The one time I actually get my arse in gear and move fast, it backfires. I didn’t care. I needed a sit down, I was shattered. They explained that no one else other than the Italians had been through yet.
I couldn’t believe it:- I was still in the race and was the first individual to reach this checkpoint. Dale and Sue, the owners, asked me what I was going to do. I was extremely tired, having had less than 6 hours sleep since Braeburn. My intention had always been to sleep here for 3 or 4 hours before leaving.
But after I had something to eat and drink, a little rest and the fact that I was only 30 miles from the finish, I decided to carry on. I felt good and I felt refreshed - just thirty miles, that’s all!
Two hours after arriving, I left. It was a little after 13:00 and I worked out that if I pushed hard I would be finished in the early morning.
Sue came out and showed me which way to go, I thanked them for their hospitality (to which she again apologised for the timing fiasco).
I followed the track and, once out of sight, sorted myself out. I wanted to move fast and take full advantage of the remaining daylight. I proceeded down the narrow road and was moving well and the route was pretty good:- undulating, but well defined and easy to follow.
It was now getting dark and I was getting tired and consequently had slowed down to a more sensible pace. Eventually I reached the halfway marker - just 15 miles to go. I smiled and looked at my watch - it was 20:07. If it had taken me seven hours to do the last 15 miles I reasoned that I would be finished by 03:00, 04:00. Time to get my arse in gear. I had a quick bite to eat, a drink and was good to go.
Then my walking pole slipped on a patch of ice and then my sledge developed a mind of its own, weaving from side to side. I tried in vain to make it go straight but it just pulled me from one side of the trail to other. It was bloody annoying and I was getting pretty pissed off with the thing. My legs started to do the same, they refused to work properly. I gave them simple instructions which they totally ignored. I was trying to go forward on ‘bambi legs’ whilst trying to control an uncontrollable sledge, I was wandering all over the place, my walking poles weren’t much help, just touching the ground whenever they felt like it, uncontrollable sledge, uncontrollable legs and now uncontrollable poles.
I stopped for a second, lent on my poles, trying to gather my thoughts and to try and work out what was going on, when suddenly I saw two headtorches coming toward me. They spoke to me in German, I replied in English. I don’t know what I said but they were both wearing very concerned expressions, then in a limited English they asked if I was okay. I replied that I was and they seemed even more concerned, so I gave them the thumbs up looked at my watch - 02:10. What the fuck, I had only looked at my watch 10 minutes ago at the halfway mark, where the hell had those SIX hours gone? I turned around and saw my sledge was covered in snow as was the trail behind.
I walked on trying to work out what had happened. My watch must be broken:- six hours couldn’t just disappear. If it was really 02:10 I should be just about finished. Then another strange thing happened - I heard someone talking to me, I ignored it, then a headtorch and voice were saying “Hi Dave.” I turned around to see an animated Sean Brown. Like the 2 Germans, he seemed concerned.
This is an extract from Sean’s race report:
“The forest rd was hard work but I felt good, on the way out I bumped into another athlete who was two hours from finishing, but as I slowed down to say hi and see how he was, I had to stop him from going straight past without acknowledging me, as soon as he started talking he made no sense whatsoever, he thought the race was over and I had been sent out to look for him he also started talking about the hotel he was staying in and the flight home.
I was concerned at first that he might be suffering hypothermia but the more we talked the more he started to come round he looked strong still and had only 2 hours to go, I realized he was suffering from sleep deprivation, I urged him to have some coffee I had in a flask with me, it was difficult to hold him back and once he assured me for the second time that he was fine he shot off, I watched him go and he was moving straight on the road, not wobbling.
I felt guilty I had been unable to persuade him to have some coffee and thought that if I felt he had hypothermia I would have physically stopped him and made him take some coffee (however he was bigger than me so this would have been easier said than done), I would also probably have gone back to Pelly Crossing with him to make sure he was OK.
