Job Done!!

The Ironman had arrived. What was once a mere concept, at other times a improbable notion, was actually happening. We were up at 3am, with a 1 hour drive before the 6.30am start.
It is without bravado that I can honestly say that I felt no nerves at all. For once, finishing was the sole aim, there was no time to beat, no positions in mind. Whilst I had set myself a benchmark of 12 and a half hours, that is all it was, a benchmark. I also knew I had the training in the bank, and was as ready as I am ever likely to be for the challenge ahead.
In the bike park, I ignored all the expensive bikes which seemed to be everywhere, and for the swim I positioned myself in the 1:24+ pen, aiming to start conservatively, having read several horror stories about the carange the start involves. The sky was clear and the air was cool. For now, the Mediterranean was calm. I told myself to enjoy the moment, and looked about at the other 2700 people who were about to swim. There was an air of excited energy. The gun went, and I was almost straight into the sea. The first few strokes were fine, but as more and more people began to crawl, space became limited. It became impossible to practice breathing every three strokes, something it had taken me the full 4 years to perfect. This was a blow, though not entirely unexpected really. I tried my best to stay focused and keep moving, but it was very difficult not to get annoyed as people grappled with your feet, clipped your head or simply barged past you. But I told myself they probably saw me in the same light. Struggling to get a pattern going was not helped by the incredibly chlostrophobic feeling I obtained when looking down into the water, I was virtually blind, and combined with the physical prescence of other athletes, my breathing was irregular and seized up. I consoled myself with the thought that my regular turns above the water kept me on a fairly good course for bhoy number one, which was about 1.1km out to sea. A very long way! I tried to maintain pace with some of the athletes around me, which helped me gain some forward momentum. Eventually we reached the first bhoy, where more chaos reigned as we all swung 90 degrees right. I could tell I was slipping backwards but this didn’t concern me that much, in fact I was gaining some more space, but still there were swimmers crossing my bows every so often. One corrective motion I made was to concentrate on my arm action, using my legs too much would cost me later for sure, and this was something I wanted to avoid. I still wasn’t swimming with great motion, but was going forwards. I wasn’t really enjoying this first lap, but I reminded myself that this was the smallest section of the Ironman myself and also I couldn’t swim properly when I started training, so just doing 2.4 miles is a achievement. The shoreline got closer and closer, eventually, with the sun finally rising above the hills of Nice, we reached the shore, and were helped out onto the beach as I staggered on the rocky beach. We then ran 15 yards up, along, and back into the sea for the second lap. As I got back into the water, something clicked, and my breathing became looser, free, and calmer. I was able to breathe every two strokes, and sometimes every four, with a good rhytym. For the first time, I felt swift, and confident. I was noe enjoying the swim. I suspect this was because I had the confidence of having the worst part out of the way, and also the swimmers around me had also got used to the conditions, and most of the people I was swimming with were of a similar pace, so there was less chance of collision. As we rounded the two bhoys that formed the outer part of the second lap, the sun reflected from the surface, and we headed for the shore for the last time. I realy streched out on this final 600m and powered home, looking forward to the bike, but also knowing that I could obtain a decent time. Keeping my legs loose, and reaching ahead with my arms, the Ironman bhoys came closer and closer, and soon I was once more being helped out onto the blue mats, doing my best to fall over as the transition from horizontal to vertical proved problematic again. Over the timing mat, I was amazed to see the clock say 1:21. Not in my wildest dreams 4 years ago could I have contemplated such a time, and even 3 months ago, 1:30 looked a big ask. This was a great start to the Ironman, and gave me a real boost going into the bike. Probably the last time you’ll find me 1100m out to sea by myself though!

After bumping into Steve in transition, we had a quick chat, and I said I’d see him in a bit, before slapping on the sun cream, the helmet, and the cycle kit, and off to get my bike. At this point I was convinced I was last of the six of us. Turns out I was 4th. Still I wasn’t panicking, and set of down the Promenade de Anglais determined to enjoy it, and with 112 miles to cover, to take it easy to begin with.
There were riders everywhere and I was right in the thick of it, everyone seemed very focused. At this point it wasn’t too warm but I had a gel straight away and a fair bit of water. After hanging a right at the airport, we headed out of Nice through some industrial estate, which was a bit grotty, but I caught Steve and so we cycled together chatting until the first water stop, where I had a bit of trouble taking on a bottle of Infinit energy, while Steve dropped me having taken his on the move. The Infinit tasted horrible. But it had to be drunk. After about another 1k we turned left and up a very short, sharp hill. It was about 300m long but people were weaving all over the place, some were walking. Luckily a passage was clear on the left for me to get out of the saddle and reach the top. Here I retook Steve, but there was no time for chat, and that was the last of the team I saw until the run. The next 20-30k was steadily uphill, nothing serious but you aware of the gradient. It was time to get into a rhythm and start working a bit. Luckily most of this section was sheltered as I could feel myself getting warmer. There were good crowds on the side of the road, especially when passing through villages. Everyone had their name and age category on their number, and it was impressive to note the number of veteran competitors maintaining a fair old pace, especially on the female side. Soon the climb got a bit steeper and in one village we rounded a hairpin in front of the biggest crowd yet. It was then I looked up to see the road rising a sweeping left, with many cyclists in few. This ladies and gentlemen, was the feared Col D’Ecre – 14k of climbing with a 650m ascent. At first I was climbing well, but the road soon widened as it clung to the mountain side, and the tree cover disappeared. This was the first time I felt the heat of the mid morning sun, and the climb became steadily more difficult. The climb was also visible for a long way ahead, so it became clear it was really time to dig in. Round one of the many corners came the latest drinks stop, which was absolute carnage as the full width of the road was taken up by riders refuelling. You had to stop whether you liked it or not. The 130km to go so was an unwelcome thought. The final stretches were the most difficult, as the riders about 1km up the road where virtually above us, meaning we had some big climbing to do to reach that level, which we did via a couple more hairpins. Soon the summit finally arrived, and I relaxed in anticipation of a nice long downhill.

Unfortunately, we only dropped from 1150 to 1050m before reaching a wide sweeping plateau, something we are not accustomed to in England. This was a bit of a blow, and my legs were hurting from the climb, so I took it easy for a bit and took on more fuel. Some 10k later we finally hit a long gradual downhill. Some of the more streamlined bikes came flying past, but I took comfort in the fact I was ahead of them anyway. The half way point came and I briefly wondered how the rest of the team were doing. My legs began to feel better and so I picked up speed on the remaining descent, before we kicked up again, but I was able to maintain a decent pace on this climb. Then came the flattest bit since Nice, on a 5k out and back section, and with the road being cut in half, it was possible to get a good slipstream from the riders around me. Then came what was the final climb, which again included a number of hairpins, and was a real grind. Luckily we were back in the shade for this one, and the feed station was again very useful, but the Blackcurrant power gel was pretty horrible. The signs at the side of the road indicated we had again broken 1000m in height, and with only 50k to go, I knew some good downhills were ahead, with the last 20k being flat.
And so it proved. I took a few good lines on the way down, knowing the roads were closed, and it was great fun rounding the hairpins, breaking late and powering out of the corners. I overtook quite a few riders who were a bit more cautious and there weren’t many who went past me. I also became aware I would be well on course for finishing inside 7 hours. The last section was the reverse of the first, back through the industrial area, which wasn’t very pleasant as there was a headwind, and the legs were beginning to hurt again. Some cheeky slipstreaming was going on ahead, so a French marshall came and blew his whistle a lot, which seemed to solve the problem. I decided that when I reached the airport I would really take the foot of the pedal and get ready for the run. This I did, and I saw the future horror that awaited me for the first time. I knew it was a marathon and I knew it would be painful, but there seemed to be a lot of people waddling/walking at this early stage.
Finally, I saw a fellow team member, this being Martin at the first drinks station on the run, as I headed in on the bike. The sun was really baking the athletes now, and I told myself to take my time in transitions, to have a breather, and to get ready for the run. I crossed the bike finish having done the 112 miles in 6 hours 35, average speed of 17mph. Like the swim, this was very pleasing and ahead of what I expected.

