What on earth was I doing here? Am I not totally the wrong age to be pretending I’m young? I can go on SAGA holidays, get inviting emails to join silver-haired singles, nearly get at some of my pension and I can definitely get a free pen just for enquiring. (no salesman will call) It’s acceptable for me to buy bigger trousers, and heaven forbid, a Volvo (providing I was clinically insane too) It seemed a bit of fun a year previously and even when I entered, I sort of expected to defer before the 45-day deadline yet here I was, stood in Tenby in barely a stitch of neoprene, with 2499 others waiting for dawn to break. To some it might seem like a nightmare but I’d paid money, a lot of money in fact, to be here. How had it come to this…

I came out of the water after the first lap just in time to hear my name over the tannoy. Thankfully it wasn’t asking me to move my car or recover a lost child.

Looking back it all seems a bit of a rollercoaster. The decision to do a bit of running to balance my cycling lead to entries in various running type events. Add in a slippery slope of swimming too and then, before you know it, you’re a triathlete. Ok, you’re not exactly a Brownlee brother but I do remember something about acorns and mighty oaks. Not everyone climbs the entire triathlon mountain to the lofty peak of Ironman but super-sprint, sprint, Olympic, half-Ironman and finally full Ironman are a natural start and finish to the ‘series’ and it’s easy to fall into the routine and find yourself creeping up to that next rung. Persuasive training partners egg each other on and keep each other in check and so a small crowd of us trod a similar path to find ourselves stood there with our pink bags and our shaky legs.

As usual, these events start early. The alarm went off at 3am but I was really lying there waiting for it. Up, dressed and in the van and a drive to Tenby, in the dark eating porridge bars and sipping tailwind. Does life get any more romantic? Park at the bottom of town and walk up to transition in plenty of time to fettle the bike if necessary. Ironman is a two-day event and we’d racked the bikes and the cycle and run bags the day before. Having done an Ironman event before, I was familiar with the system and despite the gargantuan task ahead I was comfortable and rather calm and controlled. Unlike Barcelona there was very little fretting or worry and my legs were already beautifully smooth – the Veet had done its business, none of this shaving in the bath this time.I checked over the bike, added my fuel, suited up and then chewed the fat with my fellow triers waiting to go. It was all remarkably calm but was it before a storm?

Tenby is odd in that the transition area is some way from the beach and you have to walk to the swim start and later walk or run back. To give your feet a fighting chance Ironman are kind enough to give you a pink bag, and a hook on which to hang it, in which to pop your shoes whilst you swim. Leave your bag behind, disqualified. Bag on the wrong hook, disqualified. Pink bags blowing around Tenby, disqualified. It’s a VERY important bag so make sure you write someone else’s number on it…Thankfully, to minimise some of the melee, and possibly unexpected drownings, Tenby Ironman starts in self-seeded waves so that you choose to enter the water surrounded by fellow competitors of a similar performance. As your race time is calculated from the second you cross the timing mat there’s no advantage to be caught up in an unsuitable wave as you’ll end up swimming over people or being swam (swum?) over. I’d passed Caz in the crowd stood around the 1:30 mark and I teamed up with Sarah at 1:20. We briefly exchanged tactics. Weirdly we’d both gone for the ‘let’s try not to drown’ option and to be fair, I think we both chose rather well.

…the hairs on the back of my neck failed to stand up. I can’t say whether that was the monotony of the moment or simply Jane’s extravagant use of the Veet waxing strips.

Somewhere, up front, around the 60-minute mark was Scott. As usual, he’d opted for the ‘Man from Atlantis’ option as it fitted rather well with his gills and webbed fingers. Damian was somewhere up ahead but I knew I’d be seeing him later. Pink bags stowed, we followed the big black snake down to the beach. I can’t deny I was a bit un-impressed by the build-up – we’d been promised epic and sort of got damp squib. Firstly, we had the national anthem sung by a man in a wet-suit. C’mon, how often can you say that? It’s a first for me! Despite being in Wales I got the distinct feeling that the only man that knew all the words was the chap singing it. I’m English and gave up after ‘My hen laid a haddock…’ I know he had good intentions but it did sound like a pub singer rather than the majesty of the Welsh male voice choir or Millennium Stadium on full chat that we’re so used to. We had AC/DC’s Thunderstruck too but the hairs on the back of my neck failed to stand up. I can’t say whether that was the monotony of the moment or simply Jane’s extravagant use of the Veet waxing strips.

