Reflections on a race

My World Championship experience

It’s taken a while to put into words the experience of competing for Great Britain in my age group at the World Championships for sprint duathlon in Australia.

What began as a race report has morphed into a long reflection piece, as I process, and articulate what I felt and did. Parts of this will resonate more with certain people, but I have written it as much for me as for anyone who is interested in my journey. Writing is as crucial to my wellbeing as my sport - and this has helped me reflect on one of my most extraordinary experiences ever.

I woke on the 16th, having slept far better than anticipated, given I often struggle the night before a big event. In the preceding weeks and days, I had bounced from feeling extreme imposter syndrome, to almost disassociating, experiencing anxiety, then excitement, and finally feeling that I deserved to be on that start line for my first World Championships. I determined I was going to give it my best, focus on what I could control, and ideally enjoy the experience.

Starting yoga a few weeks earlier and focussing on controlling my breathing and lots of work around self-belief had really helped. I’m very grateful to those who supported me with this. I also really benefitted from keeping a diary since the start of my trip to Australia, charting my emotions, my experiences, and finally settling on a mantra to remind myself I belonged, and I was strong - even if there might be a few wobbles.

But feelings aside, there were still practicalities. I’d bought the closest Townsville’s supermarket could offer to my usual pre-race breakfast of Country Crisp, coconut milk, and banana, and had tried this the preceding day to check the cereal and the oat milk variant wouldn’t cause trouble. I’d avoided alcohol the preceding couple of evenings and hadn’t drunk very much of it at all the weeks before. I had also been careful with what else I ate and drank in the run up, challenged slightly by the fact I was away from home.

They say don’t try anything new on race day, but some things simply are new. Take for example the skin tattoos we were given to identify our age category, event and race number.  At the briefing the previous day, our team managers suggested we leave it to race morning to apply them in case they rubbed off in bed. Like a good rookie, I took their advice, not realising how long the application process would be. The instructions suggested I separate each individual number and symbol - the World Triathlon logo, then the 1,4,5 and 2 of my race number for my arms and the F45  age category for my calf - then peel off the protective overlay, before placing the tattoos back to front on my skin, fixing them with a damp cloth.

Of course, this all sounds very sensible, but race day nerves enhanced the challenge, especially as the instructions said for us to put the numbers on our biceps. I couldn’t see how these would be seen during the race since my biceps faced my body when I ran and cycled. I knew other people wore them on their forearms, but I also knew I was a rookie to all this. It’s amazing how much you overthink things sometimes (and perhaps overwrite too!) Halfway through the first application, realising each number was taking around 90 seconds to apply, and starting to worry about the time, I opted to strip them all off and apply at once, hoping I wouldn’t mess up. I didn’t.

I put the Velcro strip with the plastic race chip around my left ankle, rechecked the stickers on my bike helmet. Fully chipped and stickered, with my tri-suit, I did a final check of my kit and I was ready for my race which would comprise a 5k run, a 20k bike, and a 2.5 k run (all distances approximate!)

I left the hotel as planned, at 8am, giving myself plenty of time to get to the start, even if I couldn’t get a taxi or an Uber, things which seemed to be as rare in Townsville as chook’s teeth. This meant a walk of about 3.5 kilometres, never ideal pre-race preparation, and certainly not while carrying two bags of kit when the humidity was upwards of 80 percent in this North Queensland town.

I didn’t have my bike because – like all competitors – I had left it in transition the night before. This itself caused anxiety but I had locked it and had to hope it wasn’t as desirable as some of the others if someone was determined to take one. Walking with all my kit was another occasion when I felt envious of those who had travelled with people to support them, cheer, carry their belongings etc.

I caught up with Lizzie from the age group below me and we walked the Strand together – the stretch of road parallel to the water, along which part of our bike race would go - and enjoyed chatting with her and her husband. Before races, I often find it difficult being around too many other people because anxiety can be infectious, and because some people can be cocky, others anxious, overbearing or oversharing or making excuses, and I’ve learned that – while I can be chatty – I do need to make time to focus myself. This pre-race stroll and chat was a welcome balance of distraction and determination.

We got to the start, where I ate a banana, and made the first of many toilet stops, before going into the transition area, where our bikes were racked, and to where we would return after the first run and then after the bike. There I saw a few familiar faces which was reassuring.   