I felt confident that he would get to Pelly fine as he looked so strong; however I couldn’t stop thinking about it for a long time and wondered if I had done the right thing!”
Of this I was totally oblivious and it wasn’t until after the race that Sean told me what had happened. Sleep deprivation: it’s horrid and it’s sneaky, slowly creeping up on you and making you see things that aren’t there. It makes you make stupid and potentially dangerous decisions, irrational thoughts and fears. In this type of racing, one of the prerequisites is the ability to push hard, push very hard. However, there is a limit, when suddenly and, without realising it, you have pushed just a little too hard.
On this occasion I had pushed too hard and had been very fortunate to get away with it. It was another lesson learned (I hope). I carried on as if nothing had happened, then spotted the lights of Pelly.
The trail took me back on to the river and then under the road bridge and then it was just a short hop to the Community Centre and finish line. I arrived at 08:14 and it had taken me 164:44 hours and I was beaten only by the Italian team Terraz. Second place was Frank Jansenn who finished in a time of 174:36
It was the toughest race I had ever taken part in and I had been lucky:- lack of sleep and an extra 40kms could have been disastrous.
The Yukon Arctic Ultra is one of the most beautiful races I have ever run, but it is also the hardest and most unforgiving. You can have all the gear and all the training behind you but if you are not organised or you make mistakes, you are, to put it mildly in the SHIT!
WHAT NEXT!
IRONMAN UK 70.3 2007
What is it: A half Ironman distance triathlon
When: June
Where: Exmoor
Distance: 1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike, 13.1 mile run (1.9km, 90km, 21km)
It is: One of the toughest half Ironman triathlons out there - Chris McCormack
See: ironmanuk.com
Last year I attempted a triathlon for the first time. As I hauled myself across the finishing line I was grinning from ear to ear and just like the addicted gambler who doesn’t know when to quit, I needed to push my luck just a little further.
The hunt was on for the next triathlon and being, as my wife would say, bloody stupid, I wanted a tough one and my searching drew me toward the Daddy of all triathlons: the Ironman.
Last year’s West Wight Triathlon paled into insignificance. The Ironman was huge, the 600 meter swim that had so terrified me was replaced by a 3800 meter (2.4 mile) open water swim, the 35km bike section would be a 180km (112 mile) monster and the 7km run would now become a full marathon at 42.2 km (26.2 mile).
The more I looked into it, the more I wanted to do it. But even me, someone who is by all accounts bloody stupid, realised that the Ironman was just too big - one step to far.
I had to rethink, and consequently came up with the Ironman 70.3. It still had the word Ironman in the title and that made me feel just a little better. It was, however, only half the distance (listen to me - ONLY half the distance).
I ‘You Tubed’ it and decided that it was possible, tough, yes, but possible none the less. The race also proudly states that there are 52 hills in its 56 mile bike route. With that I signed up there and then. I could, at this point, moan about the price: it was a little expensive for a triathlon (I have since learned that triathlon is not the cheapest of sports) but I am a glass half full kind of guy. I reasoned as I did with the ‘Marathon Des Sables’ that it was a lot of money to waste and if I didn’t finish I would
have wasted a lot of money - in other words I HAD to finish!
I started training with my usual naivety. As I had done for the West Wight Triathlon I decided that my running would, as long as I maintained my weekly average, take care of itself, the cycling would have to increase and improve. Luckily for me the Isle of Wight is a perfect place for cycling: beautiful and hilly. It was just a question of increasing both my mileage and hill work. Then there was swimming.
Swimming was most definitely my Achilles heel and so I decided to swim at least three times a week. The swim for the Ironman 70.3 was to be held in a reservoir and consequently all swimmers were obliged to wear a wetsuit.
So it was back on to the internet to begin my search for a wetsuit. I eventually found what I was looking for: a Blue Seventy Stealth. I sent my measurements off, placed the order and waited. A few days later it arrived. I was now beginning to feel like a real triathlete and couldn’t wait to try it out.