I entered the transition tent and changed into proper running kit of vest shorts and cap, put a bit more sunscreen on, and my sunglasses. One more drink and one more gel and I stepped out onto the run course…

I had imagined something around 4 hours was realistic for the run, so I had settled for 1 hour per 10k given my time on starting the run. The course was incredibly dull, especially in comparision to the bike, consisting of 4 out and back laps down the promenade de Anglais to the airport and back.
Obviously I wasn’t feeling fresh when I started, but I didn’t feel too bad, and completed the first 5k going as slow as I felt was necessary, in 25 mins. I passed Martin going the other way, and we gave each other support. On the way back, the first cramp kicked in, and I had to stop and stretch, at which point Andy breezed past, on his final 5k, looking probably as tired as I have ever seen him. With just cause! Anyway, back trotting, I completed the 2nd 5k in 28mins and was still on course. My insides were now causing issues, I had over done the gels and felt pretty sick really, so limited myself to water for the next few stops. Just about managed the 3rd 5k in 30 mins, as the stops to shake off the cramp became more regular. However, given the heat, and number of casualties at the side of the road, the heat wasn’t proving a problem mentally at least. Also I made sure I didn’t run through the showers as I remembered stories of horribly blistered feet from last years race. In fact you could hear the squelch from some runners who had over done it. I settled for pouring water into my cap and over my head. At the end of the 4th 5k, my calves were really seizing up. However, at the end of 5k #4 I caught Martin, who was having a bad spell, with chest pains. We gave each other some encouragement as we crossed half way, walking, before Martin wisely took shelter in the shade for a few minutes.
I ploughed on, but was now spending more time walking than running. I took on some salt to try and stop the cramps, but it was no good, and near the end of the now never ending 5th 5k, a toilet stop was in order as I threw up some excess gels. I wasn’t feeling good. When I left the toilet, the familiar Nottingham green vest was 25m up the road, as Matt had passed me, running well in a steady shuffle. I told myself to simply keep moving forwards and the finish would get closer, but mentally this was just as much a battle as physically as the dullness of the run kicked in. Running stopped as soon as it started as my calves froze. Soon, a refreshed Martin came past, and we stuck together in comedic fashion for about 2k as we stumbled forwards for about a minute at a time, before reverting to a walk. As we neared the end of the third lap, Martin managed to push into a steady trot which was simply too much for my legs, and he disappeared off at the start of the final lap. I got into a walk as fast as I could, knowing I would finish no matter what, and I would do it as fast as I could. All the while as we crossed each other, we shouted each other, Steve and Rich being especially vocal. In fact, it wasn’t long after Martin left me, that Rich overtook me with a friendly slap on the back, and I smiled at the thought of how close Matt, Martin and Rich would be at the finish, in true 14AC tradition! And looked forward to them passing me on their final 5k. I kept walking, and was surprised to be able manage 5k in about 46 mins, I had thought it would take nearer an hour. Entering the final 5k I tried once more to break into a trot, but it wasn’t happening. I debated when to start my ‘run’ to the finish line, as there was no way I was walking over the finish line, no matter how much pain it would cause. Having visualised a bed, a drink and all sorts of carrots, I finally passed the last aid station with less that 1k to go and tried to break into a shuffle. It was too early, and had to wait a bit longer. I felt incredibly sorry for the couple of athletes who were slumped at the side of the course knowing they would not finish in the required 16 hours, but it then became my turn to enter the blue matting with 200m to go, to realise the dream, and to become an Ironman. I hobbled, picked my legs up, and broke into a jog. Pain rushed down my legs, but I ignored it, and looked forwards and up. The finish was there within my reach at last. Amidst all the crowd, cheers rang out, and I crossed under the clock in 13:34:54, I was now an IRONMAN.
The relief and the feeling of accomplishment was amazing.
We did it!

SWIM
BIKE
RUN
OVERALL
RANK
DIV.POS.
SWIM 2.4 miles 1:21:26
BIKE 112 miles 6:36:47
RUN 26.2miles 5:14:10
TOTAL 13:34:54
POSITION 1750
M25-29 160

140.6 miles done!

The day of the Nice Ironman finally came around after 5 years of build up, including: training weeks in the Lake District and Dorset, memorable cycles from Kings Lynn to Winchester and round the Isle of Wight, numerous triathlons dotted around the country, and hours of hours of swimming, running and (slightly less) cycling.

The day before, we racked tour bikes and handed in our ‘run’ and ‘bike’ bags. This meant that on the day itself all we had to do on the day was to get to the start line for 6:30. Easy when you are staying best part of an hours drive away! Having carbo loaded on the Saturday and got an early night, it was up at 3 am to make sure we would get too Nice with plenty of time.

There was a hive of activity when we arrived. Still under moonlight, it was possible to just about make out the buoys on the swim course, about 1 km directly out to sea from Nice. At the bike park, we made any final adjustments to the bikes and got kitted out for the swim. As per most triathlons I’ve ever been to, the quality of the kit was unbelievable and, despite having up graded my bike, it was still dwarfed by the quality of the majority of the other bikes. However, my feeling is that “its not about the bike” though, its all about the rider. I worked out that there must have been about £4-5 million worth of kit in that bike park. Rich psyched himself up in his customary fashion (on a completely superior level to that witnessed at Notts 10!), while everyone just stepped into their wetsuits and pondered the enormity of the challenge that lay ahead.

By 6 am, we were being ushered down towards the sea and lined up in the swim pen depending upon your expected swim time. I put myself in the 1:06 pen, thinking that was in line with the pace I swim in training, and started to prepare myself for the sound of the start gun. At this point, I was thinking about my 3 major concerns I had going into the race: one being hit in the face on the swim, two getting a puncture on the bike, and three total mechanical failure on the bike. I was also contemplating further the sheer magnitude of the event, and how my body would cope with pushing itself to the limit for at least the next 10-11 hours.

With the ‘Black-eyed-peas’ song ‘I gotta feeling’ being belted out in the background (that clearly seemed to be the song of the race), the start gun went and there was a mass movement into the sea. Utter carnage. I was trying very hard to get a clear swim line, but the sheer number of people meant constantly swimming over people, hitting people’s feet and generally finding it very hard to maintain any sort of rhythm in those early stages. It was great swimming a vast distance from the coast, something that I would never have the nerve to do on my own, and the further into the swim we got, the more spread out the field got. That was until the first buoy, when the carnage ensued and the pack was brought close together once again. After rounding one more buoy, it was time to return to the shore to complete the first 2.4 km lap. I had little sense of direction on this part of the swim, as the sun was immediately east and, every time I went to take a breath, I was badly affected by the glare. Needless to say, I had a very ‘zigzag’ swim line into shore but, having got out of the water briefly, lap 2 was under way and I knew that I had broken the back of the swim.

While I felt comfortable on the swim, I was concerned that perhaps I had pushed it too hard on this discipline and that it may have an impact later. Given that I was a good 30 minutes in to the swim, there was little I could do about this now, and so I just cracked on at the current pace. By this stage, it was nice to be able to swim in a relatively clear line and relax a little before heading into the cycle.

