My return to running form started in a cross-country league race back in March. I was racing in a 12k road run the very next day so in a bid to save my legs for a possible cash prize, I set off at a sedate pace for a nice bimble round the fields. Unfortunately, unknown to me, my coach Dave Watson was there watching his partner in the ladies race, and he spied me taking it easy near the back of the pack. For the next 35 minutes or so the rest of the pack was treated to the sight of a purple-faced coach bellowing threats at a red-faced athlete who looked like he was running for his life. As I am more scared of Dave than I am of death, I consequently overtook 40 people, smashing my PB and recording my highest ever finish. My fear continued through to the next day when I ran another PB and finished 11th.

Since then things have kept getting better. A top 20 finish in the Regency 10k in a new PB of 36.20 and two WINS (old fart’s category anyway) in the Massey’s Easter 5-miler and the May Godiva Harriers 5-miler where I crossed the line as the fastest over-40. Such is my new found confidence that I’ve entered Bristol 10k in search of another PB, and I have now have unrealistic hopes of the same at the Coventry half-marathon and Stockholm marathon. Those who know me will no doubt think that this level of optimism proves that when it comes to my sanity, the cheese has finally slid off the cracker.

In cycling though, things are coming apart like an Ikea cabinet. In 10 mile TTs last year I was knocking on the door of 22 minutes – this year I’m just about scraping past the bog-seat of 24 minutes. What’s gone wrong? Partly it’s due to my accident last year in that I lost three months of training and a shed-load of confidence. I realised that I must be quite tense on the bike when I finished my first “10” of the season when the lads almost had to prise my fingers off my tri-bars with a claw hammer, and I spent the next 15 minutes wandering round looking up at the sky because my neck muscles were locked up tighter than an escort in Boy George’s flat.

Another reason for my slowing speeds could be my new job. Readers with good memories may recall I worked for National Express, a company which operates a series of manned portaloos around the UK’s motorway network. Well, earlier this year I left the fascinating world of bus stops behind for a job working at Sustrans, the cycling and walking charity. My job now is to help manage the National Cycle Network, which means that I spend most of my days doing miles and miles on a mountain bike which weighs about two-tons compared to my lovely Focus Cayo, and which frankly is knackering me out. Not that I’m complaining, because as I’m now paid to cycle all day that technically makes me a Pro. My mates are not at all jealous of my new job, and have in no way threatened to kidnap me and sell me to Bulgarian gangsters if I don’t shut up about how much fun I’m having.

Having mentioned running and cycling it would be remiss of me not to mention swimming, especially as I have had some more success here, albeit thoroughly undeserved. Our new swimming coach at Coventry Masters entered a bunch of us into races at the Midland Masters Swimming Gala. Given that the last time I swam in a gala was 25 years ago I’m happy to say I won silver and bronze medals in the 200m freestyle relay and the 200m medley relay – the operative word in both cases being “relay”, which meant that, much like Paul Gasgoigne, I was carried home by three blokes. The gala was surprisingly tiring though – not because of the swimming but because of how exhausting it is posing around the pool with your waist sucked in and your chest puffed out. My efforts proved that I’m no stranger to beautiful women…. I’m an irrelevance to beautiful women.

Tune in next time for more of this rubbish, PLUS race reports on my 10k, half-marathon, marathon, some hooky time-trials and finally some triathlons, as I take a break from Ironman training to take on my first Olympic distance race since 2005.

Ps – I’d like to dedicate this column to my dad Roy Brunt who passed away in March at the age of 80. He bought me my first bike, taught me to ride it, and then cycled with me every weekend – mostly, it has to be said, to the pub which has created a lifelong link for me between cycling and pleasure. For this alone, he is my hero.

Sometimes I really envy elite athletes. So far my year of being a Wiggle-sponsored athlete has seen me become very accustomed to the lifestyle of your average pro, being given boxloads of free kit and lovely Focus bikes to race on, having a blog and being recognised wherever I race as “that jammy git who won the 220/Wiggle competition.”

However that’s largely where the comparison between me and the elites ends. This is never more evident than at this time of year when elite athletes are encouraged – nay expected – to push off overseas to somewhere warm like Australia or Lanzarote to train. How nice it would be to be rolling carefree around some sunny roads instead of freezing my nads off here in the UK.

