Strangely, my bucket list of places I’d like to visit has been shrinking, not due to visiting them all, but more a reluctance to travel vast distances and contribute to global warming. Having seen photos, one place has remained on my list for many years. It is near, but for some years was not an ideal holiday destination. Fortunately the political situation is far healthier nowadays, so I set my sights on Giant’s Causeway.

There are an ideal set of races along the County Antrim Coastal Path in September – 10km, half and full marathons. However, that clashes with the start of the cyclocross season and duathlons, so that wasn’t going to happen. Then I found that 26 extreme, a Northern Irish sports event management firm, advertised the Causeway Crossing – a set of trail runs: 25km, 50km and 100km – which for the last few years have taken place on the May Day bank holiday weekend. As this coincides with my birthday, I get first dibs on activities.



With the prospect of a challenging race and a happy partner, Spike readily agreed to the expedition. And, O Big Mistake, I thought “Oh, what the hell, I may as well have a go at the 25km”. My aim was to finish with a smile, rather than bust a gut to save a minute or two. In November I found some wonderful accommodation, the Magherintemple Lodge, an Irish Landmark Trust property near Ballycastle. Old college friends living in County Down confirmed that our visiting them in the foothills of the Mourne Mountains would be welcome and EasyJet flights and car hire were booked.


Ignore sharp climb at the start - that was Spike's garmin waking up.

With six months to train for the event, and already able to run 5 miles comfortably, I felt confident that I could build up both distance and speed. However, speed is a relative notion. Spike’s slow is my sprint. So I contacted the race organisers to check on cut-off times. They replied by email that all the information was on the website. Well, I had triple checked the race website before the initial contact, so I asked them to just tell me whether there were time limits. No response. I asked the same question on their Facebook page, which was also ignored. This didn’t give me much confidence in the organisation, but I had booked everything and my training continued according to plan, starting with the Hadleigh 5, and a couple of cross country series races, both about 6 miles.

In January I completed the Freethorpe 10 in 1:51:49, with a big smile. Things were looking positive.

Then the race entries opened – for the end of May bank holiday. Oh Crap! The Irish Landmark Trust was most obliging in changing the dates of our booking with no admin fee. Our friends confirmed that the later weekend was also fine with them. An added bonus was that our good friend, Anne, who has accompanied us on several race weekends, was available for the new date, and she has had Giants Causeway on her list for ages. Changing the car hire was no problem, just more expensive. Of course, the EasyJet flights had to be junked and new ones booked. My fault for booking well in advance.

In February I completed the Tarpley 10 in 1:50:36, still smiling. It was a good reinforcement that my training was solid.

In March I extended the distance and trotted happily through the Stowmarket Half Marathon in 2:31:37. Not exactly setting the running world records on fire, in fact, over 15 minutes slower than my own PB, but I was training for the long haul. I had been doing my usual mouthing off but my original idea of completing the Causeway Crossing 25km in three hours had already shifted to three and a half hours. I was ready to consolidate my progress at the Bungay Half Marathon, but came down with a chest lurgy, which developed into bronchitis and a particularly rasping cough. Training ceased for a good three weeks and my mojo took a good beating. On the May Day weekend I got shifting again and enjoyed a 23km trail run of three laps of Fynn Valley. My confidence was boosted and I knew I could do the distance, but speed was definitely an issue. My target was now shifting inexorably towards a 3:45 target, but I knew I would not be happy with 5 hours. O Ye Gods! Me and my big mouth.

After a crack of dawn start, on Friday morning we met up with Anne at Belfast International Airport (the EasyJet place 15 miles out of town), took the coast road to Ballycastle, stocked up with provisions and settled into our cottage, which proved to be much nicer and larger than the website indicated.



All proceeded to plan as we visited Giants Causeway – the full visitor centre experience with atrocious audio guide.



It’s strange that we all imagined that the basalt columns would each be at least a metre wide. In fact, they are more like 30cms across.





Anyway, of course it is absolutely stunning.



Through the Giants Gateway we strolled along the path past the Pipe Organ and on towards the Amphitheatre, which recently had a massive landslide making it inaccessible.





Turning back towards the causeway, we climbed the Shepherd’s Steps up to the coastal path. We saw some little yellow pointing markers. Hmmm…



Before returning to the cottage, we registered for the race at Ballintoy, where we met Rowan, the Race Director. The race had changed hands to Primal Challenges – shenanigans in the event management world, methinks. Rowan explained that, as the 100km race was due to start at 5am, 50km at noon, and the 25km at 2pm, there was no way I would be last on the course. He also mentioned that the course was actually 24km. We collected our race packs and headed home for the traditional pre-race spaghetti bolognese. Spike encouraged me to think that the distance would be the full 25km, then, if the finish line came early I could be happy, and not miserable if the measuring was a little off. Sound advice.

We had a leisurely breakfast on Saturday, got our race gear together and put a chicken casserole in the oven to slow cook through the afternoon.

The bus was scheduled to leave Larrybane Quarry, by the entrance to the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, at 1:15pm to take us to the race start, just beyond the ruin of Dunluce Castle. We arrived in plenty of time and soon realised that Spike’s race gear was still in the cottage. Mild mannered Spike issued a rare expletive. There was a food stop at 15km, but that wasn’t quite enough to keep him racing at full pelt. A plan was formed. Anne drove to the cottage to collect the kit while Spike and I boarded the bus. Meantime we eventually got details as to how Anne would find the Magheracross car park. Text messages were sent whenever the bus reached a point with a couple of signal bars.
All the athletes disembarked from the bus and the ritual stretching routines began. The fit people were checking out the opposition. I was looking for our little red hire car to appear. At 2pm Rowan called us all to start the race. Just as we lined up, Anne turned in to the car park. Hurrah! The race was delayed for a couple of minutes while Spike donned his drink pack and Garmin. Then we were off.

The first 100k guy had already started back by the time we started. A couple more of the 100km and several 50km athletes were approaching our start point (their 75km and 25km marks respectively). The 50km route started at Larrybane Quarry. The 25km start was the 50km turnaround point. So long as I kept the sea on my left I should keep on course.

As our paths crossed there was much encouragement and high fives. There was a tremendously friendly and positive atmosphere as we ran down to and through Portbalintrae, crossing the golf course, and picking up the coastal path. Plenty of weekend walkers prevented me from getting lonely. Yes, as usual, I was at the back of the race within five minutes.



I thought that perhaps one of the other athletes had set off too fast and I would reel them in. I was wrong. It was a sunny day in one of the most beautiful places I have been privileged to visit. I was smiling.

I reached the Giants Causeway Visitor Centre after 10km. It was a great feeling running down the sloping road as the tourists made way for me. I’m quite good at descending and almost look like a runner.



Having seen the causeway properly the day before, I felt quite blasé ripping along to the Shepherd Steps. I was glad that we had climbed them previously as I knew I could manage it (with a rest half way up). On the top path I turned left and trotted on towards Dunseverick. After I passed above the Amphitheatre I had already admired, I took a moment to stop and admire the view. It was breathtakingly stunning. I got quite emotional, despite a lack of dust in the sea air. This was the reason for the trip.

Yomping on my Garmin informed me that I had covered 15km. There was no sign of the food station. I was not in need of food – I had energy drink and food, but I was expecting to see them. I wanted reassurance. After 16km I asked a passing 50km-er whether I had missed the aid point. “It’s about a mile further on” he called, and also checked whether I was in need of anything. The table of race food was waiting for me at 17.75km. I was fine about the food, but was worried that, as I had been told it was 15km to this point, and a further 10km to the finish line, did this mean the course was actually 27km? That would be a substantially longer in my book. The people manning the aid station didn’t know the distances – but they were good at providing water and bananas. I downed a gel with caffeine. I knew I had a long trek ahead.

Keeping the sea on my left I followed the well signed route. A kilometre further along I asked a passing 50km-er whether she knew the distance from her start to the aid station. She replied 8km with considerable confidence, so it looked like the distance would probably be 25km. But my nerves had been shaken and I proceeded cautiously. At this point the terrain took a much tougher turn. Up to this stage there was a solid well-worn path with an occasional stile to straddle. Now there was soft sand to suck up all my energy and stony beaches. I crossed a small bay and was faced with large boulders. After a few minutes of stumbling along I worried about slipping and injuring myself. Some friendly 50km-ers invited me to follow their stepping route, but I could only keep up with them for three rocks. I had to choose a route. At one stage I found myself on a small cliff, had to backtrack and pick a different course. The smile had slipped and the lip was starting to wobble. I was exhausted, and this was much harder than I had anticipated. A passing walker asked if I was OK.
“Not really” I replied “I’ve taken on more than I can chew, and could do with some help across these rocks, please”.

Patiently, he and his wife kindly guided me over the rocks to the firm sand at the end. I thanked them and marched on. By this stage a sub four hour finish was not on the cards. I was keen to conserve my energy in case there were more large rock bays to clamber over. Off the beach the track varied between grass, sand and bog and was littered with stiles. A quite unreasonable number of the bloody things. I was vaguely aware that the sun had changed to a steady rain.

Eventually at about 23km the yellow arrows pointed me onto tarmac at Ballintoy Harbour. I heard a familiar voice call from the road above to advise a 50km-er of the correct path. I waved up the cliff with a big smile.


See that little dot in the distance staggering up the road...

I tried running up the hairpin bends, but soon reverted to marching. Spike walked the final section with me. He had a spare t-shirt which I popped on as I was getting quite chilled in my soggy running vest.

As the clock turned 4:48 I crossed the finish line with a grin.



My Garmin recorded 25km. Very happy I had completed the course, but pretty much off my head, I sat in a gazebo on a stone and started shutting down. Spike helped me in to his jacket and Anne drove to meet me. They poured me into the car with the heating on full, wrapped me in a blanket and whisked me back to the cottage where I soaked in a hot bath. The chicken casserole was superb, but I was so tired I could only manage one helping!

The next morning we took Anne back to the airport after a visit to Carrickfergus Castle.



I was amazed to find that I could both climb and descend stairs, despite Saturday’s adventure.

We drove on to Turnip House Tea Rooms, located in the middle of nowhere in County Down, somewhere between Dromara and Castlewellan.



John and Elaine welcomed us with open arms.



Food was eaten, drink was drunk, memories were shared and future dreams imagined, pretty much solidly for two days.



We parted on Tuesday morning.



If you have spare time in Belfast, I can recommend the tours of Stormont and Crumlin Road Jail, both interesting in their different ways.





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Getting There

As the New Year rolled in and the chimes of Big Ben were still echoing from Radio 4, I received a message from Dag, Norseman General Manager, inviting us to be part of the Norseman Crew. We were in :w00t: Yippee! That really got our year off to a cracking start. As we both have a lot of experience of Norseman (competing and supporting) and have helped organise many sporting activities, we were both deemed suitable crew members.

