After 8 weeks of no Cardio work due to a lingering chest infection, I thought it was time to stop being a wimp and get away from the weights in the Gym and go and train outside in the fresh air where the real athletes strut their stuff.
On Saturday Roxy and I ran round a quiet Country Park in the sunshine on the crackling sparkling ice where the squirrels and the birds were foraging for survival. The future stars of the Springwell Running Club were being trained by Bill Deehan, Kenny Bacon and Columb Knowles and there were a few desultory walkers braving the cold. If I am to achieve my aim of completing Ironman X sometime in 2009, the base miles had to be done and I had to start somewhere – what better place than in the mouth of Christmas!
The next morning I decided to check out the course for the inaugural Hill Climb on January the 10th. I have advertised it as a 1K challenge where riders and runners start off together every 30 seconds because I want to see who is quicker – two wheels or two feet. The proposed course is really steep and the heart rate will be at max right from the word go. Not having a quantity surveyors measuring wheel with me, I thought I would pace it out. 1,000 steps later I was at the top of the vertiginous hill panting from the effort – and that was just after walking it! There is plenty of space up the hill for spectators to come and cheer, Tour de France style as the athletes suffer on the Challenge. The Tour de France always attract the biggest crowds on the Alpine slopes because the spectators see their favourite riders struggle and suffer only centimetres away from them – and because the riders are doing about 10 miles an hour, not 25 or 30. As I surveyed the white view from the top of the forest I ruminated on some daft events I have helped to organise in the past.....
About twenty years ago we had a very unusual mile race on the Castlerock Road, in Coleraine. We had over 100 runners, all of whom were guaranteed a personal best for a mile – as it was all down-hill! I remember being in the driver’s seat of my trusty Vauxhall Cavalier when we said “Ready, Steady, Go!” and a hoard of athletes started to rapidly approach the back windscreen. There was only one problem, I had left the hand brake on and we weren’t going anywhere!
I managed to release it in the nick of time otherwise some of Northern Ireland’s best milers would have ended up in my back seat... Three minutes and 35 seconds later Davy Wilson of Annadale Striders crossed the line, one of several to beat the coveted 4 minute mark that day. Several years later I helped to organise a very strange event on the Bishops Road, with the Triangle Triathlon Club. This is the same climb that the Roe Valley Cycling Club use to host their season ending hill climb. The athletes looked a bit puzzled when I explained the format – they would run up 2.4 miles of Bishops Road, then run down with their quads being hammered by the steep descent, then bike up to the top – it certainly was a duathlon with a difference! Funnily enough no one was too keen to repeat the experience 12 months later.
Anyway I hope that the runners of Springwell, Pegasus and City of Derry etc. and the bikers of RVCC and Derry Wheelers will enjoy the novel event on January 10th. There is a £25.00 prize for quickest male and female runner and male and female biker. It takes me back to infamous hill in the Ironman in Roth in Southern Germany which I tackled a few years ago. Many people had told me about it, but nothing could prepare you for the blast that was to come. After the 3.8K canal swim and at about 70K on the bike the 2,500 athletes were confronted with this mother of a hill – it just went up – and then kept going up. There were 30,000 spectators on both sides of the hill alone and everyone of them seemed to have a bugle or a klaxon or a cow horn, (we were close to Switzerland after all) or a whistle or a drum and they wanted you to know that whilst they couldn’t necessarily play any of the instruments in tune by god they could make a racket with it! You felt really inspired and despite being knackered there was no way you were going to get off an walk, no siree, you were going to show them that Marco Pantani and Lance Armstrong were mere amateurs when it came to the particulars of hill climbing. It was out of the saddle with the heart rate going through the roof, clicking down through the gears until you made it to the top by which stage you are absolutely shattered and you have two thirds of the race still to go! I was already looking forward to the next lap to face it all again but when I eventually made it several hours later, the leaders had long gone, the 30,000 crowd had evaporated like the Chelsea crowd at Stamford Bridge when the Blues lose and I was faced with a few desultory cheers and bugle blows....
On January 10 at the Hill Climb in the Springwell Forest (three miles up the Ringsend Road, coming out of Limavady and it’s the trail that links you to the main Limavady Coleraine Road) we want lots of spectators to join in the fun. Bring a musical instrument even if you can’t play it and make the athletes feel special. All proceeds are for the Rotary Foundation Charity and my fellow Rotarians will be there making hot soup and rolls for all contestants concerned. Will I be doing it? Hey, somebody has to hold the stop watch!!
The day after my first tentative foray back into the joys of forest running I thought I would go out on the bike. The road bike didn’t seem too attractive – too much spray being thrown up by passing cars - so I plumped for my trusty Giant Terrago. Mountain biking is so much fun I am surprised that the government hasn’t taxed it yet. You get stuck into a forest (and we are blessed with at least five on our own doorstep) away from the traffic and it’s just you and nature head to head. The Cam Forest (just 2 miles from Ringsend) has long been a favourite of mine. We host the Wo/Man –v- Bike –v- Horse spectacular in it two weeks before Christmas every year (this Sunday at 12.00 noon if you are interested) and I have done a serious amount of long slow distance Ironman training in there on its rough but navigable paths and tracks. The beauty of it is you just don’t see other human beings in it. It looks so bleak from the road yet it reveals its splendours like a luminous diamond inside a lump of black coal once you make the effort. There is circuit of about 6 miles long, stay on the main path and it will bring you back to where you started. There are also lots of other interesting cul-de-sacs –there are also some suicidal descents (including one where I crashed big time just after 17 year old Hannah Jack was born. I learnt from that experience brakes don’t necessarily work if you are in mid air at the time)
There is always the sound of trickling water nearby. There are quiet nymph like glades for the wood sprites; I remember seeing a fox there years ago. I don’t know who was more startled, me, the fox or my dog. There are windmills at the top of Rigged Hill. If you stand underneath it’s as close as most of us are going to get to the - whump noise of a ceiling fan in a red lit sultry Saigon night in the 70’s Vietnam movies; there are technical passages where one is advised to take care but it doesn’t include any of the real kamikaze stuff beloved by the downhill fraternity in Ballycarton. There is one cute little stream to charge through at speed. There is a mini lake which is used as a fire break; all of these magnificent features cared for by the Department of Forestry – and all of them under utilised by a population not yet aware of the myriad of delights contained therein.
It helps when you are preparing for a mountain bike ride in an Irish winter to not be in a hurry. I put on the necessary gear – a thermal shirt, a thermal jacket, a pair of Coolmax shorts and Ironman bib tights, a pair of cycling shoes and overshoes; a helmet; a skull cap; a bandana for the throat and neck; and of course a pair of thick gloves and also I slipped into my back pocket the modern pre requisite without which no solo self respecting biking afficianado could possibly be seen without – the IPod. Young Patrick had recently de-junked my old stuff off it and he had loaded it up with his ‘old man’s’ favourites i.e. three albums from Snow Patrol; and one from Ray Lamontagne and he had stuck on his own Killers for me (too bland to be considered the world’s coolest band I fear). The bike was transported to the playground (known as the Cam Forest) on the bike rack and it was taken off with tremulous hands as I contemplated the fun that lay ahead. Once I had safely negotiated the horse steps into the Cam, Gary Lightbody was in full flow as “Run” was cascading through my skullcandies into my aural lobes and I was underway. I hadn’t ridden in about 8 weeks and I was like a kid in a sweet shop. I powered up through the gears and was up out of the saddle, hey I might as well look good for the first few hundred yards anyway! The white bright snowy stuff of the morning was still there but I had listened to the weather forecasters and had been assured that it had turned to slush. Run segued into “I love the city tonight” when something strange started to happen.
I looked down and saw my bike at a 45 degree angle, strange I thought, what’s it that shape for? The world, which I had been looking at a perfectly normal angle, seemed to be going upside down. I looked down searching for clues and found nice shiny hard ice.... Something was about to happen and it looked as if it was going to involve a World of Pain.... I felt like a surfer who had just lost his board and he was facing a wipe out. I felt like a parachutist who had forgotten to take his parachute. I felt like an equestrian expert whose horse had decided he didn’t particularly like the look of the fence in front of him..... Crash! Bang! Wallop!
I was staring at a tree, not the top of a tree, not the middle of a tree but the bottom of a tree. I felt my heart rate shoot up about an extra 70 beats a minute and I heard someone gasping for breath in staccato fashion and then realised it was me. I waited for the pain to come in waves and wasn’t disappointed. I also waited for that familiar adrenaline to be pumped through the body to come to the rescue to mask the pain. I wondered if anything didn’t hurt, knowing that would be a bad sign, I wriggled my tomb encased feet and hands to see if they moved. If I was incapable of movement, at least I hoped I would be a fit looking – if frozen corpse the next day when eventually found in the middle of nowhere. I sat up to inspect the damage and survey the wreckage. My right elbow and hip hurt like buggary but that pain was a good pain, it meant nothing was numb or broken. I then did what I normally do when confronted with peril – I laughed. I laughed at my own idiocy in refusing to believe that the white stuff on the ground may have been alright to run on but not to bike over. I had laughed earlier in the year in different situations of hazard – in the heat of Malta, miles from nowhere on a far from perfect hire bike; in the furnace of the Czech Republic during the 180K bike section of the Ironman and then the white hot heat of Rhodes when I punctured two hot and sweaty hours from home. The time I was laughing not only in the heat but in the ice and the snow fields. I thought, as I lay in a heap, Tangled Up In Blue, underneath my grey Giant Teraggo that I had been stupid – but I had largely got away with it.
I thought how attractive Tanya Young’s Spinning Session was in Aghanloo (great music, great lights with Tanya exhorting you to go faster in an atmosphere reminiscent of a night club when even I couldn’t fall off from a static spinning bike) I thought of my own torture device namely the turbo trainer in my gym at home were you saw the fruits of your labour i.e. your sweat on the floor after a 1hr. session. I thought of all of the safe alternatives to mountain biking in the wild – and I laughed my head off. I gingerly got to my feet, checked the bike to see that it was ok and remount it (hey, you fall off your horse, you get back on the horse) and pedal somewhat slowly back to the entrance gates. I felt I had brought forward my replacement hip operation with S. Simpson FRCS (orthopaedic surgeon to the Celebs and Rock stars) a few years but didn’t really want to risk falling off again and wrecking the other hip (maybe not such a bad idea after all, I could get two for the price of one). More forest adventure was out of the question so it was back on to the main road for some boring but fairly safe black tarmac for an hour. Snow Patrol alternatively soothed and energised me as my right hip began to throb. It began to burn so hot I could have fried an egg on it; it felt as though I had put a whole tub of deep heat on it; it throbbed like the vein in Rafael Benitez’s temple when Liverpool failed to score; it ached like an Irish pig exporter’s headache.
