I don’t know whether it was recklessness or just plain stupidity, but I pressed the REGISTER NOW button and signed up for a half iron man. Big deal, you say. Triathlon is the sport du jour and hundreds, no thousands of New Zealanders compete in half iron man-distance triathlons every year.
Photo: Katie Cox
But I’m a normal person. And as a rule, half iron man athletes aren’t normal. You can tell by the way their calf muscles ripple in the sunlight. You can tell from the permanent tan lines high up on the thighs and the distinct smell of chlorine as they lean over your shoulder.
A half iron man consists of a 2km swim, 90km cycle and 21.1km run. That’s just one person completing all three disciplines, ideally before lunchtime.
I paid my $275 entry fee and joined the Port of Tauranga Half Facebook group, which soon informed me I’d be “racing” the country’s top Iron Man athletes, Joanna Lawn, Cameron Brown, Terenzo Bozzone, etc.
And the crazy part? I entered just eight weeks before race day, giving myself two months to transform from a casual back-of-the-pack triathloner into a half iron woman.
Gulp.
First, a disclaimer. I can run. Slowly but surely, I can whack out a half marathon (21.1km) on a Saturday morning no problem. Other than that, I’m a terrible swimmer, barely a cyclist and enjoy chocolate far too much to ever have the lean physique of a real athlete.
I also proudly maintain a homemade form of “training”. No coaches, no swish gadgets, no specialist gear. And that way, there’s no pressure to do anything other than splash, cruise and plod my way to the finish.
Eight weeks didn’t give me a lot of time. I figured it was too late to join a swim squad or cycle group or any of that malarkey. Forget downloading an online programme to steadily build speed and stamina. As for a coach, *snort*, pull the other one.
Sticking to my homemade tactics, I devised a simple, yet cunning plan. Beyond work, I would run, swim, cycle and sleep.
The first of my three alarms would tinkle at 5:15am every weekday for some form of training. Then, three out of five weeknights would be another hour or so, energy levels and weather pending.
Weekends were dedicated to whopper sessions. Typically, after four or five hours on the road, I’d return home, scoff some carbs, cancel the afternoon’s planned social activity and fall asleep before I even peeled off the Lycra.
After a few whopper sessions I realised I’d crossed the line. I was becoming a not normal person.
Normal people don’t wear spandex in bed. Normal people don’t consume gel shots and call it “nutrition”. Normal people don’t wonder whether the extra weight of nail polish will impact negatively on their cycle time.
I couldn’t hide my new, bizarre lifestyle. For starters, I’d yawn my way through social outings. At work, my business clothes were complemented by chain grease on my leg, and goggle marks around my eyes.
Though it was the emotional guff though that I threw me. I couldn’t for the life of me cope with training and the daily hiccups of life.
A malfunctioning brand new laptop threw me into utter despair. I was forced to forego what felt like a crucial swim session, to deal with the misbehaving gadgetry. I combated the frustration with junk food. Guilt, exhaustion and an overwhelming sense of failure rained down on me. I think I cried three times that day.
But I didn’t feel like a real athlete either.
I was doing everything wrong. I shouldn’t have been eating scones and chocolate for dinner, but darn it, that’s what I wanted. I didn’t have time to fix my training or nutrition plan, and I stubbornly clung to the challenge of doing things my way.
When the big day finally arrived, so too did the panic. I was surrounded by bronzed, well-muscled people in very serious, very streamlined, sports gear. No doubt about it, I was out of my league.
Ten minutes before the start, I got chatting with Kat from Hamilton. This was her first time too, and was a touch nervous. She was a swimmer, and was dreading the run.
Then I got talking to some older ladies who were trying to locate the buoys that marked the swim course. No one seemed
Photo: Katie Cox
bothered we couldn’t spot them, in fact they were laughing.
The more I spoke to the athletes the calmer I felt.
Calm. That’s good when you’re face down in the water and have people swimming over top of you.
The water too was calm, and unlike my training spot in Wellington Harbour, free of jellyfish. My only dilemma was locating those darn buoys to swim around. Not such a minor detail as hoped.
Before I knew it I was on my bike, aka “The Tank”. I pedalled my little heart out and was passed by yet more people. People with bigger quads and smaller bikes.
After a solid 4 hours, seven-time New Zealand Iron Man champion Joanna Lawn was running the final stretch of the half marathon, and at the same time I was pulling in with my bike. The crowd cheered her/me on: “Go Jo!”
I beamed.
Photo: Helen Williams
The run was my time to shine. And I did, once I got through the first 16km. That’s when I realised I was going to survive, and soon, very soon, I could have a lie down and a medal.
I finished in 6:15. Elated, sunburnt, chaffed and a bit wobbly on my feet. Now I felt like a half iron woman.
This article appeared in the Sunday Star-Times “Sunday” magazine (3 Feb 2013). For the published article please click see the two PDFs under the same title in the “Flash_Widgets” sidebox on the right-hand side of this page.
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