First off, the organisation! It's a big deal! I had to get there the day before, to set up my bike in a secure place, and register, and listen to a fairly tedious prep talk which I don't remember any of, which is the triathlon equivalent of the safety talk on an aeroplane. Probably important to listen to, but could do with being a lot punchier. Everyone was very friendly, the security on the bike stand was a bit heavy, but you sort of felt glad about that when you were LEAVING your bike there. It was bang outside the front of Holkham Hall, and very grand it looked too. The lake (according to the safety talk) had exceptionally high standards of cleanliness, which I was relieved to hear, because my main issue with lakes in front of estate houses is that they are full of duck shit - which is fine if you aren't intending on swimming in them. It didn't totally allay my fears because it's all very well to test water, but you should really test it under the conditions on the day, such as 2000 swimmers kicking mud off the bottom.
Anyway, needless to say, was a bit nervous, but happy to have Jon along supporting me, and meeting Facebook Lee for the first time, and his lovely lady Lisa. (You may recall that it was the same Lee that gave me all the hype about the Lanzarote Ironman). I had booked into an AirBnB in the nearby vicinity, and they shook their heads sadly that such a seemingly bright girl would do something so stupid, but it was a lovely place, and I left looking a bit like this at 5:30 in the morning. It was a bit frustrating that all participants had to be in the cage by 6, because my "wave" of swimmers (the pink hats, or All the Lovely Ladies) wasn't setting off till 7:30, but as the course went around the edge of the bike area, it was hard to envisage anything else. Needless to say, despite being there on time, I was almost late for the swim, as another girl and I were watching the first rounds come out, and suddenly realised we had to leg it for our start. But all went well, and I got into the not-too-freezing-for-that-hour-of-the-morning water, had to endure other people saying "Oooh the mud's all squishy on the bottom" [well take your frigging feet off it then, mud-stirring moron], and finally... we were off.
Now, I don't want to sing my own praises too highly here, but I did save someone's life after 10 minutes. There was a lot of guff in the safety talk that if you were in distress, you should lie on your back and put your arm in the air, so that the people in boats could see you. I don't want to try and sound all knowledgeable over people who clearly organise races extremely well, but there is no way that a panicking swimmer is calmly going to roll onto their back and put a hand in the air. Maybe a synchronised swimmer... not a panicked one.
Anyway, recall, if you will, that my method of swimming when I can't see anything in the water is to do - when I'm pushed - about 6 strokes of front crawl, panic a bit, come up for air, recall the wonders of breaststroke, and take some calming strokes, enjoying the ambience of this beautiful sunny morning (coated, as I am, in waterproof suncream, on which more later). Well, I was enjoying - no I was, because coming last was really the least of my concerns - my breaststroke, when gazing to my left, I caught in the corner of my eye another pink-hatted lady also doing breaststroke. I turned to give her a reassuring - "me and you, eh?" smile, but she didn't return it. Her eyes were glazed and her breaststroke had turned into poorly-formed doggy paddle. She wasn't swimming so much as grasping. Her head went under. I took her elbow, because people in wetsuits are incredibly buoyant, in fact, and spoke to her. "Look at me. Breathe" I said, helpfully. She didn't. I tried again. "Look at me. Look at me. You're OK. I've got you. We're fine. We're just going to do a bit of breast stroke together. OK?" She looked at me. I was getting somewhere. "You're alright." I told her. She grasped at her neck and tried to pull the wetsuit away from her throat. Now, I knew exactly what she was feeling because I had the same thing on the first couple of times I was in the water. I thought at the time that the wetsuit was too tight, and wondered if there were better fits, and i should have done more research, but I now suspect that the cold water and the unusual feel was making me a tiny bit panicked, and my throat constricted. This is the same when you panic on stage, incidentally, and is why people's voices go high when they are nervous. It's their throat constricting. A singularly stupid bodily response for someone with not enough air, but there you go.
She started to talk - or gasp - "I can't breath" she was saying "You can breath." I told her, confidently. "Your wetsuit's fine. You can breath, you're just having a panic attack. But I've got you, and you're fine. I need you to just take some deep breaths". Despite my internally kicking myself for saying the word "panic", she actually did exactly what I told her. I let go of her arm, and she did a couple of strokes of breaststroke. Then she turned to me, and said , "Thanks" before taking off, full speed, front crawl. Confident as you like. So I dragged her back foot and held onto it for a bit. No, of course I didn't. But about 10 minutes later, while taking another (well-earned) breaststroke break, I was watching another swimmer, and I thought, I really must get an idea for how people do this sighting lark, so I watched as she approached a low-hanging branch, and then realised she just wasn't going to see it. So as she took a breath, I shouted "Watch out!" and she did, and pulled away. So actually, that's two. Although I expect she'd have just lost an eye or something. Anyway, here is me exiting the water. This is the smile of someone who has just successfully not got kicked in the face. A lifelong ambition.
