The Sprightly Spud

“Just a quick note at the end of class guys! John and I are doing a sprint duathlon on the 17th. It’s going to be a super fun local event, so if you can run 5km and have a bike it would be great to see some of you down there!”, hollered my CrossFit coach Chrissy at the group of sweaty gym rats. A few responded with vaguely interested grumbles, but most were more interested in heading home for a post workout shower.

For me, the seed had been planted.

As a keen endurance runner, I fancied myself a bit more of a challenge. So, that evening, when browsing the Castle Triathlon series website, I decided to enter the middle distance race race which would take place on the Sunday. A 10km run, 64km cycle and 10km run.

Now I just needed to find myself a bike.

My Why

In order to truly get to the bottom of why I decided to put myself through this ordeal, whilst simultaneously completing my A Level exams, and with just two weeks to train, we need to look back to last April.

After a short and brutal fight with bowel cancer, my cousin Glyn passed away aged just 38. He was a primary school teacher, one of the funniest men I knew, and an exemplary father to his two beautiful children, whom he left behind along with his wife, Sarah. In order to compete in the duathlon as a charity entry, there was a minimum £350 fundraising target for Macmillan. Having wanted to do something to give back to the charity for the past year, I came to the conclusion that this was my chance.

I was going to do this for Glyn, in the knowledge that no matter how much pain I was in, it would be nothing compared to the torture cancer put him through.

The Sign Up

Given the current mildly deranged mental state I was in due to the stress of my exam period, I thought it was sensible to give myself a short cooling off period, and seek some advice.

I slept on the idea, and the next morning messaged Chrissy for some advice as to my sanity;



Her encouragement was all I needed to take the plunge, so I joined the British Triathlon Federation, set up my just giving page, and headed out on a run.

The Lead Up

It didn’t take me long to realise that, logistically, this event was going to be a bit of a challenge.

1. Falling 4 days after my final A level, training was going to have to be balanced with revision

2. My parents would be away the weekend of the raise, leaving me with no way to transport a bike to Malpas

3. I had a broken toe, making running fairly painful

4. I didn’t have a road bike, and have never cycled more than 10km

Despite these mildly troubling factors, I am a strong believer that with a positive mindset, any hurdle can be turned into a stepping stone;

1. Training = revision break (life’s too short for worrying about exams anyway)

2. Transport = worst case scenario I’ll cycle, can’t make that much difference on top of 64km, right?

3. Toe = errr ibuprofen?

4. Bike = WhatsApp groups are incredible things

After reaching out to my CrossFit PT group chat, Jo – my literal Wonder Woman in shining armour – offered up her white Cannondale. “It hasn’t left the garage in 5 years, and the tyres need pumping up, but you’re very welcome to it”.

Bike acquired, I was on my way. Jo, you’re a f***ing legend.

I sought further advice from a friends dad, who I knew was one of these crazy cyclist people who ride for 8 hours uphill for fun (can’t relate). He recomendad padded shorts and electrolytes. Fab, that I could do.

The Training

I am no stranger to exercise, I do CrossFit most days, long cardio sessions are my jam, and I adore running. Built for endurance, I can keep going for days. My cycling experience however, was fairly limited to being a mode of transport, and 45 minute spin classes – this was going to be an adventure.

The Tuesday following my race sign up, I faced my first biking challenge. Getting my new friend from the gym, where Jo had dropped her off, to my house. Theoretically, this is an easy 20 minute cycle along quiet lanes, so shouldn’t have caused me too much trouble. What I didn’t consider, however, is that riding a road bike feels significantly different to riding my trusty old hybrid…

Terrifying.

Despite feeling like I was going to die, 30 minutes later, I had succeeded in wobbling my way home, and now had a bike on which to practice and race.

Two days later, I had gathered up the courage to head out on my first practice ride. I found a 64km Strava route, donned my padded shorts, and set off. I’d even thought about my fuelling strategy: a trusty packet of Fruitella.

When I made it home (3 and a half hours later) I staggered off my bike and lay down for 10 minutes. Exhausted, but satisfied, I’d overcome my first challenge relatively unscathed.

