70.3 Half Ironman World Champs - Nelson Mandela Bay

I finally found some time to write up my World Champs race report from September. Here it is.

One hundred years earlier in Northern France...

2 September 1918

On the 2nd September 1918, the second Battle of the Somme was underway. The Somme's first Battle from 1916 took the lives of a million men. This second battle was a precursor towards the end of World War I.

The Germans were entrenched in a set of defensive lines in northern France near the Belgian border and in the vicinity of today's 257km Paris-Roubaix cycle race.



Butcher Haig on his horse



On that day, 2nd September 1918, after more than ten days of fighting, Field Marshal Douglas Haig aka "The Butcher of the Somme" sent in his Canadian and British divisions. They edged forward with grenades and machine guns to penetrate the German concrete bunkers. The Germans took heavy casualties.

General Erich Ludendorff " I will give up troops gladly as long as
I know that they will be used in the right place to bring victory."
 

The German Commander Erich Ludendorff withdrew his troops by noon that day forfeiting part of the Hindenburg line.

One Allied officer would later write to his mother about the Germans raising their hands and shouting "Kamerad!"

"All the 'Kamerad' they got was a cold foot of steel through them from my remaining men while I blew their brains out with my revolver without hesitation."




Parade of Nations

One hundred years later in Port Elizabeth...

2 September 2018

About 4,500 athletes from around the world raced at the 2018 70.3 Half Ironman World Championships in Port Elizabeth. The top ten countries based on athlete attendance were:
Argentina - 120
Italy - 122
Canada - 142
France - 192
Brazil - 217
Australia - 254
UK and Northern Ireland - 320
Germany - 368
South Africa - 472
United States - 769

The Race

The board read "Men 45-49". Only a few men spoke. The rest stared ahead. Not a young man between them. Clenched teeth and a thousand campaigns corroded into their crows' feet. Thunderclouds flecked grey and black in their eyes. Seasons of stretched sinew buried beneath black neoprene. Ahead of them, the ocean rose and fell beyond its smoky waters. Waves crumbled to shore with a whoosh-whoosh, feathering striations along the sand pointing to the sea. Like the tattered underbelly of a seagull.

With the present company, I thought about how a hundred years ago this would have been an entirely different affair. Sport has replaced warfare. Thank God.

The countdown commences.

First group off. Inhale. Count 15 seconds. Exhale.
Second group off. Inhale. Count 15 seconds. Exhale.
Third group off. Inhale. Count 15 seconds. Exhale.

I line up with 9 other athletes.

1.9k's of swim, 90k's of bike and 21.1k's of run lie ahead.

Izak and me, a few minutes before
entering the holding pens

Dig toes into the wet sand. Grip the railings. Take a breath. Then a looooong exhale. Purge the bad air. Inhale pure air. The clouds have lowered to the horison. Drops of rain blanket the ocean. The rains have come. By God, the land needs it. Inhale. Crouch down low. The day of days is upon us. This is how it begins.

Ten of us head out. I porpoise through the gentle waves and get down to business pulling at the water and blowing as many bubbles as my lungs can muster. I move through the swinging arms. The water is clean and grey. Tank grey. It is all very civilised.

Swim Time: 27 mins (1m23s per 100m pace)
Position After Swim: 12th

The Speed on the Bike

The cycling leg was like flying a lone Sopwith Camel hounded by a fighter squadron of Fokkers. Despite holding the throttle open to just under maximum, I was no match for the other riders' pure speed and firepower.

My speedometer was pretty maxed out so I didn't even bother trying to look for my usual excuses: slow puncture, brakes rubbing, stray shrapnel in the quadriceps. No excuses. This was me at my best.

The rollers were chunky and it was on the uphills that I held my own. But I was taking damage on everything else. On one descent, I ran out of pedal strokes and went full aero hitting 70kph. A few metres later, I heard the usual zwoop-zwoop as two bikers with disc wheels came past me like hawks swooping for field mice. Their speed felt close to 85kph.

At another flatter section, I noticed a solitary rider cruising ahead. Finally - a victim. I pulled up the required distance behind him. We were both on 42kph. I began to overtake him with my speedometer scraping 43kph. As I pulled alongside, I heard the zwoop-zwoop and another cyclist doing - maybe 47kph, maybe 48kph, rode past us both. This is what decimation feels like. No-one is here to make friends.

I remembered to jot some notes for my the fuel on the bike:
- 1 and a half bottles of SIS electrolyte drink
- One bite short of two SIS Go Energy bars (one chocolate fudge; one red berry)
- 2 x SIS Go Isotonic gels (1 x pink grapefruit, 1 lemon and lime)
- worked like a bomb

Bike Time: 2h46m (32.4kph ave, max speed 70kph, ave HR 154, max HR 167)
Position After bike: 141st

The Naked Photo

It was running out of T2 that I began to question the choices I make in life. The commentator spotted my cow trisuit and called me out as one of the CHOC Cows, an ambassador in the fight against cancer and all that. The commentator, Gordon Graham, is well known at local races. As he recognised my face, the white in his eyes began to grow. His voice trembled.

