By Dan Holdsworth. (I am going to write this from my point of view, don’t worry Dave does get a couple of mentions, I don’t know if Dave will write up his account or just ask him when you see him. I know we both want to thank you for all the support on the day and on our journey.)
The big day had finally arrived, with lockdowns and postponements ending a two year wait. I say big day but it’s a long weekend. We set off on the Friday, Dave and his wife in their car and me and my partner in my van with the bikes. I had also packed everything I could think of, in duplicate, or triplicate if I had them (still forgot my water bottles). Really quite scared if I am honest. In the weeks leading up to the event the ironman company send you lots of emails, license reminders and this year information about booking time slots (and lots and lots of trying to sell you stuff). That’s slots for registration, bike racking and practice swims. Fortunately, we booked between 1700-1800 so after a seven hour drive and checking in at the hotel we made it. Turning up at the registration marque was the first indication of what a colossal logistical event it was. Registration was at T2 in the park in Bolton (it also had a shop and various stands like a rather dull specialized fete, bike bits, alcohol free beer and a massage gun- we actually saw a bloke using one of these after the race when we went to pick up the van from the multistorey – well, I assume he was using it because he had sore legs), T1 where we had to rack the bikes was 8 miles away at Pennington flash. A scan of the QI code and I was given a rucksack with the mdot logo plastered all over it. It contained the usual set of stickers and number bib but in addition three coloured plastic bags. I know when I explain what they are for it will seem really simple but me and Dave were as perplexed as two members of a lost amazon tribe encountering a jukebox for the first time, but here goes; Into the blue bag you put all the gear you need for the bike leg (including shoes and helmet), into the red bag you put everything you need for the run leg and finally in the white bag you put your after race kit. With me so far, the blue bag goes to T1, the red bag goes to T2 (now that means going back to T2 where you have registered because you only just got given the red bag and need to go back to the hotel to fill it), the white bag you take with you to T1 when you start and drop it at a lorry parked outside(this bag then gets taken to the finish line in the centre of Bolton which is at neither T1 or T2). Now the clever bit, when you come out of the swim you pick up blue bag and take out your bike gear and then put your wetsuit and other swim stuff into the bag, pass your bag to a volunteer, it is then put on another lorry and makes its way to T2. When you finish the bike you take your running stuff out of the bag put it on and fill the red bag with your bike stuff. All clear?
Saturday 1200-1300 we are booked in to rack our bikes at Pennington flash, actually, that was really easy because there was nothing to lay out. The bike bags were hung on a numbered hook in a marque. Dave was delighted to see that the changing area had seating. Neither Dave or I are very flexible, and we have always ending up flat on our backsides when struggling to remove a wetsuit Dave felt particularly aggrieved because whenever we are getting de-suited (if that’s a word) at Shepperton I always insisted that he was not allowed to hold onto the van to steady himself in preparation for this transition. We wandered about to have a look at the long thin swim course, there were 3 piers/pontoons and looking far far into the distance were a couple of orange buoys. There are shorter swims between countries than that. A 2 loop course with an ‘Australian’ exit between.
Saturday night there was a game of footy going on, unfortunately there was also a wedding disco (nobody loves Candi Staton more than me but in the early hours it was a bit much) and the guests chatting loudly in the corridor afterwards was interminable (I just wanted to scream out, ‘if you haven’t managed to talk your way into her bed in an hour trying for a second hour probably isn’t going to work either). Got no sleep.
On the Sunday morning the information pack suggested that we turn up to a car drop off point in a trading estate in our wetsuits before walking across a golf course to the swim start. Dave was sporting a brand new trisuit (never worn before) I was in my budgie smugglers.
For 5 o’clock in the morning the announcer was horribly upbeat and lively. We all lined up in our various times (Dave 1.20, me 1.40) and that was the last time I saw Dave for some hours. The DJ introduced some pros, we clapped at the mention of the oldest and youngest competitors we listened to Thunderstuck and then the national anthem. The pros set off from a floating start and then we slowly, incredibly slowly inches forward towards the pontoons. Like the swimming pool from your youth it was ‘no diving, no bombing’ but an undignified slip in from a seated position. The water was 20 degrees and actually really nice, cloudy but clean, didn’t taste funny and very little weed. It was however a very long way out to the first buoy, sighting wasn’t so much making sure that I was heading in the right direction it was just a series of desperate efforts to try convince myself the thing was getting a little bit larger. Settled into the swim, it’s going Ok, then I’m struck from behind, an arm wraps round my legs and then proceeds to thump across my back, as soon as he’s gone there is another one. (On his way home Dave had a chat with some other competitors and they said that because it took so long to get everyone into the water the slower swimmers got swum over by the pros and hour swimmers). Swimming back into the sun was a challenge, getting out for the Aussi exit was embarrassing as my legs had cramped up and I has to be hauled out on my arse and I’m sure that the watching crowd were expecting me to be lifted into a wheel chair or have a prosthetic limb fitted. Having to have a stretch halfway through the first discipline wasn’t a good sign. Heading back into the water I couldn’t face trying to sit down so a went for an ‘accidental’ tumble entry. Second lap with no interference was groovy. Coming out of the water I did a better job of retaining my dignity and even managed to set off at a run for transition. Checked my watch, 1.50, at least 10 minutes slower than I hoped but it’s done now. Grabbed my bag and found a bench tipping all my bike stuff out onto the grass. Wetsuit off and into bag. Cycling bib shorts on (over my trunks) out with my scissors, snip snip and a quick magic Mike and the trunks are off, no nudity in transition.
