Saturday 15th September | 20:00
The shanty singing reverberated off the oak panelled walls as soldiers in mess dress took it in turns to gulp from a horn of ale. Victorian explorers hurriedly moved their pith helmets off the long banquet table to make room for large boards of smoked meat that were brought out from the kitchen.
The shanty singing grew louder.
They were all waiting for the triathlon results. It had been a hard day’s racing in Kelmscott. People had bled to earn their times and they were anxious to know where their cost had placed them on the leader board. As the singing reached a climax a young man named George, dressed as a cavalry officer, stood up brandishing the time sheets. He was the glorious leader of the event and the host of the party. The room erupted with uncontrollable cheering. George raised the time sheets above his head and then brought them crashing down against the banquet table, commanding silence.
The room fell quiet
“In last place” he barked, in a hoarse, gravelly voice. “With a time of 1 hour 38 minutes and 46 seconds, I give you our new White Fang… Ben Thornton”. I watched with surprise as the room filled with fervent clamouring and applause. Beer foam splattered against the walls and people stood to down their goblets of wine. Ben’s broad, well-built frame rose. Wearing an Egyptian’s ornamental headpiece with short sleeves, he looked like Tutankhamun dressed as an open side flanker. Modestly, he made his way to the front to collect his prize.
I was enjoying it immensely. But I was confused. Ben had come in last place and yet, when he received his trophy the cheering reached its climax. The trophy was a small white fang standing erect on a polished wooden plinth. “If that was the reaction for last place, I can’t wait to see how people react as we move up the leader board” I thought to myself.
The room erupted with uncontrollable cheering. George raised the time sheets above his head and then brought them crashing down against the banquet table, commanding silence.
To my surprise, as George continued to read out the middle table, the cheering petered out. What was going on?
Gratefully, as we began to reach the sharp end of the leader board the buzz began to return and when Graeme Acheson’s winning time of 1 hour 11 minutes and 40 seconds was announced the frothy, table-standing uproar returned. Graeme had finished four minutes ahead of second place.
Nonetheless, I couldn’t help feel that the cheering-to-rank ratio had felt rather upside down until then. Perhaps someone had drugged the horn of ale?
Friday 14th September | 07:45
As a rookie to the Sexy Walrus triathlon it was suggested that I attend with an open mind and a willing attitude. No one mentioned that I should bring a wetsuit. As I packed my things before work I realised it would not have fitted into my rucksack in any case, and besides if Wim Hoff could do it so could I (Post Event Note – I have now read the helpful joining instructions which clearly say that wetsuits are strongly recommended).
I had been to Kelmscott once before with a friend who was trying to date a girl who had written her dissertation on the Arts and Crafts movement. He figured the best way to make her fall in love with him was to mug up on William Morris’s wallpaper. As a consequence, we had spent two hours walking around Kelmscott Manor until he felt sufficiently briefed to retire to the café. The cream tea was excellent.
I had a feeling that tomorrow’s visit to Kelmscott would be a little different.
Saturday 15th September | 06:50
On the morning of the Triathlon my friend Jamie and I awoke early for a quick eggs and bacon then headed west with a car full of lycra and bicycle parts. After an hour or so we saw the familiar brown tourism sign for Kelmscott Manor; the home of William Morris. It all came flooding back.
However, as we approached the start point by the museum entrance, past visions of retired gentle folk queuing for entry was replaced by a melee of athletes rubbing Vaseline on their shins. Why their shins? The briefing ensued. To my horror I realised that I was the only person not wearing a wetsuit. My testicles responded appropriately, retreating into the warmth of my pelvis. I tried to listen closely to all the chat about sea cucumbers and pigs and a chap called White Fang who got to go first and seemed very popular. “It’s probably because he works for the police” I thought to myself.
I had been allocated into the Sea Cucumber group. Luckily we had a leader who was very nice and had done this before. We walked upstream to the point of entry. Someone had kindly left an aluminium ladder on the river bank. They had even strimmed away the brambles. I was running out of excuses not to take part in the swim. Shit was getting real.
Somewhere downstream a horn sounded. White Fang had crossed the start line. This was it.
My testicles responded appropriately, retreating into the warmth of my pelvis.
I stood in the sun for the last few precious moments. Time was racing and before you could say ‘William Morris’ I was losing my balance on the bottom rung of the aluminium ladder and fell forwards into the water with an elegant belly flop. The cold was all consuming. Luckily it had an immediate numbing effect and the adrenaline kicked in. We swam as a group towards the start line where we treaded water, waiting for our orders. There was a comradery amongst us; strangers united through adversity. Suddenly the whistle blew and we were off, splashing around like a flotilla of porpoises on a normal Saturday on the Thames.
The distance between myself and the leaders soon began to draw out and I realised that the standard of athleticism amongst the Sea Cucumbers was excellent. We swam on downstream and soon we were able to see the pillar box marking the halfway point of the swim. Thankfully it had never seen action.