I had let out a little bit of air from my bike tyres the previous day because the heat might risk them blowing. Who am I trying to kid: one of the mechanics at transition had helped me deflate my tyres slightly, and so he kindly blew them back up to around 90 psi – I must learn what my optimum tyre pressure is – and we checked the battery which allows for the bike’s Di2 gears to shift electronically. I’m so new to cycling that it feels like I have swallowed an en-cycle-opedia (bad joke), and still have so much more to learn.

Transition is sometimes regarded as the fourth discipline in the duathlon, after the two runs and the bike, but is also a poor cousin in practice terms. Yet in a race as short as the sprint, a good transition can make a massive difference. In some of my previous races, I have been one of the slowest in transition to the extent it might seem like I was stopping for a cuppa. But this is in part because I don’t have the quickest kit, experience, or yet the skills which would allow me to pull manoeuvres like a flying mount and dismount, where you keep your shoes attached to your bike.

However, I was determined to give it my best despite the circumstances and I had practised several transitions the day before. So there in transition on the day of the race, I mentally went through what would happen, walking to the run-in/bike-in points where we would enter after the first two legs of the duathlon, and the run-out/bike out, where we would exit on the opposite side of the grass field being used for the transition.

I reminded myself of the different steps for each process. As I was coming into transition from my first run, I would take off my visor while finding row six (helpfully identified by a sign at the end of the racks) where my bike was close to the end of the line. Then before touching my bike, I would ensure my helmet was fastened, pull my running shoes off, put them in the transition box for everything I had used, then pull my bike shoes on. I would then grab my bike – and run as fast as possible with it to the mount line. That would be T1. Then after the cycle: I would dismount my bike, run with it and likely wonder why my legs were leaden, find my spot again, rack it, change into my second pair of running shoes, grab water if I needed it, then run to the end of the second transition, knowing I would have to mentally fight against the feeling that my legs were about to run a marathon, not 2.5 km.

Transition practice over, I ensured all my kit was correctly placed, turning my bike around from being racked on the handlebars overnight to being racked by the saddle and next to the sticker with my 1452 race number.  I looped my helmet strap over the bike handlebars, placed a second pair of running shoes (because the first tends to hurt my Achilles and be hard to pull on) with their quick release laces loose enough under my wheels next to my bike shoes, ensuring their strap was in the ratchet so I could pull them on and tighten them quickly.  I placed a spare pair of glasses in the plastic box next to my bike in case of issues with my contact lenses, and then left the grassy transition area. Realising just after it had closed that the extra water that I was carrying with me was still supposed to be in the box, I did my best to reassure myself I would be okay with the one on the bike and the water on the run course, even though it was already pretty hot.

I had been focussed on staying hydrated, drinking over a litre of fluid with hydration tablets that morning. I learned my lesson several years ago, ending up on a saline drip at the end of the Comrades ultra marathon, so didn’t want a repeat of that, but it’s always hard to know how much is enough. I said hello to a couple of other women I know, and may have visited the toilet a few more times, grateful for the secret block I found away from the start – always a win when you don’t need to line up with dozens of other nervous athletes or follow them into portaloos, where the nerves have manifested.

Some of the first age group duathletes were now on their way for the sprint duathlon and my turn was approaching fast. We had to stay outside of the holding pen until we were called forward. The nerves were building.

Finally, just a few minutes before our 1001 start time, with the mercury well and truly rising, I joined the 60 or so women from my wave – representing the three age groups from 40-54 – moving forwards a little to find a decent position, and then it was just a matter of waiting to be on our way.

I don’t remember the exact process of what was said before we crossed that line, though I think we were invited to cheer, but soon the first 5km had begun.  The speed was intense from the off and I went with it for the first kilometre, before recognising it was going to be impossible to maintain that pace. I eased back as we approached the wooden boardwalk which took us along the edge of the water, a stretch I’d admired on my recce, knowing I was unlikely to do so on the day, especially as it was the only real climb (mild as it was) of the course. That said, coming from Yorkshire, I knew I could scarcely call it a climb, but with the heat and the intensity of the race all this was relative. I could see three of the other British girls ahead of me, which was a little disappointing, but I knew that I was the least experienced of them and would need to race my own race. The first run comprised an initial section and then two laps, so two boardwalk climbs, and then I was down a slope off the road, across some grass and into my first transition.