Those who know Spike and me, know that Spike does the racing and I do all the organising. And, boy, do I organise ;-) Immediately I could add items to my Things To Do list:
Flights
Accommodation
Car hire
Insurance
Airport parking

From previous experience with SAS, I decided to fly with BA, as they accept bike bags as hold baggage without question, so that was a relatively easy decision. We flew to and from Oslo, as the journey from Gaustablikk to Oslo is significantly shorter than to Bergen.

I checked out all the usual car hire firms for an eleven day rental. Some of the quotes were astronomical. After lots of comparisons, noting additional fees for extra drivers, unlimited mileage etc etc I found Rent-A-Wreck, who were significantly cheaper than all the others, with no hidden extras.

Based on flight times, I reckoned that we could manage a couple of hours driving along the route after arriving on the Thursday afternoon. We arrived at Oslo airport expecting to find our car hire firm in the same area as all the others. Wrong. After chasing through a chain of mobile numbers I eventually spoke to Kristian, who described where the car was located in the Short Term Car Park and where the key was hidden. Eventually we were installed in a rather comfy Mazda 6. It’s a quite big car with surprisingly good suspension. We were Eidfjord-bound.

I certainly recommend booking a cabin at Stavn campsite to anyone needing accommodation along this route. Showers and loos were spotless, with all the little things included such as loo roll, soap and paper towels, so you didn’t have to bring a wash kit with you every time you needed a pee.

Having brought all the ingredients with us, we cooked up a storming vegetable risotto, and slept well. You know how I mentioned that I’m the organiser? Well, when I went to pay cash for the accommodation, the lady looked at me a little strangely.
“That isn’t Norwegian money” she said,
as I confidently extracted some notes from my bag of kroner.
Which muppet had picked up the remains of our Ö Till Ö money from our trip to Sweden?
D’Oh! :x :stupid:

On Friday morning we bought lunch stuff at Geilo and enjoyed a picnic on the Hardangervidda plateau in the sunshine. On arriving at Eidfjord, the race start town, we located Bergslein. This is the guesthouse that is, effectively, Norseman HQ. The owner, Liv, is charming and helpful, and is unnervingly similar in appearance to one of our cyclo-cross friends, so I had to always resist the urge to call her Sara.

As part of the crew, you can participate in the Crew Race, one week before the proper race. The Crew Race follows exactly the same course as the real race, but you jump into the fjord from some rocks, rather than a ferry. If you’re within the cut-off times, you get to finish at the top of Gausta and claim your black t-shirt.

A little diversion about t-shirts: If you win (male or female) the Norseman Xtreme Triathlon, you win a black t-shirt, as do all the other athletes who meet the necessary cut-offs and climb to the summit of Gaustatoppen at 1800m. Those who do not reach the 32km point of the marathon inside the time and quota limits, complete the distance at 1100m with the finish line in the ski village of Gaustablikk. These people win a white t-shirt. White t-shirts can show off a tan better than black ones. Norseman is all about t-shirts: if you get five black T’s, you are awarded a green T. One man, Jan Wilhelm Werner, has a pink t-shirt for 10 blacks. So by 2012 Spike already had a green t-shirt (and six blacks), but thinks that pink would suit him well.

Through the afternoon more crew members rolled up and introductions were made. We were by no means the only new crew members. Spike and I got stuck into the pre-race favourite meal - spag bol. I was particularly proud of the parmesan shavings. After a long delay caused by cows in the road :cow: , Kalle Jensen, the Race Director, arrived at 8pm and gave a brief pre-crew-race-briefing. In return for use of a track pump, we agreed to give Ole from Trondheim a lift to the start, allowing his wife to have an extra couple of hours’ kip.

Spike and I packed up most of our gear, leaving a couple of bags to be kept at Bergslein, ready for our return.


Crew Race

The advantage of participating in the Crew Race is that you can lie in till 3:30am. Luxury. I drove Spike and Ole along the side of the fjord till we saw Kalle’s van in a layby.

A van and some cars


It is fair to say that the level of razzamatazz was economical. Nine crew members followed Kalle as he led them down the steep bank, then jumped into Hardangerfjord.

l-r: Irene, Jan-Sigurd, Ole, Kai, Spike, Geir, Ole Jacob, Tommy - so I guess this pic was taken by Jonny



The Crew Race was on.

I drove back to Eidfjord and set up T1 for Spike outside Quality Hotel. I nipped back to Bergslein to pack the car and readied myself for Norseman Support mode. Spike swam in with Jonny Hisdal, one of the race doctors, in third/fourth position.

Probably a swimming troll:


Oh. It's Spike clambering up to T1


Jonny in T1


“The favourite swim of my life” declared a beaming Spike.
I really didn’t understand this notion that jumping into a fjord at 5am could be in any way enjoyable. :blankstare:

Once he was on his bike, my next job was to get to the lay-by just before the Måbø tunnel. In past years, the athletes could cycle along the old tourist road which winds around the side of the mountains, while the support crews drive through the tunnels. However, a recent rock slide had taken out a large chunk of the road by this tunnel and the police have banned all use of this part of the cycle route as they are expecting more rock falls. It would put a downer on your day if a large rock were to fall on your head. Also, bikes are now banned from using the Måbø tunnel, much to the annoyance of several Eidfjord residents, but the police had given us a special dispensation for the Crew Race and the actual race. For the Crew Race each cyclist had to be followed by a support car. This tunnel is approximately two kilometres long on a steady uphill gradient. For me, this was the low point of the day.

Just as Petter followed Ole Jacob into the tunnel, a car screamed in behind and I heard the squealing of brakes. I held my breath till another car emerged from the tunnel, implying that there had been no crash.

Spike on the old Tourist Road:


When Spike came across the picturesque bridge and entered the tunnel I tagged in behind him. I could hear a car coming from behind, so put on the hazard lights for a few seconds. This successfully alerted the approaching car, who slowed down. But he couldn’t wait, and overtook in the tunnel. We had been advised not to let anyone pass, but I really don’t know how I could have stopped him. Spike powered on, out of the saddle, to get through this ordeal as quickly as possible. Towards the end of the tunnel another pair of cars followed me. Fortunately they waited till we were in daylight before overtaking. Phew. That was over.

When supporting Spike at Norseman in previous years, once he was cycling I would drive the forty kilometres straight to the top of the first mountain to the glory that is Breakfast at Dyranut. However, with only eight athletes on the road, I decided to offer more support as there were fewer people around to help in the event of a problem. In any case, had I arrived earlier I would have been disappointed, as the café didn’t open till 8am. The owner, an enthusiastic Norseman supporter, hadn’t realised that it was Crew Race day. Anyway, we were soon feasting on pancakes and smoked salmon :) In the beverage department I stuck to two mugs of tea, of which half a mug was stolen by a guy in red and black on a bike. Grrr. If I catch him he’ll know about it
Ole’s wife, Sissel, asked whether Spike was doing OK. With confidence I replied
“It’s a sunny day in Norway and he’s riding up mountains. I can guarantee he’s happy.”
And he was.

Once Spike was sorted, I headed for Geilo, the halfway point in the bike leg. I could feel the need for more caffeine and was directed to a coffee shop up two flights of stairs behind the supermarket. I got my special Norseman mug, © Cleo of this parish, filled with good smelling coffee, and just took small sips of it at each stop. Spike also took a generous portion, thus saving me from a crazy caffeine caper.

Kai at Geilo:


Jonny at Geilo:


At this stage Spike was in third place, behind Jonny and Kai, another race doctor. I was aware that Ole Jacob, Jan-Sigurd and Tommy (next year’s Race Director) were only a little way behind as their support cars were parking up by me.

Kai has breakfast at Geilo:


Spike is happy:


At the top of Dagali, the morning sun warmed me through sufficiently for me to change into shorts.

Immingfjell was bathed in glorious sunshine. :sun:

Spike is still happy:


Jonny gets running support on the false flat after Immingfjell:


Kalle took a dip in the lake by the dam. I had never seen such beautiful conditions for Norseman. I headed for T2 as the last twenty kilometres of the bike route are fast and pretty much downhill. At Austbygde (T2) I found Kari and Kim, two Norseman Crew stalwarts, taking a dip in the inviting lake. Wow. This was a sunny day. It was really getting rather hot…

Jonny was ahead. Kai was taking a short rest. Jan-Sigurd set off from T2 a couple of minutes after Spike. Did I mention that, on the one day in history when Norway was officially hot, we had a car with bust air conditioning? One of the prices paid for choosing Rent-A-Wreck.

After about six kilometres I pulled in at a Spar and bought a couple of ice lollies. The first athlete to whom I offered the sweet, cold sustenance was Kai, who refused the ice as his stomach wouldn’t handle it. He had gone through a pretty low patch early in the run, but was now starting to pick up again, chasing down Jonny.

Kai gets a wiggle on:


Jan-Sigurd realised that the lolly was a gift from the gods and accepted it enthusiastically. Spike wasn’t sure, but took it anyway. Three minutes later he declared it a brilliant idea. Water, sugar and cold aren’t bad race nutrition on a steaming hot day.

By the nine kilometre mark the ratio of walking to running started to increase. After thirteen kilometres even the slightest incline was sufficient reason to walk.
Phew what a scorcher.
The increase in walking did have a positive side effect. When not running, Spike could eat. He took on significantly more nutrition at this stage than in previous races, which I’m sure helped him as the day progressed. I had a Tupperware container with enticing piles of orange segments, and bite size pieces of banana.

Spike does a poor impression of a runner:


Spike kept expecting to be overtaken by Jan-Sigurd – but each time he turned back for a peek, Jan-Sigurd was the same distance behind, also struggling with the heat.


Jan Sigurd trying to remember cooler happier times:


After fifteen kilometres, by the Kongsberg turn, I was concerned that my fifteen litre water container was getting warm and was being used faster than anticipated.

Jan Sigurd and Spike appear to be racing in different directions:


Kari and Kim, who kept apparating (Harry Potter style) to cheer everyone on, advised me that there was a campsite just before the turn at Rjukan. I drove ahead and found the place. There were signs everywhere indicating that the water was for the use of campsite patrons only. I could have just helped myself, but decided to be polite. In reception I explained the situation and offered to pay for filling up my water container. They suggested I bought some little bottles of water at a ‘special’ Norwegian price. I described that the athletes had water bottles for running, and I needed ‘about five’ litres of tap water. I then saw they sold ice lollies. I offered to buy one. After a brief discussion the lady said that if I bought a lolly, I was welcome to fill my water container. The deal was done. I tipped out some lukewarm Eidfjord water and refilled with fresh, cold Rjukan water. Spike was more than happy to have another lolly.

