Race Reports
Alan Ayde - Rowe
Swansea 70.3
20th July 2025
Medal Monday – Ironman Swansea My dearest friends, acquaintances, and those who’ve politely pretended to care about my triathlon pursuits, it is with equal measures of pride, bewilderment, and third-degree chafing that I announce: I am now an Ironman 70.3 finisher. Yes, on what meteorologists have kindly referred to as “a scorcher” and what historians shall more accurately describe as “the Great Human Broil of Swansea,” I swam, cycled and ran through what I can only assume was an out-of-office training course for hell’s mid-level management. What follows is a full account of this event. May it serve as a warning, a sermon, and perhaps, a cautionary tale for those who believe that paying to suffer in public is a perfectly reasonable hobby. The Prequel: Saturday began with uncharacteristic cheer. I awoke with a spring in my step and the naïve optimism of a man yet to realise that tomorrow he’d be slow-cooking himself in neoprene. After breakfast with my family, my daughter elected to join me on a whimsical jaunt to the Ironman Village. She claimed it was for the “experience,” but I suspect she simply anticipated the inevitable paternal humiliation and slow annihilation of my bank account. Swansea town centre was awash with triathletes in various states of preparation and panic. There were bikes that looked like they had been engineered by NASA, others held together by hope and hair ties, and everyone was gripping their red and blue transition bags like biblical scrolls containing the final instructions to salvation. At registration, I was ceremoniously branded with an athlete’s wristband and handed: A participation t-shirt (sized for an optimistic adolescent), A backpack that might double as a parachute, A swim cap in radioactive frog green, And enough numbered stickers to tag every item I’ve ever owned, including some emotional baggage. We wandered into the merchandise tent, where I made the single greatest financial decision of the weekend: the purchase of a bucket hat. My daughter sneered and dubbed it my “fisherman’s hat.” I ignored her, because I already knew—it would one day save my life. Back at the Airbnb, I entered the time-honoured ritual of transition bag packing, which is essentially high-stakes Tetris with Lycra and anxiety. I agonised over sock choices as though they might singlehandedly affect my finishing time, repacked both transition bags three times, and stared at my bike like it owed me money. When I’d finally packed the car and patted myself smugly on the back, I drove off toward the transition area—only to realise halfway there that I’d forgotten the actual bicycle. An Ironman, without a bike, is not a triathlete. He is simply a damp jogger with ambition, in my case, just hope! Back I went, retrieved my poor neglected steed, and returned to the city centre where I strode through the crowd like a man who hadn’t just failed at the most basic requirement of a cycling event. At the bike check, the marshal asked me to squeeze the brakes while spinning the wheels. Naturally, I pulled the wrong lever twice, thereby displaying the coordination of a stunned jellyfish. She let me through, likely on the basis that I would be filtered out by natural selection. The Night Before – A Lucid Nightmare: Sleep, on this occasion, was not so much elusive as belligerently absent. I lay in bed, eyes closed, body tense, mind racing at the speed of idiocy. I could hear my own pulse echoing through my toes. My children snored like gremlins in the lounge. The walls breathed. My soul gently wept. At precisely 03:50, the alarm chimed. I was already upright, dressed, and staring into the void like a Victorian explorer who’s just realised his compass is made of chocolate. At 04:00, the ambient temperature was already 21°C, and by the time I reached the transition area, it had climbed to 25°C, which I believe is the precise melting point of ambition. I consumed a breakfast of oats, bananas, and electrolyte tablets the size of hockey pucks. I then proceeded to perform no fewer than three pre-race ablutions, which I can only describe as spiritual purges conducted under increasing duress. I squeezed into my tri-suit, taped my feet until they resembled mummified hooves, and made my way into transition among a swarm of athletes zipping up wetsuits, shouting into the ether, and generally behaving like caffeinated baboons in a sauna. I checked