The overpriced brick session.

Trialling my new Huub wetsuit. Waste of time that was!

I was in two minds whether to even bother writing about this one.

I mean, it was a complete farce, even though there was some level of achievement involved.

I had booked Weymouth Ironman 70.3 (70 miles across 3 different disciplines – a half Ironman distance triathlon) in case, for any reason, I got sick or couldn’t do Tours in France.

It was because of this entry that I tried to get familiar with the Weymouth 90km long bike course, which had a punchy hill about 70% of the way through.

I never made it. I hit mud on the side of the road at about 40km, in December 2024 and crashed. It resulted in a broken rib, torn rotator cuff and frozen shoulder.

I had spent the summer, post MRI scan, trying to line up surgery to have it fixed. The NHS couldn’t be relied upon not to cancel last minute (costing me weeks of salary as I’d have to take time off working at sea and you can’t just take a day here or there – it is at least 2 weeks as per our crew changes, which equated to a month’s salary). The NHS would never compensate me for lost earnings so that was off the table.

I tried to go private in a local hospital and got as far as pre-op assessment when I was informed by email that the orthopaedic surgeon had “left the business with immediate effect”. I don’t know what he did but he left me and many others fairly and squarely in the lurch.

My hunch to just go abroad seemed to be correct. So, I re-engaged with Operations Abroad Worldwide who arranged surgery and a 3-night stay in Denmark for me.

The service was absolutely superb, cheaper than in the UK and most importantly, I could choose the date so I could limit the financial damage and time off work, missing just one trip if recovery went as planned.

I also wanted to time it around the Weymouth Ironman. I had paid for it after all and my running was improving, despite my swimming still being poor due to a dodgy arm. To compensate, I treated myself to a beautiful new (but very pricey) Huub wetsuit as my other one was now too baggy and causing drag. I needed all the help I could get.

I headed down to Weymouth and two old ambulance work friends came along to offer me support, which is the first time I’d ever had anyone show up at any of my races.

I arrived on site near the seafront to register for the race and spent quite a lot of time wandering round and round looking for the athlete village, where there is normally lots of cool stuff going on. It turned out there was none. Just a miserable marquee, one food stall and a shop full of Ironman merchandise. I’d seen more of an impressive set up at a village fete or even a school sports day. It was very disappointing. Luckily, thanks to the race Facebook page, I managed to find someone to put some battle braids in my hair and I was very grateful to Amy, a complete stranger, for this.

I had a practise swim in the sea. It was lumpy for sure and would slow everyone down, but not unsafe in any way and not undoable.

The swim course buoys were not yet out and the swim entry fencing was still dumped on the floor. I was sure they would fix it the next day.

Saturday came and went, the swim buoys were out, but no way was the course 1900m long. It looked to me like it had been shortened. But there was no notification from Ironman.

The forecast was set to improve on the Sunday of the race with calm seas and no wind until at least 10am, long after the swimmers were out of the water.

I kept an eye on Windy.com, which we use offshore and the forecast was looking good for the swim.

We all went for pizza on Portland and met up with my good friend Charlotte who lives there. It was a jovial evening and I was super excited about the race and happily stuffing my face with pizza when…

The message that shocked everyone.

What fresh hell??!!!

I checked my emails immediately and to my horror, it was true. But the forecast was looking absolutely fine and only the bike and the run might be a bit wet and windy but for gods sake…this is an IRONMAN….if you’re not hard enough…

I was incensed with fury, disappointment and disbelief.

All that time, all that money, all that training, suffering, struggling through an injury, a crash as a direct result of entering this race – and it was now going to be a bullshit bike-run time trial.

No ACDC on the beach, no clapping of thousands of people in unison….

The excuse was the weather but that was clearly utter nonsense.

The Sunday morning alarm went off at 04:55.

As predicted by the WEATHER FORECAST there wasn’t a breath of wind and the sea state was like glass.

Sea state on race morning. Weymouth Bay.

Athletes took to the internet to show their displeasure…

Some people simply collected their bikes and went home. I am many things, but I am not a quitter, so this was never on the cards for me.

I would do this, but I was not happy about it.

