http://www.xtri.com/article.asp?id=754
Some paragraphs from the article:
I had agreed to enter the UK Half-Ironman. This despite the fact that I had never done a triathlon before, didn't own a bike and could barely swim. Some decisions should never be left to the alcohol fairies.
The vaseline that I have just rubbed all over my backside and crotch, in a desperate attempt to prevent saddlesores later on, has turned my arse-hair into dreadlocks. I'm going to die here, and I'm going to die with a scrotum that looks like Bob Marley's head.
Have borrowed excellent shiny red racing bike from my father, something of a cyclist in his day. A fine, lightweight machine with a saddle like a razor blade, it comes equipped with a pair of special aerodynamic handlebars, a little computer that tells me how fast I'm going, and pedals like ski-bindings that secure my feet with worrying finality. It looks the business. I have no business riding it whatsoever.
19mph. It's not even 8 o'clock in the morning and my arse is sore already, and there's a worrying ache in my scrotum. I'm soaking wet and cold. I want a bacon sandwich. Eat banana instead. It makes a poor substitute.
16mph. Hmm. The dull ache in my testicles is getting worse. 'Dull' as in 'the blunt blade of an axe', not as is 'bored', obviously. People keep whizzing past me on bikes made of carbon fibre and titanium, possibly incorporating obsolete pieces of the bloody space shuttle for all I know. They make a strange 'whoosh' noise as they go past, and the riders look completely unconcerned with the availability of bacon sandwiches in the next village. Must eat. Grudgingly force down another banana.
Still can't see the summit of this hill. I can't go on. I'm hot, breathless and sweating like a fat lad in a kebab shop. I really can't go on. My bike agrees and thoughtfully punctures. Make a show of shouting and swearing, but am secretly pleased with genuine excuse for a rest. No worries; have seen Tour De France video. Await arrival of spare wheel from man on motorcycle.
Hmm. No sign of him yet. Sit by roadside and get breath back. Passing cyclists give sympathetic looks and words of encouragement.
Someone has stolen my legs and replaced them with my Grandmothers. Feet are totally numb, like blocks of ice, and legs feel like I'm giving Jeff Capes a piggy-back. Weave back and forth across road at about two miles per hour with all the style and grace of an incontinent rambler. Backside feels like Black and Decker have been using it to test power sanders. This is not good. This is not good at all.
Someone wraps a blanket around me and I go and sit on the kerbside, lost in my own little world of fatigue and head-spinning elation. Never again, I swear to myself. I've never felt this good before in my life, but never again.
And that's the last thing I remember before I pass out.
Epilogue, 1 week later ...
» 'Ferg?'
» 'Yes mate?'
» 'April 6th 2003. Ironman Australia. The full distance. Do you fancy it?'
» 'Too bloody right I do.'
» 'Two more pints please, barman.'
Some paragraphs from the article:
I had agreed to enter the UK Half-Ironman. This despite the fact that I had never done a triathlon before, didn't own a bike and could barely swim. Some decisions should never be left to the alcohol fairies.
The vaseline that I have just rubbed all over my backside and crotch, in a desperate attempt to prevent saddlesores later on, has turned my arse-hair into dreadlocks. I'm going to die here, and I'm going to die with a scrotum that looks like Bob Marley's head.
Have borrowed excellent shiny red racing bike from my father, something of a cyclist in his day. A fine, lightweight machine with a saddle like a razor blade, it comes equipped with a pair of special aerodynamic handlebars, a little computer that tells me how fast I'm going, and pedals like ski-bindings that secure my feet with worrying finality. It looks the business. I have no business riding it whatsoever.
19mph. It's not even 8 o'clock in the morning and my arse is sore already, and there's a worrying ache in my scrotum. I'm soaking wet and cold. I want a bacon sandwich. Eat banana instead. It makes a poor substitute.
16mph. Hmm. The dull ache in my testicles is getting worse. 'Dull' as in 'the blunt blade of an axe', not as is 'bored', obviously. People keep whizzing past me on bikes made of carbon fibre and titanium, possibly incorporating obsolete pieces of the bloody space shuttle for all I know. They make a strange 'whoosh' noise as they go past, and the riders look completely unconcerned with the availability of bacon sandwiches in the next village. Must eat. Grudgingly force down another banana.
Still can't see the summit of this hill. I can't go on. I'm hot, breathless and sweating like a fat lad in a kebab shop. I really can't go on. My bike agrees and thoughtfully punctures. Make a show of shouting and swearing, but am secretly pleased with genuine excuse for a rest. No worries; have seen Tour De France video. Await arrival of spare wheel from man on motorcycle.
Hmm. No sign of him yet. Sit by roadside and get breath back. Passing cyclists give sympathetic looks and words of encouragement.
Someone has stolen my legs and replaced them with my Grandmothers. Feet are totally numb, like blocks of ice, and legs feel like I'm giving Jeff Capes a piggy-back. Weave back and forth across road at about two miles per hour with all the style and grace of an incontinent rambler. Backside feels like Black and Decker have been using it to test power sanders. This is not good. This is not good at all.
Someone wraps a blanket around me and I go and sit on the kerbside, lost in my own little world of fatigue and head-spinning elation. Never again, I swear to myself. I've never felt this good before in my life, but never again.
And that's the last thing I remember before I pass out.
Epilogue, 1 week later ...
» 'Ferg?'
» 'Yes mate?'
» 'April 6th 2003. Ironman Australia. The full distance. Do you fancy it?'
» 'Too bloody right I do.'
» 'Two more pints please, barman.'
Last edited by:
Diablo-Advocato: Sep 2, 05 8:40