"I recognise that guy. There's a picture of that guy doing the rounds on the internet wearing nothing but his race number!"

My skin went cold.

Earlier in the week, I sent out a picture to some friends who asked if I was ready for the race. Rather than go through the usual "ready to roll", 'in it to win it", I decided to send them a picture of me wearing only my helmet and a strategically positioned race number. It seemed like a sound idea at the time.

I found out later that Gordon and I have mutual friends and he had spotted the picture which had wriggled its way onto social media.

The dangers of the internet.
You have been warned.

Richard's Dad

For the first few kilometres, I held back. Maybe 4.40 per k. The creaks in my body were audible and I felt like I was on a travellator, just in the wrong direction. As I crested the first big climb, I heard a cow bell ringing. There in the rain was my mate Richard Laskey's dad. Keith Laskey had on his fisherman's rain coat and was swinging an oversized cow bell with all his might. Ding ding ding! As I ran by him he took out a cow skull and put it on his head.

"Go Robby my boytjie! Super Cow!"

It was a few moments later after the smile had gone, that I thought about what I was in for. Maybe 16 or 17ks to go. Should I pace it and try get to 4.30 per k after the first loop? Or should I give it a nudge?

This is World Champs, I thought. People don't come here to pace it. They gun it. Give it everything they have. They dig as deep as it will go. They embrace the speed and ride it like a wild bull for as long as it will have them.

I jettisoned my negative thoughts and leaned forward onto the bull. My pace went up to about 4.10 per k. And as the heavens opened, so did I. And I held on for as long as I could.

The wheels came off in the last few k's. My hands and feet couldn't stay in sync. But somehow I held onto something that resembled pace, and got to the finishing carpet averaging 4.30 per k pace.

Kenny and The Red Carpet


As I made contact with the red carpet, I heard the commentator shouting "Here he comes! The man, the legend! He comes from Johannesburg and is one of the finest athletes we have in the country!"

My eyes welled up. Recognition had found me. Vindication at last. Fame, I convinced myself, was inevitable if I hung in the game long enough. And for it to happen on the red carpet on a world stage in my home country warmed the belly.

"Ken Poole. You are a legend!"          

It dawned on me that - in the haze ahead of me - there was a racer just ahead of me and the commentator - in fact - was taking about my friend Ken Poole, a fellow Bedfordview athlete. Ken had started in the earlier 75-79 age group and was in the process of nabbing third place in his category.

It then became apparent as I was overtaking Ken and about to pip him on the line, that I was an idiot age grouper without any class. My lunge to the finish line would detract from Ken's bronze.

Decorum. Decorum, my brain screamed.

And just before I crossed the line, the little voice in my head told me to remove my cap, bow and allow Ken to cross the line before me. Much later, after my vision had cleared and with my clarity of thought intact, I realised this was the best decision of my campaign.

Run: 1h34m (4m30s pk, ave HR 169, max HR 181)
Final position after run: 118th


One hundred years from now, in the year 2118, I expect us planet dwellers will continue along our current trajectory of replacing wars with sport. There will be additional changes:

Tanks will be replaced by swimming pools.

ICBMs will be replaced with cycling tracks.

Guns will be replaced with running shoes.

Evil politicians will be replaced by explorers.

Despots will be replaced by cross country coaches. 

And everyone will need to run a Park Run at least 12 times a year to be eligible to vote.


Big thanks: 

• To my friend and miracle worker Keeto. For the hospitality, advice, sports massage, the mustard seed hot bath, and for rescuing me from the storm and serving me coffee and pizza in the hot bath.
• To Keith Buhr for hooking me up with SIS nutrition: fuel for champions.
• To my racing mates: Justin Ashworth, Roxy Turner, Jayde Fouche, Kelly van Der Toorn, Izak Smit, Robby Coulson, Marco Stichini, Ken Poole, Craig West and Hazel "Triple World Champion" Aggett.
• To my other brothers and their families: Keef, Keeto and Steve.
• To Nats, Jake, Ben and Emi. Thanks for enduring my hobby. I have oodles of love for you.

