My First Ironman

One Very Hot Day in Frankfurt

“Auf gehts!!”

The words shot from the DJ’s PA and echoed round the small town’s packed high street. Children stood on the baking hot curb and stretched out their arms hoping for a high five. Parents smiled encouragingly.

From the start of the bike leg, it had been the same through all the larger towns. Well organised, the Germans were out in force. Enjoying the thirty degree heat, eating, drinking and offering their whole hearted good will.

To the relative neophyte (I’d done two Sprints and one Olympic), completely new to the mythical experience known as Ironman, every single bit of support is needed.

Even the sleepy hamlets produced a handful of spectators, their canvas garden chairs arrayed along the street and shadowed by the ever present red t-shirts of the enthusiastic Ironman volunteers.

In every other town, where I’d heard, “Auf, auf, auf,” or, “Power, Power,” I’d smiled, waved, high fived the kids and found a bit more speed.

Yet here, somewhere around 140k into the bike and about seven hours into the event, I found myself wanting to cry. ‘Blood sugar,’ said my rationale brain, before reminding me, ‘EAT NOW.’ But something else just sought the catharsis of letting it out.

Hours into a sweltering day, I’d lost the ability keep down anything solid. Caught between very different physical needs, I emptied the remnants of my umpteenth bottle down my throat, prayed for the next aid station, all the while letting the tears flow and wondering what I was doing and quite how I’d got here.

*

Nine months ago, the whole thing seemed so abstract. I’d only been into this triathlon thing for a while and like the typical geek, I’d become a bit (well ok a lot) obsessive about it. I’d got a coach but it hadn’t worked out. So there I was, working with my new coach and talking about long term goals; ‘Ironman…that would be so cool!’ I whispered. I could barely say it as that might make it more real. Yet somehow it seemed possible. She’d got people there. Time was on our side. I wanted to say yes. And thus it was agreed. We made a plan and before I knew it, last minute tickets (my wife ever so indulgently agreed to join me) for Ironman Frankfurt were acquired through a specialist sports travel company.

In the months leading up to Christmas and through winter, the training went pretty well and the goal was more of a milestone on the plan. Nothing really to worry about…A neck / shoulder injury caused a brief hiatus, but otherwise things went well. By March the swimming was coming on, and the bike and run were bedding in.

By May, I was getting obsessive (yes it’s a feature) about the planning and the volumes were getting higher. June flew by and it barely seemed like any time at all before I was checking into a hotel in Frankfurt and trying to wrap my head round the logistics of the next few days.

*

There was a lot to do. We arrived on Thursday and the race was on Sunday, but as I rehearsed it in my head it seemed like it was a lot to fit in; extensive race briefing, registration, recce the course, racking, fill and drop off transition bags, and remembering to eat well and get to bed early.

The few short distance triathlons I’d done did nothing to prepare me for the scale of the operation and the sheer other worldliness of the whole thing.

With Ironman, you enter a bubble from the minute you land (recognizing competitors by the not so subtle massive bike boxes and chatting away nervously) to the minute you arrive home— nodding at people with finisher t-shirts in the airport.

The Frankfurt event is huge. Some 4000 volunteers are brought in to help run it. The pasta party on Friday evening gave some idea of scale as it crammed all the athletes into a very large marque. Triathletes can be quite civilised but the queue soon turned into a near literal bun fight. Especially when they ran out of pasta sauce.

The party tent was way down the river bank, at the end of rows upon rows of bike racks, the changing tent and the finish area which had taken over one of the main town squares. Off to the side of the finish area, beyond the rather welcoming athletes garden (chill out area for after) was the event Expo. I heard all about these events. Buy everything you could possibly ever need. But mingling with a bunch of nervous athletes would be detrimental. I was sure I’d be able to stay away.

I thought I’d come with everything I needed…But then curiosity, as they say, is a dangerous thing. ‘If we go on the Thursday, how bad could it be??’ The answer in this case was not too bad at all for the state of mind. Not quite so good for the wallet.

The exhibitors had only just setup and rather than a heaving crowd fighting through a conference centre packed with exhibitors all desperately trying to shift merchandise, it was more like a low key outdoor market, just entirely focused on parting triathletes from their hard earned.

