shorter swim – so would get our shared podium moment. Ultimately they decided to treat the two swim distances as separate races, each with their own prizes. This was probably the fairest outcome, but I was still irked on Chris’ behalf that someone he’d effectively beaten by 25 minutes was walking around with a superior “1st place” trophy…

All in all, Dun Laoghaire was a fantastic race weekend, with new friends made and existing ones strengthened. Whilst it was a shame Chris didn’t have the run his training deserved, we achieved our goal of occupying the top two podium steps and graciously donating our World Championship slots. Plans are already forming for a second showdown next year – I just hope this disappointment doesn’t motivate him too much for revenge!

Two months after winning at the Slateman, this would be my second race of the Adventure Triathlon Series in North Wales. The Snowman bills itself as “the toughest triathlon in the UK” and whilst plenty make that kind of claim, I knew taking on the longest “Legend” distance needed to be treated with respect. I came into the race off a good block of training, along with a few cycling challenges like the Dragon Devil Ride and Struggle Moors Sportive, so was feeling uncharacteristically confident and injury free. As always the main aim was to give a good performance and feel I’d pushed myself as far as possible, but after first place at the Slateman I was hopeful this would turn out to be enough to earn another win…

Snowman is based at the Plas y Brenin Mountain Sport Centre, just outside the small village of Capel Curig in Snowdonia. On arrival, I was surprised to find transition in a tarmac car park (I’d been expecting the usual wet field) along with the luxury of proper toilets in the Centre instead of the usual oversubscribed portaloos Having a proper building as a base meant spectators had the luxury of somewhere to shelter if the weather turned traditionally Welsh too!

The 1900m swim would be two laps in Llynnau Mymbyr (choose your own pronunciation) – a very scenic lake with surprisingly warm but unpleasantly brown water. As the 7am start approached, the wind started to gust strongly, causing bikes to rattle in transition and the inflatable buoys marking the swim course to be blown almost horizontal. This made for an ominous atmosphere whilst waiting in the shallow water, slowly sinking into warm, slimy mud underfoot, until a claxon sounded and we were underway. I tried to follow a couple of people’s feet who it turned out had both probably set off a bit hard, and by the time I settled into my natural pace was cut off from the fastest athletes, but also ahead of the main chaos. What followed was a very civilised and relaxed swim, albeit with extensive sighting required as the was creating choppy water and constantly blowing us sideways.

After a stumble out the water over uneven rocks, and a relatively smooth T1, I heard I was in fifth place heading out on the bike. This immediately turned into third as I overtook two athletes adjusting their shoes, and I tucked into the aero position for a battle with the headwind. Initial progress was tough and the approach to the top of Pen-y-Pas, shrouded in low turbulent black cloud, felt like we were entering the gates of Mordor. However, once the descent to Llanberis was out of the way conditions lower down were much better and the heavy rain forecasted never quite materialised.

Whereas at Slateman I’d made my way into first place early on in the bike, this time it took me 45 minutes to see another bike and catch second place – who turned out to be part of a relay team with an incredible swimmer who had been several minutes clear of everyone else. I felt strong and was having one of my best ever rides – attacking corners well using familiarity with parts of the course that had also appeared at the Slateman. But looking up the long climbs, I still couldn’t catch sight of anyone ahead. I knew I was facing a serious battle this time – the athlete in front must be having an equally good ride.

In fact, I started to wonder if he even existed – perhaps I’d miscounted athletes I’d overtaken or heard the wrong information at the start of the ride. But after 2 hours 38 minutes of cycling – which included a record top speed of 52mph, a lone bike waiting in transition confirmed I still had someone to chase. The race announcer named him as James – last year’s winner and course record holder – who was approximately two and a half minutes ahead. Whilst I changed into run kit, the announcer helpfully detailed some timing splits so far – apparently I had cut the gap from four minutes at the start of the bike. When I heard I’d taken another 20 seconds off with a faster T2, I set off on the run optimistic that I was closing in.

