Nine Sherpas - My 9th Comrades

Sherpa. 1. a member of a people of Tibetan stock living in the Nepalese Himalayas, who often serve as porters on mountain-climbing expeditions.

 
Between episodes of the Walking Dead with the sound of waves lapping at the apartment's ankles, I noted a few thoughts about the race at hand. Writing before an event can be quite an eye opener for afterwards. It narrows the distortion between expectations and reality. We all lie to ourselves I guess. Taking notes helps keep you honest.

After my last sing-it-to-the-mountains post on the real meaning of Comrades, I chose to move away from linking Comrades to an alien invasion of earth in a blog post. There are parallels with District 9, sure. Probably too obvious. Too cliched. And I really wanted to write about Sherpas.

Sherpas you ask? Yes. Sherpas, I respond.

It was triggered by the thought of the Comrades bus drivers. The runners who forego their own race to pace a running bus according to a set time goal (sub-9, sub-10, sub-10.30, sub-11, etc). Selfless saints of the road.

And also by the thoughts of my brother, Alby, and I. Swapping the mantle of Sherpa every time the other imploded on the tarred road between Durban and Pietermaritzburg. The road is unforgiving we have found. Any weakness is exposed and magnified and brings you to your knees. As for any attempt up a mountain, having a guide is helpful.

And so with a flurry of finger tapping, I opted for a new blog title: Nine Sherpas.

*******

Sagarmāthā means "Forehead in the Sky" in Nepalese.
Some sherpas call her Chomolungma: "Mother of the World".

Hardly anyone summited Mount Everest in the 2014/2015 climbing seasons.

A 2014 avalanche killed 16 Sherpas closing the climbing season on Mount Everest before it had begun. 3 more perished: one of altitude sickness, one in an accident, one by lightning.
 
In 2015, an earthquake epicentred 8kms below the Himalayas triggered an avalanche claiming 18 climbers. The earthquake was the worst natural disaster to ever hit Nepal. Around 9,000 deaths.
 
Mount Everest was closed for business.

Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary
 
Some Sherpas had already called the bad omens years before, convinced that Sagarmāthā didn't want them there. Without routes and ropes up the summit, it was doubtful whether future climbers would ever get a chance to climb. Some feared their attempts were gone forever.

In 2016, nine Sherpas headed up Everest to clear the snow and lay down fresh ropes to the summit. To cross the snow and ice laying across the 12 metre high Hillary Step which ridges to the top took the climbers four hours. Their valiant efforts opened up the route to the top. Madame Everest, unmoving and unperturbed, allowed many to climb her that season and in return took 6 climbers to her deathly bosom. 

Sherpas and mountains and quests to the top. It all reminds me of runners and hills and the Comrades.

Queen of all asunder

 Race Predictor

Beer Miler and that weak ankle

This would be my 9th Comrades. My 4th up-run. My race predictor function (which I found on my watch whilst uploading my stats to my smart phone in exchange for a free smoothie at the gym) told me that based on its internal calculations I was capable of a 19.35 - 5k, 40.37 - 10k, 1.29 - 21.1k and full marathon of 3.07. That's all good and well saying maybe-you-could maybe-you-might but until you do, how do you really know? I treated the information with caution. My gut told me that those figures were about right. Maybe could knock a few minutes off the 21k and 42k. If I got angry enough.




My running season volumes were unimpressive. 86k (January), 78k (February), 93k (March), 246k (April), 228k (May). A total of 731ks, ensuring I didn't even make the 800k-minimum on the Comrades predict-you-performance chart. Based on my speeds, the chart predicted I was capable of a 9.27 Comrades.
Bah humbug, I muttered to myself. What do the data scientists know? Should odds be stacked against you, even overwhelmingly so, is it not one's prerogative as an athlete of semi-intellectual yearnings to ignore those odds?