Finally, 7:00 am came, we had a brief hug, a “good luck – don’t be shit”, and we were into the sea fighting for breath and space in equal measure. Today I’d chosen the single hat option and tucked spare goggles up the leg of my wetsuit. Now, and only now that I was swimming, they’d decided to jab into my ankle causing me pain. Still, in an hour or so I’ll be able to remove them. There was a healthy swell, a lot of swimmers and the first buoy was somewhat distant – a mere speck. Every turn buoy was rather crowded but we were all on a tight schedule so no-one was particularly polite. I came out of the water after the first lap just in time to hear my name over the tannoy. Thankfully it wasn’t asking me to move my car or recover a lost child.

A glance at my watch, 41:40, not too bad all things considered. I remembered to put my goggles back on as I entered the second lap. Contact lenses and sea-water are unhappy bedfellows. This time the chop around the first buoy was quite something – almost wave-like and the turn onto the back straight finally brought some relief. Just to reward me and stop any complacency, pow! Jellyfish sting! Nose, lips, cheek and neck suddenly on fire. Ouch, ouch, ouch! I’d heard you’re meant to pee on jellyfish stings. Just how on earth are you meant to do that, on your face, surrounded by people, at sea, in a wetsuit? I suppose I could ask a fellow swimmer but thought it might come across as a strange request so I soldiered on. Being allergic to bee stings I had a sudden moment of panic. What are jellyfish stings ‘made of’? Was I about to suffer a severe allergic reaction, surrounded by people, at sea, in a wetsuit, attempting to pee on my face? Just whilst I was considering whether to have a major or minor panic attack or possibly just a brief lie down on a kayak, my right calf decided to cramp too. Doing my best, “oh thank you God, thank you so bloody much”, Basil Fawlty impression I resigned myself to possibly embarrassing myself on the swim leg and just kept swimming until the nightmare ended as let’s face it, it had to end eventually. I did wonder for a moment if I’d be in the papers…

Thankfully I came out of the water after 1:27 although I had swum 400m more than I was expecting. Whether that was inaccurate swimming, free mileage from Ironman or just jellyfish intoxication we will never know. Either way I was out and running for my pink bag as fast as my cramped legs would carry me. Jane was above my bag shouting words of encouragement. At least I think that was what she was shouting. It was hard to tell what with all the jellyfish venom coursing through my veins. I’d heard stories of loved ones placing little treasures in their partner’s pink bags. I little note perhaps, maybe a picture of the kids or even a sneaky Snickers. Mine just had the old shoes, bottle of tailwind and a porridge bar that I’d shoved in there earlier. Oh well, shoes on, run up the slope, take off wetsuit, gulp tailwind, eat porridge bar. Possibly one simultaneous task too many and I choked myself on porridge all the way past five arches and along South Cliff Gardens. Just at the point were everything started going grey, and I was remembering how to pronounce Heimlich, a massive cough and porridge explosion finally cleared my lungs and allowed breathing to resume with something approaching normality.

In my jellyfish frazzled state I mistook the previous day’s transition tent doors and ran the full length of the tent to get to my hook only to find it was behind me at the other end of the tent. Still, I guess I needed the exercise. The problem with being a swimmer just around the top end of the bell curve means that transition is full so there’s nowhere to sit while you get out of your wet stuff and prepare for cycling. So, much standing on one leg and trying not to fall over, finally resulted in a partial change of clothes, dry, talc’d socks, chafe-resistant undercarriage, suitable shoes and a groovy helmet that touched my sore nose and sore neck. As I’ve said before, my race starts once I come out of the swim, so my race was just about to start. Despite now having the opportunity to pee on my face I popped an antihistamine as a suitable alternative, grabbed my bike and made like a cyclist.

