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I know this will be a very long shot. Old British HIM RR .
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Joined: 02 Jan 2007
Posts: 890
Location: Up North

PostPosted: Wed Nov 11, 2009 12:20 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Great writing (I remember that race! water officially 12.5 degrees - I think it was really 9)

Reminds me of our club newsletter when we first started (sadly apathy put paid to that) - many undiscovered comic geniuses - I must try to dig them out.
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Ginger Boy

Joined: 08 Jun 2005
Posts: 379
Location: Manchester

PostPosted: Wed Nov 11, 2009 12:34 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Brialliant that rob. laughing my bollox off here.
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Joined: 24 Aug 2005
Posts: 17405
Location: St Leonards, East Sussex

PostPosted: Wed Nov 11, 2009 12:38 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Ha! I remember reading that on XTri when it was published, three years before I joined TT.

Have borrowed excellent shiny red racing bike from my father ... It looks the business. I have no business riding it whatsoever.

Love it. Very Happy
Focus on easy, because if that's all you get, that ain't so bad. - Caballo Blanco
We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children. - Native American proverb
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Joined: 26 Dec 2005
Posts: 5402
Location: My happy place

PostPosted: Sat Sep 22, 2018 6:08 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

A friend in Oz was looking for this report ( a resurrected thread on Transitions). Looks like the RR link is now dead.

I don't suppose this RR exists anywhere else does it? Is Rooster still around?
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Joined: 13 Oct 2012
Posts: 1999
Location: Manchester

PostPosted: Sat Sep 22, 2018 11:16 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

FatPom wrote:
A friend in Oz was looking for this report ( a resurrected thread on Transitions). Looks like the RR link is now dead.

I don't suppose this RR exists anywhere else does it? Is Rooster still around?

Contact Rob at Oxygen Addict. He also has a very good podcast with good guest interviews.
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Joined: 12 Nov 2007
Posts: 18165
Location: alles was ich bin, alles was ich war

PostPosted: Mon Sep 24, 2018 8:51 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Where's Repoman's Almere report; that was great too Laughing
27 Years since it all began....
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Joined: 11 Apr 2005
Posts: 4673
Location: Manchester

PostPosted: Sun Oct 21, 2018 7:30 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

FatPom wrote:
A friend in Oz was looking for this report ( a resurrected thread on Transitions). Looks like the RR link is now dead.

I don't suppose this RR exists anywhere else does it? Is Rooster still around?

It's funny to think that anyone remembers this, and very nice too Smile Searched for it and could only find this badly-formatted copy in an old email reply. Hope you enjoy Smile