My coach gave me sensible ‘nothing you can do about it, so get on with it’ vibes.

Luckily, I had a low number so started within the first few bike waves. We set off only seconds apart and were funnelled into a road that was only half closed. Naturally riders were bunched up and immediately got a wagging finger from a marshal on a motorbike for drafting!

I mean seriously!! Fuck off already!

We set off up the first climb which strung riders out a bit and I settled down, trying to keep a rhythm and chucking gels down my neck so I had enough fuel on board to get the half marathon done afterwards.

The bike went well, no crashes for me and we avoided the worst of the weather. I was pleased for getting up the super steep hill and had kept enough in the bank that it didn’t hurt. I was surprised to see blokes getting off bikes and walking up it.

I rolled into transition after 90km and all my friends and my neighbour who had come to see me missed me completely as the Ironman tracker app was about 10 minutes inaccurate.

As I stepped off the bike, both of my inner thighs cramped just above the knee. Great.

I racked my bike, changed into trainers and a dry running top and set off on the soggy run. Within 2 kilometres, my thighs cramped severely. I necked some gels, grabbed electrolytes at every aid station and eventually it subsided so long as I kept moving after a stop for a good stretch.

The rain was relentless and I swung along in my 5 minutes on/1 minute off strategy which worked really well. Not just for me either, but a lady came alongside me and said she’d been using me as a pacer for ages! Well that never happened before!

It was a two-lap course taking in Weymouth seafront which frankly had never looked so revolting. The crowds were seriously hard core to stand out in that foul weather and I felt awful for my friends who were soaked to the skin waiting for their slow mate to crawl round the course.

I met up with a lady towards the end of the first lap and we joined forces and got into a system, her joining in with my 5 on 1 off. The result was that she got a half marathon personal best – and so did I. I dropped away from her as we approached the finish line so that she could have her moment and frankly, dreadful steamy ‘professional’ photos.

It was my best triathlon running performance to date, so I guess I had achieved something. It was also my 2nd fastest 90km on a bike and considering it was officially a rolling course and not a flat one, that counted as a PB too.

The finishers tent was shit.

We were offered a slice of soggy pizza, a cup-a-soup (WTF???) and half a plastic glass of beer.

For my ~£500 entry fee I was feeling mighty pissed off. Even the medal was small!

I got the feeling that this was a half-arsed event and because 900 entrants were first timers, they didn’t know any different. France and Italy were a world apart from this shit show.

I was given a foil banket (I can tell you as a Paramedic that these are crap) and limped out to meet my friends who were drowned to the core.

I had absolutely no motivation to stay any longer and Lisa and Jo helped me and my kit back to the car which was a good kilometre away.

The first message from my coach, Russel Carter (who had been tracking me all day) was “So how was the brick session?”

He got it – and summed it up in one sentence. There was nothing about the whole experience that made me feel like I’d just done an Ironman – not even half of one!

The Ironman brand has always motivated me and my experiences of races abroad had been superb. But as usual, I had been let down by my own damn country.

Athletes took to the internet to express their anger and disappointment. There were also plenty of annoying people trying to defend the decision. The fact is, Ironman have form for making bad decisions. A bad decision the other way resulted in the deaths (indirectly) of two athletes in Ireland. So, you could understand the caution. But that is no excuse for the inability to read a weather forecast. The call could easily have been made on the morning of the race and we would have just stuffed our wetsuits into bags and lined up with our bikes. Many athletes got up early and swam the course anyway, just to prove a point.

The fact that the swim course had never been set up, tells me this decision was made several days earlier based on a moving forecast and they didn’t make a call until everyone had spent extortionate amounts of money (me included) in the Ironman merch store.

Then there were rumours of pollution in the water but again, these were unfounded and never used as an official reason.

I suspect 900 newbies, many of whom admitted online to having never even swum in the sea (how stupid CAN you get?) and a risky forecast was the real reason for the decision but as it was not part of the cancellation policy, they simply went with an old weather forecast.

The bike start was put back an hour, so any notion that it was to improve conditions on the bike was also BS. Many bikes got caught in foul weather far later in the day than they would have, had they swum first.

