The 2014 ITU World Duathlon Championships were held on
Sunday 1st June 2014 in the north western Spanish town of
Pontevedra, in the region of Galicia.
Given the relative ease at which the area was accessible
from the UK via plane or ferry, the Great British team had been arriving in
dribs and drabs throughout the week leading up to the event. The first time the
whole team assembled together was for the important team briefing, delivered by
team manager Jez Cox in a large auditorium on the day prior to the race. During
the briefing, topics such as bike racking, race timetables and course info
would be covered.
Jez likes to play a game at the beginning of his briefings,
and asks everybody to stand up, at which point he asks you to remain standing
if you have represented GB before, then if you have placed in the top ten, then
top five and so on. As the game progresses, more and more sit down, until past
medallists are all that remain standing. Finally all that is left is those who
have won a gold medal whilst representing GBR at Duathlon in a World or
European Championship. It was at this point, that I was stood out of a crowd
amongst a few others as my peers, all of whom had earned the right to be in
this room looked on. Being able to look around, I could see other gold
medallists from previous competitions, and realised that my gold medal at the
2013 championships in Ottawa placed me in a group of rather successful amateur
British duathletes, including uber runner and super chef Alan Murchison,
sprint, standard and long course duathlon champion Gill Fullen, and nine time
Euro/World gold medallist, the diminutive figure of Elspeth Knott, as well as
my training buddy from Ipswich stood next to me, Jayne Williams, who shared my
glory in Ottawa.
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| Jez delivers his team briefing. Photo: Mark Phillips |
Once the briefing was complete, and team photographs taken (organising
300+ athletes is quite a task, well done Jez) we were free to roam until our
transition access was permitted between 8 and 10.30pm in true Spanish fashion of
doing everything late in the evening. We chose to frequent a local café on the
way back to the hotel from the briefing which was located at the top of a short
sharp rise of about one hundred and fifty metres in length which made up the
early part of the running course with which we would become very familiar with
on race day. The café gave a comfortable shady vantage point from which to
watch the Elite and under 23 ladies racing as they crested the hill at
impressive speed.
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| The complete tem, Sprint and Standard. Photo: Gill Fullen |
After a slow afternoon, enjoying a Spanish omelette for
dinner with my parents and god daughter Ella who were in town as support, it was
time to head down to the athletics stadium to leave my trusty Scott “Polly”
Plasma in the centre field along with lots of other shiny, expensive bikes for
a bicycle sleep over. Finally it was time to retire to the hotel, only a 5
minute walk uphill into the town to sleep in preparation for the day ahead.
Unlike in Ottawa, where the standard distance (10km run/40km
bike/5km run) had begun at around 8am, we would have to wait until noon for the
gun to sound. This was unusual to me, as most local races begin at daft o clock
on a Sunday morning, although it was pleasant to be able to wake at a normal time,
and take a stroll down to the athletics arena to make final preparations to my
transition spec. Whilst around the stadium, I was able to watch the beginning
of the sprint events (5km run/20km bike/2.5km run) and see athletes
coming into transition in order to get an idea of which direction run in and
bike out would be, as until that point, I'd had no idea. Transition can be a bit
of a maze!
I was anxious to get to the stadium in good time, and
wandered down alone about 90minutes before my race was due to start, dropped my
baggage in the sports hall, and removed myself from the excitement by warming
up in a shady area beside the river, getting my legs and lungs prepared for the
torture to follow.
As we were gathered in the starting pen, as the first wave,
I was surrounded by athletes from my age group, 20-24 wearing white numbers,
and also the 25-29 age group, wearing red numbers as a way to distinguish the
different races. The British boys had gathered together in a circle, whilst the
South Africans were in an American Football style huddle, presumably praying
for good fortune. Not one for small talk, I stood to the side, close to the
track stretching and taking in the surroundings.