I felt great at the start of the run, which takes place entirely on off-road trails. Usefully, the first eight miles were straight out and back, giving me a chance to recalculate the gap to first place at the turning point. On the course profile this section had looked flat, but that had been totally distorted by the 870m climb of Moel Siabod to come at the end. In fact, the first few miles were a challenging combination of uphill, driving headwind and rain. I jokingly asked a marshal “does the guy in front look tired?” and she replied “absolutely knackered, you’ve got him”. Friendly volunteers are always encouraging so I probably shouldn’t have believed her quite so much, but it gave me some naïve optimism…

I decided to push myself hard in these opening miles to see how much I could close the two minute gap. My heart rate was unsustainably high, but this at least provided some warmth without having to dip into my backpack for the waterproof layers that had been mandatory to carry. Disappointingly, at the turning point the gap had grown nearer to three minutes. Not only that, but it was the first time I’d managed to see my competition – he looked far from knackered and a natural runner. The good news was it took quite a while to meet third place coming the other way, which suggested I had a comfortable 20 minute cushion. I was in a separate race with James off the front and decided to carry on with the kamikaze pace as my last chance to put any pressure on.

By the time I’d got back to Plas y Brenin, ready for the big climb up Moel Siabod, the gap had grown further to four minutes and I confirmed to my dad “I’ve got no chance” and he understandingly replied “I know”. In the background he’d been chatting to James’ parents and looking up his past results – a much more impressive CV than mine and a man who includes the Brownlees amongst his training partners. It was only ever going to take one stronger person to turn up and make winning impossible – no matter how well I performed – and despite having a great race it was clear to both me and Dad that I was simply chasing a superior athlete.

I mentally accepted second place, but was still absolutely loving the race. It had been more fun to race well and be beaten in a close contest than it would have been to win comfortably without the competition. Now I just wanted to finish the huge climb without injuring myself for races to come. I was surprised that I had to walk almost from the start – I’d done plenty of hill training but had never run up anything like this before… Whilst the earlier marshal had been encouraging, the first one on the mountain bluntly told me “I’d like to say you’re catching him up but you’re not”. I simply replied “I know” as I imagined James running past that same marshal like a mountain goat a few minutes earlier and how my exhausted trudge must compare.

Despite walking, my heart rate was consistently above 180bpm, in part from pushing too hard before the climb. Surprisingly, race adrenaline made this feel OK whereas I’d normally be gasping for air and desperate to rest. Although I recorded a new personal worst mile split of 15 minutes, I was at least encouraged that I was (slowly) overtaking athletes from the shorter “classic” distance race.

Then, from nowhere, one of these shorter distance athletes said “that guy up there is a legend athlete too”. We were in thick cloud at this point, but the figure he was referring to was only about 100m ahead (still a good minute or so on this gradient). I’d been expecting James to come past on the downhill return leg at any moment and was already thinking what congratulations to offer, so was totally confused that I could have closed almost all of that four minute gap. To be honest I suspected this was fake news, but it gave me a bit of extra motivation to put in a surge of effort and see who was right.

Fortunately for me, I’d been wrong and this was the race leader. We exchanged a few words and agreed we’d need to be careful on the descent. By this point it was looking pretty treacherous – slippery, steep and rocky. The cloud was so thick we only had about 20m of visibility so I wasn’t sure how far was left to climb. I felt caught between wanting the mountain to go on as it was gaining me time and just wanting the effort to stop! As the summit came into view, my watch let me know I’d broken my personal worst again with a 17 minute mile. There was no psychological blow this time though – I realised now that everyone was suffering equally on this challenging “run”.

I was rewarded with a jelly baby from another friendly marshal at the top, recording a 20 second advantage over James. After over four and a half hours, this was as exciting a race as I’d been in. Not having much experience of technical trail running I knew I could easily lose the lead I’d been chasing all day on the descent. My chances weren’t helped by twice losing the course in the thick cloud – each time having to shout out to helpful hikers whose silhouettes I could make out in the distance to point me back in the right direction.

I couldn’t afford to check behind where James was – every step needed complete concentration to avoid an injury. I did my best to pick the right lines, running on grass instead of rocks where possible and thanking all the athletes coming up the relentless climb for their encouragement. Although not as tiring, running downhill was much tougher on the legs, with my thighs complaining at the effort of braking down the steep gradient. Towards the bottom of the mountain I paused and took a glance behind – I couldn’t see anyone else descending and for the first time believed I was going to win the race.

I was relieved as the trail finally flattened out in the final mile and could start counting down the remaining distance. I repeated a few more nervous backward glances until I could see the finish line, where I tried to control my celebrations a bit despite being massively pumped up. After fumbling the finish tape at Slateman, I wanted to make a better go of things this time…and managed to drop it twice. That’s one discipline I clearly don’t train for…

I ended up with a winning margin of nearly six minutes, which disguises how close the contest was until the very end with various shifts in momentum. I was also pleased to clock a new course record by eight minutes. I think it’s understandable that I wouldn’t promise the post-race interviewer that I’d be back next year to break it again, given how hard I’d just pushed to set this one!

