Will the Dragon Slayer

I write this, a year to the day from signing up to compete at Ironman Wales. A race I’d been looking at and loving the idea of challenging myself against for some time. What finally changed and inspired me to actually part with the entry fee, so I could face down the Dragon? Sitting alone in a single room in hospital digs and being several sheets to the wind might have had something to do with it. 

From then on, it was a whirlwind of rapidly learning about triathlon- turns out it’s not   as simple as “don’t drown, don’t crash, don’t stop”. More is the pity. Crash courses in carbohydrate ratios, sweat electrolytes, minimal aero gains, GI troubles, optimal chainring/cassettes, and youtube bike course recces became a cornerstone of my personality. Really helped up my chat at the pub, you know? 

As yet another Very Good Idea (trademark), I decided I needed some warm up events. Another set of Welsh triathlons that had also sparked some terror were swiftly lined up. Late nights on Zwift and early mornings on the promenade became a staple. The joy was the swim sessions on Mondays and Wednesdays, and actually

seeing the improvements made under Karen’s watchful eye. An escape from cold and rainy Essex to the sunny skies of Cyprus started off the season with energy, and a real sense of camaraderie, especially when I learned of a few club members also foolish enough to be on the beach in Tenby. 

The first warm up event rolled around far too quickly for my liking. Looking up the valley from Llanberis to Snowdon (sorry, Yr Wyddfa), suddenly the training I’d been doing seemed woefully inadequate. The Slateman was conquered, but the run course showed me how far there still was to go. Just 4 months away, I started feeling the icy cold fear of facing the Dragon. 

Snowman was next on the agenda, and this also was a lesson for the future. If you fail to prepare, you prepare to fail. A better than expected swim in grotty conditions put me on the bike in a gleeful mood. A success in the nutrition section, but a failure on the technical section. An early puncture in the mountain mist, and the numb fingers trying to repair it showed my inadequacies in maintaining and managing my bike. The mental battle of exertion whilst planning and calculating took its toll and the bike leg was suboptimal on all fronts. An improved run off the bike (at least to start), settled the nerves, until I looked up (up!) the mountain. And bravely decided to walk the rest. A fiery haired supporter wrapped warm against the elements gave me a glimpse of the help I might receive in Tenby. 

A small error a week later during a TT night, desperately trying to reel in the rapidly disappearing minute lady, resulted in a lopsided bike and rider. My first real bike crash in years. Again, the cold talons of the Dragon brushed down my neck- if I can’t keep on two wheels on the flat & sunny Essex roads, how could I grind up and down the Welsh hills for hours on end in likely typical Welsh weather? The solution was clearly a new bike. Reported as a “safety upgrade”, head office was convinced to approve of this investment. 

Whilst waiting on my new steed, the final block of training picked me up, chewed me over, and spat me out. The lonely mornings battering around Wakering and Canewdon turned into lonelier days around Rettendon and the Dengie. The trots up and down the promenade turned into huge laps around the Southend conurbation. Stairs at work become Everests and lifts became my new best friend. Watching my fellow Dragon Slayers also putting in long rides and long runs made me both proud and envious. 

The nail in my nervous coffin was the final long ride of my training block before the taper. A struggle from start to finish; bike set up altered by my crash, riding in treacle, with sore legs, and no glycogen to be found. There’s no good day to have a bad day. But this was a bad sign, and I sulked all day looking back over the session. Then miraculously, I was perked up by a simple comment- if 4.5 hours and 120km is a “bad day”, you’ve come so far from where you began a year ago. I began to think maybe I was ready to face the Dragon. Turns out Jon was right- consistency is key. 

The taper block came at the perfect time- having reached peak fatigue, the reduced intensity was a godsend. And yet at the same time, the extra time for myself meant more time for worrying. Turning my nervous energy to planning, travel schedules were produced, meal plans prepared, shopping lists created, course maps reviewed, and bags packed, unpacked, repacked, unpacked and repacked yet again. 

