THE first time I began to question my sanity was when I realised I was slap, bang in the middle of a large group of rubber and lycra wearing men, wet, sweating, swearing and panting, the sound of slapping flesh all around me.
Whilst this might be how some people like to spend their Saturday nights, it wasn’t how I imagined I’d be spending my Saturday afternoons…
But there I was, pounding up the hill in Dunmore East having made it out of the sea in my second-ever triathlon – Hook or By Crook. At least I hadn’t drowned, I suppose (though when I headed off way wide of the final marker, adding a couple of minutes onto my time, sinking without trace seemed a distinct possibility).
Given my lack of experience and my preference for wearing socks on the bike and run legs of the triathlon, my transitions are pretty relaxed affairs – five minutes long and time to have a quick chat with the lads next door, though the chap to my right with the prosthetic arm was long gone by the time I arrived at my steed.
Apart from the occasional irate motorist, the group of lads drafting behind a coach and having to stop to allow a car in front of me turn off the road, the cycle was grad.
My decision to bring a banana with me however, suddenly seemed faintly ridiculous. I was busting myself, so when was I even going to get a chance to eat it? I had a go on one flat stretch, but the road quickly rose and turned, leading me to push the half-eaten piece of fruit down the front of my tri-suit.
Not a good look, though I later found out from two girls from the club, who will remain nameless, that they raced with half a pack of jellies and a five euro note in their bras respectively, so then I didn’t feel so bad.
I was hoping that the run would be the strongest part of my race and so it turned out, though there were a few dark moments on the road too. The first stretch out of the town is a nasty uphill drag and barely able to lift my legs up the incline I promised myself I was never doing one of these ridiculous events again. I was going to stick to carrying the water for the football team instead.
But then I saw Anthony Mulholland bombing down the same hill towards the finish and I pulled myself together. I saw Piranha and, more importantly, Belpark suits up the road ahead of me and I made it my mission to pass as many as I could before the end.
I caught up with Gareth Robinson (who was actually seven minutes ahead of me, having started in the old man wave behind us young bucks) and we pretty much stuck together for the rest of the course, encouraging and urging each other on. Gareth was barely able to get the words out he was pushing himself so hard, but I have to thank him for making me leave it all out there on the course.
At the end I saw Anthony over another banana and a badly needed bottle of water in the nearby caravan park. Having asked where he finished he told me fifth. I noted I had counted only three finishers in front of him and that’s when he said the winner had probably finished the run by the time I got on the course. Ouch!
The feeling of euphoria that swept over me at the finish as I celebrated with my fellow Piranhas and cheered our club-mates home was something special. It was just a shame that work on Sunday meant I couldn’t stay in Waterford for the night. Roll on King of the Hill.
PS – The day got even better when I got the biggest 99 cone in the world on the drive home!
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