I emerged from the water to find the clock showing 1:03:48, more or less on track with what I had planned, and raced towards the bike park. After a quick towel down, change of kit, and a couple of energy bars, it was time to pick up the bike and embark on the 112 mile cycle. My plan was to average at least 17 mph: this way I would keep up a relatively fast pace but hopefully retain a good level of energy to take in to the run. The bike course took us out towards Nice Airport along the Promenade Anglais and immediately I was being passed by a considerable number of cyclists – this was despite doing 22 mph myself! The early stages on the cycle passed through some grotty industrial estates and followed the river up towards Gattieres. This was the point for the first climb, a short, sharp 500 metre hill with a gradient of 10%. The whole field bunched up together and I was surprised to see just how hard some of the other cyclists were finding this. I presume that, while these other cyclists found the hills tricky, their power and weight make them very good on the flat and downhill – this seems the complete opposite approach that I to have to cycling.

While there were brief respites from the hills, there was a clear theme to the ride so far that we were heading upwards and into the ‘Montagne du Cheiro’. We were greeted with cheers as we passed through each of the 17 villages en route, and the ‘kilometres to go’ signs were gradually ticking down. I say ticking down, they were showing 130, 120, 110 kilometres to go which is still a huge distance to cover! Up to this point, I was heading backwards in the field, and the only time I ever made up places was on the hills – bring on Col de l’Ecre and see what damage I can do here! This 21km climb was spectacular. The road wound around the side of the mountain, and it was possible to get a good idea of just how high we had climbed already. Some of the cliffs above and below us were so impressive, and there were parts where you could look back down the mountain and see the long snake of riders gradually winding their way up the ascent (also it was comforting to see quite a large number of people behind!)

The aid stations on the course were essential and an excellent way to make sure that you took on all of the necessary fluids and energy required to get round. The set up of each aid station was simple: first there was the bottle and rubbish drop to get rid of any empty containers, then people handed out bottles of water, coke, isotonic drinks, gels, bananas and power bars, and finally there was one more bottle drop. At every aid station I made sure that I took on fresh water and coke/isotonic drink, and either a power bar or, towards the end of the cycle, gels. Keeping hydrated was key and I estimate that I took on a good 6-8 litres of fluids on the bike, along with 3-4 power bars, 6-8 gels, half a malt loaf and a couple of bananas. However at about 40 miles to go, I stopped taking on ‘solid’ fuel, as I didn’t want any stomach problems on the run.

At the top of the Col de l’Ecre, I thought it was sensible to ease off the pace and recoup some of the energy exerted on the climb. I was happy to freewheel and pedal easy for the next few miles and prepare for the remaining 110km. In fact, over the next 40km there was only about 5km of uphill, so by the time I reached Greolieres, I was ready for the next climb up to Coursegoules, via the ‘out and back’ loop to the Col de Vence.

The route took us straight through a very narrow street in the middle of Coursegoules and, once again, it was time for another long descent. Just as I hit about 74 miles, I felt as through my front wheel was losing some pressure. Disaster! Still, I carried on and continued for a couple for miles before catastrophe struck, and the front wheel was well and truly punctured. Team BMC did a great tyre change and I was up on the bike again within about 5 minutes, however the mechanics failed to notice that the speedo sensor was on the wrong side. A very quick pit stop 200m down the road ensued, and I was back rolling again. Despite checking the inside of the tyre rim for the sharp object before setting off, I was concerned that it may puncture again. Fingers crossed it would not. In fact, the tyre change may have been a slight blessing in disguise, as it allowed me to have a short break, toilet stop and take on a little more food.

On closer inspection of the tyre following the race, I noticed 2 very small shards of glass lodged in the tyre itself, one of which must have been responsible for the puncture during the race. I do not know when I got this glass in my tyre, however I was annoyed with myself for not checking the actual tyre itself before starting the race. I guess this is one further thing that I learnt as a result of the event.

With 40km to go, it was possible to see that we still had a considerable amount of height to loose before returning to Nice and the possibility of a sub 6 hour cycle was still on the cards. Finally, having completed the mountain section of the course, we returned to the flat section and the industrial estates, and continued back towards Nice. The other riders continued to come streaming past, but I knew I would take this lot on the run. The final 2-3 miles back to the finish were great because we had been funnelled into a narrow ‘coned-off’ section and drafting was the only option, thus allowing me to maintain a a good 22-23mph with very little effort.

And so after 112 miles, I was back in the bike park and picking up my ‘run’ bag. I decided to go for a complete change of kit and emerged from the tent almost bang on 7 hours, ready for the 4 laps and 26 miles along the Nice promenade.

The first 10 km felt easy. My legs were fresh to running and the sub 3 marathon was certainly a possibility. A rather satisfying moment came on the first lap when I cruised past both the men’s and women’s leaders, however I was making a very big mistake here, as the quick early pace would cause problems later on. Overall, the run was fairly uninspiring: there were the occasional cheers for ‘Winchester’ (as a result of my vest), some recognition from the other members of team MMX, (although none of us could really muster much energy for a ‘high-five’) and lap after lap of trudging along Nice seafront getting ever closer to the finish.

Having reached half way in about 1:20, I already knew that I had gone out too hard too early. My legs ached, I was depleted of energy, I struggled to take on enough water let alone any form of energy, the temperature was in to the thirties and I was completely soaked having run through just about every shower on the course to cool down. Although this paints a rather grim picture of the run, the thought of crossing the finish line was a great way of keeping me going, and of course it was getting ever closer. I knew I was going to be able to finish, and in a respectable time, and I was still overtaking a number of people, so at least everyone else must have been feeling in an equally tiring state.

By the third lap, my pace had dropped considerably, and by the time of the fourth, I realised that only a miracle would bring me in less than 10 hours. Therefore I decided to try and enjoy the last lap as much as I good, and prepare myself for heading up the final runway. When I crossed the 40km marker, I knew it was just about 10 minutes more of running to do and, shortly after, I was onto the blue carpet and fast approaching the finish.

Going up the finish straight was an amazing feeling. With my arms firmly in the air, and the pace having been lifted considerably, I ran up the ramp and literally jumped through the finish line in 10:09:20. While mentally the jump seemed the best thing to do, I hadn’t really considered the physical impact and landed up cramping all down one leg! However, what did it matter at this point? I was just elated to have completed the 140.6 miles, to have the medal round my neck and was now happily lying in a heap, drained of every last bit of energy in my body. It was no great shock that within 10 minutes I was in the medical tent, rigged up to a salt/sugar drip (along with rows of other athletes), but once I had taken down that, along with some food, I went out on the course to watch the other competitors.

I got myself to the finish grandstand and was fascinated to watch all the other runners coming in and completing their goal. There were those who picked their kids at the start of the finish straight and ran in with them, there were those who ‘high-fived’ every single person in the front row of the grandstand, there were those who came in hand in hand with other competitors, and there were those who were so drained of energy that only the finish line was on their mind. I stayed to watch Matt, Martin and Rich come in quick succession of one another and, while congratulating each other and gradually recovering at the finish, Leon and Steve finished the race.

It was great that all six of us completed the challenge and fulfilled each of our personal goals. The immediate consensus was ‘NEVER AGAIN’, however I don’t think that I’ll rule another Ironman out completely just yet!

SWIM: 01:03:57

T1 SWIM-TO-BIKE: 00:04:59

BIKE: 05:48:10

T2 BIKE-TO-RUN: 00:03:34

RUN: 03:08:40

TOTAL TIME: 10:09:20

RANK: 106

DIV.POS: 12

This Is It!

One week to go, and we are all set!

LINKS

www.twitter.com/leonlen
www.twitter.com/Nice_ironman
http://justgiving.com/nicetri
http://www.justgiving.com/ironmanforscholarships
Facebook - search for the 'It's an Ironman not a Marathon' group
www.ironmanlive.com - live results
http://www.ironmanfrance.com/

RACE NUMBERS

Martin Gaunt, no. 343
Andrew Greenleaf, no. 395
Leon Foster, no. 341
Richard Davies, no. 387
Stephen Woonton, no. 374
Matt Kilpin, no. 303

Race Preview Profiles

Matt Kilpin

Best discipline: Bike(?)

