It’s 5am on Weymouth’s Esplanade. It is dark and an ominous wind has picked up overnight. Empty cans and old chip papers blow across the front, all dusted with fine white sand from the resort’s beautiful beach. There’s a young woman limping in front of me. She is in a terrible state. Her torn party dress hangs from her shoulders and she’s lost a stiletto so she’s lurching from side to side. I am walking quietly behind her and stone-cold sober, but it occurs to me that in about 12 hours I’ll be in a similar state. Not because I’ll be drunk and wearing a wrecked dress, but because I’ll be on the final lap of my first long-distance triathlon.
My landlady had told me the town would be “dead as the grave” as there were so many athletes staying in the endless b&bs. But she was wrong. Weymouth had partied late. I know because as I’d lain in my single bed staring at the ceiling, the thundering bass from the club across the lane had kept me awake for hours. Or maybe that had just been my heart hammering in my chest? I was so nervous I didn’t have butterflies but a colony of hyperactive bats… An ironman triathlon! What on earth was I thinking?
The event consists of a 2.4-mile swim followed by a 112-mile bike ride topped off with a full 26.2-mile marathon. The three disciplines are always in this order and, not without exaggeration, it’s recognised as one of the toughest (and stupidest) one-day sporting events you can do. The original took place on Kona in Hawaii in 1978. The story goes that a naval commander decided to settle a bragging contest about which athletes were fittest – runners, swimmers or cyclists – by combining all three into a single ultra triathlon. That explains why the distances are so peculiar. They were created to fit the particular contours of the island. It was the commander who also decided to call the winner the “Iron Man”. Fifteen men (no women) took part – 12 finished. The following year 50 athletes (including some women) pitched up. The “Ironman” was born.
Only a few branded events are actually “Ironman” races. This one, Challenge Weymouth, is therefore called an “iron-distance” triathlon. It’s also not in Hawaii. But the distances are the same, the beach is just as sandy and we have a quaint Georgian promenade…
It was far too early for my landlady to cook me a full English, so I sat on the end of my bed and solemnly ate two egg-mayo sandwiches, washed down with tea and powdered milk. A true breakfast of champions. After faffing about with my various bags of kit, I checked out of the b&b and plodded past the drunk woman on the Esplanade and on up the bay to the start. Most of my fellow 605 ironmen and ironwomen had begun to gather and the dreadful nerves I’d been feeling gave way to something else: excitement. It sounds odd, considering the pain that awaited us, but we were all here because we wanted to be. This is what we’d chosen to do with our Sunday. We’d trained hard, too, so in many ways there was a sense of relief that finally we were getting this thing done.
But there was a problem. Down on the wind-lashed beach the organisers said there were safety issues – code for enormous waves and a nasty current. The sea had rearranged the buoys overnight – in fact some had been blown away. So it was goggles on, goggles off. Hats on, hats off. We fretted and paced. Finally everything was sorted and a klaxon set us off, bounding down the beach into the surf. The sight of so many rubber-clad people whooping and cheering as they ran into towering waves in dawn’s half-light was weird, wonderful and probably of concern to social services. It was like a mass dip organised by the local gimp society.
We were swept off our feet and bundled over by the waves, but the sea was surprisingly warm, and once past the breakers it was a beautiful blue-green. Heads down, we ploughed out to the yellow buoy in the distance. Rounding it I stopped and looked back at the shore, the long crescent of Weymouth bay backed by the Georgian front was quite a sight. A man pulled up next to me and, treading water a mile out to sea at 7am, we admired the view together, yellow swim caps dotted all about us. Strange, but memorable…
The current was strong, so rather than emerging where we’d entered most of us were washed hundreds of yards down the beach. One woman was led off in tears, her face red from being slammed on to the beach by the waves. By the end of the day, of the 605 who originally signed up more than 100 would not reach the finish.
Shoulders aching and lips swollen from the salt, I dragged myself from the clutches of the sea and headed for the race’s first set-change. Transition is something the pros take very seriously. A quick change will save you minutes. But my mantra for the day was: “Keep it slow and steady.” Besides, if I was about to ride 112 miles, I wanted to make sure my socks were on straight, my top was zipped and my bottom was well greased.