Cankles

Lynotherapy track marks
In order to maintain a factual record (in case I try this again in the future), I need to come clean. My physical condition in the lead up to the race was not stellar. The ankle and calf had been through minor incidents, incidents elicited by:

(i) a shot at the African Beer Mile record (where for a few blessed minutes I was the new record holder until I realised - in a beer induced haze - that I had forgotten to complete the last lap);

(ii) a suburban accident where a boom gate had prematurely descended onto me, pushing me off my bike. At the time I was steering Ben's bike with one hand to Cub Scouts to pick him up; and
 
(iii) blowing out my right calf at the Soweto Marathon. 
 
Creaky ankle aside, I was in good nick.

 
 
  
Many things were still in my favour: brain had seen it before. Stress levels read Camomile green. Legs purred. Plus pacing will be easy:- walk often and early; don't mess with the hills; conserve energy. And - importantly - the Riccardi Brothers don't fold. Often. The Riccardi Brothers don't fold often.


The plan was simple:
4h12 first half (4.05 for first marathon)
4h36 second half  (4.28 for second marathon)

That's an 8h48 minute Comrades at an average of 6mins5secs per k.

Lyndsay Parry (official Comrades Coach) suggested a half way time of 4h22 to 4h27 for a Bill Rowan. Alby and I think that those times are better suited to someone who has done higher volume training and not suited to guys going in half baked. If you are confident in your speed and not your endurance, better to get yourself ahead of the game at half way to allow a conservative second half. It's either visionary thinking or the thinking of idiots. Suspicions suggest the latter.

So we used the 4h27 as our fall-back position. Worst case scenario and all.


More airbrushing required

Keith

The last time Alby and I had the pleasure of running the Comrades with a Buhr, it was with the twins, Steve and Keith. It was highly memorable watching the twins turn on each other every few minutes for some reason or other: the pace is too fast, the pace is too slow, the hills are too steep, the running buses are too close; the running buses are not close enough. Alby and I kept ducking to avoid the handbag swinging. A highly memorable run.  

For this year's edition, Keith "The Blur" Buhr would be the sole representative of the Buhr Clan. He was in good condition having completed a few long runs at 5 mins per k pace. However in the few days before the race his inner demons had surfaced and would not keep still. Self-sabotage was afoot. Keith decided to braai the day before the race - barefoot - and stepped on a hot coal. For  the rest of the day he walked around with his thousand-yard-stare and wearing only one sock.

The burn was not too serious. But it added to the mind games.

Keith, we agreed, would run with us until half way. After that he would be unleashed onto the course that remained towards his first Bill Rowan.

Last good luck wishes

What it Takes to Get up a Mountain
 
In 1953, the 38-year old Sherpa Tenzing Norgay and 33-year old Edmund Hillary were part of the expeditionary team led by Sir John Hunt to be the first to summit Mount Everest.  Tenzing had 6 previous attempts notched on his belt dating back to 1935.  Hillary, the 6 foot 5 beekeeper from Auckland, had recce'd Everest only once before.
 
To get them to the summit required 350 porters, 20 Sherpas and 10 climbers.

Expedition Commander

 
The Expedition Commander

My second eldest brother, Stef, is the key piece of the puzzle. He plays the role of expedition leader to the Riccardi Express. He honed his running skills from being privy to our various Comrades' attempts, including numerous bomb craters and sparse moments of running greatness. He is renowned for his annual gate-crashing of the highly-secured Green Number tent at the Comrades expo.


Stef tells a great story about Comrades. One of my favourites.

Every year we have an annual pre-race lunch with good friends, the Boakes, and are reminded by Doug Boake of his sub-7 hour Comrades. His sub-7, he swears, was done on a few hundred kilometres of running, and because he had a train to catch to get back to Joburg. His time? 6h58 in 1976. Incendiary.

 

The Boake's, The Riccardi's and Keith Buhr.
Doug is far left.
 With all the Boake-Riccardi talks of running lore, the rivalry inspired Stef to throw his hat into the ring. He contemplated running Comrades. 2 things over the weekend changed his mind.