On my first pass, I managed to buy nothing at all. No t-shirts from 2XU, no tri suit from SailFish and definitely no new bike bits. I congratulated myself on my restraint.

We wondered down to the town hall to see if Registration was still open…it wasn’t; but the Ironman merch shop very much was. Imagine every possible piece of tri equipment, branded with an Ironman logo, piled high and demonstrated by a cadre of beautiful young sales assistants. My will didn’t stand up for very long.

And they were sneaky. It wasn’t just Ironman branding. ‘Can get that online any time,’ I thought. It was all Frankfurt Sparkasse, 2013 European Championship branding. And of course the materialistic devil in me thought, “Maybe you can’t get it all online—better get what you want now…”

Oh well. The first (yes) visit wasn’t so bad. Came out with a beanie, a t-shirt and a race belt. Not too bad. Except. Next day, during registration, I got another race belt and was given a race t-shirt. Hmm. Maybe I should have been more restrained.

At least I managed to avoid buying one of those Ironman rucksacks that everyone seemed to have. I nearly bought one, but thought I’d wait until after I’d registered.

Lucky I did as it turned out the reason so many people had one was because they give you one when you register. Along with aforementioned t-shirt and race belt.

Oh well.

The ‘free’ belt was a Power Horse and the one I’d got was Ironman branded, so not entirely wasted. And I thought I might prefer not to be too presumptuous and wear the Ironman one on my first outing.

Though having registered, I still needed to make my way back through the shop. And suddenly—‘oh crap, towels! I didn’t bring any.’ Better buy one. The fact I could have borrowed one from hotel somehow never occurred to me.

And of course they were piled high. So a couple of towels (yours for a mere EUR29 each) later, I was out.

And that was definitely it.

For now.

*

Then came race briefing. At 3.30 rather than the previously advertised 2.30. We turned up in time to hear the German version kick-off, so went for a very late lunch and returned for a briefing we could actually understand.

The German MC was pretty fun and walked us through the rules. We learned all about penalties (don’t wee on course for example, don’t litter, don’t EVER draft etc etc). There are a lot of safety concerns and while I tried hard to take it all in, my mind did wonder a couple of times. I’d read the athelete’s guide, the FAQ and everything else I could find though, so felt it should be ok.

Besides the briefing, The Voice of Ironman, Mike Reilly shared his sentiments on the event. Pretty damn cool. He doesn’t turn up to just any event you know. He gave us some thoughts on how he loves to welcome finishers over the line and I hoped to be hearing his voice call my name on Sunday evening. I knew it was going be evening. Well night really, but evening doesn’t sound so bad.

Friday seemed to fly by and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to absorb the briefing and worrying about packing my bags correctly in time to take down to the lake with my bike. Turns out any useful experience I thought I had, wasn’t. I’d done short events where I’d just turned up with my gear and the most I had to worry about was arranging it neatly in front of my bike.

Ironman (naturlich) is a whole different triathlon so to speak. Bike gear in the Blue bag. Run gear in the Red bag. Pre and Post race gear in the white bag. Special needs (optional for things like special diet food and drink) in the green bag and it’ll go to a specified aid station.

When I started thinking about the changing process between each event, I realised I might need more kit…I’d decided to cycle in proper cycling kit (those Assos shorts were too expensive to not come out on race day). I was supposed to pull my bike gear on and dump my swim gear in the blue bag which would be sent to T2 for collection after the race. So that include the tri top and bottoms I’d planned to have under my wet suit and later run in. They would end up inaccessible after the swim. Oh dear. Better get another pair of tri shorts then.

Back to the Expo. No problem. Just a pair of shorts.

Except then I started thinking about the best way to deal with the predicted thirty degree heat. Compression sleeves I was advised. Sounded good.

I was putty in the hands of the Craft sales assistant. But I did eventually get away, clutching many bags and relieved of a troublesome weight in my back pocket— and a degree of worry about being fully equipped.

*

Bike drop off was at the lake which was a good 20k out of town and accessible primarily by a fast, unfamiliar road, so best not to cycle. Take the provided shuttle where they had a system for getting your bike on.