Three days later I can still barely walk and stairs are definitely not my friend – that final downhill run certainly took its toll. But it was all worth it – Snowman was a fantastic event to be a part of, with friendly marshals, a hilly but TT-friendly bike course, a uniquely challenging run and beautiful scenery throughout. Leaving with another oversized slate trophy was just the icing on the cake to make this one of my favourite triathlon experiences so far.

I’d always enjoyed swimming and cycling when I was younger and thought I might be able to get into triathlon. I’d had a pretty disastrous first attempt when I was 12 – crashing in a field and not able to finish – but when I heard about Ironman UK in Bolton the idea got stuck in my head as an ultimate long-term goal.

I’d always had reasonable stamina for swimming long distances and was getting more into road cycling, including a charity ride from Lands End to John O’Groats in 2014. Whilst in theory this put me two-thirds of the way there, I never thought I could do the run. Whenever I tried I’d always get injuries, not to mention regular bouts of “runner’s trots”…

I tried all kinds of different gimmicks and recommendations online – including things like barefoot running shoes which just left me with crippled calf muscles. What I’d never done was simply accept that I needed to build up extremely slowly. Although my cardio fitness could take me a reasonable way as a one-off, I finally realised I needed to adapt my muscles and joints to running over a gradual period. Whilst living in Edinburgh in the winter of 2014 I did just that – starting with what seemed like pointlessly short 5 minute morning runs which grew towards consistently being able to run for 30 minutes without breaking down. The experiment concluded by running the Meadows Half Marathon in February putting a triathlon firmly on the cards.

I selected the UK Ultimate Half – billed as a fast, beginner-friendly event. Whilst a half ironman might seem an ambitious first distance, I was pretty confident I could do the distances at my own pace and anything shorter felt like it wasn’t worth the effort of buying all the kit and travelling to a race. The logistics and equipment were probably the thing I found most difficult as a newbie, with detailed recommendations for each discipline listed online – half of which I still didn’t own!

I found the cheapest trisuit possible in a sale – only size small was available and I’m pretty sure the shorts were far too tight (although I later discovered “compression” clothes are another staple of triathlon, so decided to pretend the misfit was beneficial). I’d also heard that aerobars were a good idea for the bike, so bought some second hand clip-ons from ebay. I was amazed what a difference these made, adding a couple of mph to every ride, and I suddenly didn’t look like I’d be one of the slower riders after all.

My training plan was not at all educated – just trying to build up to the half marathon running distance again, cycle the 56 miles at the weekend and include some brick running sessions straight after cycling, which was apparently important. Luckily, I didn’t seem to suffer from the “jelly legs” a lot of people talk about straight off the bike – if anything I found I could run better after a cycling warm up than going straight into a discipline I didn’t particularly enjoy…

I couldn’t believe how early we’d be jumping into a cold lake, nor on arrival how many other people were mad enough to be doing it with me. Setting up in transition before the race was pretty intimidating, with all kinds of confident conversation using jargon I still hadn’t learnt and aggressive, expensive looking kit. My steel road bike looked out of its depth surrounded by carbon-fibre time trial bikes, sporting deep section wheels and alien-like aero helmets balanced on top.

Despite this, I was confident for the swim, knowing this was a distance well within my comfort zone. What I hadn’t accounted for was how difficult removing my wetsuit would be in a hurry afterwards, and my calf seized up with cramp as I fought to get my leg out – leaving me pulling grumpy faces at my parents shouting encouragement as I set off on the bike.

The bike course was pretty flat, which suited my heavier bike, and whilst I was far from the fastest took plenty of satisfaction in overtaking athletes with much more expensive kit. Whilst the equipment makes a big difference, I’d always been nervous about investing too much as I didn’t want to give the impression I thought I was at any sort of standard. For the same reason, I’d continued to fight the tide in shaving my legs, which was always a mark of more serious cyclists! I very much considered myself to have no idea, so as a result didn’t deserve all the gear.

My cramp had eased off whilst cycling and I felt OK as I started the run after racking my bike. I didn’t get far though before someone shouted out I’d forgotten to take my bike helmet off! My “race brain” was a bit frantic and forgetting to do all the simple things… After returning the helmet, I set off in earnest on a lapped course of dry trails.