I thought that a greater variety of nutrition was required, so emptied the contents of the bike bento box into the fruit container. Spike could now feast on salted cashews and jelly babies. As the cashews ran out I added salted peanuts. :chew:

Onward and upward - Spike knows what's ahead:


At the bottom of Zombie Hill, Jan-Sigurd had nearly caught Spike, so they walked up together. I hoped that Cobbie wouldn’t be hurt by this obvious two-timing, in the exact same spot where Spike and he had bonded a few years earlier. :love:





Grethe, Jan-Sigurd’s partner, spotted a small waterfall at the side of the road. They had only met the night before, but Spike and Jan-Sigurd were already sharing waterfall showers in an effort to cool their bodies down.



The temperature was now 35°C

Kristina, Ole Jacob’s wife, soon joined us. When Ole Jacob caught up the three athletes worked together and encouraged each other up the mountain.


Time for man talk:


The box of food was now a disgusting pile of banana-peanut-orange-jellybaby-cashew mush, which Spike enthusiastically ate by the fistful. Yes, as many as six or seven nuts in a go. Unbelievable.

Athletes must reach the thirty two kilometre point within fourteen and a half hours of racing in order to continue up the mountain to claim a black t-shirt. All three of our stooges were well within this (by a couple of hours), but Jan-Sigurd was suffering badly from heat exhaustion, and lay down for a little rest, :steaming: while Ole Jacob and Spike marched onward and upward.


Spike and Ole Jacob yack on:


At Stavsro they donned the mandatory mountain kit and Kristina accompanied them both into the mountain proper.

I went straight to Gaustablikk, the ski village where we were all staying that night. On the road I saw Jan-Sigurd, vertical again, pushing towards the mountain entrance, followed by fellow crew members Geir and then Irene. Irene put the Cheshire Cat to shame, her face was one massive grin. Her radiant smile made me intensely happy.

In the resort I found our room, sorted the car and kit and wallowed in the shower. Dag and Kalle were already relaxing with a beer.

On setting off into the mountain wilderness, a familiar face greeted Spike – it was only Mr Norseman himself, the man to blame for this madness, Hårek Stranheim, out for a stroll.

Spike and Ole Jacob nearly there:


Spike and Ole Jacob reached the hut at Gaustatoppen fifteen hours and thirty minutes after jumping into the fjord that morning.

Ah, how sweet. Spike and Ole Jacob holding hands:


The heat had probably slowed them down by about an hour.



The café was shut, so after a couple of minutes they started heading down, meeting Jan-Sigurd, Geir and Irene still climbing up, on the descent to the car park. Mission accomplished. :airborne:

Kristina brought they guys back to Gaustablikk. Sleeping was done. After an excellent breakfast, the crew t-shirts were presented: seven blacks, two whites and nine big smiles.

New besties: Spike and Ole Jacob sport the latest look:


Geir is happy:


Spike and a radiant Irene:


Spike and I headed back towards Eidfjord and spent the night by Voringfoss waterfall, at the Fossli Hotel, which is caught in a 1930’s time warp.

In the Gang

Reinstalled in Bergslein, the race preparation was calm. After collecting the race gear from the secret bunker storeroom, we attempted to match banners with their flagpoles.
I proudly raised the power flags outside Bergslein.
The race was in town.

Some banners had metal stands, rather than spikes that can be hammered into the ground. The stands were not sufficiently stable to withstand the predicted weather, so Spike and I were tasked with finding a solution. Quite reasonably, the lady at the local builders’ merchant didn’t speak English. We were probably the only non-Norwegian speakers to frequent her establishment in the last twenty years. However, sadly, she appeared to be embarrassed about this, so wasn’t too helpful and we left empty handed I was rather disappointed that we had failed in our first quest. Would we be entrusted with another challenge, or be fed to the trolls?

On Monday afternoon, Line Amlund Hagen, the third member of the Norseman ruling triumvirate with Dag and Kalle, announced that we’d be going for a swim at 6pm. I don’t mind the occasional swimble – a few lengths in the pool or splashing in the waves at the beach. But getting into a fjord is a rather different kettle of fish. I don’t have a wetsuit, so made my early exit strategy clear from the start, predicting a dip not exceeding thirty seconds.

We drove along to the preferred jetty, where I gingerly lowered myself into the water. After the initial shock that I had actually got in, I realised that the temperature was not freezing. I swam around the jetty for a couple of minutes. What was happening? It felt gorgeous. With Dave and Line close by, I swam to the next jetty and back – about five hundred metres in total. I was in the water for about thirty minutes, rather than the previously envisaged thirty seconds. I absolutely loved it. :o

This new experience was exhilarating. I was avoiding some of the cold water risks:
• I was relaxed, not racing,
• I entered the water slowly, allowing my body to gradually adjust to the temperature,
• I was mainly doing breast stroke, keeping my head out of the water, to enjoy the scenery, and
• I, unfortunately, have a more than generous layer of sub-cutaneous lard to insulate my organs. In fact the fat is positively hugging my torso.
All the same, having read Jonny Hisdal’s reports http://www.nxtri.com/race_info/the_swim about the risks relating to cold water swimming, I now understand that safety dictates the need for a wet suit.

I could barely wait for 8am the next morning when we all jumped off the local jetty for a thirty second wake up dip.

On Tuesday afternoon, Dag asked whether I would be willing to introduce the Pre-Race Briefing on Friday afternoon. The organisers were keen to have a native English speaker at the briefing as many of the audience don’t have English as their native tongue. When I speak clearly, I am easy to understand. Without sufficient consideration I replied in the affirmative. Well, I have spoken to groups of people before and I regularly shout at eighty or more cyclo-cross riders as I call them up to the race start grid. :megaphone: I hadn’t thought this through. The Norseman Pre-Race is a big affair. There were 284 entrants (261 signed on at registration). Each athlete must have a support crew and, whilst a few have one supporter, many have two, and some have a van full. Then there are about forty crew members at the briefing.
Hmmm so that’s well over eight hundred people I’ll be addressing. Ho, hum. Let’s just keep busy doing other stuff and not dwell on this. OK?

The Tuesday evening fjord swim ended up being rather longer than intended as I misjudged which jetty I was heading for, resulting in a 1500m swim. Dave stayed close by and, whilst I was certainly not panicking, I was pretty whacked and relieved when I reached land. And I was dead chuffed with myself

By Wednesday several more crew were drifting into Eidfjord. After the early morning splash we were busy setting up the shop. The work rate ramped up significantly. There were stacks of boxes to be emptied, stock counted, clothes rails assembled and merchandise to be enticingly arranged. We were also issued our crew kit: logoed technical t-shirts and jackets, and a pair of Saloman off-road running shoes. Thank you very much. After a long day, we had a crew update meeting, to ensure that everyone knew their roles.

As there had been no opportunity for a long swim on Wednesday, and no prospect of a break during Thursday, Spike and I rose early and swam for thirty minutes before the thirty second splash crowd joined us. The water was noticeably cooler, and I stayed close to the jetty.

We were looked after magnificently. At first, when there was only a nucleus crew we shared breakfast outside Bergslein, whatever the weather – it’s easy to tip rainwater out of a butter tub, and were taken to local restaurants in the evening. One evening we had a Norwegian BBQ: hot dogs in the pouring rain. No wonder there is such empathy between the Brits and the Vikings. :hug: :community: Once the numbers increased, the crew ate buffet meals at the Fjord and Fjell hotel (but we weren’t to sit at the best tables with the panoramic views of the fjord and mountains!).

Thursday was action stations. Swim hats and car stickers were numbered, goody bags filled and boxed up, tables arranged ready for registration to open at 2pm. Spike and I were assigned Q&A along with Jonny – our token Norwegian speaker

Most of the questions were from the sizeable French contingent. We managed to convince three separate groups of people to book accommodation near the race finish, and not to attempt to return to Eidfjord after racing. It was great to meet so many of the athletes and their support crews – even if some of them were in limbo, wondering whether their luggage would be delivered before the race start. It seemed as if the airlines couldn’t cope with more than three bikes in an airport.

On Thursday evening Line went through what I was required to say at the Pre-Race Briefing, including thanking the local singer, and leading a one minute silence in memory of a member of the Norseman family who died in an avalanche this spring. This meant that I had to pronounce their names properly. I spent a fair bit of the evening practicing.
“Rrrrrrraarnvayg Layerrrgreeed” I repeated to myself in bed.

Long-time crew member Rolf sat with us at breakfast, so I proudly reeled off the singer’s name.
“Hmmm. Not bad. But you’re pronouncing it wrong. And I know because she is my neighbour.”
I went back to the room chanting “Rrrrrrraarnvayg Layerrrgrayd”

The registration and Q&A teams were on duty all Friday morning. The pace was pretty manic, and we had to schedule in our lunch slots. After my lunch I went to the school where the Pre-Race briefing is held. I had a practice with the microphone. Espen, who was twiddling the knobs, was very encouraging. He assured me that when I welcomed everyone to the race, the audience would all whoop and go generally crazy.

During the singer’s soundcheck I was able to check how she pronounces her own name. I was nearly right. Now I had to adjust it to “Rrrrrrraarnva-ig Layerrrgrayd”.

The hall filled, buzzing with an anxious excitement. The lights dimmed and the Norseman 2013 video was shown. I had learnt not to watch, so that I didn’t have to go on stage wiping my eyes. Those videos don’t half make the room dusty. :happycry: As the video ended, Rannveig came on stage and sang the most amazing plaintive folksongs, almost yodelling in a warbly way. Her voice was powerful and the music haunting.

When Rannveig completed her final song I mounted the stage and thanked her. There were no stifled giggles, so I must have been approximately ok. With a deep breath and a confident air I declared:
“Welcome to the 2014 edition of the Isklar Norseman Extreme Triathlon.”
I paused, ready for the tumultuous cheering, but could hear only silence.
So I moved swiftly on.
After the formal presentation there were more opportunities for questions in a variety of languages. I had the French and Spanish corner. All the questions were in French.

After tea we made up sandwiches ready for the next day and attended the final race crew briefing, where we were each assigned our roles for race day. I have attended six Norsemans, but, as I am not a participant, have never been on the ferry. I must have done something right, as Kalle reckoned that Line would need some assistance handling the press on the boat. Yay! Going on the boat was worth losing two hours sleep.

