Day 1: Tunis to Bir Bou Rekba

The initial plan was to get a train south out of Tunis, cycle around Cap Bon, and then either stay in Hammamet and get the train to Sousse the following day; or get to Hammamet and train it to Sousse that night.

This plan was thrown into tatters at the first hurdle when we were not allowed to take our bikes on the train, so we started out of Tunis on the bikes. We raced a train south, passed a few railway sidings with a few burnt out carriages (that gave us a good level of confidence for the rail network), and passed mainly through industrial surroundings. Finally we were heading out towards Cap Bon and the tailwind meant we kept a good pace heading east. With the towns of Hammam-Lif (-Leaf), Marisa and Meroua dispatched, we assessed our speed and distance from Hammamet, and decided to skip Cap-Bon by taking a minor road directly south to Menzel-Temime. The quality of this road was diabolical, and we were now heading into wind, so progress was slower than that of the morning. Arriving in Menzel-Temime, we found a suitable restaurant to get a plate of chicken and chips, accompanied by excessive quantities of bread (Leon would have been impressed), so we were set for the afternoon.

Concerns about the direction of the prevailing wind in Tunisia suddenly became more significant, as we suddenly became aware that we could be spending the next 4 days cycling straight into the wind. These were confirmed via a broken French conversation with the locals, and a plan involving getting the train out to Tozeur that evening was hatched.

The afternoon was quite a struggle, heading straight into the wind and whoever was riding at the front on the group really had to work hard. We rushed through Hammamet and got to Bir Bou Rekba just before nightfall. The train did not leave for at least another 2.5 hours, but that gave us plenty of time to get ripped off by the rail company (or rather some middle man who arranged our tickets), upset the locals by playing some cards, witness a bar brawl, and get some snacks for the journey.

Finally the 21:45 express turned up, we loaded our bikes on board and were soon desert-bound.

Day 2: Tozeur to Douz

We arrived in Tozeur in darkness at 6 in the morning, cold, tired and just looking forward to getting going with the day’s cycling. Two things were immediate plus points: 1 – that we had now highlighted the majority of the Tunisian rail network (and before Leon); and 2 – that our bikes were safe and still in one piece.

Following a quick coffee and baguette, we began the first stage of the desert adventure. It was good to have the wind behind us as we cruised through a number of villages before arriving on the Chott el Jerid. The Chott el Jerid is a giant salt plain with a 60 km road spanning it, barren for as far as you can see, with only some mountain ranges visible in the distance. This description doesn’t really do it justice, but the photos illustrate just how desolate this part of the country really is.

Midway through the plain, we took a pit stop, where Martin pointed out Mount Star Wars (they filmed quite a lot the trilogy here). It was also at this point that the 5 years of MMX group cycle training came together as we mastered the art of peloton cycling. In a metronomic fashion, we each took turns at the front for 2km stints. With the helpful tailwind, the pace built from a relatively ‘sedate’ 20 mph, to a pacey average speed of 24 mph, which was kept up relentlessly kilometre after kilometre. Team Sky talent spotters look out!

At that pace, it was not surprising that we landed up in Douz for lunch, having already bagged 60 miles of cycling. Given the poor quality, or rather lack of, accommodation on the previous night, we decided to splash out by staying at the 4 star El-Mouradi hotel just outside of Douz. There can’t ever have been three cyclists stay there before, but they accommodated our bikes and prepared us well for the next day’s cycle.

Day 3: Douz to Matmata

Clocking up almost 12 hours sleep was impressive, and we still managed to make breakfast for 8:30. Today involved a shorter (c. 80 miles) cycle through the wilderness that is the Northern Sahara, however there were no options for lunch, so we would have to ensure we took the day’s rations with us. Fortunately, the El-Mouradi did a great breakfast that, not only, included the standard cereal and croissant, but also cheese, ham (although we steered well clear of that), lettuce, cucumber etc. Were they not just encouraging us to make a baguette for lunch? Well, Martin and Andy obliged, while Matt made sure that he’d have some cracking jam sandwiches for lunch.