Due to the laps, I could occasionally see the race leader well ahead of me marked out by a cyclist riding alongside and thought how exciting it must feel to be in that position. I had no idea of my place, but was feeling good and managed to overtake someone in a GB outfit towards the end. The man in question later explained to me about the GB Age Group team for amateurs, but at the time was extremely confused thinking this must be a professional having a very bad day.

On crossing the line I found out I’d finished in 4hrs 37mins – 6^th overall and the age group winner for 25-29. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as age group prizes beforehand! It was all very unexpected to have a quick moment on the presentation stage, even getting some porridge oats from the sponsor as a prize – recouping a solid 1% of my entry fee.

I enjoyed the experience a huge amount and realised I could be fairly competitive if I invested in some better gear and committed to more training. In fact, looking at my time, I made the simple calculation that a half ironman in under 5 hours meant a full ironman in 10 hours might be realistic (just doubling your half ironman time obviously isn’t very scientific – but I assumed the improved equipment and training would help). I started reading forum posts about Ironman and remember a quote from someone stating “a few seconds in transition doesn’t matter, I’m not going to Kona”. I had no idea what “Kona” was, but a quick google explained this was where the Ironman World Championships were held in Hawaii every October – and qualification was something of a holy grail for amateur athletes.

I found out that the top three athletes aged 25-29 at Ironman UK qualified for Kona and quickly dismissed it. Then a few weeks later it occurred to me that past results must be online, and checked out of interest. My heart rate and adrenaline went through the roof when I realised that my rough target time of 10 hours would have been enough to finish in that top three almost every year at Bolton. I then started to read more and more about Kona and, very quickly, a dream verging on obsession was born. In 2016, I would aim to finish Ironman UK in under 10 hours, with the hope this would get me to the World Championships a few months later….

Having set the officially “punchy” goal of qualifying for the World Championships in Hawaii at my first Ironman, the initial (and most expensive) job in 2016 was to get hold of a proper triathlon bike. Whilst my steel-framed steed had done an admirable job last time out – and proved you don’t need to spend a fortune to complete and enjoy triathlons – I needed an upgrade to compete on an even playing field. After shopping around for second hand ebay bargains, it turned out my local bike shop owner was selling his old bike – the exact model I was after – and I snapped it up. Although it didn’t give me quite the magic speed boost of my first clip-on aero bars, the financial outlay gave me plenty of incentive to train hard over winter and make the investment worthwhile.

In my growing obsession with Hawaii, I found out that accommodation would get booked up extremely fast in Kona, and by the time of my qualification race in July anything in the town itself was likely to have gone. So, in January, I took the strangely confident decision to book a room for the nights before and after the race. With only one triathlon in the bag and seven months to go before my first Ironman, I tried to view the non-refundable deposit as a bet on myself – although I chose to keep the whole thing quiet in case this uncharacteristic show of confidence spectacularly backfired!

In the spirit of committing my whole year to the task at hand, I also signed up to a warm weather training week in February. “Winter miles equal summer smiles” seemed to be the mantra online and although I left it late managed to grab the last place on a triathlon camp in Lanzarote led by coach Russ Cox. The trip was a huge help. With so much expenditure already on Project Kona I certainly didn’t have money left for a coach, but I also had a lot to learn, so I tried to absorb as much as possible from Russ and the other experienced athletes. One nutrition tip from Russ was to unwrap Powerbars and use their gluey consistency to stick onto the bike’s top tube – providing convenient solid food without packaging to mess with. This works well for me, but always seems to amuse athletes in transition before races (and probably does nothing for Chris Boardman’s finely tuned aerodynamics)… Crucially, Russ reassured me that I had a chance of qualifying in Bolton and getting his support (the first from someone who knew what they were talking about) meant a lot.

The debut event to test my new bike and increased training would be the Cotswold 113 half ironman – 5 weeks before Ironman UK. This was advertised as a flat course, which I probably should have ridden in advance, but despite being fairly local was a bit too far away to cycle there and back in addition to the 56 mile course. I also thought it might keep things interesting to have somewhere new to explore on the day.

Despite being June, it also looked like I’d have the added interest of extremely wet weather. I was a bit nervous of this, having not subjected my precious race bike to the indignity of going out in the rain before. I was surprised how many athletes gathered for the pre-race safety briefing – more than 800 – and equally so that we set off in a mass start for the swim, meaning I received a fair amount of accidental punching and kicking for the first five minutes. Although not entirely plain sailing, I finished the 1,900m and was away on the bike inside 30 minutes.