Hazel Aggett: Team mates from The View

King Keeto

Steve, Keeto, RR and Keef 

Onwards to 2019,
~RobbyRicc 

Beach Ball Ballet and a few days to 70.3 World Champs

2006 70.3 World Champs Clearwater, Florida, USA
The Blur, Maverick and RobbyRicc

The Blah-Blah-Blog
First off, thanks for taking the time to read my blog posts. I don't think I ever said thank you properly, so thanks. Someone asked me a while back why I bother with a blog. This made me have a good think as it was not immediately apparent why I did bother. Aside from creative escapism and acting as a race report repository, I thought the notes might provide helpful pointers to novice athletes. Race reports were always helpful for me. Also, writing a public post - even for just one reader - would make sure that I raised my game. If you are that one reader, thanks again.

It may not surprise my friends and family, but my mind is sometimes like a crazed tiger wanting to escape its cage and run wild in the jungle. In addition to writing for just one reader (that'd be you), I thought some disciplined writing would help tame the beast. Writing and discipline seemed to be the recipe for writers like Hunter S Thompson (gonzo journalist, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, The Rum Diaries, and so on). Thompson, in trying to get the feel of the style of great writers, wrote out Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby and Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms on a typewriter. That's either a sign of being nuts or a sign of true genius. I'm not sure which. Nothing succeeds like excess and all that. I too wanted to add a bit of discipline and concerted effort into my writing so I could get to feel what it's like. Doesn't everyone?

The Race
So now, here's a quick update for those of you not aware of such things. This Sunday is the 70.3 World Champs at Port Elizabeth (South Africa, of course). That's a Half Ironman distance: 1.9k swim, 90k bike, 21.1k run. I race in the 45-49 age group. Although you'd expect age groupers in that age bracket to be quite worn and rickety, it turns out that they are still pretty intact. These athletes spoon iron filings into their morning coffee.

As for me, I feel as strong as I did in my 30's. Some might say that's parent selection or spouse selection or no social life or self deception or whatever, but I think it's just because I was an idiot in my 30's and now I'm less of an idiot. And I never gave up.

Here are some stats which I found notable:

• this is the first ever Half Ironman (or 70.3) World Champs held in Africa.
• women race on Saturday 1st September
• men race on Sunday 2nd September
• 2017 World Champs were held in Chattanooga, Tennessee (USA).
• 2019 World Champs will be held in Nice (France).
• of the 185,000 racers who tried at 100 races around the globe, 4,500 (top 2%) secured a slot to worlds in PE.
• racers represent 90 countries, territories and regions across the world
• 419 men in the 45-49 age group
• Ironman Age Group Country Rankings note me as the 2nd ranked South African athlete in my age group. Interesting but, let's be realistic, I personally know about 20 South African athletes (including women) in the age group who could beat me on any given day. With one arm tied behind their back. And a rusty ball chained to their ankles.

My time for my only other 70.3 World Champs when I raced with my mates Keith and Keeto at Clearwater, Florida, is 4h49m. (We were all living in London then. Keeto and Keith now live in PE and I will be hanging with them while I am down there.) It'll be interesting to see if I can go faster than I did 12 years ago. A few hilly bumps and temperamental weather surges aside, I don't see any reason why not.

Beach Ball Ballet
This past weekend, my brother, Alb, and I put together a bit of a show for our athletics club, Bedfordview. Here was our last rehearsal. Nothing like a bit of beach ball ballet to get your mind off the upcoming weekend.



Good luck to everyone racing on the weekend. See you in PE.
~RobbyRicc

A Week Apart:- Durban Half Ironman and Comrades 2018

Quick flashback: I missed a slot to World Champs at January's East London 70.3 by 2 minutes and 11 seconds. Let me write that out: two minutes and eleven seconds. And now in bold: 2m11s. 

It's quietly unnerving especially after 5 hours of racing. No-one else was to blame. I messed up my tactics and blew myself to smithereens. Simple. Having thrown all my chips on the table as noted in my East London race report, I was prepared for the outcome.

However I had a nagging feeling I could qualify for Worlds at the Durban 70.3. Maybe.

The Quandary

Under ordinary circumstances, I would not advocate doing a Half Ironman triathlon (or 70.3) a week before an Ultra Marathon (or even a regular marathon). One may wing a Half Ironman, however, Old Lady Comrades at her voluptuous 90.184km's does not take kindly to bravado. You disrespect her, she'll crush you without mercy.

I was, however, in a quandary.

Durban 70.3 was on 3rd June, my last chance to qualify for Worlds. A week later on the 10th would be my 10th Comrades and permanent green number race.

A week apart. And therefore my quandary.

Natalie said something which I couldn't shake off, "Just qualify for the next 70.3 World Champs in South Africa." And I was stumped. World Champs has no set venue and rotates the planet. Last year it was Chattanooga, USA. Next year it's in Nice, France. This is the first ever 70.3 Worlds to be held on the African continent. It's unlikely to come this way again.

"So do both," said Natalie giving me a wink.

Oh what to do?

Don't get greedy, I thought, Be happy with your lot. You can't be strong enough to race a Half and then Comrades. It's too big a bite.