We were finally called to the start line for an agonizing
three minute wait for the officials to begin the race. Once the gun was fired,
we set off for a two hundred metre dash around the track, before exiting the
stadium into the streets through throngs of cheering fans screaming best wishes
in a variety of languages. The race soon took shape as we rounded a barrier in
the road and, as expected, the Spanish representation had stormed to the front,
creating a barrier of red. We had quickly split into small groups and I found
myself running step for step with a Spaniard and my British team mate Dean
Watson.
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| The Spanish Armada creating a "Flying V". Photo: Tim Ostler |
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| GB Boys, AJ, me and JC at the first turnaround. Photo: AJ Meager |
The first time up the
hill, which had been an effort to walk up the previous day, passed in a flash,
at this speed, we wouldn’t be ascending for long! The course then weaved uphill
a little more over some light cobbles before entering the narrow winding rat
runs that make up Pontevedra’s beautiful “Old Town”. The first section along
the smooth stone floors was a wall of noise that would continue for another
kilometre with cheers of “go GB”. The course was now flowing gently downhill in
amongst cafes and restaurants, through the Plaza de. Ferraria, where I became acutely
aware of somebody cheering saying “Go Ryan”, not “Go GB” or “Go Ostler” as my
tri suit read, but “Go Ryan”, this supporter obviously knew me, but I couldn’t
place the source of it, and I wouldn’t until we entered this section again on
the second run. Running downhill well is as much of a skill as being a strong
uphill runner, and I kept finding myself striding away from those around me,
until a ninety degree right hand turn immediately after the burgundy awninged restaurant
named “Il Toro” where the course rose again slightly, and we re grouped. After
a two hundred metre stretch through the narrowest section of the 2.5km course,
and where the support was intense, we were spat back out of the classic
Galician buildings, to a downhill stretch of road, in the shade, and the
welcome sight of volunteers offering up bottles of water. With the temperature
in excess of thirty degrees, I happily took water at each of the two water
stations located on the course, following the routine of drink, tip on back,
tip on chest, tip on head, drink. Forcing the water down was important, you may
not be consuming a huge amount in the hurried mouthful, but it was something,
and served to keep the throat moist if nothing else.
Seeking shade on the edge of the road, alongside the Rio
Lerez (river Lerez), we were finally welcomed back into the stifling heat of
the stadium to a thoroughly impressive soundtrack, including classics from Fat
Boy Slim and De La Soul, a far cry from the Olly Murs song, “Dear Darling” that
was on repeat in my head in Ottawa back in August.
After completing a half lap of the running track where we
had started less than ten minutes earlier, the course once again left the
athletics arena to complete another three laps of the same 2.5km loop. The
short climb immediately after the second water station (drink, back, head,
chest, drink) was not fazing me and we were soon back into the pretty streets
through the plaza’s and narrow Rua Real. By the end of lap two, I had become a
little bored of the loops on which we were running. To think there was another
two laps to go was more daunting than I had expected, mostly because of the
intense pace that we were sustaining. Taking a glance at my heart rate monitor
on my wrist, I logged that my pulse rate had been hovering around 179 and 181
bpm, near maximal, and well above the rate at which I felt I could comfortably maintain.
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| Tackling the hill, Dean smiled and chatted throughout the 10km! Photo: Dean Watson |
The small trio that I was a part of stuck together for the
duration of the run, and as we neared the stadium for the final time, a cheeky northern
voice in the crowd shouted to Dean and I, “sub 35, you wrong’uns!” referring to
our time for ten kilometres which was
about to tick over thirty five minutes as we entered T1 with a 10km time of
35:32, only 45 seconds slower than my stand alone 10km PB, and only 11 seconds
slower than I had run on a much flatter course in much cooler conditions ten
months earlier on my way to gold in Ottawa.
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| Run Course, travelling clockwise from athletic track. Photo:ITU |
I still pride myself on my unusual talent at transitioning
from run (or swim) to bike, and this race would be no different. A dash
alongside Dean (we were racked only a few spaces apart), helmet fastened before
unhooking Polly from the scaffold for a long barefooted run around the
perimeter of the football field. Crossing the track to the road and bike mount
line, swinging the leg over the bike, feet into shoes and off we go.