I immediately regretted my assumption that any showers in June would be “warm rain” as I struggled to warm up at all after the swim. This probably caused me to push harder in the early stages just as a survival tactic, but I tried to limit myself to what I hoped would be a sustainable effort. The course was indeed very flat, with only one short hill of note on each of the two laps, and I was able to spend the whole time in the aero position – enjoying the benefit of my new bike. I noticed a lot of other competitors sporting Ironman tattoos on their calves and, whilst I had no intention of getting one myself, felt respect for all of them knowing they’d already achieved what I was still working towards.

By the second lap, my hands were extremely numb and I was struggling to operate the brakes – luckily the course didn’t need them too often. My only time out of the aero position came when I spent a good five minutes trying to find the finger strength and dexterity to remove a drinks bottle from behind the saddle, fill my front bottle and return it – worried I could accidentally drop it and get disqualified for littering. I enjoyed a boost of motivation as I started to lap some other athletes – speeding past someone is always good for morale, although this was countered by the occasional bigger, more powerful riders who were also overtaking me. The bike course was a little short at 55 miles, but I was pleased with my time of 2 hrs 19 minutes and the fact I’d gone faster on the second lap – representing my fastest average speed to date.

After a particularly slow T2, where numb hands again proved an issue, I set off on the four lap run – a flat loop combining roads and forest trails, some of which were starting to get quite muddy with all the rain. Having so many laps, along with a relay event going on simultaneously, meant I had no idea what my position was or whether the people I overtook were on the same lap as me, but I felt strong and enjoyed being able to run through the different pockets of support several times.

On the final loop, one athlete I overtook asked which lap I was on and he sportingly congratulated me when we realised we were both on the closing stretch. I invited him to try and come with me, but he was happy running his own race and I was going at a faster pace. I must have gained a few places on the run and was really happy with my run time of 1 hr 23 minutes – a half marathon PB, in somewhat challenging conditions (and with a swim and cycle before).

The race had gone extremely well, with all the new gear giving me a psychological (and I think actual) advantage – I’d taken 25 minutes off my time for the same distance in 2015 to finish in 4hrs 15 minutes and third place overall, earning my first trophy in the process. Although the weather was far from ideal, I really enjoyed myself and would definitely recommend the Cotswold 113. It’s a friendly, well-organised event which attracts a surprisingly strong field from all over the country – both aiming for new PBs and those like me using it as a warm up for an Ironman later in the season.

Ahead of Challenge Roth at the start of July, I wanted to complete a shorter race as a warm up – to remind me how to do triathlons after 18 months out of the sport. I’d originally signed up to the local “Avenger” triathlon in Warwickshire, but this was cancelled just a few weeks’ beforehand with little explanation (although the rumour was poisonous algae in the lake). I then had to expand my search radius to find a race in June with places still available, which quickly led me to the “Day in the Lakes” triathlon. This approximately half iron-distance race, based out of Pooley Bridge in the Lake District, was a lot hillier than I’d originally bargained for – with a slightly short bike to compensate for the mountainous trail run. It would also require a 10 hour round trip in the car, but it was also by far the cheapest to enter and crucially still had places left so I didn’t hesitate in signing up.

The event was based in a large campsite, with almost all athletes staying onsite the night before. Things were loud and boisterous around me as I pitched my tent, but it took until I’d completely finished setting up to realise I’d followed the wrong signs and was actually in the middle of the motorcycle and truck festival. The beards, cigarettes and leather jackets hadn’t felt quite right for a triathlon crowd… I just managed to get my tent up for the second time before a huge thunderstorm started, and I retreated inside with earplugs and a book hoping for a good night’s sleep. Unfortunately, I’d misjudged how cold it would get in June and even wearing every item of clothing I had, found myself shivering, curled into a survival ball and unable to get back to sleep from 3 am…

Things didn’t get much better when it was finally light enough to get up. Changing into a trisuit can be challenging at the best of times, but in a small tent the logistics were harder than ever and somewhere in the contortion act managed to cramp my foot. Two lessons learnt – where possible treat yourself to an Airbnb pre-race, and if not, invest in a warmer sleeping bag.

After a sub-optimal build up, the race itself started much more positively. The swim was uneventful and I was away on the bike somewhere towards the front. Gauging position would become much harder by the second bike lap, as another race covering half our distance was taking place simultaneously, but I was confident there weren’t too many ahead of me. The course was moderately hilly, but not too steep, and I found myself trading positions with another athlete – in the familiar pattern of me pulling away on the climbs only to drop back as the road flattened out. Eventually, he pulled out of view ahead of me – but I made a note of his trisuit so I could try to look out for him on the run.