Driving to Tenby on the Friday before the event, my spirits followed the weather. Leaving Essex in 27 degree sunshine, and arriving in 13 degree wind and rain, carrying the kit down the steps to the accommodation felt like a man carrying his own cross. The Saturday morning did not help. Woken by the howling wind at daybreak, the pre-race spin out on Shadowfax confirmed that conditions would be the make or break factor. Waving at Scott also doing his morning preparations reminded me I wouldn’t be alone. After a warm shower and a humongous breakfast, the support crew suited up in waterproofs and headed into town for registration.  

Tenby is sometimes referred to as Iron Town, and is renowned for extraordinary support. Even hearing this from multiple people and seeing the crowds on social media could not prepare me for what was unfolding in town. Thousands of people milling about, many sporting Ironman merch from other events. Those clearly Ironman virgins conspicuous in their non-Ironman branded clothes. The Ironman machine is clearly well-maintained and ran smoothly. Barriers were already sat in neat rows ready for the coming day, barrier coverings with sponsors in bags next to them. The Ironman expo did not disappoint. My name was on the flag of competitors. My photo was taken with the large red M-dot. Even met some social media types, both reviled and beloved, who did little to calm my fears. Then I was whisked into the Ironman merch tent. I was so overwhelmed with the plethora of caps, shorts, shirts, mugs, bottles, socks ad nauseum, and the prices even more so, that I ran away to formally register for the event- swapping one form of pain for another. A beautiful backpack full of freebies, bags, and stickers came with the wristband that was to be my access pass to the athlete-only areas. Despite being a newbie, and in the company of long distance multi-veterans in the support crew and other JBR athletes, I started to feel special. I expected the crowds to part like the red sea in front of me, with whispers of the magnificent physical specimen before them. Sadly I was disappointed immediately on re-entry to the merch tent, faced with two thousand competitors and unknown Ironman veterans in support. I drowned my sorrows in the inevitable stocking of merch before it all went. Despite promising myself I wouldn’t jinx myself pre-race, I was overtaken with enthusiasm and warnings of bare shelves come Monday morning. New backpack filled with overpriced towels, we headed back to the accommodation to pack the famous red and blue bags (via the pasty shop of course). 

A baby wipe bath for Shadowfax, a minor argument regarding gear ratios, and several detailed discussions of defaecation and micturition on course followed, helpfully taking my mind off the ever increasing panic. The teenage boy jokes belied my fears. The taper week packing lists proved their worth, and it wasn’t long before I was posing for the flat-lay. A walk back through town in the mid-afternoon (via the pasty shop again of course) meant we could soak in the atmosphere now the crowds had settled a tad. Watching the local fire crew setting up their hot plates for the next morning had brought a gaggle of Ironman widows to a standstill. Bike tucked in for its sleepover and bags hung on their hooks meant there now was no turning back. 

A very shaky lemonade for me and zero-percent Corona for Woody accompanied the support team having a whale of a time in a warm humid pub in town. Before the weather made a final bid to re-enact Noah’s flood we bundled back to the accommodation for a re-run of the Women’s World Cup England vs France game, followed by triple helpings of lasagna and quadruple helpings of garlic bread, washed down by gallons of Lucozade sport. Not a combination any sommelier would approve of. A pat on the back, and a promise to see me on the beach gave my flashbacks of Saving Private Ryan.  

An unexpectedly good nights sleep for me, and a poor nights sleep for the support crew found me stuffing muffins, bananas, bagels and coffee in my belly as a last ditch carb load. Green Mile’s “dead man walking” scene rang through my head as I trudged into town in the pre-dawn grey. But even my mood couldn’t stay low as the firefighters were grilling bacon and sausage baps to club tunes and the crowds started to form even that early. Weather thankfully having blown through the night before, the skies were clear and the forecast “promised” no further rain. Bike computer on, hydration & nutrition secured, wetsuit donned, the JBR athletes made their way down the famous zig zags, racking our pink bags along the way, Woody cracking jokes to mine and Scott’s nervous silence. 

