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My whole year had been building up to this race, with everything counting down to Sunday 17^th July. The objectives were clear – swim 3.8km in an hour, cycle 112 miles in under 5hrs 30mins and run 26.2 miles in under 3hrs 30mins. Give or take five minutes for transitions, those splits should be enough to finish in under 10 hours – a time which in past years had meant a top three finish in the 25-29 age group and with it qualification for the Ironman World Championships.

Although this would be my first Ironman (and also first marathon), training performances made me fairly confident I could make those times. I decided I ought to reccy the bike route in advance and my Dad honourably agreed to drive me up to Bolton and wait in the car whilst I completed one lap of the course. I knew I would be slowed down by hills and patchy road surfaces – both of which I was well used to in training. What took me by surprise was the number of twists and turns, making it hard to build consistent momentum and resulting in a slower pace than I’d expected. My bike goal was starting to look a lot less certain.

Arriving at the Macron stadium for registration and race briefing I was immediately struck by how different this was to my two triathlon experiences to date. This was on another scale – with over 2,000 competitors and the slick Ironman branding everywhere. The MC hosting the event was a charismatic pro and it was hard not to get caught up in the excitement of the occasion. Whilst I’d baulked at the £400 entry fee, I was quickly won over with a “free” event backpack filled with samples from different sponsors. Having split transitions (the swim, bike and run finish in different places) was initially confusing Ironman seem to run a pretty slick operation and everything was clearly explained.

I was staying at the Premier Inn next to the stadium, where I’d been able to find a three person room to also accommodate my parents (although technically the pull out sofa bed was meant for a child). Not being accustomed to rule breaking, it was an added thrill over the weekend trying to keep up the deception that we weren’t staying together whenever we entered or exited the building – not that I think anyone would have cared… The hotel was an ideal location – a five minute walk from registration, briefings and T2, whilst a shuttle bus would be provided to the swim start about 10 miles away on race morning.

I spent Saturday getting all of my kit marked with stickers and sorted into the different coloured transition bags, ready for various drop offs. First, a drive to Pennington Flash – the lake we would be swimming in at 6am the next day – to drop off my bike and cycling kit. Then, back to the stadium to leave run kit at T2. Whilst I’d felt stressed about how much needed to be done, we actually found ourselves with a lot of free time on our hands. I needed a distraction to avoid dwelling on the day ahead and getting too worked up. In the end we settled for the cinema and wandering around a nearby shopping centre – a plan shared with dozens of other athletes judging by the number of compression socks on show.

I was already nervously half-awake when my alarm went at 3am, and I ate my Tupperware bowl of cornflakes with UHT milk in the hotel room. Although Premier Inn were offering an early buffet, I didn’t want to take any risks with nutrition so stuck to low fibre, simple carbs that I’d have time to digest before swimming. I couldn’t believe how long the shuttle bus queue was before 4am – snaking right through two car parks – and it was a long, cold and nervous wait in the dark before the double deckers started to arrive a bit more frequently and I knew we wouldn’t be late. I had just enough time to check my bike over and add nutrition before joining another queue for the swim start.

The lake swim featured a rolling start, but this didn’t seem to make it any less aggressive. The whole experience felt like a fight and I swallowed quite a lot of water – most likely including a bit of goose poo – not only at the beginning but at each turning buoy. Things didn’t get a lot easier on the second lap, as we started to catch up some of the slower swimmers who had also started later, leading to even more congestion. I found it hard to sight where we needed to go and stay on course. The whole experience was pretty chaotic and unenjoyable – as I slid through the muddy transition field and out onto the bike course I could tell I was at least five minutes behind my target so far.

Still, it would be a long day and most of it was still ahead. I quickly got up to pace on the bike – enjoying racing on closed roads for the first time and cruising through traffic lights which had been such a nuisance a few weeks earlier on my test ride. The first lap was good fun as I moved my way up through the field and found myself without many other athletes around. Without heart rate or power to go by I had to hope the adrenaline of racing wouldn’t compromise my perceived effort, and although I couldn’t resist a bit of extra effort on the hills think I paced myself fairly well.

