Weymouth. A picturesque coastal town known for its sandy beaches, historic charm, and if you're me - mild dehydration, questionable race prep, and the ever-present threat of being taken out by some bellend, his tennis ball and his questionable hand-eye coordination.
The Recce: Rhododendrons, Winos, and an Alarming Lack of Hydration
Like any responsible triathlete, I recced the course beforehand. The bike route was beautiful. A fairytale dream: narrow lanes flanked by towering pink rhododendrons, National Trust signs hinting at picturesque parks and the ever-so-charming feature of four cattle grids. If you've never cycled over a cattle grid at speed, let me tell you it's a delightful mix of bone-rattling terror and regret.
My run route recce was unshaded and warm and involved laps of Lodmoor Country Park. On the recce, I passed two locals debating whether it was too early for a drink. Their conclusion? They weren't sure what time it was. Or what century they were in. For the record, it was 10:30 am. Apparently that was drinking time.
Feeling smug at having recce'd the route and having prepped so well, I contemplated the sea swim course from a prone position in the sun on the beach. It was the perfect moment of seaside serenity as I lay back enjoying the sun and the gentle breeze. It was all so lovely. Until some bellend tried to play sand tennis approximately six feet away. His mother joined in. Neither of them possessed any discernible hand-eye coordination. I was hit once and almost hit six times. I discovered that it's very difficult to relax when you're dodging flying projectiles from Team Clueless. I retreated to the safety of the ice cream stand. Fuelling.
Pre-Race Logistics: A Masterclass in Poor Planning
Two days in, I rechecked my accommodation booking to see whether breakfast was included and discovered that I had been staying in the wrong room. Apparently, Key Safe 3 was meant for Room 6. Oops. The downside of booking online and not having to meet the host I guess. And concerningly, the key had opened the door no issues. Oh well. I was in now so I guess this would be my room for the week. I'd better make sure I wedged the door closed in case of any unexpected check-ins!
This wasn't the only 'oops'. There was also the energy gel disaster. Having realised I only had two gels left in my stash, I made an emergency Boots The Chemist run. Feeling smug, I returned with my haul only to discover I had, in fact, bought hydration powder, not gels. Misleading packaging at its finest. With my race nutrition now reduced to a mix of pick 'n' mix sweets, we were truly in uncharted territory.
To top it off, I also realised there were no feed stations on the bike course and that I'd only brought one bottle. In 21°c heat. At least I was making all my rookie errors in the 70.3 rather than the full Ironman. Small mercies.
Race Morning: Please Don't Be a Nob and Don't Die
Up at 5:00 AM, out by 5:30, and a five-minute cycle along the promenade to the start. Perfection. The sea was millpond calm (unlike last year's washing machine simulation), and the pre-race briefing was refreshingly straightforward: Don't be a nob, don't die. Got it.
I also only just realised that the bike course was two laps after several reviews of the race briefing. Thank God for my new friend Suzanne mentioning it. Imagine the sheer embarrassment of rolling into transition one lap early, wondering why everyone was still out there.
Swim: The Battle of the Orange Hats
Positioned mid-pack, I hopped over the pebbles and into the water. The swim course was a funnel of yellow buoys, six equally orange buoys, and a field of athletes in orange swim caps. Ideal for sighting.
Despite this visual chaos, I found myself overtaking people. A truly unfamiliar sensation. There was no real opportunity to draft as everyone was pretty spread out. A chap kept catching me up and then doing breaststroke to sight and gave me a right wallop in the head. Thanks, bud.
Exit strategy? Sight on the boat that looked like a teapot, then the theatre, then the random white house reflecting in the sun. Surprisingly effective sighting today!.
Simon, who I hadn't expected to turn up, was there cheering. Lovely surprise. Found my trainers under the last beach hut, laced them up, and embarked on the 7-minute run of hell back to transition. Shoe came undone. Classic Booker error.
Bike: The Cattle Grid Grand Prix
Wetsuit off (eventually after it clung like a limpet to one ankle which involved a dance to remove it), bike gear on, and out.
First challenge? Surviving on 750ml of fluids. Second challenge? Not dying on the cattle grids.
The course was shaped like a balloon on a string - a six-mile out-and-back, followed by two loops of 22 miles. Within the first few miles: Osmington Hill, a pleasant little 5% gradient wake-up call a couple of kilometres long. The route itself was a mix of roads, tiny country lanes, dual carriageways and was quite a lumpy, choppy route.
There was a section near Bovington which was lined with rhododendrons, their unearthly pink purple startling in the shadows from the taller trees. It felt quite magical and almost faerie-like as if a mystical being might pop out and offer me an extra water bottle. (Alas, none did.)
Halfway through the bike, a marshal shouted, “You're 2nd woman!” I almost believed them until I remembered that halfway through the bike is always where dreams die.
Then came the tractor debacle. A single-track lane. A giant tractor that stopped every time it hit a tree branch. Me stuck behind it at about 10 miles an hour and no space to overtake. Finally, it turned off. Then a second, ancient red tractor that pulled out in front of me and then stopped, needing to turn right on an A-road, meaning I had to unclip and restart on a hill. Wow. It was all going so well. Sigh.
Bloody tractors.
Run: The Human Dehydration Experiment
Back into transition, off the bike, and into the run … and finally a drink station! Except it was on the opposite side of the run route and I wasn't allowed to cross the route for a drink. I had to run a full loop first to get to it. I could have CRIED. I felt like a raisin. Shrivelled up and dry. If I saw a small child with an ice lolly, I would quite HAPPILY have mugged them for it. I would have laughed as I swallowed it. NO REGRETS.
It was stupidly hot. Sunglasses and visor? Had been a good decision. Only one bottle on the bike? Very bad decision.
The course was two long laps, followed by two short laps, collecting a wristband at the end of each. The section along the Lodmoor cycle path felt endless, unshaded, and soul-destroying. Aid stations were my only salvation. Three cups of cola, two of energy drink and still thirsty.
By mile six, my carefully planned nutrition strategy had collapsed into desperation-fuelled pick n mix consumption. I had two energy gels, but given my shortage (thank you, Boots packaging), I was rationing them like a 19th-century explorer.
Legs were grumpy. Stomach was screaming at the sheer amount of sugar and energy drinks. Despite this, the laps ticked down, mostly because my brain had ceased to function beyond 'just keep running'.
L ran with me for a short stretch, which was lovely, though she always saw me post-aid station section, when I was walking and aggressively chugging drinks. Timing. I must have looked like the grumpiest hiker ever.
Final lap. No sprint finish. Just utter relief to be done.
Final result? 5th female overall, 2nd in AG. Somehow.
What I'd Do Differently Next Time
* More bottles on the bike. Because being thirsty for 56 miles is not fun.
* Actual energy gels. Instead of trying to fuel a triathlon with Haribo.
* Practice getting my wetsuit off faster. Current technique resembles rubber eel wrestling.
* Make sure run shoes are done up properly. It would have taken me 10 seconds to double-knot it.
* Adjust my trisuit to avoid neck chafing. Because fashionable red raw necklines are not my thing.
Despite everything; the sand tennis attacks, the surprise two-lap bike course, the tractor delays, and the war on hydration, Weymouth Middle Distance was a success.
Would I do it again?
Ask me when I've fully rehydrated.