The beach lived up to the expectations. A clearing of the weather meant a red sunrise accompanied by the Red Devil’s parachute display team. A natural amphitheater of Welsh voices meant the strains of “Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau” resonated loudly and echoed longer than they should. A small taste of what any national sports team must feel before a game. Fireworks whizzed into the skies and the swimmers were released. The charge down the beach to the roar of the crowd suddenly replaced by the wash of waves, and taste of salt scouring the throat and nostrils. An initial 400m leg towards the RNLI station went without incident, loosening the shoulders and getting into a comfortable stroke. Making the turn at the first buoy and heading adjacent to the beach exposed seaward breathing to the waves. The back stretch became crowded as the waves threw swimmers together and natural allegiances formed small arrowheads. The final two buoys at the north end of the beach brought the waves onto our backs, and pushed us back to shore, targeting the zig zag steps we’d shortly have to make our way back up. 

Staggering out of the water, light headed at the sudden return of gravity, the realization our work was only half done. An attempted jog on the beach turned into a disco-ordinated shamble as competitors made their Aussie exit around Ghoscar rock, before steeling themselves for their second lap. Fatigue meant the second lap was more of a battle, with arms and legs flying everywhere. The turn at the RNLI station became everyone’s nemesis as the jellyfish had also decided to join the party. What I’m sure were meant to be encouraging pats became stings that distracted from smooth strokes before they numbed in the seawater. A receding tide meant the stretch back to the beach, though the waves were still pushing us and the distance was shorter, seemed longer than before. Removing my goggles once upright, I was able to re-appreciate the amphitheater and the thousands of supporters lining the promenade watching us stragglers re-orient ourselves. 

The zig zags were thankfully mostly empty by the time I worked my way up, making finding my pink bag simpler. A pat on the arm from Scott reassured me things were going smoothly. Wetsuit partially taken down, mouth rinsed with blessedly plain water, I was able to take on the gauntlet to transition. T1 for Ironman Wales is a uniqueness. A 1.1km run along the medieval town walls, packed with throngs of loud and proud Welsh support. It’s impossible not to feel blown along by the noise. Seeing the bikers heading in the opposite direction to start the second leg brought my mind back to the job at hand- one leg done at least. 

A worrying moment in the transition tent being unable to find my blue bag, before realizing it had simply fallen off it’s hook and was hiding behind the other bags. Wetsuit stripped, socks on, shoes on, Imodium and paracetamol in, helmet on, I emerged into welcome Welsh sunshine. Collecting my new favourite toy and thinking of all the time we’d get to spend together, the departing cyclists put on a show of putting the power down, heading off into the Welsh countryside. 

The feared bike course of Ironman Wales consists of one “small” loop (30 miles) and two “big” loops (40 miles). Heading out along the small loop, the hills initially did not appear to be too formidable. Despite a recce many months ago, and the knowledge that the worst was yet to come, I settled into what I felt was a comfortable power, passing endless trails of cyclists completely disregarding the 12m drafting rule. Luckily this meant that seeing Scott and Tom was fairly simple, and we could exchange “good lucks” and “well dones” passing each other. There was support at every small hamlet or farmhouse along the route, even those in the sticks weighing in on the Ironman action- signs, flags, music, and cheers were at every junction we could find. 

Passing through Pembroke, the first major town out of Tenby brought the festival atmosphere back. The climb out of Pembroke brought the first of the lead cyclists returning to start the second loop. The spaceship whoosh of their disc wheels passing at 70kmh was soon replaced by the pant of the climbers on their first real hill. Cresting the first test, we passed onto the flat roads of Castlemartin firing range before descending into the sandunes of Freshwater West, facing the Irish sea. Another climb with some nasty steep segments bunched us together for the descent to Angle, and the first feed station. New electrolytes and water holstered, new gels and bars stuffed, I rolled to a stop by the toilets. A 6 min delay waiting for a free portaloo cemented my toilet strategy for the next 6 hours: don’t ask, don’t tell. Heading back to Pembroke into a headwind, I was reminded that the big loops were coming, and not to burn all my matches too early.  

