1336.- En 2011 j'ai couru les 10 premiers kilomètres de son premier marathon avec mon amie Abi, c'était à l'occasion du Nice-Cannes. Depuis la petite anglaise a fait des progrès et avec l'aide d'une coach Cathy une Iron-Woman, elle s'est mise au triathlon sur les traces de Jean-Pierre Run Run, Adrien Marlault et Lilian Maurel.
Ceci est son histoire (en version originale).
If you had said to me four years ago that I was going to take part in a triathlon this weekend, I would have probably turned to you in my best De Niro impersonation and said “Are you talkin’ to me?!” If you had then told me that completing that said triathlon would involve getting up at 7:00am on a Sunday morning, getting into a cold, mud-filled castle moat, swimming 800 metres in a wet suit (whilst avoiding being kicked by 150 other competitors), only to get out and have to cycle a further 40km in torrential rain, then finish with a 8km cross-country run through puddles and mud, risking spraining my ankle, I would have probably let out a huge sigh and returned to my sofa and cup of tea to watch another episode of Prison Break.
So you can imagine my thoughts this Sunday morning, as I tittered to myself about how much I had changed over the last four years. After running my first marathon in 2011 I have since become hooked on long distance running, but triathlons were something that had been relatively alien to me until very recently.
The first I knew I was going to be taking part in a triathlon was six weeks previously when I received a rather abrupt email from my 9 times Ironman finisher coach saying, “Abi, we’re all going to Chantilly in August to do a triathlon and you’re going to be doing it with us.” Having a personal coach is supposed to be somewhat of a luxury, someone to personally take care of all your sporting needs and listen to your woes and fears during training weeks. Cathy is not, however, your everyday coach - she is one of those angels sent from heaven to make sure that EVERY part of your life is made better. She is the kind of coach that will go the extra mile and make it her life mission to see that as many people she can join the sporting world and become happier and healthier people. So how could I turn down such a request from someone who I admire so much? “Ok, Cathy”, I replied, “Tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it”.
So after a few days of procrastination, I nervously pulled out my laptop and had a look at this triathlon palaver with a mixture of curiosity, excitement and apprehension. I had a look at the various distances on offer and homed in on the mid-distance (800 metres swim/40km bike/8km run), which seemed appropriate for my level. My next thought was, “How on earth am I going to deal with not panicking in open water?” I had never swum in anything other than a swimming pool or very shallow sea water at the most. The only way to conquer this fear, I told myself, was to grab the bull by the horns and so off a few of us went to Lake Torcy the following two Saturday mornings to brave open water swimming.
Within five minutes of being in the lake and with my wet suit on I was already negotiating my resignation “I can’t do this, I’m not a triathlete, I think I’ll stick to being a runner...” and then, finally, “I’m going to panic! I’m getting the hell out of here!” I swam back and stood for a while in the shallow water contemplating what to do. I heard my coach’s voice in the distance; “Tu fais quoi la, Abi? Vas y, tu restes avec Marc et tu nages”. This was shortly followed by me turning into a five year old and coyly asking this very nice man, Marc, who I had met just five minutes before, if he wouldn’t mind holding my hand whilst we swam around the island. So around we swam, feeling a bit silly, trying to reason with myself not to panic and plotting various survival techniques if I did. After 500 metres in the lake, I decided to get out, exhausted just from trying to keep my calm in the water, only to be hit by our army commando coach shouting “Get on your bike, Abi, and ride 5km around the lake and then run 4km at 13km/h. Three times please”
So when race day came, I was pretty much ready to face any potential fears or anxieties. However that didn’t stop me from laying wide awake in my hotel room all night long until it was time to get ready and go to the site. It wasn’t the fact that we were three people squashed into a tiny roadside motel that had kept me awake, nor that I had been feeling particularly uptight, but as I lay there pondering the events that lay before me in the unbroken dawn of the next day, I wondered if I really wanted to do this again and, more importantly, I wondered if I would finish. At 4am it started to rain. I had hoped that by 7am it would come to an end but it didn’t. It continued all morning, all afternoon and pretty much into the early hours of the evening. Luckily I had been warned that the rain was coming by my friend, Fin, who had called me in a panic three days previously, saying, “It’s going to rain, Abs, all day long, we‘re not prepared for this and I’ve spoken to the organisers and nor are they”. “Nah, it’s not going to rain,” I sneered, “Maybe a little drizzle, but I bet you it’ll be blue skies by the time we start our races”. Having ignored my loyal friend’s distress, I was lucky to find that she and Cathy had decided not to listen to my ignorant nonchalance and had brought plastic bin bags. So off I headed on my bike leaving the others behind, as our waves started at different times, covered in bin bags and on auto pilot, having not slept a wink.
Once on site I chose my bike station in a nice and easy place to find. The rain was still pouring down, which made putting on my wet suit difficult. I looked around and the only dry shelter I could see was a portable toilet, so over I headed and locked myself in there for the next ten minutes to keep dry and warm before the race started. On went the Vaseline around the neck and ankles and then, shaking from the copious amounts of caffeine I had consumed an hour before, I endeavoured to pull on my wet suit. Ten minutes later I appeared from a portable toilet dressed in my triathlon attire, feeling a bit like Jean Reno in Le Grand Bleu (only slightly more poised – I’d like to think), however this was not quite as beautiful and certainly not as warm as swimming in crystal blue seas off Greek islands.
