The Big Day

Swim – 19.07mins/ Half a mile

Bike – 41.18mins/ 14 miles

Run – 22.16mins/ 3 miles

Total time: 1:25:18

There were razor-sharp cheekbones, jagged jaw lines and muscled tummies. There were fancy bikes and work-of-art helmets. These were the tri people and their things.

After months of training on my own, I was amongst a throng of hundreds. I stood in line, waiting to be drawn on. The race start was imminent. Anticipation zinged. I stood shoulder to shoulder with the tall and small, the wide and slight, the young and the old. The tri people came in all kinds of packaging.

Just below the varicose veins on the backs of my knees, a woman etched my race number on one leg, my age on another. I wasn’t sure why. Lord, I still didn’t properly know how to change bike gears or indeed, what pedal cadence actually meant. But I was now a tri person – I had the black ink to prove it.

A little before 7am we walked a half mile along the beach to the swim start. Tri people chattered in clusters but I was grateful for the time on my own – to take in the seam of inky pink seeping into the horizon, feel the scratch of pebbly sand, hear the lash of surf.

We were dispatched in waves – marked by different coloured swim caps. The elite people went first, followed by men. Then it was time for us, the green-capped girls. Women 39 and under.

We bobbed gently on the lulling waves, speckled green dots. I swam out further, to where the lifeguard stood on his paddle board marking the boundary. I wanted to take the swim wide, get away from the thick scrum of hungry women scrambling around the buoy.

There was momentary peace and still amongst those green, foamy waves. Then the countdown. My stomach cartwheeled. Go....

My arms sliced, legs propelled. Eyes wide and frantic under goggles. Other green caps thrashed ahead of me. I felt a jellyfish sting. My pace slackened. I couldn’t find rhythm, kept unwittingly veering off to the lifeguard dotted boundary. I realised then I was amongst other colours of hats, ones that had gone before me – whites, yellows, blues. It spurred me on.

The crowd on the beach was in sight. I curled round the last buoy, headed back to shore. Three men in front blocked my swim path. I growled inside, lurched right and went out wide for the final time, passing them. Feet felt pebble.

I jogged up the beach, found my bike, guzzled water while shoving damp feet into socks and shoes. I tripped mounting the bike, my water bottle rolled into another rider’s path. I snatched it up. Shit, sorry...

I heard clanks of gear changes, then the wind whistling. The bike was on. Tiny arm hairs stood white  with salt from the bay. Men sped past me. Then a girl in a fancy helmet. I pedalled on, allowed my breathing to ebb and flow. I found rhythm I never really found in the swim, felt legs strengthen and beat faster.

Now it was me doing the passing. I wasn’t afraid of this bike anymore, I felt confident and forceful on it. A man with thick, black armpit hair sped up alongside me, then pulled in front, slowing me. I growled again, overtook him. Bugger off. This continued for a mile, my growl began to bark. I thrust past him for a final time and raced on. I didn’t notice armpit hair again.

There was a hill. Steep, lengthy. Killing. I’d become entwined in a man pack but as the speed tapered off, I surged forward. By the time I reached the top I was at a crawl, barely able to spin a wheel. Thighs and ass screamed. I’d spent myself. The man pack whistled by me again. I couldn’t have this.

I came back at them. We settled together. Signs read ‘slow down’. Fourteen miles were coming to an end. A crowd thickened, cheering and clapping. A sign read ‘dismount’. Ass and thighs sighed with relief as I hung up the bike without fault in Transition 2. A volunteer handed out water. I drank greedily.

Legs were tight and dull as I began the run. I willed them to move. My steps thudded as I snaked up the hill. The path was divided – to my left were tri people returning from the run. They looked fit and capable. I hated them a little. Their journey was almost at an end and three long miles were stretched ahead of me. Maybe just walk a little? No!....

A mile and a half in, strength returned to my legs. They felt fluid and loose. I saw black numbers marked on legs in front of me. A man my age, another man younger, one much older. I began to pass them. Suddenly I was on the left of the line. I was the one returning from the run. This was almost done. A man ran in just a pair of Speedos. Despite everything I giggled.

Back down the hill, gathering momentum. I heard the pulse of music at the finish line, the thump of my own heart – strong but tired. I marked out a blonde girl in front, decided to beat her to the finish Passing her, she cheered me on. I had this.

We rounded the corner. At the top of the hill was the Montauk Lighthouse, the finish. The crowd was thick and smiling on each side. The blonde girl passed me. But I was searching for faces I knew in the crowd. Then I saw them – my husband, my girls. Smiling, cheering. Mummy....

I crossed the finish line. Alive. Exhilarated. Exhausted. I wanted to share this triumph with my family but I needed a moment first to take it in. I looked out to the sea beyond the lighthouse and the rain-washed sky shrouding it. My chest heaved with the weight of this feat.

