Saturday Lunch
GH – It’s wet now. Wetter than before. We’ve crammed into the camper van for some stew. In silence Jonny peels sweet potato while we all stare to the east and onto Moel Siabod. 872m high, it’s sharp peak piercing through the fog and gloom, the lake, Lyn Mymbyr surrounding its base, a protective moat that must be conquered. We’d spent the day mooning around, exchanging a few pleasantries to the grizzled, weather beaten adventures that frequent Pays Y Brenin. Roman’ll be here soon, things will be ok when Roman gets here.
AH – Here we all are, in the camper van. Wetbeak, Sir Walrus, Caspar, Krillis, and I, Hadfish. The mountain we’ll be climbing towers in the background: should be great fun provided there are no freak-outs in the swim. A small canoe emerges from the edge of the lake, towing the buoys out to mark the race course. Two men with oars battle wind and current, barely making any progress and taking what feels like hours to reach the marking points, which are despairingly far away. How the hell will I be able to swim that far? Oh no. I decide that sitting in silence for as much of the day as possible is the answer. Mum and dad are about to arrive which may provide some respite from the anxiety. Then it emerges they want to go down to the lake and feel how cold it is.
CP – We sit huddled together in a cramped camper van as rain sheets against the windscreen. Watery rice bubbles on the hob and Johnny slowly peels sweet potatoes which we don’t need. As we eat, the Lonely Mountain of Moel Siabod watches over us and we look on as a solitary canoe struggles against the headwind on Llyn Mymbyr. This is Saturday and a storm is brewing.
EH – I Iook up at the mountain. Siobad. It’s peak. Look down at the lake. It’s inky-black skin covering it’s cold dark soul. A hypnotic lack of colour.
RL – See Gary Lineker at Euston Station. God he’s orange.
Evening Preparation
GH – Things have got worse since Roman arrived. He’s panicking. He’s spilled everything out into the corridor. Our nutrition is a mess. Ed has far too much water, Lucozade and is experimenting with a load of new products, he’s reading the instructions aloud, Alex has next to nothing and Roman is shovelling lasagne into his cycling top. I look at my pile of bars and gels and wonder if I have enough. There is surely nothing worse than bonking, that feeling of absolute emptiness, pure weakness. I force another 3 into my cycling top. Jonny is trying to explain to Ed what all of his powders and tablets do. The thing that seems to keep coming up is that he should not be experimenting on race day.
CP – The hostel corridor resembles a bring and buy sale for panicked triathletes. Ed has a chain degreaser and 9 full sports bottles, Roman is packing a Tupperware box of linguine, Alex is unpacking a bag of tennis rackets and George is looking for a lithium battery. I count my bananas. Do I have enough? A debate breaks out on electrolytes. What are they? What is sucrose then if it isn’t glucose and do we have enough, if any?
RL – “How many gels God damn it?! How many gels do I need to get me through this thing? How many gels before the swim?” Panic was setting in as we prepared our stuff for the day ahead. Each person looks suspiciously at the equipment belonging to the person next to him. It just adds to the panic. ‘9 gels. Is 9 enough? That’s all I have. Yes! 6 is ample; I better take 9.’ Five reasonably in shape men were suddenly acting like they had never done any exercise before. Everything we knew about fitness and sports nutrition had been replaced by absolute panic. We were losing our minds. Thankfully, Jonny Smith-Walrus, Directeur Sportif, calmed some nerves with some sage advice: “After the swim, have an energy bar every 20 minutes until you are 30 minutes from finishing the bike, then take on gels so your stomach isn’t full for the run.” ‘Yes of course, that’s the answer. But I better take 9 gels just in case.’
AH – The others are outside in the corridor getting their stuff together and asking anyone who goes by about nutrition for the bike and run, People seem so sure they’re going to make it past the swim, but all I can think about is that icy black water. Better get some stuff together anyway: I arrange my gear into the corner and throw a few gels and bars in for good measure, then get straight into bed, preparing to hunker down for the long hours left until breakfast. Staying silent is key to avoid the freak-out. George comes in and starts an argument about whether or not to wear leggings for the swim. I decide not to: key to avoiding the freak-out will be to conduct a full urination upon immediate entry to the water, and the idea of doing that into leggings I will be wearing for the next 70 kilometres is too repulsive. Then that’s it, bed.