In my opinion, the solution for Ironman is simple. To enter an Ironman event with a sea swim, athletes must have completed at least one triathlon with a sea swim previously. This could be a sprint, super sprint, Olympic distance, anything. Ideally without drowning or being rescued. Or even ratification from an approved coach.

Patagonman insist on demonstrable capability before allowing entries, so it is not a new idea.

It would also boost support for smaller triathlon events which are currently struggling for entries. To me this is a win-win and something Ironman should be looking at.

Race over with, I took a week to chill out and had a spin down on the watt bike the next day. I was far less broken than in previous races, so my fitness had clearly sky rocketed.

I enjoyed one final weekend with a friend in my sea kayak and catching up with a long-lost family member, before taking a deep breath and flying into Denmark for my shoulder surgery.

Finally – I was going to get this fixed once and for all.

What will 2026 hold? Hint: Roll on Germany…

Lovely Loire

Château d’Ussé, Loire, France

I don’t think I’ve been on the Channel Tunnel for at least 20 years. In fact, I feel quite old as I can remember it being built!

I usually travel to France with a van full of diving cylinders, so the Chunnel has never really been an option for me.

This time though, I was travelling extremely light in comparison.

All I had was my bike, my wetsuit, a few outfits and training kit.

Being a caver, I’d never been to the Loire region of France which is pretty devoid of caves but full to the brim with chateaus. Over 300 in fact.

I was on my way to the first Ironman event that had been run in Tours Metropole. It was also the first Ironman event with an indoor finish line, and the organisers had planned a stunning bike route which took in the incredibly ornate Château d’Ussé, which apparently inspired the story of Sleeping Beauty.

The Loire is easily reached in one go from the UK and I rocked up at my hotel which overlooked the river Loire.

Tours Metropole evening vibe

I always try to stay in comfort for Ironman races as I can usually hardly walk the next day and need some degree of comfort. This was never more important when I went down with covid during and after my race in Venice. The thought of being on a campsite or in my van would have been extremely miserable.

I spent the next few days doing some recce shake down rides and inspecting the stunning Château d’Ussé.

I didn’t risk a pre-race swim in the river, which was actually a tributary to the Loire, as I have quite a delicate stomach and didn’t want to get sick so close to the race. My arm since my bike crash was dodgy anyway, so I saw no value in stressing it before the race. I was already 10 minutes off my 1900m swim time due to my injury, so my aim was to just finish before the cut off and go from there.

The night before, I managed to find a hairdresser to do some battle braids. This was a serious test of my French as nobody in this region seemed to speak any English at all. This was followed by a shopping spree for race snacks in the local supermarket which was probably the most epic French supermarket I have ever seen. There was a cheese aisle about half a kilometre long and a ‘boutique de canard’ which was just as well, as foot and mouth disease on the continent had meant a £5000 fine at the port for anyone found importing meats or cheeses from anything with four legs.

But nobody said anything about wine, duck or coffee - so I filled my trolley.

There was a pizza and pasta place in the same complex and many athletes had the same idea. The place was half full of ironman T-shirts stuffing their faces with as many carbs as possible and steering well clear of alcohol.

The worst part about Triathlons is the early start. They usually kick off at 7am, with transition areas closing at 06:30, so most athletes are up and at it trying to force breakfast and coffee down at 04:30.

I always buy some sort of bagel and juice from the supermarket to eat in the car on the way to the races. Hotels are never guaranteed to do breakfast early. Not that I care, as I struggle to eat anything so early in the morning. Since the age of 14 it was ingrained in my soul that horses got fed first, mucked out first (all 6 of them) and one got ridden on the gallops before anyone even thought about breakfast. My body got used to it, so rolling out of bed and eating straight away is a huge struggle for me.

Even now, at work on my ship, I get up and do an hour’s admin and some yoga first before I set foot in the galley.

I nibbled on some dry bagel and a bit of yoghurt and decided to rely on gels, jelly babies and Nutella biscuits for the race.

The swim start was the usual queue of athletes all wearing the same-coloured swim hats. We chucked our flip flops, car keys (those of us with no supporters) and ‘after race’ bags in huge collection bins to find afterwards.