Despite joking about other riders in Barcelona I lost my CCC water bottle on the first descent out of Tenby, my small offering to the asphalt Gods, and with it some of my precious fuel. Like long course I’d chosen the Fuji TT bike as my weapon of choice and was expecting a solid performance from its carbon delights. We had a healthy south westerly which was challenging as it really took the edge off the fast roads out to Lamphey and later Castlemartin and Angle but gave little compensation in giving a helping push on the return leg. The nasty left-hander at St Petrox had claimed a victim as I went past and was all silver-foil blankets and blue lights. Deep rims acted like a sail meaning that sometimes you had to keep off the horns just to make sure you stayed on the bike. Sometimes you run out of road. Sometimes you run out of luck.

I can’t believe I had to shout at people on the Castlemartin road. Chatting! Side by side like a sportive. I think that’s ‘blocking’ (yellow card) and no marshal when you need one. Despite the rules, it wasn’t that far into the ride before you found field entrances full of bicycles and relieved gentlemen (red card). As I understand it, those of a more competitive nature have honed the ability to relieve themselves on the bike without stopping or even caring about their dignity. It’s a funny sport for sure. To be honest I have no issue with it provided they achieve or are close to achieving a qualifying slot for Kona, where every second counts. Otherwise they’re just, weird. Freshwater West was a struggle, particularly with the generously sanded road too and it was a relief to finally head inland again and feel the wind on your back even though I hadn’t made best advantage of the open stretches westbound. I took some comfort that it was going to affect everyone in the same way and take the edge of most bike times – not just mine. Having recce’d the bike course many times I was well familiar with the route now.

The familiar faces and team colours of Billy and Emma at Lamphey were a welcome surprise and then we started the gradual, undulating climbs that lead towards Narbeth. Off the Ridgeway the Coal Lane descent was flat having done this before, although it was still bumpy enough for my hydration tank to dribble all down my shorts. (Honest!). Whether this was also where the replacement rear bottle chose to part company I can’t possibly say. The right onto Locke’s Lane, with its muddy, gravelly surface was a buttock-clencher and my saddle’s groove closed in response. My teeth rattled all the way to St Florence and the left turn brought that traditional Welsh gift of leprechauns. The course familiarity meant the fast drops were fun but the climb out of Carew was on us now and it was effectively uphill to Bluestone. The ‘naked MILFs, next left, one mile’ was tempting but it would have been two miles out of my way and having done a cold sea swim and a fair bike ride the only think I could have helped them with was getting dressed.

By now I was getting bored of energy bars. Half a bar every half hour and a salt tablet every hour. Invariably the half hour alarm came just before a climb, in this case Templeton and I then had to try to feed before the drop and climb up to Narbeth. By the time the feed station arrived and I could replace my bottles, I was still chewing the last of my energy bar as the alarm sounded to eat again. I decided to switch to gels earlier than planned for no other reason than they’re consumed in an instant even if there’s a climb ahead. If you need to chew a gel then you’re doing something very wrong.

Wiseman’s Bridge was the next challenge but sometimes you just grin and bear it. I can’t do it without getting off the saddle but it is short and painful but with no lasting effects. Once over Wiseman’s it’s a fast descent to Coppet Hall Beach and at the very bottom my new water bottle saw its opportunity and escaped striking my ankle as it went. Up into and then through Saundersfoot and out into the crowds lining the climb up from St Brides to New Hedges. Wow! Talk about support! Riding into a wall of beer fuelled, fancy dressed, dragons, Stormtroopers, nuns and other energetic supporters was almost worth the pain of the ascent. The crowds parted to let the bikes through and there was no choice other than to just follow the chap in front and look as strong as you could. If you needed a little cry or a sit down it was going to have to wait. New Hedges was personal needs but I’d packed none for the bike, just couldn’t think of anything to stuff in there that I could possibly need. Legs and an engine would be fabulous but I’d checked and they weren’t allowed. The drop into Tenby was the familiar route but no stopping for a selfie at the sign.

I know my heart was in my mouth and I could taste which zone I was in.

