Journey's End

Wow – what a day. I'd said I wouldn't blog again, but I know so many people have followed me that I thought I should let you know how to fill a random 14-hours should you get bored during the summer!

Did I sleep? Not much, maybe an hour or two, I tried not to keep looking at the clock but when IronPhil nudged me at 3.30am to say: “It's here – the big day's arrived.” I realised I'd been asleep. Fuelled with a bowl of porridge, banana and green tea, we headed 45-mins down the motorway to Pennington Flash. 

I was anxious to check my bike over, having left it the previous day. It was good to go and so was I. The atmosphere was electric as 2000 wetsuit-clad swimmers filed their way into the water, cheered on by hundreds of supporters and the Ironman crew bigging it up over the tannoy system. 

 Being a deep water start means you had about a 150m swim to reach the start line. There were so many people getting into the water that I just about made it to the start in time to hear the national anthem being played and then the gun fired and suddenly the calm water of the lake was churned up by a frenzy of flailing limbs. “Keep the heid,” marathon woman Julia had texted the night before. Never a truer saying. It's easy to see how panic could set in. I stuck to my plan, kept a cool head, drafted as much as possible and finished the first lap in 37-mins. The race has what they call an Australian exit, meaning you climb out, run around a short circuit then get back in again to do a second lap. Mentally I ticked off the buoys, until I could hear the roar of the crowds and I started to get excited – the swim was in the bag. Then disaster struck. Despite methodically sipping electrolytes for days leading up to the race, I'd been feeling the early twinges of cramp for a good while, then it struck – a full on cramp right through my calf and into my foot. I tried to stretch, lay on my back, grabbed my foot and shook it. Jeez, don't let it end like this, was all I could think. I flipped back over and finished the last 300m with just my arms.

Transition was slow. I'd decided to ditch the tri-suit and go with cycle shorts for the comfort factor. I had a nice padded posterior, which considering how long I was in the saddle, was a good move. I'm disappointed with my bike time. It was slower than I'd hoped. There is no doubt about it, the bike course is dominated by hills. Something like 5,000ft of climbing over a two-loop course, with two big hills, one of which is a grade 4 climb; and you tackle these twice. There's also loads of shorter hills. A few fast descents and some decent flats to spin along. I've trained so hard on our local hills that it held no fear and even when we hit the grade 4 Hunter Hill at the 98-mile marker, I kept going past dozens of folk, who'd been reduced to walking by that stage. The support was amazing. There was one hill which had the full Tour de France treatment. People 6-deep lining the route, with just a narrow gap for the cyclists to pedal through, I felt tears pricking my eyes as I went up there! There was plenty of carnage too with smashed up bikes and riders, and ambulances whizzing around. There are times when being a total wimp on descents pays off! I kept eating, kept drinking, kept going. There were whoops of joy from all the cyclists around me when the soaring steelwork of the Macron Stadium came into view. Another few tears pricked my eyes as I came into T2. Box 2 – ticked! 

Now what did I have left to give, I wondered as I put my running shoes on. The sun was beating down and reflecting off the road - it was sweltering. The road leading out of T2 was a stonking hill. WTF – I thought this marathon was flat. I knew there wasn't a hill in my legs, so I joined the merry throng shuffling  up to the main road. As I think of words to describe that marathon, the only one that springs to mind is 'brutal'. Luckily, it came as no surprise, as all my training runs after a long ride were the same. All fears confirmed – I dug deep and accepted this was going to be a battle of wills.

There were hills, far more than I had anticipated. The support, again, was fantastic. I can't begin to describe how uplifting it is to hear strangers call out your name (because it's written on your race number). I tried to keep smiling, but it got harder and harder. I pulled my cap down and just battled.

