The 2015 Sexy Walrus Interclub Triathlon was the third instalment of this glorious event. 2013 witnessed what was largely an unofficial and ungainly spectacle of haggard athletes at the end of their season, joining forces for one last hurrah. 2014 had firmed up the format somewhat, with more athletes joining the herd, lengthier emails in advance, and greater safety precautions during the race. The dinner had also notched up a level in terms of madness and would be hard to beat. 2015, by contrast, had seen greater sign-ups – 35, including plenty of new faces – and was set to be the most official yet. There were more marshals; transition was to feature proper racking to cope with the numbers; a slip and slide was devised to get the athletes straight into the inky black water; the emails were to be even greater in quantity; and Bayly’s laugh even heartier. There were also rumours that Mr William was devising some sort of plan for the dinner, but he hadn’t told anyone what this was and had left the country.
And I had questions. Lots of questions.
Would George’s baby be here before the event? Who would be giving the pre-race briefing if so? Had anyone seen Mr William lately? Should I lie about my training to move down a category? Is it left at the top of the T or right?
The day before the race I met with Cox, JSW and his dad to scout out the course and set up the swim entry and transition areas. Soon the good doctor and I were marching down the Thames, assisting JSW and his dad who was dressed in a black dry-suit and carrying a saw. As we set up the swim entry it all became real and my worries were put to one side: this was it, the SW Inter-club Triathlon 2015. It was finally here. The countdown clock widget I had set up on the SW website had reached 0 months ago due to a programming error, but this really was it. Tomorrow, in this swift-flowing river, on these banks, and on these country lanes, men and women with sweating bodies and breath like seals would compete with one another to see who was the fastest walrus for 2015, and who had lied about their training progress over the previous months. My money was on Wetbeak.
The race itself is a unique and wondrous event. Preparations start months in advance as athletes prepare the bodies and minds for the occasion: athletes simultaneously train intensively while complaining about how they haven’t trained for months – ‘doing a Burns’ as it is known.This feature recalls a conversation I had once overheard between two huge body builders in the gym: ‘You’re looking big mate’…’Nah mate, haven’t lifted anything in weeks. YOU’RE looking big’….’Nah mate, not me. I’m skinny as anything. You though, mate, you’re looking big.’…’Me? No mate, you’re the one who’s big. I’m small mate’. And so on.
The aim of this process is both to lull other athletes into a false sense of security about their chances, and also to trick George into lowering your category. And it’s all part and parcel of the event, permitted and encouraged by the rules. Race day itself begins with the Briefing – done on one knee around Uncle Jonny, the one who taught us all – in transition. White Fang gets a customary cheer upon arrival along with furtive, greedy looks from the Seals. The historic walk to the swim entrance follows, then the team photograph, a quick dump in the bushes, and then off they go! The swim route gently meanders through the Oxfordshire countryside, followed by a short sprint to T1. Onto the bikes and its a short stretch up to ‘Gypsy Turn’ followed by a straight and steady back-and-forth action along a flat road. Grimaces and grunts are shared as walrus pass one another, bowels roar with each gel, and sweat pours from tired brows. Back into transition and then a trail run through the fields, two loops, back through the village passed The Plough and across the line. WHITE FANG.
All of this ran through my mind as dawn broke on the 12th. A misty morning. Light moisture, but no rain. “Thank god”, I thought to myself, “the last thing this club needs is another death on its hands”. Graeme and I drove down early to meet the marshalls gathering with JSW, the chief. About half way there we encountered a lone walrus cycling through the mist in full kit – Bob Lawrence – and waved heartily through the window. A wrong turn. Back on the right route, passing Bob Lawrence. Another wrong turn. Bob Lawrence again. A final wrong turn. And we were there, Kemlscott! Bob Lawrence was waiting for us in transition. Graeme and I agreed not to mention anything and got out, greeting him jovially as if for the first time. Before long the athletes had arrived – joy of joys! – and preparations were under way.
Transition was a hive of activity. Seals grouped at one end of the racking whispering sweet nothings quietly and earnestly in each others ears. At the other end the Pigs smothered themselves in gels. Towards the middle the monsters and beasts grouped together as one, calm and self-assured. Before long the starter’s horn had blown three times – as is customary – and the hunt was on.
The rest, as they say, is too long to be told here, and my prose has already exhausted itself. All that matters is the performances of note:
Ian Barnacles Burns, the Fastest Walrus for 2015, with a time of 1:15:25. Well done sir, well done. This places Barnacles second in the all-time Walrus list, though a good 2 minutes behind Uncle Jonny’s best time. Will anyone ever beat him, other than Uncle Jonny himself?