Anyway, I was a bit apprehensive because I hadn't quite got the balance right on it, it does tend to tip me forward, and I'd tried putting the seat forward and tilting it, but hadn't got it quite there, plus I seemed to be putting pressure on my wrists and shoulders, and actually almost everything except my bum. My quads were burning more as well. I wondered whether it was because I wasn't sitting on my arse. Anyway, I kind of got to a point where it was OK, but a major problem was how much it squeaked! It put me in mind of a Pete Seeger song that my mum likes, which goes
I get up each morning, dust off my wits
Pick up the paper and read the "obits"
If I'm not there, I know I'm not dead
So I eat a good breakfast and go back to bed.
It seemed appropriate, because I felt like the noise of the squeaking seat was reminding me that I wasn't dead. I wish I'd remembered the rest of the song, which I tried to do, because it was also very appropriate - it's basically tenet is "my get up and go has got up and went". Wished I knew where mine had gone. I can report that I splashed out and got a little front pouch which I put some food in - cheese biscuits and jelly babies, and twix bars. I'm also glad i did this, as they were just about reachable, and i don't think I'd have bothered to eat anything had it been harder to get hold of. I'm pretty sure not eating wouldn't work for me.
I also had a minor difficulty with the idea of grabbing a drink and cycling off with it, so I resolved to simply stop, have a drink and a banana, and then get off again. Partly this was because I didn't have a spare drinks slot, and partly because I'm still nervous about the lightness (and my wobblyness) on the racing bike. Anyway, the saddle had become a legend in its own time, and the people at the drinks station immediately said "Oh look! You're the one with the saddle". Another bit of fame.
I thought the course was pretty OK, and had an internal debate on whether it was "rolling" or "undulating", which had me grinning away to myself for a while. Many years ago, I went on a cycle holiday in Tuscany, and our Swiss guide, Rudi, would give us the plan for the day each morning. As most Tuscan villages are set on the top of hills, they were pretty much always the same, and would go something like this. "First, we set off and go DOWN the hill. Then we will pass through a village and the road will be 'rolling' [makes shallow waves with his hands]. Then we stop for coffee [always] then the road will be 'undulating' [makes steeper waves with his hands]. Then we stop for lunch. Then it will be up up up, then we arrive." It was in vain for me to explain to Rudi that "rolling' and 'undulating' are synonyms. "No, undulating is harder" he would insist. "Undulating is harder to spell" I'd tell him, "they mean the same". "No, undulating is harder". Anyway, on balance, i thought, mainly "rolling"; only "undulating" now and again.
Overall, tiltiness and squeakiness notwithstanding, the saddle did what I wanted it for, and I'm grateful. I did get in touch with the manufacturer, who recommended that it might have been a new batch, and not sprayed with lube, he said E45 mixed with water would soon sort out the squeak. I've recommended it to other folk who have had the same tilting issue as me, regretfully as they were as enthusiastic as I was about the comfort. There must be an answer. I think it may be patience, and trial and error.
Finally, there was the half marathon. I wobbled back into the bike rack, put the bike back, and pretended, as I do backstage with quick changes, that I had all the time in the world. I sat down, changed my socks and shoes, and tried to think what else I might possibly need. I had a quick squirt of suncream for good measure, although I'd been assured it was waterproof all day, got back on my feet, and set off. This, incidentally, seemed to work, because my times in prep were AWESOME. They were both like, 2.5 minutes. Anyway. The course was three times round the estate, and I'd already passed what looked like most of the racers running as I came in on my bike. Or, more accurately, they'd already passed me. You had to get a coloured wrist band each time you "passed go" and you could only go to the finish once you'd gotten a full set. I spent my first two circuits trying to convince people to give me their bands. They mainly took in in the spirit with which it was intended, namely, a distraction. Towards the end of my second circuit was the most disheartening - most people were finishing their third, so supporters were shouting "You're nearly there! You can do it!" and it made me want to cry, because I wanted so much for that to be true.
But round again I went. The worst thing was, there was a fucker of a hill right at the beginning of the lap, and I ran up it the first time, knowing I was going to have to get up it, somehow, twice more. That was part of the incentive for buying staps off other runners! I stopped for a wee at a refreshment/portaloo place, and one of the guys told me I was 63rd from the end! Given that there were two waves of swimmers set off after me, I can confidently say I was probably further back than that! As I neared the "real" finish, I passed some people with kids, one of whom looked philosophically at his father and said "have we seen her before?" which made me chuckle, and as a kindly lady shouted words of encouragement, her two kids looked up with wide eyes and said "Who's that mummy? Yes, who's that? How do you know her?"
And finally, it WAS my turn. And if you've arrived after a break from a few people, they let you run through the finish line and put up a new ribbon for you to break past. Which is ridiculous, but sweet.I managed a grin for Jon as I ran past him, but to be honest, I dissolved into tears across the finish line. I think there's an enormous amount of mental as well as physical energy in running a long distance triathlon. Perhaps I should have started smaller, but I didn't. And I did it. I bloody did it.
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