The professional athletes go off first and the rest of us inched our way down a blue carpet towards the river’s edge. We all missed the usual athlete’s prayer and ACDC send off, as we were all queuing behind a huge boat shed. I was a bit disappointed, as that was the best part of Ironman. A surge of swimmers set off up the river on the 1900m Roka sponsored swim course. It is a fantastic sight to see. With my dodgy arm, I seeded myself one group slightly faster than my expected time so that I could draft off anyone who came past me, whilst avoiding those who couldn’t swim. Even with one arm I was better than them and after Venice, knew now to stay well clear of breastrokers and doggy paddlers and those that liked to stop dead at random and ‘meerkat’.

Ironman now let athletes go in groups of 6, several seconds apart. The ‘gates’ are volunteers with outstretched arms. Every few seconds they drop their arms and it’s go!

The start was a floating pontoon, so there were various methods of entry, and I hadn’t really thought mine through. Whilst I can dive, it usually entails a bit of faff putting goggles back straight and pulling my swim cap back on. I opted to sit on the side, slide in and push off the pontoon. I was away.

River swims aren’t as buoyant as the sea, so I was grateful that it was still cold enough to wear wetsuits. I held my own on the swim, got into a nice rhythm down the back straight which went with the gentle current and it wasn’t long at all until we were turning at the last huge yellow buoy and heading back upstream towards the exit. I felt I’d had a good swim, and my damaged shoulder had coped, despite holding me up and adding 10 minutes onto my Venice time.

I got out of the water, refusing assistance as someone tried to help and grab my left arm. Oh no, no thank you….

I trotted along the blue carpet unzipping my wetsuit as I went, slowing only at the marshal’s request to walk across the temporary pontoon which bridged some sort of stinky creek. It was a bit like a bouncy castle and several of us were giggling as we laughed at ourselves doing this ridiculous sport. We trotted down the blue carpeted road almost a kilometre to the Exposition centre and the indoor transition area.

Transition is where you change from one sport to the next. As quickly as possible.

Plenty of athletes had been ahead of me and the bike racking was almost empty.

The indoor hall stank to high heaven of urine as clearly the porta loos weren’t coping and presumably blokes just peed wherever they wanted.

I went straight to my blue bag (B for Bike) and kicked off my wetsuit, flicking aside two ‘man spreaders’ who took up an entire gym bench by themselves, leaving no room for anyone else to get changed.

They moved.

I quickly towel dried my feet, got my socks on, gloves and helmet and stuffed everything back into my bag. I opted to run in just my socks to the bike mount line as I was now using SPD cleats and running in these clippy-cloppy bike shoes was just stupid. I was much quicker without them and put them on just before the mount line. I’m not yet good enough to leave my shoes on the bike and put them on in motion. Over Ironman distances the risk of falling are far greater than the time benefits you gain. Even Lucy Charles-Barclay doesn’t do flying dismounts!

I set off, glad to be on my bike and soon settled down into the aero bars, but my arm couldn’t tolerate them for very long. Once the pain crept in, I’d sit up and have a break. Then go again for a few minutes then repeat. I gain about 2mph extra for the same power output on my aero bars so they are worth the effort, but I just couldn’t make enough use of them when my arm and shoulder didn’t like it.

As the bike went on, I started to fade a little, perhaps through lack of fuelling and perhaps because some sneaky rolling hills crept in towards the end and they made me feel like I had hit a brick wall. I’d gone from an average of 30kmph to feeling like I was crawling.

I rolled back into transition well over my 3-hour target, racked my bike and changed into my running gear.

Running is my worst discipline. If you want to create a racehorse you don’t mate two Shetland Ponies together. But that’s exactly what my parents did, and the result was anything other than an athletic conformation. But it has never stopped me from trying. I’ve always loved sport and it has always transcended keeping my weight down, though clearly it has been lifesaving in that respect.

The heat of the day was in full force, and I made a nutritional mistake of finishing up the race with only water instead of electrolytes. The result was cramp in both feet at the same time if I ran, from 5km out.