Turns out the system was a white knuckle ride to the lake, crammed onto a standard bendy bus with about 40 other athletes, every one, clinging to their own bikes while trying not to get skewered on someone else’s.

Racking itself was pretty easy. Swathe the bike in gigantic Powerbar (bag), hang up blue bag and drop off run bag. Take note of bike position, location of appropriate changing tents (not that anyone seemed to pay attention on the day).

After that, it was a jaunt down to the sand to splash a bit of the lake on my face and survey the swim course. Looks pretty big…Though I’d got up to 3.2k in the pool, 3.8k in the lake arranged in 2 loops with an Australian exit, looked very big. At least the water was nice and warm. Bathers were out in force enjoying the afternoon soon. I vaguely worried it might become a non wet suit swim, but by now I was past caring. Though life would be easier in the wet suit, the swim coaching from much earlier in the year should see me through, albeit probably with more effort.

By late Saturday afternoon I felt exhausted. Before I knew it we were sitting in the hotel wondering why our last (sort of felt literal at that moment) meal was taking so long. We needed to be in bed early in order to meet the 03:45 start with some semblance of motivation. Bed by 9 didn’t’ seem too bad though. And that was it. Nothing else to do other than sleep, have a moderate breakfast and get to the lake in the morning.

*

A high fat breakfast of coconut / nut butter / vegan protein powder and manuka honey went down well. I’d have about three hours to digest it. Some people say six hours is better, but I’d generally trained on three so supposed it would be ok. Also wasn’t up for rising at 1am to eat.

After eating, it was simply throw on clothes, grab white bag with swim gear and post race gear and get to the lake. Easy.

There were busses to the lake leaving the event hotel from 4am. We’d elected to stay away from madding crowd at a different hotel though. So thought we’d get a cab and may as well go straight to the lake. Cunning plan. Except not. Though we’d arranged taxis through the hotel which included explaining where we needed to, the taxi driver didn’t know where the lake was. Even with judicious pointing at maps, and attempts at German, we couldn’t sort it out, so ended up getting driven to the event hotel. A stress free arrival had become complicated. But in the end we were on the bus and down at the lake by 5.30 so had nearly 90 minutes to do final prep.

After pumping tyres back up (we were warned they could burst in the heat, so best to let them down a bit) it was just a case of a final bag check then join the growing queue for the Toi Toi. At least we’d be in the first few hundred rather than first few thousand visitors.

While I fussed over my equipment, Chuck Berry blared over the PA followed by Mike Reilly’s refrain on his love of seeing athletes to the finish. The German MC asked Mike which race he’d most enjoyed and predictably Mike quoted the 1989 archetypal ‘Ironwar’ where Ironman legends Dave Scott and Mark Allen battled it out all day. Well what else was it going to be? If you’d been there, that would be the one. Somehow, the slightly clichéd commentary and the music combined to enhance a really positive atmosphere. Not the nervous aurora I’d expected, but a lot of positive energy under the dawning of what was looking like a beautiful day for a race.

*

I was standing at the top of the beach, wet suited up and waiting for the bulk of the crowd to get down to the water before adding myself to the throng. My plan had been to stay near the back and enjoy some clear water. No washing machine for me. I must have been looking helpful as probably half a dozen athletes came up and asked me to help zip up their wet suits. No problem. Helping people distracts from any nerves. Though by that point I was feeling ok. I smiled as I saw a couple of green capped pros trot down for their 6.45 start. We’d be a mere 15 minutes after them. Better get moving.

The water was delightfully warm. I went in up to my knees and splashed my face. Probably didn’t need to but it had become part of my open water ritual which helped remove any cold water stress on the system.

At this point, I knew my decision to dispense with the tri top for the swim was going to be ok. And I knew my choice of a single cap would also be ok. A double helped keep out the brain freeze, but equally I didn’t want to cook my brain.

Just a few minutes to the start now.

My wife and I bade each other good luck and the mutual entreaty to stay safe.

Having done a few races together, we found our own little spaces just to relax and get ready.

And then we were off. I didn’t hear a canon. Just felt the surge and music rise in volume.

Time to swim.

*

The first kilometre was relaxed but I found myself adopting a two stroke single sided breathing pattern so I knew I wasn’t as relaxed as I could be. In training I’d tended to end up doing that when something was making me tense. It was a sort of go to safety pattern. Just have to relax more then.