Bike- There are 8 miles straight up to Bolton, then a 5 wiggly miles before you start 3 circuits heading off into the countryside and back to Bolton. Now I have a plan, I stole if from yet another one of Dave’s youtube videos that he made me watch, it was called ‘Fat man to Ironman’ (I tried not to be offended) were Chris Thomas cycled to an average speed. I’d check in my Kleanthous book and if I had 10 and half hours from my swim start and I’d used 2 in swim and transition 1 that left me 8 and a half to do the bike before cut off so about 21.5 kph (22 kph would safer). Had to stop to wait for GPS (I’m sure Rachel was the one who said it doesn’t count if you don’t record it, but I was going to need the information and looking at the ‘stand still for GPS’ message for 8 hours wasn’t going to cut it). The initial run up to Bolton was very gently uphill but fast as I strove to build up some speed. Going good, I’ve never been on a closed road circuit it’s a real buzz. Now seems as good a point as any to say for the first time how wonderful the marshals were all over the course, every junction was covered and the signage was fab. By the time I started heading out into the country I was comfortable over 23. When Dave and I come up the previous year to ride the course we had got lost and we missed out so many of the hills I hit. Dave described the course as brutal and he was right. The hills weren’t on their own terrible, you would encounter worse in Surrey but there was no relief, no sooner had you got up one then you were straight back down a very sharp descent and back up again like doing a tough spin session. Despite my best efforts I saw my average starting to slip. Then it started to rain, a storm that turned to roads into rivers and slashed visibility. Amazingly it didn’t seem to deter the spectators, I’ve been cowbelled more times than a cast member of Rawhidei, from under umbrellas, smothered in macs and wrapped in plastic bin bags. The people of Bolton seemed to absolutely have taken the event to heart. Having your name printed on you bid also meant that you got a lot of personal ‘come on’s and passing riders were also supportive. The rain was horrible, already drenched to the skin my shoes started to fill up, nutrition plan was in tatters, the gels taped to the frame were fine but snack bag strapped to the top tube had filled with water. My little gummy treats had become a single large sticky inedible blob, it’s been two days since the race and I still haven’t dared touch the bag yet, the last time I peered in I swear that the water logged pepperami winked at me. So soaking wet, driving rain, dangerous conditions and with a rapidly dropping average speed (and probably having gone off too hard) even this early I was having negative thoughts, ‘not going to make it’ and ‘what’s the point?’ struggling up another hill. Then I was approaching Sheephouse Lane the most famous climb on the course, on the bottom corner there is a pub called the Black Dog and outside were a huge crowd of (probably drunk) punters who were cheering like mad, all crowding in on the road and parting at the last minute, just like on the tour, patting you on the back and despite everything I found myself grinning like a idiot and getting out of the saddle and powering up the hill. I’ve never experience anything like it and it was wonderful, I don’t know if that warmth and affection was just northern thing or if ironman worldwide is like that but I loved it and it really helped. About ¾ of the way up the hill are the Wrestlers (they’re sort of famous, dressed as luchadors whatever the weather) dancing to Kung foo fighters, I got to them just in time to join in with the HURRR shout. The rain had slackened off to a steady drizzle by this time as I set off on the long downhill section (crossing a cattle grid at 50 kph is always fun). I checked my average, I hadn’t lost as much as I had feared. After Sheephouse the landscape flattened out with some longer downhills, I put it in a big gear and got down on the tri bars, felt fabulous powering on. Could I actually do it, catch up my average? Flying on the flat roads back into Bolton the answer was yes, nobody was overtaking me and I was getting back a lot of places so by the time I was onto the short cobbled section in the town centre I was back ahead of my target. Setting off on the second lap I knew that I could make the time lost on the hills back. The rain was constant with a few heavy swirls thrown in, large puddles had formed, there were steams across the road and the water had washed lots of debris onto the surface. It was getting really dangerous and at the bottom of a number of hills there were crash victims huddled under foil blankets all with marshals in attendance and/or medical bike or ambulance. It was so well organized it was brilliant, even at the points when there were no other cyclist in view I still felt like I would be cared for if the worse happened. Second lap went the way of the first, slow up the hill bombing down the flats. Picked up water bottle and