Since Challenge Roth, I’d had some patchy training with a few illnesses stopping me getting back into a full routine. However, one thing I really enjoyed was giving my first ever talk about triathlon to a local primary school, where I was surprised how much the kids already knew about the sport. I felt like I really had them onside and suitably impressed (mostly by some GB branded trisuits and a flashy bike) but things slightly fell apart in the Q&A:
Child: “What’s your favourite ever win?”
Me: “Probably the Half Ironman in Weymouth”
Child: “No. What’s your best proper Ironman win?”
Me: “Um…well…I’ve not actually won a full Ironman before”
Entire school: *visible disappointment*
As my form in training started to come round in the couple of weeks before Ironman Cork, I knew this could be a chance to regain the respect of the 6-10 year olds of Cheltenham…
Ironman Cork is actually based in the small town of Youghal. The main reason I’d signed up for this race was I’d heard how much the local people embrace the event – with many comparing it to Tenby in Wales which is the best community welcome I’d experienced to date. There was also the prospect of Windmill Hill – a short but painfully steep 21% climb in the centre of town – which after only two previous editions already had a legendary reputation for its crowd support.
Originally, the 70.3 race was planned for Saturday with my full distance event on the Sunday. I drove the bike route on Friday for familiarisation just as Storm Betty was starting to roll in and decided it was going to be horrendous. With hindsight, this was unfair on the course – nowhere looks good in torrential rain but the debris and flooding across the road were a big shift from the wide, smooth, open roads I’d been treated to at Roth. The storm continued overnight, which rendered the roads completely unrideable, and the 70.3 was postponed to the same day as the full Ironman – meaning an extra 2000 athletes would be on the course setting off in front of me. Congestion seemed likely, but it would be the same for all of us.
Sunday arrived, and the 70.3 race would start 30 minutes before the full Ironman. The weather forecast was good, but as we got closer to start time the sea began to get rougher. A decision was taken to shorten our swim to match the 1.9km of the 70.3 race, and the start for everyone was delayed so buoys could be moved to mark out a new course with less swimming required against the tide. By the time the professional 70.3 race got going, the waves were even choppier and I’d never seen a pro field get strung out so quickly. There was no real group, but there were clusters of athletes who seemed to be going in completely different directions. This suggested both sighting and navigating the tide must be tricky.
As the weaker swimmers towards the back of the 70.3 field set off from the beach, it was clear some were finding the first 400m against the tide very challenging. Whilst everyone was getting out beyond the initial waves, a large group were struggling to make further progress – as if they were swimming in an endless pool. Eventually, a decision was made to adjust the course again – with kayaks coming over to athletes already in the water to direct them to a different buoy less against the tide. I’m sure the experience for these athletes was chaotic and in some cases quite frightening.
After another delay, our full distance race was off. Even with the easier swim course, the conditions up to the first turn buoy were indeed very difficult – the hardest I have swum in. Waves coming in were huge walls that made sighting difficult and impossible to monitor any sort of race dynamic. We’d been told to aim to the right of the buoy and this advice served me well as I seemed to arrive there fairly accurately. After turning, the swim was really very fast (under 60 seconds per 100m) as the strong current was now pushing us into transition. I quite enjoyed feeling the sea boosting me along, even if it did mean my swimming effort felt somewhat irrelevant and I could have just coasted to the swim exit, where I began to catch up the back of the 70.3 field.
Overcrowding meant the run into T1 was more of a frustrated walk, and the tent where our bike kit was waiting was even worse. Again, the same for everyone (and I actually had a faster T1 than other athletes who exited at the same time as me – a real rarity) – but the spacing between 70.3 and full distance races needs to be reviewed if Ironman are going to put them on the same day in future. This theme of overcrowding continued through most of the first lap of the bike, but was particularly bad in the first 10 miles or so where I must have broken the world record for shouting “on your right” to warn people I was trying to come through.
Whilst I expected this would lead to a slower bike split, the need to maintain power to keep on overtaking meant that I was definitely pushing too hard. Annoyingly, my heart rate monitor wasn’t working, but I still had power and could see this wasn’t sustainable for 112 miles. In my head I’d already built the narrative “I’m ruining my race, I’m over-biking the first lap and will struggle later on” and it took me the best part of an hour to realise it was completely in my own power to rectify the situation by just calming down a bit…
It was impossible to know where I was in my race with so many 70.3 athletes around, but I was feeling good and quite enjoying the morale boost of gradually overtaking well over 1000 athletes. So it took me by surprise when someone pulled the same trick on me – a lean and fast looking French guy called Gael whose green bib number signified he was in the full distance race. He wasn’t pulling away from me quickly though and I just kept him in sight about 30 metres up the road to ensure no potential drafting issues. At the end of lap 1 we hit Windmill Hill, where Gael put a bit more time into me (he recorded the fastest split up there of the day). The experience up here was immense – perhaps even better than Solar Berg at Challenge Roth. The main difference is that Windmill Hill really is very difficult – especially on a heavy TT bike – and you rely on drawing energy from the crowds just to make it to the top.
