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) |
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 |
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 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.
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 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.
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 |
Looking at the recent fashion trends one can see that body hair may be the only 