Power dialled down, Pembroke was passed, Lamphey too, past Carew and then to the most sapping section of the big loop. A series of long, dragging climbs. Not as steep as many fear, but minutes of grinding in a low gear to crest the summit. Sitting up on one such climb, my seat tilted backwards, about 10 degrees nose up. Unable to tilt it back down to my normal position, I had to suffer when in the aero bars for 25 mins until I reached the third aid station in Narbeth. A kindly local named something incomprehensibly Welsh lent me his Allen keys. With saddle rectified, and sitbones looking forward to being merely uncomfortable rather than traumatized, I set off again. 

Just as I exited the aid station, I spied a long limbed man in JBR kit at the side of the road- it could only be our very own JBR Woody! Waving in welcome and cheering him on as I passed, I saw his bike upturned, and a whole mechanics toolkit laid out next to it. Woody’s usual gleeful smile was absent, and to my hastily added “you alright?!”, he did crack a grin, and yelled back “fine, crack on!”. So I did. The roads from Narbeth to Wiseman’s are rolling, not a flat stretch amongst them, but arguably some of the fastest sections of road. Here also, the cyclists thinned out, and conscious preparation for selfish road positioning meant the mental burden could be shifted purely to technical bike handling. 

Though this was a joy to feel unencumbered and to feel like I was truly racing rather than being in a group ride, I knew what was to come. My recce previously had given me a deep respect for the two upcoming hills. Wiseman’s Bridge, and Heartbreak Hill. A friend who raced Wales previously said that on the day they felt like nothing given the support present. But I knew Wisemans was up to 16% incline, and Heartbreak Hill seemed never-ending., At nearly 4 hours in, I knew this would be the hardest challenge of the day so far. Passing the pub at Wiseman’s Bridge and turning inland to face the forest, the road disappeared into the canopy in front of me. Gears swiftly dropped to the smallest ratio, the bass of EDM filtered over the crest. Supporters in all shades of tri club kit, many with bikes leant against the stone walls cheered and groaned as the cyclists wobbled up the incline. The false peak took everyone by surprise, and though not as fierce, there was still another section of incline to pass before a welcome break. Pants and freehubs filled the air, cruising down into Saundersfoot. 

But there was very little time for recovery. A wall of noise grew ahead of us, and emerging from the trees into Saundersfoot high street, lined with pubs and supporters waving flags, every new triathlete coming into town was cheered in welcome. The adrenaline spike that comes with this noise was all too welcome, as at the other end of town, the foot of Heartbreak Hill was visible. Heartbreak Hill has three distinct sections- a short steep climb out of Saundersfoot, a moderate incline to St Bride’s Hill proper, and then the tour-de-france imitation.  

Onto the Saundersfoot climb, I wondered why I’d been so stressed about Wiseman’s? This was murder. Immediately out of the saddle and grinding, the sea breeze over the harbour was welcome to cool the sweat beading on my neck. Making the turn onto the gentler section, I sat back down and gasped down some welcome air, and some cooling water. Another squirt down my back to take some heat out also served the purpose of lugging less weight up the hill! Then finally, the true marvel of Ironman Wales emerged. Crowds filling a tight road with only enough space for the cyclists to move. Groups in budgy smugglers and fancy dress downed cold pints whilst the whistles and the vuvuzelas blasted out from all angles. Scenes akin to the Grand Tours, to Solar Hill at Roth, and finally, outside a small Welsh seaside town. Though the hill is nearly a mile long and averaging close to 8%, this did truly feel easy. Flying up the hill, I was welcomed near the crest by the JBR Support Crew yelling unintelligibly. Buoyed to see my friends since leaving them on the beach 6 hours before, the highs of the oh-too-brief reunion pushed my over the peak and down to the fourth aid station. Refueled, reloaded, and renewed, I set off down the hill to Tenby to start the second big loop. Astonished to see the first of the runners out on course- how slow was I, barely two thirds through the bike and these extraordinary people were already starting their run? 

It took a stern talking to to reassure me that it was ok- these guys and gals were just really really good. And in any case- this is your first Ironman, you’re guaranteed to PB! And that ultimately, it wasn’t about a time, or a position- it was about mental resilience, not giving up on a notoriously difficult course with a high DNF rate, about completing- not competing. Head back in the game, I kept my power in check going back through the small hamlets to Lamphey and back towards Carew and Narberth. The support was still out in force even after so long. Two small children, maybe four and six, were still chanting “keep going up the hill” even 3 hours since I last passed them- being an Ironman is hard, being an Ironman supporter is even harder! 