The course immediately crossed the river via the spectacular
suspension bridge, Puente de Os Tirantes, before circling a couple of
roundabouts and heading straight up the highway N-550, the Avenue de
Compostella. A couple of riders passed me as I took a drink of water and took
care to consume an energy gel whilst the road was still flat. I noticed that
neither had got their feet into their shoes(already clipped to the pedals) by
this point, so I bided my time before passing them as they had to slow down to
get secured.
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| The bridge over the Rio Lerez and onto the bike course. Photo: Tim Ostler |
There had been a lot of talk on the GB team Facebook page in
the weeks leading up to the event regarding the ‘Alpe de Pontevedra’. There had
been a little bit of scaremongering, and some concern about an apparent 13%
gradient near to the top of the climb with an average gradient over the ten
kilometres to the turnaround point of 4%. Early settlers from the team had been
out equipped with crampons and oxygen to check out the course, including team
mechanic Graeme Knott, who is also a friend from the local Harwich Runners
club. Graeme is a fantastic athlete in his own right, as proven in his emphatic
5km fun run victory over team manager Jez, as mentioned in my blog reporting on
the Ottawa Championships. His breakdown assured us that it was a “fantastic
time trial course, big ring all the way” cue sniggers from the girls, and re
assurance for the big boys that they could go full gas all the way to the top,
avoiding the shame of dropping to the “granny ring”.
On the Friday before the race I had conducted two recces of
the infamous bike course, firstly with a huge group in an organised team ride,
and later in the evening alone with just the wonderful Jayne for company. On the
first recce I rode up in the small chain ring just to spin the legs out after a
day of travelling on the Thursday. With so many cyclists on the road, the
patience of the local drivers was sublime, even lorries seemed content chugging
up behind us, giving a small toot of the horn signalling “careful, I’m coming
through” rather than a prolonged blast of the horn saying “get outta the way!!”
The second recce was a lot more peaceful as the two of us
climbed away from the town doing our own individual efforts, testing what kind
of gearing we would be comfortable ascending the “alpe” on. I found the road to
be a nicely rolling uphill, with mostly false flats into which the downhill
allowed you to carry enough speed so as to not be struggling to get going. The
road surface, once onto the tarmac out of town, was beautifully smooth and the
carriageways adequately wide to allow lots of cyclists to occupy them without
any risk of drafting infringements.
I identified a slip road joining the N-550 from the right
where the gradient did increase somewhat, and I deemed it necessary to drop
into the small chain ring and spin gently up the hill. It was possible to charge
up the hill in the 53 tooth chain ring, but this was a duathlon, not a time
trial, and I personally found it much more comfortable and efficient to twiddle
the smaller gears. Further up the road, I decided that a petrol station would
be my marker of the road flattening out a little, and time to shift back into
the big dog to get up to speed again.
Back to the race, and once we had navigated the rough
concrete road and roundabouts to get to the main highway, It was simply a case
of keeping the tempo high but sustainable. It was comfortable to climb whilst
staying aerodynamic on the tri bar extensions, and I looked up ahead to see the
athletes that had run a superior ten kilometre time dispersed along the
carriageway. Going into the race, I had not felt the fitness level on the bike
that I had been enjoying at the end of the previous summer, so I was surprised
to be catching up to other competitors, particularly as the gradient increased.
With a wide section of dual carriageway, I was able to take my time to ride up
alongside and past other riders whilst staying clear of the 7x3 metre “drafting
zone” around them. Venturing into this box would result in time penalties if
caught by race officials.
