Overcoming Blindness

4am alarm. We both wake up sweaty. Too much pasta L reckons. On the road by 5am. Doggo thinking oh no what’s happening now. In Skipton for 6.50. We are one of the first there; which is a real novelty. We park Doggo right by the course, no overflow car park for us early birds. A bit of a relief because these are usually several miles away.

At the briefing they inform us they are running approximately 20 minutes late. Doggo is with us at the briefing and is quivering away. Excited, for reasons know only to him. It dawns on me that he thinks that this group of people who are listening to the briefing are actually stood on the start line of a race. He probably thinks we're about to embark on one of our ‘cake’ cross-country runs. As the briefing ends and the crowd start to disperse, Doggo is pulling at his lead, ready to go. I let him off thinking this will calm him down. People are walking off in all directions so surely it’ll dawn on him. Not a bit of it. Off he goes, apparently picking a person at random to follow. We have to call him back. When he comes back he looks well hacked off, even more so when we put him in the car.

We have separate start times. L's scheduled start time was 8.52 and mine was 9.21, 29 minutes apart. L is worried that I might catch her. I'm not so sure, 29 minutes is a big ask. When we get our race numbers we find that they’ve moved our numbers up one place and although this leaves L’s start time unchanged mine is now 9.18. So I’ve taken 3 minutes out of her advantage before I’ve even started. Even so 26 minutes is still a lot to make up.

We go to the pool and I watch L commence her swim. Then I need to off load some weight, my second dump of the morning. Nerves don’t normally get me but nothing I’ve eaten should be trying to beat such a hasty exit. I get back in time to see L finish her swim and leave the pool. I strip to my race gear and get in line ready for my start.

The swim goes well, in a way. Although I go off too fast and catch the guy in front of me. I overtake him which may have been a bad thing because now I have to try and stay in front of him. I speed up further but after another length I look back and he is miles behind, so I try and settle into a steady pace but my stroke is ragged and I can’t get any rhythm going. About half way through and the other two guys in my lane get out, the next start doesn’t put anyone else in my lane so I’m on my own which is nice. At the start after that a chap does get in my lane and at the same time disaster strikes me. The left eye of my goggles fill with water. Closing that eye just makes the leak it worse and I have to stop. I empty my goggles but the water has moved my contact lens. I am now effectively blind in one eye. I try blinking it back into place but it’s no good. I complete the final two lengths and squint my way to transition. Transition is 300m away and is mainly tarmac but it isn’t as arduous as I expected.

My transition is slow due to the onset of blindness and I ‘waste’ time desperately trying to manoeuvre the missing lens back into place. In the end I head out on to the bike course still with only half my vision, praying the route is well marked and the traffic light. Less than a mile into the bike, and miraculously before the first roundabout which is a traffic nightmare, I manage to blink my lens back into place. Vision restored, I attempt to get down to some serious biking. I immediately pass some girl who is tottering along on her mountain bike. The bike course isn’t pleasant, too much traffic. I have to stop at a roundabout to let cars go and then again later at a junction. Also the road surface is horrendous, really rough. I also wonder if I’ve gone the wrong way, I’m biking almost alone along a busy road and all the cyclists are coming the opposite way. There are no signs to reassure me that I am on the right road. I resolve that if it turns out I went wrong at the roundabout, I will simply bike the course in reverse. I spy a cyclist in yellow up the road and resolve to chase him down, hoping he’s in the race. I make headway but it is slow. I finally catch him; he does have a number on his back, 121. I notice that he has resorted to riding down the white line, to lessen the roughness of the tarmac. I follow his example. It is slightly better.

I pass him and attempt to lose him. Eventually we come to some marshals which at least shows that we’re in the right race. We turn on to some nice country lane and now I pass loads of people but most of them are on mountain or shopper bikes. I dawdle behind a girl on a mountain bike for a few seconds, she is out of her seat and waggling her arse at me. It’s an very enjoyable diversion from the hill we are both battling up but regrettably she is climbing so slowly that I have to push on past her. I would practically have to pedal backwards to stay behind her and questions would be asked why my bike time was so slow. I smile to her as I pass but the view from the front does not live up to the one from the rear and I have no regrets as I push on. Perhaps if I really put the hammer down I might get the benefit of L’s rear view before the end of the course.