Trying to get the thing on was a workout in itself, it was like trying to put a condom on a jelly: fraught with problems. I sweated, squeezed, squashed and yanked myself into it. I needed to perform a contortionist act just to pull the zip up and then I looked in the mirror. It didn’t look right and it certainly didn’t feel right, the arms and legs were twisted and certain parts of my anatomy were being strangled. I took it off and started again - this time was slightly more successful.
I had 8 months to get the hang of it. After a while I got more comfortable in the water and the added buoyancy that the wetsuit gave me was very welcome. My ability to swim the required distance was eventually reached and maintained, but to say I enjoyed swimming would be stretching it a bit.
Training was going well: I could swim and cycle, run and cycle and on a couple of occasions I actually managed to do a mini-triathlon.
As usual time, just seemed to whizz past, and all too soon the car was being packed and the ferry booked.
The drive through Exmoor National Park gave me the first indication of what the hell I had signed up for - it was, as the race organisers had promised, HILLY, very *&^%@ HILLY.
I had looked for another slightly more challenging triathlon and I had not disappointed myself. However, there was nothing slightly about it, it was a lot more challenging.
Now I thought back to last year’s event when the winner Chris McCormack had said, quite categorically, that the UK half Ironman was the toughest in the world.
Bloody typical of me - the only time I get things right is when I am going to have to suffer for it!
The following day was registration day: sign in and collect the coloured bags that would be needed for each of the transitions. Then the most important job - to collect my official Ironman 70.3 bracelet, the bracelet that would let everyone know that I am a triathlete. The reality was very different: I was a nervous wreck.
I walked around the ‘Expo’ looking at impressive bits of triathlon kit. I spent half my time trying to work out what most of it did and the other half trying to look as if I belonged there, when I quite obviously didn’t. I felt a fraud and it would not have surprised me if security had come up and escorted me out of the area, explaining on the way that “This area was for triathletes only, sir.”
I managed to get away with my charade and we went for a walk to recce the swim route, which was down in the reservoir. Standing high above the thing I could see the buoys marking the route - it looked a bloody long way to swim. There were 11 buoys set out in a triangle shape. I had just finished counting when my darling wife kicked me in the nuts, well not quite, but that’s what it felt like when she asked “Is it one lap or two!!!” I didn’t honestly know, but I went all religious for a moment and prayed that it was just one!
The following day we arrived at the start early, it was still dark. I’d had a good night’s sleep and for some bizarre reason I felt relaxed, and that worried me. I should have at least felt a little anxious or scared. I couldn’t swim for toffees, couldn’t bike very well and had not got a clue about transitions. The only thing I could do was run and even that was not a guaranteed after having swum and cycled a combined distance of a little over 57 miles.
It was still dark, damp and chilly. I sorted out my transition bags and made my way over to the large changing tent, had another wrestling match with my wetsuit and then wondered over to my allocated pen. Now my apprehension started, standing waiting and surrounded by some very fit and serious-looking athletes!
We stood waiting, slowly inching our way forward. The unfortunate thing was that I was in the 3rd wave and being so bloody tall could see the horrors that lay ahead. There was a lot of splashing and bashing going on, some people were being pulled out by kayaks and a couple of others turned around and made their way back to the safety of the shore.
It did not bode well. All the while that this maelstrom was taking place we were creeping our way forward - then all of a sudden I was ankle deep in water, the combination of wet mud seeping between my toes and the cold water had an immediate effect on my bladder, I needed a wee. I stood there savouring the moment, the relief and warming effect was instantaneous and very welcome.
As I waded into the water my rapidly diminishing confidence nosedived. I was now hopelessly out of my depth, in more ways than one!
Within moments of starting, I found myself in the middle of the splashing and bashing that I had earlier witnessed. I coughed and spluttered, inching my way forward, my heart rate was through the roof, I couldn’t see a thing. I was beginning to panic and I wasn’t even halfway to the first marker buoy.