The alarm went off at 2:15am. I was at the quay for 2:45. Line checked that the press members attempting to board were on her approved list. They’re a pushy bunch; those without permission were always ready to try name dropping and threaten us with who was going to hear about this outrageous denial of their right to board. The athletes were all calm and composed – at least on the outside they were 8) . Inside the boat there was a respectful hush as each athlete followed his or her routine – listening to music, yoga sequences and a lot of going to the loo. The more nervous athletes were chattering. As the boat approached the required position, wet suits were zipped up and the athletes began the walk towards the open jaw. It was a real privilege to be there. Once they were all in the water, heading to the row of canoes, I stood with Randi and the rest of the crew watching the heads bobbing in the water. When the fog horn sounded about ten feet from our heads I nearly leapt out of my skin. The race was on. :headbang:

Having watched the swimmers for a couple of minutes, I headed upstairs with a bin bag and started collecting rubbish and discarded kit. Once the boat arrived back in Eidfjord, we collected all the numbered kit bags and delivered them to the appropriate slots in T1.

Time for porridge, packing the car and a long, difficult drive. My daytime role was to drive the chief referee, Dorthe, along the course. We were to aim to be along with the middle pack of the athletes, looking out for bad behaviour by athletes and their support crews. When a support crew or athlete is given a time penalty, the athlete has to serve it in a sin bin pen along the course (T2 and the 32km point on the marathon). Spike was also refereeing from the back of a motorbike. He had the red and yellow cards of power on his lanyard.

Before Dorthe and I left Eidfjord, her phone was already ringing with reports from marshals and refs of misdemeanours. She was also liaising between athletes who had lost their support crews, ensuring that marshals kept the athletes fed and watered, whilst explaining to the crews where to find their lonely friends. It was non-stop. And Dorthe was on top of the situation, jotting numbers and offences in her little black notebook, sending on messages for marshals up the course to ensure the sentence was served. :juggle:

I had my first trip in the ferry that morning, now Spike was to have an even more exhilarating new experience. For seven years he has cycled past the main reason for coming to Norway. On race day we met up at the Dyranut Breakfast buffet. It was lush.

As we continued to Geilo, we followed a support crew camper van with an ambivalent attitude to road safety. Even as we followed them into the car park at Geilo they cut up an oncoming car. Dorthe, with her yellow card primed approached the felons. A couple of charming Frenchmen were distraught that their driving was considered dangerous and promised to be more attentive and less urgent in the future. They still got the five minute penalty.

Leaving Geilo, Dorthe spotted a crew member having a wee in full view of all. She was tempted to text them to explain that public urination is not acceptable in Norway. Then she thought better of it and ate some chocolate instead. Our minds were soon focussed on the next situation. Spike came across an athlete who had crashed hard on a fast descent. Dorthe was locating the nearest race doctor as we approached the accident site. The rider was soon on the move again, but the doctors all took a keen interest in him at T2 before allowing him to proceed.

Our car was a frenzy of activity all the way to T2. Here, Dorthe surveyed the land, looking out for support crews dressed in too much running gear, who might swap roles with the athlete for a few miles. Nothing escaped her eagle eye. Meantime, as I ambled around enjoying the fresh air I was greeted by our atrocious-driving Frenchmen. They oozed charm as they explained to me just how well behaved they had been since Geilo, and couldn’t I just rescind the yellow card as they are such reformed characters now. Keeping entirely neutral in this situation, I just mentioned that Dorthe is German, and asked whether they thought she would annul the violation. In a magnificent display of national stereotyping, they accepted their lot with a Gallic shrug.

We soon moved on to Zombie Hill, where we were concerned about support crews cycling on the wrong side of the road and parking dangerously.

As the road can get very congested at Stavsro, the entrance to the mountain, we let the motor bikes monitor the last few kilometres, so Dorthe and I got settled at Gaustablikk. I was getting pretty grumpy as it was now 6pm and the driving had been pretty stressful. So I showered and put myself to bed for a couple of hours. :yawn:

At 8pm, a little refreshed, I located the white t-shirt finish, where I saw Mohamed Lahna paraded in by an unrelated Norwegian crew. They sang and “hupp”ed with all their might. It must have thrown up some dust which got in my eyes. :happycry:

I went for some dinner and joined the finish line crew. I was soon entrusted with the clipboard of power, noting how many laps each athlete had done. It was bloody hard work, as we had to cheer and encourage every athlete and accompanying crew as they slogged the last few kilometres. The last athlete crossed the line at half past midnight, and, as with all the others before her, got a rousing reception to celebrate her achievement. :woot:

The next morning Spike was finally able to wear his new black t-shirt, which had been in the suitcase for a week.

Black T number 7:


As is usual, all the athletes were arranged on the benches and tables ready for a photo. We recalled that, in the past, after one photo, the photographer asks if those who did the crew race can join the picture. So Spike waited for this moment. But then they were all dismissed, and it transpired that the rest of the crew race finishers had already got in the picture. Oh well. No photo of him with Gaustatoppen in the background. As usual, all the support crews are assured that they will get to take photos just as soon as the official race pictures have been taken. And, as usual, the official photographer forgets to ask everyone to stay in place for the personal photos. I guess some things are traditions.

We had to scoot off sharpish as we had a 5pm flight to catch from Oslo. About an hour from our destination, as some unpleasant thudding noises got more frequent, the Check Engine symbol lit up. We carried on, and with a sigh of relief we limped into the airport car park. After a short tour of its many levels, we eventually found our agreed spot and made our flight home. Phew.

This really had been an exhilarating week. We met some amazing people and had an absolute blast. It was a knackering experience, and would jump at the chance to do it all again. Roll on Norseman 2015.

Did I really swim in a fjord? :oops: :? ]]> Friday Home to Harwich

This year we wanted to find a new route to our destination. We hoped to take European Bike Express to Thionville, but found that this route only ran once in the middle of the summer and didn’t fit in with our schedule. So we looked for alternative means of transport. The furthest south you can take a tandem on a train, without too much hassle, is Luxembourg. I’ve never been there, so it was time to tick it off the list.

Our packing went to plan. Down to the bare minimum – 2 pairs of latex gloves is plenty, leave the other 3 pairs behind. And just the one set of tyre levers. Now that my hair has grown, I made an excellent purchase of a mini brush – 99p well spent.

The bike roadworthiness test was a turn round the block half an hour before we planned to leave. On returning home Dave discovered that the rear tyre was seriously shredded, so our departure was delayed by a few minutes while he changed it for an unripped tyre.

Getting to Harwich is an easy 40km ride into Essex. I had pre-booked both evening meal and breakfast on the boat as they did a deal. This was an error of judgement. Stena might say that you can board the boat at 8:45, but they don’t actually let you on board till 10pm, which is getting pretty late. We should have stopped in Harwich for fish and chips at a sensible time. Then, with full tums, gone straight to bed. The meal in the ship’s restaurant was delicious, just three hours later than we would have liked. Then you need to be up at five to make the most of the buffet breakfast at six and off the boat at seven.

Saturday Hoek van Holland to Luxembourg

We were delighted to be met at Hoek van Holland station by our old housemate, Sigurd. We had forty minutes before our train, and we managed to fill that time with a fifteen year catchup. Sigurd now speaks Dutch, Italian and a couple of Philippine dialects in addition to the languages he already knew. A particularly bolshy train conductor sold us tickets to Rotterdam – the bike cost more than we did. Goodbye hugs with the Great Dane and we were on our way.

At Rotterdam we managed to buy tickets straight through to Luxembourg. Did you know that VISA and Mastercard credit cards are rarely accepted in The Netherlands? For such an internationalist country, they are quite isolated in that respect. Fortunately I had just sufficient cash for the tickets. Rotterdam to Antwerp and Antwerp to Brussels proceeded without incident. In Brussels we could buy lunch with a credit card. Belgium ain’t Netherlands.

We found the bike carriage on the Brussels train that would take us all the way to Luxembourg City. We popped the big rear panniers under our seats and the little front ones on the overhead shelf. Through the first few stops the train was chock-a-block full through the Brussels suburbs. Gradually the number of passengers thinned. After Namur, there was just one other gentleman in our carriage. Dave decided that this was an excellent opportunity to make a minor adjustment to the handlebars. He went to grab the front pannier with the tools and spares from the overhead… to find that there was only one front pannier there. Bearing in mind that the other front pannier contained our passports, the good camera, iPod, both our phones, my purse (with credit cards), I would love to have seen the face of the scrote who opened the bag to find s/he had nicked a bike chain, inner tubes, a couple of spanners etc. It was a royal pain in the arse for us, but not a real problem. As it was, we had intended to treat ourselves to better quality (waterproof) front panniers for a couple of years. This just hastened our actions. The train guard was pleasant but utterly useless. He claimed that he didn’t even have a phone to ask the stations en route if the pannier had been discarded and found.

On arrival at Luxembourg City we went to the police station adjacent to the train station, where a couple of thoroughly lovely officers looked after me. I explained that I just needed a letter stating that I had reported the theft. They were going to post the letter to Ipswich, but then suggested that I call back at eight that evening and it would be ready for me to collect. I was then given an avuncular lecture on the safe bits of the city: “Get to the other side of the bridge, this side is full of bad people” and they googled for a good bike shop nearby. We popped the address into the Garmin and, on arrival, presented the proprietor with our shopping list. Once we had purchased all that he could supply, we were given directions to a DIY shop for spanners and an adventure shop for panniers. When the shop only has one model, the decision making is far easier. We now have some top of the range Vaude front panniers.

Purely by chance we arrived in Luxembourg on the Arch Duke’s official birthday. It is THE party night of the year for the principality. Although our hotel was on the wrong side of the bridge, it was very comfortable and friendly. They even dried our washing. We picked up our letter from my new pal, Inspector Osmanovic,



and crossed the bridge to the good side of the gorge.



The bridge itself was packed with trucks, which, in turn, were packed with industrial fireworks. They were gonna make a big boom. All of Luxembourg was out in the streets, in various parade costumes, parping a variety of brass instruments. I think that is the first time I have laid eyes on a white tuba. We ate well, but by half past nine my eyelids needed propping open. We had been up since five that morning and had not slept well on the boat. My bed on the wrong side of the bridge was calling quite loudly. Had the fireworks been scheduled for ten o’clock I would have stayed. But the Arch Duke likes to celebrate at midnight. We heard the booms, wished him a happy birthday, and nodded off again.

We do have previous form. Many years ago we were in Chiang Mai on 31st December – one of THE great places to celebrate New Year. By seven pm we were snoozy, so decided that a couple of hours shut eye would help. Next thing we knew was a zillion fireworks exploding. We didn’t see any of them. “Happy New Year, night night”.

Sunday Luxembourg to Pont-à- Mousson

Despite our wrong side of the bridgeness, nothing untoward happened to us. We had an excellent buffet breakfast and headed off South into France.