Every time I passed IronPhil I could hear him yelling that I was setting a good pace and reeling people in. I figured that was total bullshit as I was barely moving one foot in front of the other. It turns out I'd passed over 400 competitors in the marathon. I was surrounded by walkers, it took an almighty effort not to join them. By about the half-way point I could feel my calves seizing up. I walked through the aid stations, taking on flat cola, forcing down gels and isotonic drinks. But my stomach was beginning to rebel. There was nowhere near enough portaloos and the queues were huge. I also was worried that if I stopped, I would struggle to move again. I genuinely feared that I was going to have to do a Paula Radcliffe by the roadside. Finally, I was on the last lap. All hopes of a sub 13.30 finish time were shot to pieces. I was shot to pieces. The last 3 miles I took on a run/walk strategy. Walk to one cone, run 3 and repeat. As we all wore coloured bands to show how many laps we'd done, the crowds could see who was heading home, so the support grew and grew. I hit the final aid station, took one last gulp of water and headed around the corner into the frenzy of cheering crowds lining the half-mile town centre route to the finish. This bit I was going to enjoy. The smile returned, the pain disappeared, the shades went on. The supporters yelled: “Go girl, this is your moment – make the most of it.” I high-fived my way to the finishing chute and fairly skipped down the red carpet to hear the magical words I'd been waiting for: “Maria, you are an Ironman.” That moment will stay with me forever.

The culmination of around 400-hours of training – over in seconds! It was a sea of faces, I finally spotted IronPhil yelling my name and waved, arms aloft, for a few seconds in time – I felt heroic, euphoric, invincible. The Ironcrew shook my hand, put a medal around my neck. A TV crew – no idea who – interviewed me. Probably selected on the basis that I was grinning like an idiot and, at that stage, still standing unaided. Then it was finisher photos, collect the finisher t-shirt and finisher food. Strangely enough I didn't really fancy any of it. I shoved a piece of pizza and a slice of watermelon in and went to meet up with my family. With hindsight, I should have sat down, forced in more food and spent a bit of time recovering.

However, we started the slow hobble back to the car. I could hardly walk at this stage. The Paula Radcliffe moment was still threatening, so we stopped at McDonalds. My heart sank to discover the loo was upstairs. I managed a painful, sideways climb only to find an enormous queue. They all took one look at me and my medal and instantly upgraded me to first in line. Now, in normal circumstances that would have been perfect. Except that I now felt like a local celebrity and with the queue being very long and very quiet, I didn't feel that 14-hours of gel infusion could be released quietly, let alone anonymously! So I was going to have to wait a bit longer. I ended up hobbling back down the stairs and ordered a Chicken McNuggets meal. I'd only managed to stuff a handful of fries in my mouth when the world started to glaze over, I was going to pass out or puke or both. Sweaty, clammy, hammering heart, blurred vision – the works. Poor Ironphil and Cameron had a casualty on their hands. I stuck my head between my legs and lost consciousness for a few seconds. Next thing I know, there's a security guard, two cops and a race helper, not to mention the world and his wife. A kind woman stuck a full fat coke in front of me, I drank it and I started to feel instantly better. This seemed to reassure everyone that I didn't need a wheelchair, ambulance or the medical tent! Pretty embarrassing and considering I'd been topping up my body with nutrition the whole time, quite a surprise. It just goes to show – I clearly had given it my all. Either that or it was the shock of finding myself in a fast food joint ordering food I'd never had before in my puff!

So looking at the overall stats and finish time. I had been hoping for a faster time, so yes there is a bit of disappointment. But not much. I couldn't have trained any harder and on the day I couldn't have given any more. I finished 10^th in my age category, so I'm chuffed with that. I had the fastest run time in my age and out of 240 or so women, the 26^th fastest. The bike is where I don't quite hit the spot. But, heh-ho, for a woman who still can't balance enough to remove a water bottle or give hand signals – I ain't done that bad!

So there it is – I am an Ironman! I can now stop blogging, stop training, put on weight and retire into the type of middle-aged lifestyle that a 48-year-old woman should have – right? Nah, I don't think I'm ready to sling in the towel just yet. As for the question of will I do an Ironman again? The answer is an absolute, categorical – NO.

This has been an immense challenge for me and there will be plenty of others around the corner. In the last three years I've learned to swim and ride my bike. I entered this race almost a year ago, a whole year preparing mentally and physically for one day. That is mental. The big question is, was it worth all that effort – without a shadow of doubt – YES. Life is made richer, people are made tougher and what you discover when you venture way outside your comfort zone is worth finding. I know it sounds a bit cliched, but it's true. I've had a blast this last two years, half ironman, Loch Lomond relay swim and now this.  My life is richer and more exciting and I'm a much stronger person for it – that's got to be worth a bit of sweat and tears – hasn't it?