By the second lap, I started to catch some athletes on their first lap and the course became a bit more congested. Whilst overtaking gave me some fresh motivation, it became hard to tell where I was relative to other competitors and impossible to know within my age group. All was going smoothly until the 80 mile point, where my saddle – which had started to feel like it was shifting position – came completely loose. It was still held on, but only seemed secure enough to sit on when angled horrifically upwards at about 60 degrees. I wasted a bit of time off the bike desperately trying to think what I could do, but with no mechanics around and not carrying the spanner I would need to tighten it decided I would just have to plough on regardless – accepting a combination of standing up and hovering gingerly on the point of the saddle for the remaining 30 miles. I’d later be screaming in pain in the shower at the damage this had done to my undercarriage, but I made it round in 5hrs 25 mins. Combined with the slightly slower swim, I was now back on target – but with no margin for error in the run.

The marathon was the most uncertain part of my plan. Running is the sport I have by far the least experience in and my body seems to like doing least. Having never run more than 19 miles before, I couldn’t be sure how things would go beyond this point and just had to hope I wouldn’t “hit the wall” that people often talk about. I was greeted by a ridiculously steep hill straight out of T2, before a pleasant, quiet section along a canal which guides you into Bolton town centre. I tried to spot which age group was written on the bib numbers of athletes I managed to overtake – although this wasn’t particularly easy, I spotted another one in the 25-29 bracket and made a note to try and stop him catching me.

I still had no idea of my position but Kona qualification, whilst important, was totally out of my control and dependent on who else was there on the day. If I could finish inside 10 hours, I’d have achieved something to be proud of and done everything I could. Given the rolling start I didn’t have a perfect idea of my overall time, but estimated a 3 hr 20 min marathon would be enough. I was on track for this pace, but was now entering the main run section featuring repeated hilly laps into and out of Bolton. Whilst tougher to maintain the pace, both the sun and supporters had come out to provide a morale boost and I’d never experienced anything like it – high fives, waves and running through the spray from garden hoses distracted me from the fatigue building in my legs.

I could tell from my watch I was holding a good pace and barring a breakdown on the final lap thought I would make it. The final couple of miles are all downhill, and as I realised I had the stamina went all in for “sprint finish” of sorts. The finish line announcer had said for any first-timers to point to their number to make sure they got their name called out at the finish. I caught his eye as I turned onto the finisher’s red carpet and heard the famous words “You are an Ironman”. I shouted “come on” to the crowd as I realised I was coming through in under 10 hours and ridiculously jumped through the finish line whilst punching the air, massively pumped up by the whole situation.

Another perk of the higher entry fee is a top class post-race recovery area. I indulged in a ludicrous amount of complimentary Domino’s pizza before a massage and finally meeting my parents to buy some stash at the Ironman shop (I’d refused to buy any before the race in case it all went wrong and I didn’t want a souvenir!). I found out my time was 9hrs 55mins and that I’d finished third in age group – achieving two goals but still without a guarantee of qualifying for Kona as the number of slots depends on how many competitors are in each age group. It was likely I’d qualified based on previous years, but I had a nervous wait until the next morning when printed results with confirmed qualification places would be posted outside the Macron stadium.

It would have been so disappointing at that stage to have the Kona dream taken away, so I was relieved to find third place had snagged me the last qualification slot in my age group. I was then happy to sit through the (quite long and drawn out) awards ceremony – enjoying a podium moment and collecting an impressively big trophy for 3^rd place. I then had to wait as they read out every qualified athlete’s name until it was my turn to shout “yes please!” to claim my slot. I headed back onto the stage to accept my Hawaiian lei and a bottle of Kona brewery beer, whilst in turn Ironman gratefully accepted my $800 entry fee for the World Championships which had to be paid on the spot. There was time for one more nervous moment as my bank tried to refuse the suspicious transaction, but eventually the payment was made and it was time to start planning – in 10 weeks’ time I was going to Hawaii!

A few months after signing up for Challenge Roth, and having just taken out cancellation insurance for that event due to an Achilles injury, I received an email from Ironman promoting their new deferral policy – allowing entries to be delayed a year up to 1 month before race day. Having always wanted to experience both the legendary atmosphere and challenge of Ironman Wales, I took the strange decision to sign up for my second iron distance race of 2018 whilst still unable to walk without limping.

This optimistic bet on my future fitness / injury recovery paid off, as not only was my Roth insurance wasted but I made it to September 2018 feeling good and ready to “face the dragon”. I’d even managed to spend a weekend in Tenby beforehand to reccy the bike and run course. The bike is split into two loops, one completed once, the second completed twice. Although I didn’t double up on the second lap (or perhaps because of that…) I was slightly underwhelmed by the amount of climbing compared to its reputation. A couple of very steep climbs at the end which would hurt tired legs, but most of the climbs were gradual and could be attempted in the aero position. The run was tougher than I’d expected though, with four laps straight up and down the hill out of town. I made a note to increase my hill training – reading up on best technique to run quickly downhill to see if I could gain any free time on the long descent.