1. Getting a crick in his neck looking up through the clouds to the cliffs of Inchanga. It was like sniffing smelling salts he recalls.

2. Bowlegged runners, broken from their race, leaned up against wee-walls, unable to step onto the ledge to relieve themselves. They held onto the wall with one hand and angled their pelvises inwards in order to hit the target. Stef watched on in amazement.

The events left him scarred. He knew then he was cut out more for commanding expeditions, than running. With Alb on his 14th, me on my 9th, Stef was lining up for his first 20+ run, having earned his double green the year before.

 
Ernesto and G-Man - The Porters




The Cyclone

G-Man, the Angry Kenyan
Up in Joburg we run with a great salt-of-the-earth group of runners at Bedfordview Athletics. Two of our running partners, Ernesto "The Cyclone" Ciccone and Graham "the-world-famous-Angry Kenyan" Parker, drove down to support their team mates in the Coelho Club (a club for runners who eat rabbits). T'was a noble gesture. Camaraderie at its finest. They would keep an eye on us throughout the race and would not judge us too harshly when they found us walking and eating ice cream lollies up Drummond.
 
The Race (in a nutshell)
 
Two things of note occurred. Both within the first 30k's.
 
Thing of Note #1
 
Keith missed his gels at the 20k table. He had relied on his accounting background to precisely calculate his nutrition consumption: 1 gel every 45 minutes. 3 pristine gels awaited his arrival, but no table could be found. And, ever so gently, Keith began to unravel. 
 
Keith (his voice warbled with emotion): - Did you see the table? They have my gels? I've trained on these gels. Without them I am screwed.
Rob:- I've seen nothing. Don't place too much hope that you'll actually find them.
Keith (emotions kaleidoscoping between extreme despair and violent flare up):- I'll never make it. Where's the table? I'm dead. Dead I tell you. I'm not feeling well. Are you guys feeling woozy?
Alby:- We don't take gels. We scavenge. Keeps us in touch with our primal senses. Just take some sugar. That's all gels are.
Keith:-  Forsooth! My gels don't have sugar. They are isotonic carbo gels perfectly designed to cater for my first attempt at the Bill Rowan. Without them, all is lost. I have no chance. No chance at all.
 
Keith would break out into a soliloquy of Shakespearean proportions. To gel or not to gel. And so on. Alb and I picked up jelly babies, dropped by grubby children with sweaty palms, off the road. Try one, we would encourage Keith, revelling in the brief sugar quanta that would kickstart our neurotransmitters.
 
Up ahead we saw the Bedfordview Tent near the 30k mark.
 
Keith: A gel! A gel! My kingdom for a gel!
Rob: Withdraw my lord, I will find you some gels.
Keith (considering his wilting Bill Rowan attempt): Slave! I have set my life upon a cast, and I will stand the hazard of the die. 
 
Keith grabbed his gels, smiling like a child in a Roald Dahl book. Immediately his youthful exuberance returned, alleviated by positivity and the blessed gloop from the tubed casing.
 
Alb and I looked at each other and nodded. It was time to have a chat with Keith. He was strong. Way too strong. It was time he be nudged from the nest. Despite his protests of never abandoning his Italian brothers and some nonsense about standing on the heads of giants, we convinced him to use us as a slingshot to his Bill Rowan.
 
Keith would leave us at about the 35k mark and endure a magnificent run to bring in an 8.58 Bill Rowan. His first. Which he barely remembers as his memory sort of went black and he found himself in the medical tent with a drip in one arm, not quite remembering how his fist had ended up clutching the silver-bronze medal.
 
Thing of Note #2
 
I knew something was wrong the moment I looked to my right. We were in the thick of Comrades' chunky thighs. 30k's or so in. 60 more to go. Keith had taken off and was a glimmer up the road. The sun's rays were angling out of the sea misting the air with a thin layer of salt. It tingled the nostrils. And it struck me.

Where was Alby? 