Will I sleep?!

Well, this is it. Just over 12-hours to go. Not months, not weeks, not days - just hours!
I'm racked and registered and ready to go.

I'm a bubbling, fizzzing, cocktail of emotions. Brimming with pre-race nervous adrenaline, unbelievably excited, but on the surface, I'm also surprisingly calm. Not calm enough to sleep much tonight, but calm enough to not be phased by what lies ahead. Whatever happens tomorrow, I am determined to try to enjoy it all.
The whole Ironman experience is quite amazing. There is a definite 'big event' feel, and yes, the more cynical can see it as a huge, corporate marketing exercise. But so what? For everyone competing tomorrow it IS a massive deal. Why not big it up - embrace it and make the most of it, that's what I'm doing.

This year is the 10th anniversary of IronmanUK and it's the biggest race they've ever put on in this country. There's 2000 competitors, all starting together at 6am, so that's going to be interesting! I took advantage of one of the test swim sessions yesterday, just to check out the water.

The fact that I got lost, twice, and had to be guided back on line by kayakers, on a ten-minute mini-lap, is another story.  There's a hell of a lot of yellow buoys out there - that's my excuse! Although I was glad to see they have some towering orange ones mapping the course out today! Apparently it was 21.6 degrees yesterday. No, I didn't feel like taking off my wetsuit, it was just right for me! What it did confirm was that there's a lot of fast swimmers out there, all zooming past me, over me or bumping me on their way past and that was just a wee trial swim, with a fraction of the field. But, my plan is to keep calm, try to stay out of trouble and survive. After the 'going off course incident' it's also taught me that should I find myself in the lead, then I'm heading the wrong way! I'll be slow, but steady and once I'm out, I'll be grinning like an idiot - ticking that box big-style .... the swim is over!
This morning was also the Ironkids race. We had an early start for Cameron's leg at 8am in Bolton city centre.

He ran the final 2.5k of tomorrow's marathon. He was nervous beforehand, but confessed he didn't want to make a big deal of how nervous he was feeling because of what I was going to have to face on Sunday. Awww. Then he went out and smashed it by coming in 4th!
Then it was more organising for me as I went to put my kit for tomorrow in it's rightful place. I've had to leave my beloved bike in T1 tonight, covered by a plastic sheet to protect it from the torrential downpours, which will hopefully have passed through by tomorrow morning. My blue bag, filled with bike gear, is hanging in the T1 tent. My red bag, full of run kit, is in the T2 tent at the Macron Stadium (Bolton Wanderer's home ground). I have more than triple-checked that kit because I can't access it again now until I'm racing. I have a 'special-needs' bag to hand in tomorrow, which I can pick-up from a bike feed station. I've filled it with extra nutrition. Some sandwiches, more gels, a mars bar, jelly babies and extra energy powder. I'm loaded (in my cycle top, bento box & saddle-bag) with home-made flapjacks, Twiglets, energy bars and gels. Plus 3 bottles of energy drink. Not to mention 2 spare inner tubes, 3 CO2 cartridges and a puncture-repair kit, oh ... and a couple of ibuprofen, but no kitchen sink!
I glanced at the other blue bags hanging up and noted how minimalist some people seem to be racing. Mine was bulging and looks as if I've booked into T1 for a weekend break. Though, I'm certainly not the only newbie on the block. It's great to know that at least half of the 2,000 competitors are doing this for the first time, even if only 240 of them are women. So there's a lot of testosterone knocking around the race village. You can see the ripped muscles, deep rim wheels, pointy helmets and mega-bucks bikes. But there's also a few flabby paunches, a lot of kinesio tape, some smelly portaloos and plenty of anxious faces. It is hard not to feel fazed or tempted to change the plan, when you see what others are doing, wearing etc. My trusty Trek is still less than a year old and loved beyond what I thought was possible for a bike, yet it looks like the poor relation next to the areo-bling it passed today. I fear the chicken wrap taped to my bike doesn't look quite as professional as the hard-core, multi-gel brigade, who have their gels lined up like an ammunition belt on their cross bar, ready to fight their way through the forthcoming battle. My mind is racing, but I'm sticking to my guns, sticking to the plan. Munching on my travelling picnic, like a mobile feed-station, fuelled by real food - for as long as possible.
Come the run, I know I'll hit 'gel city' big time. I'll take what's on offer at the feed stations, plus my trusty support crew have boxes of my 'gel of choice' and own energy drink ... just in case! In fact, my amazing support crew, which consists of IronPhil and Ironkid Cameron, have all sorts lined up. They surprised me by having team t-shirts printed. The front saying Team TriDye and the back 'Better, Stronger, Faster'. This dates back to a childhood love of the Six-Million Dollar (Bionic Man). If you don't know, you're too young!
I've seen home-made banners being packed into the car, no idea what's written on them and IronPhil is out right now with a tub of chalk writing messages of inspiration on the two hills I'll be tackling tomorrow. I'm looking forward to seeing their smiling faces keeping me going.
As for the support I've had from friends and family - it has been truly overwhelming. Your messages, gifts and inspirational thoughts have kept me going through the tough weeks of training. When the pain finds me on Sunday, I will be thinking of you all willing me forwards to that finish line.
It's been one hell of a journey, just 140.6 miles to go until the job is done, the goal achieved. If I have one wish, it's to the God's of the Uncontrollables, my own Ironprayer: "Grant me a safe passage with no physical or mechanical breakdowns, and I'll find the strength to do the rest."

