Tinkerballs (AKA The F**k Up Fairy) has been a regular visitor to Psyko Towers this year – so much so that there is always a bed made up in the spare room and a pot of coffee ready. And despite a new Extra-Large pram arriving for Christmas, the toys have still been out more than they have been in this year. But I’m getting ahead of myself – let me take you back a little.
2015 was to be the year of the properly documented training plan, of A, B and C races, of goals and targets, warm weather training, strength and conditioning, base and build, peaking and tapering – all focused on a visit to the European Age Group Sprint Championships in Geneva in July. Team Paddy Last Racing © (motto: “The First shall be Last, the Last shall be First”) was taking its only athlete to the European Championships. This was a big deal – well it was to us, anyway!
The early part of the training season was full of promise: regular swims in WW, good hard turbo sessions on the bike, steady, if unspectacular, runs and an ongoing programme of strength and conditioning. Two early National Series Sprint races were targeted: TriAthy and Crooked Lake, followed by a nice run in to the European Championships in Geneva. I was following the six P’s to the letter: Proper Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance. What could possibly go wrong?
Notwithstanding the mandatory three weeks out with a chest infection in January, by early May things were going well when Tinkerballs arrived unannounced in the form of a nasty tear in my left calf at the end of one innocent Saturday morning run at WestWood. Spheres! Five weeks before the first NS race in Athy and just when I was about to up the ante a bit on the running side of things. I could swim but not bike for a week and then went back on the turbo. I managed a tentative 5km run after nearly three weeks of physio. Felt OK to race in Athy. Despite all the hanging around in the cold on race day, I got through Triathy in one unspectacular piece – OK, I couldn’t work the elastics out of T1, got tangled up and had to get off the bike, pull the shoes off, put them on, get back on the bike and set off again but no-one saw this Muppetry in action and as I discovered in Geneva, there are Elite Muppets. After a careful run, I finished at 8pm in the rain. They were packing up transition and telling everyone to go home. Possibly the most badly organised race I’ve ever done and certainly not worthy of NS status. On the positive side, I had no injuries. Paddy Last Racing was back on track. We had a team meeting sheltering in a phone box, shared a bag of chips and headed home. Back on the road to Geneva.
I stepped up the training a bit after that and also managed to finish Crooked Lake in one piece, albeit with a repeat of the problem with the elastic bands on the cycling shoes (only redeemed by seeing PO’D ride into the crash barrier trying to pull his shoes on! Nice one!) but I had a sluggish run. Not really sure why – just one of those days.
As a result, my pre-season race targets were not met. I had missed more goals than Barcelona FC in the 1986 European Cup Final penalty shoot-out. I had a selection of excuses to choose from, some of which were even plausible. My team manager was sympathetic and my sponsors remained supportive.
Geneva beckoned, so onwards and upwards with the training. All was going well until I was out on a gentle, recovery run of 10 to 12km. I was only 3km in when literally out of the blue my right calf muscle went and I pulled up in quite a bit of pain. I couldn’t go on and couldn’t walk home: I had to flag down a taxi that “just happened to be passing”. It was driven, I am convinced, by a smirking Tinkerballs in person having a laugh. I staggered into the house in a massive grump and looked at the calendar: 17 days to Race Day – I decided it was all over and spent the evening downing several large whiskeys with a bag of Batchelors’ Frozen Peas lashed to my calf. Tinker-sodding-balls! The flights and accommodation to Geneva were booked, the family were all lined up to go and it was all over. I sent morose texts to let everyone know. I was down and out. If I had been in the pram, I’d have thrown myself out.
The next day, still hopping around, I remembered words of encouragement that John Staunton had given me once about the time he had a calf injury in the run up to an IronMan. He had recovered and he had finished. I checked my training diary. Hold on: the time between the first calf tear earlier in the season and a cautious run was 18 days. I had 17 days to Geneva. Maybe it was worth a shot. My S&C guys got stuck in to some serious electronically assisted dry needling, I had a couple of laser sessions and some serious physio/massage and got back on the turbo and did some long, gentle sessions. I hatched an all or nothing plan: I would run again – but ONLY in the race in Geneva – before that it would only be the bike and the swim. If my calf muscle broke down again, it would be during the race. I alerted Team Paddy Last that we were going to give it a lash. Team Paddy Last yawned, scratched its collective backside and said: “Yeah, whatever!” I basked in their positivity.
I alerted Ditch Moore, the Irish Age Group Team Manager, to my plight and he agreed to bring a saw with him to Switzerland in case the leg needed to be removed. Game on.