Worst discipline: Swim

Hardest training session: Epic peak district ride

Any injuries/niggles: Left knee niggle

Preferred refuelling method: Gatorade / Coffee / Morrisons Honey + Ginger flapjack

Wetsuit brand: 2XU

Bike: B'Twin

Shoes Asics

Predict your time: 16ish / Broomwagon.

Andy Greenleaf

Best discipline Run

Worst discipline Bike

Hardest training session Beaver Triathlon. Wrecked at the end, so cannot imagine after double that

Any injuries/niggles Groin always a worry + niggle in left shin. Hopefully not a stress fracture

Preferred refuelling method Malt Loaf

Wetsuit brand Zoot

Bike BMC SLX01

Shoes Adidas

Predict your time Sub 12

Rich Davies

Best discipline Cycle

Worst discipline Swim

Hardest training session 2 mile river swim + 90 mile 'King of the Mountains' route around Devon & Cornwall's toughest hills!

Any injuries/niggles Recovering from suspected stress fracture in left leg

Preferred refuelling method Electolytes

Wetsuit brand Orca

Bike Gitane

Shoes Asics Gel Nimbus-11

Predict your time sub 14:00:00

Steve Woonton

Best discipline Swim

Worst discipline Cycle/Run

Hardest training session Chiltern Big Dipper 100 mile cycle or Helvellyn Tri

Any injuries/niggles Knee is still very much recovering. Achilles has been a little dodgy too, both most impacting on the run.

Preferred refuelling method SIS Go

Wetsuit brand Blue Seventy

Bike Giant SCR3

Shoes Asics

Predict your time 16:55:59 (I’ll be happy with that)

Leon Foster

Best discipline Run

Worst discipline Swim

Hardest training session Wirral to Bromyard cycle, but that was a while ago. 3½ hr run t’other week wasn’t much fun

Any injuries/niggles Groin always a worry

Preferred refuelling method Vanilla power bars are nice

Wetsuit brand Orca

Bike Boardman Carbon

Shoes New Balance

Predict your time 12:35:17

Martin Gaunt

Best discipline Run

Worst discipline Cycle

Hardest training session Land’s End to John O’Groats

Any injuries/niggles Knee niggle still lingering from Dorset cycle

Preferred refuelling method Moules Frites

Wetsuit brand [Can’t remember the name- same as Leaf’s]

Bike Specialized Allez

Shoes Asics

Predict your time 12:35:16

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.

Second MMX AGM – Swanage

Attendees:

Leaf, Baptiste, Machine, Gasman, 2 jeans

Items discussed:

1. MMX Kit – No progress to date. Leon to chase Rich on status of polo shirts

2. Media and press releases – Leon requested to have a Twitter feed, others less interested. Conclusion is that Leon can maintain Twitter feed if desired. Andy to bring a laptop for blogage.

3. Transport part 1 – Steve and Matt will be taking their cars. Riding shotgun in Steve’s car was quashed and some sort of rotation system will ensue on the way down and way back.

4. Transport part 2 – Steve and Matt to check breakdown cover. Andy has breakdown cover but needs to check whether it works in France

5. Transport part 3 – Steve and Matt to check France jacket i.e. lash jacket, GB sticker etc. (expecting Machine to construct hazard triangle, GB sticker, yellow lights from various pieces of household materials. Steve likely to just buy a pack from Halfords)

6. Transport part 4 – Steve to put Andy on his car insurance. Andy to send copies of drivers licence to Steve. Matt to put Leon on his car insurance. Impacted parties to make arrangements amongst themselves.

7. Travel part 5 – Andy and Steve to start in Reading. Matt and Martin to start in Brentwood. Leon to start in Brentwood or Dover depending on HS1 timetable.

8. Travel part 6 – Hotel to be booked round about Lyon on the way down. Hotel to be booked relatively close to Calais on the way back. Andy to look in to this.

9. Travel part 7 – Outbound ferry to be booked for about 10:30 – 11:00 on the morning of June 22^nd. Time of return ferry based upon location of hotel on the journey back. Andy to work out where we are staying on the way back. Martin to make ferry booking once he knows approximate time of return leg. In the meantime, Steve and Matt to email Martin with car registration numbers.

10. Travel part 8 – Journey down. Andy to find this out.

11. Champion’s dinner – No longer black tie due to increased faf, likelihood of it being hot in Nice and baggage allowance. Monday night Champions dinner replaced by Champions BBQ. Champion’s dinner will now be held on the Tuesday.

12. Itinerary when we are down there – None, take each day as it comes. Except Friday 25^th when we have to go to Nice to register, rack bikes etc. Logistics for the Sunday to be worked out on the Friday/Saturday morning.

13. Tools – Everyone bring their own, so that they have the right tools for their own bike. Steve and Andy to bring a track-pump each.

14. Travel insurance – make sure everyone has it.

15. Martin’s Race Cape – signature given for this to be destroyed at Champions BBQ. Martin to bring said jacket.

16. Linen in the Villa – Andy to clarify with the owner about what we need to bring.

17. News received since committee meeting – Rich now arriving on 23^rd June and staying until 30^th June. Plane gets in at 4pm and probably easiest to pick up from the airport.

Virgin London Marathon 2010

The London Marathon would not be complete without at least one member of 14AC, or more specifically, team MMX lining up on Blackheath. News came in early that Chris Wrighton had come down with a virus on the Friday and would not be running, so that left just Andy and Martin on the start line….or so they thought. Only later it emerged that one mysterious member of MMX had bagged himself a club place un-be-known to the rest of us.

Once again, Martin made sure he attained prime placing on the start line to get on to BBC1. However he got greater exposure than bargained for, as he appeared on the front page of the Wall Street Journal the following Monday. Meanwhile Andy and Leon (our mysterious sportsman) were a few rows back.

Early showers had left the road damp for the early miles, but the humid and hot conditions speculated earlier in the week did not really materialize until later in the day. The crowds and atmosphere were great in the East London boroughs and all three runners took the first 10k steady, citing experiences from previous marathons. The light breeze could easily be avoided by tucking in behind other runners and, by half way, the sun was out, the crowds were out, and the road had thinned out. And in true ‘Machine’ style, Leon was gearing up to nail the second half to achieve a negative split.

By Docklands, the rating on the hazy scale was pushing ever higher, and those early comfortable miles were being replaced with tough, painful and what seemed like endless, miles. Even so, Martin and Andy were ticking off the iconic landmarks of Canary Wharf, the Tower of London and the Monument, while Leon was ticking off the iconic railway stations of Limehouse DLR, Cannon Street and Blackfriars.

Soon Big Ben was insight and the prospect of entering The Mall and completing the 26 miles was drawing ever closer. Substantial crowds all the way along the Embankment and Birdcage Walk brought us home in very respectable times of 2:28:51, 2:47:13 and 2:54:28 for Andy, Martin and Leon respectively.

Great work all round with Andy finishing in 48^th place, Martin clocking up his 8^th London Marathon and Leon completing the second half with a 5 minute negative split.

Now for the simple task of completing that distance after the 112 mile bike ride and 2.4 mile swim – simple!