I have a plan!

This time next week....

I can barely focus on anything else. I totally sympathise with my long-suffering family and friends who are probably wondering what a conversation with me was like B.I. (Before Ironman). It feels like every few minutes I blurt out something related to the race. My kids switched off months ago; only the long-suffering IronPhil still responds with unfailing levels of interest and enthusiasm. Never appearing to glaze over as I drone on and on and on.
It's really hard to quantify how it feels to be soooo excited about something and want it to be over - in equal measures.
Having hit the school holidays and taper at the same time has been great in many ways. I feel rested, due to no early starts and more afternoon naps than I've ever had. I've had time to get organised and yet I can't believe that after weeks of fantasising about the joy of taper, I've actually felt like a horse being reigned back in the starting stalls. Good weather and time on my hands has had me chomping at the bit to do more. But I'm not daft and I've stayed in the stable and chomped from my nose bag instead. Essential fuelling has included a few cheeky cakes and glasses of wine. I know that needs to stop this week.
But I've also had loads of time to prepare. In previous races I'd get messages of support from more experienced triathletes telling me to: "Stick to the plan on race day." I'd agree enthusiastically. Then wonder: "What plan?!" Well I'm proud to announce that this time I have a plan, of sorts.
I also have lists. Lists of kit. Lists of nutrition. I've sat down with IronPhil and reviewed the bike and run course. Noted all the feed stations. Spots where I can expect to see some family support.  I have a rough plan of what to eat, when and where. I've broken it all down into bite-size segments. I've run through it in my mind, over and over again. I've practised puncture repair. Had my wheels on and off; inner tubes in and out, inflated and deflated. Big Seb, ironhero and ninja bike man, has kindly fettled my trusty Trek and declared her ready to go. I know where I'm staying before and after the race; when I'm registering; when I'm testing out the waters of Pennington Flash; what time I 'm getting up on race morning. (3.30am - ouch). Wow, even I'm impressed! I can do being organised quite well, if I couldn't I  wouldn't have even got this far. But this is a step beyond, even for me. Not a trace of flying by the seat of my pants this time round. It's probably an indication of just how much it matters.
It's not about the money. Yeh, an entry fee of £398 is pretty motivating. But the time I've invested in training far outweighs the financial investment, tenfold. All those hours when I wasn't with my husband, sons, friends, work, resting, chilling, socialising. Plus, I've bared my soul in this blog and can no longer sneak into this quietly. I'm excited, nervous and slightly paranoid.
As I finished my last long bike ride this week I was fighting irrational fears about falling off or crashing. I was glad to get back fully intact. I'm now carrying around anti-bacterial hand gel & wipes. It's hard to look normal as you wander around the supermarket trying to discreetly wipe down shopping trolleys and toilet door handles. I'm sure Dave Brailsford would approve though - marginal gains and all that!
Trying to get enough quality sleep is tough though, especially with teenage sons. While my mind and body want to be in bed by 10pm. My 16-year-old's social life has other plans. Midnight mum-taxi's. World-Cup sleepovers. Midday catapult assisted water-bomb battles, as I try to nap in the sunny garden. In fact, if anybody wants to provide an 'ironman in training quiet sleepover room' for tonight's final, I'll be booking in. Instead, I appear to be hosting six teenage football fans for an all-night party! Thank God for earplugs.
It would be odd if it was any different. I subtitled this blog: 'A busy mum's ironman journey' because despite all my determined focus, the bottom line is that I am just an ordinary middle-aged mum, trying to complete a personal challenge. That's all. This week, I read through dozens of messages on the Ironman Facebook site, all explaining their personal reasons for tackling the race. I was humbled. So many of the 2000 participants have such worthy reasons for being on that start line next Sunday. Sure there are the age-group athletes out to smash it. But, I was positively blubbing as I read about women and men who had lost serious amounts of weight and now felt fit enough to take on the race. People who were raising money in memory of loved ones who had died from cancer or heart disease. So many who admitted to only just learning to swim or cycle this year. One particularly touching story of a woman who was celebrating losing weight and being in remission from cervical cancer and a man who had trained with a colleague, the colleague had died a few weeks ago and he was completing this in his memory. Oh my. It totally put this into perspective. A busy working mum? Is that all - no excuses then!
There is something quite special about joining others in the unifying challenge of pushing yourself beyond the limits of what most people would consider possible. That's what makes it so appealing.
What's my motivation? Well, it's just to see if I can. Just like George Mallory's reason for climbing Mount Everest - 'because it's there'.