We rode part of La Route de la Voie de la Liberté (Liberty Road), which marks the route of the Allied Forces from D-Day in June 1944 to Thionville. At Terville we found a cycle path that meandered along the banks of the Moselle to Metz. Why is it that, when you follow cycle route signs, they peter out just as you approach a large town, when you particularly need to avoid the big roads?

The weather was rather grey and unpicnicy, so we were pleased to find a very tasty Italian restaurant with a more than passing interest in old movies. After a couple of near misses with major routes we resumed a riverside road to Pont-à-Mousson.

The tourist office was shut, so we had a drink in the bar nearby, where the owner swore blind that he didn’t have a copy of yellow pages. Using the sat nav we located two hotels, both of which looked run down and very closed.

Opposite one was a pleasant looking restaurant, where the waiter was more than happy to find us accommodation while I read a story book to the owner’s small daughter. This involved making animal noises. It transpired that one of the hotels was open, and the chap would be there in fifteen minutes. This gave us sufficient time to admire the waiter’s son’s R2D2 (aire deux dée deux) outfit made out of a cardboard box.

We weren’t filled with confidence when the hotel proprietor recommended that we locked the bike inside the hotel – our lock had been in the stolen pannier and we had decided not to replace it for the moment. As our room was on the second floor (old building with high ceilings) we weren’t going to carry the tandem up to our room. Fortunately we were closely followed by a group of five Austrians, who leaned their bikes on top of ours. If any bikes were going to be pinched, theirs would go first.



Cleaned up, we went in search of food. There seemed to be a choice of snack bars (insufficient for our needs) or really poncy (posher than we wanted). Amongst the kebab shops we spied a couscousier. Perfect. It was one of those places where all the customers chat across the room, and the delightful proprietor nattered away with everyone in a variety of languages. Despite us saying that we were on a tandem, he was only prepared to believe that Dave had cycled. Obviously, I had followed in a car. After a fabulous meal and much laughing and banter, monsieur advised Dave, most seriously,
“Soyez gentil à Susannah, elle est très bonne”.
For some reason I felt the need to remind Dave of this several times through the holiday.



That night I did not sleep well, convinced that this was going to be the “burgling holiday”. At three in the morning I crept downstairs, where tandy slept, blissfully unaware of my concerns. Then I managed a few hours kip.

Monday Pont-à-Mousson to Vittel

With a complete absence of theft (apart from my sleep) we headed south via Toul, rather than Nancy. We have learnt to avoid the big cities whenever possible.

The weather was still grey, so we decided on a strategy. If we saw a restaurant or bar that looked good any time after 12:15 we would stop. After 12:45 we would stop at any reasonable looking place. After 1:15 we’d take anything that served or sold food. Over the last ten years, village bars and shops have closed, just like they have in the UK. Twenty years ago there would be a bar and boulangerie in every village. Now you can ride through a dozen villages without any commerce. They are dormitory villages or holiday homes, with insufficient custom to maintain a food shop. By 1:30 we had eaten an energy bar each, and drunk some energy and all our water. Not a shop or eatery in sight.

At the marvellously named Repel, I knocked on a door to ask if they would fill our water bottles. The lovely Thérèse was most obliging, even asking if we wanted mineral water, and directed us to eat at Oëlleville, four kilometres away. It was a normal bar and the lady saw our need of food. It was probably well past lunchtime serving, but she rustled up a salad starter, and a hamburger topped with a fried egg together with the French Chip Mountain. I have never been served so many chips. I honestly could not manage them all.

With more than an ample sufficiency of food in tums we toddled off towards Vittel, a place of faded glory. Huge grandiose hotels are all up for sale. There is more than a tinge of dinge about the town. The very helpful tourist office found us a lovely chambre d’hôte. The couple were extremely welcoming and the facilities extensive. They had just acquired a new puppy and were in need of a name for him.

This day was a day of multiple food firsts. I chose a main course salad for tea. After too many chips at lunch, I was then presented with far more gésiers than I could eat. Stuffed, we waddled back to our room, where we slept like logs.



The next morning the puppy had been named Igor, and we were given home grown strawberries with our breakfast.

Tuesday Vittel to Gray

OK, so neither Dave nor I can remember anything happening this day. We remember starting along the D70 out of Combeaufontaine to find that it was a major road with a lot of large lorries, so at Vauconcourt we detoured off and found some lovely villages along tiny lanes.

Coming out of Roche et Raucourt the road turned into track. Fortunately this was only for 100m and we were back on tarmac heading towards Dampierre sur Salon. From here we followed a cycle route through Beaujeu and Rigny along the banks of the Saône then climbed up to the walled city of Gray.

We followed signs to the tourist office up in the ancient cobbled streets, only to be told that it was closed for the summer and we had to go back down the hill to find the summer tourist office at the bottom. The prominent tourist office was hidden behind a bank with no signs. It was tricky to even find the door to get inside. The rather snappy woman booked us into a chamber d’hôte back up the hill again. After the amiability of the super friendly lady at the Vittel tourist office, madame de Gray was the complete opposite. Being polite, you could call her business-like.



We arrived at the house in the charmingly named Rue du 12ieme Hussard. The hussars had departed, unfortunately monsieur had not yet arrived. Madame de Gray had called his mobile number and he was 20 minutes from home. When he did arrive he was most apologetic and could not have been nicer.

Our granny flat was comfortable and we had scrubbed up by the time madame arrived with a couple of their kids. Madame even put our clothes in the washing machine. Luxury.



We went for meal de posh that night, which lived up to its reputation of yumminess. Ooh profiteroles filled with cherries…
Our sleep was somewhat interrupted as the apartment had a glass door, and the security light outside was activated many times by cats doing cat stuff in the garden.

Next morning we met all the boys who showed us a multitude of toys and medals while we breakfasted.

Wednesday Gray to Baume les Messieurs

Something did happen this day. We followed a pleasant route through Noiron and Ougny and bought picnic food at Rans. The butcher advised us of a cycle path through the Foret de Chaux and directed us to a suitable bench on the river bank for our picnic.

As we left Rans we heard a clunk and foolishly decided to ignore it. The cycle path parallel to the D31 was clear with some wooden bridges to make it more interesting. A nasty noise developed and I realised it was the tyre rubbing. We stopped to inspect the damage. The aforementioned clunk was the shearing of the bolt that holds the rear pannier rack and mudguard in place. The end of the bolt was stuck in the bike-side hole. Oops.

A couple of passing cyclists asked if we were ok. Whilst the automatic response is “yes”, we managed to override the impulse and say “no”. On seeing our problem one of the guys rooted about in the bottom of his lucky dead bidon toolkit and found a heavyweight zip tie. This was most welcome. We transferred most of the contents of the sagging pannier into the other three panniers. The zip tie was holding OK, but we knew we had to get it sorted soon.

We stopped at the next village, Arc-et-Senans, for a post lunch hot drink: coffee for Dave, verbena for me. It was a tourist spot as it was opposite the world famous Saline Royale (Royal Saltworks).



We wondered where we would find an ironmonger that could supply a suitable bolt. The next reasonable sized town on our route was Poligny. Perhaps we would get the bike fixed there. On leaving Arc-et-Senans I yelled
“STOP!”.
There was a drive-on lawnmower, chainsaw and bike repair shop. The old boy peered and sucked his teeth a bit.
“Hmmm. I’ll look at it in thirty minutes.”
We settled down on some logs in the sunshine. The lad (at least ten years younger than le patron) sauntered up, diagnosed the problem, managed to grip the tiny bit of protruding bolt, and unscrewed it. After rummaging in some jars he found the correct size bolt and had soon fixed the rack and mudguard in place. As we re-sorted our possessions back into the left pannier, we discovered that we had overfilled the right pannier, which had, in turn, broken. A couple more bolts and a few euros later we were back on the road. The repair had only set us back forty five minutes, max. And that was the extent of our major mechanical of the trip.

At Poligny we were looking for the tourist office, but found the town hall. The mayor’s secretary/chief telephonist was very keen to help in between routing calls. She was concerned that she didn’t speak English, despite the fact that we were easily conversing in French. When she said that her maternal language was Spanish, I switched to make her feel comfortable. This was not a good idea. The conversation continued in French, but every so often she yelled a simple word in Spanish, as if that would help. My French is amply sufficient for booking a night’s accommodation. Ok, so my Spanish is better still, but her yelling “ochenta y dos” when I had already understood “quatre vingt deux”, was not adding much to the situation.



Eventually she admitted defeat and directed us to the tourist office up in the town square. I explained to the young man that we were keen to cover a few more kilometres that day, otherwise the next day would be too long. After some unnecessary dithering from me, we booked a chambre d’hôte at Baume les Messieurs.



A patisserie was required to ensure smooth running to our accommodation. Mine was lush.

We stopped at a viewing point over Cirque de Ladoye – a stunning gorge.



Four kilometres from our destination the road started to descend – quite dramatically. We took the hairpins gently and had the drum break fully applied. Baume-les-Messieurs is at the base of the valley, and made the Cirque de Ladoye look pedestrian.



Stunning is not doing it any form of justice. Two hundred metre limestone cliffs line the valley. In the centre is the most picturesque village with its own Benedictine Abbey. Our room was actually part of an extensive gite, next door to the town hall and opposite the bar/restaurant.



Dave was delighted that the restaurant had a welcome variation to one of his favourite meals. Tartiflette is a classic après ski dish of potato and lardons in a creamy reblochon cheese sauce, baked to get a good crust on top. This is accompanied by green salad, cold meats and pickles. At Baume-les-Messieurs this has been adapted to use one of the local cheeses, Morbier (the one with the dark blue-black line through the middle), and was renamed Morbiflette. Dave was happy.



Our landlady was Madam Lechat – and she had un chat (actually une chatte). It was friendly. We sat down to breakfast. Dave looked down to see the cat had lightly snuggled onto his lap. Cat did not want to move. Cat wanted to share breakfast. Cat was disappointed.


Thursday Baume les Messieurs to Lagnieu

One thing to consider when descending a cliff at the end of the day, is whether there is another route out of the valley in the morning. There isn’t another route out of Baume-les-Messieurs.



Your first four kilometres are uphill.

We took it easy, but were soon quite warmed up. We climbed to Crançot, and were surprised to find that the route through Nogna and Orgelet fairly flat.



After all the height we had gained the previous day (and refound that morning) we rode along by the Lac de Vouglans to the spectacular dam, then followed the Gorges de l’Ain, gently losing all our hard work.



Despite the lovely views, there was an absence of picnic spots. Eventually we found some logs, looking across fields on a side road, which was pleasant enough. Next we needed a café for a drink (and the loos).