Arriving in Tenby on race weekend I was immediately blown away by the enthusiasm for Ironman. It’s rare for races to be in such small towns, and Tenby fully embraces the occasion and its athletes. There’s a strong contingent of local participants (completing the Ironman seemed to be a rite of passage for many in the area) and everyone seemed to be in awe of us for what we were taking on – even before we’d earned the bragging rights of completing it! Whether it was banners, artwork, novelty bakery items or just people in the street offering you a free beer, I’ve never seen a community embrace a triathlon so much. Whilst the scale of the event village and number of participants couldn’t compete with Roth, the local excitement was unparalleled.

Welsh weather in September was always going to be a gamble and as we racked our bikes the day before were warned of strong winds and rain overnight. I put a bin bag over my chain hoping it would provide some protection and not act like a sail to catch the wind even more… After the usual 3am start on race morning I was relieved to find my bike hadn’t blown away, and that the forecast was for only modest wind and occasional showers – about as good as could be expected!

T1 is located about 1 km from the swim start and wandering through town towards the sea was surprised how many spectators had made it out before dawn. The swim would be a self-seeded rolling start, and I must have been a bit late down as I found myself stuck fairly near the back of the queue. Alongside another latecomer, we managed to shuffle our way forwards along the zigzag steps to the beach, until we reached a marker for the “1 hour” estimated swim time. Waiting for the start is always a mix of nerves and excitement, but emotions were stronger than ever as we watched the sun rise to the sound of an opera singer – plus a good few hundred supporters – singing the Welsh national anthem.

The sea swim involved two triangular laps, starting and finishing at the prominent Goscar rock. Having built this up into being a horrible stat to the day – with choppy waves, strong currents and jellyfish everywhere (based on past reports and my own experience the previous month), I was pleasantly surprised to avoid all of these. With the rolling start removing the usual early fight for position, it was all very civilised and I was pleased to be out the water – fumbling with arm warmers on the run through town towards T1, within an hour.

I was prepared for the headwind that greeted us for the first 20 miles of the bike heading due West towards Angle and still enjoyed the relatively slow progress. I routinely swapped positions with a French athlete who I would overtake on the hills, only for him to routinely come past shortly after. On my third climbing attack he shouted “Stephen, you are so strong!” and I replied something along the lines of “No, I’m just stupid”.

This proved to be pretty accurate – my friend soon disappeared ahead on the fast, tailwind-assisted return to Pembroke. Meanwhile I, having already started to overcook my efforts on the initial loop, continued to push too hard on the first of two hillier laps remaining. Whilst the course is mostly rolling, there are a few steep sections where it’s hard to avoid going into the red – none more so than the 17% climb at Wiseman’s Bridge, shortly followed by “Heartbreak Hill” out of Saundersfoot. The crowd support on the latter was a huge boost / increased my stupidity – giving a kick of adrenaline to try and show off and go as fast as possible!

By the final lap, I had the frustrating feeling of moving backwards as a succession of smarter athletes came cruising past. I’m not sure if it’s possible to truly manage your effort on some of the steeper hills, but I definitely could have done a better job at pacing. Certainly, hitting Wiseman’s Bridge completely drained, with more than 100 miles in the legs, the end of the bike course felt like it had turned into a survival mission.

Fortunately, it’s possible to coast the last couple of miles downhill into Tenby, and this break – combined with a change of discipline – meant I seemed to have new legs on the run. I set off feeling surprisingly strong, enjoying the climb out of town and even more so the downhill sections where I seemed to be gaining ground using my newly-learned technique tips – leaning forwards, arms out for balance, looking straight ahead whilst tensing the core. I’m sure I looked pretty silly, but it seemed to work.

Surprisingly, the hardest part came through Tenby itself. I think there was a bigger gap between aid stations here, so these sections must have coincided with energy troughs, as despite the overwhelming support from the town I consistently had my lowest moments here – especially seeing some pro athletes turn off to the finish line when I still had one more lap to go… Whilst I usually enjoy playing up for the crowd, there were almost too many supporters this time. I felt bad ignoring the vast majority of people reaching out for high fives or shouting my name – I could only seem to focus on suffering and getting the job done.

