Race Reports
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Lowri Bennett
Lydney Olympic Distance Triathlon
Sunday 27th April 2025
I did it! I survived my first triathlon! Just wanted to share a little breakdown of the chaos, nerves, and surprisingly fun time I had at the Lydney Olympic. Day Before: Spent the whole day panicking, double-checking, triple-checking, then quadruple-checking my kit like I was heading into a space mission (massive shoutout to the SPC checklist, a true anxiety-buffer). I packed, unpacked, and repacked so many times that I’m still not 100% sure how everything actually made it to the race. Future me will streamline the transition zone like a pro... and not just throw kit on the ground in an excited panic. Race Morning: Woke up to glorious sunshine and not a cloud in sight. Perfect race conditions, minus the fact I slept terribly thanks to nerves and... let’s say a very active digestive system. Breakfast was a battle, porridge and fruit just weren’t going down easily, but I got through it. Pre-Race & Swim: More toilet stops, sticker collection, bike racking – the classics. My transition setup was... creatively chaotic (lesson learned). Swim briefing by the pool and suddenly it all got very real. I’d massively under-predicted my swim time when signing up (classic rookie move), so I turned into that annoying person constantly tapping ankles in the lane. Felt like I was on a mission to get blacklisted from every local triathlon by lap 6. Mental note: believe in my swim pace next time. T1 – Comedy of Errors: Only thought in my head: helmet on first. What actually happened: dropped helmet first. Talc in shoes = game-changer. Sunnies on, vibes high, and I was off into the Forest of Dean on the bike leg. Bike: Absolute dream. Legs felt strong, the course was stunning, and I had a smile on my face the whole way (not even just a grimace pretending to be a smile). Tried to keep on top of nutrition and hydration, not terrible, but definitely room to level that up as distances increase. Finished with a lovely downhill roll into town, 10/10 would recommend. T2 & Run: Quick change of shoes, helmet off, cap on. Legs... felt weird. Jelly legs is a real thing. Glanced at my watch and saw I’d started at PB 10k pace, I quickly realized I wasn’t starring in a Nike ad and backed right off. The 2-loop run course was beautiful and full of cheer squads (thank you, random strangers!). Cramp tried to sneak in halfway through, but I slowed it down and it backed off (crisis averted). Heat really kicked in on lap two, and I had zero fluids on me (amateur hour). Managed to grab some water, but re-finding pace was rough. Finish Line & Aftermath: Big smile, big relief, and one main thought: “Thank f** I actually do enjoy tris!”. Followed it up with a well-earned ice cream and a pint at the pub. Hydration in all its glorious forms. Overall: I had an absolute blast. So much to improve on, but I'm buzzing for the next one. Thanks again for all the support!
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Race Reports
Alan Ayde - Rowe
Manchester Marathon
Sunday 27th April 2025
Today, I achieved something so monumental, so Herculean, that future generations may write tragic poems about it: I completed my first ever marathon at the Adidas Manchester Marathon. And by “completed,” I mean “barely survived with my dignity dragging behind me like a half-deflated lilo in a hurricane.” The day began with the sort of sleep one might expect if one’s mattress were made of nails and one’s mind haunted by the vivid spectre of public humiliation. After a delightful five minutes of actual unconsciousness, I rose before the sun itself — because nothing says ‘peak athleticism’ quite like eating oats and bananas in a dazed stupor while praying to any available deity for timely bowel movements. The AirBnB provided the charming experience of a bath rather than a shower, allowing me the rare luxury of stewing in my own microbial soup like a forgotten teabag in a student bedsit. A few dozen trips to the toilet later — because apparently my nerves decided that full evacuation was mandatory — it was time to don my race kit and lovingly coat my nether regions in enough Vaseline to supply a minor Arctic expedition. I rallied my long-suffering family (with all the enthusiasm of cats being summoned to a bath) and we set off to the tram station. Another parking ticket had graced our vehicle, but at this point, financial ruin was merely seasoning to the main dish of existential dread. At the station, I discovered