The first problem was trying to get onto the line of buoys. We started off at an oblique angle to the loop of buoys. Which was the shorter route? Swim to the top buoy or swim sideways then follow the line up? I found myself desperately trying to remember high school trig. Is the sum of the two sides less than the hypotenuse? Hmm. Not enough blood to my brain. Well that’s my excuse anyway.

I decided just to sight on the massive Power bar bottle at the top of the lake and try to get more left if I could. I kept some clear water round me and tried to focus on keeping my kick two beat and not pulling too hard. Keep it relaxed. This was just the warm-up.

By the top of the lake, I was starting relax. Then I ran into a rather strange phenomena. Hundreds of red caps bobbing on the surface near the first left turn. It was like a contra flow. Sheer weight of swimmers caused a slow down. I just went wide. In my effort to stay out the way of people I knew I risked swimming too far, but wanted to avoid early issues of getting caught in thrashing white water.

The first turn around passed, I found myself relaxing further, and also realising my right shoulder was starting to ache a little. This was definitely a good time for me to find my three stroke bi lateral technique. Shoulder started to feel better and neck calmed down a little. All those turns to the right couldn’t good. Also the sun was on my right now, so good to alternate left or indeed stay left, though bi-lateral was ok. I’d also selected tinted goggles which helped manage the Sun’s glare.

The next turn around came quickly and before I knew it was on course back to the beach and the Australian exit. ‘Just keep the yellow buoys on your left.’

I managed to keep a better line on the way back in. Then I was beaching myself and hearing Mike welcome the first red caps out the water. ‘I must be doing alright,’ I thought. I wasn’t near the front but I wasn’t at the back either.

Standing up on the sand I’d done 2.1k and didn’t even have the infamous jelly legs. Not bad. Just past half way in the part I’d been most worried about.

The Aussie exit was short and I was straight back in the water, trying to dive and start swimming early…only it turned out the shallows extended quite far out: my arm hit sand and I had to haul myself up and wade out quite a lot further before I could start swimming.

‘Just keep red buoys on the right,’ I thought. This time I kept a tight line. Too tight. I found myself straying close to the canoes and remembered the warning in the briefing; short cutting the course is instant disqualification. Not that I was that close, but I was worried, so ironically swam a bit wider— only to narrowly avoid getting kicked in the head.

There were some people doing a powerful breast stroke and I’d somehow managed to get just between and behind two of them. Hold on. Slow down. This mass swimming thing is an art…just because you know where you’re supposed to be doesn’t mean you can get there easily.

By the turnaround at the top of the second loop I was feeling more confident. I knew I was going to complete the swim. This had been quite a worry. Although my pool distances were good, recent excursions into the rapidly warming UK lakes had brought encounters with rapidly growing weeds which were an all new experience and caused no small amount of anxiety. My distances had gone down a bit (2K) and it had taken me a while to rebuild confidence. But that all seemed a distant memory now.

I felt myself speed up. And fortunately I managed to get back on a decent line.

Only to come into contact with more breast strokers. Slow down. Or go around. Somehow I found my way.

I could see the shore now. It looked close. Though there were still a couple of buoys. And the reds were spaced wider than the yellows. I realised the shore looked close because the Ironman inflatable arch on the beach was actually massive. Still, I was on the last section now. Just need to keep the stroke going.

Before I knew it I was coming out the water and fumbling with and swearing at my Garmin.

The beach itself was a 20% (ish) incline. I started jogging up it then thought, ‘what the hell am I doing?’ Don’t want to be knackered before starting the bike.

Up the beach. Garmin moved on to bike. Quick pit-stop. Change. Dump gear. Find bike. In a sea of nearly 3000 machines, this might have been a challenge, but I was near the top left corner so easy to landmark and remember. Very quick final safety check; wheels still spinning, brakes work. Then rapid trot to the start line. Mount the right side of the line. 180.1k to go. Until the marathon. Can’t think about this now. 4 x 45k to go. That’s the next todo list.