Category winners:
Ian Barnacles for the Seal Elites
Edwin Smith for the Monsters
Olivier Vidal for the Beasts
Thomas Duffy for the Slugs
Matthew Maguire for the Cucumbers
Anthony Maguire for the Pigs (last year’s White Fang)
Fastest swim: Sammon Salmon. Incredible as always and a wonder to behold for us who fear the water above all else in life.
Fastest T1: Eddie Wetbeak
Fastest cycle: Caspar Prestidge
Fastest T2: Anthony Maguire
Fastest run: Eddie Wetbeak
Prize for Walrus Excellence (the athlete judged to have performed excellently on the day and throughout the season, voted for by members of the herd at the end of season dinner): Katfish Barker. Her race performance was exceptionally strong, beating the author of this piece by an infuriating 3 seconds.
White Fang: Typhoon Tim Ellis, with a sensational 2:14:31, almost 25 minutes slower than Duncan Lawrence’s time in 2013. Few imagine this record ever to be broken. WHITE FANG. But in all seriousness, many congratulations to Tim for completing the event, having only taken up triathlon this season. A true walrus if ever there was one.
Many thank-yous are owed: to the marshalls for marshalling the event; Jonny’s dad for designing and constructing the swim entrance and transition, as well as for supplying his boat; the kind folks at Kelmscott for use of their parking slot as transition; George and Jonny for their impeccable organisation; Will and Jane Seal-Breath for making preparations for the dinner; and that chap at dinner dressed as Willy Wonker. The dinner to celebrate was a merry affair full of good food, wine and cheer. The long-lost diary of Grundle and his ill-fated crew was read to the herd, as is customary, and songs were sung in the honour of our intrepid adventurers.
And now, my pen must rest. But this is not the end – god forbid! – for it is with great pleasure that I bring you the following piece from the great Wetbeak. Until 2016, fair voyagers!
The SW triathlon through the eyes of a seal elite. By E.Wetbeak.
As the pigs play, squealing in delight, I meticulously count out my shoes.
Four. Good, that’s really good. I then run over both my transition routines in my head, and carefully examine my other items – they looked fine, although I wasn’t quite sure what some of them were for. Somehow a hunting knife had crept into my transition box.
Today is a game of chase. Released from our watery cages, we, the seal elites, will chase the beasts, monsters, slugs, cucumbers, pigs and White Fang. I have envisaged today many times in my waking thoughts. But somewhat worryingly, I am more and more frequently paralysed by terrifying dreams. One scene in particular has plagued my mind – a haggard, hungry figure, fights through a dense tropical forest to find a clearing full of light. The man watches. White Fang, bathing his feet tenderly in a trickle of a stream, humming a pleasant melody. Moments later – White fang, spiked through, has been skinned, and is quietly roasting over an open fire.
This is the scene which confronts me as I await the starter’s call. 5…4… I recognise the thunder in Caspar’s eyes…3…2…my left goggle spontaneously explodes…1… and we’re away….chasing. I think of White Fang, somewhere ahead. I notice Burns, right by my side.
The swim is pleasant. But not for Rob – I make sure of that, slapping his feet and thighs as I sap his energy to conserve my own.
I laugh my way through the first transition, from swim to bike, jubilant at being the first Seal out on the road. My laughter subsides as each of the three other Seals one by one overtake me. Rob passes at lightning pace, but unfortunately for him race dementia has set in – he sets his power meter to maximum, sticks a steel rod in the steering wheel and heads straight out into space. He won’t be coming back from there.
I tuck into the wind as much as I can, and pass out for a moment – the scene surrounds me again – at least I thought it was a moment – the hunched man gnaws on the flesh on White Fang, blood dripping down the corners of his mouth, his soulless eyes stare straight through me. I can almost hear the crackling fire, I can almost taste
By the time I escape from my tormented mind, I am rolling into the second transition, from bike to animal. I’m barely able now to concentrate, to see purpose or design. I think of food. Only food. I have become the haggard scarred old man of my dreams. I snarl, and pant, calling for Burns. Calling now for White Fang.
And then, I round a corner, and find him. Struck out in a glorious field, stretching by the side of a river, giggling – a young folly. No hollow dark eyes for him, no wickedness or malice hidden within his skin. Just a fresh face reflecting the dark desires of my mind. His half smile betrays the danger he senses. My piecing gaze tells him I am no friend. I am no longer able to separate the real from the imagined. The scene that so haunted me seems to fit exactly with what is presented before me. I shall not recount what happened next…
Post-race I mentioned none of this. I enjoyed a nice lunch (although I already felt abnormally full) and made sure I laughed wherever was most appropriate.