Upon cresting the first summit, a short, fast descent followed
as we passed road signs for the village of A Mean. I finally caught and passed a
few competitors, including several Spaniards, a Frenchman and a Japanese
athlete, strung out ahead who had maybe gotten over excited on the run and were
now seemingly struggling up the climb. I reached the slip road identified as
the start of “spinning time”. It was still possible to push a good speed if I
was able to pedal hard enough. About the time of reaching the petrol station,
the first competitor came thundering downhill in the opposite direction, having
rounded the turning point about a mile ahead of me. It was a GB athlete,
wearing a lime green aero helmet, it was Duncan Bullock, on his way to an
impressive 1 hour 3 minute bike split, and a gold medal for his 25-29 age
group.
My final push to the top of the climb passed quickly and up
ahead I could pick out the shin high socks of my good friend James Coleman.
James had been in the leading group on the run, and is a strong cyclist, so I
was very surprised that I had closed the gap to within one hundred metres so
quickly. I was aware that James had suffered a bout of illness ahead of the
race, probably the result of some dodgy calamari, culminating in a comedy
sketch describing his symptoms to a local chemist, bearing in mind there is
very little English spoken in this area of Spain. We crossed paths in opposite
directions, exchanging a wave, before we began the long sweeping descent,
cashing in on the uphill struggle.
Of course, what goes up must come down, and so another key
aspect of the recce rides had been to test our options whilst pointing
downhill. In the evening when I had ridden alone, it had been particularly
windy, coming in from the right hand side. The bends of the road were wide
enough to take them “full” still in an aerodynamic tuck on the tri bars, and at
times I had been “spinning out” in Polly’s top gear 53x11. A case of being
unable to pedal as quickly as the wheels are rotating.
Being the first wave of runners to begin the race meant we
were also the first competitors to get onto the bike course resulting in a
clear open road on the descent back down towards the town. This was pleasing in
terms of safety, as we could pick our own line, and not have to worry about any
kamikaze sideways deviations from riders descending a little more tentatively.
That could be a problem on the following lap though.
Helpful kilometre markers
punctuated the descent, and they ticked by rapidly, as I weaved the nine
kilometres back to the town. I’m certain that I didn’t touch the brakes for the
entire time, only once I approached the initial roundabout after crossing the
river, back into a cacophony of support, a shock to the system after the
tranquillity for the last thirty minutes. Along the river’s edge, and back over
the iconic bridge, it was time for more water and another gel whilst the road
was flat and sheltered.
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| Back into town after lap one. Photo: Mr Bracegirdle |
Onto the second lap of the twenty kilometre circuit, there
was now a lot more cycle traffic ahead on the road. The leading ladies who had
started thirty five minutes after me had now finished their ten kilometre run,
and were now embarking onto the bike route.
I continued around the roundabouts, beyond the shirtless men on the
central reservation and I was now picking up the tempo as I saw the familiar yellow
cycling shoes of fellow Brit and age group rival Anthony Meager coming barrelling down
the adjacent carriageway completing his first lap. I was well aware that Anthony
(AJ) was a strong cyclist, having spent a good winter training in Fuerteventura
and Mallorca, seeing the gap to him made me realise that perhaps it had been me
going well, rather than James having a bad day back at the top of the climb. I
knew AJ would be chasing hard though.
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| Bike Course, travelling from Left(South) to Right(North) Photo: ITU |
The second ascent of the Alpe de Pontevedra went much the
same as the first, only with more athletes to pass as everybody was now on
course. I had begun to feel the onset of cramp in both my calfs, so the descent
to A Mean was a welcome relief from the initial bout of climbing, and a chance
to freewheel a little and stretch them out. I had commiserated with GB elite
athlete Danny Russell in the hotel the night before, he had raced on the
Saturday, and suffered from crippling calf spasms which rendered him inoperable
as he couldn’t even turn the pedals, and thus pulled out of the race. I was
very conscious of this and didn’t want the same outcome for myself, so
sacrificed a few seconds of speed to recover my calfs.