that marathon runners are easily identified by their dishevelled appearance, neon vests, and the general aura of people about to be parachuted into enemy territory armed with only gel packets and blind optimism. We all collectively demonstrated the geographical awareness of a paper bag in a wind tunnel, until a kind soul told us to stay on the tram, which naturally, we did not. Eventually, through a series of miscommunications worthy of a Greek tragedy, we arrived at Old Trafford — an impressive sight indeed, though at that moment I would have been equally impressed by a functioning coffee machine. After taking a moment to gawp at the stadium like a medieval peasant seeing an elephant, I joined the endless queue for the toilets. Here, I engaged in my traditional pre-race game of “Pick the Portaloo Least Likely to Induce PTSD.” God bless the organisers for installing urinals, though the queues still rivalled biblical plagues in length and despair. At 0950, my wave was called. We maroon-clad hopefuls gathered in a tight, awkward throng like wildebeest preparing to cross the crocodile-infested river of inevitable doom. A sprinkling of Instagram influencers posed and pouted, their cameras working harder than their hamstrings. Finally, after what felt like the gestation period of an elephant, the race began. We were released onto the streets of Manchester with all the civility of accountants let loose at a buffet. I started strong — foolishly strong — like Napoleon setting off for Moscow with a spring in his step and not a thought of frostbite. The atmosphere was electric. People shouted my name with such enthusiasm I began to wonder if I had achieved sudden regional fame — until, six miles in, I remembered my name was emblazoned across my bib. A slice of humble pie was duly swallowed without the aid of water. Up to 22km, I was the human embodiment of smugness. Everything was going swimmingly. Sub-4 hours was not just possible, it was probable. The gods themselves surely smiled upon me. And then came 25km. Without warning, my left foot erupted in pain, as if an irate goblin had taken up residence in my plantar fascia and was now assaulting me with a tiny flaming sword. Every step was an exercise in masochism; my foot felt like it was being tenderised by an angry blacksmith. Nevertheless, I hobbled onwards with the determination of a constipated man approaching a public restroom. By 28km, my right foot decided it too wished to participate in this theatre of agony. Now limping on both sides, my gait resembled that of a wounded flamingo attempting to do the hokey-cokey. The pain was so intense it felt as though a family of badgers armed with tiny medieval torture devices had taken up permanent residence in my shoes. The road became littered with fallen comrades — runners collapsed on the pavement like battle-worn soldiers in a particularly budget re-enactment of the Battle of Agincourt. It was tempting to join them, but stubbornness (and the knowledge that dying on Instagram Live was not the legacy I wanted) kept me moving. Around 33km, Mother Nature decided to play her trump card. Urgently. Summoning the last ounces of my dignity, I hobbled into a portable toilet that can best be described as a biological crime scene. I can only assume a previous occupant had exploded. Surviving that ordeal, I knew that nothing — not hell, high water, or more public toilets — could stop me now. The final few kilometres were a sort of slow-motion purgatory. Each step was a negotiation with death. My feet were on fire, my soul was on fire, and I suspect parts of Manchester itself may now be on fire from the friction. At last, like a parched man spotting an oasis (only to find it was still bloody far away), I saw the “1 Mile To Go” sign. Turning onto Oxford Street, the finish line shimmered before me like a cruel mirage. I waddled towards it with all the grace and speed of a walrus attempting parkour. Every step was an epic journey in itself, but I made it. I crossed the line in 4:29:31 — beating the 4:30 goal by precisely enough time to gloat smugly at absolutely no one. It was not the heroic, chest-thrusted-out, arms-raised finish of my dreams. It was more the finish of a man who desperately needed a stretcher, a large drink, and possibly an exorcism. But it was a finish. And I have the medal to prove it. Huge thanks to Darren and Rach from SPC for their support, and to my family for tolerating my transformation into a limping, Vaseline-smeared banshee. Onwards to the next questionable decision!