After several dead villages we found an open café near Daranche. The place was a dump. The drinks were pretty foul. The loo was clean enough. La patronne smoked indoors (exceedingly unusual these days) and the dog had green paint on his tail. We didn’t hang about there. Leaving the banks of the Ain at Poncin we headed to Amberieu-en-Bugey.



The Garmin was not familiar with the town’s one-way system, so I walked along one street while Dave rode the tandem between bollards. One bollard jumped out and snagged a rear pannier. Suddenly Dave was resting on his arse in the road. NumpT. Suitably embarrassed, he got up quickly and didn’t mention quite how much he had grazed his arm and leg. It was only when we were getting cleaned up in our room in Lagnieu that I saw streaks of blood across his limbs.



The chambre d’hôte had several rooms on the second floor of a huge town house. When we were shown where we could hang up our clothes to dry in the small upstairs kitchen we noticed a washing machine. Dave was keen to use it, but I thought it too cheeky, as we had not been offered. However, once we had washed our kit through, we did pop it in for a spin. There was a tense moment when we couldn’t get the door to open (with our stuff locked inside) but some serious button pressing eventually released our trapped clothing and we got away with it.

Friday Lagnieu to La Bouretiere

As we approach La Drome our maps are increasingly covered in highlighter pen indicating previously ridden roads. Finding unpainted routes becomes quite a challenge. We edged eastwards through Morestel and descended into La Tour du Pin, wiggled through Ste Blandine, Doissin, Eydoch and were on familiar ground at la Côte St André. This is pretty much home territory.

I’m sure we’ve covered the route through Sarieu, la Mange and Thodure through the military lands to le Grand Serre before – but it’s probably coloured in on a different map. OK , so it’s only about seven kilometres to go, but we know that six and a half of them are uphill, and some of that uphill is seriously steep. This trepidation is countered by the welcome that awaits us. How much do we love our smallest gear? A lot. Slowly but surely we head up, and up, and up. Occasionally it’s more or less flat, but not for long. Mainly it’s up. Then there’s that familiar bend in the road, the curve downhill and the approach to the farm track which has to be taken at reasonable speed whilst avoiding the ever-increasing pot holes.

Oh my! Gouli is still alive. Just. He is very slow and creaky, but loves his tummy scrubbles. Kali was jealous, but got his share of affection. There is a lack of human presence. On the front door is a note
“Noel should be back by seven o’clock. Make yourselves comfortable in the usual room and have some apple juice from the fridge”.



We were showered and relaxing in the garden when Jaouen appeared, and then vanished. We enjoyed reading Margot l’Escargot – just the right level for our language skills. About eight o’clock Noel returned from his friend’s funeral. Ever the host, he soon had us armed with aperitifs.

They no longer officially do evening meals, as Isabelle has returned to the nursing profession. In the current economic climate a steady income is required. However, knowing that we’re on our bike and are now family friends, we are invited to eat with them. This means that we get approximately the same meal, but with less show. Also, it means that none of us have to make polite conversation with other guests – we can get straight on with our own chat.



How I love staying at La Bouretiere. Mmmmmm.



On Saturday morning we cycled to Saint Antoine via Miribel and Col de la Madeleine. Heading into the cathedral a strong Australian accent asks if we’re from Ipswich, Queensland. We disappoint him when we reveal that we’re from the original Ipswich. His parents live in the antipodean version. Someone is practising the organ while we sit and absorb the scents of fading incense and light filtered through the stained glass.

Right, it must be lunch time now. Next door is the delightfully named restaurant La Tentacion d’Antoine. As we eat, the grey skies turn darker and the ground gets wetter. Those clouds aren’t shifting. We put on all our wet weather gear and head off to Roybon and Le Grand Serre.

We have booked a session at the Oasis spa. The only problem is that it’s at the top of another hill. We climb. Some morons want to drive beside us on a very narrow lane, to tell us some undoubtedly hilarious joke. They’re probably telling Dave that I’m not pedalling on the back. Oh. Never heard that before. I’m not really listening as all our effort is directed at staying on the tarmac and getting to the top of the hill.

In the spa we are escorted to the changing room. We don our swimmers and hang up some of our soggy kit in the cloakroom. After cleaning up we can get down to the serious business of relaxing.

First station is the massive Jacuzzi, then the warm steam room, then the hot steam room, relax in the lounge and repeat as necessary. Dave is in the minority. Access is restricted to about a dozen clients at any time. All the other visitors are women. No surprise there. Having been chilled to the bone in the rain we are now warmed right through. It’s calm and enveloping.

We know that our time is limited as a private party will arrive soon, but none of the staff hurry us. We ask for our locker key, Dave opens the door to the changing room – only to find it occupied by two women. Fortunately they were just about dressed. The young women working there insist that it doesn’t matter! Umm yes it does matter. We apologised profusely and the ladies were quite relaxed about the interruption. Now we had to put our cold wet cycle clothes back on and head back up to the farm.

Sunday La Bouretiere to Valence



Sunday morning requires some extensive kitten cuddling. Before setting off Dave checks the panniers for miaowings.



We have established a good route to the bike pick-up. Setting off at noon we get to Saint Donat sur l’Herbasse (aka St Donut) for lunch of ravioli and a particularly tough steak.

After Clérieux and Curson, we cross the Isere at Chateauneuf sur Isere Through Alixan there are some new roads and cycle routes, so we’re not sure exactly where we went. On the outskirts of Chabeuil we were delighted to find a boulangerie and a produce store, sufficient to get a great picnic for the coach journey. When we arrive at the pool in Beaumont les Valence I was most disappointed to find a young man at the desk.

“Where’s the blonde lady who is usually here?”

“Oh, Anise? She’s just taking a break. Go through and see her.”

Sure enough, the lovely Anise was taking five. On seeing the cycle kit she looked up with astonishment and pleasure. I got a big hug and kisses.

“Quick! Get these people a refreshing drink. They’ve been cycling. Open the gate to get the bike in”.

We were treated like royalty. I suspect that not a lot happens in Beaumont les Valence. Even I enjoyed a few lengths of refreshing dip and we took it easy for a couple of hours. One man took a good deal of interest in the bike till he plucked up courage to talk to us. As a keen cycling tourist himself, he invited us to stay with his family that night. Very kind, we said, but we’re going home in an hour.

Home

I phoned the bus to check whether it was on schedule. It was, so we packed up, said our farewells and tootled gently off, trying to keep cool over the five kilometres to the meeting spot. This trip we had sufficient time to change clothes and sort our kit and food for the journey.

Soon we were cycling to Shenfield station.

Puss told us that he hadn’t eaten for a week. He is such a liar.

Dave ordered a selection of heavy duty zip ties from the internet.

Inspired by Margot l’Escargot, I ordered Grace la Limace.]]>
I’ve been doing it for years, either as a solo or part of a relay team. Last year I had to defer my entry as I was trying to get over a serious cough. So I stood outside in the rainstorm all afternoon recording finishing times.

This year was to be the back to basics effort. No help from a team-mate or the Race Director. I was gonna haul my arse round the course without assistance.

I was fit as a fiddle except for my gammy right shoulder, left hip and knee, a sore throat and the 10kg I should not be carrying around my middle.

We had our usual break in the journey to Yorkshire at Grantham pool, to refresh our legs and backs and justify our lunch.

Although it’s a 30 minute drive from Hawes to Helwith Bridge, the attraction of good food and a sound night’s sleep makes it worth staying at Brandymires.

On Sunday morning the weather was picture postcard perfect. A bright watery sunlight gave way to a warm clarity, outlining each rock of the skyline. And no wind.



At Helwith Bridge we met up with the usual suspects – a somewhat hung over DividedAlien, trevkingdon, Vince, and my old college pal, Jim Fisher.

After setting up my transition and making my final preparations, I was ready to go. Vince was in the middle of the race briefing. Given my past performance at this event, and that I know the route well, I was given permission to start 10 minutes early, thus slightly saving the marshals from waiting for me to finish before they could change into their pj’s and drink cocoa.

So I missed the instruction about the temporary traffic lights.

Anyway, while Vince explained how the descent into Ingleton is very steep, Trev checked his watch and I shambled off. I managed to hold off the leaders till I reached Stainforth. I was quite pleased about that. I was still the last person to finish Run 1.

But I really didn’t care. Whatever pain was happening from my neck downwards, in my head I was in heaven. I was trotting through the most beautiful countryside looking at sheep and hills and dry stone walls and autumn colours under bright blue sky and sunshine. It was a truly glorious day.

Setting off on my bike I knew I would enjoy myself. I saw a couple of mechanicals return back to transition – one guy’s headset had parted company from the rest of his bike. I pushed on, and (fairly) soon reached the stunning Ribble Head Viaduct. The day seemed to be in HD technicolour.



Over the cattle grids I pressed along the beautiful rolling road to White Scar Caves. Then I found the traffic lights. Obligingly, they soon turned green for me and I rolled on.

I took the descent into Ingleton with due caution, convinced I was last on the road, but still happy as Larry.

There is a bastard hill towards Clapham. It’s there every year. So I told myself
“This is OK, it’s hard every year, so just grind on up”.
I had a little rest and a drink at the top.

I’m glad I have a triple with some very teeny tiny gears. Those lowest ones are my best friends.

Then there’s a good descent through the village and down to the main road. Just after Austwick I was surprised when Dizo came past me. He was one of the returning mechanicals – had mended his puncture and restarted the bike leg. I reassured him that he was nowhere near last as I had been given a head start.

Blimey I hadn’t been last on the road.

But, of course, I was last now.

Coming out of Austwick is bastard hill number 2. I’m so nearly home, but this wiggly road going upwards is hitting back at me. Surprisingly, this hill is there every year too.

After a little rest I regrouped and pushed myself to finish the bike. Smiling all the while.

DividedAlien was very naughty asking me to take his club photo while I was in T2 – most competitors had completed the race. I gave DA an appropriate response (strongly negative) and pulled on my running shoes whilst trying to stave off cramp in my calves.

Everyone gave me encouraging cheers as I set off on Run 2. Spike trotted behind me as far as the first corner, telling me he was 5th solo (a relay team won, but that doesn’t count). I was still grinning from ear to ear.



Oh damn. Is he still taking photos?



I did run some of Run 2 - mainly the downward bits. I was amazed when, approaching Stainforth, Mr MinusHeadset came passed me. He had carried his bike 2 miles back to base, fixed the bike and set off again.



OK, now I really, really was last on the road.

When back up on the main road, all the finishers on their way home waved and tooted me. I was so happy I could explode. Nothing would stop me completing this course (especially as there were no time cut offs).

Spike appeared on his bike on the final downhill, and followed me to the finish.



Transition had already been packed away, and my bike and kit were already in our car. It must have been the transition fairies.