Normally my wingman is on my right. Not ahead of me. Not behind me. But on my right. I know that he is there without having to turn my head. Our foot strike and arm swing are pretty much in sync. And now I was forced to turn my neck and saw that he had fallen back a foot.
 
The plan had been simple. Alby had relinquished the pacing duties to me. I erred on the side of caution. After 20 minutes of easy running, we employed a run-8 walk-2 minutes protocol. My watch kept an eye on the pace and slowly brought us down from a 6m20s to 5m55 average pace after 25k's. Every few k's or so I gauged Alb's heart rate and the sweat trickling down his temple. His heart rate in training had been pretty low, which was good. Mine a bit higher, which was not good. As the Shosholoza singing of the runners in the starting paddocks had died down at the start of the race we compared heart rates. Both read 72. A propitious omen.
 
The pace was sensible. Sensibilish. And we allowed the race to come to us. We were ready and engaged with what she had to offer. Her camber, her turns, her descents, the angles that lean to the heavens, her Afrikaans named roads pronounced with English accents (Kloof rhymes with hoof, Botha rhymes with motor) and her mountains sounding like the battle cries of Zulu warriors.
 
Inchanga, they tell me, is the sound a spear makes as it is taken out of the body.
 
Alby, I know, is famous for suffering in silence and has been known to implode like a nuclear bomb detonated below the Pacific. Whereas I whimper like a hungry puppy in a kennel (and let you know the immense pain that is permeating through the body, how it is like steel-ed knives penetrating the quadriceps, like child labour for men, allowing tears to freely stream down the face to extract pity from bystanders), Alby says nothing. Even when probed, he'll deny the pain because he thinks to do so will jeopardise the team effort. His selflessness is as noble as it is delusional. And therefore it is clear that he cannot be trusted.
 
Alb's falling a step behind was a sign of apocalyptic proportions. Although less than a ruler length, it was a chasm. And to me, tantamount to mutiny.
 
I turned to look at him. Sweat rate? Good. Relaxed shoulders? Good. Hands? Unclenched and relaxed. Mouth? Slightly open sucking in air as though it was his first no-oxygen Everest attempt. That aside, he looked like he was out for a jog.
 
Rob: What's your heart rate? Mine is 160.
Alb:  Mine's 135.
Rob: 135 is good. 160 is a bit rich. I feel good, but let's tap off. Still early days.
Alb: The watch says 135, but my heart feels like its 220. Could we have a quick walk?
Rob (voice breaking): 220? Walk?
Alb (starting to walk): I wanted to ask you, for next year's silver, how do you think we should go about it?
 
His last sentence was a bright light, flashing white-hot to reveal a black and grey globe of smoke and doom. The wind, hot and radioactive, caused me to wince and squint. No sound. Not a f*#$ing pin drop. And like that, I knew he was toast. And that meant I was toast. And that we could stop now. And the voices would leave me alone. And it made me happy.
 
Halfway and Beyond
 
Alby and I hit the half way mark at 4.32, 5 minutes off the 4.27 target. It sounds pretty close when I look at the numbers now, but really that 5 minutes is The Grand Canyon.
 
There was a significant slow down. We walked lots and spoke to everyone and anyone we could find. I told Alb about a few good books that I had read about human exploits and of how we are all powerful if we need to be. On the harder sections, I hummed an Arcade Fire song in my head We're just a million little gods causing rain storms turning, with my lightning bolts a glowing, I know where I am going. 

At some stage I saw my mate Jamie Wardell. Jamie had a cool looking kid with him. I said hello and told him I looked forward to his comeback once he had finished his breeding years. People laughed. And as I ran off, I smiled. And then I thought again and wasn't sure if what I said was as funny as I had meant it to be. And I worried about that for a bit. 
 
Up Inchanga, where spectators are few, the only sounds you hear are the chants of the running buses as they come past you like Zulu warriors in battle formation, heaving and shedding heat. A solitary runner looked at Alby and me and asked if we were brothers. He slowed down to walk and talk with us.
 