Race Reports
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Alan Ayde - Rowe
London Landmarks Half Marathon
Sunday 6th April 2025
Ah, the London Half Marathon. A celebration of endurance, grit, and the rare opportunity to be surrounded by several thousand Lycra-clad buffoons pretending they’re auditioning for Gladiators meets Love Island in 3-degree weather. The morning began, as all great disasters do, with zero sleep. Not a wink. I lay there staring at the ceiling like a Victorian orphan anticipating chimney duty. Eventually, I staggered into the shower like a Victorian orphan who’d found a plumbing system. After wetting my face, donning my running gear, brushing my teeth (a detail some of my fellow runners clearly skipped), and hydrating with the enthusiasm of a camel on a stag do, I headed out the door and to the station. Now, 1.5 litres of water may hydrate the body, but it also pressures the bladder with the intensity of a Greek chorus demanding release. By the time I sat down on the train, my internal organs were performing a symphony of discomfort. I sought relief in the train toilets, naturally. But lo! Every last one was out of order. Thank you, South Western Railways. You’ve done more to promote incontinence than the entire NHS. I arrived at Waterloo—a station named, quite fittingly, after a crushing defeat—and sprinted like a caffeinated greyhound to the toilets. The satisfaction of that release was so profound, I nearly wrote a sonnet. Shakespeare would’ve wept. From there, I waddled with the rest of the brave/foolish toward Piccadilly, surrounded by other runners, many dressed like they’d lost a bet and were about to start a polar expedition in fluorescent neoprene. Upon arriving, my bladder, having clearly declared mutiny, decided it was time to go again. I found the toilets—roughly three miles away—and joined a line so long it may qualify as a UNESCO heritage site. Having completed that expedition, I cleverly rejoined the queue. Twice. Yes, while others were warming up with high knees and lunges, I was executing a one-man game of Toilet Monopoly. With my bodily functions temporarily subdued, I headed to the start with 20 minutes to go. The atmosphere was electric—by which I mean thousands of grown adults pretending they were at Coachella, while smelling like damp laundry. As we lined up, the people-watching opportunities were bountiful: someone wearing a banana costume, four men dressed as if they were launching a boyband called “Midlife Crisis,” and more faux-spiritual YouTubers speaking in borrowed Californian accents about “vibes” and “the journey.” I assume their next video will be titled: “I Found Myself at Mile 3 and Then Promptly Lost Myself Again in the Portaloos.” I, meanwhile, was again fighting off the urge to pee. With no time left and no portaloo in sight, I had no choice but to run the wee off. Medical science can explain this better, but I call it the Jog of Bladder Suppression. The race began… for everyone else. My wave? The final one. The “leftover” group. Where you stand shoulder to shoulder with everyone who signed up late, forgot to train, or believes that spandex is a personality. As we were funneled through the start by fences—cleverly arranged to prevent chaos—these barriers became instant photo ops for every social media muppet who thought “nothing screams authenticity like posing in front of thousands of actual runners doing actual running.” The first few kilometres were like a competitive game of human pinball. I weaved, dodged, and elbowed my way past people who clearly mistook this half marathon for a Sunday market stroll. My legs were ready to fly, but the course was cluttered with people who apparently believed pacing is for cowards and traffic awareness is optional. At 11km, I glanced at my watch. Under an hour. Aha! A PB was in reach. I began to mentally prepare myself for greatness. And then, catastrophe. At 13km, a commuting cyclist (yes, you read that right) decided this was the precise moment to dart across the road, dragging his bike like a medieval battering ram. He was, unfortunately, no match for my PB-hunting legs. We collided. He and his metal monstrosity went down like a sack of rusty gears. I did help him up, of course. I’m not a savage. But I left him with my sincere thoughts, most of which were not suitable for broadcast before 9 p.m. And then came the worst of them all: the Influencer Herd. These were the brave idiots who thought it perfectly fine to stop dead in the middle of the road to film TikToks about “finding motivation” after their first kilometre. I overheard one proudly declare: “Just crushed that stretch. Only 10 miles to go, fam.” I fantasized briefly about launching one of their phones into the Thames. Alas, I had a PB to chase. As the miles went on, I pushed forward—past more influencers, several prams (because apparently “half marathon” now means “bring the kids!”), a man dressed as a T-Rex, and a swarm of spectators who decided the best way to support runners was to block the road entirely so they could wave at Steve from accounts. At mile 11, I did the maths. I could do it. I just needed space. The final kilometre was uphill. Naturally. Because nothing says “we love you” like gravity actively plotting against your hamstrings. But I summoned the strength of a thousand middle fingers, powered up the hill like a caffeinated goat, rounded the last cone with the elegance of a wounded rhino, and sprinted—nay, flailed—toward the finish. But fate, that cruel harlot, was not done with me. I found myself trapped behind three women, taking up the width of the entire road, power walking in unity like some kind of slow-moving coven. I crawled past them and over the line like a war veteran crawling toward a ration tin. Final time: 1:50:07. A new personal best. Two minutes off my previous. Seven seconds off breaking 1:50. Seven. An entire 420 milliseconds for every time someone shouted “You got this!” as if that was going to give me wings. Still, I got the medal. I got the PB. I got the story. And I got to urinate in peace three times before the start. Which, in this hellish modern age, is practically an Olympic event in itself. Loved it. Absolutely loved it. Now please excuse me while I go ice my legs and my patience.