Funny how I always arrive back just in time for the prize giving…
Spike got his age group, M45, narrowly avoiding being chicked.
I won my age group, F50.

With cleanish, dry clothes on, we had a drink and lunch at the pub and plenty chat with Vince and the crew.

We returned to Hawes. I could feel my legs and hips seizing up, far more than a warm bubbly bath might relax them.

Thanks, Vince, for looking after me all race. Thanks, Spike, for looking after me all weekend.]]>
No matter.

Back in the times before the internet was so much as a twinkle in Tim Berners-Lee’s eye, our colleague, Nobby, asked Spike to join him in a triathlon in the Yorkshire Dales. Fortunately, Spike said ‘no’, as he physically couldn’t swim the required 1000 yards, but he happily agreed to spend the weekend in the Yorkshire Dales drinking beer and hollering support. Spike watched Nobby complete the GRUELLING (natch) ordeal of a swim in a freezing cold lake, ride 42 miles up some seriously steep hills, and run 13 miles up and down Pen-y-Gent.

And thus a dream was born…

A few years later Spike did a couple of local sprint tri’s and decided that the time was ripe to try something a bit longer. He applied to enter Cambridge Olympic Triathlon, and then realised that he’d need a wetsuit.

Now, I know that Spike is the epitome of manliness and handsomeness, but his wrists have the circumference to match that of a small child. In order for a wetsuit not to drape around his arms, Spike ordered a made to measure suit. I got to do a lot of amusing measuring ;-) The makers still called back to double check the wrist measurement. A package of neoprene arrived. Hurrah. A letter from Cambridge Tri also arrived, saying that the race was full. Boo.

So we now had a Spike with a new wetsuit and nowhere to play in it.

Aha! The much dreamt of Yorkshire Dales Triathlon was the very same weekend as Cambridge. It was fate. Spike entered and then rang the first B&B listed in Hawes in yell.com.

And the dream became legend.

We arrived in Hawes, at the wonderful Brandymires B&B (well behaved dogs welcome, leave the kids at home, no telly) who provided us with a gorgeous room and a fantastic evening meal, with extra carbs for those who race the next day.

Spike completed the course: swim 1500m in Semer Water, ride 42 miles up and down the steepest roads Yorkshire can provide finishing at Helwith Bridge, and then a trot up and down Pen y Gent. He sported a very fetching short tri vest and speedos. Mmmmm. At the end Spike was exhausted, and so was I.

Also Spike was hooked.

Finishing the race at about 3pm, we thought we were fine for sharing the driving home, but after an hour Spike realised that he was losing concentration, so I had to drive the rest of the journey back to Ipswich, tanked up on coffee.

That was when we learnt that triathlon is a much more enjoyable experience, if you are able to take Monday off work, to stay and celebrate the prize-giving and relax with a well-deserved beer and a good meal. The next day you can drive home with no time stress.

The Yorkshire Dales Triathlon instantly became the focus of Spike’s racing year. Everything about it was just right:
* stunningly beautiful location,
* super-tough challenging course,
* grass roots atmosphere (no racking – lean your bike against a bush),
* friendly and inclusive.

Each year the same tri-widows would spend the day chatting, often arriving with additional offspring since last year. Every year we would stay at Brandymires.

Spike has missed the race in a few of the intervening years (clashing with Norseman). In Foot and Mouth year it was changed to a duathlon.

We saw its name changed to Wensleydale Triathlon, with the bike section finishing in Hawes and the run route moved to up and down Great Shunner Fell. And still the familiar faces pop up. Now we can see the finish line from our bedroom at Brandymires!

This year was as good as ever. Double-porridge for breakfast, drop the run kit at T2 and drive up to Semer Water.


Race start was delayed a couple of minutes as we all waited for a latecomer to clear transition.

Who could possibly rock up to an event this tough at 5 to kick-off?

Oh yes, of course, our very own lycra denim boy Toyota Crown.

What a numpT.



The lake was clear and still, but I couldn’t help noticing that it didn’t have the Norwegian mountains towering out of the banks.



Spike ran out the water and was immediately stripping off his wetsuit



Get on with it



TC appeared to have huge bogeys hanging out his nose



TC is evidently several months pregnant



I gave Earthling a shout as he rode off.



I also asked a number of women if they responded to WAG1 (Mrs Earthling’s TriTalk moniker). They looked at me strangely.

I returned to Hawes, eventually met up with the lovely Wag1 and a friend who lives in Harrogate. We had cups of tea, ate bacon butties and ate cake.

A bit later some athletes arrived.



TC looked shifty as he trotted out of T2, and was called back by the referee



His baggy shorts (which would be tight fitting on any normal adult) were checked for all the mandatory safety equipment.

As Spike returns into Hawes he resists the urge to turn into the B&B for a rest and a cuppa 50m before the finish line.



Spike makes it to the finish line.



They were hot and sweaty, but on the whole, pretty happy. TC kept moaning about taking too long to fix a puncture. What a numpT. They also drank tea and ate cake.

We loved the guy who came in last, absolutely ecstatic about the whole experience, dedicating his effort to the memory of his Dad.

And this is what you win if you’re the Big Cheese



Another good job done by MyTriClub ]]>
Holiday 2012

Usually we go for a tandem holiday in June, but Celtman happened then, so the holiday was pencilled in for late August.

Some things are easy: booking the bus to get us to and from France, and reserving a room at our final destination. Some things less so: getting the tandem on a train, doing a lot of cycling.
We have used European Bike Express for many years. They do the job with as good spirit as any long distance bus journey permits, and they look after the bike carefully.

Getting to the bus can be a problem. For years we could put the tandem on a train from Ipswich to Shenfield, then ride the final 15 miles to the Thurrock Services pick-up point.

A spanner was thrown in the works when First Great Eastern took over the franchise and declared that tandems did not fit in any of their trains. This was surprising, as they were, physically, the exact same trains that had happily transported our tandem on the very same journey. During this period we relied on our lovely friend ‘Jo with a Van’ who kindly transported us to and from Thurrock. We didn’t like to ask such a big favour, after all, it is a 3 hour round trip, even if she did sneak in a visit to Ikea.

The train franchise has been passed on again, and, miraculously, tandems are now accepted again. Hurrah!

I had booked for us to be dropped off at Nemours, but, given my distinct lack of cycling mojo, and hence miles, I changed our drop-off to Auxerre, making our overall trip length 50 miles shorter over the same number of days. The down-side of this is that the drop-off is now at 1am rather than 11:30 (which was the sole reason for choosing Nemours).

With train tickets and a copy of the email from the Greater Anglia Customer Support stating that tandems can travel on our desired route, we set off to Ipswich Station. No hassle at all, only smiles and helpfulness from the station staff. Soon we were cycling from Shenfield to Thurrock. It’s not a particularly nice route, but it does the job. Just the one near-head-on car smash when an impatient caravan tower didn’t care about an oncoming vehicle. Cue screeching of brakes while we tootled on.

The showers at Thurrock services have been completely redone since I had last used them. All clean and shiny. Luvverly. We stocked up on goodies from the M&S Food Store at Thurrock, plus some extra cookies as they were a bargain… The bus arrived about one hour late. Then we were held up in traffic. On arriving at Dover we were not able to board the next boat, and had to wait for the one an hour later, which was delayed a further hour due to stormy seas. Ho hum.

What a delight to be dropped off at Auxerre Premiere Classe at 3:30am! We managed to fit the tandem in the room (just), and crashed. After a thorough grazing of the buffet breakfast we set off South into the French countryside.

Sunday: Auxerre to Corbigny.

We successfully avoided the city and followed a lovely route along the riverside. A visit to the boulangerie got us bread, but we were struggling to find an open shop selling something suitable to put inside the bread.

Eventually I spied an epicerie in Mailly-la-Ville, where the lady advised me that there was a lovely picnic spot across the road. She was right – a shady woodland with benches. I walked over a narrow lock bridge, while Dave rode the tandem round the road route (tandem was too wide to manage the bridge. As he pootled towards me there was a horrible graunching sound as a twig mashed up the front mudguard:




We removed the broken guard. What rubbish workmanship: it had only lasted about 15 years. Let’s hope there’s no rain.
After eating we noticed a café nearby which had a particular attraction for Dave:




At Rochers du Saussois we met a couple of Belgians who advised us that the cycle path they had come along was good tarmac all the way. We have been caught out in the past, getting a km or so into the path to find the surface deteriorate into rocks and mud.



This was a good path. Thank you, Belgium.

We made our way to Corbigny, where we found a small hotel. We were intrigued to learn that a couple of years ago the EU declared that the local water did not meet acceptable standards, due to above regulation levels of arsenic!

Chatting with a bar owner, we found that everyone still drinks the water, including her children, as it hasn’t changed. She also recommended a bistro. Good recommendation, especially as the waiter bore an uncanny resemblance to Roger Hammond.



Monday: Corbigny to Luzy

On Monday morning we set off through the Foret de Montreuillon, with the intention of seeing the aqueduct. I am partial to an aqueduct. Unfortunately, we cycled under it without realising till we were a couple of km past it.

Finding open food shops in France on a Monday can be very tricky. We snuck up on a supermarket at Moulins-Engilbert and stocked up on lunch. We didn’t find a suitable picnic spot till we got to St Honoré les Bains.





The tourist office there booked us a room at Luzy. Luzy was pleasant enough, but it probably not a ‘must visit’ location on your holiday itinerary.





Tuesday: Luzy to Cluny

We were picking our route carefully, attempting to avoid roads we had already travelled in previous trips. We mark our routes with highlighter pens on the map. Some areas are getting quite bright. We decided to head East through Perrecy les Forges and St Bonnet de Joux.

At Cluny we went to the tourist office to book a room. We were told that if they call the place, they would charge us €2.45 for the phone call, and recommended that we went to the place ourselves, as it was only across the square. We did just that, and were soon comfortable in a gorgeous chambre d’hote adjacent to the medieval abbey square. After the usual clean up and fussing of resident cats, we had time to stroll around town.



Our host recommended Brasserie du Nord for dinner. There was the potential of a major international incident when they ran out of chocolate mousse. Fortunately total disaster was averted by the presence of fondant au chocolat. Close one, that.
We had to slum it at breakfast the next morning:




Wednesday: Cluny to Quincié-en-Beaujeulais

From Cluny we headed South and, after buying picnic supplies, took on Col de Crie. At the summit was a shaded picnic table. O Joy!
A cyclist came along to refill his bidon at a drinking fountain that we hadn’t even noticed. With the usual chat, he told us there was a gorgeous Chambre d’Hote at Quincié. We thanked him for the information, but privately considered that was only 20km away, and we needed to cover a bit more distance to keep on schedule.