T1 went relatively smoothly and I grabbed my bike, heading for the exit, ensuring I didn’t slip on the verge where we joined the road, pushing the bike along the tarmac for a few metres, getting held up slightly by a man who seemed to be taking up most of the road as he mounted the bike. I wobbled a little bit as I clipped in, because I’d been a bit unsettled by said man.

The first section of the bike course was through town, the most technical section of the race, but not really that technical. It included some raised pedestrian crossings, roundabouts and a couple of turns, and I tried to stay in control and left on the road, knowing that faster riders would come through on the right.

It was at this point that I realised the rookie error of having attached my timing chip, a piece of Velcro holding a plastic disc, the wrong way on my ankle so the disc would occasionally clip part of my bike. Once I noticed this, I struggled to concentrate, especially after I convinced myself I heard someone shout my name in a way that suggested they were warning me about something rather than cheering for me. If the chip came off, I would record no time. If the chip got caught somewhere, I could have an accident.

I pulled in to stop part way along the Strand, struggling to pull off the Velcro, turn it and readjust the disc outwards above my ankle. I have no idea how many seconds this took, and I now know I won’t misplace my chip again because it certainly cost me time and positions.

After a couple more kilometres, we turned right onto a long straight road towards Pallarenda, cycling parallel with the coast. For most of the first 8-9 kilometres, I was cycling alone until catching a Kiwi woman and drafting her.

The race was draft legal, and I knew that this was where time would be won, but I was also anxious because getting that close to someone’s wheel is something I find unnerving given how new I am to cycling.

The next few kilometres went by with me staying with the Kiwi girl, wondering if I should push on because I often felt as if we were going to slow. At the same time, I knew I was preserving precious energy by not going alone, even if it was just the two of us.

I think, in retrospect, I probably should have tried to go faster and then I might have been able to tag on with a couple of the faster groups, but retrospect is a fine thing. During my time riding with this woman, we were overtaken by a few groups, including a couple of men who came terrifyingly close to me, causing me to wobble and also bigger broups who felt like they might consume me. Drafting off other genders is illegal, but sadly it didn’t seem to stop some of the competitors.

Most of the first section of the Pallarenda strait was into a slight headwind so it made a real difference turning back on ourselves, and so at that point I tried to push on, taking the lead, but couldn’t catch and stay with another group. I pushed as much as I could down that last section, taking the turn into the finish, finally coming off my bike at the dismount line and knowing I had such a short amount of time left.

Sadly, my legs didn’t really want to play ball and, because I’d been unable to drink from my water bottle while riding – another disadvantage of being so new to the bike – I needed to ensure I drank on the run. My transition was without major incident and then it was back onto the final bit, where I knew it really was mind over matter.

And so it was. By this stage, the mercury was well and truly high. In fact, some fellow athletes registered 33 degrees during their second run. I could not get comfortable and my legs felt like led. Seeing one of the other British girls, it was all I could do to keep moving and try to put some space between me and her, but I felt like I was running backwards. Onto the boardwalk, I finally made it and up, up, where I did overtake some people but since different ages started at different times, I couldn’t tell where I was. Up and up, as if it was a big old Yorkshire hill, not a slight Antipodean seaside rise, then a tight right turn and down as fast as I could to the finish where I heard them calling my name and arms in the air, I crossed.

I had thought about this moment for such a long time and been so worried that something might come between me and the finish. But there I was, having completed the World Championships, and finishing in a respectable 15^th position.

The race itself might have lasted little more than an hour, but the journey had taken months of training and hard graft, a journey nearly derailed by a nasty bike crash eight weeks’ earlier.

The tears came later for everything I had overcome, and all that this journey meant to me: the rising from mental ill-health, the support from my loved ones, the new friendships, the fact that I finally believed in myself, the love I felt for those who could not be with me but who I carried with me along that road, the fact I had represented my country at the age of 47, having only learned to clip in two years ago.

Yes, some people manage to qualify year after year, but this was my gold medal, my podium, this was my north star, and this is something I won’t forget for a long time. It will inspire me, stay with me, and I will try to hold onto this when next I wobble (though I will try to be less wobbly on the bike, but those goals are for another time).

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