Written for my work’s weekly wrap, so plenty of commoner talk…
On Saturday 7th May the scenic seaside town of Busselton celebrated it’s 10th anniversary of hosting the half-ironman triathlon, an event consisting of a 1.9 km swim, 90 km cycle and 21.1 km run. The popularity of this event is such that the 1400 individual slots and 200 team slots sold out in less than two days. At around $300 per individual one might argue that the only tickets in history to generate more excitement were the golden tickets to tour Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory or in recent times those to a Justin Bieber concert.
For many competitors the focus on Friday 6th had switched from the steely determination associated with completing gruelling training session after training session (during the preceding months), to one of pure gluttony. No carbohydrate in the state was safe. If you wondered why you never found those TV M&M characters in the cupboards above your sink, it’s because I found them first! By the end of that night I had well and truly tipped the food pyramid on its head with a large double quarter pounder meal lunch, a large Big Mac meal dinner, several Mars Bars (they were on sale at Woolworths during the week, though I don’t have to tell YOU that do I porky?) and several bottles of sports drink to offset a relatively healthy, but no less intimidating, breakfast. Had the country Police been targeting stupidity that day then they would have likely been issuing my picture to its patrol officers.
The official commitments that night consisted of registration, checking your bike to transition area (to save queues come race day) and collecting a goody bag that contains a brightly coloured “Hey sharky look at me” swim cap, a t-shirt that invariably never fits (and becomes a car cleaning rag), a towel so thin you’d be afraid to wipe your backside with it and an ankle timing chip that apparently can be used by forensics to track said shark.
A competitors briefing was also held that night where they discussed the various rules and regulations. The comment that generated the most looks amongst the crowd though were the words “if for whatever reason competitors are directed by the lifeguards to evacuate the water …”. Perhaps it was because there are just so many possibilities for ‘whatever reason’. I suspect that should ‘whatever reason’ eventuate the Busselton Jetty would look resplendid with yellow piers that on closer inspection would be the entire group of lifeguards clambered above the water line like koalas up eucalypts.
A night often associated with little sleep is broken by 4-5am starts with trips to the race transition area. Here tyres are pumped on bikes typically costing more than the average Perth motor vehicle. Athletes then place out their bike and running apparel with more precision than used by a neurosurgeon’s team. They finish by placing the most scientifically advanced nutritional concoctions ever known to man on their bike’s frame before grabbing their wetsuits and goggles and heading towards the beach. Along the way the procession will generally stop and queue outside the world’s largest assortment of portaloos as athletes attempt to expel their sins of the previous day.
Due to the record number of entrants (1435 individuals in the end) they used wave starts based on 5 year age groups. This would help the swim become more manageable and reduce the likelihood of people drafting (illegally) off each other on the bike leg. Much to everyone’s surprise this year was a beach start. This negated the need to quickly disperse from around ‘that guy’ who every year can be found standing in waist deep water sighing “ahh that’s much better”. Unfortunately I was so slow in responding to the siren that the only thing missing was a red flotation device and that catchy Baywatch theme.
There was a small swell rolling in from the north east by the time our group headed off (1 hr after the first of the group waves). I will do my best to describe what it’s like sharing the start of a triathlon swim with close on 200 adrenaline charged 35-39 year olds. You will basically encounter three types of individuals, the Slasher, the UFC cage fighter and the Horny Bull. The slasher tries to draft off you by getting their hands as close to your feet as possible. You often feel their fingernails ripping into your soles. This can be countered with an “Anthony Rocca”, where one kicks as hard as they can and attempts to break the Slasher’s fingers. The Cage Fighter throws their arms and elbows around at will. They have an uncanny ability to whack your face and dislodge your goggles in the process. The Horny Bull is similar to the Slasher in that they approach from behind. Only rather than carve their name into your soles the Horny Bull rides right up over the top of you and pushes you down beneath the surface. On this particular day the three worked me over in unison. First the Horny Bull would push me under, upon surfacing (and gasping for air) the cage fighter would smack my goggles off to disorientate me and prevent me from unleashing an Anthony Rocca on the Slasher. To make matters worse today my goggles did not want to seal back on so I spent the best part of 2 minutes total treading water trying to regain my vision and composure. Fun stuff!
The return journey to shore was more enjoyable. My companions now long gone I regained the sort of rhythm James Brown would have been proud of and started passing other people. This in turn reduced the likelihood I would become Feargal Sharkey’s once bit wonder. As they say, don’t outswim the shark, just outswim the other person. Hitting the shore is always unnerving as your legs have little blood circulating within. Your heart rate invariably reaches it’s daily maximum at this very moment as it frantically tries to supply the big muscles with sustenance. The 35-39 male age group would have looked like the end of a B&S ball, with males staggering out and not a woman in sight. I crossed the timing mat in around 34 minutes flat. 4 minutes slower than my best but not surprising given a late start to training this time around.