Around me panicked men hopped about, hog-tied by clinging wetsuits – like so many lovers caught with their trousers down. It was hard not to laugh at the sheer oddness of it all.
Setting out on a 112-mile ride is daunting at the best of times. But after you’ve already done a long swim… well, that’s just crazy. I spent a lot of time that day thinking people were nuts, then remembering I was one of them. It didn’t help that my bike cost at least a grand less than everyone else’s. The top athletes pump round on extreme aero machines, arms stretched out in front in supplication. It means they look at little more than the tarmac sweeping beneath their tyres. That’s a shame for them because the ride was a beauty. Rolling rather than hilly, it took in a great swathe of Dorset’s lovely countryside. We passed through endless villages called Piddle This or Puddle That. Dorset’s early settlers must have had serious incontinence issues.
The only mechanical issue was to my back rather than my bike. It started to cramp, so I pulled over and stretched on a grassy bank. A fellow competitor stopped in panic, then laughed with relief. “All I could see was your bike lying by the road,” he said, “and two legs waving in the air…”
Back on the bike and the ride went on, and on. Back pain, neck pain, hand pain, bum pain. Sit on a tiny saddle for six hours and everything hurts or goes numb.
Finally it’s back to transition. Bike kit off/run kit on. Start a marathon with fresh legs and you feel trepidation. Start one with knackered legs and you feel… actually you feel OK. Two-thirds of the race is behind you. You are on the home straight. The first mile of running was dreadful. Imagine a cadaver attempting to shake off rigor mortis. We were a bunch of stumbling robot runners… But the stiffness wore off and our legs came back to life.
The run was four 10km laps of Weymouth. Clapped on by my family, friends and volunteers, the miles ticked past quicker than I dared hope. Locals cheered in Dorset accents: “Good job, mate! Good job, Martin!”
It was a glorious sunny Sunday and Weymouth was all ice cream, donkey rides, deck chairs, candy floss, a crooner on the bandstand…
I jogged on, fuelled with flapjacks and flat cola. Each time I passed a woman on a bench she held up her little dog and shouted: “Beagle power!” I saw two sons pace their dad; a young family chase their mother and shout: “Go, Mummy, go! We are so proud of you!” I welled up then. I didn’t have long to go.
And then the finish came in a rush – 11 hours and 32 minutes after I started. Medal on, smiles on, hugs all round. A booming voice came over the loudspeaker: “And well done to Martin! Welcome to the Challenge family!” I stood rooted to the spot, not moving for the first time all day, savouring every moment.
Then – and this sounds a little odd – I looked down at my heaving body as if it wasn’t really mine, and said to it in a rich Dorset accent: “Good job, mate! Good job, Martin!”
The next Challenge Weymouth is on 13 September 2015, which will also host the European Long-Distance Triathlon Championships (challengeweymouth.com). For information on visiting Weymouth, go to visit-weymouth.org.uk
Wiggle Dragon Ride goes on Tour in 2015
The prestigious Wiggle Dragon Ride has opened for entries. It’s earned a reputation as one of the most outstanding sportives the UK has to offer and next year the Wiggle Dragon Ride will be preceded by an additional two days of road cycling for the very first time, to create the Dragon Tour supported by Stephen Roche. The event will form part of a new look Human Race Sportive Series, which also features the London Cycle Sportive, Chiltern 100 and Wiggle Etape Cymru as well as the newly added Lionheart Cyclosportive. The new Dragon Ride Tour will include three days of spectacular cycling through the stunning Welsh landscape from Friday 5 to Sunday 7 June 2015. Riders will experience well-stocked feed stations, marshals, timed climbs and fully signed routes throughout the three days, as well as some of the most spectacular riding in Britain. Accommodation for the group has been secured at both the Marriott Hotel Swansea and the Grand Hotel Swansea, or participants can choose to book their own room elsewhere for the night. To top it all off, the after-dinner speaker on the Saturday will be former Tour De France Champion Stephen Roche, who will be sharing his knowledge and experience which helped him claim the Triple-Crown in 1987. For more information, head to www.humanrace.co.uk/cycling.
Email Martin at martin.love@observer.co.uk or follow him on Twitter @MartinLove166