The legs started to display pre-traumatic stress disorder, and started threatening me at each approaching incline. We reached a truce once past Narberth for the final time. A truce broken at the bottom of Wiseman’s Bridge 2: The Return of the Wise Man (hint- it was not me). Bullying my bike up the hill, resorting to zig zagging near the summit, I wondered if this was a wise move- with Heartbreak Hill ahead. But given the support on Heartbreak Hill, I felt confident I’d sail up again. As mentioned earlier- I am not a Wise man. The Heartbreak Hill JBR faithful remained as keen as every, but the energy and adrenaline from the other supporters of the first ascent was lacking, as they started to fatigue as well. Presumably too many cold pints and too energetic dancing. Cheers and whoops of the JBR faithful aided a speedy descent into Tenby, and passing the medieval walls, the mood lifted again. Packed deep in Tenby, the crowd roared as bikers whizzed in and runners strode out. T2 was smooth and controlled. Rehydrated, re-shoed, and re-imodium’d, I set out into the unknown. 

The bike course is infamous for being challenging with its elevation profile, but the run is unfairly overlooked. >500m of elevation on the run alone should give anyone pause. Settling into a zone 2 pace I knew from training I could sustain, I found myself alongside Welsh rugby legend Shane Williams. Exchanging polite chit chat, he rapidly dropped me once the hills reared ahead of us. Nicknamed Twinkletoes for a reason, he pounded off leaving me feeling inadequate. The JBR crew returning from Heartbreak Hill found me on the ascent, and the congratulations and encouragement lent light feet to the lap halfway point, where I obtained the first of four lap bands. Funny, I can still remember the exact order they were given out. Red for first lap, yellow for second, blue for third, and green for fourth. I’m still wearing them, knowing what I had to achieve for each band. 

First lap followed by second, pace consistent, I was feeling good. Seeing Woody and Tom on the course gave me joy, and I kept an eye out for Scott. Not seeing him, I assumed I was just missing him in my weary state. The support crew safely back at base (helpfully on the run course), they were monitoring our progress and coming out to greet us each lap. Lack of blood to the head meant humour was warped, and I proudly announced that I’d pissed myself on the bike to those interested (there were not many). 

Heading down the hill on my third lap, about 26km in, was when things started to unravel. Approaching the furthest I’d ever run before, and never following 90 mins of swimming and 6.45hrs of cycling, my vastus medialis started twinging. Was this cramp? Was this fatigue? I didn’t know, but knew it wasn’t good. The sunshine that had kept spirits up faded into a beautiful red orange and yellow glow over the town, but the temperature went with it. Whereas my run aid station tactic thus far was: water for the face, water for the stomach, electrolytes for the stomach, banana, and either a gel, paper cup of crisps or of jelly babies, the next water for the face sucked the heat out of my chest, and I started shivering.  Beyond the realms of training, I was in the unknown. Trying to run faster down the hill to generate more body heat only served to speed the onset of thigh pain. The sight of the JBR team brought tears to my eyes, knowing I had one more lap to go, but knowing how hard it would be. “This last lap is going to suck” was all I had the energy to report, to noises of understanding and sympathy. “Yes it will suck” was the unhelpful but accurate response. 

Having refused to walk the uphill sections so far, I had no choice but to power stride the uphill sections on the last lap. Having the oxygen to chat to fellow strugglers again brought a sense of camaraderie, walking into the night, sharing words of encouragement and despair. Gaining my last wristband, a temporary ally clapped me on the shoulder and said “go get ‘em”. A 50 metre fast interval followed, after which I then reigned it back in and shuffled down the hill rather than charging, thinking “who on earth could possibly be running down this hill right now?”.  In comedic timing, at that precise moment, all legs and all arms, Woody came flying past.  

“Will, come on, come with me!”.  

“Absolutely no fucking chance mate. Run it in for JBR mate!” 