*

I set off very comfortably, just spinning my legs and grabbing a drink and some food from my bento box. Lots of people were going past me. Well let’s be honest, almost everyone was going past me. But one word remained in my head; ‘pace.’ I knew 24kph would give me a roughly 8h bike time and that should still leave (just) enough time for the marathon. I could have gone faster (I think), but just didn’t know if I’d maintain it or just burn out and risk getting caught in the 6 hour first 90k cut off or the 10 hour 180.1k cut off. No. Stick to the pace.

This was my first time riding on closed roads and I have to say it was pretty cool. Especially when you have a whole motorway to yourself. Very nice. And at this point there was also the benefit of some tree shade. It was around 8.45 in the morning and the sun was only just getting round to thinking about how much pain it felt like inflicting today.

15k up the road, the lake was forgotten and the city of Frankfurt hoved into view. From town, it would be two 90k loops. Since we came into the bottom of town, it was necessary to ride through it before getting onto the rural and a reasonably (!) flat course. Riding across town, it was comforting to be on slightly familiar roads. We’d covered some of this ground in the short ride we fitted in on Friday.

Soon though, town was left behind and the first of the climbs was coming into view. I’d trained all around the Chilterns so wasn’t feeling overly worried. Rightly or wrongly, my main concern was not to get done for drafting. Though many people came past me, I found myself catching up on hills. It made no sense to me why drafting would be an issue on hills but I’d thought it was, so needed to stay back. Just can’t see how you can go fast enough for it to be an issue.

It’s just they give you such dire warnings, it’s easy to get paranoid about getting within the 10 x 1.5meter drafting zone. So I decided not to do anything heroic on the hills and like everywhere, just stay out of people’s way.

*

Top of the first hill was the first aid station. I’d never been through a rolling aid station before and had visions of carnage with a clutch of riders all trying to grab water and food at the same time.

However, it actually all worked beautifully. One of our group had given a useful tip; make eye contact with one of the volunteers, shout for what you want. They’ll either acknowledge or point you further down the line. Grab what you need.

There must have been at least 10 people lined up. I saw the first, he saw me and shouted, ‘wasser!’ I smiled, nodded and bellowed back, ‘Wasser.’ Slowed off a bit, grabbed the bottle. Didn’t fall off!

Lodged the bottle nozzle between my teeth, grabbed the empty and aimed at the dumping area. Missed by miles. Oh well. No points for accuracy. Just satisfaction. Have to try again later.

Bottle stowed I carried on, rather pleased with myself. Survived that. Know what I am doing now.

After that we were heading out into the country side which was absolutely beautiful. The day was warming up, but the temperature wasn’t yet too hot and the result of that first climb was a lovely rolling descent. Unfortunately, near the bottom of the descent, I started to feel discomfort in my stomach.

Sat up and felt a stabbing pain down the right side of my back. Cramp? Something and f*&^ing painful. I started to worry. I’d never got cramps during training and was following my nutrition plan. If I was going to get back pain every time I moved, completing this event was going to be very tough. The stomach pain was starting to get worse as well.

Had I gone out too fast? Was I experiencing the dreaded stomach shut down? I left eating for a while. Make sure everything is processed a bit before putting more in. Meanwhile I attended to my back issue with what limited massage I could give with my right hand. That helped a bit.

I resolved to keep going and if I was going to keel over just try to do it near a marshal.

As it was the back pain receded. Eventually. And stomach improved a bit too. I kept eating, but at longer intervals. The home made, high fat energy bars were getting increasingly hard to stomach (even in bits) though. So I switched to salty cashews and macadamias. This combo had worked on training rides. Before long though, nothing solid would go down. Literally couldn’t swallow it. So I realised I was going to have to switch to liquid calories. A worry since I’d not trained on any energy drinks. It had all been solid food and electrolyte.

Of course the aid stations were handing out ‘ISO’ like it was Wonka’s latest uber product. I’d have to drink from the lime green fountain and hope it didn’t come back up again. Previous experiments with things like ISostar had led to rapid gut issues.

Fortunately, the ISO seemed to settle ok. The back was improving and the stomach settling. A few aid stations in and I was hurling bottles to their intended targets and re-stocking with ISO and then coke. ‘Keep sipping,’ I reminded myself. This stuff burns quickly.

