…until I have to complete the London Triathlon. I haven’t mentioned this dreaded event on the blog yet as I’m still slightly in shock at the fact I signed up for it in the first place. My motivation? A typically male combination of pig-headedness, denial and a third drive which I refer to as “I’ll take that smile off your face…”.
The event isn’t until August, but the past week’s training has illustrated to me that I’ll need every single hour between now and then to avoid certain death. And I’m only doing the sprint version (750m swim, 20km cycle and 5km run).
Don’t get me wrong – I can run. One foot in front of t’other until someone tells me to stop (of I fall over, clutching my chest). I can run 5km and walk away at the end without skipping a beat. I ran 8km this morning and then headed into town for a wander around the shops. No biggie.
However, I had my first swim in about five months yesterday. And all I could think was “I don’t remember it being this hard…” Of course, my last swim was in a lovely pool in Spain, with 30C heat and a pace that could be best described as “casual”. One step away from simple sinking, in fact. Yesterday, in the full glare of gym sportiness and other much more experienced swimmers, I over-extended myself, an image of Michael Phelps in my mind. A panting, wheezing wreck in reality. Did I mention that the Triathlon swim will take place in a dock next to London City Airport?
A lot more swimming practice will be required.
And don’t even get me started on the cycling. I don’t even own a bike.
Not for the first time (and definitely not for the last) I have just found myself asking why in God’s name I agreed to this organised torture.