Czechman 2019

A year rolled around and I found myself back on the course at Czechman, a half Ironman (1.9 km swim, 90 km bike, 21.1 km run), even though every year I tell myself never again. Last season I tasted defeat there and got a second helping at another race. This time I really didn’t plan to start. My goal was, and still is, a full Ironman. That’s what I’d been training for, and for a long time there was no room in the plan for Czechman. I started training systematically the previous October. Since then I’d had a few unforgettable experiences that brought me to the start line.

Last season left a bad taste and a few deep scratches on my sporting pride. Don’t get me wrong. If you stay healthy and still enjoy moving, that’s a success. The result was still lousy. My disappointment was proportional to the effort I’d put into training and what I had to show for it. I’d secretly hoped to go under five hours at both half Ironmans. I didn’t come close. At the race that capped my season I clocked 5:28:32. Keep that time in mind.

A triathlon season isn’t like football, where you get another chance almost every weekend. In middle-distance triathlon you get two or three shots a season because you have to build and peak for each race. An exceptional few can race as often as a local football team plays. My problem was the bike. I was running well, with a standalone half marathon of 1:24. But after 90 km in the saddle, the fastest I could run was about 1:45. In theory, adding eight percent puts me around 1:30. I wasn’t just slow off the bike. I was slow on it as well. A bad combination. In fact, the worst.

One story sums up how well the bike was going. Around kilometre 80 I was wobbling along near the back, or at least it felt that way. A handcyclist passed me. I got annoyed and did something unsporting. I tucked in behind his rear wheel, or wheels in his case. Drafting, or hiding behind someone to reduce air resistance, isn’t allowed. Then it dawned on me that it didn’t make sense physically either. I stuck up nearly two metres and he was no more than a metre off the ground. I tucked my tail in and let him go. When I told my training friends, one drew me a picture, dedication and all.

I’d been working on the bike since October. One autumn day I went on a four-hour ride. For the first time my feet got so cold I couldn’t feel them when I walked, and it took a good half hour in a lukewarm bath to thaw them out. From November through February I did all my bike training indoors. I even made a habit of pedalling for three hours while staring at the wall.

From about February I started going outdoors again. Rides with my training group were my favourite. I don’t have many stories, unless you count the time I punctured about four times on one ride and the guys bought me a beer and a little Czech coffin-shaped pastry. It wasn’t to make me feel better. They hoped I’d get diarrhoea and they could lose me for the rest of the ride. Even a small rise in the road turned into a sprint. When the power meter said 750 W I wondered whether we were getting carried away. My legs were definitely getting stronger.

[A private aside has been omitted.]

A running partner regularly kept me company in the evenings. Once I turned round, got a fright and wanted to bite into a tree and pretend to be a branch so he wouldn’t notice me and would just keep running.

We’d leave home for the track or park to do fartlek sessions and longer runs. At first my partner trailed behind me like a flag in the wind. In time we became evenly matched and knocked out sets of 800 metres like kings. We talked a lot about food. I let myself be educated about what to eat, what to avoid and when.

Once we agreed to do 90 minutes each on the trainer followed by a 90-minute run. My partner finished first and had to wait. As we set off he told me he’d eaten a full plate of spaghetti ten minutes before a long run. I couldn’t believe my ears and set a metronomic 4:20 pace from the start. Before long he looked green, and I couldn’t tell whether it was the food or fear of asking me to slow down. Of course I wouldn’t have slowed down. I made him suffer, but he has my respect for getting through it. He paid me back with interest on the bike a few times.

Swimming was, and still is, my weak spot. Here too I added longer intervals and temporarily added an extra session. My endurance improved substantially. I also worked on technique, had myself filmed, looked at the footage and worked on what needed fixing. Seeing my own clumsiness really helped.

We did introduce one improvement, almost a torture device: a beeper that goes off at a set interval. Set the time for one length, tuck it under your cap and start it. If you want 100 metres, or four lengths, in two minutes, set it for 30 seconds and try to reach the wall on each beep. One friend doesn’t need any of that. He finds the fastest swimmer in the pool and hangs on for dear life.

That works when we have the pool to ourselves. But he once found out that drafting wasn’t such a good idea during a national-team session. At the turn the coach had to wave him off with a flipper to keep him from disrupting practice. He took it in stride and calmly asked when he’d be training with the first team.

I’m trying to remember other swimming stories. I slept through my alarm for a few sessions and took a taxi. One time I felt I could have walked to the pool faster. I haven’t gone that way since.

And here we are in May 2019.