This was the End but also the Beginning. At 36 years old I had found my sport. There would be more of these – I knew that for sure then.

But there would never be the thrill again of this, my first triathlon. Of not knowing what to expect and the sea, salt and sweat I’d tasted discovering it.

I kissed my husband and kids. I pinned my race number on E’s shirt. Little P prodded the black numbers still loud on my legs.

Proudly, I wore that ink on my skin for the rest of the day. I was a tri person now.....

The blonde beat me to the finish...



Victory hugs







Support team. Pink Croc style.

A Different Kind Of Glory

When I was little I went to a school where we wore our names printed loudly across white sports shirts. The letters were velvety to touch and you could choose the colour and size of font.

My family lived in Malaysia then. I was just seven but remember the thrill of wearing that t-shirt on humid, sticky school Sports Day. I cleaned up at the track events, collected medals and trophies, stood on a podium and felt adored by the crowd. I was pumped. Everybody knew my name. It was written across my shirt...

So much life has happened since those dreamy early school days. There have been first loves, lost loves, cigarettes and a passport full of inky stamps. There has been illness, loss, terrible hurt. There have been bullies. And bitter, regretted words. Then there has been laughter – knicker-wetting, muscle-hurting laughter. There has been friendship – the thrill of new ones, the joy of old ones, the sad, muted passage of dying ones.

There has been fear, doubt and rage. Loss of hope. There have been bad mistakes and very good ones.

There have been beautiful words, love notes and delicious scribbles in school books. There have been weddings, and one in particular. There have been vows. There have been two beautiful babies.

There is much still to come. But to date, I am not yet the adult confident enough to wear that t-shirt. Life has bashed me a little, chipped away at this and scratched away at that. Put me in my place. I am over sensitive and too full of doubt. I lose the rag at my kids. I worry too much about what people think and too little about what I think. I cry too easily – usually at television commercials.

But through the creaks, groans and treasures of life I’ve had these things - my legs, this heart, these lungs. This mind.

After giving up smoking I ran. When I had my heart broken I ran. When I didn’t get that job, I pulled on running shoes and ran. When I felt lonely in a new place I ran. While my belly swelled with new life I swam. When I was overweight after having my babies I ran. When I couldn’t be bothered I ran. When I didn’t think I’d ever run again, I surprised myself and ran – it wasn’t far but it was a start.

I’d feel the pacing of my heart, the stretch of my lungs and the strength of my mind.

And this is what I tell myself. That though I am flawed, I am also determined. For the past three months I have trained on my own for a triathlon. I’ve had no coach, running group or swimming buddy. I’ve just had me.

In a few days time I’ll be one of hundreds standing on a beach at 7am ready to tackle this thing. There will be nothing that stands me out from the crowd except my number, etched in black ink on my arm and leg. There will be no t-shirt bearing my name. And nowadays, that’s how I like it.

Determination is silent but solid. It cannot simply be measured by medals, trophies or where you stand on the podium, if you get there at all.

I will finish this thing I started no matter how much it hurts. I will be knocked, scuffed and possibly a little drowned but I will come back. I may fall off my bike but I will climb back on. The seat of my tri-suit may well split and those behind me will just have to put up with a view of my fish-belly-white bum, poor souls. I will most probably arse up the transitions but I’ll keep going...

Now, how do you fit all that on a t-shirt?....

The One To Beat

She wore all black. Crop top and running shorts. Her shoulders were slick from heat and there was a pink to her skin. Her warm-up was determined, stretches nimble and sleek. Even her short ponytail bobbed with purpose. She was my One to Beat.

Over three hundred pairs of running shoes jostled at the start of this, the Southampton 8K Firecracker road race. The air was clammy, oven hot and zinging with anticipation. A strangled breeze struggled to lift the dozens of flags lining the main street.

Amongst a sea of runners, I’d lost her. I’d burrowed myself in the middle of the pack for the start, confident I’d find her again. She wasn’t one of the finely-tuned looking, six-pack bearing heavy-hitters who’d no doubt win the race. She had the look of a mother who ekes out what little time she has to train. She was my One.

After a mile I’d found her. I’d peeled off from the middle, felt a surge passing fellow runners, clambering my way forward. She was still some distance ahead, running in a man pack. Around her there was bulging muscle, shaved heads, taut calves, wet skin.

I inched closer as the man pack began dwindling. She kept constant, strong, but the macho muscle mass cushioning her was slowing. I passed the men, heard spitting, puffing and exasperation.

It was around mile 2 when I passed her. As I approached, I sensed her struggle – lingering feet, slack shoulders. We had no shade and the road beneath was leaching heat. I was tiring too. But I had to pass her and get beyond. She was my One.

Ten minutes later my body too was slack. I could feel the dull thud of weary running shoes thumping humid Tarmac.