*

And there I was, at the 140k, drinking, wanting to eat and crying in happiness at the support of the crowd.

I pedalled on.

40k to go seemed manageable. Just keep turning the legs over.

The day was getting hotter and the second loop seemed a lot more lonely. The crowds had diminished as the pros and the powerful age groupers had long since streaked past.

There had seemed to be lots of aid stations, yet before long my bottles were empty and I was wondering where the next drink was coming from. The massive aid station near Heartbreak hill must be just round the corner I thought. Yet it seemed to be a long time coming.

When I did see the massive PowerBar inflatable arches, I was relieved, but then realised something was wrong.

The arch collapsed in front of me, while four red t-shirts heaved on guide ropes and pulled the collapsing arc off the road.

But it wasn’t just the rather sad sight of the collapsing banner that was worrying.

Where was the aid station? Where were the drinks tables and smiling volunteers? I was sure there had been table after table piled high with fluorescent energy.

All gone.

F&^%!

Ok. Keep going. The first time round, the hill had been thronged with spectators crowding in. Just like the race guide suggested, it really did feel like a TdF stage. This time the road was pretty much empty.

Cresting the hill I saw the police were holding the traffic for me. All the way round the Polizei did a fantastic job of managing the roads. I went passed and nodded my thanks. I even got an, “auf auf auf!” in response. Fantastic.

Tired, feeling somewhat nauseous but glad I was still moving, I knew I wasn’t far from the city now and before long I’d be on that lovely long descent to T2. Then just a mere 26 miles to run.

When I did reach the run into the city, it was the thought of the run that kept me from pushing the pace. I was doing an easy 40kph without pedalling much and that was fine.

Also, as I got further into the centre, given it was later in the day, there were more people about and I didn’t want to risk a high speed accident. Almost everywhere, people were extremely supportive and kept off the roads, but I did start to see a few additional cyclists on the track and a few pedestrians.

Then I was in T2. Relief!! I’d come a long way now. Just a marathon to go. Hmm. 4 10ks as Chrissie once said. I resolved to just take them one at a time and see how I went. I had no time goal, I just wanted to finish in the 15 hours if I could.

I gratefully handed my bike over to a waiting volunteer and went to find my run bag.

Into the big tent and get changed. It was depressingly quiet. A lot of people were out on the course.

Wriggling into five fingered socks and trainers can be tricky. And I’d had a lot of practice. But before long, I’d thrown by bike gear into my run back, sprayed on a lot of sun screen, donned my Ironman cap and was heading out.

The start of the run went on red carpet through a central spectator area and I immediately saw familiar faces shouting encouragement. “You have enough time!” About 5.5hours should be enough if I could keep up a moderate pace. We’d have to see. I was determined not to muck up the pacing. Go too fast on the first lap and the rest would be a disaster.

If I’d thought aid station coverage on the bike course was good (generally), it was positively amazing on the run. About every 1.5k, there was a massive, well organised set of volunteers offering water, coke, ISO, ice, wet sponges, salt, salty snacks, cakes, blessed orange and lemon halves etc. I stopped at every aid station. Coke mainly. Ice down the shirt. Sponges squeezed on the head. Bit of salt. Keep moving.

I had planned a walk / run strategy. 10 minute run, 1m walk. Move to 8 and 2 if that gets harder and 4/1 if that gets harder. After 5k I felt fine. It was however rather demoralising seeing just how many people had the coloured arm bands on signifying they’d completed at least one loop. I felt rather naked without any.

The run course being 4 loops, featured a turnaround point where you go through one of four lanes depending on which lap you’re on. You get a coloured band thrust onto your wrist to signify completion of the lap.

That first band seemed to be a long time coming.

The weather report had said the day would reach its hottest point around 5 o’clock and they were spot on.

Those sponges and the ice was much needed.

A couple of helpful souls were even pointing a hose at anyone who wanted it and that helped. The water soon evaporated though.

I was glad to get around the first lap. That first arm band felt wonderful.

Into the second lap, things started to get harder. Strength felt fine. No risk of immediate bonk. But my stomach was getting worse again. Rising nausea but nothing would come up.