Onto the slowest part of the course again, past Jayne’s slip
road (so named as it is where she dropped her chain off the small chain ring on
the recce (it helped me remember!)) and I found myself passing my roommate from
Ottawa, Nick Beales, and spluttering an encouraging word to him. I got no
reply, either he didn’t hear me as his ears were covered by his helmet, or he
was focussing all his effort on kicking the pedals around. At this point, I
forgot about my aching legs as a major worry came into my head…
...Usually so informed about race routes, turnings and
transition protocol, I had the awful realisation that I did not know where the
run out section of transition was, or how to get there from my bike. This
played on my mind, worrying that I would lose everything I had gained on the
bike by going the wrong way through transition. Fortunately though, my concern
was short lived, as up ahead, once again, were the pulled up black socks of
James Coleman, and I was closing the gap on him as I seemed to thrive on the
toughest part of the course. I quickly caught up to James as I was keen to pass
as soon as possible as he was being pursued by a motorcycle official,
presumably watching the movements of the rider behind my friend, who was
getting tantalizingly close to a yellow card and a drafting penalty. A quick
hello and onto the turnaround to begin another breath-taking and enjoyable
swoop back towards T2. Keeping an eye on who was coming up the hill the other
way, it seemed that the gap to AJ was still about the same, we had climbed at
about the same rate.
There has since been a chat on the team Facebook page about
top speeds reached on the way downhill. Fortunately, Garmin cycle computers
record your maximum speed. On the recce, I had reached 72.7kmh for one section
of the descent, and on race day, my maximum speed was 67.5kmh. These now look
rather tame as it was revealed by 16-19AG Sprint Distance Champion Tom Stead
that he had reached the thunderous speed of 82.51kmh (51.3mph), pipping Alan
Murchison’s 81.50kmh, perhaps by the drag produced by a flappy race number!! The
recklessness of youth!?
When I first began watching cycling videos that my dad had
on the shelf, I watched in awe as the camera motorcycle followed Italian Marco
“il pirato” Pantani down an alpine descent, focussing on the motorcycle's speedo
reading of 100kmh, I can’t even begin to fathom that speed!!
Rolling back into town and breaking off course to the right
to retrace our wheels back to the dismount line beside the running track, it
was time gulp down the final dregs of water in my bottle. Feet out of the shoes
and performing a postman coast before dismounting, I was soon bouncing along
tenderly into transition to re affirm my talent of changing my shoes quickly
with a fifty eight second transition.
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| Calm before the storm, transition first thing on race day. Photo: Jez Cox |
After shouting, politely, to a transition marshal to point
me in the direction of run out (it was really quite simple!) I was trotting
past Graeme and Jez on the inside track informing me that I was currently
fifth. As it turned out, they meant fifth off the bike, but I had taken that to
mean fifth in my age group. With a 40km bike split of 1.04.39, I had produced
the second fastest bike ride for the 20-24 AG, and was third off the bike, in
bronze medal position and was being closely pursued by AJ who must have come
down the hill at warp speed.
Out of the stadium and back to the torturous run course,
after passing the water station (drink, back, head, chest, drink) and
navigating the turnaround, I got my first glimpse of the distance between
myself and AJ, currently lying in age group fourth. I maybe only had a twenty
metre gap, and he was moving well, with an angry look on his face. If I wasn’t
aware of his presence by sight, he made me aware, I’m unsure whether
intentionally or not, by a wave of discarded water across the road, which was
actually quite refreshing and a good shot!! At this point I was feeling fairly
smooth in my running as we continued for a fifth ascent up the hill, which had
somehow gotten steeper whilst I had been riding my bike. I was able to gauge
the gap behind me, listening for the cheers of “Go GB” for myself, shortly
followed by those for my compatriot.
After navigating the now quite suffocating old town, it was
back through the second water station, (drink drink drink drink drink this
time) and onto the shady relief of the riverside road, now even more heaving
with British support. We passed a host of athletes who had competed in the
earlier sprint race, including David Boyes and his family, as they gave me
personal cheers, which whilst not acknowledged where greatly appreciated.