Aisle get there

The countdown clock is well and truly ticking - 15 days and counting!
I'm now down to planning the minutiae of the day - what will I eat,  what will I wear, where will I stay the night before etc. It struck me this week that I've spent longer preparing for this race than I spent planning our wedding, I think that only took 4-months, I also think getting married was a lot cheaper. OK, so it was 16-years ago, but my bike shoes and run shoes definitely cost at least double my satin slippers; my wetsuit and probably even tri-suit cost more than my Monsoon bargain wedding dress. When it comes to the reception - my bike cost more! You probably think I'm joking....I'm not! Don't get me wrong, there is no comparison on levels of importance. I knew I could walk down the aisle and say: "I do" and be happy for years to come. I'm not sure, without all this meticulous planning, that I can run down that red carpet and hear the immortal words: "Maria Dye - you are an Ironman."
I read Andy Holgate's blog this week, the guy who wrote the inspiring: Can't Swim, Can't Bike, Can't Run book. He's also doing IMUK this year having been given an honorary slot. He commented on how much he was determined to enjoy the day, this will be his 6th Ironman. I want to enjoy the day too. It's a strange concept to be looking forward to something so much and wanting it to be over just as much!
I have had a good read of my athlete's information pack. I've turned down the pre-race party tickets and decided I'm unlikely to need the post-race awards ceremony tickets. After looking at last year's results and doing my own maths, I don't think I'll be taking a first or second place in my age category and going to the World Champs in Kona, Hawaii!
You pay a premium to enter an Ironman race. It is a well-marketed brand and there are loads of other iron-distance races out there. Before I entered, I'd researched every available race in the northern hemisphere, but I kept coming back to Ironman. Why? Because I'm only going to do this once and when I finish I do want to hear someone telling me I'm an Ironman as I cross that finish line. I want to enjoy the 'big event' atmosphere. It's a bit like doing the London Marathon instead of your local 26-mile race. I want to hear the cow bells ringing & read the graffiti messages on the tarmac as I climb up Sheep House Lane; I want to hear the national anthem as I plunge into the murky waters of Pennington Flash. No, it's not glamorous, but it's gritty and northern ... just like me!

