It Was Never Really About the Triathlon
Back in the first blog I admitted that I’d been talking about doing a triathlon for years. Talking was the easy bit.
This is the first blog in the series that I’ve written after actually completing one.
Back in December, when I signed up for the Felixstowe Triathlon, I thought I was committing myself to one event. Complete the race, tick it off the list, collect a medal and move on to the next slightly ridiculous idea.
Seven months later I realised I’d got that completely wrong.
The triathlon was never really the destination. It was simply the excuse. The reason to get out of bed before work, to stop making excuses, to lose weight, to push myself physically and mentally and, perhaps most importantly, to discover that at the age of 56 I was still capable of changing my life.
I also discovered that the phrase “available in your size” and “looks good on you” are two entirely different conversations.
Looking back through the previous five blogs is quite an odd experience. In the beginning there was plenty of enthusiasm but very little evidence that I had any real idea what I was letting myself in for. I could cycle reasonably well, couldn’t really swim and certainly wasn’t a runner. In fact, I remember writing that I wasn’t sure I’d ever enjoy running. I still wouldn’t go that far, but at least we’ve reached the point where I no longer look at a pair of trainers as instruments of torture.
Swimming remained the biggest challenge throughout. Being blind down one side, deaf down the other and not particularly keen on putting my face underwater wasn’t exactly the ideal starting point. There were sessions where I swallowed more pool water than seemed physically possible, drifted across lanes like an abandoned ferry and generally provided entertainment for anyone else unfortunate enough to be sharing the pool.
Gradually, though, something changed. The panic disappeared, confidence grew and by race day I knew I could complete the swim. Not quickly. Not stylishly. At no point did anyone mistake me for an Olympian. But I knew I’d get to the other end without swallowing half the pool or ending up in somebody else’s lane, which counted as success in my book.
The cycling, by contrast, became something I genuinely fell back in love with. Suffolk looks very different when you’ve spent hundreds of miles riding around it before most people have had breakfast. Quiet lanes, empty roads, beautiful sunrises and the occasional reminder that what looked like a gentle incline on the map was actually the north face of the Eiger.
I also discovered that cyclists become strangely obsessed with the weather. I remain convinced that no matter which direction you ride, the wind is somehow always in your face. Science really ought to investigate this because it simply cannot be a coincidence.
Running probably surprised me more than anything else. The first few attempts were little more than organised shuffling, punctuated by frequent negotiations with my lungs. Then came ParkRun. I wasn’t quick, I certainly wasn’t competitive, but I was there. The important thing wasn’t where I finished; it was that I’d become somebody who turned up. Admittedly, I often arrived looking as though I’d already completed the marathon rather than the warm-up, but I turned up. That felt like a much bigger victory than any finishing position.
The statistics tell part of the story. More than 250 training sessions. Thousands of kilometres covered across swimming, cycling, running and walking. Significant weight loss. Clothes bought from ordinary shops instead of specialist ones. Those are achievements I’m immensely proud of, but they’re only part of what happened. The washing machine also deserves a mention. I don’t think it had ever processed quite so much sweaty sports kit in such a short space of time.
The biggest change wasn’t physical at all. It was mental.
For years I’d talked about doing a triathlon in exactly the same way people talk about learning a language, writing a novel or travelling the world. Nice ideas that somehow never quite escaped the conversation stage. This time was different. Gemma and Louise stopped me talking and persuaded me to sign up. Katie once again supported another of my increasingly ambitious ideas without ever suggesting I might have completely lost the plot. From that moment on there was only one option: keep turning up.
It turns out consistency is a remarkable thing. Not motivation, because motivation comes and goes. Not talent, because I’ve never claimed to possess much athletic ability. Just the simple act of putting one session after another until one day you look back and realise you’re capable of things that would have seemed impossible only a few months earlier.
Race day itself almost became secondary. Crossing the finish line was emotional, partly because of the achievement but also because it marked the end of something that had become part of everyday life. The strange thing was that, within twenty-four hours, I wasn’t wondering whether I’d ever do another one. I was wondering which one would come next.
The medal is lovely, and it’ll sit proudly alongside the other two things I’ve won in my life. One is a bottle of wine that Leighton Smart “acquired” from a German service station back in 1997 after I somehow won Man of the Match for Felixstowe Labour Club in a 13-1 defeat against a very good Wesel side. I only conceded six goals, all in the second half; Geezer (Browny) let in seven during the first half, so technically I edged it. The other is a Rail Freight Group runners-up award for Long Standing Achievement in the rail industry. It’s fair to say the trophy cabinet has never exactly been overflowing.
Finally, Thank You
One thing these blogs probably haven’t reflected enough is that, while only one person crossed the finish line, an awful lot of people helped get me there.
It all started with Louise and Gemma. Seven months ago they planted the seed that eventually became this whole adventure. Louise was one of the people who refused to let me keep talking about doing a triathlon and instead persuaded me to actually enter one. Gemma then went one step further, becoming my unofficial coach throughout the journey. Her advice, encouragement and occasional reality checks were invaluable. Whenever I was convinced I was getting something wrong, she was there with practical guidance, quiet reassurance and just enough belief to keep me moving forward. I genuinely don’t think I’d have reached that finish line without her.
The cycling would have been a much lonelier experience without Scott and Giggsy. Those long rides around Suffolk were never just about adding miles to the training log. They were about good company, plenty of laughs and, on more than one occasion, helping drag each other through a headwind that seemed determined to send us all back to Felixstowe. Sharing those miles made them far more enjoyable than they would ever have been on my own.
The staff and regular swimmers at Felixstowe Leisure Centre also deserve a huge thank you. They probably witnessed more of my swimming disasters than anyone else. From the early sessions where simply surviving a few lengths felt like an achievement, to gradually building enough confidence to believe I could actually complete the swim, they were always encouraging, always supportive and always happy to ask how things were progressing. They also mastered the art of politely pretending not to notice when I emerged from the pool looking as though I’d just survived a shipwreck.
The ParkRun community deserves a special mention too. If you’ve never been to one, it’s difficult to explain just how welcoming they are. It doesn’t matter whether you’re chasing a personal best or wondering if you’ll ever reach the finish line, the encouragement is exactly the same. Complete strangers cheering you on somehow makes those last few hundred metres a little easier every single time. They helped turn running from something I dreaded into something I actually looked forward to.
Then there is everyone else. My wife Katie, who once again supported another one of my increasingly ambitious ideas without ever suggesting I might have completely lost the plot. Friends, family, colleagues, everyone who donated, everyone who sent messages of encouragement, everyone who stood on the seafront cheering on race day and everyone who simply stopped to ask how training was going.
You all became part of this journey.
Together we’ve also raised over £4,000 for Felixstowe Radio and Great Ormond Street Hospital Children’s Charity. Long after the medal has gathered dust, that money will still be making a difference. In many ways, that’s the achievement I’m proudest of.
So, was it worth it?
Absolutely.
Every early morning. Every aching muscle. Every cold bike ride. Every mouthful of swimming pool water. Every run where my lungs and legs were having a heated disagreement about whose fault this all was.
The medal is lovely, and it’ll sit on my unit gathering dust like medals tend to do. But the real prize is that I no longer have to persuade myself to exercise. Somewhere over the last seven months it simply became part of who I am.
If you’d told me last Christmas that I’d voluntarily be getting up at five o’clock in the morning to go swimming before work, I’d have laughed. Then I’d probably have gone back to bed.
Yet here we are.
Seven months ago I was somebody who talked about doing a triathlon.
Today I’m a triathlete.
And that’s a sentence I never imagined I’d be able to write.
Now… what’s next?