Not wanting to decide just yet, I checked in with my brother, Alberto. Not renowned for retreat or anything tantamount to common sense, Alberto's response was "Do both!"

I then turned for advice to my friend, John, a sage in such affairs. John thought a moment and responded: "What do you think the Vikings would have done when raiding the villages? Would they have taken a few days leave after marauding or would they have kept at it?"

The suggestions from Natalie, Albie and John percolated. A plan began to formulate.

Later on I would read an article from one of my favourite writers, Garrison Keillor, who summed it up best, "A man needs to extend himself when called upon."

The Plan: harvesting lightning

THE PLAN
 
 
The plan was simple, yet elegant. Do a 12-week 70.3 training block. Run lots.

To survive Comrades I'd have to heal up as quickly as possible after the 70.3. I jotted down some points for after the triathlon:

• leg rub down
• ice bath
• protein shake
• good clean food
• no alcohol
• check feet for blisters (pop blisters, drain, clean, bandage, repeat til healed)

Followed by:

• Dubbins leather polish for the feet before bed (sleep with socks so bed doesn't get dirty)
• 2 x sports massages mid week (not too deep)
• 1 x Lynotherapy session
• 1 x easy run
• early to bed
• stretching

Part I - Durban Boardwalk (3 June)

Writing this, I am reminded of the 1979 movie, Alien. When John Hurt finds some large eggs on a foreign planet and everything seems to be going according to plan. But then he gets an octopus-creature stuck to his face. Luckily it is removed and things perk up. Feeling fully recovered, he comes down to eat at the staff canteen. But then suddenly - and no-one expects this - an alien creature bursts out of his stomach. And there's a lot of screaming and blood. And teenagers watching this are scarred for life.

I was 9k's into the run moving along at 4m48s per k. I was holding back waiting for the half way mark. At which point I would flick the nitrous and rip up the boardwalk. So far my race had been like this:

• The swim was zippy and uneventful. I hung onto the feet of my mate Craig and let him tear through the course. I felt myself a pilot fish. Craig was 2nd in the age group. I was 3rd. 30m4s.
• The bike was rolling and fast. I stayed aero - 38kph on the flats, at least 30kph on the ups - and tried to be brave and strong. 2h34m. 35kph ave. I made it onto the run in 14th place. 

After a few k's into the run Natalie called out that I was 8th.

The gods have been kind. It's incredible how good I feel. Someone up there likes me.

And then my Alien moment. 9k's into the run.


Not prepared to surrender

Still cruising at a decent clip, I tore open a gel and - not wanting to litter - slipped the torn off piece of gel packaging under my tri shorts. To reach, I dropped my left shoulder slightly. My hamstring immediately tightened into a ball. And out of nowhere a small Moby Dick with teeth like scissors ripped out of my right hamstring with a mixed spray of blood and whale oil. I avoided a face plant and halted, probing the hamstring to see if the alien would bite, or if the hamstring had been torn away from the butt cheek. Neither was true.

I tried to stand upright a few times. But a knobbly cramp reared its head out of my hamstring forcing me to bend over. A movement which repeated for the next unimaginably slow minute or so. As runners went by.

A cramp? Seriously? Cramps are for civilians and dehydrated body builders. Cramps are not for Vikings who have gone off marauding.

Still bending over, I swallowed the remainder of the open caffeine gel with one hand and with the other reached for an emergency Rennies from my back pocket. (Great tip Nige!) I tore at the foil and chewed the spearmint flavoured tablet. After a few seconds, the muscles in my hamstring eased and allowed me to stand upright. I shook my legs out and started up again. Within a few metres, I eased open the throttle and was soon back on 4.50s and on the plan.

That lasted for another two k's until someone shouted GO COWS! and I spontaneously did my cow horns over my head with my fists and dangling pinkies. As I did that BAM! The Alien cramp.

Someone up there is annoyed with me. This is payback for past wrongs. Vengeance is being extracted, one cramp at a time.

I had a chat with my hamstring, not unlike Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) speaking to Ash, her Science Officer on the Nostromo spaceship.

RobbyRicc: How do we kill it Ash, there's got to be a way of killing it, how, how do we do it?
Ash: You can't.
RobbyRicc: That's baloney!
Ash: You still don't understand what you're dealing with do you? Perfect organism. Its structural perfection is matched only by its hostility.
RobbyRicc: You admire it?
Ash: I admire its purity. A survivor, unclouded by conscience, remorse or delusions of morality.


Once more to the breach, dear friends, once more.

The alien would rear its head six times stopping me in my tracks each time. Eventually I figured out, I need to avoid using the hamstring. Turning my feet in like a pigeon, I thumped the side of the thigh muscles as a wake up call, and shuffled forward. This worked, in the way spit and mud works to plug a dam, and after sputtering and grinding out a 1h49m run, I managed to get to the finish line in 5h01m. 17th place.