Out of T2, we were quickly climbing up a rocky trail. I overtook my marked man here, but couldn’t be sure how many more were ahead as we were surrounded by athletes in the shorter race. When the longer course diverged I asked a marshall how many were ahead, and was delighted to hear I was in first place, whilst simultaneously thinking how disappointed I’d be if I didn’t go on to win from that position! Whilst I didn’t know how far back second place was, I couldn’t spot anyone catching up over my shoulder.

With no-one else in view, I turned my worries to keeping my footing on the increasingly challenging terrain, getting slippery as rain showers started. Second (obvious) lesson learned: I needed to buy some trail shoes for trail runs. The second climb was so steep that I reluctantly resorted to walking. Whilst I’d usually see this as giving up and a line I wouldn’t want to cross, it was actually faster and more efficient than trying to run. Hitting the summit, I took a final nervous glance behind which confirmed I was still out on my own – allowing me to enjoy the final couple of miles downhill to the finish line.

The experience was slightly underwhelming for my first win – reaching the finish line alongside the shorter course athletes, no-one knew I’d actually won my race. Combined with this, a problem with the timing system meant there was some confusion and it took a good few hours to confirm the results (during which I showered, packed up my tent and started to worry about how late I’d be getting home before work the next day). I certainly wasn’t going to miss out on picking up my first winner’s trophy, and I enjoyed chatting to the other athletes along with the friendly (and apologetic) organisers.

I really enjoyed the Day in the Lakes triathlon – the low entry fee and cheap onsite camping (if you’re more prepared than me) combine to make for an extremely good value weekend. I’d perhaps not recommend for beginners (even the shorter course) – partly because of the challenging trail run but mainly as there was no finisher medal (which supports the low entry fee – but I’d definitely want a souvenir from my first race!). Personally, it acted as a great confidence boost that my Spring training had been worthwhile and I was in good form heading towards my “A-race” at Challenge Roth in 3 weeks’ time.

After reaching peak fitness for Ironman UK in July, it was an uphill struggle to try and maintain this for Kona in October. Training at high volume all year meant I inevitably suffered a slight dip, both down to fatigue and reduced motivation. Whilst I couldn’t be more excited to be racing in Hawaii, there weren’t any specific time or position goals in mind – I just wanted to be in good enough shape to enjoy the experience.

I’d already booked onto a cycling trip from Pisa to Sicily in September and hoped this would act as useful warm weather acclimatisation. With hindsight, I was focusing purely on training quantity and not at all on quality, even trying to add sweltering hot brick runs on the end of back-to-back 100 mile cycling days. I made it through the trip fine, but didn’t give myself enough (if any) time to recover afterwards. A gentle two miles into my first run back home, my IT band suddenly went rock solid with a huge amount of pain. I couldn’t even walk and had to hitch a lift home. With less than a month until Kona – and all the cost and effort it had taken to get there – I was devastated, and just had to hope it would recover.

Early signs weren’t positive. I couldn’t run or cycle without pain, whilst my shoulder had also started to play up when swimming – it was all going wrong. The week before flying out I was finally able to get back into some tentative swimming and went to a sports massage therapist for the first time. Sadly, there was no miracle cure for the IT band – just a recommendation to rest and get another massage nearer the race.

Flying to Hawaii with a bike box proved a little stressful – especially a frantic change in Los Angeles where we had to retrieve the bike, cross the airport and put it back through (rigorous) security – all against the clock. Although technically the same country, landing in Kona could not have felt more different – completely relaxed attitudes and an airport little more than huts with straw roofs.

We’d arrived just over a week before race day – the atmosphere was just starting to build but the town wasn’t too crowded with athletes just yet. On the first morning, I went for a swim around the official course from Dig Me Beach, stopping off at the coffee barge for a free drink and enjoying being surrounded by fish in the clear, warm water. We then drove across to Hilo on the other side of the island, looking to escape the pressure for a week. I’d really recommend anyone who qualifies spends some time exploring the rest of Big Island. It seems a lot of people get caught up in a training hype when they should be tapering – seeing everyone else out swimming, cycling and running. Not only does this seem a recipe for injury (coming from an accomplished over-trainer) but you miss out on the huge variety that Big Island has to offer. From active lava flows in Volcano National Park, to rainforests around Hilo and high grassland plateaus near Waikoloa, Hawaii is – unsurprisingly – an incredible holiday destination in its own right, which a lot of visiting athletes forget.