my tyres (thank you, Darren), adjusted my gels (thank you Rach), and joined the hellishly long queue for the portable toilets. Now, let me say this: removing a tri-suit inside a plastic lavatory in 30°C heat should be considered a rite of passage punishable by sainthood. The space was no larger than a biscuit tin, and the aroma could have ended careers. With my green cap of impending doom and yellow post-swim bag in the bagging area (the one they threatened us with disqualification over no fewer than seventeen times), I lined up for the swim start. We stood in the sun, in black neoprene condoms, sweating and waiting for our turn to be sous vide. The elites went first. Then the talented. Then the merely competent. Then... us. The unremarkable masses. The flailing faithful. The Optimistically Buoyant. The marshal smiled and said, “You’ve got this!” I nodded and thought, “Madam, I don’t even have a clue.” My two lane-mates took majestic dives into the sea like dolphins auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. I stomped forward, preparing to leap like Poseidon himself—only for the ramp to abruptly end, sending me into a vertical freefall. I vanished. I submerged. I became the sea. The man behind me promptly landed on top of me, like a pterodactyl mating with a startled haddock. The swim itself was a turbulent soup of limbs and fondling. I was kicked in the jaw, grabbed in places one should only be grabbed by invitation, and at one point became mesmerised by two white fish swimming alongside me… only to realise they were, in fact, my own hands. Despite goggles leaking like a Victorian window and being fondled by half of Wales, I made it ashore, tore at my wetsuit like it was trying to escape with me still inside, and grabbed my yellow bag like it contained the Holy Grail. I entered the transition tent and was immediately hit by a wall of heat that could have deep-fried a pigeon. The air was so thick I considered cutting through it with a butter knife. I applied sunscreen with the grace of a blind decorator, wrangled my bike shoes onto my damp, swollen feet, inhaled a gel the consistency of fear, and limped out toward the mount line. The ride began smoothly… until mile two, when a man on a £15,000 spaceship whizzed past me so closely that I believe I am now legally engaged to him. I swerved, clipped a traffic cone, and briefly resembled an amateur gymnast attempting to escape a rodeo. My chain fell off in protest. I pulled over, reattached it with the tender care of a blacksmith mid-stroke, and got back on, covered in grease, shame, and a thin film of despair. The hills arrived like a debt collector at a funeral. First gently. Then spitefully. I drank water like it was gin at a wedding. I chewed salt tabs like communion wafers. Other cyclists weaved about like drunken wasps, and I rode through it all, squinting into the sun, praying for shade, and cursing my own choices. Back into the transition tent. It was no longer a tent. It was a slow cooker for triathletes. I changed into my run gear with the grace of a boiled crab, reapplied sunscreen in a desperate attempt to stop my face from bursting into flames, and trudged out into the open-air inferno. The run course was a gentle two-lap tour of the sun’s surface. Each step was an exercise in defiance. My legs screamed. My skin begged for mercy. My sweat had evaporated before it even left the pores. I poured water over my head at every aid station like a Victorian fainting at the opera. At mile six, I attempted to reason with my feet. They responded by cramping. At mile ten, I hallucinated a Red Bull tent was a mirage. At mile eleven, I tried to crawl into a sponge bucket. The final mile. My brain had shut down. My lips had fused into a grimace. I heard the music. The crowd. The call of the finish line. I turned the final corner, staggered down the red carpet like a sunburnt flamingo at fashion week, and crossed the line with all the elegance of a man being slowly digested. I was done. I was cooked. I was… an Ironman. As I slowly spontaneously combusted, my only thought was “Thank God for the bucket hat.” That glorious, unfashionable, once-mocked piece of canvas headwear had shielded me from certain death. It absorbed litres of sweat, prevented scalp-melting, and conferred upon me a dignity no sun visor ever could. It was, without question, the best investment of the weekend. And quite possibly, the reason I still have a face – not a pretty one, but still. Let’s do that again! #MedalMonday #IronmanSwansea
