Six go to Sweden – By Luke Taylor
I’ve been volunteered / offered to do the group write up. Partly because I like to and partly because Gordon’s offering was genuinely this:
‘Once upon a time, 5 lads went to race IM Kalmar. They all finished. The End.’
Which is a literary piece of note, almost Shakespearian – but somewhat succinct. For some of you, that may be enough. For others… here goes…
The Saga of Sweden all came about on one fateful afternoon, namely my wedding – when in a fit of what I can only assume was hysteria, I drunkenly decided now was the time to do an Ironman. Now because it was my wedding and they couldn’t say no, I promptly made my groomsmen, Nick and Mark agree to this pact. As the Ironman Gods would have it, there was an event in exactly one years’ time in Kalmar, Sweden. Which in hindsight was great – because it’s fairly flat. Katie, my new wife and now my legal carer agreed to come to make sure we didn’t get lost, or robbed, or generally fall into an abandoned mineshaft or fjord and such like… And so, full of enthusiasm we threw this out to the noble members of TTG. Ryan joined with gusto, keen to top Wales and Gordon was slightly less grumpy than usual, so we knew he was mega-excited. With 5 heroes of slightly more girth, wheeziness and general slouchy-ness than heroes technically should be, the gauntlet had been picked up. Thus, the stage was set for our Scandinavian adventure.
Gordon and Ryan decided to fly, whereas Nick, Mark, Katie and myself drove through six countries, with various stopovers, which in itself was a cracking experience. I have to admit, I loved the road-trip. To me it was a good embodiment of what ironman is – a long, sometimes uncomfortable, process – that is much easier with good company.
Having done the distance before, I knew what I was getting into. The lead up is psychologically stressful, the day is physically demanding, and the training, though initially enthusiastically embraced, quickly turns into a relentless march of diary dates spending HOURS training. The process is monotony followed by complete nerves. As the day approaches, and that clock whittles down to 48 then 24 hours, the fear of a getting a puncture, or bonking, or drowning, seems very, very real.
So why do it? Personally, I like the test of handling those nerves – knowing I can be comfortable feeling uncomfortable and still crack on. As cliché as the quote is ‘coal and diamonds are both made of carbon, the only difference is the pressure they’re put under.’ Growth comes from being out of a comfort zone and nothing quite tests that then long-distance endurance events. So that said, utter hats off to Nick and Mark, who went straight in at the ironman level. Neither having ever attempted a triathlon and in Nick’s case had to learn to swim again! Luckily, they took the job seriously and trained hard.
Arriving in Sweden you could almost smell the pickled herring and good gene-pool. Kalmar is beautiful. A gentle city, if you ignored the great forts, nestled by the surprisingly warm Baltic-sea. By the time we arrived the general Ironman mob had landed. Athletes and supporters of various shapes and sizes were strolling through the rustically coloured, heavily wooden architecture, admiring the boats and all sharing the same self-aware, nervously thin smiles.
The excitement was palpable as the TTG contingent met. Ryan and Mark have go-faster haircuts – or le mullets as the French would say. Turning up at the Ironman HQ, we were signed up, registered and kitted out in a matter of minutes – an almost anti-climactic efficiency given the months of prep. We donned our bags, refused to buy Kalmar branded kit lest we jinx it, and took the obligatory photos. We were joined by Liz and Jenny – some more supporters to help egg us on.
We racked the bikes the next day. Reality slowly dawning that tomorrow is D-day. The evening Ironman briefing is surprisingly good. I had turned up a little cynical that it might be a yawn-fest or have a lot of over egged Euro-hype. After 20 minutes I was actively joining in the cheering, general hand waving and got teary watching the promo footage of last year. Looking at the others, I could see my inane grin mirrored. After, the mob went for a meal.
During this, myself and Gordon competed over who had the worst run-up to the event. I had been off with food-poising that week, and only managed to keep some pasta down the day before the race. I was seriously worried about being dehydrated and depletion, so was popping whole packs of dioralyte for fun. I’ll spare the details but there are moments in a man’s life meant to humble you – this was definitely one of them. Gordon hadn’t been able to train for near 6 weeks leading up to the race, having had a bug that required two full rounds of antibiotics and bed-rest. Gordon obviously won this contest, but I was still terrified of bonking or utterly crashing en-route. It really highlights the brutal truth of Ironman. All that training and you have one day. That’s it.
This changed my strategy. I had wanted to go for it, but resorted to what I knew. Steady-eddy. Use the cut-offs. I’ll happily finish last, as long as I finish. Plod away and it’ll come. Mark and Nick had similar survival plans. Ryan was looking for time. Given Gordon’s relaxed vibes, we assumed he was just there for a day out. Listening to folks around the area, you soon learn that everyone has their own goal and reasons for competing –I quite like triathlon for that. We line up for difference reasons, some serious, others not at all, but we’re all going the same way. And in Kalmar that first way is down to the harbour.