Pushing hard on the final descent towards town, with only 3 miles to go, I felt good and started to feel a bit complacent that the job was done. I must have lost a bit of concentration, as picking up water and running proved too much for my brain to cope with and I failed the running part – landing on the side of my foot with a shot of pain through my ankle. I shouted out involuntarily and limped a few strides with downhill momentum, before realising I’d got away with it and – with no serious damage done – the adrenaline should see me home.

Despite going off a bit fast, I’d paced the marathon pretty evenly and after a morale drop at lap 3 managed to speed up again on the final lap. I was really happy with my performance across all disciplines – perhaps not pacing the bike well but knowing I’d given it my all without blowing up spectacularly. Celebrating a race well run, the end of a successful season and just the joy of being healthy to compete – all alongside thousands of supporters – I let my emotions go on the finishing chute. So much so, that 220 Triathlon magazine ended up using my photo as part of a feature on the finish line experience (my first – uncredited – appearance in print to date…)!

I’d ended up coming home in 10 hours 16 minutes and 4th place in my age group. Without any real time or position targets (other than a vague idea it would be nice to get a podium trophy) these were largely irrelevant against the feeling of racing well and enjoying the experience. It felt on a par with my performance at Bolton in 2016 where I finished 3rd in age group, but without the pressure of trying to earn a Kona slot (I’m not sure how many places there were in Wales, but I’ve not really got the desire – or finances – to try and repeat that trip).

2018 was a great return to triathlon for me – achieving my first race win and completing two iron-distance events with famous support at Challenge Roth and Ironman Wales. I’d have to rank Wales as the best of the lot and my favourite event to date. I wouldn’t rule out racing in Tenby again one day, but for now want to focus on finding new triathlon adventures

On most triathlete’s checklist, Challenge Roth is one of the longest running and best known iron-distance races in the World. World record times have repeatedly been set here, and the fast course attracts one of the strongest age group field outside of Kona, all in search of PBs. The event is huge, with over 3,500 athletes and 250,000 spectators descending on a small town in Bavaria, and the organisers are not shy in promoting it as “the home of triathlon”.

Knowing it was a fast course, I’d set myself the ambitious goal of going under nine hours – although sensing this was optimisitic I didn’t officially commit and tick the “sub-nine” box when signing up. My training had been going really well in advance, but I still estimated that on a good day I would be about five minutes over this target. However, with the adrenaline of race day and a good taper it wasn’t impossible – I’d have to be on the bike in under an hour, complete the bike course in under five hours and finish the run in around three. The last felt the most ambitious, with no form to suggest I could sustain that pace, but it would be good to have something to aim for…

Unfortunately, from my last bike and brick run session the weekend before racing, I ended up with an infected saddle sore. No photos for this part, or unnecessary detail, but it was severe enough to need a week of antibiotics right up until the race – far from ideal preparation, but a solid excuse in the bag.

We flew into Nuremberg, then drove to our accommodation in Wendelstein, around a 20 minute drive from Roth. Accommodation in Roth itself is in short supply and at a price premium but with different locations for T1, T2 and the finish line, a car is almost essential. Combined with huge amounts of parking at the swim start, staying away from Roth proved much easier.

After racking our bikes, I drove the course with my friend George. We were surprised by the rolling gradients, with plenty of small hills suggesting it wouldn’t be quite as effortless to set records as expected. I was looking forward to racing with someone I knew for the first time – especially as I knew we should be very evenly matched so we would likely see each other on the course, despite the thousands of other athletes.

As usual I was already awake after a nervous half-night’s sleep when my alarm went at 3am. Driving to the swim start, we knew 99% of the cars on the road at this time were all heading to the same place. It made a nice change to have a familiar face to talk to during the cold, nervous wait for the race to begin. The swim should have been very simple – straight up and down a canal with no navigation or current to worry about. The weather was beautiful and I was feeling good as we set off – swimming within myself to conserve energy for the day ahead.