And with a thumbs up and a wave, he was gone into the night. 

Passing the spot where the support crew had been stationed, I was hit by a surprising wave of loneliness. Though there were supporters lining almost every inch of run course, many reading your name on your bib and calling out to you, the familiarity of friends and family is like no other. Steeling myself for the final stretch through town, I gritted my teeth, seeing my pace had dropped despite all attempts to keep it respectable. Supporters saw the green wristband and called out “you’re nearly there”, “well done, just a little longer”, or my favourite: “what took you so long? I’ve been drinking for hours!”. A wan smile and a token effort to push was all these brave souls received in return. 

Before the final turn onto the promenade to the red carpet was a small alleyway. Quiet and cobblestoned, this was a last refuge of quiet and tranquility before the chaos of the final few hundred metres of the run. I took a little pause here, to consider what I’d achieved. Sat in a depressing room nearly a year previously, moderately drunk, signing up to a challenge I’d sworn I’d never be able to accomplish, I’d never allowed myself to think of this moment. Jon told me not long before the event “it’s only your first Ironman once. Savour it”. And this could not be more true. Self-reflective moment over, I bounded round the corner and into the wall of noise before the red carpet. Well, bounded is probably an overstatement. But it felt like I did.  

The support team were positioned right at the first timers bell. Somehow, their voices rose up above a thousand others. I staggered to the barriers, high-fiving and hugging these miracle workers who'd been cheering me on consistently for 14 hours. I saw the mythical bell hanging from the M-dot. A quick ding dong put fire in my belly again, and I sprang off down the red carpet to the finishers arch. “Will Rea, you are an Ironman” will forever sit in the back of my mind.  

Taking my medal, towel, water, and entering the post-race tent, I grabbed a cardboard cup of mac and cheese and sat down. Immediately I started shivering. Pulling the towel around my shoulders, I managed only a few mouthfuls before my appetite gave up. Spying the finishers t-shirt table, I shuffled over, collected my £600 t-shirt, found my post-race bag with a warm jacket and trousers, put them all on, and sat for another 15 mins before being able to consider taking any more food on. Only then thinking to check my phone, thinking the team must be waiting on tenterhooks for me to energy, I saw literally hundreds of messages. Whatsapp threads I’d forgotten I was even a part of were posting updates of me for other members, people had been tracking me closely enough that there were “congratulations Ironman” messages from the minute I crossed the line. Again, emotion overtook me a bit. Thankfully a wonderful lady who told me this was her 20^th Ironman reassured me this is normal. She still got it even at number 20. Grateful, I gathered by transition bags, bike, and gingerly tottered out to find all the smiling faces I’d been waiting for.  

Whisked back to the flat without any fuss, I was showered, placed in clean pajamas on the sofa, given a plate of hash browns to nibble on, and a glass of champagne to sip on. Fatigue clear on the supporters faces, we giggled about how I was going to have a rough nights sleep, and a vague plan for the morning created. I drifted to sleep with my medal on the bedside table. Hearing from Woody and Tom after the event, knowing they were ok and had reached the finish line was a bonus. Hearing poor Scott had missed the bike cut off was a bit of a blow. But he seemed in good spirits despite this. The bike course is fearsome, and caught a lot of people off guard. There is a reason the course is called the Dragon. 

That is all I can say about my personal recollection of the events. The race is one I would immediately encourage anyone else to do. Even the long distance veterans were admiring of the course and the support. Tenby town centre is awash with people cheering for hours on end. Heartbreak Hill exceeded all possible expectations. And the Ironman machine ensures it all proceeds smoothly. Volunteers at the aid stations are out of this world. Friendly and polite and helpful at every single moment, despite having 2500 grumpy, hangry, tired, dehydrated, smelly triathletes pass them. The locals all clearly adore the event, with the villages en route forming mini-parties, with Ironman regalia, music, and endless cheers and claps. As a participant, the mental boost you get from such support cannot be overestimated. Particularly deep in the marathon, hearing chants and good energy is beyond welcome.  

Tenby was the Iron Town. The Dragon was Slayed. I am an Ironman.