IRONMAN X -72 hours to go

Wednesday 29th July – 72 Hours to go.

They say that travel broadens the mind. Well my mind must have been fairly broad before I laid my head down in a hostel in Copenhagen twelve hours after setting off. First we made it to Belfast City Airport; we then boarded a quiet flight to Stanstead. I had envisaged hours of queues there with English holiday makers fighting to escape the country but we proceeded through check in and airport security and we even had an hour free. We then felt we had the time to have a meal and of course 60 mins. became 75 and we were standing on the transit train for what seemed an eternity where I could only remember the words on a sign at check in, “If you’re late we won’t wait”. When the train eventually arrived I sprinted up two flights of escalators and down a long corridor to discover that the Easy jet flight was as late as we were... When I thought about it, this was the first “exercise” I had had in a week. I was a sweaty and hyperventilating mess clutching my knees to keep me upright and that was after approximately 400 metres of running. Seventy two hours to go and I needed a trip via Lourdes on the way to Kalmar...

Still ..... at least Hannah Jack had the joy of treating herself (out of Daddy’s wallet of course) to a new bikni. How can something that tiny cost so much I felt like asking, but thought better of it. As long as we later had the weather for Hannah to enjoy her bikini – and me my mankini.......

I therefore spent the entire flight to Copenhagen chatting to a very useful Danish woman who told me there was no need to get a taxi from the airport, just take the metro instead and then it was a 10 min. stroll. Why oh why Lord do I ever listen to people who have no idea what they are talking about? First the metro waited for ages before leaving, then we had to change trains, when we eventually got to the station we had to man handle 5 suit cases, 5 rucksacks and a bike bag that weighed a ton up two flights of stairs only to discover at the top a sparkling new lift. I looked at a map of CPH in the same way that Don Quixote had looked at a map of Mexico when he arrived on shore and said confidently “Right we will just go straight down here then left.....” By this stage the suit cases seemed to be full of rocks and everyone we asked had never heard of our hostel and of course it was at the very far end of one of the longest streets in Denmark’s capital. When we arrived at check in there was a sheen of sweat on my head which looked as if I had just done an Ironman, except when you do an Ironman you don’t usually end up with calluses on your hands.

Thursday 30th July - 48 Hours to go.

Four hours later I was awake, finding sleep an impossible pursuit so I sneaked out and went to enjoy the streets of CPH particularly the world famous Tivoli Gardens. I saw a poster advertising a Danish group called “The Four Jacks”. If the Five Limavady Jacks turned up we would give them a run for their money but I then saw a poster for a concert the following Friday by Aqua (of Barbie Girl fame) and made a mental note to spend the last day of our holiday singing along to the tune of “We’re a Barbie Girl – in a Barbie World”. That seemed to make about just as much sense as the rest of this trip would make.... Had a fascinating discussion at the breakfast table with a girl from Malaysia who seemed to be the only person in the Danish Capital to have had her bike stolen - there are thousands of cyclists in CPH and in fact the first poster we saw when we spilled out of the airport was a huge one of Andy Schleke who had just finished second in the Tour de France. What are the chances of a cyclist being centre stage back home? Anyway this girl just said the Danish just leave their bikes anywhere and everywhere and no one nicks them – except for hers!

We struggled to the bus station and boarded an incredibly comfortable coach to take us from Denmark to Sweden over the superb Oresund Bridge built by both governments to boost trade. All it seemed to do however was to allow the Danes to go to Sweden where it was much cheaper to commute back to work as the Danish Kroner is 50% stronger than the Swedish version.

We arrived in Malmo and luckily enough in a town of two hundred thousand people our car hire place was 200 metres away from the station. Soon afterwards I was the proud driver of a Toyota Hi Ace which was the size of a truck i.e. it was able to hold my mankini and everything else.

I stared at the map from behind the driver’s wheel regretting the fact that I never mastered orienteering and set off, at least we can control our own destiny. 100 metres later we were lost! Only a joke! The roads were great but the weather wasn’t. It was 300 k to Kalmar on the E22, which would be no problem apart from the fact that the wipers had to be on double speed to cope with the deluge of rain that was being flung at us. When I looked at the trees by the side of the road they were bent double with the wind. If conditions were like that on Saturday it would make for a very long day.

Arrived in Kalmar and eventually found our little house which was a quaint 17th century residence. Pretty as a post card but also incredibly central and handy to all proceedings.. If you looked out the front door and spat you could perhaps have hit the finish line. I later measured it and the good news was that if I ever reached the finish line Patrick Jack had only 136 metres to haul/oxter the prostrate figure of his sobbing father back home where the only three things that matter to an Ironman finisher were all located on the ground floor – a loo, a shower and a fridge....