I gathered my thoughts, rolled over onto my back and calmed both myself and my heart rate down - a few seconds was all it took. I rolled back over and decided that no matter what happened I would get to the first buoy. And with that, I gently swam forward, using the breast stroke technique that I had seen the little old ladies use in my local pool. It worked, by the time I reached the 1st buoy I had plenty of space and felt a lot better so I reverted back to the crawl and then on to the next buoy and then the next, until finally I turned a corner and could see the huge inflatable finishing banner.
I smiled to myself and continued on. I was now being passed by the swimmers that had started in the wave after mine, I didn’t care, I hadn’t drowned and I was going to make it.
Swimming along, keeping one eye on the approaching finish line, when suddenly I ran out of water and my fingertips stroked the silty bottom, bliss.
I had done it, finished 1.2 miles. I couldn’t believe it. As I stood up, I wobbled like a drunk trying to get my balance, and fumbled with my zip, and like I’d seen on the television attempted to run to the transition area. Two things prevented me 1 - I was so knackered that I could hardly breath and 2 - the 400 metre climb to the transition area was bloody steep! Too bloody steep to run.
Eventually I reached the transition area, grabbed my bag and proceeded to get changed, while trying to eat a banana and have a drink. Once changed into my cycling kit (and now that I now I had recovered slightly) I attempted to run, found my bike. Helmet on, glasses on and then a walk out of the transition area and on to the bike!
It felt good to be on the bike and the first of the 52 hills soon appeared. It was steep enough to warm me up.
The bike route was a two-lap route and I decided to take the first lap fairly cautiously, not wanting to blow up too early.
The hills were as tricky going down as they were hard going up. Then just to make things a little more challenging, I took a left turn and was confronted with a very steep hill. It was one of those hills that was so steep that I needed to weave from side to side just to maintain forward momentum. I wasn’t the only one weaving my way up:- there were quite a few people walking and because they were wearing cycling shoes it made their progress very interesting and rather entertaining - not for them I’m sure!
Continuing on, we at last came to a descent - at least I could now rest a bit and let gravity help me out, Wrong: the first clue to what lay ahead was a sign or several s
tating ‘NO OVERTAKING.’ It was just too bloody steep, coupled with the fact that the narrow lane we were on was covered in trees and the sunshine trying to peep its way through appeared to be flickering. It made the whole thing a bit like cycling down a bendy tube whilst blinking very fast!
Cycling along planning my transition in my head, a motorcycle, with cameraman came past. I had watched this event last year on Channel 4 so with thoughts of my TV appearance looming large, I tried to look the part of a serious triathlete. Just as I thought I had succeeded, a cyclist came storming past, the race leader - it was him they were filming and, to make matters worse, I realised he was at least twenty-six miles ahead of me. I must admit he looked bloody impressive.
I managed to complete the first lap with mixed emotions, glad to have survived the swim and lap one, but well aware that I still had lap two and a half-marathon to go!
Would my old legs carry me the rest of the way? During lap two I fuelled up: ate and drank as much as I could in preparation for the half-marathon.
As I finished the second and final lap I felt surprisingly good (I think the euphoria I was experienced helped dull any tiredness). Unlike the athletes I had seen on the television, I had no chance of dismounting whilst on the run. I had to stop the bike and slowly peel myself off the thing. I handed my bike over and hobbled off to get ready for the run.
I quickly sorted myself out and tried to run out of transition but unfortunately it felt as if I had borrowed Bambi’s legs. It took a few minutes for them to settle down. I found a nice steady pace and felt reasonably comfortable, however, there was a nasty steep descent that pounded the quads up a bit. The run route was three laps - great for the spectators but was a little confusing for runners who were all over the place. Like a figure of eight, runners were going back and forth and I’m sure that some lost count and entered the finish area with another lap or two to go. Looking at the amount of people that were DSQd (disqualified) afterwards I realised that may well have been the case.
Fartleks & Flatulence Page 13