by Jenny Critchlow (Fri Oct 23, 2009)
Triathlons completed: 2
Flies swallowed: 8
Wasps in cycle helmet: 1 (but a big one, one worthy of a
large, girly scream)
Minutes spent going the wrong way: 11
Tri Suits worn: 1
So this is it, I did it! I suited, booted, packed the bike
on top of the children and set off to compete in my very first on-road
triathlon. I can't quite believe I'm getting to write this piece, instead of
the one I've been rehearsing in my mind about pulling out due to serious
injury/runner's nipple. Finally (finally!) I can hand out the business cards
with the word Tri athlete printed on them to all the mums at the school
gates, they'll be thrilled.
It was a momentous feeling; the arriving; the inking of my
arm and leg with indelible pen; the parking my bike and setting up my tri shoes
with socks inside; the swigging of my energy drink in a pro-like manner and, of
course the most important bit, the removing of my track suit to reveal me in
all my triathlon suit glory. Yes, you may read that again if you wish, I wore
it. The no hiding, take-no-prisoners tri suit, and I wore it with pride (and a
little petroleum jelly).
Ok I looked weird, and several pounds heavier than I am, add
the swimming hat and I looked like a large red and black sperm, but a brave red and black sperm and brave was
what I was going for. And by golly I swam
like a sperm (one without a motility problem), my fastest swim yet and I didn't
have to hurt anyone.
My Achilles heel turned out to be the cycling. Fifteen miles
on a mountain bike can really take it out of your buttocks. In fact mine have
applied to the Buttock Retirement Association to see if they're eligible for
early entry. Lesson one in triathlon competing: whatever anyone says, it's not
fine to compete on a mountain bike. Mile after mile I was overtaken by road
bike owning competitors gliding gracefully by, a quick flick of each leg
producing ¼ mile of thrust on their trusty road bike, I looked like I was
trying to whisk custard using my mine. My legs pedalled furiously as the
suspension absorbed most of my efforts along the flat, smooth road. It took an
hour and twenty minutes to cycle the fifteen miles, by which point most people
had gone home, watched X Factor, drunk their cocoa and snuggled up in bed. Oh
dear.
The run was better, a gentle 5km for everybody else, a red-faced
6km for me. In a nutshell, I went the wrong way. How, I shall never know. The
first turning point was marked with huge banners, striped cones sent you in an
unmistakeable U turn, arrows pointed helpfully in the direction you were meant
to go. Yet somehow in all the excitement I missed it and carried on along the
River Avon.
Five minutes later I was trying unsuccessfully to quiet the
small voice in my head, the one that pointed out that I hadn't seen another
runner for a while. The one that was laughing silently as its owner kidded
herself that she had simply steamed ahead to the front. The one that shouted
(loudly) ‘I told you, you idiot' as I sheepishly enquired of two dog walkers if
they'd seen any other runners. They hadn't, ‘I think you were meant to turn
round at the huge banners, the ones with the big striped cones under them,' said First Dog Walker, ‘There are some
arrows to help you' pointed out
Second Dog Walker helpfully. Cheers.
But I turned, and I ran. Towards the noise, the banners, the
tannoy announcing people as they crossed the
finish line. Towards my proud Husband and sugar-bribed children. Towards
waiting, open arms, hugs, kisses (a few tears) and a huge ice cream.
God bless the ice cream van man.
