OK, it’s been 10 days since the Maltese Middle, and I feel I’m just about over the trauma so I can now write about it without screaming.
Let’s start with a question.
What would you do if you were given the opportunity to race in a half-iron triathlon that you actually had a chance of winning? In an international event? That may or may not have featured chocolate?
Now, this is me I’m talking about, and the only chance I’d ever have of winning something is if no-one else had entered. Guess what? There was no-one else in my age category.
There were two catches;
1) The cut-off time was 8 hours. The last time I did a half-iron distance, it took me 7 hours 55 minutes
2) It was in 10 days’ time. I had done absolutely no half-iron training this year.
Of course I said yes. I would love to say that it was because of the potential glory of being the Maltese Middle Female Masters champion. But really it was because this was the only opportunity I could sign up for a race and go straight into the taper stage, without bothering with any of that training nonsense beforehand. And did I mention chocolate?
So, basically, my preparation was to sit around on the sofa, eat a lot of curly wurlies, and contemplate my sanity. For 10 days.
I didn’t have to organise the trip or anything, which is good because I’m not so good at that whole organisation malarkey. The original plan was for a group of 10 friends to go to Malta for a bit of a holiday, which included a half-iron race. We (me and my long-suffering other half) had also planned to come along for a bit of a holiday, which included supporting a group of 10 friends who considered a half-iron race to be part of a holiday, the nutters.
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| This was supposed to be a HOLIDAY! |
Actually thinking about it, I REALLY didn’t have to organise anything. I was already registered for the race, a hire bike had been ordered in my size (I don’t even KNOW my size), and my wetsuit, bike shoes and pedals had somehow made it to Malta ahead of me. Odd.
Anyway….. here are the gory details by discipline……
Swim 1.9km – 55 minutes
Ah. Remember that bit about not training for a half-iron? This included absolutely no open-water swimming whatsoever. Luckily we had a spare day beforehand for a bit of open-water practice. We found a lovely beach. OK, the sea was pretty rough (well, for me anyway), there was a strong current, and what the hell was that???? Oh yes, hundreds upon hundreds of spiny blue jellyfish.
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Our swim practice the day before.
You can't actually see the jellyfish from here, which is why we all look so happy. |
I managed a slightly panicked 10 minutes of thrashing around and screaming loudly whenever I saw anything blue and spiny in the water, which was a lot. I must admit, I was slightly worried that this wasn’t quite enough training for the real thing, but in retrospect it turned out that it was pretty good – the race swim was a very panicked 55 minutes of thrashing around, although by then I had learned to keep the screaming internal.
The swim course itself was an out and back past two orange buoys. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? The bay was full of buoys, none of which were orange. Even at the best of times my sighting sucks, so yes, I got lost. I then started feeling a bit dizzy, and realised, to my horror, that I had forgotten to take my first gel (I’m diabetic, and need a gel every 30 – 45 minutes during exercise or else I have a “hypo”, which is similar to what you triathlete people call “bonk”, which is nothing like what non-triathlete people call “bonk”). Yes, I was having a hypo. In open water. With no-one else around me. I was so scared about my hypo that I even forgot about the jellyfish for a bit.
Then something magical happened…..
One of my wonderful 10 friends (who ironically I had come to support), suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and said “What are you doing over here, you numpty?” Actually, he may not have said that, it was difficult for me to hear – what with my swim cap over my ears, and all my internal screaming. Then, bless him to bits, he stayed with me, navigated me round the tiny weeny little orange sticks (buoys, my arse), and guided me back to shore.
I realised that not only was my race probably over, but more importantly, he had sacrificed his own race to help me out. I owe that man a curly wurly. So, yes, I got out of the water after 55 minutes. But I was also shaking and disoriented.
T1 – 15 minutes
So, what to do? Well, obviously I needed sugar immediately, so I downed one of my gels straight away. I also needed to get out of my wetsuit. Why does it take so long to get out of a wetsuit? Or is it just me? Oddly enough, it took about as much time to get out of my wetsuit as it took for the gel to take some effect, so I thought “in for a penny and all that”, and got on my bike.