Jane and Michael were on cheering duties at the roundabout at the top of Serpentine Road and then the route dropped down to Salterns, where a wall of Tri-ers lurked with banana, daffodil and clearly way too much alcohol… Lap 2 beckoned. The second loop, for some reason, is never quite as hard as the first. Ok, it’s shorter, obviously, but you’re also doing it on tired legs and there’s a marathon waiting just around the corner but even so it never quite feels so hard. Perhaps it’s me. Perhaps I subconsciously save a little just for the second loop knowing it’s there? I could over-analyse it until the proverbial cows come home but I won’t. By now I’m in a fixed routine of gels, tablets and heart rates. Everything is just following the numbers, ignoring the MILF sign for a second time and just watching the asphalt disappear. The pace has picked up slightly and the drop into Narbeth is astoundingly fast. I’m glad I’m wearing a helmet and don’t have hair as at those sort of speeds it would have been a week or so before I’d be able to comb it forwards again. I’m sure there were times when my wheels weren’t on the ground. I know my heart was in my mouth and I could taste which zone I was in.

Just the never-ending drag from Narbeth to Wiseman’s Bridge and quads are starting to sing a little. Pace is still good and I’m annoyed at the earlier head-wind. I can see the 6:30 target approaching and I’m still not at Wiseman’s. I do wonder how wise this wise man was as he had a hell of a walk, or cycle, up the hill once he’d done whatever he was doing at the bridge. Then it occurred to me that maybe his name was simply Wiseman and his ancestors had been the clever ones. I did notice that the pub had no apostrophe and that occupied and confused my thoughts until it was low gear and the last climb out of Wiseman’s and whatever it meant. Possibly hell would have been apt. Off the saddle, grind and pump, no chance of the legs playing the cadence game now and then the summit is in sight just above the man dressed as Little Bo Peep. This is not getting easier, 6:30 has slipped away and Saundersfoot still awaits. Saunders? Saunder’s foot? I give up…

St Brides for the last time, through the bouncy castle, less crowds now, less scrutiny, fewer Star Wars characters, more chance to weep and shout. I wasn’t letting 6:30 go without a fight though so it was a big push to New Hedges and then aero-bars all the way down to Tenby, legs complaining. The bike course runs parallel with the run course and it was already in full flow. I knew what was coming. It was at this point I remembered the school song and started a lonely refrain, “Oh Lord, please don’t burn us, don’t grill or toast your flock, don’t put us on the barbecue or simmer us in stock…”

The tiny sting in the tail was the final little climb up Greenhill Road from Salterns car park and into town. I’d forgotten it was coming and so had my now-suffering quads. I quickly remembered but my quads were slow on the uptake and moaned, groaned, shouted and complained all the way to the top. Some may call them ungrateful after all I’d done for them. T2 was surprisingly uneventful, no jellyfish and no desire to pee on my face. This time I remembered where my stuff was and everything went like clockwork, it was just a shame that my legs also felt like clockwork but despite that, in the blink of an eye I was positively bounding down South Cliff Gardens in lovely fresh socks, waving to anyone who recognised me. It was at this point, 50 metres into lap one that I remembered just how far a marathon was. I knew from previous events that the feeling of fatigue in the legs, straight off the bike, passes after a while but by the first climb out of Tenby I had the horrid dawning that my plan of running at a reduced pace was just a pipe dream. This was going to be an evening of run-walk at best, possibly embarrassing crawling if things didn’t pick up.

What was in no doubt now though was that I had plenty of time to complete a marathon even if I barely ran any of it. No way, disaster excepted, was I now not crossing that finish line. At the end of the first lap I came across the lumbering form of Damian just starting his first. Scott was up ahead somewhere but I hadn’t spotted him and Caz and Sarah were yet to finish the bike. Damian was running a similar pace and for a while we ran and walked together. I can’t remember us saying much, and if we did it was hardly earth-moving stuff, but it was nice to have company.