GH – Caspar lies calmly on his bed. He issues nuggets of advice. ‘Pack down 7 or 8 bananas in the morning and eat as much as possible at breakfast’ he calmly says. We nod along, ‘that sounds like good advice.’ I go back into my room and find Alex who starts an argument about whether to wear leggings or not under the wetsuit.
RL – Casper, a Seal Elite, throws around some more advice: “Yeah, the trick is to eat as much as possible. At breakfast have a fry up, a bowl of cereal and then eat as many bananas as you can. I’ll probably have about 6.” I nod approvingly. ‘Can this be right? It must be, he knows what he’s talking about.’
EH – Nutrition – GCSE biology recap. First gel after the swim? Or one before and then one after. I have an instructional manual here: 2 gels before you even start, then one every 20 minutes, with one litre of water an hour… if the clock ticks for 4 and ½ hours, that’s 15 gels and almost five litres of water. Can that be right? How much weight is that? Will this alter my density? What proportion of my own body is already water? Stop freaking out. The freak-out is frowned upon and doesn’t help. First gel before the swim. Don’t freak out before, during or after the event. What’s the temperature – the inky-black. Here’s the rules – one fruit bar on the bike every half an hour, but no solid foods within 30 minutes of beginning the run – remember to fill up your water bottles in the refill station, and add half a sachet of powder in each – keep drinking, little and often. The cold dark blue. Not blue. Black. Inky black. The cold dark freezing my will. One gel after the swim, and one at the top of the mountain.
RL – JSW and I head to the camper van to turn in. Everyone has been describing the lake as ‘inky black’ in nervous humour. It only adds to the panic. Looking at it through the drizzling moonlight it has never looked so ‘inky black’. The buoys that mark out the course look ominously peaceful. It looks so far.
Snowman Triathlon Breakfast
GH – After dreams of marathon running and racially motivated attacks I try and shovel some food down. It’s tough work. Roman, Caspar and Alex are packing it away, porridge, cooked breakfast, toast, fruit salad. Caspar zips upstairs to begin his programme of pre race bananas. Alex rushed back to the bathroom for a second sitting.
AH – There has been so much talk of what to eat at breakfast, but now that it’s here everyone is losing their minds. Eat too much, and the risks are obvious: sinking like a stone at the start of the swim. Eat too little, and you might bonk on the bike halfway up a mountain. Will there be time for the bathroom before the race? Is sausage and bacon really what you want for sustained energy? Only one thing for it: eat as much as I can as quickly as I can, to enable a guaranteed need for the bathroom and in plenty of time. By 8:20 I’m done with a full English, bowl of cereal, yoghurt and fruit, two hot coffees, two slices of toast, and all is well. George is really struggling: yet to finish the full English. The coffee has had the desired effect. All is well.
CP – More rain and men in wetsuits at breakfast. We congratulate each other on how much we have eaten.
Race Preparation
GH – Transition is stressful. Everyone has so much equipment. Welsh announcements echo over transition. There is much to sort through. I slip on my tights under my wetsuit, Alex has refused to follow this good plan. It would be mad to put them on after the swim! The Jimmy Hill look-a-like next to me must be in his 60s. Maybe it is Jimmy Hill? No he’s dead. It starts to rain all over my kit. The lake looks dark and uninviting. The intrepid music blares out over the loudspeaker as we walk over the bridge. Looking out over the water and then up to the hidden peak of Moel i’m in a blue funk. Here goes nothing.
CP – Another banana and into transition, there is carbon everywhere. The race briefing blares out but I can’t concentrate nor can I see where the noise is coming from. I hear none of it.