When I made it home I inspected the damage – some blood, some welts and bruises and as Squeeze once famously sung, “A Nasty Little Rash”, but thankfully my Coolmax shorts were in one piece, hey, cuts and bruises heal but replacement shorts aren’t such a good idea in the credit crunch. It looks like my chances of catching Lance in next year’s tour of Ireland in August may have receded but I got in some vital training for the Wo/Man –v- Bike -v- Horse except I felt like borrowing a horse as I was convinced four legs might be safer on ice than two wheels.
The Von Trapp Family may have been singing as they crested the hills of Austria but I was merely listening to Europe’s finest when I was confounded by the hills in the Cam. At least there was a similar happy ending for both the Von Trapps and myself – we all made it home in one piece and we lived to fight another day – as long now as I don’t have to put the Sound of Music onto my IPod....
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
Award Ceremonies
Some people think that the Oscars or the Grammies or the Q Annual Bash are the world’s most important award ceremonies. I would beg to differ. The most important award ceremonies are, of course, connected with sport!
So, last Saturday I was a guest at the British Triathlon Federation Annual Prize Giving at Loughborough in the East Midlands. I had helped them out with spots of commentary at their races during the year in England, Scotland and Wales. Last year I had to sing for my super and do MC but this year I could relax and drink in the atmosphere..... I had to also keep quiet, difficult, I know.
I have been at a few Awards doo’s over the last few decades, a highlight of which (of course!) is Limavady’s annual Bean Feast. This year it is on April the 3rd at the Drummond Hotel in Ballykelly with the guest of honour being UK’s Track Cycling Olympic Silver medallist Wendy Houvenaghal. (There are some tickets still available!)
A few years ago young Patrick Jack and I were at the BBC’s Sports Personality of the Year in Birmingham. It was the first time the event had been held outside London.
Whilst it was a good night, I shall always remember the patronising attitude of Adrian Chiles while interviewing the Cycling Super Star, Nicole Cooke, then World Champion. It was quite obvious that Chiles – and the BBC – didn’t give a monkeys’ about cycling. This year the supremely talented Ms. Cooke jump started the UK’s record Olympic medal with a superb victory in appalling conditions in the roads of Beijing. She was the catalyst for what was to follow. The fact that she followed it up with yet another victory in the World Championships in Itlay in September with another superb tactical race of controlled aggression, will of course be conveniently ignored when it comes to this year’s ceremony on December the 14th (sorry BBC, I can’t make it, I will be organising the Wo/Man-v- Bike-v- Horse competition in the Cam Forest the same week-end). Incidentally the prize in 2006 was won by a horse – or was it Princess Zara instead?! - who narrowly beat our own Darren Clarke.
This year will be won by Lewis Hamilton who beat about 5 other blokes in the Formula 1 World Championship in fairly good cars. Lewis of course had the Worlds quickest car namely a McClaren Mercedes. Chris Hoy will probably get second for his three golds (despite having no engine on his bike) and golden girl Rebecca Adlington will come third (despite having to supply her own horse power in the pool).
Meanwhile back in East Midlands my £50.00 BMI Baby flight landed at 12.00 noon. Looking at a map a few weeks previously I quickly realised that you could catch a bus from the Airport direct to either Leicester or Nottingham or Birmingham or Stoke or Coventry to watch a footie match. I plumped for Derby County (mainly because the were at home!) I hadn’t bothered to buy a ticket of course and hoped there would be a few left. I met some young blokes wearing their Rams black and white scarves and followed them off the bus when we alighted on the outskirts of the town. Derby used to play at the Baseball Ground (so called 100 years previously when they actually played the American sport inside) but now they play at a super dooper new stadium called Pride Park, it is a 33,000 seater and regularly attracts crowds of 30,000 making it the best attended stadium in the Championship. I ran over to the box office at 2 .56 p.m. and was about to purchase a ticket when this venerable gentlemen asked me if I wanted a ticket. I had been similarly lucky when outside Manchester City’s ramshackle stadium (you can tell I am a United fan!) in August 2002 when I was over to commentate for the BBC at the Commonwealth Games. I ended up getting a first class view for a tenner from a season ticket holder who wanted to go to the bar instead! Six years later this bloke wasn’t going to miss the action but I asked him why he had a spare (and he replied “When we were coming back from the Leeds game on Tuesday night, my mate Ian died of a heart attack and I have this ticket, Still, we won 2 – 1” he cheerfully replied. “Would his widow mind if I took his ticket?”. “Not at all son, you follow me”. So three minutes later I am sitting beside my new benefactor Norman in the front row beside the pitch adjacent to the goal. It had the best view in the entire stadium! My middle name is Lucky, but you knew that anyway. This got me thinking on my usual trip to to Old Trafford where the view is the same an eagle has of an unsuspecting dormouse (except when Harry Lynas got me tickets on the touch line for a match which was ironically against Derby County).
I asked Uncle Norman how long he had supported his local team. He sucked in his false teeth, leant on his walking stick and replied “Since 1939, we played Villa, then they declared War and there were no more matches that season”. I am not quite sure if Adolf Hitler knew just how bad the consequences of marching on Poland would actually be. Never mind the blitz kreig what about the effect on the Baseball ground faithful instead? I asked Norman what was the best match he had ever seen in 69 years of supporting his team.
“It were eight years ago when we beat the scum of Old Trafford 3-1” through gritted teeth, I asked him who scored, “Paulo Wauchope with a brace and Sturridge with the other”. This guy knew his stuff!
His mate beside him was equally devasted to hear of the Rams favourite supporter passing away a few weeks previously. “ I remember the day my Dad died... “He said to me unprompted. “We beat QPR away”. Ah well, behind every cloud there is a silver lining etc.
We i.e. Derby County went one up with a goal scored by an ex Notts Forest player. I am not quite sure how Kris Commons was allowed to wear the black and white of Derby having exchanged the red and white of Forest. Every Derby County fan I spoke to hated Forest with a passion. The two clubs had played each other three weeks previously and ended up one all and the Derby County fans were seething. It was all the Refs fault of course that a goal had been disallowed. During the match I was at they even had a song about the Ref asking him if he was the same Man in Black from the Forest Match in disguise. On the Sunday morning my taxi driver was an avid Forest fan and looked at me with complete disgust when I told him I had been to Pride Park the day before. It’s not quite as bad as United -v- City, or Liverpool –v- Everton but it’s not far from it.
At half time buoyed by a pint and a Balti chicken pie I sat down beside my new mates as Derby started to really hammer Sheffield’s finest. Two more goals were scored including a left foot cracker from 30 yards just in front of me. Everyone erupted deliriously. It all made for a splendid afternoon. I waved good bye to my buddies and sprinted for the bus weaving past the disconsolate Sheffield Wednesday supporters. The Rams really had devoured the Owls.
Two hours later I emerged from my hotel room in the Hilton suitably booted and suited. It was downstairs for a champagne reception – somebody had to do it! What a drag it was to bump into some of the athletes that I had met at the Corus Series, oh look there is Helen Tucker from Bridgend, recently crowned World Champion in Vancouver in August with her new hubby Marc Jenkins (Olympian in 2004), there was Will Clarke (Beijing Olympian and well known for his moves on the dance floor), we were sharing the same table. There was Alistair Brownlee who led the men’s Olympic Triathlon up to the 7K mark and he was responsible for making the watching Princess Anne very excited indeed. There was somebody who just had to drink the pink champagne and drink in the views i.e. me. These people are my heroes I thought, not the overpaid prima donnas who won’t dream of kicking a foot ball for less than a 120 K a week. These people train 30 to 40 hours a week and if they were strapped to the National grid they could power several small villages with their watts output. These people are in the pool at 6.00 a.m. (like Rebecca Adlington). They are on their bikes at 11.00a.m. (like Chris Hoy) and they are on the running track, (like Kelly Holmes) at 3.00 p.m. They live breath and dream their sport, they are also very nice people. I bumped into Chrissie Wellington. I am sorry I am completely biased here but I believe she is quite simply the World’s finest distance athlete by a mile. In 2007 she won the toughest race of all the Hawaii Ironman on her first attempt. She swam, biked and ran 146 miles and make it look like an afternoon stroll down to Tescos.
This year she had all the pressure of trying to prove it wasn’t a fluke. She did three Ironman races in the build up to Hawaii and won them all. This year on the 11th October she was leading the race on the bike when disaster struck. She punctured, her CO2 canisters didn’t work and she sat on the edge of the lava field awaiting a miracle as 10 minutes came and went – as did her rivals who passed her. Eventually one competitor took pity on her and threw a life line – and a spare canister. She fired up the CO2 and got her tire inflated and running (or least turning). She then succeeded in overtaking
her rivals one by one and ended up with a substantial lead going in to T2. Could she run a marathon in the heat and humidity though? No problem, she ran a titanic 2 hours 59 mins. to win the race by 15 mins. What a star!
Despite this stellar performance Chrissie is as down to earth as they come. We compared notes on our respective sore throats. She said she hoped to still have a voice the next morning as she was due to appear live on Radio 5. We swapped shoes, hey I have worn an Ironman champion’shoe. It was a pity it was a high heel and not a running shoe, but anyway....
Later on when she was awarded the Long Distance Athlete of the year award we brought the house down for her.
The guest of honour was Simon Lessing MBE. If Triathlon Gods were rock stars, then Simon would have been the Bryan Ferry of the triple discipline sport. He was always fairly cool, quite aloof and sometimes didn’t look interested. But boy when it was show time he was imperious usually leading from start to finish. When the race started he went on the ‘B’ of ‘Bang’. He dominated his rivals at the Olympic Distance and won 5 world championships as well as 3 Long Course titles. He didn’t like the elite drafting system and felt that as a great swimmer he was being disadvantaged when his rivals were allowed to bike together to reel him back in. So he moved up ot he Ironman distance and won Lake Placid in New York in a course record of 8 hrs. 25 mins. and qualified for Hawaii – just like Anne Paul. It was the biggest regret of Simon’s career that he didn’t do better at Kona when he finished top 10 twice but never really threatened the podium.
I remember seeing him at the Olympics in Sydney when I was perched in front of the Opera House. There were 250,000 spectators that day and Simon finished a disappointing 9th. I was in Manchester in 2002 when he finished 4th in the Commonwealth Games, but when it came to the World Championships he had few rivals. Sometimes for him it wasn’t a case of “Alright on the Night”.
He gave a very self deprecatory speech when he looked back at his career. He left South Africa because of the apartheid regime and ended up representing GB, but raced in France to earn his livelihood. He was prepared to risk an uncertain future by living off his wits not knowing where his next pay cheque was coming from to pursue his dream. If he won, he was able to eat a three course meal. If he didn’t finish in the top three, it was a bowl of pasta and camping in a tent and catching the next train back to his base in the South of France. He said he made the classic mistake which I made, when speaking in France after winning a competition. The French word for champions is very close the French word for a vegetable so there is there is the real danger of saying as I had proudly declared to our French twins in Vigneux Sur Seine, “We are the Mushrooms!”