This was particularly noticeable on New Year’s Day when I took part in the Coventry Godiva Harriers 5 mile race around the icy paths of Warwick University. Given that parts of the course were as slippery as your average MP just getting round without busting another bone felt like an achievement. One corner was so treacherous that it had Commonwealth gold medallist and 5000 metre world record holder Dave Moorcroft standing on it to direct people safely round – how’s that for service! Despite the conditions, a nasty head cold and a crippling lack of talent I managed to get round in a shade under 30 minutes, urged on by my coach Dave Watson who encouraged me with shouted instructions like “stride out, which is easier said than done when you think every step you take is going to see you go flying and land on your arctic circle.

In truth this was a rare trip outdoors for me. I made my comeback after my broken arm at a 10k x-country league race down in Gloucester and managed to come in as one of the first six counters for my club, tucking my still fractured elbow into my vest for maximum sympathy and to make everyone who finished behind me feel doubly wretched. However apart from a couple of freezing forays out on my bike before the snows came, I’ve been mostly driven indoors to the pleasures of turbo training, swimming, weight training and circuits.

Regular readers of this rubbish will know I am no fan of turbo trainers. Don’t get me wrong, they are great for training but I wouldn’t put anything that makes you sweat spinal fluid in the category of “enjoyment”. That said I’ve just bought a new one which measures my power output as well as heart rate and cadence, adding a new dimension of pain as I cripple myself to keep my watts up and my breakfast down.

Hopefully the glaciers will retreat soon in time for the various x-country races I have coming up – I’ll take mud over ice any day. Having witnessed my cycling club’s Boxing Day cyclo-cross race I’m also keen to go out and have a go at that. It looks like a new and creative way to hurt myself so I’m anxious to give it a try. Either way it will be good to get out and train – its probably a good idea to spend less time in the pub now that I can recall the sequence of flashing lights on the fruit machine from memory.

This is, of course, the time for New Year’s resolutions. I’m not a big one for having “life goals” or anything like that because nothing says “you’re a loser” more than having a motivational phrase about being a winner. However I for have some plans for the season – 2 hours 55 or better at Stockholm Marathon, 10 hours 30 or better at Ironman Florida (where I have a BIG score to settle), 55 minutes or better for 25 mile TT, 22.30 or better at 10 mile TT, 36 minutes or better at 10k blah blah blah. I’ve also signed up for the very first Outlaw Triathlon, an Ironman distance race in Nottingham in August. That lot should keep me busy!

Apart from that I’ll be trying to live up to my usual resolutions of not breaking any more bones, resisting the urge to knock a policeman’s helmet off, and trying to look good naked. I’ll let you know how I get on.

STOP….. Hammertime

This is traditionally the time of year when sports clubs hold their annual awards evenings, handing out trophies and three-course dinners to all those who have spent the year taking things far too seriously.

While not quite in the same league as BBC Sports Personality of the Year (and on that subject, where the bloody hell is Chrissie Wellington’s name on the list of people we can vote for!!!) the prizes are just as hotly contested and hard to win – especially if there is any cash involved.

Being a triathlete means you are often in several clubs at once which means lots of awards nights to go to, lots of awards to win, or – as is more often the case – lots of opportunities to have the p*ss ripped out of you .

Unfortunately I missed my cycling club’s annual dinner earlier this month. I say “unfortunately” because I was due to pick up some cold, hard cash after winning a 30-mile time-trial back in June. However because I wasn’t there to collect my prize in person it appears to have been “mislaid”. My guess it was “mislaid” somewhere in the vicinity of the bar, on or around the time that several pints of Guinness appeared. Theft aside, I was more disappointed to miss the sight of the lads after their annual excursion to the suit-hire shop, wearing an assorted bunch of tuxedos from the 70s and 80s that made them look like they were out on a naff night. Who says sport isn’t fashionable.

Last week it was the turn of my triathlon club to give out its awards. The Tri guys were also out in their best bib and tucker, looking disconcertingly like a bunch of wookies dressed by Primark. Fortunately I was able to make this awards night – I say “fortunately” because my various escapades this year saw me pick up the much coveted club booby prize after a landslide public vote.