Alex Knowles
PIGUM 30 Miler
5th July 2025
Second ultra of the summer done – The PIGUM 30 Miler – and it was a real shift. And the goal was top 20, to come in joint 11th I really could not be happier. Chip time 5:41. We kicked off in Abergavenny town centre, heading through the lanes before climbing hard up to Keeper’s Pond. The opening section through the woods was crazy humid – honestly, I’ve never sweated like that even in the heat. Felt like I drained half my fluids by mile four. Still, I hit Checkpoint 1 in around 8th place, moving well and in control. From there to Checkpoint 2, it opened up a bit – rolling terrain, decent pace, some good downhill flow. We crossed the new Heads of the Valleys road on a bridge, which was a strange shift in atmosphere – from pure trail into something more industrial – but then it was back into the hills. The route into Checkpoint 2 was a bit confusing, with a loop-back through a school, but support was solid. The stretch from CP2 to CP3 had a bit more technical trail. Poles were essential, especially on the descents – really helped keep the effort smooth and avoid burning the quads. Hit Checkpoint 3 around mile 23, but mentally I kept thinking there’d be one more… there wasn’t. ⛰ Mile 23–26: The Sugarloaf Grind This section was a real grind – poles in hand, head down, just one step at a time. It was steep, tough, and relentless, but I managed to gain places on the climb and hold them, which I was buzzing with. That effort meant a lot. Hit the Sugarloaf trig point right at marathon distance, took a breath, and from there it was (supposedly) all downhill… The descent off Sugarloaf was tricky – rough, rocky, and slow going at first – but it eventually opened up and I went for it. Probably pushed a bit too hard, but I was chasing that finish. A few sections teased the town in the distance, only to send us the other way, but when I finally came through Abergavenny, passed Mum the poles, picked up the Smart Performance Coaching flag, and crossed the line in joint 11th, I was over the moon. Final time: 5 hours 41 mins. 💬 Coach’s Feedback – Darren Gibbons, Smart Performance Coaching “after seeing my splits” “Mate, 30 miles… are you actually human? That’s an absolutely savage effort. Honestly, you’ve got to be buzzing with that — there’s no hiding over that distance. Strong early pace. Heart rate stayed solid too. Hope you’re putting your feet up and getting stuck into some well-earned food and recovery now. Mega respect — that’s a serious day out. You’ve got some serious engine and even more serious grit. I’m genuinely in awe.” Hearing that meant the world. ⚡ Fuel & Strategy Fuel went mostly to plan. I binned off the chews early – they just didn’t work mid-race, even though they were fine in training. Switched fully to the resalable 90g carb gels – took about a third every 20 mins and doubled up at checkpoints to keep the intake high without forcing it while running. Feet held up well – cut and taped toenails ahead of time (lesson learned from last time) and no issues there. One curveball: stung by a bee around mile 19–20 – first ever sting – wasn’t sure how I’d react, but body held up fine, arm just puffed up a bit. Weather was decent – a few light showers, but nothing major. Cooler would’ve been ideal, but no real complaints. 💙 Support Crew: Best on Course The support I had was next level. Mum and Dad, Mel and Julian, Nan and Auntie, and even my old school teacher and his wife showed up. Their energy made such a difference, especially at the end. Felt like I had the best crew out there. 🧠 Lessons Learned Cut toenails + tape them – small prep, big comfort. Chews out, gels in – what works in training doesn’t always land on race day. Stick confidence – poles were a game-changer in climbs and descents. No mid-race kit changes – not needed for this race given weather and terrain. 🌞 Next Up: Greece → The Big 50 Now it’s time to recover – off to Greece midweek. Sea swims, good food, proper rest. Then it’s eyes on Race 3: The 50 Miler – whole new territory for me. I’ll probably change my mind after a few training runs, but right now my only goal is: finish it and enjoy it. That’ll be the victory lap to all the work that’s gone into this season. Big thanks to everyone who’s sponsored, supported, cheered or helped behind the scenes. Truly grateful. See you at the next one.