Then, around three quarters of the way round, I started to feel twitching spasms in my legs. I’ve experienced calf cramps during swims before, but worryingly these were in both legs and also affecting my quads. I tried to focus on not kicking hard and keeping my legs completely relaxed but it was no use. With about five minutes to go, both calf muscles seized up with cramp, followed about one minute later by both quad muscles. With both legs in agony I had no choice but to stop swimming entirely, flip onto my back to be able to breathe, and just float whilst the grip released slightly. I suddenly hit my head, and realised my sea otter impression had seen me drift into the bank of the canal a good 20 metres off course – all in front of hundreds of spectators queued up on a bridge above. My heart sank as I not only abandoned any time goals, but resigned myself to the race being over. If my legs couldn’t get me round the swim – a distance I’d been completing routinely four times a week during training, how could they possibly do 112 miles of cycling and a marathon? Luckily, I was close enough to the end to at least haul myself to T1 – grimacing as my legs complained at standing and walking, and devastated my race seemed over before it had really begun.

I persevered onto the bike, with the mindset that whilst running seemed out of the question, if I could attack the cycle I’d at least get to experience the race and would get more satisfaction abandoning after a good bike ride. This might at least prove I’d come in with decent fitness and had a chance of a credible performance in different circumstances.

Attacking a 112 mile cycle isn’t usually the best strategy, let alone on broken legs. But fuelled by adrenaline and frustration I managed to set off at a fast pace. Looking at the time, I realised I must have had a fast swim despite my diversion and slow transition, and had achieved my first target of being on the bike in under an hour. This only made me more determined to bury myself on the bike, as hitting my targets in two out of three disciplines felt like it might give me some consolation when I inevitably fell apart on the run.

The bike course consists of two laps, with the gradual hills compensated by smooth roads and few technical sections. Unfortunately, we seemed to suffer some degree of headwind the whole way round (confirmed by other people, not just my negative mindset at the time!). George is a faster swimmer and more powerful cyclist than me, so I was surprised when I overtook him early in the cycle – almost certain evidence I was pushing too hard. Sure enough, after a period of exchanging the lead in our mini contest up and down a few hills, he pulled away into the distance.

Near the end of each lap, you climb the famous Solar Berg – a real “Tour de France” type experience with spectators filling the road, only splitting to let one rider through at the time. This had been built up as one of the great experiences in triathlon, and as the crowd shouted encouragement right in my face I roared back at them, standing on the pedals with a burst of acceleration and laughing hysterically. Unfortunately, the high only lastest a few seconds as I caught a slower climber but was unable to find any space to overtake. The brief emotional peak turned into another trough and I spent the remainder of the climb sulking and gesturing in vain for the mass of people to let me past. What had felt like a major hold up couldn’t have been too damaging though, as I completed the first lap in 2hrs 17mins – well on course to go sub 5 hours but already starting to tire.

By the second lap, I paid the price for a lack of pacing – well aware I was teaching myself a lesson as dozens of athletes coasted past me almost effortlessly. I had an unfamiliar sense of moving backwards as I faded more and more. By the last 20 miles my legs were shot, and despite not having any inclination to run, couldn’t wait for T2 to arrive. I eventually completed lap two in 2hrs 26 mins, a fair amount slower but not telling the full story of how much worse it had felt. Even with the extra out-and-back section to the lap start, this remarkably meant I’d hit my second goal of a sub-five hour bike-split. In theory, the sub nine hour race was still achievable if I could make the run around three hours.

The sun was now out in force so I decided to sacrifice a few seconds in T2 to applying suncream – whilst in theory the time was still possible, in reality I was more worried I could be stuck out on the run for some time. Although aching, the cramps had eased during the bike and miraculously legs that had been so broken at the end of the swim and bike seemed to be relishing a new discipline. I ran the first few miles slightly faster than three hour marathon pace and decided – again against better judgment – I might as well see how long I could sustain this pace. I caught up George around mile five and we ran together for about 15 minutes.

The first half of the run course is pan flat out-and-back along a canal. Whilst fast, it was also unshaded and a bit boring – with no variety or spectators. I was glad of George’s silent company, as the distance seemed to be passing very slowly. My pace was starting to drop and despite a pre-run immodium had some growing pain from “gastric distress”. Again, not a section for detail, but George disappeared into the distance as I was forced to familiarise myself with a few portaloos. By mile eight I’d hit my lowest point of any triathlon to date – hot, bored, isolated and running on empty. I consciously dropped my pace to a shuffle – the sub-nine was now long gone and I just wanted to reach the finish without a significant breakdown.