On top of the usual awards for best athlete, club champions etc, my tri club has an annual “Who Got Hammered” award for determination in the face of adversity. Previous winners have included people who have got lost in time trials, run 5k with a set of allen keys in their trainers, and, in the case of 2008 winner Tony Nutt, been pulled off a course for missing the cut-off just 500 yards from the finish line. I was already a major contender for this year’s “Hammer” after getting into a punch-up with some chavs while out on a training run, however my victory was cemented after my recent encounter with a van which saw me bust my arm a week before Ironman Florida. I should point out that I also managed to win the award for most improved athlete along with my close friend and training buddy Phil Richmond, however it’s the Hammer which has grabbed the headlines and put me in the spotlight for some richly earned p*ss taking.

This weekend it’s the turn of my swimming club to have its awards night and shortly after that the same will happen at my running club, who have a similar award to the Hammer known as the “Animal Award”, and for which I am a contender for having run a 1.20 half marathon in a blizzard three days after smashing my face up and giving myself concussion in a training accident.

So all in all it’s been a rollercoaster year – I’ve run a sub-3 hour marathon, swum the channel, broken the hour for a 25 mile TT, smashed my Ironman personal best and set new PBs for 5k run, 10k run and 10 mile TT. I’ve also broken my arm, cut my head open, scarred my face, sprained my wrist and torn a multitude of muscles. So the moral of the story is – before you attempt to beat the odds, make sure you can survive the odds beating you!

PS – thanks for all the good wishes about my arm. The recovery is going very well indeed, the plaster is off and the fracture has knitted together nicely. My physiotherapy has begun and I have been out running, turbo-training and even tried a swim. Consequently life is worth living again.

PPS – Vote Chrissie!!

This should have been the blog where I told you about my fantastic performance at Ironman Florida. It should have been the one about how all my training came together on the day to see me smash my PB and stroll over the finish line in 10 hours. Unfortunately, I didn’t even stroll over the start line…..

A week before the race I went out on my final ride before packing my bike away. I was pedalling serenely along when I heard an engine fast approaching from behind. What happened next is a bit of a blur but I remember a terrific impact which shot me forward like I’d been fired out of a cannon. The next thing I remember was sliding gracefully down the road on my face before coming to a halt head first in a gutter. The only other thing I recall was the same engine revving frantically and then speeding off up the road.

To cut a long story short I was the victim of a hit and run incident which involved my back wheel, a blue Ford Transit and an utter b****d. The crash left me with a gashed face, skinned hips, multiple cuts and bruises, a sprained wrist, a fractured elbow and a shattered dream as I watched my Ironman go up in a puff of gravel.

Even now, two weeks on, it’s hard to put into words how I felt when the doctors told me my arm was broken. Even though I couldn’t move it, even though they’d had to drain a syringe-full of blood from the joint to reduce the swelling, and even though I was so cross-eyed with pain I could actually fancy Danni Minogue, I was clinging to the hope that I could still make the race. When they told me I’d be out of the game for 6 weeks, I did what any dignified, self-respecting adult would do – cried.

After a decent period of self pity I reported the incident to the police. It might be a sign of my age, but the policeman who took my statement was so young I expected him to write his report in alphabet spaghetti. When I left I nearly broke my other arm tripping over his umbilical cord. Unfortunately without a registration number, which I didn’t get due to having my face jammed into a kerb, we are down to studying CCTV of the area to see if a blue Transit pops up anywhere. I hope it turns up soon because the machine gun I’ve hired for when I find the driver is costing me a fortune. Failing that I plan to pack his suitcase with bibles and send him to Somalia.

I decided to go to Florida anyway as the trip was paid for, and because it’s not Coventry, so at least I got to spend some time lounging around in the sun drinking beer. It was a bittersweet trip for me, with the real high of seeing my friends complete the Ironman, with the real low of being left standing on the beach when the gun went and everyone started the race. I did my best to be cheerful, but mostly I was self-absorbed and miserable. Watching races when you are injured is cr*p – even in a place as nice as Florida. However I did my best to feel good by going and standing next to fat people, and by drinking loads of beer at the pre-race meal surrounded by abstaining triathletes.

I must admit that I was genuinely overjoyed to see my friends Phil Richmond and Joe Reynolds finish their first Ironmans, and Steve Howes romp home in 9.57 – at least now I can say I got to a finish line before Steve.

So the long road to recovery starts here. It will be between six weeks and three months before I’m fully fit but as the doctors, police and loved-ones have all reminded me, joking apart I’m lucky to be alive, and the crash could – and should – have been a lot, lot worse. To help me while away the hours until I can start training again Nicky has presented me with a to-do list that’s longer than a Leonard Cohen song, and I’ve taken steps to make sure I make the most of the eight lives I’ve got left by entering Ironman Florida 2010 – as the saying goes, pain heals, girls dig scars, glory lasts forever.