Darren Gibbons
Long Course Weekend Wales - Full
June 2025
Long Course Weekend 2025: Where Experience Meets (Mild) Self-Destruction That’s another Long Course Weekend wrapped up—three days, four medals, and enough Type 2 fun to last me the rest of the summer. Swim – 1:33:00 (Second Lap, Extra Spin) Friday evening started with the swim, and in typical Tenby fashion, the atmosphere was buzzing—music, spectators lining the beach, athlete squeezed into wetsuits and then squeezed into a start pen that felt more like a pre-match huddle. Conditions were spot-on—warm enough that the water felt welcoming rather than shocking, and clear enough to actually see your own arms. The first lap ticked by comfortably: pacing was solid, sighting was on point, and I managed to stay out of any real tangle. Then came lap two, when the field bunched up again around the turn buoys. Suddenly, it was less “controlled stroke rate” and more “try to keep swimming while thirty people fight for the same cubic metre of water.” An impromptu washing machine, basically, but nothing an experienced head and a bit of patience couldn’t handle. I came out feeling good—no dramas, no panic, just a decent, honest effort to set up the weekend. Bike – 7:21:17 Across 112 Miles of Welsh Character-Building Saturday is always the centrepiece of Long Course Weekend—there’s no hiding on that bike course. It’s 112 miles that give you the full tour of Pembrokeshire’s hills, coastal lanes, and just about every gradient imaginable. I set out with a clear strategy: no surges, no heroics early on, just steady pacing from the gun. First hour felt good—rolling out through the town, legs fresh, everyone settling into position. It’s that golden period when the adrenaline’s high, the road is still flowing, and your nutrition plan hasn’t yet descended into an existential crisis. The course doesn’t waste time easing you in. Those early climbs kick up just enough to remind you that you’ll need to manage the effort all day. The descents, though—fast, flowing, the kind where you can tuck in and grab a few free miles. You can’t help but smile, even knowing you’re paying for it later on the next ascent. Through the middle section, I kept the cadence high, fuelling regularly—gels, a few bars, a bit of real food for sanity—and ticking off the landmarks. It’s a strange thing: you measure your day by climbs with names, villages you vaguely remember from the route map, and the sequence of “false summits” that never quite end when you think they will. By mile 70, ONE MORE LAP!!!!!! it becomes a mental game as much as a physical one. The mileage alone isn’t the issue—it’s the cumulative grind of up and down, the effort of holding good form, the discipline to stay on plan when your legs start throwing in their vote to stop. That’s where experience makes the difference. You know when to ease off, when to push, when to let the scenery distract you for a minute so you don’t overthink it. Coming into the final 20 miles, the field was well spread out—just isolated figures in front and behind, all working through their own internal conversations. The quiet moments out there are some of my favourites: you’ve been riding long enough that everything else falls away, and it’s just you, the road, and the rhythm of turning pedals. I knew exactly what was left in the legs, so I kept it measured right to the finish—no big pushes, no last-minute regrets, just a steady close to a long, honest ride. When I finally racked the bike and unclipped, it felt every bit as satisfying as the finish line itself. Saturday Night – Carb Loading and Remote Misdirection With the bike done, it was time to refuel properly. Found cracking food with a great bunch of athletes—everyone trading stories of queues, mechanicals, crashes and nutrition plans gone sideways. That night I fired off a reassuring text to Beth: “Just the half tomorrow, don’t worry.” And to be fair, in a way, that was true—I was just planning to do the half twice. Run – 3:44:59 in Absolutely Relentless Sun Sunday arrived with blue skies and no hint of a breeze. If you’d wanted textbook conditions to drain every last drop of energy out of you, you couldn’t have designed it better. The first few miles went smoothly—legs surprisingly cooperative after the bike, foot just murmuring its displeasure rather than shouting. I settled into a sensible pace, mindful that it was going to be a long day out. By halfway, the sun was fully out, and the field was stretched thin. I kept ticking off the miles with the same approach I’d used all weekend: one aid station to the next, one mental checkpoint at a time, gels on schedule, hydration always in hand. At about mile 15, the polite foot complaints turned into something more assertive, but nothing I hadn’t managed before. A couple of paracetamols, some determined self-talk, and the promise of a red carpet finish line were enough to keep me moving. Those last few miles were tough, but they always are. And that’s part of why you come back—because it’s not supposed to be easy, and the satisfaction only comes when you earn it the hard way. Congratulations to Everyone Huge congratulations to everyone who took part in Long Course Weekend—whether you did one event, two, or the full set, every single effort out there deserves respect. It’s no small thing to put yourself on that start line and see it through. And especially to my mucka Ian Russell for completing the full event in style. Well in, Sir—top effort and the perfect example of what a determined mindset can do. Post-Race Reflections Three days, four medals, countless miles, and a lot of memories. Long Course Weekend is special because it asks everything of you—and if you do it right, it gives even more back. Can’t imagine a better place or a better crew to share it with. Until next time...............