We had a quick stop in Douz to pick up water, more bread (although not from the patisserie where one might expect to buy some), and some fashionable sunnies for Matt. At 5 dinars, these were quite obviously genuine Ray-Bans.

Anyway, we soon hit the road and started our trek to Matmata. The wind continued to blow from the west, so we were assisted well and kept a good pace. The road was reasonable, although not pancake flat, as we had been used to, but there were no potholes to contend with, so this was certainly an improvement on British standards.

The terrain was barren, just desert scrub all the way to the horizon. Cars would pass every now and then. The odd goat herder may be spotted on the side of the road. We passed one or two drinks stops. It all sounds rather desolate and uninteresting, however, being so isolated, under clear blue skies, and surrounded by sand, made the day’s cycling spectacular and nothing like we’d experienced before.

As we approached Matmata, the road steadily climbed and we soon found ourselves in the land of the Troglodytes. Indeed, it seems fitting that this is where more of Star Wars was filmed, as a Troglodyte certainly sounds somewhat ‘sci-fi’. The name suggests a Troglodyte is some mythical creature from outer space having taken up residence in the desert. In fact it is an underground dwelling where the locals live, but we could still imagine…

Having arrived in Matmata, we decided to skip staying in a Troglodyte dwelling in favour of some run down hotel, settled in, and then went off to watch the sun set and find dinner. According to one of the locals, a chef, the Café Panorama sounded like a good bet for dinner. Having watched the sun set, we went off to find the restaurant but, along the way, found a few locals trying to get a broken down car started.

Machine was in his element! To say the car was a 40 year old wreck from France would have been a compliment, but the locals were sure they could get it going. Of course, we obliged lending a hand to get it push started, but to no avail. The bonnet came up, Machine took a look, the locals got some tools out and created a few sparks, but to the untrained mechanic, this car was as good as dead. Even Machine thought it was past it.

However the locals failed to be defeated and willed us to push further, in fact, to the top of a hill. Their optimism was far greater than ours, but we helped push it off the edge anyway and there was no sign of any engine action on the downhill. As we all expected the car to grind to a halt at the foot of the hill, the engine spluttered back to life, and the old banger miraculously found its way chugging up the hill on the other side. There’s no doubt that car would see at least another 10 years worth of use!

Mission accomplished, and we went off to find the Panorama Restaurant. Given that it was pretty much dark by the time we got there, it didn’t live up to its name too well. Even so, we demolished 4 courses (as there was a misunderstanding in the ordering), and that set us up well for the next day’s mammoth cycle to Sfax.

Day 4: Matmata to Sfax

The day started with a climb out of Matmata and back up to the Restaurant Panorama. This time the views were much more apparent, and we could see the huge plateau heading out towards the sea. This was good for us, given that it meant a good few miles of downhill cycling. We must have covered almost 25 miles within the first hour, and arrived in Gabes relatively fresh. We stocked up on the essentials of bread, water, cheese, fruit, D-Clic’s and continued on our way.

The ‘130-kilometres-to-go-to-Sousse’ sign just outside of Gabes was a real downer, only emphasised by the fact this was to be along the main P1 road heading north. While the monotony of the baron wilderness we had through the desert was actually quite spectacular, the endless tarmac traffic on the main road did not prove quite so amazing. Highlights of the road included the roadside cafes with dead animals hanging up outside ready to be grilled, kids throwing stones at us and oncoming drivers trying to overtake right into our path. However the real gem was the chance meeting of Omar Sidi, Beijing Paralympian at the ‘100-kilometres-to-go-to-Sousse’ sign. Having bought some snacks from his roadside shack, we chatted to him and his mates, and only then did it transpire just what sporting company we were in. 7^th place in the Beijing wheelchair marathon, in a time of 2 hours sounded really quite impressive, and all this with the only training being cruising up and down the main P1 road with the help of a safety car. We all left in awe and continued on our journey to Sfax.