Despite all the great mental skills coaching that we have done this Summer, I arrived in Geneva in a state of high anxiety. My goal had been altered from putting in a respectable performance to just finishing. I would settle for a finish, crossing the line in my Ireland strip with the family there to share it with me. I didn’t know if it was possible – I may have to pull up and do the lonely walk back to transition with my pride in tatters, but I was going to take the risk. Better to have tried and failed than cried and bailed.
Geneva was buzzing when I got there – team strips everywhere and a carnival atmosphere prevailed. I collected my bike from ShipMyTrayBake (great service) and registered. I had to stick the bike in transition the night before, which was a novelty for me. We were racked by Age Group so there was no hiding from the competition. I spent a few minutes eyeing up the others and got a couple of funny looks in return and one offer of dinner. There were some very strong looking guys from Italy, Switzerland and Germany plus half the population of Great Britain (they had a team of over 600 competing over the weekend!). The following day was very hot – I breakfasted early, headed down to the lakeshore and finished setting up my gear in transition, contemplated letting some tyres down, sprinkled the bike with Holy Water and then went to find some shade to pull on the Green Jersey. A brief pause to greet the fans and sign autographs and then it was out to the cages to be lined up for the swim. Wetsuits were optional but everyone was wearing one, so that decision was taken for me.
The swim started knee deep in the clear waters of Lake Geneva. Loud pre-recorded heartbeats reverberated over the loudspeakers, the horn went and we were off. We quickly split into two arrows heading out to the first buoy (cool, just like the pros on telly). Unfortunately, I joined the arrow with the faulty SatNav (not so cool) – my daughter told me later that we carved a beautiful parabola around the buoys but added about 150m and a couple of minutes to the swim. Tinkerbollocks!
“ … who knows where the time goes.”
Out of the swim and up and over a bridge into transition. Uh, oh – where are the bikes of my fellow Age Groupers? Humming Gilbert O’Sullivan’s “Alone Again, Naturally”, I grabbed the bike and headed for the exit. Onto the bike, the elastics snapped and in went my feet, I was off. Halle-bloody-luia! A couple of fast kilometres followed on smooth tarmac – this is ace. I was overtaking people: some of them were on bikes and some of them were even in the race! Round a corner and … crap, I forgot about the hill? I wasn’t alone. Lots of gears crunching and cursing as we set off up a long, slow hill. People were out of the saddle coming past me. Conscious of my dodgy calf, I stayed in a low gear and kept spinning up the hill. Focus on finishing, focus on finishing. A helpful cove from Team GB encouraged me to get a move on as he passed on the steepest part. Off the top of the hill was a fantastic descent back down to the lakeshore and I passed him at full chat with a “Yeeehah” and a wave. “Show off” was all I could hear from him as I peddled like mad to get away. I spot my son out of the corner of my eye when flat out on the tri-bars. I lift one index finger in recognition. He asks me afterwards what that was all about. “Did you think you were driving a tractor in Kerry?”
“This wheel’s on fire, rolling down the road …”
We had to repeat the loop three times – we were ready for the hill after the first loop and so it didn’t seem as bad. On my third climb a woman’s voice got closer and closer: “Come on, Sykes”, “Get a move on, Sykes” and then “Sykes, I’ve got my eye on you”. Aye, aye I thought, this could be my lucky day. I wonder what she looks like. Just as I was expecting to be passed by a vision of loveliness in tight Lycra giving me a wink that said “See you at the bag drop, Sweetheart”, all I could hear was her voice again, only this time much shriller. “Have I got a penalty”, “Hey, did I get a penalty” … “nooooooh! have I got a penalty?” I never saw or heard from her again and what could have been a beautiful friendship ended without a backward glance. Draftbusted!