Ian Russell
Long Course Weekend Wales - Full
June 2025
I’ve had a wonderful weekend - this wasn’t it! Whilst most sane folk were sitting out in the fine weather, sipping cocktails and generally relaxing, someone persuaded me it would be a great idea to pop down to Pembrokeshire for the Long Course Weekend: Friday evening - 2.4 mile swim Saturday - 112 mile sportive Sunday - marathon Simples. Or so I thought. I mean how hard can it be - lots of ‘ordinary’ people do it, it’s spread out over three days and it’s local, so, easy to get to… Well, firstly, do not underestimate the eclectic challenges of the UK transport network (cancelled buses in Ross, closed roads at Llandovery and traffic jams at Carmarthen due to a Balloon Festival - to name but a few). On arrival in Tenby: straight to the athlete village for registration, feebly asking (as realisation kicked in of the enormity of the challenge versus my lack of meaningful preparation) if I could maybe drop down on the mileage; half distance, say? NO! All those slots have been taken. Sensible athletes I thought and made a mental note, for next year, not to be so foolhardy. Down at North Beach it was cold, dark and windy - but that’s enough about me; the weather was shabby too. The first challenge here was to get into my old wetsuit, not worn for 20 years, blissfully disregarding the fact that I might have changed shape in the intervening decades. I employed the aid of some lubrication and thought to myself I hadn’t had this much fun with baby oil and Vaseline since my early student days. Next, into the swirling maelstrom of Waterwynch Bay with 1,999 other like-minded certifiable souls - and not an ounce of commonsense between us. 16*C you say? Sounds more like torture than fun; and by the end of lap one (1.2 miles) I’d already lost the feeling in both hands - but I was distracted by the ongoing jostling, bumping, grabbing and caressing. This was a level of intimacy that not even Mrs R usually gets to enjoy, so, a shy lad like myself was quite out of his depth - in more ways than one. At this stage, the smart athletes (you know the ones who’d been sensible at the booking stage) simply waltzed up the finishing straight to applause, glory and a medal; whilst nincompoops like myself went for a course re-attack like a bunch of possessed lemmings. I was aware during this second lap that I seemed to be swimming about a foot lower in the water (had someone sabotaged my svelte wetsuit or was my lack of technique beginning to tell?); and as I rounded the second buoy the waves got bigger, I swallowed yet another mouthful of frothing brine and concentrated as hard as I could on avoiding intimate acquaintance with Davy Jones. In addition, I was now shivering so much that seismic activity was being recorded in Swansea and as I exited the water I was closer to hypothermia than happiness. As someone might have sang a few years ago: “My hands were shaky, my knees were weak. I couldn’t seem to stand on my own two feet.” But, I finished inside the cut-off, so, medal in the bag. Then: cup of tea, thaw out and off to bed. Saturday arrived before I was ready for it. 7am grand depart for 3,000 cyclists; so up at 5 and in the athlete village by 6. Conveniently, breakfast in my B&B started sharp at 8am - something had to give. After a brief look at all my options I decided to skip breakfast. So, only one ‘B’ then. Suffice to say, this is not the best preparation for nine hours in the saddle. Hence I was exceptionally glad to arrive at the 42 mile point: first feed station - water and more importantly sausage sarnies. NINE HOURS / 112 MILES!! Perhaps I hadn’t packed enough Sudocrem. But the scenery was stunning, and by lap #2 (70 miles) the roads were quieter - yep, you’ve guessed it, all the perspicacious peddlers had done their lot and were in the pub. Meanwhile, I was having a few out-of-body experiences and questioning my own sanity, life choices and fuelling plan. Though not necessarily in that order. Four hours later I decided I’d had enough. Fortunately, this coincided with the finish line and just 15 mins inside the cut-off. So, no wasted effort pushing too hard - apparently I had to keep something in the tank: just the small matter of a 26 mile run on the Sunday. Second medal in the bag. Sunday morning. Aargh. I’d heard about these early starts but didn’t think they were a real thing. Manic gathering in the athlete village. Swashbucklers one and all. Simple route: Tenby to Pembroke to Tenby. What’s the fuss? Well, firstly it was a circuitous route (devious some might say); with a few extras: heat, humidity and hills (lots of them). There was enough up-n-down to make a trampolinist light headed. Stick to the plan though Ian: refuel at every water stop, keep taking in carbs and maintain a steady pace. Six