Only one person passes me and he’s on a bloody straight handle bar job, he rubs it in as he passes by asking how it’s going. I sneer, and through gritted teeth, wish him a good ride. I trail him for a while but then lose contact with him when I obey the Highway Code by stopping at a junction and he does not. 121 catches me up at the same junction. I can hear him puffing and panting behind me as we attack the next hill. It encourages me to put spurt on and I soon lose him.

Just as we get on to a flatter part the gears on my front dérailleur go and I can’t shift onto the larger chainset. I power along in my lower gears. Towards the end I pass a few chaps on racers who are wilting on the hilly course.

So back to transition and no sign of L yet. My transition is again poor; it takes an age to pull my gloves off. Perhaps it’s a mistake to wear them. Another mistake is that I’ve barely touched the sports drink on my bike, which means I’ve carried 400ml of liquid over those hills. Off onto the run and my legs don’t feel too bad but I do feel too hot.

About a quarter of the way into the first lap I see L coming in the opposite direction. The run is an out and back course of three laps. I have no idea whether she is completing lap one, two or three and daren’t ask. I offer her a high five and she accepts, so hopefully she’s not too pissed off at me for being close to catching her.

The second quarter of lap one is hard and it takes us up hill but after the turn the resulting downhill is good and nice recovery time. At the start of lap two a girl rockets past me, 113 she is. That's her number, not her age (thankfully). Her rear end looks vaguely familiar. Surely she’s gone off too fast. I let her go, her number tells me she started 12 minutes before me and is therefore not going to beat me.

121 passes me. The bastard. Although I can see he’s struggling but he just had to pass me as revenge for taking him on the bike, didn’t he. You wouldn't see me getting that hung up on such a thing. I could bust a gut passing him but again his start number tells me I have time in hand on him. I just need to keep him in sight.

On the third lap I realise that L is still running and I am after all going to catch her. I pass her just after the turn. I offer her a friendly pat on the shoulder as I pass and pray this doesn’t mean I’m sleeping on the settee tonight. She seems fairly upbeat but then shouts after me, that’s there’s no sex unless I’m top 10. Now that IS a big ask. If only she’d have told me that at the start, I could have got the nandrolone off the internet.

I finish a minute or two ahead of L, which means that the 3 minute shift in my start time proved decisive.

The girl with 113 on her back is telling all her supporters that she started late, as 130. Bugger that means she was on the same start time as me. I am inconsolable until L points out that she could have been in a team, which would explain she she didn’t look like she’d done a 20km bike ride. I cheer up a touch.

We decide to stop off for Sunday Lunch on the way home and stumble upon a pub owned by the Copper Dragon Brewery. The brewery is a new one founded in Skipton as recently as 2002. The brewery re-creates beers similar to those from the last brewery to exist in Skipton which was the Scott's Brewery which closed in 1904. I have a pint of Scotts 1816 4.1% and L has half a Golden Pippin 3.9%. Both are good. The Sunday lunch is excellent and includes a trio of meats:- beef, pork and ham. They even under charge us but we were honest enough to own up. I don't mind ripping off the big breweries but a small concern like this deserves our support.

Predictably Derby are dreadful again as they lose 2-0 to Palace. Hello play-offs. Again.

We get back home too late to spend the afternoon in bed, as is the tradition after an event. Not wishing to be totally untraditional, I coerce L into the quickest of quickies. Then we take Doggo across the park and end up at the Rodney to celebrate our successes (in the Tri).

For once the beer at the Rodney is excellent and dark! Wentworth Oatmeal Stout 4.8%. Two pints of. Then we move into another Wentworth beer Brimstone 5.0%. Two pints again.

Stagger home and feast on the meatloaf that Daughter cooked up during the day.

38 units this week. Tut tut.