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| Pistolero and The Revolver (no caption required) |
Hordes gathered in mock solemnity on Orient Beach. Muscles sheathed in hearse-black neoprene and apprehension. Thousands of eyes fixed on the ocean and the horison's edge. I could barely see over the shoulders of all the Johnny Bravos. My feet clawed at the warm sand which squeezed between my toes. Toes digging deep to get better traction. Preparing for the fury that lay a few feet away.
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| Shaun sneaking in my SIS nutrition (Race Day Ammunition) from PE |
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| East London Baywatch |
A shot at the slots for World Champs.
100 of those suckers awaited to be given to the best of the 2,000 age groupers.
To the best of the best.
The marshals corralled us into gates and loaded us every ten seconds. An electronic beep opened the marshals' arms to the water's edge and released us to the great beyond.
Roxy, The Warmonger and I left together. We all ride with the Apocalypse Cows, so we were in good company. A few dolphin dives and we were beyond the waves. A gentle rolling ocean, heaving and breathing in its salty buoyancy. Green and deep. Bubbles from the feet ahead hovered for a moment before rising gently to the surface. Around me I felt calm. Roxy's rotating arms to my left, Warmonger to my right in his sleeveless wetsuit. I could see his smiling teeth.
My intentions were to jump onto a robust pair of feet and cruise the swim. But the shifting ocean made this difficult and I swam most of the course on my own. I settled into my big swimming gear with nice tight swimming lines, flexible shoulders, the occasional flutter kick and pulled at the water.
I exited in 28.55*.
Position in age group - 6th.
Position in age group - 6th.
*This equates to 1m24s per 100m which can only mean that the shallow water entry, wetsuits and salt water are much faster than none. Last week I swam a comparable distance in fresh water without a wetsuit and could only manage 1m34s per 100m at maximum effort without a subsequent bike or run.
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| Stealthfighters Roxy and Kelly |
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| Pistol Pete |
Through the soft rain and mist, I held back. A pace of composed civility while tormented hellriders rode by on the storm. Marco Stichini swooped by like a raptor. We hollered each other's name in the small amount of time that our relative speeds would allow.
"Robertooooo!!!" "Marcooooooo!!!"
Marco would go on to a well deserved 4th place in his age group. Cream always rises to the top.
The rain abated and I made way for the misguided hopefuls on suicide missions. They'll come back to me, I thought. If not, they're better than me.
At just after the half way mark, a wild rebel yell came from up behind me. It was The Warmonger on a one-man rampage. I could see he was in full Big Chain Only mode and tearing open a path through the riders. His turnover was impressive. His bike twisted at the force he pushed through the pedals. Not as smooth as Stichini but highly effective.
Despite my quadriceps' protestations, I sucked up some courage, cranked the wattage up to the 230's, lifted my speed to the 40s and went after The Warmonger. As soon as I was a fistful of bike lengths behind him I settled in and held the distance. He can pace from here. I have faith in his ability.
The rollers were upon us and we held 30s on the ups, 50s on the downs. At some full tilt stage I saw 70kph on one of the longer Hot Wheels descents. Soften the back and wrists. Relax. Enjoy the speed while it lasts.
After a gearing malfunction on one of the hills, Warmonger stopped to adjust his chain and I moved ahead. The heat was beginning to percolate and a cauldron awaited at Orient Beach.
Bike 2h49m 32kph
Position in age group - 22nd.
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| The Hunt... |
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| ...for.... |
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| ...more scalps. |
I have a confession. It's not an excuse. In mid December I was chasing my boys on their bikes down Hobie Beach to go hook up with some mates and I overcooked my Achilles. The slight injury meant any light tap to my left heel would leave me in tears. So instead of smashing the Achilles further, for the next month I opted to swim and bike lots intermingled with very easy runs and one or two very fast aqua jogs. Yawn.
So I was not precisely sure what would be waiting for me once I jumped off the bike. Would the Achilles hold? Would it disintegrate within a few metres and leave me in a writhing heap on the pier?
I had faith that it would bear my body's weight. It's been through worse. And there's nothing a bit of adrenaline and brain fuzz can't mask.
I managed the first k in 4.38. My heart rate was probing the 160 bpm range and it was getting hot. I touched the brakes to 4.45s and held it there for the next few k's. The Achilles felt great. My time off had allowed some healing. However the quads objected to their predicament. It wasn't exactly what was promised in the brochure.
But it was a beautiful day and I was happy to be out in the sun. So I focused on rhythm and the ocean which both kept me company. The first loop went by without too much drama.
And then I encountered Bunkers Hill on the second loop.
It would shred the quads even before I was half way up the leviathan. Its gnarly teeth clamped onto the adductors. I sucked down a Rennies and started my power walk. Early. Control, or be controlled. My heart rate looked at me and barely dropped a point as I made my way up the dragon's back. I felt the first tug at the fabric of my reality. People lining the hill stared at me in silent screams like an Edvard Munch painting. And in between them I could see smiling faces. Familiar eyes looking on at me. Love in their eyes, nodding. I had seen them before. Ancestors from family portraits. People long gone to other worlds acknowledging my efforts. No judgment, just love. The whites around my eyes dilated and the tunnel ahead began to blur.
It occurred to me as the road turned to treacle, and later taffy-quicksand, that the mission was beginning to resemble one of suicide. A complete burning of the bulb down to its bare filament. I was the misguided hopeful. Betrayed by flesh and fantasy. My heartrate peaked at 183 and I received a roundhouse of magnanimous proportions to the temple. Depletion set in. The body shut down and I fought the sludge to the finish.
Later as I dry heaved on the finish line and tried to realign my wobbling frame, I consoled myself: how do you know where your limits are if you don't pursue them?
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| The Warmonger et moi |
I later discovered I was 6th in my AG out the water, 4th onto the bike, 22nd off the bike and I had run myself into 11th position in the first half of the run. From my fuzzy recollection, I felt I was close to the action at that point, however I was not prepared to settle for top 10. I was after 5th spot. What I thought was required for a guaranteed slot. Somewhere sub-5. And that meant going to the edge. Go big or go home.
At about the 15k mark, I detonated. All gains haemorrhaged. Stronger legs came by me and I was unable to respond. A communication breakdown between the mind and the body. I finished in 21st position. 3 minutes off the last slot.
How do you spell gutted in East Londonese?
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| We have ourselves a reader |
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| 4 x Apocalypse Cows and a future world champion |
3m39s T1
2.49 Bike (148HR ave)
2m33s T2
1.47 Run (170HR ave)
5.12 Total
The Warmonger shared something with me a few days post-race. Something appropriate to conclude the report. “Success is the ability to go from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm.” Winston Churchill
Never lose
your enthusiasm,
~RobbyRicc
Nice my boy well done :)
ReplyDeleteThanks BF!
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