Slot allocation for Worlds was later in the afternoon. Only 10 slots for my age group. But many top athletes already had their slots. So I hoped for a roll down. My gut told me 50-50.

I had two conversations after the race that stand out.

Conversation #1: Alby phoned. I told him the race was terrible. Bad pacing, not strong enough. One of the worst races ever. An abject failure.

After hanging up, I went to the jam-packed roll down and wangled for myself the 8th of the 10 slots.

Conversation #2: I phoned Alby and told him that I had a slot to World Champs in PE on 2 September and that - with hindsight - I had executed a flawless race, was over the moon and that this was potentially the greatest race of my life. Ever.

In the early 2000's, the Comrades cut off time was increased from 11 to 12 hours. Since then some of the old school runners don't consider anything over 11 hours a legitimate Comrades finish.

Part II - Pietermaritzburg to Durban by foot (10 June)

The amazement that my body was in good nick and would survive my 10th Comrades unscathed encountered reality mid-way up Inchanga with the same grace as a marmot playing chicken with a freight train.  My quadriceps told me to go jump in the lake and those treasonous little tendons that connect the hips to the top of the quads pressed the "Eject Button" shouting "You are on your own Kimosabi" as they jettisoned themselves off into outer space.

That was the beginning of the downfall....

So many things happen over Comrades weekend you could write memoirs based just on the weekend's events. It's all peaks and doldrums, love and misery, deflation and elation, supporters and racers, broken people and rock stars.


This was the 93rd Comrades Marathon. It would be Alby's 15th run, my 10th. Completing it would ensure that I would join the Green Number Club and that the number #47714 - given to me for every run - would be mine. All that was to be done was to complete the 90.184 km's.

Our brother and manager, Stef, once again provided stellar advice. Aim towards the Moses Mabhida stadium. Don't stop til you're done.

Our training had its usual hiccups. Alby and his hip were having a trial separation and they weren't talking. My quads and I were still living together but sleeping in separate rooms.
We chose our pacing strategy: run 8 minutes, walk 2 minutes. Remain flexible. Change is inevitable.

We agreed to run in our Elvis suits for a number of reasons:

• First, we are Cows and The Cows™ (who raise money for CHOC - helping kids with cancer) were honoured by being invited as an official Comrades charity.
• Second, our training did not warrant a serious attempt at a Bill Rowan.
• Third, Elvis suits are much easier to run in than cow suits.

As usual, we stayed at the home of our Pietermaritzburg friends, Nicholas and Nicky, who live not too far away from Polly Shortts. They're like family after the number of our sleepovers we've had at their place. While Nicholas stayed at the sportsclub to watch the rugby, Nicky fed us our traditional lasagna and sent us off to bed early.

Our 3am alarm went off and we realised that Nicholas (our driver to the start) was not yet home. Nicky went about making a few phonecalls trying to locate him while we wolfed down a breakfast and lubed ourselves up with fistfuls of Vaseline.

Nicky received a text from a medic. There had been a car accident and Nicholas was in hospital. His condition was stable. The mood changed from excitement and focus, to trepidation and confusion. A smelling salts moment. The seriousness of the race dissipated as it became apparent that this was far more important.

Nicky, however, is made of strong stuff. Without missing a beat, she commandeered the situation and told us we'd put her sleeping girls in the car, drop us off at the start, drop off supplies to a supporters table and then head to hospital to tend to her husband.

(We found out after the race that Nicholas had flipped his car down an embankment on a dark road and broken his neck. Miraculously, someone found him and called emergency rescue. There was no nerve damage and a week or so after Comrades would undergo surgery with "a cage and screws to his spine" and eventually take his first few steps a week later. It still blows my mind thinking about this).

We were rather dazed from our start to the day, concerned about Nicholas and Nicky and the girls.

And then Shosholaza was sung, followed by the South African anthem and the cock crow. And soon we were on our way down through the frosty dark to Durban with Chariots of Fire permeating the soul.

The weather was icy and we wore our fabric race covers for the first 15k's. As the sun broke across the hills, these were tossed aside and people came to the roadside to cheer. We put on our sunglasses and, despite the rough start, it soon became apparent that this would not be a normal day. In fact it would turn out to be one of the most memorable day of our lives.

Elvis Presley, it soon became clear, is big in the road between Pietermaritzburg and Durban. And when I say big, I mean behemoth. People from the entire smorgasbord of South Africa's colourful and varied ethnicities went wild. As we approached the first groups lining both sides of the road, people laughed and grabbed for their kids.

"Quickly, kids, come look at Elvis. And another one. He's also a Cow!"