We swam on with the distance between the leaders and myself growing ever greater. I passed an unusually jolly fisherman and gratefully rounded the final bend to the finish. Dutifully I tried to shout out my number, but I had lost sensation in my chin so the number 14 sounded like “fouree”. The swim was over. Thank God for that.
As I transitioned, two trainer clad Sea Cucumbers over took me as I hobbled barefoot towards the transition. I had quickly learnt lesson number two; always bring footwear for T1. Filing this little gem, I continued to the rack to find my bike.
In unremarkable time I had assembled my effects and was pushing my old faithful past the Manor, shouting my number, this time in a much more audible manner. I had swiped a banana and two gels en route and was now clipped in and gunning for the next section. I weaved through a group of museum visitors extolling the virtues of the free bus pass and urged my bike on. This was my strong suit and I was eager to eat up the field.
The course instructions for the bike were some of the most confusing I had ever heard. They were perhaps second only to the Monty Python sketch about which peg prep school children should hang their bags on. None the less I was clear in my mind that there was a man called Bob on the course somewhere and I had to see him twice.
The bike was moving like a gelding running home to the stables and I was loving it. I had to take back the places I had lost in the swim. I set my focus on the bikes ahead of me and the hedgerows in my periphery blurred into long dark streaks of green. The course was so flat that everyone was travelling at huge speeds and it didn’t take long for Bob to come into view. What a man.
I turned as tightly as I could at the checkpoint without skidding on the gravel and then forced my legs to drive the bike on and pick up the speed I had lost.
Soon, I began to hear a deep, rolling sound coming from around a corner up ahead. It sounded like an industrial flywheel turning at full speed. The sound grew to its peak as a flash of blue lycra whipped passed me on a pair of aero wheels. I knew I had seen my first seal, the elite athletes amongst us. Chills ran down my spine. The race was really on.
“ A Sexy Walrus winner is one who wins the people, not just the race”
I pushed my legs on through the cocktail of adrenaline and lactic acid. It was exhilarating. I felt both the cat and the mouse as I set myself targets to overtake the field ahead and keep my distance from those approaching from behind.
Passing Bob for the second time I knew I had cycled the full course so made my left turn back to the Manor. I flew past some museum visitors returning to their cars, bearing Arts and Crafts patterned thermos mugs and leapt off my bike at transition. My legs felt very wobbly and I made a bit of a meal of the whole debacle. Lesson number three; as you come into transition let your feet and pedals spin so your legs don’t feel so heavy for the run.
poor old Eddie
With more power than grace, I was soon running out along the Thames past the jolly fisherman who I had met on my swim. The running course was quintessentially English. It covered beautiful arable headlands and we crossed between fields over styles made from the vernacular stone.
The sound grew to its peak as a flash of blue lycra whipped passed me on a pair of aero wheels. I knew I had seen my first seal, the elite athletes amongst us. Chills ran down my spine. The race was really on.
Fittingly, the course even ran passed a pub, which we past twice for good measure.
At some point during the second lap I heard a swift footed patter behind me. Looking over my shoulder I saw Greame approaching. He looked calm and relaxed, as if he was running out to get some more rusks for his new-born baby.
I was probably the thirtieth person he had overtaken so I did the kind thing and let him pass. I like to think that if I had I worn a wetsuit, brought footwear for T1 and spun my pedals coming into T2 it would have been a Mansel Lewis vs Acheson sprint finish (if you believe that, then you probably believe that the Red House was the finest example of William Morris’s work).
The finish was in sight and commanding a second (or third) wind I gave it the beans for the final 100 metres and collapsed over the line feeling a mixture of exhaustion, pride and joy. As others followed, the finish area began to fill and the buzz became palpable with everyone offering encouragement and enjoying one another’s anecdotes about the race. In those moments I came to understand that the event only took place through the commitment of a group of friends organising it for each another’s pleasure. In spite of that (perhaps because of it) the whole event had been very professionally run.
Once we had all finished we received our marching instructions. We were to head out for lunch in a nearby pub and then on to the ‘Haunted Castle’ for supper and the announcement of the results. What awaited us there, I wondered to myself…
Sunday 16th September | 16:00
I had said goodbye to my dear friend Jamie and was on the return train journey home. Boredom and sentimentality got the better of me so I flicked through the George’s helpful joining instructions that I had neglected to read before the event. Reading through the race pack I came across the Sexy Walrus Code of Racing:
“ A Sexy Walrus winner is one who wins the people, not just the race”
At that moment the final piece of the jigsaw fitted into place. This event was not about winning. It was about celebrating the effort, friendship and energy that everyone contributed. White Fang was the embodiment of that ethos, and hence why so much beer had been spilt the night before.
I sat back into my seat and smiled. Bring on the SW Triathlon 2019.