I am really excited. I also getting nervous. The hard work really is behind me now. The biggest question hanging over me before I started this is answered. I never really worried about whether I could complete the distance on the day (But that's probably because didn't think about it!) I was more concerned with whether I could hack the training. They're two separate things - the training and the race. It's a well known adage but getting to the start line of any event is an achievement. Thirty weeks is a big ask. But I've asked and I've got the answer. Have I done enough? God I hope so. But I can put my hand on my heart and say that I couldn't have done any more. If a job's worth doing and all that...
This week's 4k loch swim was, well, long is the best word for it. Credit goes to the three pals - Lesley, Morag and Michael who accompanied me, not to mention Morgan who kayaked alongside with his GPS to log the exact distance. I'm not sure I could be that good a friend if called upon. I'd already calculated exactly how far I'd have to cycle from Lomond Shores if I was to do the full distance. It was a sobering thought as I slowly ploughed my way down the last kilometre that I'd have to cycle to Carlisle then run 6-miles south of Penrith!
And on that thought, I'm just going to pour a glass of wine to wash it away.

Dancing in the street...I wish I could!

If my legs were up to it, I'd be dancing tonight! I've finally made it to the end of peak training and the end of term! When I started this journey, I clocked that the toughest weeks would coincide with the toughest weeks at work. The end of term is a frantic time and Don Fink's masterplan has an eye-watering number of miles/hours to log over 4-weeks. I remember glancing at those pages, then quickly looking away. How the hell could I do that and stay alive and work? More to the point - was it physically possible to ride my bike for 6-hours, non-stop?
I'm pretty darn chuffed that I can now answer those questions. Yup, I'm still alive; I can ride my bike for 8-hours, never mind 6, and I can get off it after that and run ... well, that's a bit of fabrication, I can propel myself slowly forwards. But I've noted the rules in the athlete information pack, which also arrived this week. "No form of locomotion other than running, walking or crawling is allowed." Spare me from the latter, but if needs must! I'm blocking that marathon out of my head because those runs after the long bike rides haven't got any easier. I really don't know where that marathon is going to come from. I just trust, that somehow, it will come.
I've still got 3-weeks to go and next week is no party in the park. My long sessions include, a 4k swim; 4-hour bike and a 2-hour run. Peak training for the half iron distance, but taper, oh sweet taper, for me. But finally, I'm no longer juggling. No more 5.30am starts; no more 10.30pm jotter marking; no more weekends working on my laptop after a long bike ride! Whoopee. I can train and more importantly  - I can rest. I think I need that more than anything.
As my lovely class and I did the conga around our classroom, at 1-minute to end of term bell. (Yep, wind them up and send them home!) I knew it wasn't quite finished for me. Ten minutes later I was out on an 18-mile run, having waved my colleagues off to the pub! Thank goodness for teachers who run, Laura Johnston saved my day by leaving her school and joining me for the last 8-miles, after a wee dance in the street to celebrate term ending! Several hours later, after an ice bath and protein shake, I managed to join my colleagues for a quick lime & soda before leaving them to party into the night as I crashed into bed for a 6am start and my last long bike ride. Thanks Michael Yeomans and David Wilson for keeping me company on the last big effort.
So tonight, I'm having a lone celebration. Lone because IronPhil is away, about to unleash hell at A Day in the Lakes. A tough half iron-distance race that takes in some hilly Lake District terrain.
I can't believe, really can't believe, I've done all that hard work. I don't intend to sound boastful but I am quite proud of myself for getting this far. It is a cliche to call it a journey, but it really is. Michael, a man who could write a book on endurance, made a comment today as we cycled in the sunshine, that hit home. He pointed out how hardcore long-distance training through a Scottish winter really is and how training is the toughest part, as it's relentless. But the race is finite - you know what you've done and what you've got to do and when it's done - it's done!
How long it will take me until 'it's done?' I don't know. I've got  29 great finishing time predictions from the pupils in my class - loving the 11-hours one ... in my dreams! Hoping, dearly hoping, that the kind gift of glo-sticks from one pupil: "To help me find the finish line if I take 17-hours!" is not going to happen.
A few days before the end of term, I told my class what I was going to do in the summer holidays. Revealing what Mrs Dye does when she's not being a teacher! I chuckled at the gasps of horror as I showed them my bento box (the small box I keep snacks in on my bike) in response to the question of what I would eat all day. I could see them glancing at their lunch boxes and wondering what on earth I was going to fit into that tiny thing that would constitute breakfast, snack, lunch, snack and dinner! I showed them a sachet of carbs energy drink, explaining that it had all the nutrition I needed. Later, a wee boy, who'd obviously been awake during an earlier lesson on nutrition, asked: "Mrs Dye, can I see that packet of potato powder again?"
They made me a lovely card:

With some great comments:

From a 10-year-old .... it brought a tear to my eye.

I certainly won't be first - sorry to disappoint! But I do believe I can finish what I've started. I have put in the work. I've amazed myself by how focussed and committed I can be. I now want a dose of good luck and a happy ending!

 I'm not sure how much it will hurt, how much I will suffer, how slow I will be, but so long as I keeping swallowing that potato powder and making forward motion, with or without glo-sticks, come the 20th of July - there will be some dancing in the street!

Laid low

Houston, we have a problem!
My body has been invaded by a nasty little virus, it's left me with a sore throat, no voice and an irritating cough. Worst of all, I've had to take time off training, because I've just not felt fit enough to push through.
You can only begin to imagine what I've been like to live with this weekend.
For those who don't train, your kind words are well meant:  "The rest will probably do you good,"  "You've been training too hard,"  "There's still plenty of time until the race." Aaaargh, but you don't understand! I've been knocking my pan out for 25-weeks. That's 6-months. Six-months of hard graft, without missing more than the odd swim session. Now, when I hit the big bucks, the weekends that really matter, I'm laid low with a bug! God, I could stamp, swear, cry with sheer frustration. But, it will make not a jot of difference, because there's nothing I can do about it. Instead, I have to simply accept.
I know it's not the end of the world, but anyone who has ever been in this situation will understand that missing two stonking running and biking sessions in the run-up to a race that demands mega endurance, with no opportunity to play catch up, is not something I'm taking in my stride. Plus, I've managed to pull a muscle in my back from coughing too.
The good thing is, we share everything in this house, so IronPhil has the bug too. It's worse for him because he's got a race this coming weekend. A Day in the Lakes. That's a half iron-distance in the Lake District, with tough terrain, so not for the faint-hearted, let alone slightly sick. But he's far more chilled about it. Good job too, as I'm stressing enough for everyone!
Ultra-Kazy, my kind running buddy, who was suffering with a sprained ankle and a 43-mile running weekend stretching ahead of her, limped round with a bag of Maltesers and a tube of Berocca to cheer me up. I've been mainlining the multi-vitamin fizz all weekend, along with Manuka honey. In fact, if somebody told me fresh manure would have me back on my schedule tomorrow, I'd eat that too!
Sadly, lacking an insta-cure - I've googled it, there isn't one - I'm relying on hope, patience and the sun rising again tomorrow to signal a better day.

This tunnel has a light!