>UK Half-Ironman, Llanberis, North Wales, Sunday 8th
>September 2002.
>Somehow this ridiculous idea had hatched in the pub
>last Christmas. In a stupor of alcohol, and in a
>pathetic attempt to make good at least one of the
>things that Iíd said I would do before I turned 30, I
>had agreed to enter the UK Half-Ironman. This despite
>the fact that I had never done a triathlon before,
>didn't own a bike and could barely swim. Some
>decisions should never be left to the alcohol fairies.
>Nine months later and the morning of Sunday September
>8th found me quietly praying, wishing I had done more
>swimming and biking and wondering how I ever thought
>this was a good idea.
>Race Day. Llanberis Village, North Wales.
>State of mind: Petrified.
>6 am.
>Iím standing in a huge tent with over a thousand
>half-naked people who are covering themselves in
>vaseline and pulling on rubber suits. I am more scared
>than I have ever been during my adult life. The
>vaseline that I have just rubbed all over my backside
>and crotch, in a desperate attempt to prevent
>saddlesores later on, has turned my arse-hair into
>dreadlocks. Iím going to die here, and Iím going to
>die with a scrotum that looks like Bob Marley's head.
>We're standing by the waters edge and itís belting
>down. Real, proper mountain rain that God sends down
>to tell you that you should be still in bed. Iím
>wearing a thick rubber wetsuit and Iím still cold. I
>haven't even been near the water yet, and I can't feel
>my feet.
>'Come on,' says my mate Ferg. 'We'll be fine when we
>get in. Lets go for a warm up swim, itís just nerves.'
>He dives into the water and swims ten yards or so.
>Come on, I think, look back and tell me itís not cold.
>He raises his head and looks back at me.
>'Bloody hell, it's freezing!' he shouts.
>Great. As if this wasn't life threatening enough
>Iím in the water, trying to tread water and not
>hyperventilate with nerves. If you think 600 people
>sounds like a lot of people in a confined area of
>water not supported by a
>boat, you should see them up close, surrounding you
>like little neoprene sharks in green swim hats. What
>the hell am I doing here?
>6.59.30 am
>This is how it starts.
>Thereís the air horn and we all start swimming.
>Immediately, I get slapped around the head and kicked
>in the stomach, and then for good measure my goggles
>fill with water. All around me, all I can see is a
>boiling mass of whitewater, legs and arms furiously
>thrashing the lake, green swim-hats everywhere. Itís
>terrifying. Primordial instinct kicks in. Must fight
>or die. Adopt attitude last seen when driving in
>Paris rush hour. Start whirling arms frantically, like
>a wind-up bath toy on amphetamines, slapping and
>kicking like my life depends on it. It probably does.
>No one is more surprised than I am when they make
>space for me. Iím swimming.
>And that's how it starts.
>Emerge from the water elated to be alive. Foolishly
>run as fast as I can to my bike, buoyed by adrenaline
>and driven by long-forgotten competitive instinct.
>Have borrowed excellent shiny red racing bike from my
>father, something of a cyclist in his day. A fine,
>lightweight machine with a saddle like a razor blade,
>it comes equipped with a pair of special aerodynamic
>handlebars, a little computer that tells me how fast
>Iím going, and pedals like ski-bindings that secure my
>feet with worrying finality. It looks the business. I
>have no business riding it whatsoever.
>Race from the transition area past the cheering crowds
>at a somewhat over-enthusiastic 25mph. Anaesthetic
>effect of adrenaline means I feel no pain, no fatigue,
>no sense of shame in my ridiculous new lycra shorts. I
>am a cycling God. I am Lance Armstrong. I am buggered
>if I can work out how youíre meant to go round corners
>on these handlebars.
>ĎTake it easy, son, thereís a long way to go yet,í
>yells my father with concern, as I career like a drunk
>around the first real corner at top speed, narrowly
>missing the metal barriers. Foolishly choosing to
>ignore him, I accelerate even faster, lost in a
>fantasy of Ironman victory, and head out of Llanberis
>village at top speed. Oh dear.
>19mph. Itís not even 8 o'clock in the morning and my
>arse is sore already, and thereís a worrying ache in
>my scrotum. Iím soaking wet and cold. I want a bacon
>sandwich. Eat banana instead. It makes a poor
>16mph. Hmm. The dull ache in my testicles is getting
>worse. 'Dull' as is 'the blunt blade of an axe', not
>as is 'bored', obviously. People keep whizzing past
>me on bikes that made of carbon fibre and titanium,
>even possibly pieces of the bloody space shuttle for
>all I know. They make a strange Ďwhooshí noise as they
>go past, and the riders look completely unconcerned
>with the availability of bacon sandwiches in the next
>village. Must eat. Grudgingly force down another
>10mph. Hmm. I Canít feel my testicles at all. Or my
>feet, for that matter. Or my fingers. I seem to have
>been riding for ever. Iím in the middle of nowhere and
>all I can see for two straight miles is a road that
>goes uphill into the clouds. Literally.
>My mind starts to wander. Adrenaline has worn off and
>now I realise Iím not actually going to win, I have to
>try to stay sane. Wonder whatís on T4 Sunday about
>now? Holly Valance, maybe.
>The thought at least brings some feeling back to my
>groin, but not in a good way.
>Still canít see the summit of this hill. I canít go
>on. Iím hot, breathless and sweating like a fat lad in
>a kebab shop. I really canít go on. My bike agrees and
>thoughtfully punctures. Make a show of shouting and
>swearing, but am secretly pleased with genuine excuse