Lolly loving attention from her sweaty family
"It's good to run with your brother. I had a brother. We were twins. He died in 2001. We ran together for many years. Sometimes we ran a 6.28. Once a 6.29. Always together. Lots of silvers. Next year, I will be 60. And it will be good that I still run. But to run with your brother is good."
 
We shook hands and before he left I asked him for his brother's name. Fred is his name, he said. I am Derrick and he was Fred. That conversation stayed with me for a while.



 The clock would turn as it always does and we stopped caring about the time or the running. We were on cruise mode. And fully engaged in experiencing the day. Our eyes scanned the crowds for Stef and Lolly and Ernie and G. And for the Bedfordview tables. And for friends. 
 
Michael Peter, an old school mate who we had overtaken earlier that morning, came by us again and pulled us out of the doldrums. Come on boys, let's run he said. So we did. 



There was a bit of running. Not much.
 

Finishing strong: me, Alb and Mike

Dusk was closing in as we neared Pietermaritzburg. We had agreed to push for the sub 10.30. An arbitrary dangling carrot of time. We put the walking behind us and started running. Really running. Striding out. Chests heaving. Passing people. Chewing up the road. The strength was still in the legs and the hearts were strong. Michael was running like a champion. Alby and I were just running. Happy to have the opportunity to obliterate ourselves one more time.

The clock would welcome us in with a 10.27. Just a few arbitrary hours off our target time.


Done!
Later I thought about Sherpas and how they help other climbers and that it's sometimes a calling and sometimes just a way to make money. And how people help each other in tough times. Brothers. Friends. Family. And I thought of how competition is good, but sometimes it is not everything.
 
Norgay and Hillary, the first climbers to summit Everest, were asked who was the first and who was the second to summit the mountain. Their expedition leader, Colonel Hunt, was quick to reply "They reached it together, as a team."

Edmund and Tenzing

 With my lightning bolts a glowing, I can see where I am going,
~RobbyRicc
 

District Nine - Pre-Comrades #9 - Up Run 2017

Image result for district 9
 
In just over a week, I run my 9th Comrades alongside my brother, Alberto. He runs his 14th. A race report may be required. Writing, not only for the catharsis, helps nail down thoughts, elusive and ephemeral, which arise from a physically and emotionally charged day in the life.
 
With it being my 9th outing, I did a quick search on movies containing the number 9. District 9 was the only real contender to act as a suitable race report title. And it got me thinking....
 
When District 9 hit the movie circuit in 2009 no-one knew quite how to react. The movie's co-writer and director, little known ex-Joburger Neill Blomkamp, was young and inexperienced. Expectations were low. The backing from Pete Jackson (still cloaked in his Lord of the Rings glory) nudged people to take a closer look.
 
It's about an alien spaceship which chooses - refreshingly so - to land over Johannesburg, South Africa, resulting in the government establishing an alien district for its newbie second-class citizenry. It oozed originality and grit. What gave it grit, was the parallels with the South African Government's policy of Apartheid and its maltreatment of its people. In particular, it evoked the infamous relocation abuse in the 1970's where the government relocated about 60,000 people from District Six in Cape Town to the Cape Flats 25kms away.
 
South Africans of all colour wriggled in their movie seats. The rest of the world took notice.
 
For anyone who has ever been into a pre-1994 South African police station, what gave the documentary-style movie its edge was its protagonist, Wikus van de Merwe, the government appointee responsible for the relocation of the aliens (or prawns). The South African actor, Sharlto Copley, resurrected prickly memories of officials armed with eviction notices and batons.
 
The movie has traction. Especially in our world of despots building walls and cultivating whatever the English word for Apartheid might be. It is the subtle undertones of racism and xenophobia that get under the skin. To the extent that it calls to mind the tactics engineered by South Africa's current regime in cahoots with its financial exploiters to divert attention away from their pilfering of state coffers. Tactics to muddy-the-water and stir artificial racial discord to the extent of employing a public relations company to assist with the shenanigans.
 