Simon was an entrepreneur and he knew he had to speculate to accumulate. Most of our society is averse to taking risks. His attitude was “If you have got a God given talent, then use it now and follow your dreams. If it doesn’t work out you can always get back to education and pursue a career later”. The former World Champion announced his retirement earlier this year and is now setting himself up as a top class Coach and is also putting together a project for Chief Executive Officer for Companies who want to participate in Olympic Distance and Ironman races. I was able to talk to Simon afterwards and he was very generous with his time and expertise.
There was so much left unsaid after the official ceremonies completed. We all felt it would be a splendid idea to retire to the bar to see how we could plot to become better athletes, better coaches, and better event organisers for the 2009 season. ...
It all seemed to make perfect sense at the time. If only, I could remember about the final action plan that we had drawn up! Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to back to next year’s Awards Ceremonies in Loughborough to sort it all out again.
I am hoping that the next Awards Ceremony I attend will be in the Drummond in April for Limavady Sports Council. One every six months is enough. I hope you will join me then to hear Wendy talking about her Olympic experience. I am quite sure that she will prove to be a champion speaker and person as she is as an Olympian medallist.
So, last Saturday I was a guest at the British Triathlon Federation Annual Prize Giving at Loughborough in the East Midlands. I had helped them out with spots of commentary at their races during the year in England, Scotland and Wales. Last year I had to sing for my super and do MC but this year I could relax and drink in the atmosphere..... I had to also keep quiet, difficult, I know.
I have been at a few Awards doo’s over the last few decades, a highlight of which (of course!) is Limavady’s annual Bean Feast. This year it is on April the 3rd at the Drummond Hotel in Ballykelly with the guest of honour being UK’s Track Cycling Olympic Silver medallist Wendy Houvenaghal. (There are some tickets still available!)
A few years ago young Patrick Jack and I were at the BBC’s Sports Personality of the Year in Birmingham. It was the first time the event had been held outside London.
Whilst it was a good night, I shall always remember the patronising attitude of Adrian Chiles while interviewing the Cycling Super Star, Nicole Cooke, then World Champion. It was quite obvious that Chiles – and the BBC – didn’t give a monkeys’ about cycling. This year the supremely talented Ms. Cooke jump started the UK’s record Olympic medal with a superb victory in appalling conditions in the roads of Beijing. She was the catalyst for what was to follow. The fact that she followed it up with yet another victory in the World Championships in Itlay in September with another superb tactical race of controlled aggression, will of course be conveniently ignored when it comes to this year’s ceremony on December the 14th (sorry BBC, I can’t make it, I will be organising the Wo/Man-v- Bike-v- Horse competition in the Cam Forest the same week-end). Incidentally the prize in 2006 was won by a horse – or was it Princess Zara instead?! - who narrowly beat our own Darren Clarke.
This year will be won by Lewis Hamilton who beat about 5 other blokes in the Formula 1 World Championship in fairly good cars. Lewis of course had the Worlds quickest car namely a McClaren Mercedes. Chris Hoy will probably get second for his three golds (despite having no engine on his bike) and golden girl Rebecca Adlington will come third (despite having to supply her own horse power in the pool).
Meanwhile back in East Midlands my £50.00 BMI Baby flight landed at 12.00 noon. Looking at a map a few weeks previously I quickly realised that you could catch a bus from the Airport direct to either Leicester or Nottingham or Birmingham or Stoke or Coventry to watch a footie match. I plumped for Derby County (mainly because the were at home!) I hadn’t bothered to buy a ticket of course and hoped there would be a few left. I met some young blokes wearing their Rams black and white scarves and followed them off the bus when we alighted on the outskirts of the town. Derby used to play at the Baseball Ground (so called 100 years previously when they actually played the American sport inside) but now they play at a super dooper new stadium called Pride Park, it is a 33,000 seater and regularly attracts crowds of 30,000 making it the best attended stadium in the Championship. I ran over to the box office at 2 .56 p.m. and was about to purchase a ticket when this venerable gentlemen asked me if I wanted a ticket. I had been similarly lucky when outside Manchester City’s ramshackle stadium (you can tell I am a United fan!) in August 2002 when I was over to commentate for the BBC at the Commonwealth Games. I ended up getting a first class view for a tenner from a season ticket holder who wanted to go to the bar instead! Six years later this bloke wasn’t going to miss the action but I asked him why he had a spare (and he replied “When we were coming back from the Leeds game on Tuesday night, my mate Ian died of a heart attack and I have this ticket, Still, we won 2 – 1” he cheerfully replied. “Would his widow mind if I took his ticket?”. “Not at all son, you follow me”. So three minutes later I am sitting beside my new benefactor Norman in the front row beside the pitch adjacent to the goal. It had the best view in the entire stadium! My middle name is Lucky, but you knew that anyway. This got me thinking on my usual trip to to Old Trafford where the view is the same an eagle has of an unsuspecting dormouse (except when Harry Lynas got me tickets on the touch line for a match which was ironically against Derby County).
I asked Uncle Norman how long he had supported his local team. He sucked in his false teeth, leant on his walking stick and replied “Since 1939, we played Villa, then they declared War and there were no more matches that season”. I am not quite sure if Adolf Hitler knew just how bad the consequences of marching on Poland would actually be. Never mind the blitz kreig what about the effect on the Baseball ground faithful instead? I asked Norman what was the best match he had ever seen in 69 years of supporting his team.
“It were eight years ago when we beat the scum of Old Trafford 3-1” through gritted teeth, I asked him who scored, “Paulo Wauchope with a brace and Sturridge with the other”. This guy knew his stuff!
His mate beside him was equally devasted to hear of the Rams favourite supporter passing away a few weeks previously. “ I remember the day my Dad died... “He said to me unprompted. “We beat QPR away”. Ah well, behind every cloud there is a silver lining etc.
We i.e. Derby County went one up with a goal scored by an ex Notts Forest player. I am not quite sure how Kris Commons was allowed to wear the black and white of Derby having exchanged the red and white of Forest. Every Derby County fan I spoke to hated Forest with a passion. The two clubs had played each other three weeks previously and ended up one all and the Derby County fans were seething. It was all the Refs fault of course that a goal had been disallowed. During the match I was at they even had a song about the Ref asking him if he was the same Man in Black from the Forest Match in disguise. On the Sunday morning my taxi driver was an avid Forest fan and looked at me with complete disgust when I told him I had been to Pride Park the day before. It’s not quite as bad as United -v- City, or Liverpool –v- Everton but it’s not far from it.
At half time buoyed by a pint and a Balti chicken pie I sat down beside my new mates as Derby started to really hammer Sheffield’s finest. Two more goals were scored including a left foot cracker from 30 yards just in front of me. Everyone erupted deliriously. It all made for a splendid afternoon. I waved good bye to my buddies and sprinted for the bus weaving past the disconsolate Sheffield Wednesday supporters. The Rams really had devoured the Owls.
Two hours later I emerged from my hotel room in the Hilton suitably booted and suited. It was downstairs for a champagne reception – somebody had to do it! What a drag it was to bump into some of the athletes that I had met at the Corus Series, oh look there is Helen Tucker from Bridgend, recently crowned World Champion in Vancouver in August with her new hubby Marc Jenkins (Olympian in 2004), there was Will Clarke (Beijing Olympian and well known for his moves on the dance floor), we were sharing the same table. There was Alistair Brownlee who led the men’s Olympic Triathlon up to the 7K mark and he was responsible for making the watching Princess Anne very excited indeed. There was somebody who just had to drink the pink champagne and drink in the views i.e. me. These people are my heroes I thought, not the overpaid prima donnas who won’t dream of kicking a foot ball for less than a 120 K a week. These people train 30 to 40 hours a week and if they were strapped to the National grid they could power several small villages with their watts output. These people are in the pool at 6.00 a.m. (like Rebecca Adlington). They are on their bikes at 11.00a.m. (like Chris Hoy) and they are on the running track, (like Kelly Holmes) at 3.00 p.m. They live breath and dream their sport, they are also very nice people. I bumped into Chrissie Wellington. I am sorry I am completely biased here but I believe she is quite simply the World’s finest distance athlete by a mile. In 2007 she won the toughest race of all the Hawaii Ironman on her first attempt. She swam, biked and ran 146 miles and make it look like an afternoon stroll down to Tescos.
This year she had all the pressure of trying to prove it wasn’t a fluke. She did three Ironman races in the build up to Hawaii and won them all. This year on the 11th October she was leading the race on the bike when disaster struck. She punctured, her CO2 canisters didn’t work and she sat on the edge of the lava field awaiting a miracle as 10 minutes came and went – as did her rivals who passed her. Eventually one competitor took pity on her and threw a life line – and a spare canister. She fired up the CO2 and got her tire inflated and running (or least turning). She then succeeded in overtaking
her rivals one by one and ended up with a substantial lead going in to T2. Could she run a marathon in the heat and humidity though? No problem, she ran a titanic 2 hours 59 mins. to win the race by 15 mins. What a star!
Despite this stellar performance Chrissie is as down to earth as they come. We compared notes on our respective sore throats. She said she hoped to still have a voice the next morning as she was due to appear live on Radio 5. We swapped shoes, hey I have worn an Ironman champion’shoe. It was a pity it was a high heel and not a running shoe, but anyway....
Later on when she was awarded the Long Distance Athlete of the year award we brought the house down for her.
The guest of honour was Simon Lessing MBE. If Triathlon Gods were rock stars, then Simon would have been the Bryan Ferry of the triple discipline sport. He was always fairly cool, quite aloof and sometimes didn’t look interested. But boy when it was show time he was imperious usually leading from start to finish. When the race started he went on the ‘B’ of ‘Bang’. He dominated his rivals at the Olympic Distance and won 5 world championships as well as 3 Long Course titles. He didn’t like the elite drafting system and felt that as a great swimmer he was being disadvantaged when his rivals were allowed to bike together to reel him back in. So he moved up ot he Ironman distance and won Lake Placid in New York in a course record of 8 hrs. 25 mins. and qualified for Hawaii – just like Anne Paul. It was the biggest regret of Simon’s career that he didn’t do better at Kona when he finished top 10 twice but never really threatened the podium.
I remember seeing him at the Olympics in Sydney when I was perched in front of the Opera House. There were 250,000 spectators that day and Simon finished a disappointing 9th. I was in Manchester in 2002 when he finished 4th in the Commonwealth Games, but when it came to the World Championships he had few rivals. Sometimes for him it wasn’t a case of “Alright on the Night”.