Following an amusing massage in Hilo – focused more on aromatherapy and the magical healing properties of Olbas Oil – I took a test ride out from Waikoloa to see some of the bike course. Completing 40 gentle miles gave me a bit of confidence, although I’d been cautious not to push it and couldn’t bring myself to do any tentative running fearing another complete breakdown. We returned to Kona after our mini-holiday to find it completely transformed – now heaving with athletes across a sprawling event village filled with every triathlon brand going. I did some scouting around for free samples and was offered a poster by a guy called Ben Hoffman – we had a brief chat where he said he’d had recent injuries and I mentioned not having run for a month (he pulled a worryingly alarmed face). I asked if he was racing that weekend, which he again pulled an incredulous face at – turns out he was one of the top pros and would go on to finish fourth overall… I felt bad I hadn’t heard of him, but will follow his races more now…

I met up with some other British athletes at the parade of nations, but failed to find the person who’d offered me a spare swim skin (given the warm water wetsuits are banned, but I considered a £200+ swim skin too pricey for a one-off race). What I had invested in was a new trisuit – partly because the old one had a hole in it, but largely because I needed my shoulders to be covered to prevent sunburn. Having suffered quite badly on an overcast day in Bolton, I didn’t like to think what the infamous Hawaiian sun could do… I saw a few of the British athletes again to go snorkelling with manta rays, which was another incredible experience to add to the list. I just hoped the race wouldn’t taint what had been a brilliant holiday so far.

Pre-race transition was even more intimidating than usual – as expected everyone seemed impossibly lean and tanned, all with the most expensive looking kit. Although I was extremely apprehensive about how my body would hold up for the day ahead, those feelings were pushed aside as we headed off towards the sea. On the gentle warm-up swim out from the beach I was followed by a turtle, gently coasting along underneath me all the way to the start line. The race briefing had been big on respecting the soul of the island, and whilst I’m normally much more logical I came over all spiritual that my turtle companion symbolised the island looking after me. From that point on, I felt a genuine sense of calm that everything was going to be OK.

Treading water waiting for the starting cannon was one of many highlights – surrounded by iconic sights I’d first read about a year ago when being on this start line had seemed an impossible dream. Behind me, the church of Kailua-Kona and the Banyan tree on Ali’i Drive, the pavement lined with hundreds of spectators. To the left, the island gradually rising to its volcanic peak somewhere in the clouds. Ahead, the sail-shaped outline of the Royal Kona Resort which we would shortly be sighting towards, where I’d been up close with manta rays only hours earlier. I felt overwhelming gratitude just to be there. I’d worked so hard, but knew others who’d done just as much for years and years without making it. This race wasn’t about times or placing – I just wanted to soak up the experience, look around and smile.

The cannon fired but didn’t shift my zen-like calm. Whilst the mass start might have appeared chaotic, looking down into the clear water I still felt like I was swimming in a giant fish tank. Everyone around me was well behaved, with no punching or kicking, and it was easy to find a steady rhythm. The swim was slower without the assistance of a wetsuit, along with some sizeable swells which meant we were quite literally swimming uphill most of the way back, but whatever the pace there was no denying the swim was an absolute pleasure to be part of.

We ran through hoses to rinse off the salt water on entry to T1, and with no wetsuit to worry about were quickly out onto the bike course. This first section through town, with several U-turns, was extremely congested. A mass start combined with athletes of very similar ability meant hundreds of riders all starting within the same few minutes. Whilst, as always, the referee’s presentation had put the fear of God in me to avoid drafting, it was genuinely impossible not to find yourself in a bunch for the first couple of miles – and to be fair the officials seemed to know this.

Things improved slightly once we hit the long, straight “Queen K” highway – heading up to the turning point of Hawi at the North West tip of the island. Looking ahead, all I could see was an endless stream of athletes, some of whom were trying harder than others to leave legal spaces. I was almost self-sabotaging my race – pushing too hard to get ahead of similarly paced athletes then ceasing all effort when someone slowly made their way past me – in a desperate bid not to attract the attention of a marshal. The last thing I wanted was to be disqualified after all it had taken to get here. This made it all the more frustrating when draft packs seemed to form and come steaming past fairly regularly. Judging by the angry shouts of “cheats” from other athletes, I wasn’t the only one feeling annoyed.