AH – There are some real grizzled beasts here in transition, grunting away as they arrange their gear. Very few of the lithe youngsters you see at Blenheim and other events. The Sexy Walrus sky-blue colours stand out against the dark colours of the other competitors. A few slanting glances make me wonder if we’re welcome here.
RL – Transition. I’m fumbling around nervously trying to arrange my kit as best as possible. God I need the toilet. I go just as they are giving the briefing. ‘What’s that about oil on the road?’ It’s too late. I miss the entire thing. Struggle into my wetsuit and do some rushed stretching.
Snowman Triathlon Swim
EH – One gel before the swim,
the inky black – I slither in.
Two numb feet at first light,
my heart reacts, my lungs clamp tight.
AH – In we go, into the inky black. It’s cold, very cold. Up to my knees, then my chest, then my neck, then face under to acclimatise. And….it’s ok! I’m acclimatising, all is well, it’s just like a normal Monday evening Berensfield slither.
CP – And into the icy black. By the beard of Zeus it is cold, face achingly cold. I plunge my feet into the warm mud on the lake bed and curl my toes as the siren sounds.
GH – Damn it’s inky black! We slip into the water. Some huddle like wildebeest at the edges, delaying the impact of the freezing grip of the cold. Others march in boldly hoping to acclimatise before the whistle blows. It’s cold on the face, very cold. People rub hands to keep warm but the mud provides a welcome warmth for the feet..
AH – The klaxon goes and I set off at a leisurely pace, feeling comfortable. The freak-out has been avoided! In fact, more than that… I could actually get a decent time here. I up the pace, get the arms ticking over faster, find my own space in the water, and approach the first buoy.
RL – Into the icy ink: ‘this isn’t too bad.’ The starter sounds. The first half a dozen strokes are smooth and efficient. ‘What the hell was I worried about?’
CP – We are off, I can’t breathe and the shallows of Llyn Mymbyr churn and froth in a frenzy of frozen feet. I somehow make it to the first buoy where one man is frantically treading water, he has taken his goggles off, his eyes are bloodshot and wild and he is facing in completely the wrong direction. It is Alex. I wish him luck and swim on.
AH – FREAK-OUT! Panic, must get out of the water. I’ve over-exerted myself, heart rate too high, must must get out. Where is the nearest canoe? Is it behind me? Maybe I’ll find it better with my goggles off. Yes, that’s better. Still no canoe, oh no. But…. a friendly face! Yes, there is Caspar, doing breast stroke. “Greetings, friend!”. He’ll help me for sure. Except he’s just swum past. Well, nothing for it but to get the goggles back on and try and get around this damn thing.
RL – ‘Wait a minute, what’s that?’ Crippling stitch, struggling to breathe. I’ve eaten too much! I try to loosen the wetsuit around my neck. My breathing is so laboured, I feel like a heavily asthmatic ant swimming with a sack of potatoes on his back. Terror. Panic. An old man glides passed and encourages me to “breathe, relax”. I continue with breaststroke to try to get my breath back. Pass the second buoy and I try crawl again. Vomit fills my mouth: ‘Lets stick to breaststroke.’
GH – I find myself in the middle of the pack thrashing and fighting for my life. I wonder how Alex is handling this madness. Before I know it i’m at the far buoy and turn for home. I find some space and settle into my stroke. I think about how i’m doing. It doesn’t matter, gaining or losing a few minutes here won’t matter over the course of 5 hours. The swim essentially serves a sole purpose, to freak people out as much as possible, to make the first 15 minutes as unpleasant as possible, to wipe out the weakest of the herd.
EH – Three blasts from the starter’s horn,
man becomes a walrus spawn.
Four hours lie await,
dig in my tusks and await my fate.
Snowman Triathlon Transition 1
GH – Transition is a lengthy affair. Just make sure you have your food! Just make sure! Alex arrives opposite me and starts hopping around trying to put on tight leggings to soaking wet legs. Ha.