Ed Prickett Relays 2010

So, another 3 weeks on from Hyde Park, another 3 weeks closer to the Ironman.
Unfortunately this race was even shorter, being 4 legs x 2 miles.
With Rich and Martin (pot-hunting) absent, it was left to Messers Foster, Greenleaf, Kilpin and Woonton to fly the flag back on familiar ground. Only Woonton’s flag must have been made of the infamous denim, and he announced on the eve of the race he was not fit to compete. To be fair to two jeans however, he did lock in a 40 mile bike ride before arriving in Nottm shortly after 1pm, though the number of tea shops this involved was undisclosed.
Being back on the old stomping patch meant we were lucky to have support from some of the 14AC girls, Lizzie, Hannah and Lucie, who were impressed we were still right on course for Nice.
Andy had flown in from South Africa that very morning, bring with him a suitcase but no calendars this time, this dedication to the cause was greatly appreciated, whilst Steve had popped into M&S on the way up to buy some Rocky Road. Machine meanwhile, entertained us with stories of glamour in the Potteries.
Onto the race, and with 3 runner for 4 legs, Baptiste decided to run 1st and 4th leg, with Machine 2nd and Leaf 3rd. We warmed up running round the course whilst the women raced, and Lizzie and Lucie did the girls team proud. We cursed the ‘brainchild’ for shortening the race to 4 legs, though you may think this would have made things harder for our 3 athletes, bear in mind that Matt managed all 4 legs himself last year!

To the start, and Leon was resplendent in the now customary football socks, which were, apparently the first thing Andy packed for SA! The start was carnage, and Leon was soon left behind. Over the course however, he managed to move through with the aid of a Leeds City team mate, and fell down the hill to the finish to hand over to Machine. The next we saw of Matt he was in classic pose, storming up the hill to the Library and down to hand over to Leaf. Andy then took on the two mile loop and looked to be showing no signs of tiredness as he handed over to Leon, who didn’t ease up to bring the team home in 20th position.
Regular readers will be aware that it is customary for the abilities of Team MMX to be so closely matched that a one second margin between splits is not only unheard of, but a standard occurrence. On this occasion though, the team surpassed themselves. In the 7 ½ years of racing each other, things have never been this close:

L.Foster 11.02
M. Kilpin 11.01
A.Greenleaf 11.01
L.Foster* 11.34 * - masquerading as S.Woonton

Honours even, one might say!
With that in mind, Leon decided some extra training was needed and ran to the hotel, actually beating Steve’s soon to be replaced car.
In the hotel, we played the coin game, watching Fulham V Tottenham. Like last time, this was a FA Cup game, but frankly it was awful. It later transpired, our very own Gas Man was at Craven Cottage, I hope he managed to stay awake! As the girls joined us, we switched to the more traditional Wipeout, which was a lot more successful.

Moving onto the city centre for a meal, we passed a big wheel, which now seems to be present in any city that wants to sell itself. For the meal itself, we were joined by old comrades, Alex and Rob, who proceeded to avail themselves of the wine at a fair rate, not being MMX athletes of course! A trendy cocktail bar followed, and another Leaf inspired wind-up. Following the pouring of water on Martin in Leeds (‘No way that was Leaf’), Andy (albeit assisted by Leon) hid Steve’s drink. Steve then assumed it had been cleared away by the barman, and launched into an expletive driven rant, only to find his drink had reappeared. An angry two jeans was not happy, meanwhile Andy became the Laughing wasp, and Leon was a bit bemused. Soon the night wound down, and while this was not in the top 50 MMX carnage events, it was a very nice evening. The sauna of a hotel was very welcome given the freezing conditions!
In the morning, in a great show of team spirit, the team went on 3 separate runs:

Baptiste went City Ground, ½ way to Holme Pierrpoint, back on the Trent, Isis, Canal – 60 mins steady
Leaf and Machine somehow got to Beeston Marina and back in 54 mins – no wonder Leon declined to join them.
Steve did a 30 min run down the canal, passing Leon going the other way, and then being caught by the tempo group on their return for the final few minutes.
With this out the way by 10am, and the sun shining, we found what Woonton described as ‘acceptably quaint for an urban area’ café, for breakfast with the girls, and Matt managed to eat the wrong breakfast!
And after that, we went our separate ways, another weekend of running fun done and dusted, and another weekend closer to the race that matters most!

Next stop: London Marathon and then the Swanage Sojurn!

Hyde Park Relays 2010

The Hyde Park Relays, a 6 x 3.2 mile race, was perhaps not the endurance test that was needed 4 months out from the Ironman, but it was a race that held great memories from Uni days. Since then we’d won the 1st Old Boys team prize at least once (I think twice), and were hopeful of winning once again. It was also the first time, unbelievably, that all 6 MMXers had been together since the ill-fated King’s Lynn – Winchester cycle in that formative Ironman year of 2006. Since then, one or more of us, more often than not Rich, had been absent from our various training events. The race had been in our diaries for many months, and only some last minute Serpentine pressure for Martin and Andy to run in a crucial Met League meeting instead briefly threatened the reunion.

Reminiscing next to the bandstand of years gone by, it soon became apparent that all links with Notts Uni, bar Jonny Thewlis, had been lost. There were a few familiar faces around though, with 14ACers Hannah Whitelam and Anna Ferguson running, albeit in unfamiliar colours.

Gaunt assumed what had traditionally become the preserve of Skipper Greenleaf: the opening leg for 14AC. The Lazy Wasp, his load lightened by the removal of a large piece of Meccano from his shoulder, was being held back for the anchor leg. Gasman opened up with a 16.55 clocking, handing over to Rich in a top 10 place. Meanwhile, the Uni (sporting the famous green, but with Baptiste-inspired diagonal blue and yellow band) were out in front, despite some predictably shambolic baton changeovers. Davies, roared on by the glamorous WAGs by Queen Elizabeth Gate, showed his usual 100% effort all the way to the line, clocking 18.47.

Next up was Baptiste, looking impressively green in his less-than-technical rugby socks. The top ten position was held, as Leon passed on to Two Jeans Woonton with a 17.54 run. Woonton was looking mean and, whisper it quietly, lean, though he would probably have preferred to have swum across the Serpentine, than have to run around it. A 20.54 clocking and next up was Kilpin. Approaching Hyde Park Corner, the Machine’s engines were beginning to fire, and he handed over to Greenleaf with a 17.50 run. Leaf, having begun his marathon training only the day before, and having already done two laps of the Serpentine warming up, was playing down his form. But class is clearly permanent, as he took the honours with the fastest 14AC performance of the day: 16.39.

This was enough to secure 14AC MMX 11th place overall, but would it be enough for the first Old Boys prize? (Some days later it became apparent we were second behind Alehouse.) After much discussion, and much faffing from Leaf (what did he have in all those bags??), we decided to shun the presentations in order to crack on with the Ironman AGM.

Hosted by Martin in his new flat in Greenwich, the evening was the chance to finalise the pre-Ironman plans, as well as the details for the France trip itself. With Machine doing a fine job as secretary, some key decisions for the year ahead were taken:

• A training weekend in Dorset for the Mayday bank holiday weekend, worryingly just a week after the London marathon;
• A cycling weekend in Bromyard later in May. (Curry is off the menu.);
• A 14AC appearance at Ed Prickett Relays;
• Davies, supported by Baptiste, commissioned to design the Official MMX Apparel;
• Leon’s chance to colour in some French railway lines vetoed, with Team MMX heading to Nice by car instead.

Aside, from the AGM, the team kicked off 4 months of carbo-loading with a Gaunt pasta extravaganza. There was also time, obviously, for a game of hearts, and a bizarre betting game involving Man City vs Stoke (Dean Dyer inexplicably absent). The Armchair Athlete got out of the armchair briefly, but only to look into the armchair for his stylus. He eventually made off with a 6ft canvas instead. But the moment of the evening was undoubtedly the extraordinary unveiling of the MMX calendar. Designed in secrecy by Leaf, courtesy of Merrill Lynch’s generous leave entitlement, these caused much amusement (although the significance of the York City emblem had us stumped for a while).