Tune in next time for an update on my recovery, tips on repairing bent forks, and the top ten places you could hide a van drivers body.

So that’s it. The training for Ironman Florida is done and I’m now tapering.

I hate tapering for races. It feels completely unnatural having spent weeks training at all hours in all weathers to suddenly be doing next to nothing. Every day that passes when I’m not out cycling 70 miles feels like I’m losing fitness, and every mouthful of food I eat feels like I’m adopting the potato-based lifestyle of your average McDonalds fan.

This is rubbish of course, tapering is vital if you don’t want to go into a race feeling knackered and jaded, but it’s hard to get your head round not doing much. It also forces you to confront the fact that you now have time on your hands – time that can be filled by doing all those jobs you haven’t had time for during the past few months.

In my case this largely involves walking and playing with Freddie, our new 14 week old Spaniel puppy. I realise this isn’t coming across as the most unpleasant of domestic chores, but it is surprisingly exhausting trying to prevent a fast moving, tireless ball of fur from chewing your trainers, tyres etc. And when I’m not issuing threats to “drop that or I’ll…..” I am cleaning oil off his head due to his habit of investigating my bike’s bottom bracket. Who needs Muc-Off to clean your bike when you have a puppy!

I could have done with some of Freddie’s energy at my last cycling event of the year, which was my club’s annual hill-climb time trial. Actually I didn’t do badly and finished well inside the top 10, but having spent the entire 2-hour ride out to the hill on the front of the bunch I learned a couple of valuable lessons about saving your energy, and the craftiness of your average club cyclist.

I did the hill climb on my Wiggle-sponsored Focus Cayo and I have a confession to make – I think I may have fallen in love. When the good folks at Wiggle provided me with two bikes it was naturally the Chrono Izalco that made my jaw drop, mean-machine that it is. I already had a road bike which I was happy and comfortable on so the poor Cayo didn’t get much attention initially. This changed the first time I rode it and I thought: “This is nice”. Over the months the Cayo has grown on me to the point where my own bike has been unridden since May and when someone asked me “What’s the Focus like?” I started warbling on about how wonderful the Cayo was instead of the Izalco which they were referring to.

Despite its loveliness though, it’s the Izalco that will be going to Florida with me. Also travelling to Florida with me are a number of club-mates from Coventry. There are eight of us in total getting ready to take out the British cane and give the Yanks a damn good thrashing, so I thought I would introduce them to you now so it makes the abuse they will receive in my race report easier to follow:

By these signs shall ye know them:

• Phil Richmond –aka “Tigger” due to his bouncy running style. Phil is looking forward to his first Ironman enormously, not for the challenge but for the many opportunities it presents for faffing about with his kit, something Phil is world-class at.

• Steve Howes – A Barry Chuckle lookalike who has qualified for the Ironman World Championships in Hawaii so many times he has his own hula skirt. He is a phenomenal athlete, despite the double drawback of being both short and ginger.

• Joe Reynolds –the world’s most exciting man! He is a 60-year-old grandfather who is also a Formula One racing engineer and who once appeared on Top of the Pops. To make himself even more exciting he’s decided to do the race with a broken collarbone following a recent bike crash.

• Dave Barrile – a Sicilian mafia hitman whose legs are so bandy that when he runs he looks like an egg-whisk.

• Lisa Wells – Dave’s long-suffering partner. A stylish runner whose high leg-speed has made her an excellent climber on the bike – so it’s a shame she’s doing a completely flat course.

• Mick McCann –the only one of us with a worthwhile reason for doing the race given he’s raising money for Marie Curie cancer care. He can be sponsored at http://www.justgiving.com/michael-mccann/

• Penny Wilkin –completed her first Ironman last year and has been preparing for Florida by luring unsuspecting club cyclists out on 5-hour training rides.

So that’s it, we’re all off to Florida to do an Ironman which puts us all in the same boat. I say the same boat, obviously being a sponsored athlete I’m up on the bridge with the binoculars and the Richard Gere uniform on while they’re all down in the engine room with the big sweaty lads, but essentially it’s the same boat.

More of this rubbish when I return. Wish me luck.

There are now just three weeks to go before I step on the warm sands of Panama City Beach to take my place on the start line at Ironman Florida (and if you’re reading this in dark, grey, rain-soaked Britain, I mean the warm golden sands, deep blue cloudless skies and balmy Caribbean waters of Panama City Beach – aha ha ha hahaha ha).