We had a fabulous meal out in a Greek Restaurant called Zobas, of course. I proceeded to stuff my face. The last time I had stomach trouble from food poisoning was in Athens at the Olympics in 2004 after a dodgy Mousaka but surely lightning couldn’t strike twice? I strolled around the pretty town square and went home knowing that this was the most important night’s sleep of the athletic year, i.e. two nights before the race as it is assumed that you don’t not sleep the night before the race. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow, woke at 4.15 a.m. unfortunately which was 3.15 BST time. Thankfully got back to sleep.

Friday 31st July – race day - 24 hours.

I have only done two Ironmen before which were in the sea, Holland and Benone and of course in the sea you are completely at the mercy of the elements. Thought I didn’t want to spend the rest of the day worrying about the water temperatures so I decided to take the plunge, and I got suited and booted and walked the 136 metres to the finish line and another 100 metres to the swim start line. A few guys were doing exactly the same thing and I talked to an athlete from Gothenburg who of course was called Peter. We lingered on the shore line but then got on with it. There were a lot of sea grass underneath the water but the temperature was gratifyingly ok. We were told it was 19 degrees centigrade so swam 10 minutes and felt good. My chest was not heaving like a steam train and I felt no desire to look for my inhalers. I made my way back to the house trying to convince myself I was fit and ready and raring to go. Took out the bike (I had pleased myself the night before by being able to assemble it and get the saddle, pedals and the tri bars all pointing in the right direction) for a twenty minute spin. I saw the stadium where Kalmar FC play. They had won the Swedish Championship last year for the very first time, not bad for a wee town of 60,000 people taking on the might of Stockholm etc. Went out for a 10 minute run and felt ok. One hour later went to register did so, sat down and instantly felt stomach cramps. It was like someone sticking a knife in my gut. Maybe it would pass, I thought optimistically, no it didn’t. Went home, lay on the bed in the foetal position and put a pillow over my head and wondered what could possibly go wrong next. I tried to work out what I had eaten or drunk which could possibly could have contributed to this bout of Montezuma’s revenge, it had to be Zorba, didn’t it? Fell asleep, woke up, still felt bad. Not good.

Went to the pre race briefing with Hannah and Patrick, there was a separate briefing for English speakers. This included the Israelis the Spanish, the French, the Italians and even one bloke from Cardiff Tri Club and two Scots sitting in front of me. Of course we all knew Richard Pearson from Triathlon Scotland, small world etc. Then there was the ubiquitous Yank who was so pleased he was the only American in the race so he could call himself the American Champion, with the Stars and Stripes fluttering proudly in the breeze, I told him my flag was up there as well – just for me, a nice feeling but to justify the flag the only Irish competitor had to actually finish. Crawled back after the briefing and went back to bed where I dreamt of being called Lazarus as I would need a revival of epic proportions tomorrow if I was able to make the start line, let alone the finish line. The irony of course was that the day before an Ironman race you should be eating for Ireland. I didn’t feel like eating anything, so I just sipped water and dozed and prayed.

At registration I had previously posed in a very special shirt which I am sure no one else had, i.e. a shirt from my very first ironman in Almere, Holland, I wanted to link the two events symbolically in my mind. Unbelievably the shirt was still in one piece and even more unbelievably it still fitted me. That race was not without its tribulations. Fog delayed the start of the swim, I had five punctures on the bike and had to rely on a sub 4 hour marathon to beat the cut off time. On my second Ironman I was on antibiotics in Wolverhampton in England; the third one was in Scotland and involved getting lost in the Highlands on the run with only sheep for company; the fourth one in Benone which ended up with me in an oxygen mask; the fifth was a PB in Roth Germany; the sixth one involved still suffering from jet lag at Idaho USA; the seventh one was Austria where I couldn’t stand up due to a back injury and had my slowest ever time; the eighth one was the heat of Lake Placid; the ninth one was the Czech Republic the previous year where I had the joy of Hannah and William O’Kane with me but that race also included my leg going into a huge muscle spasm after the finish. Now I was confronting my tenth and last – with a lingering chest infection, a dodgy stomach and a rising tide of apprehension in my gut. I already had my finishers shirt printed – was I tempting fate?

Read on next week to see if PJ makes it to the Nirvana of the Finish Line – only in the Roe Valley Sentinel.