After a couple of miles at this speed, and a switch to drinking Coca-Cola at the aid stations, I started to rally. I was able to up the speed to a better, if not target, pace and as the course returned to Roth I felt even better – feeding off the energy of the crowds, relishing the sense of progress and even enjoying the slight up and downhill gradients to give different muscles a little rest. I overtook George with a few miles to go and was able to kick again in the last couple of miles for something resembling a sprint finish. The finish line was set up inside a temporary stadium and, although the raucous atmosphere for the end of the professional race had long-since passed, there were still a good number of supporters to welcome me back – who I applauded somewhat sheepishly, not feeling I could truly celebrate what had been a tough day.

I came across the line in 9hrs 18mins – which seemed unimportant given the emotional lows I’d experienced during the course. I felt proud to have suffered through the cramps, energy crashes and portaloo tours, to achieve a respectable finish. Looking back, I have very mixed feelings. It was an Ironman PB (one which is likely to stand for a while given I usually target slower, hilly courses) but also my worst executed race. I don’t know whether I can blame cramps or gastric issues on the antibiotics, but I definitely can blame myself for going into my first iron-distance race for 18 months without enough respect for the distance. Still, it was a lesson learned without disastrous consequences, a great event to have been part of, and all with Ironman Wales to look forward to in September with less pressure on time.

Slateman is the first of the three race “Adventure Triathlon Series” set in North Wales, alongside the Snowman and Sandman. Meeting the key criteria of hilly courses and amusing names (see also Swedeman and Bearman on my wish list), I decided to make the new, longer “Legend” series the focus of my 2019 summer.

Only two weeks after my last race in Pontevedra, Slateman arrived a bit quicker than I’d hoped. Having maintained my 100% record of running injuries from events, I’d spent the intervening fortnight doing an extensive running taper – sat with an ice pack on my foot knowing the best thing I could do for my chances was nothing but rest (between swimming and cycling)… I felt relatively under prepared and was pinning my hopes on my foot surviving, fitness holding from Spain and my body coping with a mountainous trail route after training almost entirely on road.

Arriving at the race village in Llanberis, I was reminded why I enjoy these kind of events – no queues at registration, a very sociable 8.30am start time and a friendly atmosphere amongst all the athletes. The early rain hadn’t arrived as forecast, but neither had any miraculous warmth and for the second race in a row I learnt our swim would be shortened due to the cold, although only slightly down to 1,500m.

With water temperature of 12 degrees in Padarn Lake, and having had recent problems with leg cramps in cold water, I wasn’t complaining. We were invited to start warming up 15 minutes before the start and a few brave/naive souls tentatively started to wade in making a variety of disconcerting noises. I hung back with my fellow wimps/experienced athletes, before finally tip toeing in a minute before the start. At first, I thought it was the coldest water I had ever been in and my face was sure to fall off by the end. In the end, it wasn’t too bad though and the swim was a pretty orderly affair without any of the usual scramble from mass starts. For the first time ever I managed to find a pair of feet to follow, who I tried to thank by only tapping their feet once, then sprinting past them as we got out the water… 

I managed to get out of T1 without cramping, although in a new personal worst time as I fought to get arm warmers and gloves on with numb, wet hands. Out on the bike it was immediately pretty cold though, and as I started to catch some faster-changing athletes felt glad of the extra layers.

The bike course starts with a lengthy climb up Pen-y-Pas – a good warming effort and chance to assess how many athletes were up ahead. By midway, I sensed I was close to the front and could only see one cyclist ahead, about a minute up the road. Trying not to burn out too much, whilst simultaneously thinking I need to make every hill count, I set about trying to reel them in. I reached him just as we passed the youth hostel at the summit, only to find he wasn’t even in the race… Either way, I was now confident I was on the front.

I continued to feel strong on the bike, enjoying the rare feeling of well-rested legs, and was again thanking my gloves on a chilly descent, when I had to make a sharp stop at a car accident that had queues forming on both sides and heavy police presence. I was able to slowly roll my way through, simultaneously thinking “I hope everyone’s OK” (they were) and “this is going to cause chaos with the race”, spending the next hour convinced all the effort I was putting in was in vain, as they’d probably have to cancel the race or re-route it. In the end, the organisers did well to quickly get a marshall to that point for people’s safety, and whilst most people were similarly slowed down everyone made it through.

The inevitably wet Welsh weather came and went, but never completely obscured the impressive views, and as I completed the reverse ascent of Pen-y-Pas before the final descent into Llanberis a marshall confirmed I was leading the race. With no-one in sight behind me on the climb, I knew I must have a few minutes’ advantage going into the run.