Old ladies' eyes would sparkle, children would "mooooh!"with all their might and pretty girls would let go of the hands of their boyfriends and beam at us.

Pensioners called out to us, "It's now or never!" "Where are your blue suede shoes?" "We're caught in a trap!" "A little less conversation!"

The moment we threw out our arms in an Elvis karate pose, our red tassels would grab at the reflection of the sun and people lost all inhibitions and folded themselves in two they laughed so hard. Being two brothers who have been accustomed to being shunned by girls all of our lives, it caught us off guard that so many beautiful girls would call out to us, "Rockstars!" "You guys are sexy!"

One radiant beauty saw us and shouted, "I have seriously been waiting for you two guys my entire life!"

Our feeling was beyond elation. More like transcendence allowing us - for those brief moments of joy - to hover above the pain and discomfort.

Even towards the latter part of the course, where my quadriceps had packed their bags and moved into a motel, and my Achilles (a mean old ex) had gone full metal jacket and was sending electrical eruptions through my left calf, the supporters kept at it.

Walking up one of the hills, I could barely move my foot in front of the other without baring teeth. I noticed a guy in dirty jeans walking towards me. It seemed as though life had served this guy some testing times laced with whiskey, controlled substances and parole violations. He took one look at me, gave me a crooked smile and whispered, "Sex, drugs and rock n' roll baby. Sex, drugs and rock 'n roll."

I cracked up. My jawbones hurt from laughing. The humour carried me for the darker patches which lay ahead.

At the half way mark, where weakness resides, the road opens herself up and you endure.  

Alby wears #248 given to him by Trevor who left us
on 28 March this year for the Big Ultra in the sky.

Our average pace of just under 6m10s per k had started to erode after Inchanga and never regained itself. We lost seconds on every hill and my legs were unable to recoup any time on the downhills. On Fields Hill, I started to run with a hitch in my step as the Achilles beneath me began to disintegrate causing my hip to shimmy to one side in order to navigate through the discomfort.

"Look mommy, he even runs like Elvis!" shouted one little girl.

It's the little things that keep you going during the dark times. The little kid who hands you some sweaty jelly babies, the old ladies who smile at you when you do an Elvis pose, a salty potato, eyes of your supporters as they try to take away the pain. A few of the sub-11 hour buses came by with their singing and soldier rhythm. I could not muster the effort to hold onto them.

Alby kept pace a few steps ahead of me. He and his hip had reconciled their differences. Where I was faltering, he was like titanium. Like he was bulletproof, nothing to lose. And he kept chipping away at the course. Pushing when it felt like we could push no more.

I turned to him once we had the stadium in our sights, still a few k's down the road.

"Just so that we are clear, I don't give a rat's behind what time we finish today."

He didn't say a word. He just kept chipping away.

We entered the stadium, with its mesmerising roars and emerald grass. We spotted our wives, brother and friends, and smiles beamed.

The finish line was crossed at 10h55m. 25 consecutive runs completed between the two us.

Alan Robb (Germiston Callies golden boy and first runner to go sub 5.30 for the race) handed me my green number for a celebratory picture. I asked if Alby could join us. Alan Robb said no problem.

Afterwards Alby and I walked under the stadium to get our gear and, when all was quiet, he turned to me. It was the first time he had spoken to me in a few hours.

"No way on God's earth my brother runs his Green number with anything other than a sub-11."  


My precious

Elvis's have left the building.

     *Drop mike*
     *Walk away*
     *Wait for building to explode*
     *Don't look back*

~RobbyRicc


East Rand Gold

Lords of Destruction - East London 70.3 Half Ironman

East London's 70.3 is a half Ironman distance race: 1.9k ocean swim, 90k hilly bike, 21k run in which they have embedded a hill named Bunkers Hill which needs to be summited twice.

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.

Shaun sneaking in my SIS nutrition
(Race Day Ammunition) from PE

East London Baywatch

We were all here for the same thing.

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.

 

*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.   

 

Stealthfighters Roxy and Kelly



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.



The Hunt...

...for....

...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?

The Warmonger et moi

Hindsight is a fine thing. We found out later that there were about 10 or 11 slots in the 45-49 age group. Some people didn't take their slots and so the slots rolled to number 17 in the age group.

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?

We have ourselves a reader

4 x Apocalypse Cows and
a future world champion

28m55s Swim
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

Durban Half Ironman - 2nd August 2015

Usually I wouldn’t insult my readers (hello to both of you!) with a race report on a Half Ironman race. The distance is just so - how do I say this without offending anyone - it’s so 2005. However I am reminded of the promise I made to myself some time ago: “The RobbyRicc Race report is not for the current you, but the former you who might be out there getting used to the idea of triathlon and all its confusions (including its use as a vehicle away from sloth and towards enlightenment) and is for the-former-you who has no idea what’s going on”.

