Ironman Zurich 2019

A tad late, this has been 4 years in the making, maybe the itch is beginning to come back? I really hope not...

If you've ever wondered what an Ironman feels like, or more specifically, a slightly undertrained Northern Englishman doing an Ironman in the searing heat of a Swiss summer feels like, read on...

This race also featured my girlfriend, Heather, who rather annoyingly did quite well. She smashed it, I err, did not smash it.

The first struggle came off the plane after landing in Zurich. We got some strength training done in the shape of lugging bikes from the airport, through the (highly efficient) train system, up an annoyingly steep hill before finally arriving at the accommodation.

Once there, we pulled out our bikes, crossing our fingers that they'd not been obliterated during the journey, and put them back together. Happy enough, we began carb loading and cautiously exploring the city. I'll save those details for the travel guides.

The next day we did a short cycle to test our handywork, and a short run to test our leggywork. Comfortable with that, we took the bikes down to the start line to set up transition. I tried to memorise the location of my bike amongst the sea of them, little did I know this would be the least of my worries the next day. We had a wander around the event and I bought a cycling top with the names of all the participants on it, a memory of an event I wasn't sure I'd want to remember.

In the evening we got a takeaway of my usual pre race feast, a massive Domino's takeaway - Swiss edition. Glorious as always. Carbs are carbs, right? After shamelessly devouring masses of pizza, we tried to work out how to stuff about 5000 calories worth of unappetising energy bars into tight fitting tri suits, got an early night and tried not to think about what lay ahead of us.

Morning came along with the nerves, at stupid o'clock we headed down to the race via Zurich's tram (also very efficient despite the massive crowds). Once there we headed to the lockers we were each given. We changed into wetsuits, dumped our stuff and nervously trudged into the flow of people shuffling towards the start line.

I'd forgotten my timing chip.

Mumbling what I'd done to Heather, I left her to it and swam upstream, grabbed my chip from the locker and attempted take #2. This time I made it to the start with everything I needed.

I'd expected to tear up crossing the finish line, I didn't expect to tear up waiting to start. I stood in a sea of hundreds of sky blue hats, beneath a daunting Ironman banner, and beyond the beautiful lake Zürich. 6 months of building up to this moment; turning down nights out and instead spending my weekend mornings doing gruelling 3 hour brick sessions, endless lengths in the pool trying to improve my technique with strange apparatus, almost force feeding myself porridge every morning, trying to avoid my boss as I crept into work at half 10 after a morning session, even stretching. Now it was time for the dedication to pay off.

The swim lasted approximately 23 days. It was point to point which was a small swim out, then basically 3 km in a straight line before coming back to shore further south. I'd not been too ambitious placing myself on the start line, so the beginning of the swim wasn't too hectic, a few flailing arms but I was conservative - I'd get them on the bike. We turned at a buoy and the long straight began. If it wasn't for other swimmers and buoys I'd be certain I'd swam off course somehow. It just never ended. I switched back and forth between letting my mind wander and concentrating on form. After involuntarily taking in plenty of water, I tried to wee at what felt like it must be near the end, partially to give myself something else to think about, but discovered this and swimming are mutually exclusive for me. Then alas, the turn appeared and I swam the final stint to the shore.

Crawling out of the water I felt like a slow fish evolving into a mammal, I started a slow jog towards transition, rammed some food down my gullet and had an annoying wee, counting the wasted seconds.

Onto the bike and I got far too excited. This is my jam. I tried so hard to not to sprint past everyone getting up to speed, vaguely succeeding but still went out too fast. The course was 2 laps, mostly flat with a couple of hills, one around halfway and the wonderfully named Heartbreak Hill right at the end of the lap. At the first hill I pushed reasonably hard, probably a mistake. Photos look great though. The downhill was a bit sketchy in the wet after it had apparently rained during the swim, 1 or 2 seemed to have binned it. Taking the descent carefully I then started trying to measure my effort heading towards the end of the first lap.

Approaching Heartbreak Hill I could see and hear the beginning of crowds of supporters, the atmosphere was electric. I got far too excited and danced up the hill overtaking everyone. A guy pointed at me shouting 'Super! Super!'. I felt like Geraint Thomas going up the Tourmalet.

Onto lap 2, away from the crowds and 90 km in, I began to ache, but it was manageable. I also begrudgingly had to stop for another wee. Reaching the first hill for the second time was where the ache turned into hurt. I struggled on, I wasn't having a great time now. I pushed on through the rest of the lap and towards Heartbreak Hill, where it was now a ghost town. I didn't dance up the hill, I zig zagged excruciatingly slowly. I wasn't 'super' this time.

I wasn't in a great state. It'll be better once I start running I thought, I just need a change of activity, a change of posture. Oh how wrong I was.

Into the second transition and I crawled off the bike like a mammal devolving back into a fish. I forced myself into a slow jog out of transition as the feeling in my arse started to reappear.

The run was 4 10k(ish) laps. The weather was 30 degrees plus. I felt really rough. I poured water over my face at every feed station. I shoved cold sponges down my back. I picked out every shaded part of the course - I was still melting. Towards the end of the first slow, slow lap of the outdoor sauna, Heather flew past me looking annoyingly good. Into the crowds at the start/finish I spotted my Mam and Sister who'd came out to support me, and who later asked why I wasn't smiling.

Just into the second lap I died. I couldn't run. I slowed to a walk. And it wasn't pain or tired legs which I'd argue I could run through. My body just refused to do it, it was the most bizarre feeling. With 30km left I thought "what's the point?" Walking 30km I'd barely make the time cut. To me, that's a failure anyway. So I laid down next to the aid station. That was it, I was done. If someone had asked me for the timing chip I'd have handed it to them. I just needed a lie down before dejectedly slouching back to the the main area. 6 months of dedication for this. And this is when I learned how much to appreciate volunteers. I'm getting emotional now, 4 years on, writing this. A woman came over, and I can't remember if there was any conversation at all, but she gave me a load of food, most importantly bouillon soup, which I would never have picked up. As I made my way through it, I started feeling better. Salt. That's why I couldn't move, why water was going straight through me, why my mental state was at rock bottom (I might want to rethink that Domino's strategy, or at least save a slice of 2 for the event). I slowly began perking up, I thought about having to tell people when I got back and they asked "how was the Ironman?" I'd have to tell them I failed. Then I decided I wouldn't fail. A 30km run? I can do that. I did one 2 weeks ago. 'I can do fucking do this.'

So I stood up, grabbed some pretzels and I ran. I did 20km, slow but not excruciatingly. By this point my body was really not happy with me, but this time it was just pain. I was on the final lap, I knew I'd done it. There were a few walk stints and the running pace and posture of Mr Burns from the Simpsons, but as I picked up both my pace and 4th bracelet indicating I'd completed all 4 laps a few hundred metres before the finish line, the joy was unreal.

As I entered the crowded section I high fived my Mam and Sister, and anyone else who wanted one. I turned onto the carpet and ran over the finish line with my hands outstretched out like a Bald Eagle. At least I thought I had. The photos show they were more slightly raised from my hip like a Sloth. I didn't tear up at the finish line, I had absolutely nothing left in me.

I'd done it. I'd finished. It wasn't the time I wanted. It wasn't the B time I wanted. But I finished. The best and worst thing I've ever done.

Never again...