As always, the run would be the moment of truth. I’d debated beforehand between trail or road shoes –  I wanted the answer to be road, but the race briefing and wet conditions suggested trail shoes were the answer. However, after a pre-race straw poll in transition ended in a tie I went with the road pair and think this was best – with only about two of the 13 miles not on a reasonable path.

The highlight of the run is a switchback climb around two miles in, up the slate quarry which gives the event its name. At this point I started to meet some company as I caught up athletes doing the shorter “classic” distance. Aware that being overtaken on a hill is the last thing you want when struggling up yourself, the support I received from other athletes as I went past was great and very welcome after spending the bike out on my own. In return all I can say is I was suffering just as much, and with heart rate at 185 knew I was probably pushing too hard – although it was impossible to do any less without walking.

As I descended off the first hill my course split off from the “classic” athletes and I was again by myself, being congratulated for leading by each marshall but with no idea of the margin. I just had to run my own race and hope I wasn’t being reeled in (I accept that “not knowing how much you’re winning by” is a nice problem to have…). A worse problem was that by mile seven my foot was making pretty loud complaints and there was still another big climb up the lower slopes of Snowdon itself. I pushed the pain to the back of my mind and promised myself another two weeks off with an an ice pack if I could keep going.

As I reached the top of this final climb I couldn’t see anyone on the trail behind me and was confident as long as I kept moving, I should have the win. It was a great feeling running back into Llanberis, high fiving spectators and lifting the finish tape (although the photographer thought I messed this up, as five minutes later I had to pose for another finish line picture – I’m sure some of the crowd thought I was milking it). The race announcer even interviewed me over the microphone, although I made him wait having just taken a big mouthful of “recovery” chocolate – my first celebrity moment and already a diva.

In the end I finished in 4:38:42 – really happy with my race across all disciplines and well clear of second place. My foot wasn’t feeling great, and writing this a few days later everything is still sore, but I expect that’s the same for everyone who left it all out on the course. The Slateman is a brilliantly organised event, with a route honest enough to test anyone but a friendly atmosphere for novices too. Already looking forward to part two of the Adventure Triathlon Series at Snowman in July.

After ticking off a few “bucket list” triathlons in 2018, I was lacking a bit of inspiration planning my 2019 race calendar. I’d always fancied competing at one of the ITU/ETU international races one day (for the same reason as most people I expect – I wanted a photo in the Team GB kit), but they aren’t the easiest to find information on. When I spotted the ITU Long Distance World Championships would be in Spain in 2019, I decided to look into it further. Qualification required a finish time within 10% of the age group winner at an iron or half iron-distance event, meaning my performances at Roth and Wales would be enough to secure a place.

In December this was confirmed and I booked my tickets for Pontevedra – a small town in North West Spain and the home of triathlon legend Javier Gomez. The race would be over roughly a three quarter iron distance – with 3000m swim, 113km bike and 30km run. Beyond this, race information was hard to come by – with little else available until close to the race. Although we had a “Team GB” Facebook group, this only served to reassure me that everyone was feeling equally in the dark… Rumours did emerge that the bike course was going to be extremely hilly though, which gave me a bit of encouragement.

After a big winter training block, with most of Netflix completed during long turbo sessions and dedicated weeks in Portugal and Mallorca, I headed into Pontevedra with more than double the training volume of previous years and an ill-informed sense I might have a chance at an age-group podium place. A friend had raced the same championships in Fyn, Denmark, in 2018 and suggested the field might not be as strong as you’d think at a World Championships – certainly not compared to the Ironman World Championships in Kona, where I wouldn’t dream of targeting a strong placing. However, when the start list came out I found there were at least 5 GB athletes in my age group with faster Ironman PBs than me – not to mention what the athletes from other countries might be capable of! I still kept a podium place as my private goal, but one I knew was extremely ambitious. All I could hope was my fitness was better than ever, the hilly course would play to my strengths, and a few competitors might be peaking for races later in the year.

I arrived in Pontevedra, via a one day stop in Porto, to find the swim was the big area of debate. With water temperature below 14C and air temperature of around 10C likely on race morning, our briefing informed us the distance was likely to be halved from 3,000m to 1,500m – greeted to slightly annoying cheers (surely if you sign up for triathlon you accept swimming is part of the bargain?). I tried to start up my own pantomime boo at the news, but the ITU rules are pretty clear so we just had to accept it. Swimming isn’t particularly my strength, I just felt it was a shame not to complete the full distance we’d all trained for. 

