So this is the article I have been anticipating writing for eleven weeks, ever since my training for the Waterford Adventure Race began with a nervous trot around the block in Abbeyside. Most of my waking moments have been spent since either training, thinking about training, thinking about why I should be training or boring the pants off whoever will listen to me talk about training. But now finally I stand, well actually I’m sitting, in front of you officially a triathlete. I ran, cycled, hiked and kayaked the route in five hours and six minutes, and I loved five hours of it. There were six minutes of hell, but more on that in a few minutes.
The night before the race I was as nervous as a kitten. Bringing my kayak and bike out to the drop off points made me even worse. Every other competitor looked fit as fleas with their toned arms and six pack stomachs. They’re kayaks were space age and their bikes looked like they’d cycle themselves. I went home with a sinking feeling in my stomach and the guarantee of no sleep.
Leaving home the next morning I was that soldier going into battle. I was facing the inevitable. The time had come and I was going to wage WAR. The 120 competitors gathered in Mellary were full of bonhomie. Well, 119 of them were. It could only happen in Ireland, but the race start was delayed by 20 minutes to allow the Monks’ cows cross in front of the start line. I don’t know if they were returning from milking or if the Abbot was exercising some ancient right, but either way the anticipation among us could have been plucked had you the right type of plectrum.
My race philosophy was to set my own pace and stick to it. It was hard to see the entire field of runners take off from Mellary and leave me behind but I knew if I tried to keep their pace, I would never finish. The first of the seven stages took us through Glenshilane woods, and towards the end of that stage the payback began. Maintaining my own pace, I started to pass other competitors as they began to slow.
The next stage was the long slow bike climb up past the Cat’s Bar and on to the Sugarloaf. Again here I picked off another one or two people, all the time keeping to my own pace. The weather got worse the higher we climbed and by the time I reached the next staging post it was miserable, blowing a gale and wet.
With the wind at my back and the going rough underfoot as I ran downhill into Bealough, I knew this was the easier half of the stage by the look on the faces of those coming against me. “Slow down, save your energy for the hill back up” puffed one red faced competitor coming against me. He wasn’t joking. I leaned into the wind and the hill at 45 degrees on the way back up, but I was smiling.
In my mind I had the next two stages marked off as rest time. The downhill cycle back to Lismore and the kayak to Cappoquin were meant to be opportunities to rehydrate and to eat. The wind had other ideas. It hit head on at first then as the corners came it tried a side swipe or two, nearly lifting the wheels from under the bike. On the kayak from Lismore down the wind kept nudging the bow towards the bank which meant there was some compensation needed to keep going in a straight line. But I didn't care. I was having fun.
I was warned about jelly legs after getting out of the kayak, but it never happened. I took off towards Lismore with a pep in my step and covered the four miles in around forty minutes or so.
All the way through the first six stages I was feeling great. My legs and lungs were in harmony. I was well hydrated. I drank four litres of fluid throughout the race, that's eight pints! So I never got cramp or fatigue during the first six stages.
The seventh stage was the final bike ride. I thought I had cycled the route a number of times in training, but it turns out I got the wrong hill. This was not good. I didn't know it in my head so I didn't know when the pain was going to end. It started off flat coming out of Lismore, but then turned left up what seemed initially like a fairly harmless hill. It wasn't. The further it went the steeper it got and the more my legs screamed as the lactic acid gathered in them. I was literally pushing my knee down with my hand to get the pedals to turn. This kept going for about 8km until a bit of respite appeared in the form of a down hill section as far as the Cat's Bar. From there it was uphill again to Mellary. That mile was the longest I've ever cycled. Then there was the finish line. Whoever decided to put the finish line up at the top of the hill past the scout centre in Mellary needs to say a couple of decades of the rosary as an act of contrition. Why couldn't it have been at the bottom of the hill? We had already proven what we set out to prove to ourselves. Was the last hill from the Cat's not enough for you? Obviously not.
It's hard to describe the rush I got from finishing the race. I came in about 100th of 120. I was nearly two hours slower than the guy who came first. But I did it and I did it well. I didn't die, I didn't struggle (much), I wasn't taken away in an ambulance. In fact I went out that night with some friends and fellow veterans to celebrate with a few pints. I told my father in law the following day that the feeling at the finish line had echoes of the buzz of the birth of one of my children. Given what his daughter had gone through to produce those kids, I don't know how much he appreciated my analogy. Suffice it to say three days later I am still on a high, but I want to feel that endorphine overload again so I am signing myself up for a series of challenges over the summer.
I have to thanks Martin Lacey in Clonea for having me so well prepared for the race. If you are ever considering doing something similar and haven't trained before, look him up. He's so experienced and helpful, and a true gent. I'd also like to thank Alan Ryan from Dungarvan Chamber for roping me into this. I'd still be sitting on the couch otherwise. And before this turns into an Oscar acceptance speech I want to thank my wife for her patience during my frequent absences. Thanks Jen. Mind you I don't think she's too unhappy about the ever reducing gut, and neither am I.
(Ian presents Noctor 'til 6 weekdays from 4pm on WLRfm)
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