He gave a very self deprecatory speech when he looked back at his career. He left South Africa because of the apartheid regime and ended up representing GB, but raced in France to earn his livelihood. He was prepared to risk an uncertain future by living off his wits not knowing where his next pay cheque was coming from to pursue his dream. If he won, he was able to eat a three course meal. If he didn’t finish in the top three, it was a bowl of pasta and camping in a tent and catching the next train back to his base in the South of France. He said he made the classic mistake which I made, when speaking in France after winning a competition. The French word for champions is very close the French word for a vegetable so there is there is the real danger of saying as I had proudly declared to our French twins in Vigneux Sur Seine, “We are the Mushrooms!”
Simon was an entrepreneur and he knew he had to speculate to accumulate. Most of our society is averse to taking risks. His attitude was “If you have got a God given talent, then use it now and follow your dreams. If it doesn’t work out you can always get back to education and pursue a career later”. The former World Champion announced his retirement earlier this year and is now setting himself up as a top class Coach and is also putting together a project for Chief Executive Officer for Companies who want to participate in Olympic Distance and Ironman races. I was able to talk to Simon afterwards and he was very generous with his time and expertise.
There was so much left unsaid after the official ceremonies completed. We all felt it would be a splendid idea to retire to the bar to see how we could plot to become better athletes, better coaches, and better event organisers for the 2009 season. ...
It all seemed to make perfect sense at the time. If only, I could remember about the final action plan that we had drawn up! Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to back to next year’s Awards Ceremonies in Loughborough to sort it all out again.
I am hoping that the next Awards Ceremony I attend will be in the Drummond in April for Limavady Sports Council. One every six months is enough. I hope you will join me then to hear Wendy talking about her Olympic experience. I am quite sure that she will prove to be a champion speaker and person as she is as an Olympian medallist.
LAGER. AGA. SAGA. GAGA.
The normal four stage progression of accepted adult ageing can be described in the above our words. But what about the bloke who looks after himself? What does he do if he is unable to train? Due to a nasty lingering chest infection I have been unable to swim, bike or run for the last 5 long weeks. It has brought it home to me just how much I enjoy training and challenging myself physically 5 or 6 times a week. I feel like an alcoholic who can’t find the booze. I feel like a drug addict who can’t get his next fix.
I have been incredibly healthy all year (apart from suspect back, which I am going to conveniently ignore). The wheels came off at the end of September, I had raced our Super Sprint Try-athlon at Benone Beach which gave me a real high. I had then launched into the Concept II Ergometer Rowing machine on the Monday night determined to beat 20 mins. for 5K (I made it with 9 secs. to spare). On the Tuesday I noticed my 100 metre swim reps in the pool fall apartalarmingly and I went out and got a good soaking on the mountain bike on the Wednesday and that was the start of the downfall.
Two courses of antibiotics and one chest x-ray later I still can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel – and if I could, it probably would be a train coming. I have fooled myself into believing that going to the gym and just pushing weights about doesn’t actually count as training because it’s not straining the cardiovascular system. I must confess that lifting weights can become incredibly addictive very quickly. I set myself (I have no idea why) the challenge of lifting and shifting 5 tonnes in a single session. I first found out that my max bench press was 80Kgs. not 85, not 82, not 81 but 80. I read that you should train at 30% of your max for lots and lots of reps. An ‘O’ Level in maths enabled me to work this out at 24 kgs. (except I then put 37 kgs on the bar but no matter). You then try to push that mother of a loaded bar into the air for 15 reps. then wait 30 secs. then do it again, then do it again, then do it again..... The 15 reps quickly became 10 as the arms began to burn. Apparently the exercise doesn’t actually do your muscles any good until you go to “failure” i.e. you can’t lift it one more time. I tried to explain to the very helpful Johnny Shirley, in the Roe Valley Leisure Gym that I just don’t “Do failure”. We always focus on not being defeated by anything but the principal behind the concept is that the muscle only learns when it has been tested and found wanting so that the next time it faces the same challenge, aided by rest, it is stronger and better prepared, so working on a lighter weight I began to remorselessly push that bar up and doing sets of ten until I had lifted 5 tonnes i.e. 5 x 1,000 kgs. I just about made the last set. OK I couldn’t actually lift a pen up off the desk the next day in the office but it was worth the feeling of satisfaction and that warm glow of accomplishment.
I have subsequently tried to become slightly more sophisticated in my lifting and varied the programme to incorporate John’s recommendations. Both Johnny and Willard are very good at creating an individual programme for you. Mine involves the seated row, ab crunches on the Swedish ball and on the rack, dumb bells from the waist to the chest and into the air, parallel dips on the bar etc. There is still so much to learn and so little time!
When I am in the gym I see my good friends, who are some of Limavady’s finest athletes doing their own stuff. There is man mountain Gully McLaughlin lifting weights the rest of us could just fantasise about. There is Colin Loughery getting obsessive about the Concept II and setting PB’s every week. There is Peter Cole banging out fast times on the running machine. It is inspiring and invigorating to see these guys in action and what can I do about it when I am still under the weather? Not very much at all.
Being unable to train does give you more time to ruminate, to reflect and to read – and to watch DVD’s. I have just finished the entire series 7 of the West Wing (best political drama out of the States ever) all 22 episodes in a week as the fictional politician Mat Santos became the first President from a minority background and at the same time I was watching the drama of the real USA elections unfolding. When a community organiser without any support from the South side of Chicago, a guy who describes himself as a “mutt”, is able to become the World’s top dog with the slogan of “Yes we Can”, it makes you reconsider what we can do as athletes. I was talking to someone during the week who did her first ever marathon – New York – and she finished in under 5 hours with little athletic background. I met Springwell’s four dashing damsels, Fran McFadden, Catherine Butcher and two girls doing their first ever marathon, Anne Bonnar and Ella Loughery and they are already talking about their next one! Whether it’s Barack Obama or these local girls it is an encouragement to us all to get out the back door and do Something Physical. Whether Change Is Going To Come according to Martin Luther King or “Yes We Can” we can all achieve extraordinary accomplishments.
Not being able to train makes one set oneself the daftest of challenges. I can tell you that my personal best for emptying a dish washer is now 4 mins. and 14 secs! OK some of the plates might have a few chips around the edges from being fired into the cupboard but hey, a PB is a PB!
Roxy my dog is looking knackered as I am walking her that much. I can’t run, but surely I can still walk? Then I remembered that I had a surgical procedure carried out on my foot and I couldn’t actually put my foot to the ground. They say trouble comes in droves, not just ones or twos! I might as well get all of my physical ailments out the way at the same time.
When I am out walking I realise what a beautiful countryside we have, whether it’s the swirling rapids and tumbling dappled browny yellow leaves in the autumnal County Park, or the strong fresh fir trees in the Cam Forest, we are surrounded by a welter of stunning vistas. I received inspiration for another athletic event when out last week in the bit of the Springwell Forest between the Ringsend Road and the Coleraine Limavady mountain road. There was a hill which just goes on and on. We do it in the 5 Forest Ride on mountain bikes and it takes me 8 mins. I have an idea for a mountain bike hill climb over the Christmas period. There will be a £50.00 first prize for first man and first woman and the riders will go off 1 min. apart. It is at least 1 kilometre of a lung bursting, leg busting, head pounding uphill sprint which will actually feel like a marathon. It goes up towards the sky with your front wheel practically lifting off the ground and when you think it’s nearly over there are a few corners left with yet another sting in the tail. Personally I can’t wait! Before that we have the legendary Wo/Man –v- Bike -v- Horse in the Cam Forest on Sunday the 15th December, a race which presages for me the start of the Christmas season. I hope, dear reader, that you are not going to train on Christmas day because like Daley Thompson – I am! I will be sneaking in an extra session hoping that my rivals aren’t.
Having a lot of time on your hands makes you read some trivial stuff. For instance I have just read that Manchester United and a few other top clubs have appointed a “Sleep Guru”. No honest, it’s not an April fool. They employ a specialist who advises players on how to sleep better (“Wayne, trust me you will sleep better if you turn the light off first”). The genius who dreamt (if you will pardon the pun) up this nice little earner is Nick Littlehales. The Club also has an expert on mattresses from California who advises the Theatre of Dreams’ finest on which type of mattress for the optimum rest. The importance of better quality and longer sleep is being increasingly recognised in sport. Studies at Stanford University in the USA recently showed swimmers and basket ball players reporting higher energy levels after their sleep patterns where improved. Nick encourages players to sleep naked in bed (healthier) and not to put the duvet over their head (unhealthy) which apparently 12% of the population do – the dust mites get into the respiratory system easier (dam! maybe that’s what happened me!). Arsenal’s former physio Gary Lewis, now in charge of the England players, has observed “The quality of sleep you have can be as important as your training in today’s world of top professional sport”.
Sharing the house with two teenagers who don’t actually believe in going to bed on the same day as they get up can prevent you from getting the requisite 8 hours. As a nation we now have 24/7 TV, the Internet, the computer thingy and the IPOD to give us various reasons to avoid rest. It makes me laugh when people tell me they don’t have the time to train, but they will find all the time in the world to catch up on the latest soaps. It has however given me a great idea, instead of training I could just practice sleeping! “Are you going to the Gym Pete?” “No, I am doing something even more beneficial – I am going to bed”. Hey, if I can’t swim, bike or run, I could perhaps give my battered system an opportunity of replenishing itself and recharging those batteries. I could be the new Sleep King!
I have just started the “Survival of the Fittest” by Dr. Mike Stroud, a guy who has been to the Arctic, the Antarctic and pushes himself beyond all recognised physical and mental limits. He ended up running 7 Marathons in 7 Continents in 7 Days. Even my good friends Robert Robb and Peter Ferris might baulk that one! He gives a fascinating insight into what can be achieved if your body is ready to push itself time and time again. I was talking to Peter during the week (311 marathons and counting) and he is training to take on both the Antarctic marathon and the 100 K Ultra Run at the bottom of the world 3 days later and thereby enter the Guinness Book of Records along with his good friend Wayne Pollock to be the first guys to finish those two races plus the Arctic Marathon in the same calendar year.
When asked about hitting the wall and the subsequent pain barriers, Peter’s answer was quite simple – “Ignore it, push through it and deal with the next pain barrier when you reach it and then keep pushing again”.
If Peter Ferris can run 10 marathons this year despite being knocked off his bike and if Barack Obama can aspire to win the highest office in the free world, then “YES WE CAN AND YES I CAN AND YES YOU CAN!
Just get out there friends and make your dreams a reality.
See you in the gym.
I will be the one under the Bench Press, thirsty for a Lager, Dreaming of an Aga, awaiting Saga, praying I never go Gaga.....
I have been incredibly healthy all year (apart from suspect back, which I am going to conveniently ignore). The wheels came off at the end of September, I had raced our Super Sprint Try-athlon at Benone Beach which gave me a real high. I had then launched into the Concept II Ergometer Rowing machine on the Monday night determined to beat 20 mins. for 5K (I made it with 9 secs. to spare). On the Tuesday I noticed my 100 metre swim reps in the pool fall apartalarmingly and I went out and got a good soaking on the mountain bike on the Wednesday and that was the start of the downfall.