 
If you’re interested in numbers, here’s what happened:

Swim (1.9k’s): 27m06s

Bike (90k): 02:33:03
Run (21.1k): 01:34:50
Total: 4h42m

I was first 40-44yr old guy not in the top ten. Position #11. Which if you exclude the first ten athletes, means I actually won my age group! Remarkable. As for the ladies against whom I am always racing, you’ll be pleased to note I was first 40-44 year old female. This is great news for me as the fastest chick regularly crushes me without mercy. That’s a story for another day.

For those out there who think your heart rate (measured in beats per minute) diminishes with age, you’ll be pleased to note that for me, especially in the last few k’s of the run, it did not. My watch was pushing out numbers in the 180 bpm range which for me is an indication that there’s life in the old engine yet.

RobbyRicc and
The Feet (check the length of the guy's femur) 

Swim

I lined up with the 29 minute swimmers. They’re a feisty bunch made up of Johnny Bravo jaws and Hulk Hogan neck veins. I’m not certain if it is intentional intimidation, but they made me want to shrivel up and bury myself in the beach sand. The start was a feeder system where a group of resilient volunteers channelled groups of about 10-12 into the water. The pros went off and the age groupers shimmied their way through the sand to the start line, not unlike cattle gearing up for the stampede.

As I see it, the trick in sea swims is to accept that the sea is stronger than you’ll ever be and will crush you at the drop of a hat. Once you’ve accepted that, the thing is not to fight your way out or be a hero but to take it easy and dive under the waves and exhale. Always exhale.

I made my way beyond the breakers without issue and found a pair of shoulders ploughing the sea before me. I fought the entire way for the bubbling pair of feet until the final buoy which turned to the beach. Heading for land felt as though I was swimming on the spot, when all of a sudden, the sea sucked me backwards and rose underneath me like a behemoth raising itself to its feet. Thankfully the behemoth missed me and I saw its aftermath tumbling and smashing its way to shore. I’ll get the next one, I thought. After missing a few more waves, my wave finally arrived. I relaxed before it reached me and then, as I sensed its rollercoaster energy welling up behind me, swam as though my life depended on it.

 

At first, the wave was quiet. Like a giant taking a deep breath.  My legs rose with the water which swiftly jettisoned my body down the ribbed back of its wave. Wetsuits, it became apparent, are way faster than human skin and board shorts. I rocketed down and through the water and froth emitting a primal scream festooned with quotes from Avatar and its crazy Colonel Quaritch. As my speed topped out, the wave caught me and avalanched me into the sand. A fair trade for the free ride.

 

Col. Quaritch: You are not in Kansas anymore. You are on Pandora, ladies and gentlemen. Respect that fact every second of every day. If there is a Hell, you might wanna go there for some R & R after a tour on Pandora. Out there beyond that fence every living thing that crawls, flies, or squats in the mud wants to kill you and eat your eyes for jujubes. They are very hard to kill. As head of security, it is my job to keep you alive. I will not succeed. Not with all of you. If you wish to survive, you need to cultivate a strong, mental aptitude. You got to obey the rules: Pandora rules. Rule number one...



Add caption

The Mount

Normally mounting your bike while your shoes are in your pedals and elasticated to your bike is an informal affair. This time proved different.
 
As I moved towards the mount line, for some reason I thought the marshal shouted that we had to mount before the line. This turned out to be exactly 100% incorrect.
 

As I began to straddle the bike, not unlike a lion trying to get a grip with its hind leg on a sprightly gazelle, the marshal hollered “Athlete! Do not get on the bike! Only AFTER the mount line! Cease! Desist! Verboten!”

This caused me to panic and I start hopping on my left leg with my right leg in a straight ballet-stretch above my back wheel making me look like I was the last in a long breed of randy horses trying to mount a wee-young-mare to prevent extinction. My left leg weakened with all the bounding and on breaching the mount line I Iunged – not unlike the last jump permitted to triple jumpers – and prayed that my nuts were sufficiently tucked out of harm’s way in my tri suit. The crowd sensed it too. I could hear their gasps as my groin area floated upwards almost willing the seat to lower itself beneath the under carriage to avoid the crushing of the crown jewels.

 

 “Not the nuts. Not the nuts.” I could almost hear the crowd whisper in unison as they squeezed their eyes.

 

Gasps turned to cheers as my scrotum slid ever so gently over the seat like a starship berthing with the mother ship. I smiled nervously with the knowledge of how close my life had been to being changed forever. A tear may have been expended, I can’t be certain, and I channelled the relief and thankfulness into my quads.

 

 

 

 The Bike

The bike course hugs the coastline and gently takes you over its fleshy curves forcing every ACDC fan to hum the tune from “Whole Lotta Rosie”.