Finally it was time for “the take”. Not even pausing to match my stride, AJ
strolled past me at a fair pace, which I tried unsuccessfully to match as we
approached the stadium for the final time. Entering the stadium, and completing
the penultimate half lap of the track, I was greeted by the fierce and
occasionally intimidating screams and hollers of “Team Meager” as I watched the
bronze medal disappear over the crest of the hill and barring a miracle, out of
touch. It was now about conservation and remembering how to run forwards.
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| The Take, AJ digging in to move into third. Photo: Tim Ostler |
I was greeted at the top of the slope by my dad who had been
roaming the course, mostly around the hill, (why do running supporters always
stand near the hill!?). Despite my dark sunglasses, he could see my
fatigue, pain and disappointment, as the wheels came off. Probably seeing it
all in the facial expression as only twenty four years of fatherhood can. A
delicate wish of “go on buddy” carried me up the gradient until it was
time for the final descent into the plazas of the old town. Here I finally
identified my mystery supporter in the café as Piers Arnold of Tri Anglia, a
top quality runner with whom I had raced at a local duathlon during my
preparation. Piers had been competing in the 25-29 age group but in the sprint
distance race, earning a sixth place finish.
Following the last sharp corner at Il Toro, and the
collection of water (throw contents of bottle in general direction of mouth) I
was thankfully approaching the athletics arena for the final time. Approaching
the gate, a figure loomed behind me briefly, it was James Coleman, having
caught me two hundred metres from the line, on his way to a bronze medal in his
and Duncan’s 25-29 AG. A hushed acknowledgment, and around the track, my
overwhelming desire was to walk, which I finally succumbed to 5 metres before
the finish line, after a quick look behind to ensure I wouldn’t get pipped, a
Spanish competitor was one hundred metres behind, just entering the blue carpet
signifying the finish chute. With the cheers of my supporters Ella and Mum from
the grandstand, bedecked in their Union Flag hats, ringing in my ear, I
stumbled across the finish line in a time of two hours, two minutes and five
seconds, desperately wanting to sit down. A brief pause to double up over a
barrier, exhausted, whilst a volunteer removed the timing chip from my ankle, I
proceeded to the athlete recovery area, seeking shade beside a wheelie bin
whilst James occupied the chair beside. I felt truly dreadful, and whilst sat
propping up the bin, tri suit pulled down to the waist, a kind British athlete,
I think it was either Duncan Bullock or 35-39 World Champ Richard Shephard
continually passed us bottles of water. I think I guzzled about two litres
immediately.
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| Ella cheering on from the stand. Photo: Michele Ostler |
I was massively disappointed, but more relieved that I could
be still and didn’t have to run any longer.
After a quick word with my family, I hurried off to the
baggage area to change into something more comfortable, and scrounge more food
and drink on offer from the organisers. Back outside into the furnace of midday
Spain, I returned to the trackside fence where I had hung the t
shirt in which I always warm up, it was gone. If you see a Spaniard in an ill-fitting
Parliament Hills XC t shirt, nab him! Burying my t shirt disappointment, I sat
on the kerb with two Canadians in the shady boulevard beside the turnaround
point at the beginning of the run route. Here I was able to witness the
culmination of the older male age groups, including Nick, as well as the ladies
completing their final run laps, including the Scot Fiona Bracegirdle running
swiftly to her AG gold medal in emphatic style, defeating second place by a
whopping seven minutes.
Fiona’s father, Mr Bracegirdle (I’m ashamed to say I still
do not know his first name!!) is a legend in the GB team’s eyes due to his
photography prowess, tirelessly snapping every competitor during their race. He
is a legend in my eyes after I saw him at Ottawa’s aviation museum having
yomped the six miles there in the stifling midday heat, to look at aeroplanes.