After 5 of the MMXers had spent the night in Greenwich, Woonton and Machine were off, leaving Gaunt, Leaf and Baptiste the remaining survivors for the Sunday morning run. Gaunt and Leaf locked in an hour, Baptiste 1hr30, and it was time to say farewell. A cracking weekend, and the Ironman is finally, worryingly, becoming tangibly close.

Cycling the west coast of Morocco: Agadir to El-Jadida

Having assembled the bikes the previous evening, we were all set for the 100 odd miles from Agadir up to Essouria. We would be following the main N1 coast road, so there was little chance of making any navigational errors and, fingers crossed, we would not suffer any mechanical failures.

From the Petit Suede Hotel in Agadir, we set out to the sea front, and passed by a small shop to pick up some breakfast. Flat breads and orange juice were sufficient to give us the energy for the morning’s cycle, and we were soon on the road to Essouria. At this point, we were pleasantly surprised at the quality of the road, far better than Britain’s finest. However, our preconceptions about the roads of Morocco were soon confirmed, as the surface disintegrated, and the bumpy ride was underway. Thankfully there were no potholes to look out for, just some dangerous drivers, who were all driving blue and white coloured 1970’s Mercedes taxis.

Within 5 minutes of leaving Agadir, we had our first mechanical problem, as Martin’s bike failed to get into its low gears. Immediate concerns were how we would handle the situation given that Machine was a couple of thousand miles north of us, and between us we did not have even a small strip of gaffa tape. However, with a quick readjustment of Martin’s handlebars and tweak of the gears, we were underway again.

This part of the Moroccan coastline is spectacular, with long beaches stretching out as far as you can see, and huge waves crashing against the shore. Body surfing in these waves would certainly result in at least a broken collarbone, and so we were happy to be on the bikes instead.

Having followed an estuary inland, we reached Tamri, the first significant village about 30 miles north of Agadir. Two cyclists looked well out of place here and, as in practically every other village we would pass through up the coast, the locals gave us a few strange looks. Shortly after leaving Tamri, we got our last glance of the sea for the rest of the day, and started to head inland once again. At this point, the terrain changed as we were now cycling in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains.

There is little vegetation in this baron landscape, and the principle form of income seems to come from goat herding. In the UK, most shepherds tend to let their flocks roam around the highlands and bring them down off the mountains in bad weather. The Moroccan practice is similar, however they employ a form of ‘extreme’ goat herding, whereby the animals are encouraged to spend most of their time in trees. Baffled on-lookers such as ourselves would probably link this to some sort of strange method of protecting the flock from predators, but they would be wrong. In fact, these goats are eating the nut of the Argon tree, which is digested, and then extracted from their faeces to produce one of Morocco’s biggest rip offs – Argan Oil. (It’s supposed to be good for both cooking and cosmetics. I have my doubts!)

Having passed many goats in trees, we reached a suitable spot for lunch: Tamanar. With our limited understanding of the Moroccan language, and a similar understanding of the English language by the Moroccan ‘waiter’, there was the possibility that lunch would be hard to come by. However, the very fact that the various different animals that are used for the cooking were hanging up for everyone to see, and the main kitchen for the restaurant was actually on the side of the street, through some finger pointing, we landed up with exactly what we wanted: a lamb tajine.

This was soon taken down and we were back on the road northwards. Away from the coast, the undulations continued and we maintained a steady pace going up, while hitting 35mph on the descents. At one point, a couple of kids tried to run along side us. It wasn’t that we were going particularly slow, rather the kids were a little over optimistic with their own speed. They did however catch up with us when we stopped to check directions and it turned out they were after ‘stylo’s’, rather than money. Unfortunately we were unable to support the roaring pen trade of the Atlas Mountains, and carried on to the disappointment of the kids. Next time I go cycling round Morocco, I’ll be sure to raid the stationary cupboard at work before I leave.

We passed many tribes people selling jars of Argan Oil and hashish (an interesting combination), continued to tick off various Cols de Maroc, and gradually came out of the baron terrain of the hills. Martin picked up the pace on the final approach to Essouria, and soon we found ourselves within the walled town.

This bustling town is a tourist’s haven. Narrow streets, a few mosques, and alley after alley selling a whole heap of junk. We located our riad for the night, however the reservation Martin had made had been lost in translation and it was now full. No problem though, since the owner knew a mate in an alternative riad who could offer us accommodation for the night. Despite much inveigling on the price, he would not budge and the 600 dirhams price tag was far too much. No problem though, the owner knew a mate in an alternative riad.... and so on, we were soon sorted with a place for the night. In this country, everyone knows everyone however, unlike so many other developing countries, there seems to be very little sign of a middle man taking a cut of the profits, suggesting a significant degree of trust and ‘give and take’ within the Moroccan population.

We sussed out the port, passed by a number of hash cake vendors and alcohol pushers, checked out the fish sellers and got a good feed before going to bed and locking in a good 10 hours sleep.

The second days cycling took us up the coast to Safi. For this, we would need a good breakfast and the guesthouse came up trumps with a good spread of croissants, freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee. While we were at breakfast, we got speaking to a couple of Moroccan doctors. One spoke reasonable English and when we mentioned that we were from London, he began to recount his time there 20 years ago. One thing we learnt was that he would often frequent the Trafalgar Tavern, a pub that Martin was familiar with. They were also interested in the jobs that we did, and approved of our finance and parliament based careers. When we mentioned that we were on our way up to Oualidia, it transpired that one of the three had a flat up there, and that we were more than welcome to stay there once we got to the town. Clearly our two jobs with the finest reputations in the UK were key to secure accommodation, but the clincher was definitely the link with the pub!

So armed with a napkin containing strict instructions to contact Jonas (the guy who looks after the flat) 2 hours before we arrived at Oualidia, we set off for Safi. The main road towards Marrakech had just been re-laid and so provided a very good surface, however it was busy and dangerous. Thankfully we only had a small stretch on this particular road. Having cycled along this motorway for longer than the map suggested, we began to question our navigation. However a short distance further on, there was a man sitting in a hole on the side of the road, and Martin confirmed with him that the turning to Safi was a couple of miles up on the right. It’s useful to have that kind of local knowledge just when you need it.

Indeed it was, and this ‘yellow’ road (the equivalent of a ‘B’ road in the UK) had a good surface by Moroccan standards, and was empty. It was hardly surprising that the road was empty given that the first major village turned out to be some 50 miles up the road. We did not follow the coast as closely as on the first day, however whenever we got a glimpse of the sea, the characteristic huge waves and long beaches were clearly visible.

Having taken a short pit stop in a remote village along the way, the road passed through farmland and the traffic became much heavier. The definition of heavy traffic being the occasional horse and cart every 5 minutes. Shortly after crossing the Oued Tensift River, we arrived at Souira Kedima.

Here, all of the lorries travelling south from Safi would unload their goods, while all of the horse and carts would travel north with all sorts of fruit and vegetables on board. Hence at Souira Kedima there was a huge exchange of produce and lots of stalls, which resulted in a bustling market town with a plethora of activity. The smells of various kebab and tajine stalls were amazing, but it was just a little early in the day for lunch, and besides, we had planned to stop for some food at Souira about 20 kilometres further up the coast.

The horse and cart traffic had now been replaced by trucks, and we maintained good progress to Souira. We were expecting to find another bustling market town, instead however we found ourselves in a deserted seaside resort. Despite a huge amount of construction in progress, there were no signs of any holidaymakers, and little indication of anywhere to get some lunch. So onwards to Safi it was.

