I thought about my uncle Brian on the start line of Ironman 70.3 Italy. Brian passed away due to Covid in August 2021. After struggling with a debilitating lung condition for a large part of his adult life, he finally underwent a lung transplant in early 2020. After Covid hit, he was unable to enjoy the new lease of life the transplant had given him. Just as the vaccines were having an impact and restrictions were lifted, he caught Covid and his weakened immune system quickly succumbed to its brutality. The cruelty of waiting so long for the transplant, the opportunity to truly enjoy life again, only to have it immediately taken away has affected me deeply. On that start line I thought about how time is a privilege and I promised myself to enjoy what lay ahead.
What lay ahead was a 1.9km swim in the Adriatic sea, 90km cycle around the Emilia-Romagna region of Italy and a 21km run around the small Italian town of Cervia. The sea was warm as I ran into it, slogging my way for 300 metres before it was deep enough to swim. There was the usual bumping and grabbing as we made our way around the course. Turning at the last buoy and seeing the black arch of the swim exit, I was happy and enjoying the experience. Exiting the sea I switched to race mode, jogging while undoing my wetsuit and removing my goggles. Entering the bike transition I spotted fellow club members in the crowd and fist pumped the air to show my exuberance.
My transition was a bit sloppy and I spent a bit more time at the bike than I hoped. Finally out and on the road and I couldn’t have been happier with my progress. I passed two members of the club in the first couple of kilometres and was slowly passing other competitors as we made our way out of town and onto the motorway. Just after the 7km mark I took a right turn and moved to the inside of the road to allow a competitor pass. As I did this I spotted a pothole but with no time to react I ploughed into it and heard the heart sicking hiss of a puncture. I stopped, moved on to the pavement and began replacing the tube on my bike. Mere seconds later another competitor hit the same pothole and pulled on to the pavement beside me to begin his repairs. The two club members I passed stopped when they saw me and offered their assistance. Once I had the tyre off they went on their way and a couple of minutes later I wished the other competitor luck and pushed off. No more than 10 yards later I was brought to a stop again. This time my back wheel was punctured. I hopped off the bike, moved back to my place on the pavement and began the process of replacing a tube again. Luckily I had chosen to take two tubes with me. In the process of inflating the new tube in the rear tyre, air began leaking from the base of the valve. The tube was damaged.
While I had been working on my repairs the other competitor who punctured discovered that he did not have the required valve extension and he was unable to repair his bike. A race marshall on a motorbike stopped and enquired if he had finished the race. He informed them it was his intention to continue if they could provide mechanical support. They responded by talking on their telephone in Italian and then driving off. This happened three times over the course of the next hour. We sat on the ground chatting and throwing stones into the infamous pothole as we waited in hope of rescue. Each time a motorbike stopped we jumped to our feet only to be greeted with the same response “finie? Telephone?”. They would take down our number and we would hear it relayed over the radio. As the time passed we didn’t know if we were still in the race, if we had been DNF’d or if we could continue. After 20 minutes the number of competitors passing us stopped and at the hour mark the race leader passed on his way back to transition, followed by the person in second place. At this point a motorbike pulled in and a guy jumped off the bike and began replacing my rear tube. Five minutes later my bike was good to go but I was not. The mechanic did not speak enough English to confirm if I could continue and I was now an hour and 20 minutes behind the back of the pack. My legs were stiff from sitting on the ground and my nutrition strategy was out the window. My race was over. I cycled the 7km back to transition, racked my bike and got my phone to text Karen.
It would be easy to dismiss my Italian trip as a failure, a lost weekend but with thoughts of Brian still in my head, every experience is to be valued. Even the ones that don’t go to plan. Besides, outside of my race the trip was very enjoyable. I got to witness a 61 year old club mate complete his first Ironman and cheered on many others who made the trip.
Back in Ireland, I struggled to keep the training at pre-Italy levels. Good weeks were followed by bad as I tried to salvage something from the year. I took part in Quest Glendalough. It went better than the last time, but didn’t fill me with any real sense of satisfaction. Some solace came in late November when I took part in the Clontarf Half Marathon. The Saturday before the race I was having post-swim breakfast in Swans and overheard that Paul from the tri-club was unable to take part in the Clontarf Half. Without giving it much thought I sent him a quick text asking if I could take his spot, he agreed and a week later I toed the startline. I had a rough plan in my head, hold 04:30 pace for as long as possible and see where that left me. The plan went well initially, I was able to hold the pace with only a slight drop while running the two kilometres along the beach. At the halfway point, where the course loops back on itself, I first felt my body try to slow. I pushed through, fighting to keep at the 04:30 per km pace. When back on the sand and with only 4 kilometres left my pace started to slow ever so slightly. I was finding it hard and the impact of the concrete as we turned off the beach sent waves of pain through my body. With two kilometres to go I saw Karen walking towards me, she looked surprised and slightly confused, as if she was expecting me to stop and chat. I ran on determined to not let my pace slip any further. As I crossed the finish line I stopped my watch and was amazed to see it read 01:36:06. A new PB. I was given a banana, a bottle of water and a medal. I made my way through the crowded finish line and sat on the wall overlooking the Irish Sea. Progress.
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