Running training was fairly achievable, I gradually managed to ignore my aching toe, and put in plenty of steady mileage, being conscious to practice getting out on tired legs.

Bike ride number two didn’t go quite so swimmingly…

After completing a 9.30 CrossFit session, I decided to bung in a protein bar and head straight out for a ride – not my most intelligent moment, for reasons I will detail later. After finding a pleasant looking 54km route, I sun-creamed (feeling incredibly sensible) and saddled up. The first half of the experience was actually very enjoyable, I was starting to feel more comfortable riding, and the scenery was beautiful. Sun beating down, headphones in, and a flat riverside path – dreamy.

Unfortunately, this heavenly situation didn’t last. Despite following directions on my phone, I managed to take a wrong turn, and found myself several miles from where I needed to be. Additionally, by this point, my stomach was desperately demanding its lunch, and I was, quite frankly, dying for a wee. Phone on 10%, no money, and no bike lock left me with very little option but to abandon the task, and use my remaining mobile battery to call my Aunt;

“Kate – I think I’m in Saltney – I need help”.

20 minutes later, which I’d spent trying to find a suitable spot for a wild wee, I was greeted by the welcome sight of Kate’s Volvo, and she proceeded to wrap me in a hug, before handing me an ice cold bottle of water. She’s a bloody angel.

So, after departing at 11, I arrived home at 4.30, collapsed into the shower (carefully removing all the funny little bugs from my sticky skin), then whipped up a 5pm stack of cheese on toast.

Race Day

Unsurprisingly, my sleep the night before the race was not exactly optimal. It was hot, I was nervous, and my attempt at carb loading had left me uncomfortably full. So, I tossed and turned the night away, before finally giving up at 4.30.

Although I was tired (and had failed to go to the toilet) thanks to my early start, every cloud and all that… this left me with plenty of time to get in a good breakfast. Fruit, yogurt, toast and half an hour doing a jigsaw did help to settle my churning race day stomach.

My mum’s friend Helen arrived promptly at 7am to collect me and my bike, and we made the short journey to Cholmondeley castle, with me cradling a flask of tea in an (unsuccessful) attempt to stimulate some kind of bowel movement. Upon arrival, we sat in the car for a good 10 minutes, captivated by the selection of unbelievably high tech looking bikes, helmets and, most strikingly, socks, which were being offloaded from vehicles by my ‘competition’.

The episode that followed was perhaps the most entertaining part of the day. I gathered up my paperwork, and registered for my race, only to discover that my number was to be ‘666’. Thank heavens I’m not the superstitious type.

I attached the necessary stickers to my bike, and purchased a race belt, which the other competitors informed me would enable me to swivel my identification number from the front to back at maximum speed when I transitioned from running to cycling. In all honesty, transition speed was the least of my worries. Unlike my fellow duathletes, I was not aiming for a rapid completion time – merely to survive.

Finally it was time to approach the start line. Once again, my inexperience in multisport competitions was clearly observable. The other nine entrants in the middle distance race had donned their jazzy wraparound sunglasses, and professionally sleek tri-suits. I’d opted for remaining in my comfort zone – a Gymshark tee and my favourite Under Armour baggy running shorts. When 9 am struck, off we galloped into the depths of the Cheshire countryside… sort of.

I did not worry me that I had immediately fallen to the back of the field, my priority was just to complete the race, and I know that my strength lies in endurance not speed. Race rules stated that no phones or MP3 players were allowed on the course, leaving me alone with the rhythm of my thudding feet, and my noisy thoughts, as I faced the numerous steep hills surrounding Cholmondeley Caslte. That first 10km run was a struggle. The morning’s lack of fecal excretion had my stomach in agony, my legs felt tired and sore, the hills were brutal and I was petrified of the race ahead. Despite this, I remembered why I had taken this on – it was nothing in comparison to what Glyn had faced.

Run number one complete, I jogged into transition, and eventually located my bike where I had hung it up earlier. Taking a moment to breathe, I put my helmet on, and changed my shoes, before wobbling away onto the bike course. My biggest concern at this point was that there were no toilets in the transition zone, and I was dying for a wee. Ideal.