The Lonely Planet’s brief description of Safi gives little indication that it is the tourist trap we had discovered in Essouria, citing: “A thriving port and industrial centre, Safi is quite a pleasant town if you can ignore the giant phosphate plant that mars the view of the seafront…”

Indeed, approaching from the south, all we could see was a huge factory, shrouded in smoke and accompanied by a horrible stench. It was raining too, and not presenting the long sandy beaches we had been following for the last 2 days. Very Northern. Things looked up as we left the phosphate factory a couple of miles to the south and we then saw the first rail freight of the trip (I’m sure Leon would have made sure he found Safi’s station, and looked into the possibility of some colouring in). However our primary thoughts were on lunch. We discovered the first busy street close to the centre of Safi, home to Morocco’s finest fish fryer. The limited menu of flatbreads and fried fish made sure that we could point and get exactly what we wanted. After 80 miles on the bike, this simple Moroccan cuisine washed down with some Coke was perfect.

We checked into a fine establishment right on the seafront. Complete with hole in the ground toilet, limited hot water and a room with a balcony, it was basic but clean accommodation, and clearly popular with Moroccans. At this point, Andy continued up the coast road and locked in a few more miles on the bike, while Martin went off exploring the ‘Chateau de Mer’.

In the evening, we went for a wander around Safi and its substantial night market. A local surfer soon joined us, and he was keen to show us around the town. While my preconceptions of the Moroccan people were that if they picked you out randomly in the street, then they were after some cash from you, this was certainly was not the case in Safi (or in fact across the whole of Morocco). This particular chap just wanted us to speak English to him. We learnt about the good spots to surf, he also helped Martin pick out a CD of Morocco’s answer to N-Dubs, and he showed us a good place for dinner. Having missed out on the kebabs at lunchtime, his suggestion was perfect, and before long, the country’s most efficient waiter had brought us a large selection of cooked meats on skewers.

We by-passed the surf-dude’s offer to join him for a drink in favour of locking in another 10 hours sleep. With the two long days behind us, we now had some far more conservative days cycling ahead of us.

With only a mere 60 kilometres to Oualidia, there was little urgency to get away from Safi, and we went to find somewhere good for breakfast. All evidence of the night market had since disappeared and, given that it was about 8:30 in the morning, there was little activity at all. The first café we visited would not allow us to sit and have breakfast indoors, giving preference to mopping the floor. Thankfully the next one up the road not only had the customary selection of croissants and fresh orange juice, but also had a live stream coming straight from Mecca on the television. The general theme of the broadcast showed the worshippers doing circuits of the Kaaba, however just as we were reaching the climax, the power in the café went out. At this point, we decided it was a good time to leave and pick up some supplies for the day.

There was a set of market stalls resembling what would be a small precinct in the UK, with the spice man, veg man, fruit man and the butcher. I could see close ties between the Moroccan and UK versions of the first three shops (i.e. fruit in punnets, scales etc.), however the collection of live chickens at the back of the butchers is not so commonplace in the UK. In a similar way to Martin and I ordering food at restaurants using finger pointing, this seems to be the method of selecting lunch direct from the butcher. Simply pick your chicken, the butcher then takes a knife to its throat, and puts it in the cupboard. A minute later, and after a considerable amount of flapping, you have a fresh chicken ready to cook for Sunday lunch.

After that insight into a typical Moroccan shopping trip, we felt it was a good time to leave Safi and continue on our journey to Oualidia.

The first 20 miles of the day consisted of a huge climb out of Safi, followed by mile after mile. This was all done battling into a strong head wind as we headed out towards Cap Beddouza: a promontory, home to a lighthouse and a fine coffee shop. Here we made contact with the Moroccan guy whom we had met at breakfast the morning before, and arrangements would be made by him to make sure that Jonas had the place ready for our arrival.

It was a great relief to round this Cap and we were once again cycling with the prevailing wind. We were back up at our 20 mph cruising speed back and able to take in the fantastic scenery again. Having completely left behind the mountainous landscape of the first day, we were now surrounded by farmland. Fields stretched to the right of the road as far as you could see, and to the left they went all the way down to the ocean. Cycling through countryside like this is fantastic: you travel at a pace slow enough to appreciate the surroundings, yet fast enough to see a huge variety of different sights; you get to visit villages and places away from the tourist trail and undiscovered my most visitors, and get some exercise thrown in at the same time!

We arrived in Oualidia at lunchtime, with the very clear directions for how to find the flat: opposite the café at the crossroads and next to the pharmacy. Perfect directions and Jonas’ brother was there to greet us and show us into the flat. In the day light, the flat looked fine, with two bedrooms, lounge, TV, washing machine etc., so we felt quite smug and went off to get some food.

As we were having lunch, these two Americans approached us and asked what we were planning for the evening, given that it was New Year’s Eve. Their suggestion of finding a ‘liquor store’ and heading down to the beach sounded good, and we said that we might well see them there later on. So the plan for the afternoon was to find out what was going on in Oualidia, explore the town and locate a ‘liquor store’ (as the Americans called it). Given that there was nothing going on in Oualidia that evening, the town was very small and had no ‘liquor store’; these tasks were ticked off very quickly.

We did however go down to the huge natural lagoon. This was very impressive. The huge waves coming off the Atlantic were crashing against the rocks and producing a whole load of spray, while the lagoon remained really calm and would be perfect for swimming had it not been the middle of winter. Down at the beach, an old man tried to sell us some scallops, complete with a lime and allegedly ready to eat. We had to decline for the sake of our stomachs, and I would have liked to point out to him that his choice of selling location lacked a large proportion of through traffic. Unfortunately my limited Moroccan meant I could not pass on this suggestion, and besides, he seemed quite content to continue his trade down at the beach as he probably had been doing so for the last 25 years.

On the way back, we passed through a large collection of French camper-vanners, blocking one of the roads down by the beach, but otherwise not causing any problems.

So our mission had been mostly unsuccessful, however we were still optimistic about getting a bottle of champagne off the Frenchies, and there must be something going on for New Year, otherwise what would all these visitors be doing here? So in the early evening, we headed down to the trailer park armed with a stack of Euros and a story explaining how we had arrived in Oualidia with no booze. In fact the story was not fictional at all, just most people would think that cycling round Morocco was a little bonkers. Things were looking good for the first van we approached. After giving some chat in French about our cycling trip, Monsieur went to check whether there was a bottle of 1996 Dom Perignon in the fridge. At this point, he obviously got told by his wife to get rid of these two English scavengers and so no luck there.

Somehow we got speaking to a young lady who jabbered away in a combination of French and English to us. We could not work out whether she was a Moroccan resident of Oualidia, a French maid, or a daughter of one travellers, however one thing was for sure, that she took some sympathy on our ‘dry’ situation and obviously had a good idea of how to sort it out. Off she scuttled and 10 minutes later returned from the other direction, full of suspicion and told us to follow. On the corner of the trailer park were some Moroccan kids armed with a bottle of sparkling rose. Result, and they did not even want anything in exchange for it!

Well, at least it would not be a totally dry New Year’s Eve and we toasted MMX and hoped that it would be a successful year. We had a great dinner of kebabs and tajine, and decided to once again see whether there was much activity down in the French village. On our way there, Jonas passed by in his 4*4 and told us to jump in. It was impressive that he knew that we were the two cyclists staying in his flat, despite never having met us before. He was obviously the wheeler and dealer of the family, given that he came up revised deal on the flat. First night ‘un cadeaux’, second night 300 dirhams. (I’m sure our friends whom we had met in Essouria would know nothing about that.) After what was essentially the most expensive 5-minute taxi ride I’d ever been in, we were booted out at another empty part of the town and started to make our way back. The trailer park was dead, and so we decided that New Year’s Eve would be a non-event and, given Jonas’ latest offer, that we would get up early and head straight to El-Jadida early the next day.