I waded down to the water in the rain, passing by numerous British compatriots who were here from across the pond to organise this triathlon. I wondered what the French must have felt about these awfully nice Hooray Henries rocking up in their wax jackets and tweed to organise a triathlon in one of France’s finest châteaux – perhaps they felt this was a modern day invasion disguised as a sporting event!
Finally, with ten minutes to go, our wave was asked to gather together to listen to the briefing by our Hooray Henry race organiser in a very incomprehensible French then a horsey Queen’s English, pointing at a map of the course with his gentleman’s stick.
We lined up along the banks of the moat and then jumped into the water waist high letting out cries of disgust, as our feet sank into what felt like a very soft and soggy bed of mud. This made the whole thing seem even more ludicrous and I laughed out loud, overwhelmed by the realisation that I might actually be insane to be doing this whilst other, normal people, remained tucked up in bed, safe and warm.
The gun shot was heard and we were off. Still giggling from fatigue and adrenaline I suddenly let out an almighty, “Woo hoo !!!!!!”. I don’t know where this came from, but it frankly seemed quite apt considering the whole absurdity of what I was enduring and to be honest, I was having the time of my life!!!
Within seconds of swimming my head went down to begin to crawl, only to be completely shocked by the temperature of the water that cut my breath like a knife. I tried several attempts to crawl, but my body couldn’t get used to it and so I gave breast stroke a go, keeping my head above water in the manner of lady swimmers who don’t want to get their hair wet. I let most of the group swim up ahead of me to avoid being victim to too much kicking or pushing and stayed towards the back of the pack. By the time we were swimming back in my body had become accustomed to the cold and I was heading in doing crawl. I swam to the ramp and then was pulled out by one of the organisers. Delighted that the swimming was over, and that I appeared to still be alive, I took my time to walk up the steps to the bike station. My transition took me a shameful 8 minutes to complete. Some might say I could have had a coffee and fag break in this time, but it suited me fine to just take my time.
I wandered out of the bike station, mounted my bike and off I went onto round 2. I let the fast and furious half iron runners dash off besides me and was careful not to go too fast in the rain for fear of falling off. We were accompanied by the weekend traffic and even locals out on their own bike rides, but in actual fact on most of the route I found myself pretty much alone other than seeing the occasional volunteer at every 5km. Still, I took it all in my stride and, whilst cycling past each volunteer, thanked those who spurred me on with various words of encouragement. There was absolutely no excuse for my 23km/h average other then perhaps the head on wind or the faux plat or that I was just simply scared of falling off. It was exhausting. Although my Garmin watch says I did 43km, and not 40km, I am still mortified by my 1h59 finish. Suffice to say that I need to face my fears and work on my biking capacities.
Having spent a good solitary two hours on the bike, my legs were beginning to ache. The second transition was much more successful; I hung up my bike in the station and ran out to complete the final stage of the course with an 8km run. This was the part that I feared the least, being an experienced runner. Having completed 4 marathons, an 8km course felt like I was coming in for the home run, or so I thought… Coming out of the transition station I was directed onto the run course, which started along a muddy, uneven stretch of lawn. I wasn’t used to this terrain and again I was alone, passing by a runner or two here and there. Not only did my legs feel like jelly, which took a good 2km to shake off, but also the run was more like a cross-country event and nothing like the races I’m used to on road. I also had to jump left and right, avoiding puddles and holes and branches, which kept my speed at a modest 11km/h. The incessant rain added to this army-like warfare, but didn’t deflate my morale; it just made me feel more like Goldie Hawn in Private Benjamin than an amateur athlete.
As I came in for my last 2 km, I saw my friend, Fin, in the distance, who had already completed her race. Finally I was coming home and it was reassuring to see a familiar face again. I knew I was in for the home straight and nothing was going to stop me from getting my triathlon medal now. I sprinted through the finish line expecting a huge crowd of people applauding me in, just like when Paula Radcliffe finished the London marathon in record time. In fact as I crossed the finish line, only one person, very kindly, was there to applaud me in; the other thousands of people had no doubt been driven away by the rain.
So after all that, would I do it all over again? Abso lou lou! I am utterly and positively inspired by triathlons and, despite the rain, I had a fantastic experience that will stay with me forever and has given me a taste for events in the future. The triathlon is an event which requires much more organisation, equipment, technique and financial investment than marathon running, it also demands more time and training sessions than dealing with just one sport, but it is an event that is open to all levels of sports enthusiasts and gives you a good overall work out as well. For the six weeks that I trained for the race, I did 7 sessions per week - three x one hour swimming sessions, two one hour running sessions then two 40km bike rides. With a little more training and experience behind me I think my next challenge will be to run the Olympic distance, the Half Ironman and, why the hell not, a full Ironman one day!
As Nietzsche said, “What doesn’t kill me can only make me stronger.” And if that sweaty, unsporty English girl you saw struggling across the gym a few years ago can do it, then so can you. You’ve just got to believe that you can.
(Crédit photos : Abigail Bugge)
Bienvenue au club !!!!
Rédigé par : frogita | 10 septembre 2013 à 14:47
Congrats Abi !! quel super compte rendu de course, j'adore !! next challenge: le triathlon distance olypique, ca va aller !! no stress !! A bientot !!
adrien
Rédigé par : adri | 10 septembre 2013 à 14:54
Merci bcp!
Rédigé par : Abi | 10 septembre 2013 à 15:41