Nothing for the rest of the day was as exciting as this. Following a quaint lunch stop on a drain cover on the side of the road, a few more sightings of dead sheep and visibility of the biggest mound of salt/sand/something, we arrived in Sfax.

Sfax had a modern feel to it and it appeared as though there was some wealth here. Perhaps it was because our hotel was placed just yards from their banking district. Anyway, we found a suitable place for dinner. In fact it was one of the more classy eating establishments we visited and we were accompanied by an abundance of ‘non-Tunisians’ here (for a change). Refueled and happy with the 115 miles under the belt today, we skipped the opportunity to drink coffee, smoke and watch a showdown between two of Tunisia’s biggest football teams, and chose to go to bed instead.

Day 5: Sfax to Sousse

Following our trip up the P1, we decided to steer as far away as that road as possible on today’s ride. So we headed out of Sfax and took the coastal road up to Jabinyanah (aka Jabulani). It was great to be on a quieter road for once and with some good peloton cycling, we soon found ourselves in Jabulani. The locals were very friendly here. In fact, while stocking up on some fruit, we were carefully picking the best pears out of a bad bunch on the stand. Very kindly, the stand owner refused to sell us these and instead went out the back to get some more fresh ones. Likewise, when we sat down for our D-Click break, the local hairdresser wanted us to sit on the comfort of the settee in the back of his store, rather than for us being in the sun. We did not oblige to this, as we wanted to be out in the sun, but it was a kind gesture all the same.

We planned a route out of the town on a very minor (white road), which we miraculously managed to find, that would take us up to El-Jem. This road took us right through the middle of some olive groves, which would be the scenery for the next 30 or so miles. Matt, having just put some more air in his tyres, immediately let the air out, given that the road surface had deteriorated quite significantly and was now a very uncomfortable ride.

We thought better than taking the road sign-posted to El-Jem, and later discovered that we had ‘overshot’ the turning to the Roman city. In a re-jig to the planned route, we scrapped El-Jem in favour of Mahdia, a coastal town 20 miles or so up the road. This looked like it would make a perfect lunch stop, and indeed it did. A restaurant served us up a fantastic platter of fish and chips, which was a good step up from our jam and cheese sandwiches of the previous two days.

As we pulled out of Mahdia, a young lad caught up with Matt and decided that he wanted to cycle with us for a while. His bike had gears, brakes and an oiled chain, all things that had gone unseen on bikes in Tunisia so far. Conversation was fairly limited, but we established he was a student, and….err…..well that was about it. He was soon dropped when we upped the pace just outside Mahdia and we headed up on a relatively quiet road up towards Sousse.

The closer we got to the city, the more built up the surroundings, and the quality of driving made it rather unsafe on the bikes. Having consumed yet another litre of Coke, another triple pack of D-Clics and any left over baguette, it was a case of heading for home, however, not without incident. The Tesco bag attached to the back of Martin’s bike, stuffed with the ‘complimentary’ towel provided by the El-Mouradi, was a key target for thieves. Lo-and-behold, while cycling through a somewhat seedy part of Tunisia, this was grabbed by masked men on a motorbike (scooter), and they powered off (well, only marginally quicker that our epic pace), into the distance. Not even the mighty Machine could keep up with them, and Martin continued to have to use a grotty T-shirt to dry himself.

So on to Sousse, and all the way into the city we maintained a good 22mph. It had been raining heavily before we got there and so the roads were both wet and slippery. With just half a mile to go, the front wheel of Andy’s bike became trapped in a railway track at a level crossing, sending him crashing to the floor, covering him in mud and a few cuts. Lets be honest, was this trip really going to go by with out incident?

At this point, we decided to call in a day on the bikes and with 467 miles on the clock, walked in to the Medina and found a guesthouse to check into. After we changed into some dirty clothes, it was time to embark on our next challenge: how to get to Tunis with the bikes. The options were 1 – cycle (yeah right), 2 –train (leaving at 6 in the morning, and Leon not travelling with us. Not really a great option), or 3 – Louage (never been on one, questionable whether they take bikes, could be expensive). So we decided to mull over the options over another plate of meat and chips in the hip Sousse restaurant Caracas.

