After a good winter of training and only a few run niggles in the last month pre-race (which are now so common even I’ve stopped worrying about them), I came into this event feeling relatively confident. I’d taken part in this same World Championships in 2019, finishing 4th overall in the amateur race, and found the unusual “three-quarter Ironman” distance quite good for me. Like 2019, the course was a hilly but not technical bike (2 laps) and a run with some challenging sections through the old town up and down steps and over cobbles (3 laps). In theory, it looked like an interesting and fun route that would play to my strengths, even if it wouldn’t allow for record-breaking pace.
I enjoyed watching the PTO European Open the day before, feeling slightly starstruck and embarrassingly shouting out to everyone by their first name as if I was their friend. I always have pretty terrible T1 times, so took a video of the mount line to see how the best in the world do it – only for Jan Frodeno (arguably the greatest of all time) to nearly fall off his bike into me, doing a good impression of how I would look attempting a flying mount on a steep incline.
Onto Sunday, and it was our turn. It’s always nice to have someone in the field to measure yourself against, and this time round it was Alex Jones – someone I train with regularly and with whom I’m always pretty evenly matched. He’s a strong swimmer, so I lined up behind him hoping to try and hold his feet and guide me towards the lead group. The starting horn went, and despite my best lolloping sprint into the sea, within 20 seconds he’d got away. No matter, I found someone else’s feet to follow and whilst they weren’t towing me at breakneck speed, it allowed me to take things very easy for the first 10 minutes and not worry too much about sighting the course.
I thought I saw an athlete make a break to the right, so made an attack to follow. They turned out to be one of the para-athletes who’d set off in a previous wave though, and when I tried to return to my nice sheltered position in the pack found no charitable strangers willing to give up their own free ride. I was now swimming side-by-side with the group leader, and whilst not as easy as before, quite enjoyed having a friend next to me (less so the impatient folk tapping on our feet).
The waves began to grow as we went on, whilst the buoys marking the course seemed to get further and further apart. Sighting the course was becoming quite a challenge and after one turn neither of us at the front could see where to go. After a bit of breaststroke (which the pack behind were really patient and understanding about), I spotted the next buoy away to our right – not quite where we expected it to be. Course set, I led our merry band towards it. As we got close, a boat appeared next to it. As we got really close, that boat started dragging it away… It turns out the buoy had come loose from its correct position and we now had to take a 90 degree turn to chase both buoy and boat to wherever it should have been. Despite the moving goalposts and choppy sea, I enjoyed the swim and as we exited the water was surprised to hear us announced as the leading age groupers. It turns out we’d recaught Alex fairly early on, after which he’d sat in as part of the toe-tapping club (that I secretly wished I’d been in).
I knew T1 was going to be a shambles. Pre-race I’d realised the mandatory GB trisuit was extremely uncomfortable to swim in when worn over the shoulders and having it rolled down under my wetsuit would save me a lot of time and energy. However, it also risked a “nudity disqualification” if anyone were to see my scandalous exposed torso (on a beach filled with topless sunbathers), meaning I’d have to pick up my bike kit then change in a designated tent rather than on the move. As I picked up my bike bag, a marshall told me I had to change on a seat in front of him:
“I can’t, I’m naked!” I shouted ridiculously.
“Change here” he said again.
“You’ll disqualify me!” I argued stupidly
This debate continued from a distance as I tried to remove my wetsuit in the changing tent, which I bungled spectacularly, all the while getting covered in sand off the beach. I then looked for somewhere to return my swim kit – there was supposed to be someone in the tent to throw it to, but they weren’t here. “Back there” someone pointed, forcing me to run back 30 metres against the flow of, now many, athletes exiting the water who must have wondered why this sandy Brit wanted to go back in the sea with an aero helmet on. I eventually got onto the bike in 12th place, shaking my head, pissed off, and 2.5 minutes off the speediest changer.
The frustration lit a competitive fire and I managed to bridge up to Alex within the first 5 miles of steady climbing. I briefly considered sticking with him, knowing he would probably pace the ride more sensibly than me, but after watching Alistair Brownlee blow the PTO race apart with pure aggression the day before, decided I preferred a similar gung ho approach today. I tried to ignore that Brownlee had ultimately finished 6th after going out too hard…
I passed Alex and together we soon caught up to another 4 athletes at the front of the race. They were climbing up one of the many steady hills and being closely monitored by a motorbike for potential drafting. I’d have preferred a more gradual effort to pass them one by one, but with no legal gaps to slot into between them, felt forced to put in a big surge and overtake them all in one go. This worked, and I kept the effort high to the top of the climb to try and form a gap.