By 10:30 we were in bed, however it was not long before I realised the flat was now swarming with mosquitoes. By midnight, I had a number of bites, including one on my eyelid that was now preventing me from opening my right eye. Meanwhile Martin had been on a successful mosquito-swatting mission in his room. In the morning and after an interrupted sleep, we decided to revise our plans. The coming days cycling would now involve cycling up to Casablanca, getting the train down to Marrakech, and having a day there before returning to Agadir to get the flight home.

Shortly after leaving Oualidia, we were back in farming territory and passing through miles of arable land. On this part of the route, the farming seemed far more ‘organised’ and verging on industrial. (Rather than south of Oualidia where there was the occasional donkey ploughing up a small piece of land and in no regular manner). It was very clear to work out just what was being grown by each of the farmers, with the type of vegetable being farmed on display: carrots, cauliflower, cabbage (all Leon’s favourites). Again, another of my preconceptions of Morocco was revised, since I had been under the impression that most of the country was desert. Not the case, since this land obviously received plenty of rainfall and was perfect for agriculture. Only a lack of good machinery seemed to prevent this farming from taking place on an industrial scale. Donkeys overloaded with carrots, old trucks transporting the produce to the larger cities, and digging up the vegetables with spades is not the most efficient way of getting food out the ground. Even so, I later found out that farming contributes to 15% of the Moroccan economy but at the expense of over 45% of the county’s population. Hardly surprising from what we saw.

As we approached El-Jadida, the farmland gradually gave way to industry with all manner of different factories bellowing out toxic substances. We went beneath a freight only rail line, passed the port at Douar Oulad Zid, and decided to take a left turn towards the sea for a pit-stop about 10 miles south of El-Jadida. At this point I still looked as though I had landed up in a New Year’s Eve fight, but was now also beginning to feel a bit grotty.

We decided to take the last few miles at a steady pace and arrived in El-Jadida in brilliant sunshine. Two disoriented European cyclists where a prime target for some Moroccan inveigling, and it was not long before ‘Siad’, one of those Moroccan middle men we had not really met before, was showing us around some riads. He was very proud that the meaning of his name was ‘happy’; something that he reminded us of on several occasions. He led us down a number of alleys until we got to a door. No sign of a riad here, but we went with it, up two flights of stairs, and he presented us with a two bedroom apartment complete with terrace over looking the town – result!

By this point, I was about to keel over, just like a lazy wasp on a hot day. Keen to make the most of the apartment, this was where I spent the next 20 hours, in bed, with a headache. Certainly not ideal when you are on a cycling holiday, but a great way to reinstated that 10-hour average sleep tally.

Meanwhile Martin went to explore the old town, its ramparts, and investigate the possibilities for getting to Marrakech the next day.

By 6 am the next morning, I was still feeling ropey and so we took a trip to the hospital to be sure the mozzi bite was not as serious as it appeared. It was interesting that at 6 am we were practically the only people up and about. The Morning Prayer call appears to be conveniently slept through by a large proportion of the population, including the doctor who saw me, who probably did not appreciate a call at the crack of dawn to come down to the hospital.

Anyway, his diagnosis was that I was malnourished, and that a hearty breakfast would sort me out. Indeed, after a couple more hours kip, bread, croissants and orange juice, I was ready for the short cycle to the station.

Poor town planning meant that the station was a good 5 miles from the city centre, however we were in good time for the 12:15 departure to Casablanca, to join the 14:50 connection to Marrakech. We were in for some good cranking. Martin went to investigate tickets and returned with the bad news that bikes were not permitted on the part of the journey to Casablanca. A minor blow, however we would explore the bus option instead.

We returned to the city centre bus station and purchased 2 direct tickets to Marrakech. Having bought the tickets, we were then shown our transport for the 140 mile journey. Not the finest of inter-city buses with cracked windows and ripped curtains, but on the plus side it was leaving very promptly and would take our bikes…on the roof, perfect! The bus porter reassured us that the bikes would stay put and get to Marrakech in one piece.

Before we left, a number of men and women came aboard and jabbered to the passengers before walking up and down the bus trying to sell travel stuff. At this point it became clear that the practice of selling useless items was not just restricted to tourists, but also takes place amongst Moroccan people. With a couple of these people still aboard, the driver continually honked his horn as he left the station. Having kicked the remaining sellers off the bus, we were on our way to Marrakech.

A good 4-5 hours later, we arrived in Marrakech, along with the bikes and went in search of somewhere to stay. As was the case in El-Jadida, it was not long before we had someone touting for our business and leading us down little side alleys. And these certainly were little, being only about 4 foot wide. Our ‘tout’ knocked on one old door and, looking at the surroundings, we were certainly not expecting anything special behind it. We were very pleasantly surprised as it opened out into a beautiful riad, complete with water feature and terrace.

In the evening we went to the Djemaa el Fna (main square) and took a look around the labyrinth of souqs, where there were lots of stalls selling dried fruit, rugs and spices. This is in fact more or less the extent of goods on offer; however there was alley after alley of these stands, with the vendors somehow making a living off minimal sales. This theme is continued in the main square where there is cart after cart selling fresh orange juice at 3 dirhams a cup, and kebab stall after kebab stall selling a variety of meats on sticks.

A boy of about 12 convinced us to eat at his particular stand, and he made a great effort in waiting on us. In fact, he was rushing around the whole time, ordering the food, serving out the food, collecting the money, putting the kebabs on the grill, clearing the plates etc. All this while the 3 older men on the stand, just about managed to peel the odd aubergine and open the occasional bottle of Coke. Maybe that’s where you land up once you’ve done all the grunt work.

The following morning, we were up early and out of the door to give us the most amount of time to explore Marrakech. Between us we only had one place of particular interest: the Café de Livre bookshop in the new town. So the plan was to wander though the streets towards that area of Marrakech. There weren’t many other Europeans walking around Marrakech at this time of the morning, and this made us prime targets to be ripped off. First of all there was the spice man who wanted to sell us a bag of herbs for 200 dirhams, and then the young kid who demanded a ‘petit cadeaux’ for showing us out of the network of alleys in the medina. Following some suitable inveigling, we negotiated a good price for the spices and also managed to conveniently loose the young kid without paying him a dirham (we would have given him something, just he got annoying and essentially talked himself out of a tip).

Eventually we arrived in the New Town only to find that the bookshop was closed on Sundays. Despite this set back, it was a good way to view the different parts of the city and was interesting to see that Marrakech has significant western influence to it in the New Town.

Having packed up our things, and helped the owner of the riad with his new laptop (Morocco’s version of the MacBook still has some teething problems), we headed off to the bus station. Goods sellers, touts and hundreds of travellers contributed to the utter carnage at the Marrakech bus terminal, but amongst this, we found our transport to Agadir.

The bus journey to Agadir was spectacular, passing through the Atlas Mountains. Some of the climbs were huge, and we were quite smug to have chosen to cycle the coastal route rather than heading over the hills. Unscheduled stops to sort out engine problems, and concerns about the petrol aroma that filled the bus were all par for the course. These were easily resolved with a kick and probably a strip of gaffa tape, and after a good 5 hours, we arrived at Agadir….or rather what we thought was Agadir.

Given the budget nature of the entire journey itself, it came as no surprise to find out that we were in Inezganeis, and this particular bus station was in a different town altogether and some 10 miles south of Agadir. Despite it taking a good 2-3 miles cycling to actually realise this, we soon found ourselves on the main highway back to Agadir and heading towards the massive lit up writing on the side of the hill.

And so we found ourselves back at the Petit Suede, back in the same room as we had been 6 days before, and dismantling our bikes for the return journey to London. It had been an awesome adventure, and we had been able to appreciate just a small part of this amazing country. Hopefully the miles on the bike will have been good groundwork for the coming year and it is somewhat scary to think that the next time cycling abroad it will of course be during the Ironman!