What does District 9, the Apartheid government, the current Government and any other system of rule have to do with this blogpost and the Comrades Marathon?
 
The reason is simple. Over time, regimes come and go. And distorted leaders in the pursuit of self serving agendas dust off the blue prints of power and propagate confusion and fear to feed the greed and keep the people down. Artificial constructs to keep people separated, placated and conquerable.
 
However, and we should not forget this, it is all make believe.
 
And there is no better day to be reminded of this on the 4th June 2017 - Comrades Marathon Sunday.

The day that confirms that the people are together and will not be kept down. United in their many colours, their many languages, their many creeds, their many tribes. On that day they will come from across the country: the suburbs, the provinces, the townships, the cities. Leaving for Durban from their mines, farms, factories, kitchens and offices by cars, trains, taxis, buses and planes. Some will cycle to the start in red socks all the way from Cape Town. Our friends, Hazel and Tumelo, will run to the start from Joburg. 900kms of running. One Comrades marathon (about 90ks) every day until the start at city hall.

Many will come from far off countries where they have been dreaming about, and planning for, the Ultra of all Ultras for a very long time. The most insane of South African races - soaked in mountains and folklore - which has to be completed to ensure legend status back home.

Nearly all will start the race. Many will finish. And many will not. But what is true is that each year the race unites us. And bring us closer. It becomes more than the sum of its parts. It transcends. And when the choir begins its singing of anthems and worker songs in the race paddocks outside Durban's city hall, with winding roads aiming for Pietermaritzburg, the people understand that when the gun sounds and the smoke clears, that we will not stand for tyranny. Together, with our blood and our sweat and our tears, we will move forward - always forward - and we will remember that no man can divide us. Because us is all we have.

Siyofika nini la' siyakhona? (When will we arrive at our destination?) - Johnny Clegg
~RobbyRicc  
Dad and the troops at 48 of the 56k Two Oceans Ultra Marathon

The Making of the Apocalypse Cow Suit

Each year I am bestowed with the honour of creating the suit for the esteemed and select group of cyclists called The Apocalypse Cows. The team trains for four months for one race: the 94.7 cycle challenge. It completes the first loop of 94.7k's in under 3 hours, and the second to help the main herd of Cows and help bring in ten ice cream bikes. It's a 200km day.

So what you wear for one day of the year needs to make an impression. It helps with the fundraising, contributes to the arduousness of the day and is good for morale. This year the theme was Cow Punk. Cow Punk is an underground movement which is a sub genre mixture of Country & Western and (have you guessed yet?) punk. Think harmonicas, electric banjos and the Sex Pistols.


 For many of the Cows, cancer is an adversary that - like it or not - stays close. Like a tattoo. The dude underneath with the collarbone tattoo is Craig. He passed away some years ago. His brother is my friend. And it made sense to commemorate Craig's spirit. So began the idea of a collarbone tattoo on the Apocalypse suit for 2016.
 
  




So we took a plain black suit and started throwing around a few designs.














Suit cowification is mandatory in our circles and therefore white and black is generally required.


A sprinkle of cow spots.


And then flames. Of course.



And the collarbone tattoo in honour of Craig. 






The design then goes to my fellow cow, Comrades runner and artist mate, Jess (aka Gerald from www.in-detail.com) who whips the marshmellow ideas from my head into precisely what I was trying to get onto paper in the first place.


With the design done, cool people from Durbs help us finish the suits for race day. 


   

 And after lots of white knuckles and sweaty brows the suit package is sent with a day to spare.




















So with 4 days to go, heads recently shorn and a ribbon bound on the last minute training, the Apocalypse Cows are invited to a dinner and suits, still smelling of fresh fabric and tight stitching, are handed out. 
The suit is revealed.
  
Image may contain: 1 person, beard
There is only Plan A.