Two courses of antibiotics and one chest x-ray later I still can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel – and if I could, it probably would be a train coming. I have fooled myself into believing that going to the gym and just pushing weights about doesn’t actually count as training because it’s not straining the cardiovascular system. I must confess that lifting weights can become incredibly addictive very quickly. I set myself (I have no idea why) the challenge of lifting and shifting 5 tonnes in a single session. I first found out that my max bench press was 80Kgs. not 85, not 82, not 81 but 80. I read that you should train at 30% of your max for lots and lots of reps. An ‘O’ Level in maths enabled me to work this out at 24 kgs. (except I then put 37 kgs on the bar but no matter). You then try to push that mother of a loaded bar into the air for 15 reps. then wait 30 secs. then do it again, then do it again, then do it again..... The 15 reps quickly became 10 as the arms began to burn. Apparently the exercise doesn’t actually do your muscles any good until you go to “failure” i.e. you can’t lift it one more time. I tried to explain to the very helpful Johnny Shirley, in the Roe Valley Leisure Gym that I just don’t “Do failure”. We always focus on not being defeated by anything but the principal behind the concept is that the muscle only learns when it has been tested and found wanting so that the next time it faces the same challenge, aided by rest, it is stronger and better prepared, so working on a lighter weight I began to remorselessly push that bar up and doing sets of ten until I had lifted 5 tonnes i.e. 5 x 1,000 kgs. I just about made the last set. OK I couldn’t actually lift a pen up off the desk the next day in the office but it was worth the feeling of satisfaction and that warm glow of accomplishment.
I have subsequently tried to become slightly more sophisticated in my lifting and varied the programme to incorporate John’s recommendations. Both Johnny and Willard are very good at creating an individual programme for you. Mine involves the seated row, ab crunches on the Swedish ball and on the rack, dumb bells from the waist to the chest and into the air, parallel dips on the bar etc. There is still so much to learn and so little time!
When I am in the gym I see my good friends, who are some of Limavady’s finest athletes doing their own stuff. There is man mountain Gully McLaughlin lifting weights the rest of us could just fantasise about. There is Colin Loughery getting obsessive about the Concept II and setting PB’s every week. There is Peter Cole banging out fast times on the running machine. It is inspiring and invigorating to see these guys in action and what can I do about it when I am still under the weather? Not very much at all.
Being unable to train does give you more time to ruminate, to reflect and to read – and to watch DVD’s. I have just finished the entire series 7 of the West Wing (best political drama out of the States ever) all 22 episodes in a week as the fictional politician Mat Santos became the first President from a minority background and at the same time I was watching the drama of the real USA elections unfolding. When a community organiser without any support from the South side of Chicago, a guy who describes himself as a “mutt”, is able to become the World’s top dog with the slogan of “Yes we Can”, it makes you reconsider what we can do as athletes. I was talking to someone during the week who did her first ever marathon – New York – and she finished in under 5 hours with little athletic background. I met Springwell’s four dashing damsels, Fran McFadden, Catherine Butcher and two girls doing their first ever marathon, Anne Bonnar and Ella Loughery and they are already talking about their next one! Whether it’s Barack Obama or these local girls it is an encouragement to us all to get out the back door and do Something Physical. Whether Change Is Going To Come according to Martin Luther King or “Yes We Can” we can all achieve extraordinary accomplishments.
Not being able to train makes one set oneself the daftest of challenges. I can tell you that my personal best for emptying a dish washer is now 4 mins. and 14 secs! OK some of the plates might have a few chips around the edges from being fired into the cupboard but hey, a PB is a PB!
Roxy my dog is looking knackered as I am walking her that much. I can’t run, but surely I can still walk? Then I remembered that I had a surgical procedure carried out on my foot and I couldn’t actually put my foot to the ground. They say trouble comes in droves, not just ones or twos! I might as well get all of my physical ailments out the way at the same time.
When I am out walking I realise what a beautiful countryside we have, whether it’s the swirling rapids and tumbling dappled browny yellow leaves in the autumnal County Park, or the strong fresh fir trees in the Cam Forest, we are surrounded by a welter of stunning vistas. I received inspiration for another athletic event when out last week in the bit of the Springwell Forest between the Ringsend Road and the Coleraine Limavady mountain road. There was a hill which just goes on and on. We do it in the 5 Forest Ride on mountain bikes and it takes me 8 mins. I have an idea for a mountain bike hill climb over the Christmas period. There will be a £50.00 first prize for first man and first woman and the riders will go off 1 min. apart. It is at least 1 kilometre of a lung bursting, leg busting, head pounding uphill sprint which will actually feel like a marathon. It goes up towards the sky with your front wheel practically lifting off the ground and when you think it’s nearly over there are a few corners left with yet another sting in the tail. Personally I can’t wait! Before that we have the legendary Wo/Man –v- Bike -v- Horse in the Cam Forest on Sunday the 15th December, a race which presages for me the start of the Christmas season. I hope, dear reader, that you are not going to train on Christmas day because like Daley Thompson – I am! I will be sneaking in an extra session hoping that my rivals aren’t.
Having a lot of time on your hands makes you read some trivial stuff. For instance I have just read that Manchester United and a few other top clubs have appointed a “Sleep Guru”. No honest, it’s not an April fool. They employ a specialist who advises players on how to sleep better (“Wayne, trust me you will sleep better if you turn the light off first”). The genius who dreamt (if you will pardon the pun) up this nice little earner is Nick Littlehales. The Club also has an expert on mattresses from California who advises the Theatre of Dreams’ finest on which type of mattress for the optimum rest. The importance of better quality and longer sleep is being increasingly recognised in sport. Studies at Stanford University in the USA recently showed swimmers and basket ball players reporting higher energy levels after their sleep patterns where improved. Nick encourages players to sleep naked in bed (healthier) and not to put the duvet over their head (unhealthy) which apparently 12% of the population do – the dust mites get into the respiratory system easier (dam! maybe that’s what happened me!). Arsenal’s former physio Gary Lewis, now in charge of the England players, has observed “The quality of sleep you have can be as important as your training in today’s world of top professional sport”.
Sharing the house with two teenagers who don’t actually believe in going to bed on the same day as they get up can prevent you from getting the requisite 8 hours. As a nation we now have 24/7 TV, the Internet, the computer thingy and the IPOD to give us various reasons to avoid rest. It makes me laugh when people tell me they don’t have the time to train, but they will find all the time in the world to catch up on the latest soaps. It has however given me a great idea, instead of training I could just practice sleeping! “Are you going to the Gym Pete?” “No, I am doing something even more beneficial – I am going to bed”. Hey, if I can’t swim, bike or run, I could perhaps give my battered system an opportunity of replenishing itself and recharging those batteries. I could be the new Sleep King!
I have just started the “Survival of the Fittest” by Dr. Mike Stroud, a guy who has been to the Arctic, the Antarctic and pushes himself beyond all recognised physical and mental limits. He ended up running 7 Marathons in 7 Continents in 7 Days. Even my good friends Robert Robb and Peter Ferris might baulk that one! He gives a fascinating insight into what can be achieved if your body is ready to push itself time and time again. I was talking to Peter during the week (311 marathons and counting) and he is training to take on both the Antarctic marathon and the 100 K Ultra Run at the bottom of the world 3 days later and thereby enter the Guinness Book of Records along with his good friend Wayne Pollock to be the first guys to finish those two races plus the Arctic Marathon in the same calendar year.
When asked about hitting the wall and the subsequent pain barriers, Peter’s answer was quite simple – “Ignore it, push through it and deal with the next pain barrier when you reach it and then keep pushing again”.
If Peter Ferris can run 10 marathons this year despite being knocked off his bike and if Barack Obama can aspire to win the highest office in the free world, then “YES WE CAN AND YES I CAN AND YES YOU CAN!
Just get out there friends and make your dreams a reality.
See you in the gym.
I will be the one under the Bench Press, thirsty for a Lager, Dreaming of an Aga, awaiting Saga, praying I never go Gaga.....
Friday, 26 September 2008
The Contentment of the Long Distance Bike Rider!
So as one door closed on marathon runs, another opened with marathon rides. After a 6.00 a.m. rise! there was an enormous crowd of 500 of us near Portadown who had assembled like a throng of hornets for a 9.00 a.m. start. It was dry, it was bright there was only one problem, the group seemed to think it was a 10 mile sprint, not an 87 mile slog. We took off like a scorched bat out of hell. As an Ironman Triathlete I was notoriously one paced (and that pace was slow) I was hanging onto Richard’s back wheel like a grateful leach.
One of the good things about these rides however was the social element. Built into every trip was one or more tea stops. This gives the rider an opportunity of stuffing themselves with cups of sweet tea and tray bakes and sandwiches while we of course try to convince ourselves that we had done something to deserve them. The first stop was at Ballyronan (well known to the Triathlon community for a huge race every August) and after we had foolishly joined the Apollo train we were drafting shamelessly of them but we thought it was good for the young ones to be giving it Dixie at the front of the chain gang while we gratefully accepted the hospitality in the same way that we accepted the food etc. – us, freeloaders??
Soon we were back on the road letting the Apollo train leave the station without us for the next trip to Antrim. This was a more restrained pace and 30 miles later we were sitting at a tent in Clotworthy House at a table making Desperate Dan looking as if he had merely a normal appetite... Now it was time for real men to stand up and be counted. The last 30 or so miles was to be into a block head wind. RB and I soon realised that a bunch of disparate souls that we were passing secretly wanted to be in a much more efficient machine so we corralled 12 or 14 guys and told them that we would be going faster but it would actually be easier for them. They looked a bit quizzical but when you have got Baker giving you orders you don’t say NO! Very soon we were organised in a military fashion and every 60 seconds there would be a huge booming voice shouting “Change!” and the bloke at the front right of the peloton would move up and over allowing the bloke on the slip stream to share the pain and the pleasure of driving the train and dealing with the head wind. We had some passengers who were reluctant to become bonafide train drivers but we were only doing it for their own good!
The miles rolled by. Ok the wheels fell off the train eventually but we made much more speedy progress than if we had been merely a band of one or twos. I wouldn’t say we were a Band of Brothers - more a band of second and third cousins but we got there. In fact Richard & I look disappointed as we suddenly found ourselves back at the start/finish after a mere 84 miles as opposed the promised 87. We were robbed! But I think we could cope... There were no showers but yet another cup of hot sweet tea – I think long distance cyclists could drink tea for
Sammy Moore and Mervyn Marshall were hot on our heels. Incidentally we may not have been minded to walk down a traditional route near Portadown on the
One week later RB and I and a bunch of the Coleraine cycling mafia found ourselves outside Belfast City Hall at another unearthly hour on a Sunday morning for the Finn McCool ‘100 Miler’ to Coleraine up the East Coast. This wheeze was Trevor Ringland’s idea to raise funds for the Sports Charity,
There was a welcome tea stop at 20 miles North of Belfast but at £3.00 for a scone and coffee, I was glad I didn’t have to treat the family, just Mr Baker. The comfort of the cafe was somewhat diminished in the knowledge that as soon as we stepped out the door and threw a hesitant leg over a sopping soaked bike seat we were back in the land of the cold and wet, still, it was all character building stuff.