food from Umpa lumpas in the feed stations (I’m not sure that there is a sadder sight than an Umpa Lumpa with soaked green hair plastered to their head as the orange colour slides down their face). By the end of the second lap I had once again made back most of the time I had lost. I’d also used up all my crampfix and was finding it a bit more of a struggle but still going. As with most races I’d settled into a bit of a group (not a peleton, just all in sight of each other and occasionally overtaking each other as your different ‘good’ bits of the course come up). I got a puncture, front wheel, have to stop, only 30 kms to go so just give it a shot of gas in the hope it might be a slow one and that it would make it. No such luck had to stop and change it, kept calm and set about it, probably not the fastest ever but looking at my bike computer I think it was less than 8 minutes. That was enough time to loose my riding buddies and be overtaken by another 8 or 10 riders (I’d always been looking forward and although I had overtaken some people I had no real idea that I was actually doing better than other people). Puncture fixed I set off in pursuit. Overtook a few of them and then at a T junction I saw them stopped in discussion a marshal on a motorbike and a pick-up truck collecting up the cones. As I rolled up to the group I knew it was over. Everybody was ‘upset’ (you can substitute your own emotional word) and a few of them were very angry and having a go at the marshal (which was really unfair it’s not his fault) which made me all the more determined to be accepting and gracious in defeat. I cracked a few jokes and tried to keep it all good humored as our bikes were loaded into the back of the bus and we took our seats. The bus drive into Bolton, with closed roads and parked up in a layby to wait for an official to take us back to T2 with a load of grumpy blokes wasn’t great. The system is set up to guide the finishers through all the stages and not great at coping with people like us out of sequence. An especially grumpy man did lend me his phone so I could tell my partner the news. I wasn’t sure what the tracking app was saying and didn’t want anyone to worry. Saw one of the people I had been riding with setting off on their run. Did the walk of shame from the bus into T2 and racked my bike. Found my red bag, no longer on the rack because our bib numbers had been radioed through and the bags had been taken down (I realise that it probably made sense in keeping an eye out for who was still going but it did feel like being thrown out of the race). Now the slightly difficult bit; If I hadn’t had a puncture would I have made it- Yes, if it hadn’t rained would I made it- yes, if I had been allowed to carry on would I have made it -probably, Bearing in mind the that the cut off time is meant to be 10 and half hours from when I entered the water was I stopped too soon? perhaps. Is any of this worth getting angry or upset about? No. I can’t do anything about any of these, what I could have done is swim faster and cycle faster.
And that is exactly what I plan to do next year.
I loved the whole atmosphere and can’t wait to have another go.
Now the really good bit of the day and this blog starts. Having ended up in T2 I had to walk to the finish to pick up my white bag and have my timer removed and then back to T2 to wait for my other half. I settled into leaning over the barrier cheering the runners. Then Dave, running as smooth as he ever does, came into view gliding through the field (some really distressed looking runners as well as some featuring the best gurning I have ever seen). I had a very proud little tear in my eye to see him doing so well, I know how hard he has worked and how much he has sacrificed. I was so happy to see him. We exchanged a few quick words as he ran by and I settled down to wait for the family again. One of the things about the ironman which you intellectually know, but you don’t quite get until you do it is how long it takes. When Dave’s family arrived we booked a meal, went for a drink, wandered about a bit and it’s still going on. The App was really useful in making it to the finish in time to see Dave pass under that famous arch and here ‘Dave you are an Ironman’ which was joyful.
p.s. Having finished so impressively Dave made his way past the medal collection rack, tee shirt stand and water bottle stand etc.. into a fenced athletes area he dropped his tee shirt. He just looked at it obviously not feeling able to just bob down and pick it up. He took a couple of deep breaths and slowly started to splay his legs as if a weightlifter going for a world record. Then he went for it barely bending his knees the tried to catch it up with the tips of this finger- missed. He takes another few deep breaths and steels himself for another go. This had now become a spectator sport with people holding their breath waiting for Dave’s next move. He goes for it again, this time he just manages to snag it and clutch it to his breast, the crowd go wild with a loud ironic cheer.