It's an Ironman, not a Marathon: June 2010

Dorset Trailer Training

The first May Bank Holiday presented the final opportunity for our intrepid band of athletes to train together before the real business, the day five years in the making, the IRONMAN.
The idea was ‘Ironman-in-a-weekend’ i.e. cycle Saturday, run Sunday, swim Monday.
The venue was southern in order to try and get some decent weather, and after a surprisingly foreceful bit of vetting by the management, we were allowed to reserve a mobile home at a caravan park just outside Swanage. Baptiste was especially taken at the chance to colour in the Swanage railway.
With Rich absent but banging in the training regardless, it was a Gang of Five who made the trip south. Martin and Andy were first to arrive via Winchester, followed by Leon and Steve, via Southampton. The new Audi A5 did not look out of place on the trailer park, such was the level of our new surroundings. More shocking news that Matt had resorted to using a Sat-Nav, and it wasn’t exactly helping him navigate from Stoke to Swanage. He arrived eventually though, vowing to stick to the road atlas in future. Martin was immediately confined to the double room on account of his snoring, which left him in relative comfort, alas the wall which divided himself from Steve proved paper thin.
An early start was called for, the 115 miles planned by Leon encompassing a clockwise route, heading west (not East Martin) past Weymouth, before turning north at Bridport, venturing as far as Yeovil, then the most direct route back to Swanage. The weather wasn’t great, but there was no rain, and so we set off towards Corfe Castle. It was a tough start, undulating, and so a photo stop at Corfe Castle gave a welcome early breather. More undulations followed, whilst Leon introduced the Tractor game to the group. One point for spotting a post box, two for a Tractor, but wipeout if a graveyard was spotted. With regular villages and farms, this proved a popular pastime for the rest of the day.
Steady progress was made, but several large hills split the group on more than one occasion. As the Ironman route isn’t flat, we were not to be overawed. Soon we reached the outskirts of Weymouth, and Andy spotted the first graveyard, leaving Leon and Steve to start from scratch again. A quick drink and toilet stop followed, and in the absence of any mechanical breakdown, Martin’s knee decided to provide the main point of resistance, reducing his pace substantially. A tight I.T. band was immediately diagnosed, and the outcome wasn’t looking good. Still, we ploughed on towards Bridport, alongside Chesil beach and getting some speed up on the downhills.
Arrival in Bridport was significantly behind schedule, though it wasn’t really clear where time had been lost, the regular tea stops of the Isle of Wight adventure banned for the morning section at least. Still the quaint town square made up for this, and we enjoyed some sandwiches outside, along with some cake. Martin’s knee wasn’t showing any signs of improvement and so the get out of jail cards were examined. Nearest railway station was Maiden Newton, but the infrequent service there made Dorchester are more realistic option. Sill, we had more miles to cover, though with time slipping away (it was now 14.00), Yeovil was scratched from the circuit and a revised aim of hitting three figures settled upon.
Following a really really big hill, we hit a T-junction with an ‘A’ road, and the now infamous ‘Dorset knobs’ sign. Such photo opportunities are the stuff of dreams. At this point Martin left us for the 8 mile roll downhill into Dorchester, and a bit of colouring in Leon hasn’t done. Matt, Steve, Leon and Andy carried on, whilst regular amusement was provide by Steve trying to claim tractors spotted mere minutes before by one of the others. Another tick played on poor old Two Jeans was diverting him half was down an incline we had no intention of going down, and making him turn and come back up! He was not amused. Leaf was now in charge of navigation, and a fine job he was doing too, as Leon was too concerned with the Tranmere Millwall score. Andy gave us a choice of a direct route, or

a slight detour to see the Cerne Abbas giant. Clearly the giant wins every time. When we arrived, the giant was stood tall and proud, whilst a member of the group who will probably wish to remain anonymous expressed his awe for the phallic nature of the giant.
Our tourist leanings ignited, the village tea shop a matter of minutes away could not be resisted, though as it was approaching five o’clock, this was probably well earned.
Restarting, we soon turned right and hit a hill that brought back vivid memories of the Col du Goring, way back when. It was pleasing to see how we coped much better with this climb…or at least 3 of us did, Matt had failed to turn right and was probably heading for another rendezvous with the giant. Andy, wearing his virtual polka-dot jersey, having destroyed the field on every climb, was more than happy to turn back half way up the hill. Steve and Leon, weaving towards the summit, were not. After a delay, we were underway again, and a slightly frustrated Machine started to take his revenge out on the roads, the average speed increased, and whilst Leaf was enjoying the increased velocity, Leon and Steve began to feel the pressure.
Soon we hit a roundabout which said ‘Dorchester 1’ which was slightly disturbing and suggested that Leaf had his eye on postboxes more than maps.
Luckily the terrain soon flattened out but the pace did not. However, the lack of a mechanical failure so far soon came back to bite us, as Greenleaf tried to change down a gear, there was a clunk, then an expletive…and his chain had snapped.
Whilst Machine’s eyes lit up at the thought of oily hands, Steve made his (agreed) escape and struck for home whilst the chain was repaired.
The botch job was soon complete, and the peleton was down to three. The main aim now was to get home before it got dark. It took a fair while to catch tete de la course Woonton, and by the time we did, there were but 10 miles to go.
Steve was claiming victory in the post box game having had the road to himself, and the claims of a hollow victory were contested. Of course, as the eagle eyed reader may have figured, Martin too claimed victory on his way to Dorchester, so it seems there is a need for a replay
It was real pain territory now, and the fluids had run out, so even though Swanage was 3 miles away, a stop at a petrol station was called for, where Steve managed to knock a whole box of brazil nuts to the floor. Luckily, the shopkeeper didn’t go nuts. Finally we cruised through Swanage and the day was done, 103 miles under the belt but perhaps not as quickly as we had liked. We found Martin had been snoozing in the 3 hours he had been back.
Forsaking the temptation of a restaurant or a curry as it was now quite late, we opted to stay in and cook some pasta, along with a few beers and Match of the Day. So the cycling was done…now for the running…