AH – I exited the swim 5 minutes ago and am still in transition struggling to pull these damn leggings on. Why didn’t I take George’s advice and wear them at the start? Was it worth the warm stream at the start of the swim? I decide yes and plough on. 7 minutes in and off I go. Ed Humphreys – who started 5 minutes behind in the following wave – is already ahead of me. He’s done so much secret training that he’s become a serious contender in these things. Then the rain comes lashing down. Pause to put the jacket in, then plough on.
RL – Into transition. ‘I must make up for the swim.’ Clumsily on with the wet weather gear. Nothing seems to be where I left it. ‘Calm down Roman, you’re losing your mind.’
Snowman Triathlon Bike Course
GH – The ride starts with 6k of climbing, it’s manageable but the rain is now coming down hard. The slow swimmers start to overtake. Caspar zooms up on his black steed, we exchange pleasantries and then he head down the descent through the driving rain. I wonder what happened to his swim, a freak out no doubt. All that food he ate probably still sitting in his belly like an anchor. The long descent is fast, wet and dangerous.
EH – On the rolling hills, I yo-yo with a potbellied toad. A massed sodden ball of fruit-bars keeps me sustained. Once the hills begin the grizzled Jones’s pass by as Southern Softies pull over masking tears. I had planned my liquid uptake on refilling my kidneys at the half-way water station. Unfortunately no such station existed – one more cruel joke.
CP – Rain slants across my sunglasses as the dark lake disappears from my peripheral. The fluorescent jackets of 160 fellow snowmen are like guiding beacons on the valley road which stretches out ahead of me and I attempt to haul myself back into this race. I ride on furiously, parallel to Nant Gwryd. Water streams across the road in rivers on the winding descent to Nant Gwynant and then Beddgelert. The names just trip off the tongue. Up into hills and down the other side I go, pedalling like a maniac.
RL – Off on the bike: ‘Thank god. Oh no, I’ve forgotten my watch. Do I go back? How do I know when the 20 minute intervals are up? Can I just count? No, that’s insane.’ Immediately need to pee. Gain access through the leg of my shorts. Three attempts. Nothing comes out. ‘This is crazy.’ I stop. ‘That’s better.’
GH – I’m eating well and drinking well and feeling pretty good. I jostle with some other cyclists and start to create some space on the flats, make good ground on the downs only to lose it on the hills. Ed comes by at a hell of a speed on a blind corner. We trot along the flat together for 10 minutes chatting, not daring to look at the milage. We must be about half way and therefore almost at the wall. 450m of climbing over 10k. Ed leaves me at the bottom of the climb as he starts to pound out an irresistible rhythm. The climb is relentless, just keeps going. Jimmy Hill can’t be dead! Although he’s probably about 80 so it probably wasn’t him back in transition. Just keep going.
CP – I hurtle passed a sign to Harlech and If I had known these words “Echoes loudly waking, Hill and valley shaking;’Till the sound spreads wide around,The Saxon’s courage breaking;”, I would have probably hummed them. I’m now passed the slate mine and over “The Wall”. “You are in 26th place” screams a marshal in a yellow bib and I push on. This is one of the most stunning bike courses triathlon can offer.
EH – Up, up and up – an old man bites clods out of the hill. Down, down and down – a Marshall shouts warnings of an oil spill ahead, but going too fast to hear. The briefest of joys as I pass a cheering Jonny – spurring me on to make an aggressive assault on the slope.
AH – I catch up with George on the bike. A brief chat ensues, and we have a lovely time cycling together. I ask him if he’s free for dinner next week but he doesn’t seem interested. Jonny goes by in the camper van, handing out bottles of water. This is it, this is why we race. Beautiful scenery, friends around, and a full camper van if you need to stop for bacon and eggs and a hot cup of tea. George and I leapfrog each other briefly: I overtake him on the ups, he overtakes me on the downs. I lose him on the final up and plough on. All is well.