IM Florida will be my last big challenge of the year (unless you count getting out of going to see my tedious brother-in-law for the Christmas dinner from hell) and the training this time round has been hard. Maybe it’s because I’m training later in the year than usual, maybe it’s the dark nights and the colder weather, or maybe I am just getting too old for all this, but I’m knackered, grumpy and hungry – the “knackered” part of this being the only discernible difference from my usual state.

I’m especially tired this week having just returned from a weekend training camp in Wales with the lads from my cycling club. Because Florida is completely flat I felt the ideal preparation would be to do 160 miles and 15,000 feet of climbing in two days around the vowel-free villages of Snowdonia. Highlights of the weekend included riding up Horseshoe Pass in the big ring and the bunch going so fast around Lake Vyrnwy that we made some leisure cyclists scream with fright. Moments I do not wish to remember included 25% hills which were so hard I ended up with teeth marks in my handlebars.

On top of slogging my way around the valleys that time forgot, I’m also trying to do something about preparing for the heat I am going to face on the warm, golden, sun-kissed etc etc sands of Florida. Historically I do not fare well in the heat. I am British and therefore used to a predominantly overcast sky. I am also blond and therefore about as comfortable in sunlight as your average vampire. As a result, in previous races I have become so dehydrated by the heat that I’ve virtually turned into a pillar of salt.

So this time, I am taking steps to avoid the advanced stages of death by doing some acclimatisation. Finding places in the UK that are 30 degrees centigrade and 75% humidity in October is not easy, but that’s where Loughborough University Sports Science Service and the fiendish heat chamber come in.

For the past couple of weeks I have been travelling to Loughborough to sit on my turbo trainer in a small room packed full of heaters, humidifiers and wallpaper steamers, and pedal like mad for an hour while resident Physiologist Beth Hanson analyses my heart-rate, temperature, rate of fluid-loss and constant bitching.

The acclimatization sessions are not only to get me used to training in the heat, but are also designed to calculate how much I need to drink during a race, when to drink, and most importantly what to drink. This involves Beth maintaining a high degree of professionalism while taking blood and urine samples from an extremely sweaty and sweary man moaning about having a numb crotch.

I’ve done four sessions so far and have another six to go. At the end of all this I not only get an impressive array of sweat rashes and a tolerance for cycling in ovens, but a drink and a drinks plan to help me survive in the heat. This combined with dragging my bike up Welsh cliffs should help me get round the warm, golden, sun-kissed etc etc sands of Florida. And after the Ironman, I have another drinking plan to concentrate, with which I require no help whatsoever…

Legs in Notts

Earlier this year I tore a muscle in my foot. This was particularly annoying because:

1. It hurt
2. It was two weeks before I was due to run in Stratford-upon-Avon marathon, a key part of my build up for Ironman Austria.

As it was I showed great maturity at not being able to run in the marathon by going cycling for 4 hours in the opposite direction on race day and refusing to talk to any of my team mates about their various PBs on the day. The gits.

The lack of a marathon this year though has been an itch that needed to be scratched, which is why I decided I would give Nottingham Marathon a go, this time as part of my build up for Ironman Florida.

I’ve never run around Nottingham before (unless you count being chased by a load of Forest fans back in the mid 80s) so I had no idea what to expect when I lined up with several thousand others for the Robin Hood Marathon last week. However my training has been going well and for once not only did I feel like a runner, I also looked like a runner thanks to all the splendid Pearl Izumi running kit that had arrived in a box some weeks before.

To be honest I had been waiting for an excuse to use some of my new running toys in anger so I was be-decked in running vest, shorts and shoes all from Pearl Izumi, not to mention a hat which bears the legend “Run like an animal.” Quite which animal I run like has been the source of some debate among my friends, with suggestions ranging from sloth, snail and one-legged duck to giraffe and retired greyhound.

Anyway, for those of you considering Nottingham Marathon as a race to try – do. It’s great. And for those of you considering Pearl Izumi running kit to buy – do. It’s great. The combination of great course and great kit combined to help me achieve a new personal best of 2:56:53 – a PB by 10 minutes and my first sub-3 hour marathon. Training up and down hills like a lunatic may also have had something to do with it, but mostly I put it down to the kit.

