Accidental Ironman: How Triathlon Ruined My Life
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Having spent 10 years scaling the lower echelons of the sport, the time has come for one of Britain's least successful athletes to reveal all about how he got involved in all this nonsense in the first place. Marvel as he reveals: His sporting history - how being last pick at school football in the 1970s set him on course for a lifetime of being rubbish at team games. How he took up triathlons in the first place (for a bet, and the cow who made it with him never paid up). How he overcame a crippling lack of talent and a chorus of complete indifference from his family to complete 10 Ironmans, all outside the top 500 finishers. The many triathlon adventures he has experienced over the past 10 years (cow pats, Ironmans, incontinence, driving bans, broken bones, public nudity, spending entire redundancy payments on a new bike, Belgian portaloos, German knocking shops, sunburnt arse cheeks, channel swimming, fights with chavs, obsessions with weather and the nutritional value of Jaffa Cakes, 3 hour marathons, chronic dehydration and so on). The many and varied idiots he's got to know as a result of taking up the sport (aka his mates). The typical training (hell) he goes through to take part in a race given he has absolutely no ability whatsoever. How triathlons ultimately caused him to sell his Mercedes, give away his expensive suit, chuck in his job in the City and become, as his father put it, a "god-damned hippy" (A cycle path designer who owns a camper van).
that I wouldn’t be able to tell my non-triathlete neighbours that I was away at a ‘training camp’, thus fooling them into believing that I’m a serious athlete with talent and prospects. This annual pilgrimage to the mountains and cake shops of Spain’s version of the Isle of Wight follows a fairly typical pattern that involves my mates and me trying to drop each other on the climbs, trying to drop each other on the flat, trying to drop groups of German cyclists that we’ve just hammered past, and
and live out my days as a wealthy lord with rich lands and many sons, or they’d have my head on a stick. However, by this time I’d begun my training plan set for me by Dave-who-shall-be-obeyed so it was too late to turn back. Training enables greater effort, harder sessions, and the need for more and more kit … in other words, it enables most of the shit in my life. Without specific training I can categorically state I would never make it as a runner, because it just hurts too much. No
acclimatization sessions were not only to get me used to racing in the heat, but were also designed to calculate how much I needed to drink during a race, when to drink and most importantly what to drink. This involved Beth maintaining a high degree of professionalism while taking blood and urine samples from an extremely sweaty and sweary man moaning about having a numb crotch. At the end of all this, I not only had an impressive array of sweat rashes but at last a tolerance for cycling in
sunglasses, perfect for seeing in very bright conditions and hiding large parts of your face when you are in pain. Being a highly organised group, we contrived all to end up staying in completely different hotels, and I thought ours was fine until Nicky let me know different by writing the word ‘knob’ on my head in SPF50 sun cream while I slept on a pool lounger. We all managed to get together for meal times, though, all except Neill whose obsession with his hygiene meant that pre-race he would
monotonous ride that tested my patience, and now probably yours. On returning to transition, one of Joe’s many daughters, Naomi, was doing her best to cause an international pile-up by leaning over the barrier wearing nought but a bikini with her assets on full show to the returning cyclists. The fact that she shouted my name as I went by made me a popular chap in T2 with the men of all nations who arrived at the same time as me, and who demanded to know her name and any advice I could provide on