‘Ain't no fairy story

Ain't no skin and bones

But you give it all you got

Weighin' in at nineteen stone

You're a whole lotta woman.’

 

The first stormtroopers came by after ten k’s. At first the occasional firebird, then a few tag team riders, and finally the crack commando team they call “The A–Team”. With each attack came an injection of pace. I quickly succumbed and resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t strong enough to pace off the riders legitimately. Not even close.  At the Ballito turnaround point, I traded a limpet mine explosion for a slow controlled underwater type implosion.

“No-one here knows me and if they do they don’t care. Only I care. I need to really care. But not now. Just a few more minutes to gather the pieces and rebuild. I’ll come back. And then they’ll rue the day. Oh yes, they'll rue the day.”

Aside from the odd ball of tumbleweed and being surpassed by my Apocalypse Cow protégé, Ty Walker, the road back was uneventful and painful. With about 15k’s to go, I found myself overtaken by a woman. Her name read “Kendra”. Excellent, I thought, she’ll lead me home, as I tried to slot behind her legally. The next moment, a team of riders slotted past me and into Kendra’s slipstream. Team Kendra could smell the stables, I thought.

 

I sat up as the team sucked me along until all its riders went by. As they did, I bit down on a cement pill, and rode around the riders. The increased effort fired me up but as soon as I made my way to the front, the rider behind me went by. And then the next. Always with Kendra at the front. My legs were sputtering and I tried the same tactic over the next few k’s with little effect. I could smell T2 and my running legs stirred. Stuff this cycling malarkey I thought. Bring me my running shoes. Bring me that promenade. 

 

The Run and The Old Gel from Arkaitz

After a quick tinkle at the portaloo, I exited T2 in good spirits. The Achilles felt lousy but it’d loosen up. I ran up to Kendra and piped up “Go Team Kendra”. Kendra turned to me, read my name on my number and said “Looking great Roberto”. What a nice gesture, I thought. She had an American accent so I thought it best to be polite and share my running intentions in case she was interested. “I’m aiming for a 1.30-ish if you’re keen.” “Me too” she said and gently let me go ahead, constantly giving me shouts of encouragement at every turn. Class act, I noted.

The ground couldn’t come to me fast enough and I enjoyed the thrill of seeing if a kid or lost cat would stray across the promenade. In anticipation I’d gently swerve my missile guidance system around the unsuspecting victims. If they were a bit skittish and jumped into my path, there’s very little chance that I’d be able to avoid them. As the thoughts of pedestrian prangs crossed my mind, I realised I had a caffeine gel snuck in the back of my triathlon suit. That bad boy had been waiting for me all day and it was time to take the hit and unleash several flavours of hell on my competitors.

I tore at the packet and sucked on its contents. The gelatinous jelly squirmed its way down my throat. The gel seemed off. It reminded me of ripe cheese from mouldy basements. I smacked my tongue around in my mouth in resigned disgust. I looked at the packet. It said “Bolt” or “Jolt” or “Jazz”. Something short, sharp and forgettable. Where the hell did I get this gel? It soon dawned on me. My good friend, Arkaitz Poncela, a Basque missile of an athlete and great friend, had given it to me with all his tri nutritional gear before leaving South Africa for Al Ein in the Middle East. In 2012. I did the maths. The gel I had ingested was older than Arkaitz’s daughter who is about 3 by now.

My kidney choked and popped against my ribcage. I laughed and grimaced at the same time. What a chop. What a cheap-skate unorganised chop. The feeling of nausea brimmed at my throat and in my gut for the next few k’s.

At the half way mark of the run, Kendra, who it turned out was one of the 4 female professional athletes, came by me as though she was an heiress chasing a diamond thief. She juggernauted past me and put 2 minutes into me in the last half of the run. I ran a 1.34. She ran a 1.32. Her closing speed was pretty incredible.

PB

I’ve cracked a 4h30 and a 4h35 for Half Ironmans however I always disputed the other highly improbable and shortened distances so those don’t count. At this race, the distances seemed just about right. So I’m happy with my new PB of 4.42, which is 7 minutes faster than the 4.49 from Florida 70.3 World Champs ten years ago where I finished alongside Keeto. On that day in Florida, Keeto, Blur and I all cramped from the Jakey-lurgy and endured horrible races so we always knew there was unfinished business.

There’s still lots more under the tank. The will to commit (to what I think is required) has been lacking of late. The extra time is out there on the bike and the run, waiting to be extracted in buckets of sweat from the salt-mines.

Never a better time than right now to begin the extraction,

~RobbyRicc

RobbyRicc, The Feet, Jester and Pat The Divine
pilfer the lady's 25-29 age group trophy 

The new Team Kendra