Bit of a mixed background to what was billed as a 26 mile run for the Sunday – First out were Martin and Andy, who from the start had maintained they would be in no fit state to run 26 miles 7 days after the London Marathon, though they would be happy to do a ‘regular’ Sunday run. Next out, therefore, was Leon, when he made a shock appearance on the start line at Blackheath the previous Sunday. Finally Steve was ruled out on medical grounds, knee trouble limiting him to swim and bike appearances at the time. So this left poor old Matt, on paper left to run 26 miles alone. Help was in hand a mere three days before, when a place became available in the North Dorset marathon, in which Martin’s sister was competing, and was only 20 or so miles away. Machine truly living up to his nickname, was up well before the rest of the caravan to make the start line of his first marathon only three days after entering and with 100+ miles in the bank the previous day. Martin was now joining Steve on the sidelines due to knee trouble, whilst Andy and Leon decided to do 14 miles watching the race in the opposite direction. Stationed at the 10 mile point we awaited the arrival of the Kilpin express with great anticipation, surely the marathon would suit his well oiled racing skills, or would it prove too much after yesterdays exertions?

Soon, through a film of rain, our hero appeared, in stereotypical chest out fashion, fresh as a daisy, chatting away as he rounded a corner. With many foolish enough to have accelerated away from him at the start, the question now was how high could he finish? Leon and Andy set off on their run to find out, through the quiet country lanes of Dorset, whilst Martin and Steve awaited Martins sister. An hour or so later and at 22 miles Matt appeared in slightly worse condition, but if his legs were heavy, his heart was not, as he downed an entire bottle of Lucozade. Slightly further on he encountered Leaf and Baptiste and managed his usual smile. What would his time be?
On he ploughed, striking a lone furrow now as the end neared. Over the finish line in a very respectable 3:xx:xx and a first marathon under the belt. He looked, as Leon and Andy arrived in, thwarted in their attempts to get on the old Somerset and Dorset, remarkably fresh.
And following a rendevous with the Gaunt family in a inn that was off the quaint scale, we set off for a Sunday lunch, well earned in some cases, slightly less so in others. Butcombe Bitter was on tap to raise the spirits still further.
With it being Sunday afternoon and all, it was time for some sightseeing. For Leon, inevitably, this meant a trip on the Swanage Railway, and so he was thrown out of the Woonton-mobile at Norden. For the other four, a trip to Lulworth cove and an ice cream was in order, whilst Martin tried hard to justify his geography degree by explaining some of the geological background to the landscape.
Back at base, it was now early evening, and so we ventured into town to find a restaurant. We ended up in an Italian where a thorough and comprehensive review of arrangements for the Ironman itself took place. Very organised. Unfortunately this tired us all out so much, that the planned evening in the pub some of us has prepared so keenly for (green trainers and all) was quietly dropped, and we retired to the caravan and bed.

Swim day, or rather swim morning, had been subject to a fierce debate prior to Bank Holiday Monday. Firstly Lulworth Cove was vetoed, the presence of ‘Danger Area’ on the OS map proving too much for Greenleaf. Steve then binged his was to the conclusion that Swanage Bay was ideal, as it had a 2.4 mile radius. However passing on Sunday, this didn’t look too inviting, with rather high waves crashing ashore. The route was further revised when it was apparent we would have to swim under Swanage Pier, and so an out and back route was adopted. Furthermore, the wise heads of both Greenleaf Snr. And Foster Snr. Had expressed safety concerns, in the latter case due to ‘sharks’.
So we were left with a dropping out process to equal Sunday’s. Firstly Andy having locked in his obligatory 90 min run before breakfast, simply decided he didn’t fancy it. Machine understandably said he was shattered and couldn’t be bothered either. Leon decided it looked cold. And choppy. Then went running instead. So it was left to Martin and Steve to ponce about, then thrash about, and finally run head first into the sea for what could be termed a swim, albeit not for long, certainly not long enough for Ironman purposes. Kilpin and Leaf on lifeguard duty were thankfully untroubled.
We regrouped, and there was an inordinate amount of faffing by Martin and Steve before we set off homeward bound. After lunch in the New Forest, another Sunday lunch for Leon and Steve, we dispersed across the UK once more, knowing the next time we would regroup, it would be for Ironman France itself.

It's an Ironman, not a Marathon

Sunday, June 20, 2010

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