I found I just had to walk longer to let it settle. Then after a while I had to bend over and try to let nature take its course. But nothing would come. Yet somehow the act of doubling over seemed to help. Though I knew it wasn’t good for my prospects of a timely finish.

The town’s people were amazingly supportive. Crowded along the grass river banks, they cheered, “On on,” and “go Paul, go.” They made it a really personal experience. Though by the third lap the crowds were very much diminished, a few people smiled and waved.

A couple of times, as I stood bent over, trying to throw up and wondering if I’d just like to settle on the grass and have a little sleep, athletes would come past and give me a re-assuring slap on the shoulder. “Keep going,” or words to that effect in a foreign language, but it didn’t matter, the sentiment could not be more clear.

I also knew a lot of people were suffering and these little shoots of human emotion really helped galvanise me. I chatted to a few people as I went. One German guy was on his eigth Ironman but had the same stomach issue as me.

As I stood near the top of a rise, trying to relieve my stomach pain, I heard a familiar voice. A short re-assuring walk with the coach helped a lot. More tears. More emotion. But back into the light while she sped off to an impressive time.

Then into the toilet. New technique. Let’s try sticking fingers down the throat. See what’ll come. Unfortunately nothing much. But the catharsis of the act was actually somewhat helpful.

Auf.

Auf.

By start of lap 4 the stomach was still bad and I’d lost count of the number of frankly rank loos (I said people were suffering) in which I’d tried to bring up the source of the problem. The walks were getting longer. Frustratingly, not for lack of energy, but because of the stomach.

Also my feet felt good. I’d been utterly converted to barefoot running. Though the conversion took over a year and I had suffered a few blistering issues, my feet felt strong a blister free. I felt my choice of thick and soft socks did help with that. Hot feet, but comfortable.

*

At the turnaround, the volunteer saw me walk up and told me I had to run if I was to have a chance to finish within the cut-off. 90 minutes to go. 13k in 90 minutes would be normal and easy for a training run. After nearly 14 hours exercising and a bad stomach, I seriously doubted it was going to happen. Yet I resolved to try.

What amazed me was when I pressed, when urgency called, I could run. I still had a couple of pauses to try to help the stomach, but I basically ran the last 13k and at a reasonable (given what I’d already done—it wasn’t the dreaded Ironman shuffle) pace. Interesting.

When I got to the turnaround for the last time, they were packing up. Only one volunteer left and about 15 minutes to the 15 hour cut-off. About 4k to go. I knew it almost certainly wasn’t going to happen, but I was totally focussed now. Run on. Get the band and cross the finish if they’ll let me.

I was glad to collect my last coloured band. More than anything, those little bits of cloth felt the most tangible evidence of the work I’d done today. Each one felt incredibly hard won and I knew that whatever happened, I’d keep them with pride. 22:00 and the cut-off passed as I entered the really dark section of the course. Wished I had brought my head torch now. Shades and minimal lighting are not a good combo. I could drop the glasses, but felt my basic myopia might be a more challenging issue.

I smelled alcohol and other substances in the air. The crowd was definitely changing now.

On.

I knew I couldn’t be far as my Garmin was showing 40k done. Though I just couldn’t seem to remember the way.

In the darkness I strained to see the course route. But before long, I saw the finishing corner and this time, I would be able to go up the finishing chute.

Although Mike Reilly would long since have hung up his mic, the chute was still lined with spectators. In best tour fashion, I zipped up my Blackfish jersey, tidied myself as best I could and put on a sprint (god only knows where that came from) and shot up the red carpet like a man with new legs.

The crowd cheered (well I don’t really know if they did or if they were even there, but that’s what I heard), kids reached out to high 5 and I saw the familiar faces of my friends urging me on. I flew across the finish, out of breadth, mentally and physically spent.

Dazed, I stood around, wondering where I was supposed to go. Before I knew it race organisers and medical staff swooped on me, asking me if I was ok. I was sat down on a stretcher and just tried to regain my composure. Not so easy.

Of course the clock had stopped and I didn’t get an official timing for the last leg after 37k, and I knew I wouldn’t get a medal.

Yet somebody was reaching forward and handing me that precious finisher medal after all. Glorious. I wouldn’t get a finisher time, but the medal was a nice token of the end of the day. 140 something miles in just over 15 hours.

End