And, finally, Race Day. And to see if the suits are able to weave their magic into Johannesburg. 
From left to right: Brooksie, Matty, Kappies and De Wet (Captain)
The piece-de-resistance helmets were donated by Makro through the efforts of Doug, one of our fellow ACs.
The ACs ride again!
Lap 1 was completed by 17 of the 35 riders in 2h50m.


Group B
 Not everyone could handle the 2.50 pace of the main group. Group B finished in 3hrs flat. With a few stragglers splintered behind.
Image may contain: 2 people, sunglasses and outdoor
RobbyRicc and Warmonger
After loop 1, the team refuelled, regrouped and headed out to help the main herd and ice cream bikes.
Scameltoe's squad
 An example of the team effort required to tug an ice cream bike up a bill.

Image may contain: 2 people, people standing, shoes and outdoor




Those are two of my brothers ( I have three). Alb on the left. Mucky on the right. Mucky mushroomed on the mountains before the M1 and managed a 3.40-ish Billy-No-Mates ride to the finish. He will return next year to finish his quest for the sub-3 (and maybe a second loop). Alb was banished from the ACs by his wife a few years back and is forced to wear whatever attire the ACs decide until he returns to the team. This year Borat was the outfit selected. 
 
For 2016, The Cows managed to raise around R2.8m for CHOC who helps kids with cancer.

We must never confuse elegance with snobbery. Over the years I have learned that what is important in a dress is the woman who is wearing it. Fashions fade, style is eternal. (Yves Saint Laurent)
 
~RobbyRicc  

Marginal Gains (Lessons from Ironman South Africa)


Cycling teams tweak every component of their training regime. The marginal gains of 1%. Air conditioned buses, massages immediately after a race, weighing nutrition in milligrams, keeping tour fingernails clean. The eventual aggregation of these marginal gains is what they say it takes to be the best in the sport.

[There are the critics who see that as a ruse to deflect from all the doping that's going on in cycling but that's another story altogether.]

This story is for my former self. I see you out there clueless and full of beans. Here is what I learnt between my first Ironman South Africa in 2005 (age 32) and my last in 2016 (age 43). And I thought you should know.

How old is that wetsuit?
 
For comparative purposes:

My 2005 results:
Swim: 62 mins - T1: 3m28s - Bike: 6h15m - T2: 6m57s - Run: 4h12 - Total: 11h41
Weekly Training average (12 weeks): +/- 7h

My 2016 results:
Swim: 61 mins - T1: 3m06s - Bike: 5h18m - T2: 3m36s - Run: 3h32 - Total: 9h59
Weekly Training average (12 weeks): +/-16h

Now, let's have a look at my 2005 self. I was contracting as a lawyer in London, self-trained, with plenty of time to train, engaged to be married, no kids and no pets.

In 2016? Working as Legal Counsel for a software company in Johannesburg, self-trained, not much time to train, married, 3 kids (5, 7 & 10), two dogs and a goldfish.


Love that 2005 helmet


The 2005 version of me at IMSA


For some perspective, here's a quick example to show you what can happen in the space of a decade.
 
In 2005, Lance Armstrong won his seventh Tour de France.
In 2016, Lance Armstrong is still banned for life from competing in any cycling event because of doping; is stripped of all his Tour De France titles; three days ago had his ban partially uplifted so that he can now compete in sporting events (other than cycling) as long as it does not qualify him to compete in a national or international championship; and he now runs his own podcast show: The Forward Podcast.


Consider the scene set.

Now what were these marginal gains?