After one more, fast decent, the bike leg was over and I was heading into transition with “Come on Ireland” ringing in my ears. Yep, all the bikes were back and their owners had already legged it. Now the moment of truth. Off with the lid, on with the runners and out onto the run with Moody’s words echoing in my head: “keep a light, fast cadence – no plodding”. Easier said than done. By the time I crossed the timing mat I was getting nasty twinges in my calf. Should I pull out now? No, give it a bit longer. The twinges eased but never completely went away. I made it up the first hill and into the park. At the first water station I developed a routine. Two cups of water: one down the gob, the other over the head. Stop, quick calf-stretch followed by a hard slap on the right one as though it was capable of being beaten into submission (don’t know why) and off again. Downhill a bit now, lean forward and take the weight off the calf. At the next water station there was a large contingent of Brits cheering on … well, only the Brits it turned out. I held my arms open but got nothing. Water station: two cups and into the routine – gob, head, stretch, slap. Off again with “Come on Ireland, you lazy git” ringing in my ears from the Brits. I gave them a “digital wave” over my shoulder. First of two loops done. Just ahead a GB Age Grouper pulls up clutching his calf and hopping. I hear him say he can’t go on. “Sorry, mate” is all I can manage. He is one of two DNFs in my AG. I’m round and up the hill again (God it’s hot – 35 degrees plus: don’t know how our Iron Men and Women do this for hours on end in higher temperatures. Madness – this is only a Sprint and I’m overheating already.). First water station again: two cups, gob, head, stretch, slap and off. Downhill, keep it steady, pretend you’re on Moody’s Chicken Legs (on second thoughts just concentrate on the race) and round to the second water station and the waiting Brits. I get a huge, rapturous welcome and a great roar of encouragement – we’re friends after all. Two cups: gob, head, stretch, slap. Down to the turn off point for the final 800m to the finish. I realise I’m going to make it. I’m running with a lump in my throat – I care about finishing this more than I had been prepared to admit. Knock off the pace a little, don’t do anything stupid. Remember James Joyce’s advice to the horse and carriage driver in Ulysses: “Save a bit of trot for the Avenue”. Someone helpfully tells me there’s no one behind me – twenty seconds later two women pass me – neither, it seems, has their eye on me. Hurry! I can see the finish chute, the blue carpet and hear the music. I pull my stomach in, puff my chest out and do my best Brownlee impersonation – I’m half-Yorkshire after all! I hear my family yelling as I hit the final 50m and cross the line. Mission accomplished. Up yours, Tinkerballs!
“I’m on the edge … of glory … and I’m hangin’ on a moment of truth” – about to go Gaga in Geneva!
My family is there to congratulate me and it’s time for celebrations with the other Irish athletes and the countless members of Team GB milling around. What a great bunch they are from our neighbouring island – great sports and great fun to be around. My time was pretty rubbish and I’m second last in my Age Group – the swim cost me two to three minutes, I lost time being careful on the bike and the run was, well, the run. Seventeen days ago, strapped to a bag of Batchelor’s Frozen Peas with a half-empty (or half-full as I now see it after our Mental Skills talks) bottle of Jamieson in my hand, I would have settled for this. I’ll settle for it now. I have an appointment with a cold beer.
“It’s all over now, baby blue”
I awake the following morning in a MASSIVE grump that is dangerously close to a tantrum. I’m fully in touch with my inner toddler. The initial euphoria has worn off. I have foolishly checked the race times and I am not a happy bunny. I should have been comfortably seven or eight places higher. I feel that I have let Team Paddy Last down. I should have performed better in the swim. I should have pushed harder on the bike. And on the run? Well … I’m actually really rubbish at running. Time to call it a day. I decide there and then to sell the TT bike, keep the road bike for a bit of cycling and maybe do a bit of open water swimming in the wetsuit. No more of the running malarkey for me. I don’t have to do a triathlon ever again. Decision made. I’ll inform Team Paddy Last at breakfast. They’ll be disappointed, but they’ll be over it by the time the croissants arrive.
Hang on, better just check the Piranha website before heading down to break the news. Aha, a new post from our glorious leader, Bernard “Proud to be a Piranha” Hanratty. Registration for the Pulse Port Beach Triathlon has just opened. End of September. National Sprint Championships. Club night out afterwards. Before I can say Tinkerballs, my credit card is out and I’m registered. I’m in. I’m a Piranha. I’m hungry for more.
As for Geneva: when I recover my composure and get everything back into perspective, I find I’m over the moon – it was some weekend and as Tara had warned me – quite emotional. And Gold medal contender and former World Champion, Javier Gomez fell off his bike at the mount line in the Elite Race and never got back into contention: so you can be an Elite Muppet or an Age Group Muppet, the choice is yours. And David Haas, the French athlete came into T2 in the Elite Sprint Relay Race neck and neck with very strong Swiss and British athletes and, according to the commentators, destined for third place. No-one told him. He exited T2 first with NO RUNNING SHOES ON and stole thirty seconds off the other two boyos. Over the 1.6km run it was doable. Just. He crossed the line to take Gold about twenty seconds ahead of the chasers. The place went ballistic. It wasn’t about nationality at that point. It was about courage and determination and belief. It was about taking your chances and being the best you can be on the day. It was about triathlon. Magic!
Team Ireland – Jaysus, girls, can’t you even get the flag the right way round!
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