Tri tri and tri again

Blenheim Palace Triathlon

To paraphrase David Byrne and Talking Heads:

And you may find yourself in a beautiful lake, with a beautiful daughter and granddaughter

And you may ask yourself, ‘Well, how did I get here?’

Which is precisely the question going through my mind as I approach the lake at Blenheim Park for the first leg of last weekend's triathlon. The straight answer is simple: Cass has a ‘big birthday’ this year and said she fancied doing a triathlon and was I up for it? Of course, I replied, full of misplaced confidence. Granddaughter Ella also committed herself so here we are in wetsuits and biliously coloured orange swim caps, with about a hundred others listening to an enthusiastic bloke with a tannoy system. There’s lots of razza and plenty of matazz, which are highly infectious.

He’s telling us we’re amazing, we’re super heroes, we’re triathletes, we’re going to smash this and we’re willing to believe him and anyone else at this precise moment. We’re doing this! we say, and give one another rubbery hugs before heading towards the grey, chilly waters. On the way into the lake, I tell said enthusiastic bloke we’re three generations of the same family doing this triathlon! I’m not sure why I do this - an overdose of enthusiasm I suspect. I’m even thinking in exclamation marks!! Anyway, I vaguely hear him announce this news as we step onto the gangplank (er…pontoon) but by now my adrenaline has been drowned in a rush of bemused panic.

Image (not of me, as if) courtesy of Blenheim Palace.

Cass, Ella and all the other swimmers soon disappear into the distance, heading towards a couple of tiny specks on a distant horizon - allegedly the finishing line buoys. There’s only me and one other floating satsuma left to plough a stately aquatic furrow behind all the fit and enthusiastic others (my metaphors are in meltdown by this stage). All my practising in the local pool is immediately forgotten when my goggles steam up and strong waves try their best to propel me back towards the start line.

My fellow satsuma and I seem to be made of reasonably stoical material so we just keep swimming. What else are we going to do? I can’t see where I’m going so eventually decide to lift my goggles, which is both a good and bad idea: I can see the finishing line now and it’s bleeding miles away. I’m sure it’s only meant to be 750 metres but the choppy waters of the lake appear to add at least a few hundred metres and anyway I’m swimming a stately, imperial breaststroke and aren’t yards longer than metres?

The good news is that, despite metrication, I eventually make it to the final triangular buoy but I’m getting splashed and jostled by so-called ‘Weekend Warriors’ who have undertaken to do as many triathlons as possible over the weekend and are already on at least their second by the time they pass me. It’s hard to tut and roll your eyes under such circumstances but I do my best as I gather up any remaining strength to haul myself on to the bank. Now all I have to do is walk (some people run!?) to the transition area where I change out of my wetsuit and get on my bike.

That’s the theory anyway except it’s a long way, mostly uphill, and somebody has strewn the path, not with celebratory rose petals, but sharp pebbles. This means I can hardly hear my gasps for breath over yelps of pain.

The sensible thing to do in transition is have a few minutes to gather yourself and take some deep breaths. The trouble is I’m unable to think straight because I need all my mental and physical strength simply to do this so there’s no spare capacity for clear thinking. I throw off my wetsuit, chuck on my cycling gear and somehow or other head off towards a 20km ride with my bike.

It has to be said this is one of those photos that asks more questions than it answers. Why on earth am I using a folding bike? Why the hell am I wearing a Newcastle Broon top? Why haven’t I started riding? Where’s everybody else and who let this old geezer out on his own?

I’m riding my old Dahon folder for the simple reason I couldn’t get my full sized bike in the car. Anyway, in Bicycle Diaries, David Byrne describes using his folding bike all over the world and he’s the epitome of cool isn’t he?

Talking of cool, I should explain the Broon Ale top was a birthday present from nieces and nephews and it felt like the southrons (as Basil Bunting describes anyone from the south) needed to see a proppa Geordie top.

I’m not riding yet because I’m probably still in shock after the swim and can’t remember if I can still ride a bike. I don’t know where everyone else is but I’m beginning to suspect they might have packed up and gone home for their tea.

Once I finally get on the bike and start riding I discover plenty of other cyclists who seem to be admiring my top and bike as they shoot past or I could be hallucinating. I can hear someone shouting Why Aye Man.

It’s an undulating course and I’m regretting the choice of bike as I struggle uphill, having lacked momentum on the way down. It’s three times round the course and the cheers from Eil, Jade and Holly are a fantastic help as I pass them. In fact I’m so pleased to see them I stop for a chat after the second lap. Not sure the Brownlees ever did that but they weren’t on folding bikes.

I return to the transition area to find a disconsolate Ella who got dunched during the swim and then had a puncture on the bike stage. It’s not her day! As far as we know, Cass is well ahead. Despite her disappointment, Ella is very encouraging to her old granddad so I set off on the run with some optimism.

I’ve been following the Couch to 5K app as a way of practising running. The delightful Laura has motivated me to run for about 20 minutes, which isn’t enough but it’s a start. My running style is reminiscent of Groucho Marx or David Byrne in the original video for ‘Once in a Lifetime’. Not as lithe or supple but a similarly low-slung centre of gravity.

A combination of Byrnesque running and walking gets me twice round the course and I reach the final straight at not quite a gallop but a moderately judicious pace. But hey, I’m thinking, I did it!

It goes without saying I’m completely knackered but it’s 10 years since I did this triathlon lark and while I might not be ‘the same as I ever was’ it’s been a wonderful way to celebrate my amazing daughter’s birthday.

Happy Birthday Cass!!!