Onto the second lap, and we were still both riding strongly. I thought it was likely we were at the front of the race but now there would be no 70.3 riders on the course I was also checking behind me for anyone catching up. The most likely candidate was George Martindale – winner of Ironman UK last year – who I knew was a strong contender and at the top of every hill glanced back hoping I wouldn’t see his distinctive orange suit. After 60 miles I was surprised when a spectator said I was 10 minutes off the lead. It was a shame to be so far back – but there must be a serious athlete at the front and I was excited to have such a challenge. If I could get into T2 with the same gap, I reckoned I still had a chance of catching them on the run. It would be nice to be the hunter rather than the hunted for a change.
I tried to maintain decent aerodynamics, but the technical course didn’t really suit my amusing Poc helmet – needing to pay close attention to the tarmac surface and twisting turns at all times. The visor was also smashing into my nose with every vibration from the road, which meant it was actually much more sore than my legs. Gael disappeared at an aid station – most likely needing the toilet – but was replaced by another athlete in front who I caught and overtook with surprising ease. Had he gone out too hard and blown up? I didn’t dwell on it, and continued to ride strongly. At Roth the metaphorical wheels fell off after about 70 miles – but here I was riding much better in the closing stages of the bike leg.
With 10 miles to go I overtook another athlete – again with ease – and now had a police motorbike in front. I had suspicions this might mean I was at the front of the race but couldn’t work out how I could have closed 10 minutes on the leader so fast.I reached Windmill Hill for a second time and thought I heard a friend say I was in third. I said “OK, third” and he chased back up to me (the road is that steep…) to correct “no – in first, a few minutes up”. This was welcome news compared to being 10 minutes down and massively shifted the dynamic for the marathon ahead. As it turned out, the last two athletes I’d overtaken had set off with the 70.3 race by accident and so me and Gael had been leading the race on the clock since the very start of the bike.
I was just processing the news I was in the lead when *CRACK*. My chain was off and wedged against the rear disc wheel. My front derailleur was bent and nearly sheared off, crank wedged between it and the frame. It was a game-ending mechanical as far as any form of pedalling went. But the bike could still roll and I was less than two miles from T2. Without wasting time on a pointless repair attempt, I hopped off and started to run. Cleats clacking, chain screeching against the disc wheel, already silly Poc helmet lolling at a comical angle… It wasn’t a scene that screamed “potential race winner” and certainly confused my police escort. After sprinting for about three minutes, I reached the crest of a hill and realised I could possibly freewheel down at a slightly faster pace. I hopped on, sat for what felt like an age whilst I waited for gravity to take effect, before gradually picking up the momentum to trundle loudly into T2.
I saw second place arrive behind me just as I left, meaning I still had at least a couple of minutes’ advantage despite my Chris Froome up Ventoux moment. The run course would be four laps, with multiple out and back sections to keep track of those behind me. I saw George Martindale for the first time, running well and about five minutes behind. He quickly established himself in second place and became the main man to watch for. I was missing my heart rate data which I usually use to manage effort, but based on pace the first lap at 6:20 min/mile was probably a bit too fast. This was fairly deliberate though, as I wanted to make sure I didn’t give George any encouragement that he was reeling me in. I was accompanied by a “lead male” cyclist who did a great job relentlessly blowing on a whistle to move 70.3 participants out of my way, and these athletes in turn were extremely friendly. Whether overtaking on the bike or the run, I received as much support from other athletes as I did from the crowd – the atmosphere was brilliant.
I was doing regular mental maths at each out and back section. The gap to George was staying consistent at five minutes so I gradually allowed myself to target a slightly slower pace – knowing George had less and less distance to make up the ground. My legs were still in pretty good shape, but my stomach was starting to struggle. Forcing down each Maurten gel became a mini endurance challenge in itself – my stomach complaining but my energy levels thanking me. On lap three, the gap slowly started to grow and by the start of lap four it was close to nine minutes. I was able to really savour the final lap, not worry about pushing myself too hard and celebrate with the crowd. I was also able to chat to my cycle escort, who said that winning the race alongside me had given him a good birthday present (although as lead male cyclist the win had always been likely!).
I crossed the line in 8:13:52 – a pretty irrelevant time due to the shortened swim, but with a 3 hour marathon that had felt relatively comfortable (stomach issues aside). The energy of the crowds at the finish was fantastic, the mayor had about 100 photos with me, I took more selfies than I can remember and gave multiple interviews where I tried to say all the right things about how wonderful Youghal had been.
And every word of it was true. The atmosphere in Youghal was beautiful and the athlete experience – whether you were the first or last finisher – was incredible. When the pub I was celebrating in found out I’d been the race winner we got two free rounds of drinks and a procession of the owner’s children and staff came out for photos with me. In five minutes sat on the pavement waiting for a lift back to my accommodation I was given some chips and then some pizza by enthusiastic passers-by who had no idea (and wouldn’t have cared) how I’d got on. Every finisher was treated like a hero.
Sadly two people would never experience any of this. After the race, we found out the tragic news that there had been two deaths during the swim that morning. Whilst there’s been a lot of speculation around what decisions should have been made when, and by who, for now my thoughts and sympathies are simply with their families and friends. This race reinforced for me that the triathlon community is the best, and we lost two of our own.