As usual I set off too fast. It was a mixed marathon/half marathon start so I was pulled along by the pace of the half-marathoners and ran the first mile in 6.23. “Calm down” I told myself. I ran the second mile in 6.40. “Easy tiger” I told myself. I ran the third mile in 6.45. “You f****g idiot” I told myself. Anyway I was feeling good so I pushed on and managed to hold a 6.50 pace for miles 4, 5, 6 etc. The course cruelly took us within yards of the half marathon finish before peeling off for lap two, and I reached the halfway point in 1.26 thinking “hmmmm – this is probably all going to go wrong soon”.

The crowds thinned out dramatically for the second half of the run but I kept up the 6.50s and I was somewhat pleased to reach the 20 mile mark in 2.11, which would have been a PB for that distance too and had me thinking “hmmmm – this is probably all going to go wrong soon”.

By this point we reached the lake at Holme Pierrepoint, scene of the National Triathlon Relays, and it was like being in some freaky alternative universe running the other way around the lake. By mile 21 I was trying (and failing) to work out the maths in my head of whether I could beat 3 hours if the wheels didn’t come off. This continued for miles 22, 23 and 24 and it wasn’t until mile 25 that I worked out that I had a bit of time in hand. This also coincided with the first signs of trouble as my time slowed to 7.19 for the mile. However with 200 yards to go not even a bunch of rampaging Forest fans would have stopped me and I crossed the line in a happy and somewhat surprised frame of mind. This may account for what I did next, which may yet see me end up on some sort of register….

In the morning before the race I’d left my car in the designated parking area, which it so happened was right next to a children’s playground. On returning to my car I began the usual ritual of getting my sweaty kit off and getting my skins and dry clothes on. This was complicated by performing this feat inside the car, and also involved me picking congealed jelly babies from my shorts pocket and lobbing them out the window. In a moment of sudden clarity it occurred to me that I was sitting in a car, naked from the waist down, throwing sweets out of my window at a children’s play area….

I quickly fought a pitched battle with my Skins to get them on my legs as fast as possible and screeched out of the car park like a getaway driver. If this turns out to be my last blog you’ll know that the phrase “Its not what it looks like Officer” didn’t work.

Being triathletes, the question we get asked most often is “why?”

Why do you do it? Why put yourself through all that effort? Why get up at 5am to go swimming? Why give up a nice cozy bed to go cycling for hours in all weathers? Why go swimming in a freezing lake? Why run so far or fast that you virtually collapse? Why give up your night out because you are too tired to move– or because you have to train the next morning?

Like most triathletes, “why” has never troubled me. I’m more interested in “what”. What was my time for that last lap? What is the weather going to be like for the ride? What kit should I wear? What can I do to get stronger towards the end of races? What will happen to my weight if I eat that biscuit? What is the price of those wheels? The only “why” that I’ve ever dwelt on is “why don’t girls seem impressed when I tell them about my marathon splits at the end of an Ironman….?”

My recent channel swim however forced me to consider the thorny question of “why in the name of God am I doing this?” There’s nothing like having the feeling you’ve bitten off more than you can chew to give you a moment of self-awareness – a rare thing for triathletes given we are mostly too busy training to work, dress or sleep never mind think.

At first I wondered if was because I want to fit in? There’s part of me that certainly enjoys fitting in with people whose athletic achievements I admire. I enjoy listening to someone talking about being “on the rivet on the K10/10 in a 53/12” and knowing exactly what they are talking about. There’s also part of me that delights in joining in conversations about this Ironman or that marathon and sharing that windswept, flinty look of being a “Finisher” with them.

Then I wondered if it’s because I want to stand apart? Try as I might I can’t help but glow with smugness when I hear someone talk about going to the gym or jogging the Race for Life as the pinnacle of their fitness without thinking “Christ, that’s not even a warm up!” And yes, I confess to disgusting, shameless smugness when I’m at a pub or party and I see all the drinkers, the smokers and the bellies. I take pleasure in thinking “I’m not like you…”

But it’s not these. I’ve realised I swim, cycle and run because it makes me feel alive. So much of modern life insulates you from the real world. It cossets you, sedates you, it keeps you warm and safe and free of risk or pain. We are encouraged to buy our way to a better life, and that just for a few pounds more we can purchase everything to make our lives complete. But there’s nothing that anyone can ever sell me that can ever compare with the sheer joy and freedom of being alive that hurtling downhill on a bike gives me, or swimming in a lake gives me, or running through the countryside gives me.