hour cut-off to make. After five hours and fifty six minutes the stadium announcer called my name as I tottered over the finish line, to be presented with a gold gong on a green ribbon. To be honest, I could not have shuffled another step. The tank was now empty. The bonus though being that as I had the hat trick of ‘full’ medals there was a forth one - “one to rule them all”. And on reflection, I take it all back, it was a wonderful weekend. Fabulous organisation by Scott, Matthew and the LCW Global team; great hosting by Tenby and the whole community of Pembrokeshire; stunning scenery but above all else amazing comradery, conviviality and friendship from my fellow athletes and supporters. We laughed, we drank, we had fun, and we did a bit of triathlon-ing. Thank you to Rachel Trott for keeping us all in line and to Tanya, Lee, Richard, Robzi and Paul - legends one and all; and especially to fellow amigo Darren Gibbons - only 2 left standing on the podium! I simply could not have done it without you. Chapeau. I’m off now to see if I can find a spare tub of Sudocrem… Next stop Ironman Wales in September 🏴 🐉
Alan Ayde - Rowe
Long Course Weekend Wales
June 2025
Medal, Medal, Medal Monday! Chapter I: The Pilgrimage Begins – or Doesn’t The epic journey to Long Course Weekend began as all noble quests do—at a bus stop in Ross-on-Wye, a town so quaint it makes Midsomer Murders look like downtown Chicago. There I stood, clutching my son Jordy and our luggage like a modern-day Frodo with an Ironman addiction, waiting for the 07:35 bus. Time ticked on, and by 08:00 it was becoming apparent that the bus had either been kidnapped or had decided it simply couldn’t be bothered today. A kind local explained, “Sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn’t,” with the same casual indifference one might reserve for discussing a coin toss or a volcano. Enter Sir Richard of HTC, gallant knight and man with a car. He offered to collect us from Hereford Station. My pride hesitated, but my bladder and child’s patience had long since given up. At 08:50, a bus finally arrived, presumably driven by a man who had taken the scenic route via Saturn. We arrived at Hereford Station at 09:45. Our train had left. Of course it had. Like a Victorian love affair, it was brief, dramatic, and mostly tears. We leapt into Richard’s car, and our journey resumed, mercifully engine-powered. Chapter II: Tenby – Land of Lycra and Questionable Life Choices The first sight of Tenby was like stumbling into a Marvel movie – tanned, sinewy humans walked about bearing Ironman tattoos like they were born in compression gear. I found myself admiring a man’s leg tattoo so intensely that I nearly proposed. He flexed. I fled. Jordy was buzzing with excitement for his Kids’ Beach Race. After the mandatory playing in the sand, children were lined up like small, excitable penguins. Released in waves, they ran into the sea, thrashed through the waist-deep water, and returned, looking like miniature survivors of a naval disaster. Jordy, the smallest in his group, gave a valiant effort—he may have struggled in the sea, but he ran up that beach like a golden retriever who’d spotted a tennis ball. Dad duties fulfilled, it was time for me to don the wetsuit. Chapter III: Neoprene and Shame – The Swim of Suffering Slathering myself in enough lube to concern a small nation, I attempted the impossible—getting into a wetsuit on a sandy beach. I looked like a beige sausage fighting a bin liner. At last, zipped up and ready, I suddenly had the overwhelming urge to fart. I dared not. Trapped wind in a wetsuit is a social death sentence. We gathered at the start pen like livestock at a particularly enthusiastic pagan sacrifice. Fireworks went off. Music blared. Some sprinted into the water like seals shot out of a cannon. I tiptoed in with all the grace of a man slowly walking into a cold bath while pretending it doesn’t bother him. Then came the chaos. Kicked, slapped, elbowed, and caressed by strangers in ways that felt less triathlon and more Greek orgy, I fought my way to the second buoy. My goggles leaked like a politician’s promises. I kept one eye closed, hoping to avoid salt-induced blindness. I swam toward the third buoy using only instinct and passive aggression. At one point, I swam directly into a boat. I claim victory in that encounter. Eventually, I staggered onto the beach like a bedraggled walrus and stumbled toward the finish. Medal secured. Dignity not so much. Chapter IV: Day of the Bike – Hills, Crashes, and Bacon Mirage Saturday dawned with all the promise of a crisp Pembrokeshire breeze and the knowledge I’d slept approximately four minutes. Off I rode with Tanya, Lee, and Rachel, convinced that hills would appear like polite bumps. They did not. These hills attacked