GH – Alex catches up with me about a kilometre from the top of this savage climb, his cheery voice singing a sailor’s ditty. We settle into a nice rhythm to get to the top when we see Jonny. I realise that this is the last time i’ll have a chance for some more water and shout to him as we go by. Just as we reach the crest and the road falls away to an incredible descent Jonny pulls over in front of us and hands me some water. Alex speeds away down the hill. The descent is breathtaking, a fast and straight road, endless. 72, 74, 76 my speedo keeps going up. I pass Alex and head off into the valley. He catches up with around 15k to go and we pace each other into the final village. A final 10k left climbing back up to Capel Curig. I start to slow. I’m out of bars so pound a gel. My water and power drink is out. I had gone out a little to fast and was suffering. My legs are starting to go and my back starts to ache. For the final kilometres are hell, Moel Siabod looks on menacingly.
RL – After that I find some rhythm and start to make my way through the back of the pack. What an incredible ride: smooth roads, ups and downs and stunning countryside. I estimate when I’m 30 minutes away from the end. But I still have so many flapjacks, better eat some more, the gels can wait.
Snowman Triathlon Run route – Moel Siabod
CP – This is nothing short of insanity. I stop to stretch my back in the wet bracken and catch my breath whilst people trudge slowly by, bent double, their rucksacks full of gels and hats and gloves. I crawl out of the trees into moorland and the wind picks up, gusting over the exposed terrain. One man with an Iron Man tattoo on his ankle sways dangerously over a style and I stop to give him some food.
EH – I have no memory of how I got off the bike and onto the run. I am now aware that I have started the run. 10 strides and then a knife in the small of my back for the next hour. The run fast became a walk. I contemplate rugby tackling the man ahead, and letting us both roll back down to the bottom of the hill. Max Hadcox passed me in a flash.
GH – Creeping into transition I am met with the cheery wave of Alex’s parents and the high pitched laughter of a marshal who sees my Sexy Walrus kit. Find some gels, find some gels. Down they go like the sweetest of honey. A swig or two of water and off I go. I see Jonny at the start of the run as the winner strides over the finish line, he looks like a fabulous pony, finishing in a course record. Jonny waves me on and shouts loud noises as i head up the steep ramp through the woods.
RL – Into transition, everyone else has been and gone. Off with the cycle kit, on with the running garb and away I go. I hear on the tannoy that the 5th place male and 1st place female triathlete are crossing the finish line. No matter. ‘This is your best discipline Roman, go hell for leather.’ I start running and I feel good, the movement feels like an old pair of slippers: familiar and comfortable. Then it happens, a stabbing pain in the lower back that I can’t run off. It’s so steep, I have to walk.
AH – There he is! It’s Eddie Wetbeak! I’ve caught him up at the start of the run. He’s taking a full urination break so I spring past him. ‘Not today Edders!’ I cry. Overtaking him feels great. I try and run as much as I can up the mountainside of Moel Siabod, but before long it’s just too steep. I do the rest in bursts of walking and running. I look back, Ed Humphreys is miles behind. All is well.
GH – I’m feeling ok, the legs are tired but the mind is doing well. Step by step, just like Ranulph Fiennes, step by step. Is he dead? It’s steep. Then comes the cramp. Not more than 800m into the climb my quads cramp up on both legs, then sharp spasms in the IT band. I try and stretch off the quads but he hams crack into a fierce cramp. People pass by as I hobble forward, ‘keep moving – it’ll pass’. Then I have to stop, my back is in agony, my legs in full cramp. I can’t take a pace further. My legs have stopped. A fellow struggler hands me some flat coke with a ‘we’ll get there mate’ and a descending lady forces a handful of wine gums down my throat. I remember I have 2 gels on me and pump one down and start to press on. Slowly but slowly my legs release themselves from the clamp of paralyses. It was slow and frustrating but as long as I keep going it would be ok. Through the woods at last, about 1500m into the 9k course and 3.5k climb and my legs were finally freeing up but it had taken a lot of time and energy.
EH – Up and up and up. Each step was up. Each step caused pain and appeared to move you no closer to the summit, but instead closer to abandoning – turning – and letting gravity take its hold. But Hadcox was ahead somewhere. I must catch him. Not today Hadcox, not today.