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Rob Witherall
Ironman Wales
Sunday 21st Sept 2024
The race as they say is a reward for all the training and whilst a mix of highs and Lows, Tenby lived up to everything I expected and more. An epic day. I started out on my Ironman Journey in 2018 but things weren’t meant to be and it took another 6 years to get mind and body in the right shape to stand on the beach. 12 months ago I signed up with Darren at STC and it’s been such a great journey back to health and fitness. I hadn’t trained for 5 years properly so it really was ground zero but after many discussions about my goals Darren gave me a bespoke training plan that saw me swim over 100k meters, 4000km of cycling and over 1000km of running over 11months, taking my FTP on the bike from 194W to 270W, my swim times down from 2:20 per 100m to 1:36 and back to running a marathon. I also lost a stone in weight and rekindled my love for the sport. My advice to anyone embarking on an Ironman is get a coach! The day itself Like everyone sleep the night before was limited, getting up at 3:30am I took on some food and electrolytes and set off for Tenby at 5 am. For me pre race nerves are normally another level, I get upset stomachs, panic breathe etc but on the drive into Tenby I felt strangely calm, for once I felt fully prepared. There had been lots of talk about biblical weather conditions but that only helped me settle my nerves , taking the pressure off chasing any time and allowed me to accept it was going to be a long day and to enjoy all the amazing support you hear so much about at Tenby. Walked up to transition to put the nutrition on the bike and the excitement in the air was palpable, it was buzzing!. I popped my wetsuit on and walked down to the beach. My swimming has really come on this year so I put myself with the 1:20 swimmers. As a proud Welshman the national anthem being played and sang on the beach surrounded by everyone on the cliffs almost brought me to tears, I’ve stood in the millennium stadium numerous times on match day but nothing compares to Tenby. Then it begins thunderstruck starts to play and the line creeps forward, this is it, this is what months of graft and sacrifice comes down to. I hit the front of the line and wait for the volunteers to unleash us into the water. The water was choppy, not overly but its enough to upset your rhythm and makes breathing difficult. Getting smashed in the face by waves and being bashed from side to side I was pleased to get out to the first buoy unscathed but Turning left and beginning to swim the long back straight it got worse. It felt like swimming in treacle and each marker buoy seemed to take forever. I knew it was going to be a long tough swim. I didn’t panic just tried my best to settle into a rhythm and keep moving forward. Soon enough lap 1 was over and I was on the beach ready for lap 2. I could tell the Swim had already taken a lot out of me, I felt disorientated and my legs felt like they weren’t connected to my body. In for the 2nd lap and it just got harder. The current was really pushing and there were lots of people being pulled out. A I got to the 2nd bouy the Rescue crew were trying to get people.stuck by the buoy waving for help. I took a wide berth and headed back towards the beach. It took a while but before I knew it I was back and running up towards the pink bags albeit 30mins behind where I had wanted to be. But that’s the race y, you deal with what happens on the day. Whipped the wetsuit off and made my way up to T1. My wife Laura was waiting at the top.screaming me on, I passed Darren on the way who reminded me to keep fuelling, a common theme for the day. Into T1, and out on the bike within 15 mins. I set off on the bike, it took a good 15/20mins for the legs to wake up. I had recced the route with Keiran and Neil a few weeks previously and the plan was to push on when on the flats and downs and try to spin the hills as much as possible. Problem is there aren’t many flats or downs! But I felt comfortable, heart rate and power were all on point and felt like I could sustain the pace all day. Fuelling plan was also on point 180g of carbs and litre of fluids/electrolytes every 2 hours, at no point on the bike did I feel like I was bonking and despite the distance and the climbing the pace didn’t really drop off on the 2nd lap. But the heavens had opened and the wind had picked up. On the 2nd lap on the long run from Carew to Narberth I was miserable, wet, really cold and ready to jack it all in but I noticed that all the other riders around me were all suffering, the joviality of