The first sections of the bike course felt manageable, they were relatively flat, and I actually felt good.

This didn’t last.

The second half of the 32km loop was riddled with steep inclines, and by the time I started the next lap, I was borderline wetting myself. At this point, my thought had taken me to a pretty dark place – I really didn’t think I could do this. My negative mindset eased somewhat when I found a suitable spot for a wee. The world is a generally happier place with an empty bladder. I also continued to remind myself that friends and family had sponsored me their hard earned cash, so if I failed to complete the race, I would be letting them down.

This affirmation, and my packet of mentos giving me regular glucose hits, got me to the end of the bike. Only once during the 64km had I nearly fallen off, and at 2h 50 minutes, I had covered the distance 40 minutes more efficiently than in practice, regardless of the ridiculous amount of incline of this course.

Dismounting the bike in transition, I was exhausted, but safe in the knowledge that the worst bit was over, the finish line was in sight, and 10km was a distance I could run in my sleep.

Inevitably, as I began to jog the lactic acid coursing through my quads had me in agony. ‘It’s just one foot in front of the other’, I chanted sub-vocally, and eventually I settled into my rhythm.

I was not best pleased about my determination manifestation being interrupted by some well-meaning, but irritating supporters with a set of cow bells. Not only was the ringing annoying rather than encouraging, their rather aggressive shouts claimed that I could ‘go faster’. I could not. These folk had picked the wrong moment to challenge my patience, so I screamed back at them;

“Will you shut up! I’m doing my f***ing best”.

I did come into my element during this final section of the race. I chatted with the marshals, muttered kind words of encouragement to fellow runners I passed (who were all taking part in other events, given that those in my domain had long finished) and did not stop running even for a step.

I would finish this race, I was doing it for Glyn.

Not only this, but I still had 6 gloriously fruity sugar hits in my pocket to power me through.

Somehow, my utterly abused legs still had a sprint finish in them, and I crossed the line with a grin on my face. Here I was greeted by an attractive boy about my age who gave me a medal and a cup of cool water. I restrained myself from kissing him.

Next, Helen wrapped my sweaty little body in a tight hug, and told me how proud she was. She also informed me that as one of only two women competing in the middle distance event, I had placed second with a time of 4 hours, 59 minutes and 26 seconds – 2 hours slower than the incredible female athlete in first place.

The Aftermath

Amazinglymy legs continued to function adequately immediately post race, and I was able to unpack my bags, shower, and fulfil my rather unusual craving for sugar snap peas, before heading out on a walk which I hoped would allow me to maintain mobility into the next day.

Once these essential maintenance tasks were complete, I folded myself into my VW Up, and set off towards Sarah’s house. She answered the door with a sympathetic smile, and lead me to the garden where Glyn’s son, George, was diving giddily in and out of a hot tub. “Mati!!!”, he yelled, elation in his goggle framed eyes, before heading back under the water.

I’m not stupid, I know a hot tub is far more exciting than a teenage cousin when you’re a 6 year old boy. However, as I grabbed my car keys, little George said something to Sarah which left me glowing. He has asked if he could do running with me, an activity he used to do with his dad.

Sarah and I assured him that I’d love that… but probably not today.

That evening, my best friend picked me up, and drove us to Wagamama’s where I proceeded to eat my body weight in Asian fusion cuisine, before returning home, near delirious with tiredness and sleeping like a baby.

The Take – Home

In summary, it was really bloody hard. It hurt, and I nearly gave up. Nevertheless, I don’t regret it in the slightest.

I’m so proud of what I achieved for numerous reasons. Most importantly, I’ve raised over £700 for MacMillan, and I’d like to think that if Glyn were still with us, he’d be proud of me. Furthermore, I completed a mammoth race, with minimal training, and I truly believe I pushed myself to my mental and physical limits.

I’m grateful for my body, what it can do, and for my health, because losing Glyn taught me that those things aren’t always with us for as long as we think they should be. Even so, I will not be taking my part in a duathlon again.

Well, probably not…