It had been a long build-up. A friend was trying to persuade me to liven it up with Czechman. He reckoned it would be a brisk training session that would leave us fresh as a spring garden without disrupting our full Ironman preparation. We went into it more or less straight out of training, without tapering.

Having learned from earlier failures, I didn’t want to repeat them. The forecast promised a fine summer day, so I wasn’t going to skimp on fluids. A lovely team tri suit arrived, but the day before the race I discovered it had no pockets. In our group you have no friends, only opponents.

Out comes the tape to stick a Snickers and a flapjack to the frame. I squeeze four gels into a bottle and dilute them. No bonking, please. I pack another gel and a cap for the run, a winter one but with a visor. I didn’t want to update any software. It hadn’t occurred to me that on a bike with more electronics than my car, an update could happen without my knowledge. The shop had updated the firmware for the electronic shifting. I nearly lost it. The day before the race!

[Personal details omitted.] At registration I collect my number and calmly set up in transition. No rushing about. Of course, incapable of learning my lesson, I buy compression sleeves to try for the first time during the race. At the expo someone asks whether the heart is still our strongest muscle this year. We’re baffled until we realise our line made it into last year’s official video.

A friend from the training group came to cheer us on. We tease him for sticking to small local races and saying he’s retired. He still made time for us. I hope he doesn’t regret not starting.

I visit the portable toilets about three times. Pre-race nerves have arrived. An hour and a half before the start I tuck into pasta. Then a banana and some water. A few minutes to go. Where are my goggles? In storage. Just minutes left. Give me the damn wetsuit, I need to warm up in the water. One last pee? No time. Zip up the wetsuit.

Off we go, 749 other athletes and me. It’s a meat grinder all the way to the first buoy, 800 metres out. I take a kick behind my left ear that would make a martial artist proud. On the way to the second buoy I see an arm doing something strange. Am I seeing things? It can’t be. The guy next to me is doing backstroke. Some kind of joke, surely. Keep going. Nobody is going to believe this. I must be in great shape if I’m being chased by a guy swimming backwards. This beats the handcyclist. Was it the handcyclist after all? The question goes unanswered because there are only 400 metres left. I kick more to get my legs moving before the bike. I come out somewhere in the middle of the field. Neither good nor bad.

I run through transition and get on the bike. Now what? Ride conservatively, as one friend suggests, or go all in as the others recommend? Their motives are clear. They’re rivals first. One has advice on everything from gearing to chemtrails, despite never having raced. Another simply doesn’t know how to ride any way but flat out.

To hell with it. I’ll go all in, close to 85% of FTP, the theoretical maximum for the distance. I still have doubts because I can’t imagine running well after that. At the first aid station they give me a plastic bottle instead of a cycling bottle. I hit a rough patch and my adductor hurts. A Snickers and my concoction pull me through. Over the last 20 km I forget about average power and push for a 2:40 bike split, so at least I’ll feel good about it. I don’t actually know my time during the race.

In transition I change shoes and fight with my helmet, losing precious seconds. I put the cap low on my forehead and run out into the heat. I check the watch: 3:30 elapsed. The maths is simple. To break five hours I have to run the half marathon in 1:30. Make it 1:29 for a little margin.

I remember from Uncle Google that I need a 4:17 pace for 1:30. My fastest half marathon at Czechman was 1:46, right? Nothing to lose. Two thirds of the course are in the shade, which works in my favour. I set a metronomic 4:13 pace to leave some room.

It feels strange, but I’m passing the other runners as if they were in slow motion. Good. [Private details from the spectators’ encouragement have been omitted.]

The bad patch doesn’t come. I take a gel at kilometre twelve just in case. My heart rate is rock steady. This could work if I don’t overcook the pace, cramp up or get an upset stomach from the gels. I pass someone I know and only notice when he starts cheering me on. Everyone has their own cross to bear.

Another kilometre. It’s flying by today. With four kilometres left I see a friend and it’s clear that at least he’ll break five hours. I shout encouragement, though he hardly looks as if he needs it. Spectators probably think the person yelling has just gone mad.

I speed up again. If you’re going to hell, go on a proper horse. My legs feel indestructible and I know I’m going to make it. I can hear the announcer at the finish. I cross the line in 4:58:56 and the barrier between the runners and the crowd finally stops me. Then I go for a massage. 113th place, the 20th-fastest run, under five hours, half an hour faster than last year. [Private family details omitted.] Could the day have gone any better?

And that handcyclist beat me again. By six minutes. You won’t get away next year! I’ll settle the score with the guy who swam backstroke as well.