Eventually every hill was conquered, every bit of tarmac vanquished and we arrived, after an Allpe D Huez type hill on the other side of Ballycastle and after another climb near the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge a most welcome stop after 70 miles we felt the back of the challenge had been well and truly broken – the rain even stopped! We had perspired and now we were inspired by the promise of a hot shower and a chance to get off our wet togs. We assembled a bunch of privates and corporals and soon we were rocking and rolling past
Trevor had warned us that although we could see Nirvanna ie. Coleraine Rugby Club/The Finish Line we actually had to bike past it down the Dual Carriage Way and up the
I was then busy for the next two week ends commentating in Glasgow and Groomsport but Sunday the 1st September saw young Baker and I again heading out of Coleraine, this time to Ballygally near Larne for the John Lindsay Torr Head Challenge. This was a mere 70 miler but had 4 Tour de France type climbs which would test man and machine alike. This event was organised expertly by Team Madigan with once again the proceeds going to charity. Over 150 of us pulled out beside the hotel (which I had helped David Patton reconstruct in the Summer of 1976 but that’s another story)and there were obviously several guys at the front who were quite anxious to make it to the first tea stop in record time. Rich and I were being pulled along at 23 miles an hour and the miles rolled by effortlessly. In a bunch it may be easier but you have to keep the hands on the break hoods in case there was a sudden braking movement up ahead. As they haven’t yet invented break lights for the back of bikes, you have to be extra vigilant. I saw my good friend Colin Loughery and Alistair Bratten near the front of the bunch and soon we had our own first stop of the day. I don’t know who invented the legend that is the tray bake but I didn’t want to appear churlish so I scoffed quite a few purely not to offend the industrious crew who were putting them on the table just as fast as we were despatching them. I then met up with my good friend John madden,
The T stop however was the end of the fun. Very shortly afterwards we were on the first of the major climbs of the day. As I heard my breath rasping I realised I was already in my granny gear (and my granny wasn’t even there to help me) and a new friend confided that he thought this road was “ill bred”. I replied that if this road was a child, it’s parents had certainly never walked up a wedding isle together. It was a real “hang on and hope” hill. Apparently lorries can’t get up it and if Torr Head is cut off by the snow in the winter they will have to fly in relief supplies by helicopter such as the steepness of the terrain.
One hill down, three to go.... On the second monster two riders in front had taken the easy option and dismounted. The smugness felt when passing them as they click clacked their way up the hill in their bike shoes was soon replaced by the gnawing envy that at least they voluntarily got off while I was faced with the mounting realisation that I could soon topple off. When your computer shows you are doing a mere three miles an hour and you’re maxed out with your heart rate going through the roof and when your front wheel is lifting off the ground, you know you are on a one on one fight for survival. The ignominy of the dismount is only averted by the anguish of the perpetual struggle.
Life is full of challenges however, if life was easy there would be no satisfaction in it. That philosophy means for me that for every sauna there is a needle cold shower to redress the balance. It keeps you from getting into the comfort zone, it keeps you focused, it keeps your feet on the ground – even if they are frozen. You enjoy the sunshine a little more if there is a bit of wind and rain before or after. Post Phoebus Nubilus is the Jack motto “After the clouds sunshine”. Well there wasn’t much prospect of the sunny disposition because while we made it up Heartbreak Hill Number 2 we could see, in the distance standing proudly like an erect guardsman the television mast overlooking Torr Head. You get a little concerned when you are told the top of the hill is “just up there beside the TV mast”. There is nowhere higher than a TV mast. You normally meet mountain goats and Kenyan athletes just before the summit; you expect to see Christopher Bonnington type figures with oxygen masks. Anyway eventually we hauled our sorry assess up and over the unclassifiable unrepeatable never want to see it again type road and I was told it is “All downhill”. Cyclists by sheer definition are optimistic people but they are also capable of telling great untruths. After a very fast downhill swoop (where I over cooked it on one corner and ended up on completely the wrong side of the road) we found ourselves at Hunter’s Pub in Finvoy where regrettably we merely had time to wipe the sweat of our fevered brows before we started the climb up to the vanishing lake. What was it with all this alleged downhill stuff? If allegations were made then bring me the alligators! We definitely going up hill for about 30 mins. However after an effortless and exhilarating three mile descent there was suddenly the delicious prospect of the finish line somewhere on down the jewel encrusted sunny coast. As we bombed through Carnlough I shouted to the Baker Man that we deserved an ice cream so we slammed on the anchors and treated ourselves to a ‘99’. I had read recently in “Peak Performance” that ice-cream was a high carb, high energy endurance food – honest! Fortified by the this knowledge, we were soon on the way back to Ballygally car park were we picked up a few stragglers along the way who were grateful for a tow in our slip-stream.
As we approached the Team Madigan Carvan for yet another cup of hot brew, the realisation dawned on me that my hat trick of long bike rides was about to end. The Tour of Lough Neagh was advertised as 87 miles, but in reality was only 84; the Finn McCool Challenge was meant to be 100 but was a mere 97; the Torr Head was promoted a 70 but was actually a mile short. Was I unfulfilled with only a 69. No, it was still immensely satisfying. The effort put in had been rewarded ten-fold. The pain was replaced with pleasure. I didn’t feel short changed. I felt no need to go the extra mile. I didn’t need to go the whole hog, 69 would suffice. I was content.
I had reached the finish line for 2008, Snow Patrol sing that “The Finish Line Is a
My quest for a new non running form of challenge had opened up new vistas - the memory of those views around Lough Neagh and the
I am already looking forward to the Sperrin Super Sportive 100 K in 2009.
Dust off that bike in the garage, pump those tyres – as well as those abs – and see you on the road.
Monday, 14 July 2008
Injury Blues
Last week I had the Post Ironman Blues, this week I just have the Injury Blues.
I foolishly decided to do a 10K and afterwards my back just exploded into spasm. I am now sitting at home with an ice pack on my lower back trying hard not to cough, sneeze or breathe to hard as everything hurts. It’s actually more comfortable to sleep on the floor than a bed, I should have known better.. I got through the Ironman on a wing and a prayer and was obviously inches away from a “DNF” instead of that I decided to ignore the ache and pains and drove on one of the worst roads in the country (not a single chance to overtake between Limavady and Strabane) to the Riversdale Leisure Centre for a High noon kick off.
I did my first K about 28 years ago. At that stage it was the limit of my ambition. A 10K is 6.2 miles. It’s the longest distance track race of the Olympics, the Commonwealth Games or the World Championships. It is 25 laps of the track, it is of course much more familiar as a road race distance. Every town should have one, it’s a classic distance. I was able to bluff a 5 mile race two years ago in 32 minutes, but a 10 K is a lot harder even though it ‘s only 1.2 miles longer. A 10 miler or half marathon might even be easier because your pace is a lot slower, but for a 10K you not only need endurance, but speed. Every second counts... The first time I did one I think I broke 50 mins. After a few years of consistent – and sensible training - I broke 40 mins. in Coleraine. I felt as good as Roger Bannister did when he broke 4 mins. for the mile. It was such a psychological as well as physical barrier.
A few years later after lots of three by 2000 metre laps at the trim trail outside Coleraine, I broke 36 mins. in Warrenpoint – admittedly the flattest course in the country! My Uncle and Aunt were over from New Zealand so I was obviously trying to show off! I then turned my attention to the 10 mile distance where the ultimate aim for a club runner is Sub 60. I had a 62, and then a 61 but never broke the magic barrier. My times then started to drift north, my training became less run specific and I forgot about the glorious pain and pleasure of track work outs and intervals.
There is nothing quite as painful as 400 metre repeats on a track, it is pure undisguised pain. We used to flog ourselves mercilessly at the cinder track on Rugby Avenue Coleraine every week. If you didn’t throw up after a training session you were damned close to it. The shower afterwards never felt as good.
Over the years I used various injuries – and the lack of a proper track in Limavady – to cut down on the interval work. Some guys, including Colin Loughery, have a 200 and 400 metre course marked out on the fairly quiet road up to the Radisson Hotel. There is no reason however why you can’t use any 400 metre stretch or loop. The Country Park is the best spot in the world to run but you need a circuit that brings you back near the start so you can have one minute of trying to suck air into your scorched lungs before you go again. It always helps if you train in a group. If people are of a different ability the you either give them different recovery periods or you make the faster guys go longer so that everyone starts – if not necessarily finishes – together. So about 10 years after my last serious track session I stood on the start line of the Strabane 10 K with about 200 others, some were runners, some obviously weren’t.
The race obviously incorporated a fun “walk” ( what’s ‘fun’ about spending two hours walking on busy roads is beyond me!). I jogged down to the start line with Karen Alexander of the Sperrin Club. Karen had won Round the Bridges in Limavady a few weeks before in 62 mins. She informed me that she had done the Newtownards Half Marathon the night before! Is it any wonder she felt tired? She said the 10K was too short for her. I felt that despite a years’ Ironman training in my legs the 10K was too long for me... Karen thought she would finish 4th - and she did. I bumped into the Jennings family on the start line. Two of them used to be members of the Triangle Triathlon Club. Sinead left Triathlon, took up rowing, became an International and made a World Championship final and just narrowly missed out on selection for the Olympics this year. Catriona, also a rower turned up – and won the race last Saturday. Hey, form is temporary, but class is permanent. It turns out they have got great genes – their father Billy cycled from Mallon to Mizen Head in under 24 hours – and you thought I was nuts!
Mind you, that ride is but a mere bagatelle compared to the legendary Race Across America. I caught an hour’s programme of it on Setanta the other night. This is a non-stop bike ride from the Pacific to the Atlantic. If you snooze you lose. If you sleep, you weep. The clock keeps on ticking. About 30 blokes set out from California and there were cut off times along the way. The English bloke the cameras were following hoped to break the British record but was gradually overcome with fatigue and injury. He changed his bike to a very low aero dynamic set up which only resulted him getting a very painful back, his neck then couldn’t support his head and the latter felt like following off his shoulders. His support crew built him this iron contraption that went over his back and raised his head up so that he could actually see the road. On and on he cycled, like the hunch back of Notre Dame, through state after state, from California, Utah, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Kentucky, West Virginia, the Appelachian mountains on the way to New Jersey, cross deserts, up mountains, over bridges etc. he just kept making cut off times and no more. His crew thought that he had blown his chance of making a final cut off time. If you don’t beat 12 days 8 hours then you are not an official finisher, can you imagine how that would feel? He had been averaging 11-12 miles an hour. He had 180 miles left to go and he had to average 16 miles an hour. His crew didn’t think it was possible, but the cyclist thought otherwise. He was obviously inspired by the same motto that Hannah Jack thought up a few weeks ago for her old man – How much have you got left to give? – Nothing – How much are you still prepared to give? – Everything – the cyclist made it with 5 mins. to spare in Atlantic City. Sleep deprived, at his wits end, completely shattered and looking like the Count of Monte Cristo in the Ironmask, his crew picked him up as he fell off his bike, threw him into the Atlantic for a very welcome dip in the briney. You don’t have to be mad to complete long distance events, but it obviously helps as the bloke is now back in training for another crack at the Race Across America UK Record..... rather him than me!