The bike course is unique, if somewhat repetitive, following a single straight road with the ocean to one side and black volcanic rock to the other. It rarely does more than undulate, so I enjoyed some rare gradient on the climb into Hawi. Cross-winds are pretty common on this part of the course – meaning solid disc wheels are banned – and sure enough they started to gust pretty strongly, making the subsequent descent quite challenging. Being a lighter rider the wind affects my balance more, so I’d been unsure about my 60mm wheels. But without any other race spec wheels (and being quoted over £600 to rent a set) I’d decided to risk them. At one point I was nearly blown off the road but managed to salvage it, all the while retaining that strange sense of calm that the island (and its turtles) were going to look out for me.

The heat from the lava fields hadn’t been too bad on the way out, but as we approached midday the temperature was definitely rising. Looking down at my thighs roasting in the sun I hoped the expensive P20 “once a day” suncream I’d applied several hours ago would be up to the job. The weather and occasional headwind made the return leg feel a lot tougher and I was pleased to be back in Kona after just under five and a half hours on the bike – even if it meant I finally had to test my running legs.

After a luxury T2 experience where the volunteers racked our bikes for us, and I took some time to add more suncream, it was time to see whether the island would have any power to heal my IT band. I was most worried I would break down within the first few miles – my last run almost a month ago had seen it flare up very quickly with no prior warning or pain. I set off as gently as I could, ignoring the race day adrenaline, knowing that an injury in the early stages would probably prevent me from even walking to the finish line.

I felt the first five miles would be key – so once I got past this point I was a lot more confident that by maintaining this steady pace I would be OK. Nevertheless, the heat continued to build and I started to struggle – throwing cups of ice and cold sponges into my hat and down my trisuit at every opportunity. The Natural Energy Lab lay ahead – the hottest and most remote part of the run course deep in the lava fields, featuring a famously tough (if not particularly steep) climb back out. Mercifully, by the time I reached it, the sun had gone behind some cloud and I was able to sustain forward momentum.

I’d been drinking as much fluid as possible along with SaltStick electrolyte tablets, which seemed to have done the job hydration-wise, but on the last five miles along the Queen K back to Kona I was exhausted nonetheless. My walking intervals through aid stations – initially to take on enough fluid – had now become very necessary recovery sessions. It had perhaps worked in my favour that fear of injury forced me to pace myself so carefully, as I could easily have blown up if I’d started too fast in these conditions.

Despite the pain I was able to keep the promise I’d made to myself – regularly looking around and savouring the fact I was racing in Kona. I was glad of the sea swells, cross-winds and oppressive heat – without them I wouldn’t feel I’d had the full, authentic experience. I was able to accelerate a little in the last mile, running downhill into Kona and lapping up the atmosphere from the crowds as it became clear I was going to make it. I couldn’t have been happier, reflecting back on everything that had gone in to making this happen. Arms outstretched, grinning like a maniac, I weaved across the road to high five supporters on both sides, looking like a kid pretending to be an aeroplane (I was so delirious that to some extent I might have thought I was an aeroplane).

Walking across the line I felt complete joy and relief – quite a contrast to the pumped up shouts of achievement in Bolton a few months earlier, but no less enjoyable. It had all been worth it, I’d completed what I’d set out to do, the project was complete.

Not breaking down on the run and finishing before it got dark (approx. sub 11 hours) had been my only real performance targets, so was pleased with my finish time of 10hrs 18mins in difficult conditions. I’d expected to be slower than Bolton regardless of the sub-optimal build up, and this certainly wasn’t a time that suggested I’d fallen apart. After enjoying a big feed in the recovery area, I went to join my parents for photos (now in the dark) under the Banyan tree, and cracked open a Kona beer to celebrate.

Post-race, we’d factored in a few days of extra tourist time on another island. I had an ulterior motive for choosing Maui – I’d heard it featured the longest uninterrupted road climb in the world to the summit of Haleakala. The idea of riding nearly 40 miles of constant uphill from sea level to over 10,000 feet (and the free wheel back down) sounded pretty incredible so I’d firmly pencilled it in for our last day in Hawaii. Surely a couple of days would be enough time to recover from an Ironman? My TT bike wouldn’t be safe on the descent, so I picked up a hire bike and set to it – ignoring the residual fatigue and illness I had coming on. It was another unique and amazing experience and I proudly picked up a free certificate at the visitor centre for “driving” to the summit. I’d recommend riding Haleakala to anyone visiting Hawaii or racing Kona, just factor in a few days’ rest before taking it on!