>for a rest. No worries; have seen Tour De France
>video. Await arrival of spare wheel from man on
>9.34 am
>Hmm. No sign of him yet. Sit by roadside and get
>breath back. Passing cyclists give sympathetic looks
>and words of encouragement.
>9.37 am
>Realise there is no motorcyclist with spare wheels.
>Commence shouting and swearing with renewed vigour.
>Passing cyclists moving to other side of road,
>possibly to avoid eye contact but mainly to avoid
>being sprayed with spittle from string of profanity
>being shouted at red-faced volume.
>Find spare innertube in little bag under saddle. Also
>mini Mars bar and Kendal mint cake. Spirit lifted.
>Father is all-knowing Cycle God.
>Thereís nothing for it. I sit my sore arse down by the
>Welsh roadside and fix puncture myself. And eat
>chocolate. And urinate like alcoholic racehorse.
>Renewed by rest and sugar, Iím away. Approach cafť in
>small village advertising bacon sandwiches. Heart
>races. Cyclists stop for lunch at places like this.
>Father and his friends spend half their weekends in
>them. Hurrah! Come to me, deeply-fried pig flesh of
>the Gods!!
>No-one seems to be stopping. Bugger bugger bugger
>Whatís wrong with these people? No lie-in and no fry
>up? This is no way to spend a Sunday. Herculean effort
>needed to keep on pedalling. Body strikes deal with
>mind; promise me all day breakfast at finish line, or
>we stop now.
>18mph. Approaching Llanberis, pride produces strange
>increase in speed, fuelled by determination not to be
>beaten by grey-haired beardy types. The winner is
>already crossing the finish line and I haven't even
>started the run yet. Race into the transition with all
>the control of a 7 year old with stabilisers removed
>for the first time.
> Ah, the run. Now we're talking. No fancy carbon
>machines, no near-drownings, just me and my shoes and
>13.1 miles of tarmac. This is where I get my own back
>on all those swimmers and cyclists. Running I can
>definitely do. Leave transition tent confident and
>bouncing with energy.
>Someone has stolen my legs and replaced them with my
>Grandmothers. Feet are totally numb, like blocks of
>ice, and legs feel like I'm giving Jeff Capes a
> Weave back and forth across road at about two miles
>per hour with all the style and grace of an
>incontinent rambler. Backside feels like Black and
>Decker have been using it to test power sanders. This
>is not good. This is not good at all.
>Feed station. Force down banana, somehow still aware
>that despite legs like two lump hammers, things can
>still get worse if I run out of glycogen. Bloody
>bananas. Feel like shaved circus chimp. Grab several
>mysterious silver foil packets off the table and tear
>one open excitedly, hoping against hope they contain
>performance enhancing white powders. They are full of
>orange jelly. Bizarre. Search table for ice-cream or
>party hats, but finding none, stagger on.
>Road heads up Llanberis pass, up the side of Snowdon.
>Top of road disappears into the clouds. Wonder how I
>ended up spending Sunday running up a mountain,
>slurping packets of what appear to be orange flavoured
>snot. Legs more tired than I can ever remember them. I
>can actually feel each individual quadriceps muscle
>hurting. Calves feel like rocks, each one totally
>cramped up, giving the sensation that the skin has
>shrunk around the muscle. The road ahead is getting
>12.21 am
>Walking. Everyone is walking. All conviction that my
>strong suit is the run has been dispelled. I am a
>walker. To add insult to indignity, Sky have put a TV
>camera right at the top of the pass. Try to raise jog
>and happily shout 'Hello, Mum!' to the camera as I go
>by. All down hill from here.
>13.21 am
>Running into the village, all thoughts of fatigue are
>gone and I'm carried along on a last wave of
>adrenaline and the incredible support of the hundreds
>lining the main street. I've done it. I've bloody well
>done it. My feet hardly seem to be touching the ground
>and I can't stop myself from smiling. It's two hours
>since the winner crossed the line, but there are still
>hundreds of people clapping and cheering. There it is,
>the huge finish line archway with 'Ironman' written
>across the top, and all of a sudden, only one thing
>matters. Not the blisters or the bleeding toes or the
>burning calves or the dead thighs or the raw backside.
>I cross the line and the pain all fades away and for
>that moment I'm alive and alive and alive. Someone
>wraps a blanket around me and I go and sit on the
>kerbside, lost in my own little world of fatigue and
>head-spinning elation. Never again, I swear to myself.
>I've never felt this good before in my life, but never
>And that's the last thing I remember before I pass
>Epilogue, 1 week later.
>'Yes mate?'
>'April 6th 2003. Ironman Australia. The full
>distance. Do you fancy it?'
>'Too bloody right I do.'
'Two more pints please, barman.'
Coach Rob Wilby
oxygenaddict Triathlon Coaching
OxygenAddict Podcast
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Joined: 04 Nov 2009
Posts: 202
Location: Herts

PostPosted: Sun Oct 21, 2018 11:17 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Brilliant Rob, I remember that day as I slogged out of Llanberis and up towards the Youth Hostel Annie Emerson was flying back down towards the finish .........

The lake was rather chilly, face numbingly chilly, I also remember cresting a long hill around the back of Snowdon and getting hit by the wind think I went down the other side as slowly as I went up!

Great ending to your report alcohol and a credit card is a bad combo🤣
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