Things haven’t really gone to plan since my last post about Staffordshire 70.3. I expect most people reading this will know the basics – but if not the fact that friends have rebranded me from “Ironman Steve” to “Covid Steve” is probably enough to work with. For several months over summer I suffered from post-viral fatigue / long Covid. This manifested itself as an overwhelming and all-consuming tiredness, where I had no energy and was left feeling a complete shell. I had the occasional good day where I managed a bit of exercise. Other days I would think I was fine, only to get in the pool – feel every fibre of my body shout “nope” – and get out after 2 lengths. Then there were bad weeks where I was so crushingly dazed and fatigued that I was unable to function in day-to-day life. Symptoms went up and down with no obvious cause – there was no general trend towards improvement and no real idea on how long it might take to get better.
I won’t go into great detail on how I felt during that time, which is somewhat hypocritical as I found the honest accounts of others going through similar challenges a huge help when I was struggling to identify with my friends living normal lives. I appreciated all the well wishes I received, but the conversations with people who could actually relate – and who in some cases continue to suffer much more than I ever did – were invaluable. My heart still goes out to them and I’m rooting for their recovery, however long that might take.
Whilst I was perhaps unlucky with my Covid experience, I was fortunate in chronic fatigue terms that my health returned quite suddenly in mid-September. There was no magic cure, that was just the time period needed in my case. I remember euphorically cycling back from a short morning swim grinning from ear-to-ear feeling that I was returning to myself. I now had my routine, social life and hobbies back.
What I also had was only 6 weeks until the 70.3 World Championships in Utah. Having booked the trip almost a year ago, this had until recently been feeling like an expensive mistake. In fact, if I could have made any money back through cancelling it, I would have written the whole thing off. I still wasn’t really in the headspace for a big holiday, and I certainly didn’t feel confident of finishing a half ironman.
Having said that, my fitness wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. My pace / power were only down about 10-15% depending on the discipline. And as I gradually increased my training volume over those 6 weeks I felt I was making some progress. As someone who used to get stressed if they missed a week or so of training with a niggle, it’s reassuring to know you don’t lose fitness overnight. However, I was still worried about the run, which always feels like an injury waiting to happen. I wouldn’t have the time to safely build up both the endurance needed for a half marathon and speed. Ultimately I plumped for safe, slower miles – even at my best I would probably struggle to compete at the front of a World Championships, so better to be in the condition to keep running the whole way round and enjoy the experience.
This opinion was only reinforced when I got out to Utah and started doing a few race week training sessions with my friends, where I constantly felt I was pushing very hard to cling onto people’s wheels and avoid being dropped (not always successfully). Alex, Harrison and Chris are all age group champions – so the bar was pretty high – and during a run to recce the course a few days out I ended up giving myself a problem in my calves and hamstring pushing too hard whilst failing to keep up. The day before the race whilst watching the women compete I was still hobbling tentatively and feeling like I’d just done a triathlon, not raring to take one on.
That evening my coach asked if I was getting excited, my message back read:
“I’m really not up for this one and mainly just don’t want to injure myself for winter. Focus is completely on next year. I still don’t really want to be here.”
Normally I care a bit too much about races – counting down the weeks and days with nervous excitement. This time, I wished I cared a bit more. I wanted to soak up the party atmosphere, high five supporters, thank every volunteer and support my friends to much-deserved success. Fundamentally I wanted to be a positive influence on those around me and not a downer. But I was in a rut and worried about how much this was going to hurt.
Race morning arrived, and we filed onto yellow school buses to make our way to the swim location. Squeezing myself into an undersized children’s seat, I received a text from one of my aforementioned fatigue friends, just checking in on how I was doing. I hadn’t updated him on my recent improvement, partly because I hadn’t wanted to flaunt my recovery to someone still struggling, and he couldn’t believe I’d gone from illness to Ironman in such a short time. His excitement for me, and sadness that he can’t imagine being able to do these things again himself, had a big effect on me. It forced me to reflect how far I’d come and how grateful I would have been throughout summer to have been offered this opportunity, regardless of how imperfect the preparation. It shamed me into feeling the gratitude and excitement I knew I should. And it left me emotionally charged to give my all for the sake of all the people who would trade places with me for this opportunity. The timing of that message changed everything.