Then she was there. I saw her shadow first. Nimble legs casting strong lines on the road. I heard female grunting. She wasn’t letting me get away with this.

For a while we ran alongside each other, languishing briefly in the shade of trees lining the streets. We said nothing but the competition was on. She slipped in front of me and we ran like that, safe for a while. Her purposeful ponytail rocked from side to side. No one was making the first move.

But then she did. She inched further forward. Her shoulders seemed strong again, feet lighter. I knew I couldn’t follow her then and part of me gave up a bit. My muscles stung, my throat creaked with thirst. I was sagging. The give-up side of me said she could have this one.

But the stay-strong side knew I had one card left. She slid further and further away but I kept her in sight. She passed two other girls. I knew she’d moved on from me. She had other Ones to Beat.

I cornered the last bend. I knew the crowd would be there soon. My kids, husband, brother - their cheers. I needed them now. Even my stay-strong side was losing courage.

They came into view. I made out glee on my kids’ hot, sticky faces. The finish line was 150 metres away. She was 50 metres from it.

I heard my family and dug deep. Legs lost their ache, propelled forward. Rigid arms locked at my side began to power. In this sagging, worn, sweat-splattered body, I’d cobbled together a sprint. Something ignited in my belly.

Passing her I shot a final glance at that ponytail, those shoulders. I’m sure I heard her mumble ‘sprint finish’.

She was my One to Beat. And I did. Until the next time....

The white-sandalled cheering squad did good

Commitment Shy?

The Big Day is two weekends away. Really. I sort of told myself that after all the visitors left, I’d stop drinking wine and show 100% commitment to the cause. I’ve been awful good at adhering to punishing schedules but have managed to artfully dodge those chapters in training manuals which dictate what I should and should not be putting in my body in preparation for the triathlon. Presently, I’d hazard a guess my quinoa to alcohol consumption ratio is a little off balance.

So the last visitor left yesterday and here I sit with water. A mint tea will follow. The wine glasses clink together like empty, lost souls in the cupboard above my laptop as I type.

I have a chance to blog. I’ve missed this, my creative outlet amidst all the sweat, pump and grind of training for this triathlon. Because even though we’ve had visitors staying over the past three weeks, I’ve still been training. How’s that for commitment?

Here’s how far I’ve taken commitment. My dear friend visits from the UK with her new baby. She’s less than 24 hours in the country when I leave her at our home with ingredients for a salad and instructions on re-heating a chilli in our microwave so I can compete in a mini-triathlon. I run while she’s here, I bike. I steal her husband one evening and make him swim with me (not just for the sake of it you understand but because he’s a crazy good swimmer...)

My brother visits and I don’t teeter from the schedule – I swim, bike, run. I then have the audacity to make him cheer me on at an 8k road race, starting time 8.30am. He didn’t even get a chance to shower.

This is commitment. Or maybe it’s just being selfish. Either way, these visitors got my script before they arrived. I have this triathlon see, I’m still going to have to train. I’m thankful for their understanding but far more grateful for their company and for the soul-feeding laughs and heart-to-hearts over a bottle of wine (each night) while they visited. I am usually a weekend drinker – a glass of red with my DiGiorno’s pizza and the like. The recycling bins groaning outside with the weight of green glass accumulated over the past three weeks tell a different story.

Of course, something had to give and it was the blogging. And honestly, I found it hard not having the chance to ferret away on the blog.

It has shown me that writing about and training for the triathlon are now strangely intertwined – one feeds the other. And that, essentially, is me. I am not just the sporty one in battered Asics running shoes and purple neon vest, I am the creative too. And sometimes when I run, my head becomes so void of day to day drudge and open to the beauty around me it’s even possible to trace lines of poetry along the seams of clouds. Or at the very least, find something poetic to muster about road kill I pass along the way.

Furthermore, I take your support with me when I train. You people have shown me some serious love since I started blogging. Frankly, it’s kind of bowled me over. And as I approach this final stretch before the race, your encouragement has really helped keep me focussed and on the job when my emotional and physical energies have started to flag.

These past few months I’ve done a stellar job at being accountable to myself. But I’m a little tired now. My commitment is waning. I’d rather watch the Bachelorette than plug 20 miles into the bike. I need an hour to get to and from the pool. That hour could be spent on the internet - Googling ‘Kardashian/ West’ baby’ or filling my cyber basket with stuff I don’t really need from Boden.

Of course, having come this far, I would never veer off course. But now I also have you to keep me accountable and committed. In a good way. You have my back as they say in these parts. And somehow I don’t think you’ll be judging my quinoa to alcohol input ratio either.

So will I abstain from wine during these next two weeks? Probably not. I think I’ve more than shown my commitment for the event thus far. This triathlon is not having my wine too....



Me and My Bro...





...At Wine O'Clock...