After 15km my tank was empty and it was too late to refill it. I limped home and finished with about half an hour to spare. A very disappointing result considering I’d really seen an uptick in my fitness, and I had the experience of one Ironman 70.3 under my belt already.

The finish line was one huge party, with indoor fireworks, everyone with flags and glowsticks and cowbells all up the runway. It was like one big disco!

It was a fantastic atmosphere.

I was given my medal and went straight to the bar to grab some food and a pint. I was somehow adopted by Jersey triathlon club, and it was nice to have people to talk to after the race.

I went back to the runway to grab a flag and see the final finishers over the line which was huge party atmosphere.

Once I’d limped round to transition to collect all my bags and the bike, like buckaroo I staggered back to the car and tried to get changed before heading back inside to watch the awards presentation.

A British lady in her 70s had knocked 2 hours off my time. I was in awe of some of these athletes but in a way, it seemed a bit hopeless. No matter how hard I worked, training on a boat, training alone mostly, travelling to get the weather all through the winter and not being able to swim due to my injury, I was still almost last. Never actually last, but always thereabouts. I decided then that something had to change.

I had already lost 20 kg, but I need to shift another 20.

I could run a half marathon, but I needed to run more and get faster. No two ways about it. I needed to do longer bike rides, which is easier said than done when you only have an hour in the gym on a ship. So, my rides at home would need to increase significantly.

I had been doing everything right, but I couldn’t blame my injury alone. I had been training to finish. To just complete. To be miss average.

But now I wanted to be competitive and something in my brain shifted.

I was back on my bike 2 days later, cruising along the banks of the Loire.

I had enjoyed my time in the region and loved the Tours vibe, with the cosmopolitan bars gently lit along the riverbanks and the Al Fresco restaurants in the town.

Trams and bikes were the way to travel, and the air was fresh and the vibe relaxed. They were clearly very proud to have the Ironman come to town with the tri-dot banners everywhere and the entire exposition centre at our disposal.

There is a full ironman distance race at Tours in 2026, but with such limited training time on my vessel and being not allowed to swim at work, that is going to elude me for a bit until I work out a plan.

Race results.

The crash.

I lay crumpled on the tarmac, waiting for the inevitable flood of pain to come over me.

My bike lay some 20 metres or so further down the road, having carried on under its own steam.

As I hit the ground, I heard a rib crack and thought to myself “Don’t worry, just a rib...they don’t take too long…could have been worse…”.

My head and neck was fine as I tucked and rolled, just how I had learned on racehorses. But I had never come off on unforgiving tarmac before.

It really hurt. I didn’t bounce or slide. Just bang, smack, straight into the middle of the road.

I couldn’t move.

I looked frantically round behind me. I was relieved that I wasn’t on a sharp bend and just prayed that anyone coming along behind me could see me in time and wouldn’t finish me off.

---------------

I wasn’t entirely sure how to follow 2024….but on 15th December I made sure that I wouldn’t be able to.

Last year was a whirlwind of training camps in Lanzarote, Mallorca and France. I did my first Ironman triathlon in Venice, then an Olympic distance triathlon in Annecy. I went paragliding, climbed Sa Calobra and Alpe D’Huez, had a week’s kayak camping in Menorca, circumnavigated Portland by kayak, dived with seals on Lundy, saw the Peatbog Faeries live, rode in a velodrome for the first time and loved it!

Devastatingly, I lost my beloved Uncle Phil and was heartbroken, but it taught me as if I needed telling, to make the best of every day and make every moment count.

How right I was to do all that because, on 15th December, it all changed.

How it started….

A landrover soon came along with an elderly gentleman who got out to see if I was Ok. He didn’t say much and didn’t really know what to do. I told him not to try and get me up as I was still very much winded but nodded in the direction of my bike. He walked over to pick up Orro and place it on the side of the road.

He stood over me not really knowing what to say or do. It really sucks being a Paramedic on the wrong side of needing help.

Soon afterwards, a car coming the other way slowed down and stopped. A couple got out of the car. Their names were Mike and Andrea. They had been Christmas shopping and their car boot was full of swag. They were both extremely kind and made sure that nobody else ran me over while Andrea tried desperately to get me up off the floor. She managed it and I got myself over to the side of the road.