There were no thoughts of feats of derring do as I stood on the start line and enjoyed the nervous banter of my fellow athletes. Everyone was pawing the ground waiting for Gerry Lynch to say ”Go”. I tried to tell my body to start sensibly but the mind of course thought that it knew better. I went through the first 3K in 12-45 and then proceeded to die a very painful slow and lingering “Death”. My body had been used to the Ironman shuffle pace, i.e. slow, slower, and slowest. As the 10K unfolded all of my injuries came back to haunt me, my hip, my hamstring, but primarily my back. I thought of my Chiropractor Paula Gallan and my physio Greg Kearney and of all their hard work and of what was left of my body. Two discs were rubbing together and I had an L5 which was compressed and didn’t remotely look like – or function like – an L5 should. I was sending signals down to my legs, - the general message was to put one foot in front of the other, the left leg seemed fine but the right leg seemed to be in a world of it’s own. My brain sent down the message but it kept getting a “Does not compute” response. For the last 5K I was taking my right leg for draggies – it was a somewhat reluctant participant in the proceedings. I certainly couldn’t do the hokey cokey, “You put your right leg in, you put your right let out.... “ etc. Thinking of pain however reminded me of my two club mates Ronnie”The Kidd” and Paul “Fletch” Fletcher who were sitting in Frankfurt whilst I was in Strabane. They were 16 hours away from their date with destiny, - the Ironman. Ronnie had got over his injuries and Paul had managed to combine training with running the 55 Degrees North Restaurant in Portrush. It turned out that Ronnie had a dream day and achieved a 10 hours 3 mins. finish - while Paul didn’t achieve the time he deserved. Paul decided to adopt a very low aero dynamic set up on the bike (why does this sound eerily familiar?), got back ache and suffered like a dog on the 112 mile bike and the subsequent marathon for a 12hr 17 finish. Paul finished, sore but at least he finished and has earned an invitation to the hottest dinner ticket in town – The Triangle Triathlon Club Inaugural Ironman and 70.3 finishers night out! The club this year has William O’Kane, Simpson McGrath, Artie O’Kane, Ronnie, Paul, all finishing the Ironman (with hopefully Conal Heatley to join them after this weeks’ Forestman in England) and with Kay Hack safely at the table after winning her age group at Wimbleball a few weeks ago in the toughest 70.3 in Europe and with Annie P to follow in Monaco and big Adrian to still have a crack at Ironman Uk in September and with the club hosting the Half Ireman Race in Groomsport (with an entry of 250) and with plenty of TTC members hoping to achieve a finish or even a PB this could be a busy dinner table!
What is a 70.3? Well it’s the new sexy name for Half Ironman and comprises the total distance of the swim; the bike ride and the run i.e. a 1.2 mile swim, a 56 mile bike and a 13.1 mile run – in metric terms it’s 113 K but it doesn’t sound quite as good.
Having said that, the 226K Brand for the Ironman distance is alive and well and is thriving all over the world for those of you who want to complete an Ironman distance in an event not officially sanctioned by the World Triathlon Corporation. Anne Paul has decided that the athlete with the fastest time based on a very complicated mathematical formula including age and good looks etc. will receive a coveted and much desired and totally splendiferous first prize.... an iron!..
On this will be engraved a winner’s name and time. I’ll obviously remove the cord and plug in case a bloke wins it as we wouldn’t know what to do with one of these new fangled domestic objects....
There will be a lot of competition for this debut prize and I think it’s going to take a very special performance to prevent Ronnie the “Kidd” from taking home an iron to a very bemused Mrs Kidd....
Meanwhile back in the foothills of Co. Tryone, the organisers had very helpfully decided to insert a 200 metre climb at the 5K mark, by this stage I was having to apologise to female athletes I was passing in case they thought they were being approached by a heavy breather and my chest was thumping like a well beaten 12th July drum. I was trying to grab down air like a drowning man and my limbs were hopelessly uncoordinated. A few guys looked round at the noise of my dog tags flapping up and down on my chest. It maybe annoyed them but it gave me a sense of rhythm – ok a very slow rhythm, but a rhythm none the less.
Eventually the kilometre signs crept past albeit very slowly – 6K, 7K and 8K. We were now back in the town.
Columb Knowles, my Springwell colleague and I both desperately tried to fool the other by pretending we weren’t really knackered until CK told me to “Go for It”. If it’s possible to go for it at a pace that would have disgraced a tortoise, then I went for it. The distance between 8 & 9 K seemed liked 2K not 1K. Now there was only 1,000 metres of pain between me and the finish line. My mind told my body again to forget about everything that was aching and put my head down. I originally had wanted to break 50 mins. but now I thought I could break 45 – and did so with 23 secs. to spare. My legs immediately turned to jelly and I felt like throwing up, but a finish line was never as welcome. That was harder than the Ironman for some reason, my body instantly decided that it was “Pay Back Time” and my back started to throb like an alcoholics hang over. It was time for a shower, cup of tea and a well deserved brufen.
It got worse over the next two or three days and Paula told me that I wasn’t even allowed to indulge in that most gentle of non weight bearing exercise, swimming, she expects me to do nothing! Gadszoots! This will not be easy, dear reader, but I will try hard, honest, I will try, try and try again. In fact my mother says I am very trying....
My Chiropractor gave me the bad news that I had just done my last ever road race, but Paula, can I do my 10th and last Ironman, please, please, please?
I foolishly decided to do a 10K and afterwards my back just exploded into spasm. I am now sitting at home with an ice pack on my lower back trying hard not to cough, sneeze or breathe to hard as everything hurts. It’s actually more comfortable to sleep on the floor than a bed, I should have known better.. I got through the Ironman on a wing and a prayer and was obviously inches away from a “DNF” instead of that I decided to ignore the ache and pains and drove on one of the worst roads in the country (not a single chance to overtake between Limavady and Strabane) to the Riversdale Leisure Centre for a High noon kick off.
I did my first K about 28 years ago. At that stage it was the limit of my ambition. A 10K is 6.2 miles. It’s the longest distance track race of the Olympics, the Commonwealth Games or the World Championships. It is 25 laps of the track, it is of course much more familiar as a road race distance. Every town should have one, it’s a classic distance. I was able to bluff a 5 mile race two years ago in 32 minutes, but a 10 K is a lot harder even though it ‘s only 1.2 miles longer. A 10 miler or half marathon might even be easier because your pace is a lot slower, but for a 10K you not only need endurance, but speed. Every second counts... The first time I did one I think I broke 50 mins. After a few years of consistent – and sensible training - I broke 40 mins. in Coleraine. I felt as good as Roger Bannister did when he broke 4 mins. for the mile. It was such a psychological as well as physical barrier.
A few years later after lots of three by 2000 metre laps at the trim trail outside Coleraine, I broke 36 mins. in Warrenpoint – admittedly the flattest course in the country! My Uncle and Aunt were over from New Zealand so I was obviously trying to show off! I then turned my attention to the 10 mile distance where the ultimate aim for a club runner is Sub 60. I had a 62, and then a 61 but never broke the magic barrier. My times then started to drift north, my training became less run specific and I forgot about the glorious pain and pleasure of track work outs and intervals.
There is nothing quite as painful as 400 metre repeats on a track, it is pure undisguised pain. We used to flog ourselves mercilessly at the cinder track on Rugby Avenue Coleraine every week. If you didn’t throw up after a training session you were damned close to it. The shower afterwards never felt as good.
Over the years I used various injuries – and the lack of a proper track in Limavady – to cut down on the interval work. Some guys, including Colin Loughery, have a 200 and 400 metre course marked out on the fairly quiet road up to the Radisson Hotel. There is no reason however why you can’t use any 400 metre stretch or loop. The Country Park is the best spot in the world to run but you need a circuit that brings you back near the start so you can have one minute of trying to suck air into your scorched lungs before you go again. It always helps if you train in a group. If people are of a different ability the you either give them different recovery periods or you make the faster guys go longer so that everyone starts – if not necessarily finishes – together. So about 10 years after my last serious track session I stood on the start line of the Strabane 10 K with about 200 others, some were runners, some obviously weren’t.
The race obviously incorporated a fun “walk” ( what’s ‘fun’ about spending two hours walking on busy roads is beyond me!). I jogged down to the start line with Karen Alexander of the Sperrin Club. Karen had won Round the Bridges in Limavady a few weeks before in 62 mins. She informed me that she had done the Newtownards Half Marathon the night before! Is it any wonder she felt tired? She said the 10K was too short for her. I felt that despite a years’ Ironman training in my legs the 10K was too long for me... Karen thought she would finish 4th - and she did. I bumped into the Jennings family on the start line. Two of them used to be members of the Triangle Triathlon Club. Sinead left Triathlon, took up rowing, became an International and made a World Championship final and just narrowly missed out on selection for the Olympics this year. Catriona, also a rower turned up – and won the race last Saturday. Hey, form is temporary, but class is permanent. It turns out they have got great genes – their father Billy cycled from Mallon to Mizen Head in under 24 hours – and you thought I was nuts!
Mind you, that ride is but a mere bagatelle compared to the legendary Race Across America. I caught an hour’s programme of it on Setanta the other night. This is a non-stop bike ride from the Pacific to the Atlantic. If you snooze you lose. If you sleep, you weep. The clock keeps on ticking. About 30 blokes set out from California and there were cut off times along the way. The English bloke the cameras were following hoped to break the British record but was gradually overcome with fatigue and injury. He changed his bike to a very low aero dynamic set up which only resulted him getting a very painful back, his neck then couldn’t support his head and the latter felt like following off his shoulders. His support crew built him this iron contraption that went over his back and raised his head up so that he could actually see the road. On and on he cycled, like the hunch back of Notre Dame, through state after state, from California, Utah, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Kentucky, West Virginia, the Appelachian mountains on the way to New Jersey, cross deserts, up mountains, over bridges etc. he just kept making cut off times and no more. His crew thought that he had blown his chance of making a final cut off time. If you don’t beat 12 days 8 hours then you are not an official finisher, can you imagine how that would feel? He had been averaging 11-12 miles an hour. He had 180 miles left to go and he had to average 16 miles an hour. His crew didn’t think it was possible, but the cyclist thought otherwise. He was obviously inspired by the same motto that Hannah Jack thought up a few weeks ago for her old man – How much have you got left to give? – Nothing – How much are you still prepared to give? – Everything – the cyclist made it with 5 mins. to spare in Atlantic City. Sleep deprived, at his wits end, completely shattered and looking like the Count of Monte Cristo in the Ironmask, his crew picked him up as he fell off his bike, threw him into the Atlantic for a very welcome dip in the briney. You don’t have to be mad to complete long distance events, but it obviously helps as the bloke is now back in training for another crack at the Race Across America UK Record..... rather him than me!