The bike course had several out and back sections where I could estimate gaps to those behind. At the first, Alex was leading the chase group 20 seconds back from me. The next section had the most climbing, which I hoped would benefit me, so I pushed this hard and was rewarded with a 2 minute gap at the quarter way point. The final section was faster and overall downhill, where I suspected my rivals might regain some time. I focused on keeping as aero as possible and was surprised to find the gap to Alex had grown again to 3 minutes at the halfway point.
On lap 2, I could tell my power had dropped a little but continued to throw caution to the wind. We were now lapping athletes from later starting waves and the course became quite congested. It was difficult to track how the race was evolving, except checking for Alex’s trisuit at each turning point. At one of those U-turns, the inspiration for my do-or-die strategy Alistair Brownlee was stood supporting – “thanks Al” I shouted. Apparently I call him Al now…
The gap to Alex was still increasing, if more slowly. My chain came off shifting to the small ring and I lost 15 seconds or so, but the lead still went up. 4.5 minutes, then 6. I couldn’t be sure if Alex was still in second place but despite my failing legs the damage was done and my aggressive strategy had worked. I just needed to get up this last climb and then cruise safely into T2 and
*BANG*
I was on the floor. Every other crash I’ve had I’ve felt coming – sensing the panic and loss of control before hitting the deck. This one came out of nowhere and the first I knew was my helmet echoing loudly in my ears. Completely my own fault, I’d stared down at my bars a few pedal strokes too long grinding up a steep climb and obviously hit something that made me lose balance. My first concern was for the bike – as a mechanical issue would put me out of the race. I was very lucky, as despite some deep scratches across the right hand side – including on the rear derailleur – it seemed to be working fine. I didn’t feel too bad either, a finger was bleeding and my right side was scuffed – but unless adrenaline was masking the pain I’d got away with it.
I took the last 15 miles more cautiously, determined not to waste my fortune and cruised towards T2, where the marshalls were perhaps not ready for age groupers as they didn’t seem to be paying attention. I shared some relatively impolite feedback to no-one in particular (“show me the f*cking way!”) which apparently did lead to them rearranging the signage for subsequent athletes. Just my bit of angry public service.
As I racked my bike and headed towards my run kit another marshall brought me to a stop. “Where do you think you’re going?” she challenged. I thought I was about to be directed to a penalty tent for my outburst, but apparently saying “to do the run course” was the only explanation needed and I was free to be on my way, having recorded the fastest bike split of the day.
As I started the run, some of the faster pro men who’d started 20 minutes before us were just completing their first lap. James Teagle came past and I managed about 20 seconds at his pace before seeing the error of my ways. With 18 miles still to run and feeling pretty sure I had a solid lead, it was best to be sensible. When I was overtaken by another pro Ondrej Kubo a mile or so later, he was running much closer to my target pace and I latched on. If I could stick with him for most of his remaining 2 laps, it would see me most of the way home.
I really enjoyed having someone to run with, we even had a few chats which were mostly me thanking him for the pacing help and him saying how crazy the cobbled section of the route was. I briefly ruined my pro athlete street cred by shouting “thanks Magnus” when I saw Magnus Ditlev cheering from the sidelines. I’m incredibly lame.
As the race went on and the course got more crowded it became difficult to know where my competitors were. I was keeping an eye on Alex, but knew he was no longer at the front of the chasing pack. I was craving information and stressed, shouting at every spectator I knew for reassurance, feeling like a hunted animal. Apparently there was a Moldovan in a black trisuit closest to me, and I could tell the gap was still 5 minutes heading into the final lap, just as Kubo dropped me for a kick to the finish where he ended 6th pro.
I was struggling to sustain my pace, but allowed myself to ease off by around 30 seconds per mile. With a 5 minute gap and 5 miles to go, this should still see me home comfortably. Unless there was someone closer than I realised, or someone really motoring behind.
As it turned out there was and they were the same person. At the final out-and-back with nearly 2 miles to go I saw a French guy absolutely flying through the crowds. He was only a minute behind and looked far too quick to be someone I was a lap ahead of… Time to dig deep and try to recapture some speed – it would be gutting to miss out now having led pretty much all day. Luckily, I managed to get somewhere close to my starting pace, and I crossed the line first overall, with my stealthy French rival just 40 seconds back, having run the 18 miles quicker than all but one of the professionals. I had the second fastest age group split of the day, and he’d still put over 6 minutes into me!
I enjoyed my usual release of emotion at the finish, and was complimented by a photographer that I could teach the pros a few things about how to celebrate. If they could teach me how to swim, bike or run like them in return, that would be great. In fact, we should probably start with transitions.
These age group races show triathlon can be a sport for life, with some impressive performances right up the age groups. And having escaped the awards at Pacha nightclub as soon as possible in favour of a quiet glass of wine in the historic town square, I already feel like I fit in with those older categories just fine.