AH – The views from the top are stunning, but there’s no time to take them in: straight back down we go. This is the tricky bit: an incredibly steep descent on wet, slippery rocks. Some people are really going for it, risking life and limb. I decide to take a measured approach and go down at a moderate pace, ending up in the ditch several times nonetheless. Ed Humphreys overtakes like a freight train about half way down and before long is out of sight. ‘Not today, Hadders!’. Damn.
GH – People were starting to descend in droves and as the scenery became more bleak yet stunning. Caspar appears from behind a rock and tots by shouting encouragement. Progress is slow for everyone but i’m starting to reel in some runners. Fiennes is not dead, we’d know if he was dead. It gets steeper and steeper and then I see Alex navigating the descent followed shortly by Ed. I reach the top.
RL – Athletes come flying down the hill at tremendous speed. Casper comes hurtling passed, then Captain Haddock with Eddie Wetbeak hot in pursuit. ‘They must have run up this thing? Why can’t I?’ Demorilised but still steely and determined, I crack on. Trying to run in short bursts where I can. Then suddenly I am told I’m 10 minutes from the top. It starts to level out. I start to lengthen my stride: ‘that’s better’. I get quicker and quicker, passing many. But where is George? He hasn’t passed me on the way down yet and I’m nearing the top. Has he dropped out of this godforsaken thing? No one would blame him if he had. And then I see him. Down he comes. I reach the top, touch the cairn and have a quick look at the stunning view. Time for the last gel. ‘No, no time. You feel good. Go for it. Catch George.’ Off I go. Large strides at first but then shorter, quicker ones to keep my balance central.
GH – At the top. Rather anticlimactically turn around and go straight back down. Bouncing down on the soft grass at the top is tremendous. My puckering leg muscles remind me not to push it too far or I might have a nasty fall. Roman joins me on the decent and we bounce down together for a while.
RL – Skipping from rock to rock, using the scree and churned up mud of hundreds of athletes passed to help shift my weight from one side to the other. I reach George, we career down the boggy mountainside together for a time then I get away from him. I fall twice but re-gather my feet quickly. People move out of my way as they hear me approach and then I vanish ahead of them. ‘I’m a stag, a fucking stag.’ I finally reach the flat. JSW is there, camera in hand and encouragement in throat: “Just 2 km left!”
CP – This is unlike any triathlon run I have ever experienced. Onto the white rocks atop Moel Siabod, a scramble and a tap of the Cairn and then the fun begins, a breathless descent back the way we came from. By the time I hit the gravel path, 2km from the finish line, I am covered in mud, punctured with gorse needles and my shoes are black with peat. A thoroughly enjoyable weekend.
AH – The final section. Uncle Jonny is taking photographs, mum and dad are there cheering, the lake lies silent below, never to be entered again. Ed Humphreys and Caspar are there at the finish, ready for thigh slapping and sea shanties. Joy! I cross the line. Someone thrusts a mug coaster into my hand as a medal: everything about this race has been odd from start to finish. I go home and vow never to speak of it again.
RL – I grimace through the last stretch, overtaking a few more before the finish line. The announcer calls me home and laughs hysterically at the team name, ‘Sexy Walrus’, and says that I look like I’ve just come out of battle. I realise I have mud all down my face. Back into the ‘inky black’ to wash it off? I think not. It can wait until next year. A man comes up to me in transition afterwards: “you know what? I really love your team kit. Really love it.” I pack up the 7 gels I have intact and head for home
GH – Back into those foul woods in what seems like no time at all and onto the final stretch. The final 200m is a slight incline, it feels like a mountain. Hugs and back slaps greet me as I finish, Muddy, bloody, bruised and pretty much empty. I wonder around aimlessly in transition while people talk of hot tea.
EH – One gel atop the mound,
I touch the cairn – now homeward bound.
Two steps, the pain subsides,
Now stumbling, now longer strides.
Three more miles to descend,
Now chasing Hadders, now near the end.
Four others with tingling whiskers,
Proud finishers, forgotten blisters.
More images can be found here. Taken by the kindly Jonners who supported us throughout!