It was then that my breathing became more and more difficult. I concentrated on making sure I exhaled so that I didn't build up CO2 but I could already feel the panic rising. What the hell had I done?

Sensing that I was no longer in control of my own injury, Mike did absolutely the right thing and called an ambulance. Unfortunately, he didn't have the insight that I did of the ambulance service and the crumbling NHS at wintertime. I already knew there would be no vehicles available and guess what - there weren't. The irony wasn't lost on me. I had spent 20 years as a Frontline Paramedic for the NHS and when I needed them for once in my life, I was left literally on the side of the road struggling for breath.

Mike didn't have space in the car for my bike, so he jogged up and down the road looking for somewhere to leave it and eventually found a kind lady from a local stable yard who said she would take it for me and look after it. Something for which I'll be internally grateful. Mike and Andrea then insisted on taking me to hospital themselves.

I sat in the front seat for the short journey to Dorchester hospital trying to make light conversation, but all the while struggling for breath and clutching my left arm.

They dropped me at A&E and I was very quickly seen by a Doctor and sent for an X-ray. I didn't know who to call, but it made sense to call my coach Russell Carter, as he knew I was practising on the Weymouth Ironman bike course and would soon be wondering why I hadn't finished.

How it ended…

I had two Ironman races in my sights this year; one in France, a lovely flat course in the Loire valley. The other was in my home country, just down the road in Weymouth, Dorset. This one was worrying me as the bike was a so-called ‘rolling’ course. Weight is a huge disadvantage when it comes to climbing on a bike and I was still heavy, so even making the cut-offs would be a huge challenge. But it was one that I was determined to meet.

In preparation, I decided to go out on the course and practise it to see how long it would take me. Riding on British roads in the winter is always a risk. I wasn't speeding. I wasn't going fast at all, but fast enough for it to do some serious damage when I clipped some mud at the side of the road and went hurtling down the tarmac.

Russell was far more organized than I was. Straight away he told me to call Dave Brock. He is the secretary of the Cave Diving Group. He lives in Dorchester and Russell was in no doubt that he would help me. I rang Dave somewhat incoherently and, being a cyclist himself, he didn't really need me to finish my sentence. “Get your X-ray, tell me where your bike is, I'll go and get your bike and then I'll come and get you”.

Several hours later, I was given a pain patch that fell off; some paracetamol and ibuprofen and was dismissed from the hospital with a broken rib, query punctured lung (they weren’t sure) and nobody checked my arm.

Dave was waiting for me and drove me and my bike back to my car which was parked in Weymouth. Of course, he was concerned about me driving home but I just wanted to get home before I stiffened up and was unable to. My breathing had improved but the biggest problem seemed to be my left arm.

Determined to continue training, I mostly ignored the pain and carried on working through it. I figured with time it would get better by itself and it did gradually improve. The only thing that seemed to aggravate it was swimming.

Several months later the pain on the outside of my humerus wasn't getting any better. I had it X-rayed and it was clear, so then I went for an MRI. This showed quite a significant tear of the supraspinatus tendon, part of the rotator cuff. I mulled over my options, but despite a very slow and gradual improvement, my full range of movement still evaded me. I became extremely picky about the activities I undertook and was very cautious about sticking my neck out too far. Cycling and running seemed to be fine but swimming was painful and I didn't trust my arm enough to do any significant caving trips. In fact, I only managed one very small trip surrounded by friends who could help.

I had to accept the fact that at some point I would need to have this tendon surgically repaired - something I dreaded and was actually terrified of.

As I write this in September 2025, my left arm is in a sling five days post surgery, which went really well. It will be a long road to recovery but with the hope that I will get full movement back in my arm, or at least, the best part of it.

While waiting for surgery, along with all the pitfalls that come with arranging dates around my work, I made the best of my summer despite the limited movement in my arm. Many people would have had me sit on the sofa doing nothing all year, but as you would have gathered by now, that is just not me. I'm not here to sit there and do nothing. People who would have me do that are not my friends. What friends wish me to be miserable?

So, I dug deep and made the best of it.