Bike – 3 hours 45 minutes
The bike course was about 2.5k to the docks, then 10 loops of 8.5k up and around an industrial estate and back down to the docks, then 2.5k back to transition.
I immediately got lost. I spent about 15 minutes wandering around the identical-looking, distinctly marshal-free back streets of Birzebbugia, which sounds like a good swear word, and in fact I used it as such. In the end I stopped and asked some locals the way to the docks. They were slightly puzzled, but politely obliged.
I finally arrived at the start of the 10 loops a good 45 minutes after I’d come out of the water. And headed straight into a long, sap-destroying climb – the first of 10 identical long, sap-destroying climbs. OK, the first lap wasn’t so bad, I was beginning to feel a bit less “screaming-in-my-head” and settled nicely into the ride. Actually, when I say settled nicely in, I’m lying. My saddle was already hurting my bum, and the handlebars were just a little bit too close for comfort. It was less “settling”, more resigning to myself that I was going to be pretty uncomfortable for the next 3+ hours, but at least I wasn’t still in that water, and hey, anything’s better than running.
After the third lap I began to get a bit bored (just like you are if you are still reading this). After the fourth lap I was losing the will to live, having cycled more than I had all year. After the fifth lap I sort of hoped that I had a puncture. You know, that horrible feeling when you’re trying to go as fast as you can, and it’s taking more effort than it should do, and for a second you want to blame your equipment, not your ability? I then thought maybe my sugar levels had dropped again, and had another gel. Finally I invoked rule number five. And blow me down with a feather – I CHICKED A BLOKE GOING UPHILL! I then got flagged down by the marshals at the top of the hill. Apparently I had a puncture. That bloke then overtook me again.
Deflated in both senses of the word.
I’m not going to tell you that I had help fixing that puncture.
But I am going to tell you that my back wheel buckled with just over 20km to go, and I cycled those last two laps with my brakes on 50% of the time. True to form, I then got lost on the way back to transition.
T2
You’re kidding, right? I couldn’t even think of running 5k, let alone completing a half marathon. I’d had a hypo on the swim, which had left me tired. I’d had a nightmare on the bike, which had used up all the muscle strength in my legs. And what? You want me to run aswell?
Ah, apparently, yes. Otherwise it’s called an “Aquabike”, and it doesn’t count.
I looked at the clock. I had just under three hours to bash out a half-marathon. I know, that’s easy for most people. I’m not most people.
I’m not ashamed to admit it. I cried. Real tears. I tried to invoke rule number five again, and started my half-hearted run/walk/shuffling. Within a couple of moments I came back into transition, took off my cycle helmet, changed into my running shoes, and started off again.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t clever. There wasn’t much of that running malarkey either.
However there was so much support from everyone else I knew. (Yes, I know, it should have been the other way round!). Once I’d finally made it out of sight from everyone I had another mid-life crisis, stopped and sobbed. One of our group, who was running really well, came up from behind (ooh, er missus), stopped, calmed me down, and talked some sense into me. I owe her a curly wurly.
I then had someone running or walking alongside me for most of the rest of the half marathon (they were taking shifts after they’d finished), and I’ve got to tell you, they were all wonderful. Curly wurlies all round.
On the last lap it was my long-suffering other half’s turn to keep me going, to make sure I went straight on, and not detour into that really nice bar on the seafront (actually, it was a really grotty seedy-looking place, but it served alcohol and, more importantly, had chairs). He was looking at his watch a lot, telling me that I could finish in time if I continued walking, but could I just walk a little bit faster, or maybe, how about a little run, just to make sure?
I crossed that line with whole seconds to spare.
Actually I managed to complete it in 7 hours, 43 minutes and 28 seconds. I was given a medal. And a trophy. And a chair. The most important of which to me right there and then was the chair, but I didn’t have the strength to get into it. Luckily all my little helpers were around to make sure that bum finally hit seat, and, for the first time that day, I smiled.
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| Me, trying to get into a chair. |