Post-briefing I had time for a gentle ride of the bike course – this would be three laps, mostly up or down hill but with no steep gradients or sharp corners. I was looking forward to the climbs, but a bit nervous how the descents would be on what would be a congested course.

Race morning arrived with the surprise luxury of an indoor sports hall to wait for the swim start. The international field were in good spirits and all enjoying the novelty of wearing our national jerseys, with plenty of photos of the different countries together. We then headed down to the tidal-fed river and watched the elite athletes start, noticing how little forward progress they seemed to be making against the current, as if they were on a swimming treadmill. It was our turn next, as we completed what must have been everyone’s slowest ever 1,500m. I found myself at the front of a mid-pack group – unable to bridge the gap to the fastest swimmers whilst permanently having my feet tapped by better tactical swimmers drafting behind me.

The water hadn’t seemed too cold at first, but by the end my face was pretty numb and I silently revised my opinion on the shortened swim. Arriving into T1, I tried to stay as relaxed as possible to avoid cramps whilst changing. Just as I mentally congratulated myself on a job well done, a calf muscle seized rock solid putting my second shoe on. I swore loudly, to the obvious confusion of athletes around me, and hobbled out to my bike.

Once cycling, I tried to regain some composure – I’d suffered worse cramps at Challenge Roth, they didn’t affect my cycling and by the time I had to run they’d eased a fair bit. Time to focus on the job at hand and in a few hours things might look different. This would be my first race with a power meter, and I found it a big help in managing my effort – avoiding going too hard uphill and knowing pretty well what would be sustainable. I found myself moving up the field during the climbs, then losing ground on the descents, and soon started to recognise a few athletes I was in close competition with.

The course did get busy, but I never really got stuck. In fact, with people’s names and nationality printed on their trisuits, I enjoyed being able to warn people personally that I was about to overtake, followed by “thank you” in their native language (I’m no linguist, but enjoyed pretending to be as I dusted off my single-word Spanish, Portugese, French, Italian and Japanese)! Towards the end, I set some modest personal speed records on the fast descent into Pontevedra and heard a shout from my parents that I was in second place arriving into T2.

Knowing my position, I didn’t even bother with sun cream in T2 – saving 20 precious seconds my shoulders would later regret. The pressure was on for my first couple of steps off the bike, but was pleased to find my calf was back to functioning 90%. I set off on the run alongside an elite athlete from New Zealand (on his second lap) and after a few adrenaline-fuelled minutes impressed at my ability to keep up checked my pace and realised this would not end well.

I settled in behind another elite athlete from Spain, and enjoyed how each pocket of supporters went wild for their home athlete before quietening to slow, polite (verging on sarcastic) applause for the Brit behind. I smiled and waved regardless. I was having a great time and running stronger than any race before, so was surprised when a Slovenian in my age group came storming past as if I wasn’t there. With 20km still to go – and already pushing my limit – I realised there was no point trying to chase him down and updated my race position to third. About 10 minutes later, a Spaniard came past – again from my age group – and I knew I was now in fourth and out of the medals. I tried to hold on for a couple of minutes, but with so far still to go realised it wasn’t possible and reluctantly settled back into running my own race.

As we went around the final lap I counted off behind me the various GB athletes in my age group who I’d expected to beat me, and felt a mixture of pride at a strong performance that had exceeded expectations and frustration that it would be just short of a medal. For no real reason, I put everything into the last mile, sprinting to the athletics stadium and my disappointment melted away as I went over the finish line – proud of a race well run. 

It was about 20 minutes later, after a big feed in the recovery area (offering only a strict doughnuts and oranges diet) that I found I’d actually finished third in my age group, and that I was fourth overall! I’d put in the fastest bike split of the day and in fact started the run second overall but first in my age group, meaning I would still get my moment on the podium at the awards ceremony that evening.

To not only represent the GB age group team, but win a world championship medal – even if only an amateur one – was an incredible feeling. Congratulations to fastest Brit Neil Eddy who won the entire amateur race, along with Tine and Xavier in my age group who comprehensively out-ran me and pushed me to my limit with their friendly competition. It’s a strange feeling to have my main and longest distance race over so early in the season, but grateful it went so well. Now looking forward to giving it everything at three hilly half ironman races over the summer.