I’ve been so cold while cycling that frost formed on me. So hot after running that I jumped into someone’s ornamental fish pond. So tired I’ve fallen asleep in a plate of food. I’ve been soaked and sunburned. I’ve had heat stroke and hypothermia. I’ve crashed, fallen, punctured, tripped, collapsed and got hopelessly lost. And I’d take any of these and more ahead of any TV programme or download or theme park ride or video game or virtual world or iphone or shopping centre or tweet. Because there’s nothing artificial that can ever give you the same thrill you get from winning or finishing. And even when it hurts, I’m still out there in the big wide world…. living life.

Anyway, I’m off to run Nottingham Marathon this weekend. Why? Don’t ask…..

Imagine this. It is 2.45am, pitch dark, and you are on a small boat in the middle of the English Channel. You are holding on to a ladder waiting for a klaxon to signal the moment at which you will jump into the sea. The water temperature is 16 degrees and you are wearing a pair of Speedos.

Should you ever find yourself in this position, I can absolutely guarantee what you will be thinking, and it will be: “What the f— am I doing???!!!!”

This is certainly what went through my mind last week as I clung to the back of the good ship “Sea Satin” waiting to take my turn on our English Channel relay swim. My team of four had been going for two hours, starting from Dover just after midnight. Big Andy Heath did the first hour, Robin Corder is just completing the second hour and I am the next batter. Both Andy and Robin swam well and looked comfortable, heaping pressure on me not to be crap.

Inevitably the klaxon of death went and I jumped in. I was expecting it to be cold and we were told the water was a cool but manageable 16 degrees. The water I jumped into felt more like 1.6 degrees. It was so cold I couldn’t swear. Or swim. Or breathe. I just made this gasping noise and started wind-milling frantically to get round to the side of the boat where the spotlight was.

I don’t know if any of you have ever swum in the dark in the sea but take it from me, it isn’t for the faint-hearted. I’m not usually afraid of the dark, but then I don’t usually encounter so much of it. It’s above you, ahead of you, behind you and, most importantly, underneath you. I am not afraid to say that I was absolutely bricking myself and I stuck to the spotlight beam like a moth.

So began possibly the least pleasant hour of my life, apart from when I once used a mobile phone in Nuneaton and was almost burned as a witch. After swimming as though my life depended on it – which it did – I was mightily relieved when a green flashing light on deck signalled that our fourth and final team member Steve “Iceman” Howes was readying himself for a watery grave. The klaxon went and I was on the boat faster than a Somali pirate.

Much had changed on the good ship lollipop while I was paddling about. Andy was now gripped by seasickness and was retching at 10 second intervals. I set about searching for a towel, dry clothes and some bravery before settling down on the poop deck for a snooze. I was dozing when a sharply worded exchange between ships captain Lance and the Iceman awoke me:

Captain Lance: “Are you alright mate?”
Steve the Iceman: “I want to get out.”
Lance: “You can’t, you’ve only done 30 minutes.”
Iceman: “I’m cold”
Lance the pilot: “Well keep swimming then.”

Steve is not given to such announcements lightly. He’s done the Ironman world finals five times, won his age group at Ironman Austria, cycled from Lands-End to John-O’Groats and he’s done a DOUBLE Ironman. However in the channel he felt the cold more than the rest of us, due to having the same body fat as a paper-clip. However, showing true determination he dug in and finished his hour before coming aboard and amusing us all with a two-hour impersonation of Shakin’ Stevens as he tried to stop shivering.

The next four hours were a repeat of the first four except it was now light, which wasn’t all it was cracked up to be because we could now see that we were in the shipping lanes with tankers and ferries all approaching at ramming speed. Seasick Andy did his turn before returning on board to resume his retch-athon and bobbin’ Robin took over, clawing his way through blankets of seaweed. My turn came and went in a flurry of thrashing arms and salty burping, before the Iceman returned to the frozen deep.

After 8 hours bobbing along in a sick bucket you’d think we would be starting to get a bit disheartened, or perhaps show the first signs of scurvy. However the third stint turned into our best. The sun came up, our speed went up and on my third hour something wonderful happened – France hove into view on the horizon. The sight of the coast sparked renewed vigour and even the Iceman forgot his bone-shaking to put in a super-fast hour.