THE SWIM
The morning arrives and I am bricking it. I’m up at 4.30 and cram some porridge down with the boys. By 5.30 we’re in transition and loading the bikes with the last nutrition and fluids. Everyone looks grim but ready. The nerves are fully going now. I just want to start. The TTG mob follow the wetsuit wearing crowd. Thousands are at the waterfront already, lining the harbour wall. In my head, I’m going through the drill. Compartmentalise. The bike doesn’t exist until you’re out of the water. The run doesn’t exist until you’re on it. Just remember, once in the water, breath quick in and fully out. Get the rhythm. Ignore the panic – that’ll leave once you find the rhythm. The swimmers head to the pens and wait based on expected time. Across the hubbub a lady starts to sing the beautiful, haunting melody of the Swedish national anthem. Someone shouts 5, 4, 3, 2, 1… Immediately after someone else fires a fucking cannon. No one knew about the cannon. Everyone jumps – except the pros- who dive. Myself and Nick had parked ourselves nearer the back of the pack. We share a good luck handshake and find our own spots. I shuffle forward, watching those before me disappear. The goggles go on and suddenly I’m touching Thor’s hammer, not a euphemism, but a bloke in full Viking regalia holding a hammer. I didn’t stop to ask why…
I hit the water and it’s warmer than expected. There’s a moment of fear as I sense limbs flailing about me. I concentrate so much on reaching forward and breathing that I’m soon out the harbour and into the sea. For me, the swim goes well. I move steadily, there’s no waves and only the smallest of jams at the buoys. Swimming back via a small water-alley and under a bridge is a bit hairy as we’re all packed in like sardines, but I survive the melee and reach the end relatively unscathed. The relief at having finished the swim is huge. I rush through transition. Feeling buoyed by the number of bikes still racked. In what seems moments, I’m up and out.
THE BIKE
The first bit of the bike is epic. Theres a huge bridge outside of Kalmar that links an island. Usually, no cyclists are allowed, but we speed on over it. We had nervously discussed the steepness of the bridge beforehand, and Ryan had excitedly claimed that, ‘he loved a bridge, and this was the best bridge yet’… whatever that meant! Either way, it’s a steady incline but nothing to fresh legs. The view is killer and I’m smashing bars and fluids. At near 30 miles Nick overtakes me and we shout insults at each other. I don’t see the others as they’re already miles ahead. The B*stards. The landscape is rural fields and glass roads. Fantastic. Nearly every family is out watching and supporting. There are whole community parties happening along route. Everyone seems to have a sound system and all are cheering you on. It really is incredible. Life feels good.
A feeling that soon sods off as we head back up the island into a sapping headwind. For near two hours, the line of cyclist battle. There are no trees, so nowhere to hide. It’s a morale sapping moment. I’ve said this before, but I’m a short, portly lad and the bike is always tough for me. I’m not a cyclist. I’ve only myself to blame as I don’t train enough. The first niggling doubt of not finishing begins. Am I going too slow? I start mile watching which plummets morale even further. Getting back on the bridge at the 80km mark, I turn into town and see runners already. I’ve got another 32 km and feel another morale pang. Coming into the roundabout, the commentator shouts my name and then realising I’m going back out says, and I quote.
‘Here is Luke, who is… going back out. You go Luke. See you at hero’s hour.’
For those of you who don’t know, hero’s hour is those who finish in the very last hour of ironman. It’s for the end-gamers. For some reason that makes me laugh and I push on. There are fewer cyclists now. These are the plodders. Some won’t finish. There are some lonely moments, but I finally get into town. I figure I’ve got some time. The reality is I don’t.
THE RUN
Katie bellows at me that I’ve got 10 minutes to get on the run course. I’ve misread the timings and cut it super fine. I had planned a costume change, but now binned that off and hustled through transition. Crossing the run start the counter is back on. I’ve got 6 hours to do a marathon. My confidence increases as I actually like long-distance running. Deep down, I know I’ll finish now – but decide not to take it too easy. I start slow, letting the fuelling get in, but then stick to an easy 11-minute mile pace. The course is three laps. I crack on and enjoy the race. At lap 2, Gordon spots me and bellows a hello – he’s already finished and I can’t wait to be in the same boat. The fuel stations are every 3 KM so it’s only a case of getting to the next. Steady work.
The support on the street is phenomenal. Admittedly, they’re all getting on the sauce now, and it’s been a long day. There’s two distinct parts, running through the city and then the suburbs. The city is great – the barricades are busy, people are high-fiving you, cheering, and everyone is super respectful. It’s a proper professional event. The suburbs are different – everyone is having a party, and the Swedes can party. People have actually built stands and seating. There’s BBQ’s in the road. Someone has built a fort out of plywood you can run through and everyone is keen to spray you with a hose. There’s at least 12 different sound system competing for noise. By lap three at near 9pm, there’s some very happy people – well those that can still stand. I’m getting hand arches to run through, Mexican waves, teenagers are escorting you along whilst singing. It’s a great booster. There’s a lot of athletes walking, and you can’t help but feel for them and worry if they’ll make the cut-off? On lap 3 I’m feeling stronger than before and press on. The stadium is where you get bands to signify your lap. When that third hit my wrist, the feeling of elation was overwhelming. As I run through the town, the crowd and those athletes already finished can see how much it means. It’s a change of support; more earnest – or that’s how I felt. And then I was running towards those hallowed arches. I ring the bell. Then I’m over. An ironman. Finally, it’s done.
In fairness to Ironman, from arrival to end, the operation is slick and enjoyable. I now understand why people do it. It really is an event more than a race, and a fantastic experience. At the finish the TTG crew meet me at the barricade. I see lots of genuinely pleased faces and feel quite touched. We share fist bumps and hugs. Katie helps me cart my stuff from transition. And in fairness to her, in-between my excited babbling, only reminds me once that she too is an ironman with a quicker time on a harder course. I have to take the time to thank Katie here. It’s quite tough having to watch others compete when you can’t, and all the lads would like to thank you for your support. Firs timers, Mark and Nick said it alleviated a lot of the stress having you there to talk it through and guide them. A big thank you to Katie, Jenny and Liz for the encouragement on the course. Especially when it got tough. It was needed and you certainly made yourselves heard!
Ironman is a hard task – more mental than it is physical to be truthful, and something I’m very proud to have done. So, thank you Kalmar for your hospitality, and to Nick, Mark, Ryan, Gordon, Liz, Jenny and Katie for making it such a fun and memorable one. Here’s to the next!