There were no thoughts of feats of derring do as I stood on the start line and enjoyed the nervous banter of my fellow athletes. Everyone was pawing the ground waiting for Gerry Lynch to say ”Go”. I tried to tell my body to start sensibly but the mind of course thought that it knew better. I went through the first 3K in 12-45 and then proceeded to die a very painful slow and lingering “Death”. My body had been used to the Ironman shuffle pace, i.e. slow, slower, and slowest. As the 10K unfolded all of my injuries came back to haunt me, my hip, my hamstring, but primarily my back. I thought of my Chiropractor Paula Gallan and my physio Greg Kearney and of all their hard work and of what was left of my body. Two discs were rubbing together and I had an L5 which was compressed and didn’t remotely look like – or function like – an L5 should. I was sending signals down to my legs, - the general message was to put one foot in front of the other, the left leg seemed fine but the right leg seemed to be in a world of it’s own. My brain sent down the message but it kept getting a “Does not compute” response. For the last 5K I was taking my right leg for draggies – it was a somewhat reluctant participant in the proceedings. I certainly couldn’t do the hokey cokey, “You put your right leg in, you put your right let out.... “ etc. Thinking of pain however reminded me of my two club mates Ronnie”The Kidd” and Paul “Fletch” Fletcher who were sitting in Frankfurt whilst I was in Strabane. They were 16 hours away from their date with destiny, - the Ironman. Ronnie had got over his injuries and Paul had managed to combine training with running the 55 Degrees North Restaurant in Portrush. It turned out that Ronnie had a dream day and achieved a 10 hours 3 mins. finish - while Paul didn’t achieve the time he deserved. Paul decided to adopt a very low aero dynamic set up on the bike (why does this sound eerily familiar?), got back ache and suffered like a dog on the 112 mile bike and the subsequent marathon for a 12hr 17 finish. Paul finished, sore but at least he finished and has earned an invitation to the hottest dinner ticket in town – The Triangle Triathlon Club Inaugural Ironman and 70.3 finishers night out! The club this year has William O’Kane, Simpson McGrath, Artie O’Kane, Ronnie, Paul, all finishing the Ironman (with hopefully Conal Heatley to join them after this weeks’ Forestman in England) and with Kay Hack safely at the table after winning her age group at Wimbleball a few weeks ago in the toughest 70.3 in Europe and with Annie P to follow in Monaco and big Adrian to still have a crack at Ironman Uk in September and with the club hosting the Half Ireman Race in Groomsport (with an entry of 250) and with plenty of TTC members hoping to achieve a finish or even a PB this could be a busy dinner table!
What is a 70.3? Well it’s the new sexy name for Half Ironman and comprises the total distance of the swim; the bike ride and the run i.e. a 1.2 mile swim, a 56 mile bike and a 13.1 mile run – in metric terms it’s 113 K but it doesn’t sound quite as good.
Having said that, the 226K Brand for the Ironman distance is alive and well and is thriving all over the world for those of you who want to complete an Ironman distance in an event not officially sanctioned by the World Triathlon Corporation. Anne Paul has decided that the athlete with the fastest time based on a very complicated mathematical formula including age and good looks etc. will receive a coveted and much desired and totally splendiferous first prize.... an iron!..
On this will be engraved a winner’s name and time. I’ll obviously remove the cord and plug in case a bloke wins it as we wouldn’t know what to do with one of these new fangled domestic objects....
There will be a lot of competition for this debut prize and I think it’s going to take a very special performance to prevent Ronnie the “Kidd” from taking home an iron to a very bemused Mrs Kidd....
Meanwhile back in the foothills of Co. Tryone, the organisers had very helpfully decided to insert a 200 metre climb at the 5K mark, by this stage I was having to apologise to female athletes I was passing in case they thought they were being approached by a heavy breather and my chest was thumping like a well beaten 12th July drum. I was trying to grab down air like a drowning man and my limbs were hopelessly uncoordinated. A few guys looked round at the noise of my dog tags flapping up and down on my chest. It maybe annoyed them but it gave me a sense of rhythm – ok a very slow rhythm, but a rhythm none the less.
Eventually the kilometre signs crept past albeit very slowly – 6K, 7K and 8K. We were now back in the town.
Columb Knowles, my Springwell colleague and I both desperately tried to fool the other by pretending we weren’t really knackered until CK told me to “Go for It”. If it’s possible to go for it at a pace that would have disgraced a tortoise, then I went for it. The distance between 8 & 9 K seemed liked 2K not 1K. Now there was only 1,000 metres of pain between me and the finish line. My mind told my body again to forget about everything that was aching and put my head down. I originally had wanted to break 50 mins. but now I thought I could break 45 – and did so with 23 secs. to spare. My legs immediately turned to jelly and I felt like throwing up, but a finish line was never as welcome. That was harder than the Ironman for some reason, my body instantly decided that it was “Pay Back Time” and my back started to throb like an alcoholics hang over. It was time for a shower, cup of tea and a well deserved brufen.
It got worse over the next two or three days and Paula told me that I wasn’t even allowed to indulge in that most gentle of non weight bearing exercise, swimming, she expects me to do nothing! Gadszoots! This will not be easy, dear reader, but I will try hard, honest, I will try, try and try again. In fact my mother says I am very trying....
My Chiropractor gave me the bad news that I had just done my last ever road race, but Paula, can I do my 10th and last Ironman, please, please, please?
Monday, 30 June 2008
POST IRONMAN BLUES!
I phoned up the Triathlon Doctor, I just don’t know what to do. All I want to do is Swim, Bike & Run. And nothing else I do gives me that much fun.......”
“It sure is, just give me a moment son, while I get off my turbo trainer, that’s better, now, what’s the problem? Oh, by the way, what’s your name?”
“But can you stop at number nine?”
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
Ironman IX D-Day
IRONMAN IX - D DAY!!
The few days before an Ironman are always fraught. There are the travel arrangements, and then there’s the taper. The nagging question however is whether enough training has been done - or too much? - And there is the rampant paranoia which accompanies you to the start line “How are my injuries?” If my injury in dormant when is it going to erupt like a volcano? Am I sleeping enough/eating enough? How’s my resting pulse? Have I remembered to pack the right gear for the race? (You pack a sports bag in Limavady in one type of weather and you open it up several thousand miles away in
As I pen these last few words, it’s 6 days to go and when you read this, the clock countdown has changed from months to weeks to days and finally to hours. I have been in this position about 8 times before of preparing to swim 2.4 miles, cycle 112 miles and shuffle a marathon. I am petrified of getting a puncture. I still haven’t got a decent wet suit. My tried and trusted one had the sleeves cut off and was left in North East USA last year (it’s a long story....) I have had to purchase new running shoes, my previous ones deprived me of a toenail after the London Marathon. They say you should never experiment on race day with new equipment and here I am lacking a wet suit with new running shoes and only 700 miles clocked up on my new race bike – you would think I would know better!
I have had some exciting outdoor swims in my time. I nearly drowned off
You suddenly think 14 days before an ironman that you haven’t done enough sea swimming and hence the trip to Benone, the waves were big, the waves were blowing out to sea, the current was uncertain, so it is absolutely vital to swim parallel to the shore. I really try not to stray much beyond three to four feet of depth. It is however very difficult when you are being tossed about by the waves to know what your exact position is, vis a vis the safety of the shallows. The silent killer, of course, is the current. If you get got in a rip tide, it’s not good. Hopefully now I am big enough, and ugly enough to know that panic, whilst understandable is not the best option. You should wait until the rip tide is finished or swim sideways out of the way of the current, but as land disappears into the horizon you must have the strong presence of mind not to immediately flail in the direction of the land as the words of Corporal Jones of “Dad’s Army” spring to mind! ... Ten minutes at Benone was enough to reacquaint myself with the pleasures of salty tangy buoyant sea water. You just feel so good when you leave the sea, then of course the coldness takes over and you desperately trying to wrench the wet suit off with shaking hands and chattering teeth. Sometimes you put baby oil on your ankles and wrists to facilitate wet suit removal. Some race organisers such as we did at Benone organise hot showers to shock the athletes back into life after the 2.4 miles/3.8 k/152 length equivalent swim... There is a lot of nervous energy bound up in the swim but it’s fairly silly when you consider that the swim does not account for a third of the race itself, merely about 6 or 7% of your total race time. All that energy dissipated and then you realise you have travelled 3.8 kilometres and you have still have 222.2 kilometres still to go!
Sunday, saw a rest day – Father’s Day. No training, just sitting watching the clock and wondering and waiting and twitching and thinking I should be training or packing, or psyching up or preparing or doing something useful. The concept of rest to an Ironman wan bee is an uncomfortable one. I was actually reduced to tidying up my sports room – it got to the stage when I couldn’t actually open the sports room door without tripping over a helmet or a pair of shoes or a pool buoy or a set of weights – they say a tidy room is a sign of a tiny mind – let’s just say my mind is not often very tiny!
Ooops, I have suddenly realised that the race starts at 7.00 a.m. Czech time which is actually 6.00 a.m. Limavady time so I will need to adjust the body clock fairly quickly, that means getting up at the equivalent of 4.00 a.m. Hope I don’t fall asleep on lap two or three of the bike course. The most important night’s sleep of the year of course will be on Thursday night i.e. two nights before the race. On the Thursday, William and I intend to open up the bike box after 5 hours driving from
Will we make it to the finish line? Well first of all we have to make it to the start line!
Whatever happens, I promise you that William O’Kane and Peter Jack will finish first and second for the Triangle Triathlon Club, for
Last year Bruce Springsteen’s “The Rising” was very much the musical sound track to my odyssey. This year it’s Snow Patrol – they have a great line – “The finish line is a good place to start” - a good place to start normal life – or even life after Ironman.
For those of you who have been kind enough to read this column for the last five weeks, thanks for your support, you have only one more column to endure. A truncated version of which will hopefully end up with you in the Constitution. I look forward to telling you all about the Czech Republic Mariviaman next week.
It’s D-Day for William O’Kane and PJ. We will report to you from the trenches next week.
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