Lap 2 was not good. Running was clunky and not rewarding. Enthusiastic strangers kept shouting my name to encourage me but if anything it had the exact opposite effect. I folded my bib so that no-one could read my name. The only ones shouting now were going to be those that actually knew me and hadn’t simply developed altruism as part of their ten-hour drinking binge. It might sound ungrateful but a random stranger shouting, “you’ve got this!” at the half-way point in a marathon is hardly the stuff of inspiration, besides, something inside was not quite right.

Your body is so full of chemicals. Some positive, some negative and there’s a combined feeling of euphoria, confusion and fatigue.

Whether it was the day’s gels sloshing around or the added payload of Red Bull and Pepsi I don’t know but a porta-potti stop was scheduled just to be on the safe side. False alarm, aaah well, but sound use of the queue to do a little stretching and casual refuelling then off into lap three, now feeling a lot better despite having done nothing. It wasn’t long before I caught up Damian again but I now felt stronger and everything was feeling good to go. I couldn’t stay with him this time and pushed on with my new-found energy. Another Red Bull at New Hedges, another gel, another Pepsi, another arm band further down the hill and back into Tenby on solid legs and now carrying three bands. It was weird to be running past the swim start again but with the sun going down rather than coming up. It was difficult to accept it was the same day. A quick stop at personal needs to retrieve my spare socks and my chocolate milk. The socks I wanted, I’m not throwing away £10 socks! the chocolate milk sounded like a good idea – turns out it wasn’t. Way too thick. Two gulps and it flew bin-wards. Bon Appétit, bin.

Lap 4 is a game changer and even the start is slightly different. Despite three laps under the belt, lap 4 is just a simple 10k run, totally measurable, just another Tuesday night. Every landmark is now being passed for the last time. The lap three legs were still working as was the Red Bull. Your body is so full of chemicals. Some positive, some negative and there’s a combined feeling of euphoria, confusion and fatigue. I can’t remember seeing Damian again or Caz ever. I saw Scott once, possibly twice and seemed to see Sarah around every bend, closer each lap, hunting me down. Gosh it was exciting. Eventually they slipped a fourth band on my wrist and that meant I just had one Parkrun to do, possibly not at Parkrun pace, possibly not with so many Nordic walkers or dogs, but just a Parkrun all the same. The tired legs found that little extra, the bib was straightened, the form neatened up and despite having already ran towards it three times before, this time I was allowed to carry straight on to the red carpet rather than turning right onto the next lap.

I gave myself a little space for a quality finish line photo and broke the beam at 13:37, well inside my goal and fast enough to avoid doing it again!

It’s very difficult to explain the feeling of finishing an Ironman. It’s a challenge that scares me every time I think of it but there it was, done, dusted and in a rather acceptable time. Weirdly, that finish line magic could only burn for so long. The recovery tent looked like the plague was in town. Hunched bodies lined up on plastic chairs, shoulders draped in foil blankets, empty eyes, random sobs and an air of mourning. Unlike the beer-fueled party atmosphere we’d experienced in Barcelona this was flat and dead. It put me in mind of the Titanic survivors, crowded on the deck of the Carpathia, trying to get to grips with the ordeal they’d just experienced. If there’d been a string quartet playing “nearer my god to thee” it would have been just perfect. I didn’t belong there. I grabbed a pizza hunk and left the tent hoping to find the party outside.

What I actually found was an empty car park, toilets and the entrance to transition. On the bright side I did find Dan and the kids waiting for Sarah then Scott turned up moments later so we finally got to unload the day’s weighty, mental baggage. Once we’d found our respective partners, we retired to the finish line to find a beer and welcome the rest of the gang home. Even though the race is a culmination of an awful lot of training, it’s the training that seems in many ways to actually have been the most rewarding. For the last year we’ve ran and ridden hundreds of miles together, most of it not wearing any pants. We’ve had ups, we’ve had downs and we’ve eaten a lot of cake and a lot of gels. We’ve learnt how to travel with bicycles and we’ve amassed a lot of t-shirts. We have done, a lot…I’ve also achieved a level of fitness I could once only dream about. Long runs, long rides and even long swims are now just something you do without a second thought.

Love you all, Irongang.

You don’t just do an Ironman, you are an Ironman.