with the stealth of tax auditors and the malice of vengeful exes. Around mile 15 I passed what looked like a nap party in a field. Only when I saw a bike in a paddock and someone applying a tourniquet did I realise it was an actual crash. “Oh,” I thought, “that explains the ambulance tailgating me like I owed it money.” Then, like a hallucination sent by the gods of carbs, we arrived at The Feed Station. Bacon rolls, pizza, fruit—an edible utopia. Unfortunately, the water queue resembled a zombie apocalypse ration line. I aged visibly. I refilled my bottles but forgot to eat. Genius. Back on the bike, I hit 44mph downhill (which is illegal in some counties and several religions). Then came the Final Hills. So steep they should be in therapy, they rose like the spines of sleeping dragons—one wrong move and I’d be rolling backwards into a hedge. But I made it. Two down. One to go. The hardest one. Chapter V: Running Up That Hill (And That One. And That One…) Sunday morning arrived with the casual cheer of a war crime. I boarded the bus to Pembroke surrounded by locals who gleefully described the hellscape I was about to run through. One man chuckled, “Even the downhills are uphill.” I laughed politely while planning his immediate disinvitation to Christmas. I met up with Rachel at the start. Her enthusiasm mirrored that of someone who’d just been told their electricity bill was being calculated in Bitcoin. Then we were off! The heat, previously described as “pleasant,” had turned into “Satan’s breath.” Locals sprayed us with hoses. One man stood proudly with a sprinkler and I declared him “a true Welsh hero” and kissed his sprinkler with gratitude. My feet—taped up like ancient scrolls—miraculously held. My sanity, less so. At around halfway, we merged with the 10km runners. The cheer from them lifted me. Then came The Hill. Capital T. Capital H. Sadistic in design, it required not just walking but something between hiking and begging for mercy. But eventually, I saw single digits. Then the red carpet. Tanya cheered. I summoned what strength I had left—roughly the amount of a damp teabag—and sprint-hobbled toward the finish. Three from three. Final Chapter: Victory, Pain, and Too Many Emotions for a Man in Lycra I had done it. Medal. Medal. Medal. A trinity of suffering, pride, and strategic strapping tape. The best weekend of my life? Absolutely. My body disagrees, but my soul is high-fiving itself in spandex. Massive thanks to: •Rach and Darren of Smart Performance Coaching: for helping me train like a semi-competent human. •Tanya: absolute legend and dispenser of unwavering support. •Lee: For motivation, snacks, and making me look vaguely athletic by comparison. •Rob and Rich: Course knowledge gurus and professional enablers. •Paul and Ian: For being gloriously unhinged and endlessly supportive. Final thought: If anyone finds a pair of goggles filled with salt water and regret somewhere near buoy two, they’re mine. Treasure them. And to Long Course Weekend Wales: I’ll be back in 2026. Fatter. Funnier. And possibly even slower. But by God, I’ll bring lube.
Alex Knowles
VOGUM 40 Pegasus Ultra Running
Saturday 7th June 2025
Pegasus VOGUM 40: Mud, Miles, and Motherly Megaphones Take this in: sand between your toes, coastal cliffs ahead, rain pelting sideways, and the sweet scent of flapjack regret in the air. Sounds like a holiday, right? Wrong. This was the Pegasus VOGUM 40-miler, and what a ride it was. I’m writing this while the blisters are still fresh, the toenails are still hanging on (1 has gone this morning ….) and the buzz hasn’t even started to wear off. This wasn’t just a race. It was the result of a journey that started with a bulging disc in my back and a hell of a lot of heart. Holly, you got me back on my feet, your support back then was incredible. I’ll never forget that. From local 10 Ks to half marathons, then linking up with Darren at Smart Performance Coaching, this whole thing became a serious mission. Zone training, heart rate tuning, chewing on weird energy blocks… it was all building to this day. And when they say “train hard, race easy,” they weren’t lying, except, maybe, about the “easy” bit. Race Day: Rain, Sand, and Zero Chill We drove down the night before, Mum, Dad, and Tas by my side. (Little did I know, they’d soon be stealing the show.) We stayed in Porthcawl, just a pebble’s throw from the start line. I was in bed just after 9 and slept surprisingly well. At 5 AM I was up, sipping coffee, pretending to eat, and getting ready for the chaos. Check-in was quick and painless. Number collected, nerves in full swing, and one last “safety wee” before heading to the beach. The start line? Literal sand. Not metaphorical “gritty” sand. Actual, ankle-eating beach sand. For the first four miles, it was like