There was of course another reason why we put on a sudden spurt for French waters. We weren’t just swimming across the Channel, we were racing across the Channel! Starting alongside us was another boat, “Gallivant” populated with out-and-out swimmers, as opposed to the boat-load of Ironmen that comprised our ships company. Steve McMenamin, Karen Throsby and Jamie Goodhead aka the “Customers Dodgers” had been close behind us from the word go and were now making an attempt to overtake. Seeing them trying to sneak up roused us into action and all of us put in some big turns , none bigger than Seasick Andy who struck out for the coast like a man possessed (mostly so he didn’t have to get back on the boat.)

Despite the best efforts of the tides to take us off towards variously Belgium and Brazil, we all swam to the beach together, dragging ourselves onto the stony French shore in 12 hours 58 minutes. We remained on the beach for all of about 3 minutes before sprinting back to the boat and rushing over to where Gallivant was chugging along to have a hearty laugh as the “swimmers” lugged themselves ashore 20 minutes behind us. After a thoroughly enjoyable gloat our boat turned for a three-hour ride home to the sound of Andy retching.

As ever with these things, there’s more to this Channel swimming lark than meets the eye. You can be the strongest swimmer in the world but time, tide, cold, shipping lanes, swell, wind, dark and fear are all there to stop you succeeding. The tides alone are not to be underestimated. As the crow flies it’s just over 20 miles from England to France, but the tides meant we swam closer to 35 miles. However the boat pilots are geniuses who know every inch of the ocean and who encourage you to reach certain points at certain times with ancient nautical phrases like “get a f—ing move on or we’ll miss the tide”.

So that’s that, I’m a channel swimmer (of the relay variety) and in summary – thank Christ that lot is out of the way. And for anyone out there who has done it solo, or is planning to – respect!

Like most triathletes, water plays a significant part in my life. Unfortunately it’s mostly when I’m out on my bloody bike.

Yes the BBQ summer is upon on us and I have now had my fair share of dousings as I battle way soggy way around rain-lashed roads. There seems to be a particular type of storm front called cumulo-timetrialus which lurks unseen to the naked eye until the moment I take the start line of a time trial, whereupon it races overhead and dumps the equivalent of Rutland Water on me.

This has happened twice so far this week, with last Saturday’s downpour a particularly biblical affair as I took part in the Heanor Clarion CC 25 miler at Ettwall. I’m happy to say that despite spray from passing lorries, lashing rain, standing water and slippery roundabouts, I broke the hour for the first time with a 58.08 and a top 20 finish. I put this entirely down to my speedy Focus Izalco bike, and to fear, with a strong desire to get away from the lorries on the A50 as fast as humanly possible. Despite a couple of squeaky-bum moments due to reckless cornering I was very pleased to be a) under the hour and b) alive – and a quick word to any local councils, these so called “speed-bumps” you build are rubbish. If anything they slow you down.

Anyway, getting cold and wet every day is a blessing in disguise (although it’s a bloody good disguise) because water of a more salty kind is looming large on my horizon – this weekend I’m off to swim the channel. So far I’ve successfully implied to everyone that I am doing it solo whereas in truth I‘ve been bending the truth so far it’s virtually a balloon animal. In fact I am just one cog in a well-oiled machine of a team called “All this for fags and booze” which is making a relay attempt to get to France without spending any money on ferries or the Eurostar.

And what a team it is. There’s Steve “Ice Man” Howes, Robin Corder and a bloke I haven’t met yet called Andy, who I’m counting on to be a relative of Michael Phelps. The Ice Man is so named because I’ve got more fat in my fingernails than has in his whole body and he’s been finding the sea temperature a bit on the nippy side. Lastly there’s me, with my legs the size of a bookie’s Biro. How can we possibly fail?

We also have a rival team taking the whole business far more seriously than us, made up of Steve Mcmenamin, Karen Throsby and Jamie Goodhead. Steve is a Brighton resident who regularly makes attempts to kill himself by swimming under Brighton Pier, Karen is an aspiring channel solo-ist for 2010 while Jamie is an Australian who, having lived in the UK for too long, is trying to make a swim for it. All in all, they don’t stand a chance against us.

Most of us are doing this because frankly we can’t get any wetter than being out cycling, although Steve Mac is actually doing it with noble intentions, raising money for the Brainstrust charity. So if any kind souls would like to sponsor us in our synchronised drowning attempt, please go to

www.justgiving.com/stevemcmenamin/

Until next time, au revoir