“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.
