And so I returned to Copenhagen. A city of beautiful bikes and equally beautiful men and women. Many of them somewhere on the spectrum between teak and dark mahogany. The challenge was Ironman Copenhagen: 3.8km swim, 180.2 bike and 42.2km run. The Danes promised us fast times and a flat course, the very nice blonde lady at athlete registration was bemused by the team name. “Sexy Walrus”, she said in her perfect English, “were you drunk?”
Any Ironman is always three parts faff to one part racing. Copenhagen was no exception. Bikes were built, tyres were pumped, aerobars added, adjusted (and in my case not tightened enough), nutrition was calibrated – so, so, so many gels to wreak havoc with digestive systems – clothing was bagged, and before we knew it we were at bike check-in.
The little Pinarello with her clip-on aerobars was no match for the aggressive flock of Cervelo P5 and Zipp wheels who greeted her in transition. Tonnes of carbon fibre itching to get on the road.
Race Day
An 8:05am start for the 18-29 male age groupers. Not great for Oliver Crab Hands. As a slow swimmer this meant that I had a very, very lonely swim for 1 hour 36:14 navigating my way poorly through a brackish lagoon. Some spectators cheering on bridges over the water. Couldn’t hear any of this. Just the silence of the salty shallows.
Out of the swim – only 15 athletes left in the water – easy to find the transition bag. Into the tent. Gosh it’s wet in here. The detritus of 2985 athletes who had passed through before me. Off comes the wetsuit. On goes the tri-top and the Sexy Walrus cycling jersey, packed to the gunnels with bars, spare inner-tubes, tools and a whole 750ml bottle of mixed flavour gels. Wander out of the change tent, and out into the racking area. Where are all the Cervelos? Actually, where are all the bikes?
On to the trusty Pinarello. An empty course ahead of me. Not too much wind, don’t feel too bad. Could I do this? Maybe I can! Haha! Cheated the Ironman – no training and I’ll still finish. Hurrah. First 33km at reasonable pace of 30.04km/h. No time for the first aid station. Lovely coastal route. First pro wizzes past, all carbon and sinew and strength. Remarkable tri-position. Great speed. Oh, what’s that? Forgot to tighten left aero-bar properly. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.
Cliff bar at the top of the hour. Two squirts from the 750ml gel bottle of doom at half an hour. Drink at quarter past and quarter to. Good system, good system. Turn inland. Wind hits like a ton of bricks. Straight cruising roads turn to undulating, curving technical cycling. Not too much time for aero here. Lovely volunteers handing out bananas.
Things aren’t feeling great by 75km. Legs are sore, neck very sore. Oh why did I not practise with these aero-bars? Why didn’t I talk to a mechanic? Why did I think I could wing this hellish race? Make it to a long, gentle uphill section. It’s a spectator hub. A man dressed as an action hero runs alongside screaming in my face. This is much appreciated. Imagine myself as Nibali surging up the Alps. The reality is more like a man on a Penny Farthing going up Brill Hill.
Ok, 90km down. What’s that? Oh, a nice little bit of pave to rattle the bones. Thank you Kongens Lyngby for that. Some glamorous Danes look up from their coffees: “Jupp! Jupp! Jupp!”, they scream.
Lap two. Back by the sea. I haven’t seen another cyclist for several hours. This is really quite demoralising. And then I start crying. Full on sobs. Sobbing away for 60km. Salty tears mixed with the remnants of High5 gels. What is happening to my mind? Waiting for the next aid station. Can I stop here? How do I withdraw?
The madness continues. Vision shrinking in. Can see between my tri-bars to the road. Who cares about scenery? Left-eye packs in. No vision. The consequence of an old ailment flaring up in times of stress. Can I withdraw now? Stomach making bizarre noises. Will my bowels explode? Yes, probably. Where is the portaloo? Where is it?
Make it to the 130km aid station. Into the portaloo. Fall into the hole. Fortunately my hips stopped me from falling into the poo. This is madness. I am mad. Pace has dropped. Down to 22.94km/h. Weaving all over the road.
Torrential rain hits. Stop to put on a waterproof. Wrestle with the sleeves. This is madness. Hit the spectator hotspot. No one is left. The all-consuming loneliness of a slow, unprepared Ironman. A child on a road bike sidles up to me. He shouts some form of encouragement in Danish, and then cycles off into the distance, leaving me to my misery. They are packing up the aid stations around me.
Finally, the turn for home. 10km through the streets of Copenhagen Everyone else is already on the run. Why am I so slow? Two drug addicts mock me from their stoop. I bury my head into my aerobars. Why did I think I could get away with such little preparation? And then the end of the bike leg, T2, where I arrive after 6 hours 46 minutes and 44 seconds of grinding out the miles. Legs gone, vision gone, mind well and truly gone, I cock up the dismount, am picked up by some lovely Iron-Volunteers, and taken to the First Aid tent. Race is over.
The lesson, good members of Sexy Walrus, is not to take on a beast like this so staggeringly underprepared. There’s no chance of blagging it. You will be found out.