The Training
Start training in September 2015 for the April 2016 race. Build gradually.
Double the normal volume, more or less. No need to overthink it, just get it done.
Focus on 7 weeks only with weekly training hours: 22.15; 22.30; 10.05; 23.30; 21; 11; RACE.
Not every session is a hard session.
Big run mid-week. Big bike on the weekend.
For a few key training rides, get into your biggest gear on a 15-20k stretch and hold that gear. No changing down. No matter if there are hills. Have faith. Be brave. 
Ride with a strong cycling group 3 or 4 times. Learn how to suffer and hang on.
No other races other than Ironman to thwart injury from going too hard.
Always work on form:
- in the pool (crisp tumble turns, 2 x dolphin kicks off the wall, rotate the shoulders, feel the water);
- on the bike (TT position on the road bike and turbo, good circles, use your hamstrings); and
- on the run (light fingers, high cadence, controlled).

The Body
Take your heart rate first thing every morning to keep track of your body's stress levels. Adjust training accordingly.
Yoga to help with the aggressive bike position, keep the hips and lower back loose, to soften the muscles and to centre the mind.
Do work on the big toes. Make sure they are supple and strong.
Massage your feet after sessions. Stretch often. Foam rollers.
Deep breathing in the car. One part inhale, three parts exhale.
Go to sleep early. You can always watch TV on the turbo trainer.

The Equipment
Same wetsuit.
One trisuit.
Skinsuit under the trisuit to help keep the body core cool.
Put lots of shammy cream under the crotch before the race.
Carbon fibre bike instead of aluminium.
Drop the bike's flight deck to as low as it will go.
Narrow the elbow pads to as far as the chest permits.
Choose the normal cycling helmet to aid cooling. Wear the TT helmet and overheat at your own peril.
Rotate three pairs of running shoes for every run to manage wear and tear and avoid injury.
Open race cap to help dissipate heat from top of the head.

Nutrition
Try eat good healthy food only. Fruit, vegetable, nuts, seeds. Avoid everything else. Vegans are onto something. This helps the body bounce back quickly after sessions.
Always have your food prepared beforehand to avoid binging on bad choices.
No alcohol.
No Coke before 100ks on the bike.
Easy on the biscuits.

Where have I seen that wetsuit before?

The Race

SWIM:-
Hold back on the swim. Yes, you could be in the first group and your ego will be mightily pleased, however that's not where you should be.
Always swim on a pair of feet.
No accelerations.
Do not burn any matches.
Have a mantra.

T1:-
Other than your helmet and glasses, everything you need should be on the bike. It saves time.
Cycling shoes attached to your bike with elastics saves time.
Taping food on your bike saves time.



As low as it'll go.
BIKE:-
You will never go faster on race day than you did in training. Pace accordingly.
Be brave.
For loop 2, use water from the course to keep cool.
Have a mantra.
This too shall pass.

T2:-
Be calm and precise.
Spend time getting Vaseline all over your feet.
Get your shoes on as quickly as you can.
Start moving.
Don't overthink about how you feel. That'll change.

RUN:-
Have a mantra.
Have things to think about to stoke the fire.
Hold back for loop 1. Try stay off the Coke for as long as you can.
Stay aware of the race challenges and act accordingly. If it gets hot, don't just melt there. Do something about it. Water over head, sponges for the hot sections, run on the shaded parts of the road.
Don't drink too much. You should have practised this in training.
Make a decision for loop 2.
Loop 3 and 4 are for work.

The Mind
Know your plan. Be prepared to adapt. Don't get greedy.
At some stage everything around you crumbles and you will want to stop. Really really stop. You can never really train the mind or body for that. I find this helps:
Stay in the present. Do not worry about what happened or what is going to happen. Focus on what you can do in that moment to keep going. Focussing on the area of pain and comparing it to what you think child birth might be like usually makes the pain go away. Take one step, then the second. Unclench your fists. Ripple the fingers. Relax your jaw. And when you are moving and realise that you are not going fast enough, you need to have a stern chat with yourself. Remind yourself that your body and mind have trained for this. This feeling of discomfort is why you woke up early and pushed harder. Your body and mind can handle this. They will hold. You need to go beyond this barrier. You can go faster. That time is now. You may never come this way again.
Do not entrust your plan and actions to Fortune or Fate,
~RobbyRicc
 
Running with my mate, Westie