Into transition and one’s concentration turns to avoiding becoming a clip for funniest home videos. Trying to remove a wetsuit whilst your heart is exploding is quite the challenge. Helmet and shoes on, a swig of super gel and run your bike out towards the 90 km of seal that awaits.
The early stages of the bike leg are where the dangerous mix of ego and andrenaline can ruin a good race. The huge crowds that line the street are spurring everyone on to greatness. I’m immediately passed by two female professionals on their second lap (they started an hour earlier) and my manhood takes an instant battering. They’re just warmed up, I remind myself as I settle in to establising my own pace. What was apparently a “perfect day for triathlon” for MC Simon Beaumont now appears to be remarkably windy, as the outward leg now heads directly into a 20-30 km/hr breeze. In my mind I wonder whether Simon’s definition of testing conditions involve a little Kansas girl called Dorothy and a dog called Toto! After a few kilometers the course heads south into some open crosswinds. The combination of a disc wheel up back and a tri-spoked wheel upfront make the bike very twitchy and require one to lean over by several degrees. THe boulevard of trees make it worse still, as the wind oscillates as you pass each tree. Having been passing people up until this point a young stud from the last wave group comes surging past me. He’s flying, because I am certainly not sitting still. But no sooner has he gone past me that I hear a sudden hissing noise. Seconds later I see him pull across to the verge suddenly, look to the heavens and scream something that sounds like ‘luck’. Sorry buddy, but I think you’re certainly out of that right now! I say a little prayer for him … “Lord, please don’t let him have a spare”.
The keys on a long course triathlon bike leg are to get in your nutrition, don’t get caught for drafting (riding within a set distance of a rider in front) and correct pacing. The pacing I had under control. The nutrition was well planned out. The drafting had me worried because this year they were adopting a new protocol of 12m between riders (up from 7m) and there is always the risk you can get caught up in a bad situation with other stronger riders surging. Upon reflection it was probably because I only had to contend with relatively weaker riders, being the second to last wave and having had a bad swim (so good riders in my group were up the road), that the drafting concerns never eventuated. I went in with one bidon (bike bottle) of sports drink so required a replacement after 90 minutes. The wonderful volunteer made a seemless handover at the aid station and it was back down to the final 33km. Whilst Tuart Drive is a serene, shady stretch of road it did manage to shed first a large gumnut, then a not insignificant sized branch, into my helmet. It scared the proverbial out of me and if there hadn’t been such big queues at the few portaloos I may have been tempted to stop and check.
I rolled into Transition 2 and saw the computer ticking around the 2hrs 21min mark, 11 minutes quicker than I had done this course in 7 years ago. My parents and old flatmate were there cheering away opposite my bike. I slipped on my runners, grabbed my visor and headed out for the final 21 km run.
The crowds on the run course are even more frenetic. There were 3 x 7 km laps to be run. Each lap headed east, into the wind, out along the shared path winding it’s way through the shallow dunes. The return leg shifted runners back onto Geographe Bay Road. Crowds literally spill over onto the path for the first 500m or so. It makes for hard passing opportunities. I have a trusty GPS watch on and in a short period of time a beep tells me I have covered the first kilometer in 3:55. Yikes, perhaps a little quick there gringo, let’s just ease off a bit shall we? I try, but the crowds are infectious and I rattle out kilometer after kilometer at similar paces. I cover the first lap at an average pace of 4:03 / km and I know I’m going to be paying it back in the not too distant future. As far as nutrition the goal is to take a salt tablet and cup of sports drink at each aid station (about every 1.5 km) until the last lap where the plan switches to cola for the quick hit. It started off nice and neat but by the end of lap two I am showing definite signs of fatigue and my drinking technique sees more hitting my neck and chest than my mouth.
By lap 3 every man and his dog appears to be on the course, literally. Actually ‘every man’ must have fallen asleep because ‘his dog’ came running out of the crowd, leash dragging behind it, right under my feet. Thankfully by this stage I was doing a Baywatch slow motion run and managed to evade the modern day Tonya Harding assassination attempt. Having not raced for over two years I was lacking mental strength and the locker door with ‘hurt’ written across it was remaing firmly shut. I now didn’t even bother trying to get the cups of cola into my mouth and just told the volunteers to throw it at me. I finally reached the far turnaround and was blessed with a tail wind back to the finish line. Entering the final chute was a blessing. This was starting to hurt and I was looking forward to shutting off the engine. Crossing the mat in 1hr 32mins (for the 21km) I heard the beep that signified my day was done and I could collapse into the foetal position should I choose. I chose the alternative option of heading straight to the snacks table, grabbing 2 bottles of juice and 5 energy bars and stacking back on the weight. Jenny who? A quick catch up with familar faces within the marque before I head out to thank the family for their support.
The aftermath would reveal a finishing time a tad over four and a half hours, 90 seconds faster than my previous best for this distance. Good enough for 73rd overall and 8th in my age group. I now look forward to a winter of cold training before attempting twice the distance in December’s full Ironman race.
Mike