There had been speculation that low air temperature in the morning could see the swim cancelled, but after the women’s swim had gone ahead in about 4℃ the previous day, we knew our balmy 6℃ should be fine. Nevertheless, I’d preloaded a bin bag down the front of my trisuit to keep the worst of the chill off and would add gloves in T1 to complete the “continental footballer in summer” aesthetic.
Each age group would set off separately, with a rolling start within each wave. We were the 6th wave to go off behind a number of older age groups, meaning we’d likely be passing a fair bit of traffic during the swim and the rest of the day. I managed to get myself pretty near the front of our wave, just behind another British athlete Tom Bill who I’d swum with at other races this year and hoped might be somoene to try and stick alongside. By this point I was feeling really happy, bouncing along to the hype music and looking forward to a fun, less intense race day.
The swim was very straightforward to navigate and I managed to follow someone at a good pace for about 800m, whilst someone behind insisted on hitting my own feet like a set of bongo drums. I received a few punches in the face when things got a bit congested catching up packs from previous age group waves. I don’t think I hit anyone myself, but I gave a few strong kicks in the vain hope that the drummer behind me might take a hint. I ended up leading him and a few others back on the home straight and exited the water in what turned out to be 22nd place.
I went against the habit of a lifetime and actually gained some time in T1. My usual approach of faffing around with socks and gloves acting as good practice for these colder conditions. I didn’t even have to take my own wetsuit off, you just had to lie down and two volunteers yanked it off effortlessly. Honestly, these World Championship events spoil you… I set off on the bike already up to 8th place.
As soon as I started cycling I was both cold and loving it. The volume of athletes on the road ahead acted as constant morale boosts to pick off and the wide highways provided plenty of room to overtake. I started out unrealistically hard just to get my temperature up, and during this phase passed Kit Walker who I’d seen had started a couple of minutes behind me. Kit beat me at Staffordshire earlier in the year, when I’d been much stronger, so I’d expected him to put a good chunk of time into me on the swim. I was surprised I’d been able to overtake him on the bike though and make a gap stick. Admittedly, I was riding unsustainably so suspected he’d be back with me soon enough.
I continued to make outrageously rapid progress on these immaculate roads, managing to carry speed into the many climbs and hold an aerodynamic position. This was a fast, but hilly course – it suited me perfectly and I was having a blast. I decided to just keep putting as much power down as possible – I wasn’t sure if I’d have much to offer on the run, so why not give it everything now and see how competitive I could be over swim and bike at least?
About 20 miles in I caught up with Tom, who I didn’t realise had got out of the swim so far in front of me. I wasn’t sure if this meant I’d done poorly or he’d done well, but it didn’t really matter – we gave each other a thumbs up and I continued the assault.
By 35 miles at the bottom of Snow Canyon – the main climb of the day – the wheels were metaphorically coming off (and my bike had developed an unnerving rattle that I hoped wouldn’t turn this literal). The exertions of the last 90 minutes had seen effortless power descend into a laboured slog. But I had now engaged race mode and was able to force my way up the climb faster than our training intervals a few days earlier. I knew Graham from my local swim group was waiting at the top, and whilst I’d told him I didn’t want any updates on positions or splits, I was glad he’d ignored me and was ready with the information that I was in 5th place, about 2 minutes down on the lead.