None of us were keen on the cycle idea, nor the early start for the train, so we decided to head down to the louage station that evening, get a quote and, if the quote successful, head back the following morning with the bikes in tow. The quote was successful, and at a bargain price of 60 dinars, so we went back to the hotel, smug that we would not have a ridiculously early start the next day but confident that we’d get to Tunis without any difficulty.

Day 6: Sousse to Tunis

The louage station was bustling and, with three white tourists pushing relatively flash bikes around, the drivers’ eyes lit up with the opportunity to make a quick buck. One chap approached us and was more than happy to take us to Tunis for a pricy 70 dinars. Despite our haggling, there was no movement on the price: ‘Prix fix! Prix fix!’ So we were bundled into a minivan, along with our bikes, and handed over our cash. It then dawned on us that the chap, who we had handed the money to, was not the driver at all and we had potentially just been scammed out of 70 dinars. Naive British! In fact, the guy was a genuine Tunisian middleman and handed the entire wad of cash over the driver. The driver however was not quite so honest and, having eventually got into the cab, tried to convince us that the middleman had not paid him the full amount. Needles to say, we were unconvinced by his argument.

We picked up an extra passenger (a health and safety officer from south London, who can’t have been too impressed by the bikes stacked up in the back), and it was next stop Tunis. We were so close to the motorway when we were pulled over by the police. With seatbelt quickly put on, cigarettes out the window, and smiles all round, the louage driver conveyed a very contrived image to the police. Our passports were handed over under Matt’s watchful eye. From the snippets of French we understood, we established there were clearly some concerns about the bikes. We thought it must have been something to do with the fact the bikes were inside a people carrier, but the driver’s bogus image must have convinced them that he was an honest driver, carrying honest tourists, and we were soon on our way.

It only then became apparent that it was indeed the bikes that were of concern, but not because they were shoved in the back of the van. In fact the police were on the look out for three Italian road cyclists, of about 28-29 years old, and on the run for some crime in Tunisia. We sensed a feeling of coincidence here, as there can’t have been many other groups of three cyclists, on road bikes, and in the country at the time. However, any of our acquisitions from the El-Mouradi had either been eaten or pinched from the back of our bikes, otherwise we had been law abiding citizens during our trip, so we were allowed to continue on our way to Tunis.

Bicycles and the Tunis medina at rush hour make a poor combination and it took us a little longer to get back to the Auberge de Jeunesse than expected. But, once there, the little man, grotty toilets and dismal room all greeted us. We needed reminding just what a fine establishment it really is! Anyway the bikes were soon dismantled and packed up ready for the flight and we went off to explore the northern suburbs of Carthage and Bou Said (via the train of course). In the evening, we went back to the Hotel Trois Etoiles for some food, and the waiter was very pleased to see us making a return visit. In fact, he was so happy that he continued to ply us with plate after plate of food. We felt obliged to give him a hefty tip of about 25%, (albeit about £1.50 dinars, which illustrates just how cheap Tunisia really is).

Just when we thought the evening was coming to a close, we opened the door to the Auberge to see the impressive eating area transformed into a wedding reception, complete with guests, water, sofa for bride and groom, and some deafening music being played out.

We did feel a little sorry for the bride and groom, having their wedding reception at the Auberge, given that all three of us wanted to get out of that place as soon as possible. Still, the music was cranking out until the early hours, so they must have enjoyed themselves as much as the residents of the youth hostel enjoyed their good nights sleep!

For us though, with 467 miles completed, having passed through deserts and salt plains, having met a paralympian, having narrowly avoided being arrested by the police, having lived through the fun of the night train, having got an old Renault 12 restarted and having experienced another country in North Africa, no wedding celebration was going to keep us awake, and the only question that remains open is “Where to next?”

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.