The Lausanne Triathlon 2015 – Jeremy Seafearer
One of the problems with triathlon is that you spend the entire event thinking about how you are going to write the report.
I had thought that I was done with triathlon for the year. Eton Dorney was, if we are all totally honest, a miserable affair. Water so cold your face froze, a transition zone set up to maximise confusion, a bike course designed to bore you rigid and the howling wind driving you steadily insane. Blenheim should have been lovely really but the whole event was so enormous and stressful that it was hard to get any enjoyment from it.
I have been pondering whether this triathlon business was really for me. I enjoy a good swim, a pleasant bike ride and a full-blooded run as much as the next fish but perhaps putting them together back to back and insisting that thousands of people partake at once was a form of mania that might not really do justice to its constituent parts.
And now the stress of writing a report added in.
The trouble is, I’ve bought the bloody suit. Seventy of the king’s pounds. And such a handsome garment – I find myself locked in. So, arriving to start my new life in Lausanne, and seeing a poster for the local triathlon, with a sinking feeling I knew I had to sign up. The next few weeks filled me with dread.
The website seemed to declare that my wave was at 8.30 am. Surely that can’t be right? My French isn’t great. I need help.
“Katy? KATY! Translate this page for me. Come along now.”
“It says your wave is at 8.30 am on Sunday morning.”
“No, that can’t be right.”
“It is.”
“…”
6.30 am. Special K. A banana. Wetbeak always spoke highly of bananas. A bag full of unnecessary stuff and a long freewheel down the hill to Lake Geneva. 7.00 am. There is a lot of activity, people buzzing around with space machines and lean bodies. I spot a marshal and search the recesses of my memory for some GCSE phrases.
“Ou est registration?”
?
“Le registration? ” – will this work? Normally this works.
?
“Pour les numero” – gesturing wildly at my helmet.
?
“Merci bucket pour votre aider” – dick head.
If in doubt, which by now I was, follow others.
A steady stream of lean bodies move purposefully towards the tourism office. Yes, that looks promising. An official looking gentleman directs people into the correct queues – in French. I nod and just join any old queue. It works out brilliantly. Clutching a green hat and more sticky numbers than you can shake a stick at, I plaster my helm, horse and body with 1695 and, newly emblazoned, cast around for who to follow next.
Transition. Not for the Swiss a scrum in a muddy field with a free-for-all racking palaver, but a meticulous regulated system in which you match your race number to a generous space on the racks.
Just as I finish faffing around, a short, severe man with an enormous moustache starts physically herding me towards the water, giving short blasts on a whistle.
The assembly area. Just follow the men in green hats. My god they all look good. So very good. No messing around here. No laughter, no singing, no horsing around. No fat jolly women doing it for charity. Deadly serious. And lean. I can’t get over how lean they are.
Most of them are violently swinging their arms in circles. I decide to do the same and promptly elbow a woman clean in the face. How do you say sorry in French?
8.00 am. Half an hour to go and yet the green hats all seem to be slipping into the water behind the start pontoon and swimming up and down with savage vigour.
Oh hell. What is going on?
I suddenly feel terribly terribly lonely. Where are the rest of the herd? Where are the squealing sea pigs to share my terror? Where the Seal Elite to explain this madness and calm the nerves? Where the maestro with his rousing shanties? Where is George? Surely George must be here somewhere.
There’s nothing for it. I have to follow the green men. I slither into the warm up area and perform a couple of perfunctory strokes.
Who the fuck am I kidding?
I get out and start shivering violently.
There’s Antony Maguire!
“ANT! ANT!”
No. That can’t be right.
Other waves are setting off. Some Walrus wisdom returns to me:
One gel before the swim
The inky black
I slither in.
Good! I dig a shiny sachet out of my pocket, squeeze a taste into my maw and immediately retch, flinging the rest of the foul liquid into the waiting crowd. How the hell do you say sorry in French?
There’s Rooney!
No. That really can’t be right.
It’s time to go. Shuffle down the pontoon. Spot a group of men pretending to trip themselves up and think they are probably the right people to follow. As they slip into the black, their japery promptly ceases. They all assume identical positions, like loaded springs, braced against the pontoon.
Oh hell.
My goggles inevitably fog up.
Can I back out now? Nobody would know. I already have plenty of material for this damn report.
At least it is warm. The water is 22 degrees. My testes haven’t even shrivelled up. (Should I mention the testes in the report?)
The start is extraordinary. Savage. The wave goes off like someone has electrocuted the water. (Yes, good, a simile. A Keeper)
Before I know it I am dead last, foundering and gasping in a sea of bubbles and waves. I can’t see a thing. A wall of lean bodies blocks my view and my way. I try to slither through but there’s no way! Kicking and punching from all sides, a foot to the face, a grasping hand on my foot.
Who are these fucking bastards? Get out of my way!
Clambering out, frustrated but with my testes still remarkably loose, I glance back at the lake. Very few green hats left in the water.
Last. I’m bloody last. WHITE FANG!
Come on!
The transition area is a dream. I find my horse first time and, with plenty of room around me and an Aviici club anthem blasting over the speakers, manage to deal with my business in no time at all. Clambering onto the bike I dislodge the lovely gel I had cunningly taped to my frame. It is promptly run over and bursts.
Never mind. I have a bottle of sweet nectar. I’ll be fine.
The bike starts with 500 m up a 10% gradient and then continues on up, up and up. Up and up. Puffing, blowing and cursing. Lactic building in the legs. Lean bodies slide past.
Bodies conditioned by the mountains on machines engineered by CERN, or Rolex. (That’s a good line. I’ll use that.)
One of the problems with triathlon is that you spend the entire event thinking about how you are going to write the report. (Goooood! I might start with that…)
I top out of the climb feeling like hell. Best to hydrate. I reach down for my bottle of sweet sweet nectar. Fumbling like a neurotic with Parkinson’s, the bottle slips out of my hands and skitters across the road – the last of my resources, gone. Gone forever.
Fool of a Took!
And now the course plunges down a bendy bastard of a descent. Its lashing with rain and the roads are as slick as a hooker’s gusset. (Concentrate, for god’s sake!). I gather speed but the fear takes hold. Images fill my head: the Wetbeak, skinned to the bone on a slippery corner at Blenheim; Geraint Thomas, careening headlong into the trees.
For god’s sake slow down! BRAKE!
These mountain men don’t care a jot for the danger. They take the corners with wild abandon, the spray from their back wheels coating my face. I am losing time, not for lack of strength but for lack of courage. Cowardice! A craven! A damned craven. I curse myself. I should surely take the black and go north to the wall. That would surely make a man of me.
Back on some welcome flat. Get a grip.
Two more laps of the same. I grow in stature on the climbs, making good places on the up and up, then losing them again on the down and down.
The run goes like a dream. I feel strong and powerful. Like a lion. Along the shore of the lake, the Alps towering across the water, shouts of ALLEZ filling the ears. I am making places, overtaking the lean mountain bodies, clearly bewildered by this pan-flat course. Nearly there…
How am I going to finish the report? How am I going to finish the report… something about the tri-suit? It can’t just peter out…
Concentrate for god’s sake! One last push.
Across the line.
Time for a coffee overlooking the lake and the mountains.
Hold on… I think I’ve actually enjoyed myself. Thank god! The suit is too bloody good to stay in the draws.
A great event. Anyone for next year?
Swim: 11:05
T1: 4.01
Bike: 45:44
T2: 2:18
Run: 19:40
TIME: 1:22:50