Wednesday, 22 September 2010

Once was not enough. It would seem twice is neither.

I have been called many things in my life. The Pied Piper is not one of them. Or it wasn't, until Sunday.

The immortal words, "And here comes number... oh, it's... it's... it's the Pied Piper!" as I approached the finish line of the West Wight Triathlon were not what I was expecting to hear.

Even though I did have an entourage of eleven* (yes, eleven) children following me for the last fifty metres or so.

This was Mr Man's point of view.

Help - I am surrounded by small people
I am the taller individual in the photo.

Anyway, it caused much amusement for the masses and I aim to please, so I guess task accomplished from that angle.

(* the children were three of mine, three of the Wine Writer's, BB's twins, and Lady P's trio - all there as part of the junior cheerleading brigade, totally unsponsored I hasten to add)

The venue was the Isle of Wight. The event the West Wight Triathlon. The line-up included the usual trio of yours truly, BB and the Wine Writer. Of course, we had all trained to a certain extent. There is only so much you can fit in around work and school holidays. Some of us even tested the (running) waters a couple of weeks earlier. And in true style I managed to be shown up soundly beaten get my arse whipped yet again by my erstwhile companions.

Think I am kidding? The results speak for themselves (I would just insert the excel table here but that kind of technology eludes me and Blogger is uncooperative, so we are at a stand-off at present):

And in case you were wondering about the category issue, SF is 'senior female' - basically anyone over 21 (some man's idea of an easy joke I think) - and VF is 'veteran female' or 'very fragile' or even 'vot (the) f*ck (are you doing this for)'. Your choice.
I have just a few points to make with regard to my *ahem* performance.

1. I was not 100% in the 12 hours leading up to the event - definitely BB's fault as we drove the cycle route the evening before (after we managed to get lost in Freshwater, pop. 5,360, with a single main street that forms a loop via a one-way system, for about half an hour with me navigating - just as well I was not responsible for laying out the course itself) and her comments about the numerous hills and (rather steep) inclines put the heebie-jeebies into me, which therefore meant that: 

2. I did the race on an empty stomach whilst worrying about the Wine Writer and BB 'catching' me as their start times were after mine - nothing like raw energy incentive panic to keep you going

3. I managed to stay on my bike although the challenge was not cleat-in shoes - something BB and I occasionally have issues with, as in 'get-your-foot-out-before-you-stop' - but a howling westerly that even the Wine Writer said (I quote) nearly "gusted me off the road" (I could imagine the headlines as well in the local gazette, "Wannabe triathlete adds aerobatics to event for greater visual effect")

4. I remembered to put my goggles over my eyes before setting off in the swim this time round, and thus avoided serious sense of humour failure, but still managed to waste time faffing with my watch at the start of the run, the end result being that I wiped out my elasped time and had no idea therefore of how I was faring.
Proof of goggle success:

I'll just get in here, shall I? You know, yellow is not really my colour...

 And of stop-watch failure.

So I just press this button here...
And I am still pressing it, and... oh bugger

But we finished, all of us, to our great relief. And then proceeded - as you do - to invade a local pub. A total of nine adults and eleven children.

The locals are still recovering from the shock.

BB: I think we should do an Olympic distance next time
LCM (through rictus grin): What the f*$&@%*$ are you on about?

And wouldn't you know it? All three of us are now thinking about what to enter next.

Suckers for punishment? Never!

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