everyone on the first loop had gone, there was silence. Its these points that really test you. I once read that an Ironman is a public display of your own private will and that couldn’t be more true! I had a word with myself, reminded myself how far I had come just to stand on the start line, ate the mars bar I had been saving for myself and just got on with it. Suddenly I found myself on the run in to Tenby from New Hedges and could see those already out on the run. Then it really hit home that there was still a marathon to go! In hindsight I could have pushed the bike more, my average HR only just into Z2 with a normalised power of 212 W for the distance. Got into T2, tried my best to dry my feet which were absolutely soaked , vaseline everywhere , new socks, trainers on, gels down the tri suit and set off out on the run. Legs felt ok, better than I thought it would be and settled in to about 8:50/9:00 per mile pace knowing it was going to be a long few hours but at this point it all started to go slightly wrong. Within about a km my back went into spasm and I literally began to hunch over from the waist up, tightening my shoulders up to the point I couldn’t lift my arms or stand up straight. I banged some ibuprofen and anadin into me in the hope it would loosen up. I had to find a flat surface and slide my hands up it just to stand up straight and stretch. Running up hill made it worse and my diaphragm was also tightening up making breathing painful. My plan from now was to try and march the ups and try and make some ground up on the downs. As I neared the end of lap 1 Laura, the kids and my friends were waiting and cheering me on. She could tell I was in trouble, I was so pleased to see everyone, I felt like bursting into tears and I could have stopped at that point. But this is why it’s an Ironman, its not meant to be easy, with the kids watching on this really is a lesson on determination and battling through adversity. After a hug I took off up through Tenby town, Laura in hot pursuit as I marched up the hill willing me on. She will say after seeing me at that point she thought I was done and I wouldn’t finish but I’m a stubborn git and I was finishing even if I had to crawl. As I came round for lap 2 I saw Darren, he ran alongside me for a bit giving plenty of encouragement and reminding me to keep eating! I carried up on the hill and came across Ben Probert from Hereford Tri Club. It was the first time ive met Ben so was great to shake hands and have a chat on the way up the hill together. He d had a big off on the bike and hurt his leg quite badly smashing his bike into pieces in the process, but he had borrowed a bike to the finish and was getting around the run whilst bandaged up. True Ironman Spirit! Before I knew it 2nd lap band was on the wrist and we were heading back to town. The back was still really tight and I couldn’t stand up but pacing was all consistent and I knew at that point I was getting to the finish. I made the conscious decision just to embrace the pain and enjoy the atmosphere, speak to as many people as possible, high five all the kids and thank every volunteer I came across. As I got back into town I could hear Darren and Andy Wathen cheering me on and soon came across my ironman support crew all screaming me on, it was amazing. Coming into the last feed station my old running mate Colin Wilmot from Griff Harriers and his family were there giving out water etc and it ‘was so great to see them. It’s amazing what a friendly face can do for you Very soon lap band 3 and lap band 4 were on the wrist, the meds had kicked in and the back had eased slightly and I was able to pick the pace up back into town . As I ran round Tenby on the last lap it began sinking in what I had just done. But it wasn’t just about the race, this was the cherry on top of the cake having to battle with my health and rebuild my life in the last 6 years and now here I was on the glory lap surrounded by my beautiful wife, kids,.friends and family. As I got.closer to South beach I could hear all the excitement of the finish line. I could nt stop smiling. As I hit the red carpet I rang the first timers bell for all it was worth, high fived all my friends and family, gave Laura a huge hug and got over the finish line. Robert Witherall, “you are an ironman”. I’ll say that again. I am an Ironman! 2 weeks later it’s still not quite sunk in what happened. Tenby you were brutal and amazing in equal measure, I loved it, in fact I can’t stop thinking about it……but ……never again…………...............maybe……..maybe just a half……….what about a flat one?........nah……..well maybe ……..