running through a bag of flour in the rain. Brutal. The first inland section was no better, more sand. Then, just when we started to feel like we had traction, came Hill One. Confidence was high, legs were fresh, and everyone was charging up it. That enthusiasm would not last. Checkpoint 1: Off Like a Rocket Felt strong. Dad told me later I was 30 minutes ahead of the pace I’d predicted. Energy was high, vibes were good, and the Pegasus crew were outstanding—topping up bottles, handing out snacks, cheering like legends. Every volunteer made you feel like Mo Farah. Checkpoint 2: Still Flying Hit this one 45 minutes earlier than planned. Same solid support, legs still ticking over well, rain still coming down sideways. Spirits high, thanks to the best fuelling plan I could manage: a gel or 60g chew every 20 minutes. (Spoiler: the chews would betray me later.) Checkpoint 3: The Slog Begins This one felt like it took years to reach. Elevation crept in. Terrain got wild, grass, mud, roots, uneven steps, you name it. The coastal beauty was still there, but it wasn’t enough to distract from the growing ache. Checkpoint 4: Barry Bloody Island Let’s talk about Barry. Not the guy. The place. You’d think it’d be a highlight. Instead? Maze of tarmac, confusing GPS signals, and vibes completely gone. Nothing against Barry, but compared to the cliff paths and wild woodlands, this felt like getting dropped in a Tesco car park after a hike in the Alps. This checkpoint dragged. Hard surfaces punished the legs, and I realised my nutrition plan was crumbling. Those energy chews? Felt like trying to swallow Pritt Stick. Told mum, dad, and Tas to strip me of all chews and load me up with gels. Also dropped the sticks, flat ground ahead meant it was time to grind. Final Push: Sprint Mode Activated Caffeinated gels in, drum & bass on. Legs pumping. Then I looked at the watch still over 10K to go. Eased off before I blew up. Terrain swung wildly: road, pebbles, more cliffs, back to road. People were tripping all over the shop, technical terrain was not letting up. Ash, a legend I ran much of the race alongside, was still nearby. We traded places and good words throughout. Ash, if you’re reading this, you’re a machine, I owe you a better thanks for pushing me. Sorry for dropping you at the end… sort of. We saw the final hill. We both started walking. But I thought, nah, not today. I kept thinking back to a training session on Aylestone Hill. Two hours of repeats. At mile 38, when the body was screaming, I remembered that day, gritted my teeth, and switched into second gear. Drove hard. Passed Ash, passed doubt, passed whatever was left in the tank. Sprint finish. Big effort. Big moment. Big emotion. Aftermath: Beer, Toenails, and Glory At the finish line: medal, hugs, love. Mum, Dad, and Tas, you three were everything out there. Seeing your faces, hearing your cheers, it meant more than I can say. Mum, you were louder than the finish line music. Dad, your driving and calm energy kept everything moving. Tas, your smile carried me over cliffs. And apparently, Mum also met Dick Powell from Gavin & Stacey… so that was her finish line moment. Fair play. I tried a celebratory flapjack, rock solid. Tried a beer, nursed it like a Victorian invalid. Took my socks off and… chaos. Black toes. Twisted nails. Full-blown war zone in my Hokas. Looking Ahead This was Race One of Three. I’ve got a 30-miler in Abergavenny in July, and then The Big One—50 miles with three times the elevation in August. Am I ready? YES. Am I excited? Absolutely. To Darren, thank you for the coaching, belief, and smart guidance. To every person who sent a message, donated, or shouted support, you got me through. And to the support crew of the year, Mum, Dad, and Tas, I didn’t just run with you in my corner. I flew. Lessons Learned: 1. Cut your toenails: I can’t believe I didn’t do this. That’s an obvious one. As soon as I hit mile 30, my feet were begging for mercy. A small thing, but makes a world of difference. 2. Larger chews were too much: I went in thinking that energy chews were my ticket. They weren’t. Should’ve stuck to gels like I did in training. Chews were harder to get down and definitely slowed me down. Gels will be my go-to for the next one. Live and learn. 3. Changing socks/shoes halfway through: I saw a few people do this, but I wasn’t convinced. The rain was still falling, and I wasn’t sure if it was worth it. They seemed fine, but part of me feels like I could’ve done the same. Maybe next time, I’ll be braver with the gear change if conditions call for it.
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!
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!
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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 ……..