'Have you tried praying?' said the banner hanging outside the village church. Not yet, I thought, as I cycled past, just a couple of hours into my 100-mile bike ride yesterday, but I probably will before I get home.
I've tried a lot of things on the bike to focus my mind on something else. Reciting my tables as I climbed up the Pipe Track from Aberfoyle to Drymen one wet and windy Sunday, back in winter. It took me from my 2 to my 12x-table, with a few repetitions, before the huge television mast which marks the top finally appeared out of the dreich mist. But yesterday literally flew by, and it really does feel like a huge milestone. I know I've peaked a bit too soon, I've still got two weeks of peak training to go, but I probably won't do another mammoth ride like that. I was cycling for around 8-hours, which is what I'm expecting to be doing on Ironday, albeit that will be 12-miles further. But we climbed 7,500ft yesterday and that's a couple of thousand more than Bolton. I'd also been out for a 16-mile run on the Friday night  too, so my legs were weary when I started. Hopefully, with time to taper I'll hit the bike as fresh as a daisy.
I can't wait to remember what fresh legs feel like.
These last few weeks have been tough. For every session in which I've felt like I could conquer the world, I've had three more which have almost had me joining the village church and praying for mercy. The memory of last week's 16-mile run is still etched in my memory. Normally, I do my long run on Friday, then long cycle on Saturday. Last week I did it in reverse. So Friday evening I was on Tour-de-France form, sprightly up the hills, chasing Strava segments and having fun for 70-miles. Followed by a quick change into running shoes and I positively skipped like a gazelle around my brick-run route. Twelve-hours later, the same gazelle was running like she'd been shot. The first 8-miles were sluggish, but according to my Garmin, still quite respectable. It was hovering between 7.50 and 8.15 minute miles. Listening to the sage advice of my marathon mate, Julia, I made a conscious effort to slow down. Then I began to fall apart, bit by bit. My achilles began to ache, my back started to spasm and my dodgy calf started hurting. But I was 8-miles from home. When I got to the final few hills, I even started to walk a bit. My runner's pride never lets me do that, hell, someone might see me walking and if I'm out for a run, I run until I'm home - then I stop! Anyway, beaten and broken, I mixed my protein shake and took the brave decision to climb into an ice-bath. Couldn't ever face that before, its amazing what you're prepared to do when you're feeling broken but need to keep going. Good job there was no-one else in the house because there was a bit of swearing as I slipped into the icy water. But boy, did it do my legs the world of good. So much so, that I've had two more this weekend. I've even mastered the stoic art of lowering myself into the freezing water without uttering a sound. That made IronPhil's screeches and yells sound even more pathetic when he followed my lead after our century ride. Even the boys yelled: "Man up dad, mum didn't scream like that!"
The running, although my strength, is proving tough. After Friday night's long run and ice bath. I went to bed in my compression tights (sorry Phil, Calvin Klein PJ's are pretty useless when your legs are aching). I was convinced I wouldn't be able to walk properly in the morning, so told IronPhil we'd leave the 100-miler for Sunday. But, thanks to the remarkable healing power of sleep, I woke at 6.30am, walked to the loo and decided if my legs could go that far, they could go all day. The big ride was on! 40-miles in, and I was struggling. IronPhil suggested we cut it short and live to ride another day. For the next two-hours, I battled in my mind between the options - go long or go home. I wasn't dying, I was just tired. I will remember that if the Ironwar gets really ugly on race day!

So, with two more weeks of peak training to go, I'm hanging in there. As each day goes by, I'm stocking up the balance in my Ironbank. The big runs and bikes are seriously knocking it out of me. My recovery day, Sunday, is over all too quickly. Mind and body are never quite ready for the onslaught of the forthcoming week's pounding. But somehow, I keep getting out of bed, I keep putting one foot in front of the other, I keep going. Meanwhile, around me, I feel like everything else is falling apart. I can no longer keep all the balls in the air. I'm tired, all the time. I ache, all the time. I could do with not being at work, I need more sleep, I need home angels to make the house a nice place to come home to and I need a cook, a cleaner, a personal shopper. Give praise to the village church that I have a multi-tasking husband! So, I'm just letting the balls drop, I'll pick them up later. As long as I can hold my body together, which is taking up quite a lot of time these days, I'll be fine. Between the foam roller, various massage balls, ice, protein drinks, Sudocrem (long-distance cyclists will understand that one!) super-foods, stretches, compression clothes, achilles protector pads and dozens of massage appointments, I'm edging closer. Close enough to feel the beginnings of the familiar endurance athlete's paranoia. You know the paranoia that has you avoiding everyone who coughs, sneezes or looks remotely unhygienic - even if they're in your own family. I confess, I once bought a pack of disposable plastic gloves to change nappies when both kids went down with a tummy bug just weeks before my London Marathon debut. I wouldn't go near them unless I was tooled-up like a theatre nurse! I can't really teach wearing a face-mask and latex gloves, but I'm going through a lot of antibacterial handwash.
35-days and counting....