I had been there to satisfy some nerdiness, visiting the accompanying Star Wars
Exhibition. This is the source of my delightful ‘Chewbacca in Aviators’ t shirt for
those of you that have been privileged enough to see it.
Once I finally managed to catch up with Jayne, we sat in the
shade of the stadium’s grandstand, sharing each other’s desire to be still as
athletes streamed passed us, occasionally stopping to chat and discuss the
brutality of the racecourse and conditions. It is always a relief in a sport
where you cannot really converse with other athletes, to learn that they shared
your turmoil, reassuring you that it wasn’t just you struggling.
After sharing the final morsels of my walnut CLIF bar, we
mustered the energy to move from our shady slab and return to transition to
witness the carnage which we had left, and remove our belongings. There hung
Polly, cycling shoes dangling to her sides, having carried me over the terrain
faultlessly. It was at this point that I picked up on the Spanish announcement being
made over the tannoy, declaring the medallists from each age group. I stood
motionless as I deciphered the message, confirming that both I and Jayne had
finished fourth in our age groups. I wheeled myself over to her changing spot,
with a shrug and a hug, and made her promise that we could push the bikes the
short trip back to the hotel, as I didn’t have the energy to swing my leg over
the frame.
Interest in my race had been overwhelming pre-race, with
messages from home via Facebook, twitter and text wishing me luck. The support
continued as friends and family searched in vain for the results to go live on
triathlon.org. The athletes themselves did not even become fully aware of
results until after eight pm that night and even then they were rather sketchy.
It was frustrating to be unable to declare my actual result, as I didn’t want
people to think I was ignoring them, but my radio silence continued until word
did get home the following day and waves of congratulations came my way.
I have to admit that I was disappointed to have finished
fourth, and viewed the messages saying “congratulations” and “well done on
fourth” as a little patronising. I thought I had given a terrible performance
to suffer and go backwards on the run. After all the hype of Ottawa, and the
ensuing eight months as World Champ and a local face, I had failed and didn’t
need to have my result justified by the heat/terrain/time of year (delete as
applicable), I simply had not run fast enough (although I certainly changed my
shoes quick enough!)
Hindsight is a wonderful thing though, and viewing my
experience my mind-set changed and I cheered up a bit. My initial run time of
35.32, on a much more challenging course, was only forty five seconds outside
my stand alone 10km Personal Best (something which Graeme says should be a
minute quicker!), only 10 seconds slower than I had run in Ottawa. The average
bike speed of 37 kmh (23mph) was respectable for the course, and within the top
fifteen out of over four hundred male standard distance racers. I genuinely
believe that the performance I gave in Pontevedra to finish fourth would
massively eclipse my performance to win gold in Canada in August.
During Jez’s initial briefing, he encourages athletes to
take three lessons from every event they do, be it positive or negative. Two
weeks later I am still trying to work out these lessons, but the experiences I
will take away will certainly make me a better runner, cyclist, duathlete,
triathlete and person tomorrow.
I must express my gratitude at the end of this blog entry to
those that continually support my journey onto madder and badder things. Kind
of like an Oscar’s acceptance speech but without the star studded selfie.
Thank you to sponsors Glen and Kay at VUE CCTV for their
support in funding me to race in the sports I love.
Thank you to Mark, Lisa and Andy at Pedal Power Cycles,
Ipswich for supplying a lot of my kit and nutrition for the race, as well as
allowing me the time to train. also to Paul, my running encyclopaedia for teaching me about heart rate monitors, allowing me to realise that 181bpm is far too high! And to Liam Manser for being the best fan boy
an EX WORLD CHAMP could ask for.
Thank you to Jayne for being my travelling buddy and friend
away from home. Also thank you for going half’s on the kettle as the hotel
didn’t have one, so we could enjoy gallons of tea!!
And finally thank you to all of my family for allowing me to
be highly unsociable whilst playing outside on my bikes and running. And for
their support both in Pontevedra and from home.
Results for the race HERE!
Move and Smile