The descent from Snow Canyon had absolutely terrified me on our first recce – hitting around 50mph which is about as fast as I’ve ever travelled on a bike. I was convinced my nervousness would cost me a lot of time on race day, but when it came to it the adrenaline cancelled out any cowardice and the same speed felt relaxed and controlled. I arrived at the second luxury transition zone – handed my bike to a volunteer (one can hardly be expected to rack one’s own bike at a World Championships…) and started out on the run just as Kit rolled into transition with a time gap that suggested we must be neck and neck on the clock (it turned out he was 1 second ahead of me). My bike split had been the second fastest of the day.
The first mile or two of the run would tell me a lot about whether I could continue this unexpected attempt at competing, or drop back into “here for the holiday” mode. My heart rate seemed under control, my legs felt much happier for being off the bike, and when the first mile splits came through my pace was ahead of any best case scenario. Boycey from my running club who was spectating told me I was now in second place – 90 seconds behind first and 3 minutes ahead of third. About halfway up the climb on the first lap, with my legs either not in pain or numbed by everything else going on, I started to get a bit teary behind the sunglasses not believing what was happening. I knew there was a lot still to do, but even with 10 miles to go was convinced I had the iron will to keep up this level of suffering, and that a top 5 finish was becoming realistic. I would do this for the past version of me who feared this would never be possible again. I would do it for all the friends who can’t right now. This was mind over matter, fuelled by emotion.
With several out and back sections I was able to see quite a few of my friends out on the course. Tom was still going well and we egged each other on, whilst Harrison and Chris seemed to be having fun and we high-fived. On the other hand, Kit and Alex had been forced to walk by injuries. Having half-expected that outcome for myself, I was both sad to see their races end like this but felt a lot of admiration that two champion athletes were able to force themselves around in those circumstances to make it to the finish.
At the halfway point, I received an update that I was now only 60 seconds down on first place. Could I catch him up? Obviously that would be incredible, but I was already at my maximum and all I could do was keep that up. The result didn’t really matter to me at this point, the fact I was in a race and pushing myself to the limit again was everything. I spotted Harrison’s family and proudly announced I was “doing boss”, I saw Alex’s partner Jess and amused her with a spontaneous salute. Even in suffering competitor mode I was managing to play the crowd pleaser. I was having a blast and performing. I was having my cake and eating it. Yes, I was alarming other athletes with what were now quite regular howls of pain, but you can’t have quite everything.
With 3 miles to go I heard I was now only 90 seconds clear of third place and needed to hold on. Clearly first was out of the equation now, but the approach remained the same, just to leave everything out there and finish with no regrets. I was able to pick up my effort, if not my pace, and ran down the finisher chute in a bit of a blur, shouting in triumph, jumping across the finish line, immediately regretting it as my hamstrings cramped up and falling to the floor unable to stay upright. If my approach to racing could be summarised in one 6 second video clip, it’s that one.
After making it to my feet and reassuring everyone my collapse wasn’t as dramatic as it looked, I was able to give some of my friends a wave, race announcer Jo Murphy took a pause from her relentless schedule to give me a hug, and I found a quiet corner to sit and have a bit of a cry. I waited to see a number of friends come through the finish line and didn’t think to check where I’d finished for almost an hour – 2nd out of 476. And not just any 476, these were all qualifiers and would have included the majority of podium finishers from every race around the world in the last 12 months. In a triathlon “career” that has never failed to surprise me, this was by far my most implausible result yet.
I still feel quite embarrassed by just how far I underestimated my prospects at this race. I’ve been telling anyone who would listen to lower their expectations, that I wasn’t here to compete, wasn’t ready, wasn’t looking forward to it. If I was a football manager I’d be accused of mind games. But those who genuinely know me understand that it’s all just good honest self-doubt, and not an attempt to craft some underdog narrative. I’m grateful to my friends who tolerate this, don’t try to undermine me for feeling that way, but also don’t indulge or encourage it.
Having said that, it’s not completely unheard of for me to go into races with confidence. The uncertainty from being ill means I haven’t really planned 2023 just yet, but I hope I can head into whatever races I do end up taking on feeling a bit more optimistic and prepared. And if I don’t, it turns out that might not matter…