This had to be a perfect spot – table, shade, clean water, and a downhill for digestion. There was also, bizarrely, a huge tourist office at the col. It was evidently used by school groups for nature walks. The girls in the office were helpful and charming. They must have tried calling a dozen Chambres in good locations for our plans. But each was full, or the lady was ill, or the children were ill, or the rabbit was ill, or they were on holiday or the nearest restaurant was 5km away.

So we said, ok let’s try the one at Quincié. Sure enough, they had a room and a meal.

We got the directions: go to the village, turn right and it’s 3km along the road – “You’ll see the sign”.

We followed the directions and even found the sign to Domaine Romarand. We started climbing. There was a gorgeous looking building. Hmmm. It looks rather closed and has no Chambre d’Hote sign. We continued climbing.

“Ooh, look at that beautiful old stone building. It must be that one.”

It wasn’t. More climbing. Past some more houses. Through a wood. And then, further up the hill, was a fabulous old farmhouse and a Chambre d’Hote sign.

Our host met us and helped us put the bike away. After a quick shower we enjoyed a refreshing dip in the pool



The room was lovely, the company delightful, and the food both plentiful and excellent.



There was also the wine. This was, after all, a Beaujeulais Villages appellation controllé vineyard.
That was a good evening.



The next morning we were sent off, with some home grown tomatoes for our picnic.

Thursday: Quincié-en Beaujeulais to Pont-de-Chéruy

Discussing how to cross the Rhone and skirt round Lyon, our hostesse, Annie, suggested that we head East to go through the Etang region. We had been through this area some years ago, and it seemed a reasonable idea. And we didn’t have a better one. This has the advantage that every time we pass a pond, we get to say ‘etang’ in a stupid accent.

We avoided the motorways and crossed the big river at Belleville, heading East to the ancient city of Pérouges for lunch. The skies were grey and unpicnicky, so we nipped into a restaurant for a meal including the galettes, for which Pérouges is famed. They’re pretty much like shortbread.





Hauling a loaded tandem round cobbled streets, whilst wearing cleated shoes, isn’t great.



So we made our daily visit to the tourist office to book our room for the night. All sorted, we set off down a steep hill.

There was a loud and unpleasant Twannnggg! The drum brake cable had completed its final stop. The ride to the hotel was taken rather gingerly.

We arrived at Pont-de-Chéruy early enough for the hotel lady to direct us to a large bike shop. Actually, she walked most of the way with us.

They had the mudguards we required, but not a cable long enough for a tandem. They lent us tools to sort the mudguards, and recommended a bike shop in the next town, on our route, where they were sure to have a long cable.

One can feel quite nervous on the back of a tandem with no drum brake.

Friday: Pont-du-Chéruy to La Bouretière

The ride to Bourgoin-Jallieu is quite industrial,but mercifully flat. The trusty Garmin guided us safely to Veloland. The super long cables were absurdly cheap. Monsieur was happy to help fit the cable and supply the casing free – tandem-mates-rates.

Meantime I played with the dog who rolled over playing dead when I scrubbled his ears.

Feeling considerably more secure we went South. I was getting quite excited as we were nearly on home territory.

We stopped for lunch in Beaurepaire. Two seconds after we got inside the heavens opened. By the time we had polished off a very pleasant lunch, the skies had cleared up nicely.

By this stage no maps were needed. This is a road well-ridden. Just through Lens-Lestang we took a break at Christians Rainbow House.



Last year it was raining so hard when we came by we were soaked through. Today it was pleasant enough for a photo stop.



At Hauterives we took the right turn onto the D187. Only 6km to go, but we know that 5.5 of them are uphill. The thought of hugs, rabbits, dogs, washing machine helped inspire my pedalling, but not half as much as the promise of home-brewed aperetifs and the slap up feed.

All were there.

We parked the bike in the official bike rack



This spacious area is well guarded:




Saturday

It was a dry, but cold and windy day, so not appropriate for a ride to Lac du Champos for an outdoor swim. Instead we rode to L’Abbaye de St Antoine, which I love. Unfortunately the waffle shop had vanished. The ice cream shop was open , but it really wasn’ t an ice cream day.

The Temptation of St Antoine sounded a great name for a restaurant, and, sure enough, they served up good nosh.

I was keen to try out a new spa at Le Grand-Serre. We had tried to call to book places, but the phone was always engaged. Oh well, at least that means they’re in. We followed the signs. And climbed. And climbed. And climbed.

Eventually we arrived at the spa. I walked in while Dave parked the bike. It had a lovely calm feeling.

I was looking forward to being truly warmed through to the bones in the steam room. But it was not to be. The spa had a private booking for a hen party.

Drat.

We cycled home, including a challenging climb, and made do with a steaming shower.

Sunday: La Bouretière to Valence Sud

Before leaving we had to pose for the traditional photo




Noel presented us with a bottle of apple juice, though the contents were rather closer to their home-made Vin aux Noix. Mmmmmm

Isa got a hug



And Goulie (yes, that is the dog’s name) got some tickles



Goulie was no longer a puppy when we met in 2004. He has slowed down considerably in the last couple of years. It did feel like I was saying good-bye. Sniff.

We attempted to lunch at the posh restaurant, recommended by Noel, in St Donat sur l’Herbasse, but they looked at our cycle gear and declared they were full.

A café nearby served a good steak with ravioli – much cheaper and just what we really wanted.

We took the same route as last year, crossing the Isère at Beaumont Monteux. We arrived at the open air swimming pool at Beaumont-lès-Valence and bought the final tickets of the season. The attendant recognised us and was happy for us to bring the tandem indoors.

Even at the end of the season, open air pools are bracing and refreshing. At least it wasn’t too busy.





I called the bus to check whether they were on schedule. Pretty much every homeward journey has been at least one hour late, and there was no point in leaving the pool before we needed to.

To my amazement they asserted they were on time, and may even be a little early.

“oh yeah” I thought.

But with this information, we reckoned we should at least be ready on time. So, after a good shower, we pedalled slowly to the meeting point, trying not to work up any kind of sweat. We were planning what kit we’d have to move to which bag, in order to take the correct stuff into the coach.

As we pulled into the street, the bus pulled in from the other direction. They were 25 minutes early.

I hastily grabbed all we’d need for the journey, while the tandem was fixed in the trailer.

The journey home was an absolute dream. All passengers at the later pick-ups were ready when the bus arrived. We have become accustomed to being woken up with

“Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen. It’s 8am and we’re just approaching the Port of Calais, so you need to get your passports ready.”

Imagine our surprise when the announcement was

“It’s 10 to 6….”
We were chucked off the bus at Thurrock by 9am, and were soon on a train to Ipswich eating strawberries with a very jolly works outing.

Home by lunchtime.]]>
This year the ‘lucky’ co-support to accompany us was the very gorgeous Spacemonkey (aka Beck) who has been a friend for about 15 years and has gradually got into triathlon to the extent that she has competed in long distance triathlons and in the European Champs at Eilat this year. So she’s a fit women, well up for a dash up to the top of Gausta.

We had sorted flights and accommodation early, as, with races on both Saturday and Sunday, it was obvious to me that sleeping space would be at a premium. Being the control freak/organiser that I am, I contacted Flat Earth the week before the ballot asking if we could have first dibs on a room if Spike was lucky enough to get a place in the race. Hurrah! We got the place, the room, and even a room at the main hotel at Gaustablikk.

Flights were booked for Thursday evening and a motel booked near Oslo airport. Then we heard from Beck that she needed to change her flight to Friday as she had been given Olympic Velodrome tickets for the Thursday evening session. Moi? Jealous? NOOOOOOOO! I confess to having misgivings that Beck didn’t appreciate her role in this Norwegian escapade. But that was really because I wanted to go to the velodrome. However, I put my foot down when Beck suggested that she hired another car on Friday night to get to Eidfjord. Logistically this would be a nightmare as we must be in one car on race day to share the driving and for all the manoeuvring required in a long distance point to point race. Also, it would have cost her a fortune.

Several months later, the Thursday of the flights arrived. Spike decided to re-jig his race checklist, splitting packing into groups of items required for each stage of the race:

• Pre-swim
• T1
• Clothes possibly needed during the bike ride
• T2
• Mountain pack
• Regular clothes
• Nutrition

Just as we got on the A12 Spike realised that he had forgotten to pack his camera. Damn. Oh well, no photos this year.

This packing routine actually saved us a lot of time once we were in Norway, so was well worthwhile. We flew BA as they have a positive attitude to bikes and a 23kg per person baggage allowance. Last year we had to pay extra with SAS as the staff didn’t know their own airline’s policy. After several emails we were reimbursed the surcharge, but I didn’t need to go through that hassle and stress again.

We arrived at Flat Earth on Friday afternoon to be greeted by wonderful Jane. We felt right at home as we had been allocated ‘our’ room again. There were some Belgians staying there, one of whom, Wim, was bitterly disappointed at my arrival. He had seen the room was reserved for Susannah and hoped for serial Norseman winner (and Celtman winner), Susanne Buckenlei, as his housemate.

We discussed race support practicalities as the Belgians were newbies and I wore the multiple offender shirt. I tried hard to dissuade them from driving straight to the top of Zombie Hill, but they didn’t believe me, till Spike sauntered by:
Me: They’re planning on driving straight up Zombie Hill to the checkpoint.
Spike: Ooh, you don’t want to do that.
Belgians: Hmmm. Maybe we’ll re-evaluate that plan…

Jane had used her immense fount of common sense to split residents by race day. All the Saturday people stayed at the White House and all the Sunday folk stayed in the main Activity Centre, so that neither set would be disturbed by ridiculous sleeping patterns.

We went to downtown Eidfjord to do a bunch of hellos. Hårek, inventor of Norseman, was brimming with excitement. Dag pointed out the huge Norseman Smiles banner on the hotel wall. I was delighted that it featured a massive pic of Cleo, Savaloy and myself taken during the long wait in T1 last year. And there was a teeny pic of crouching Spike wearing his green shirt.

Friday was spent getting the bike together after its journey and getting race kit sorted. Then I popped over to the White House to meet the Saturday racers. I didn’t quite get who was who, but it was nice to meet you all. Spike and I settled down to a yummy scrummy risotto, followed by a good night’s sleep.

On Saturday morning Spike registered and treated himself to a Norseman thermal cup at the merchandise stall. You understand that this isn’t just any thermal cup. This one keeps Norseman drinks warm. It also meant that with the 2 amazing mugs Cleo made us last year, we now had 3 cups - one each.

At lunchtime the bus pulled in outside Flat Earth and off jumped Beck, all safe and sound with all the kit and food she’d promised to bring. My earlier misgivings were 100% unfounded. Beck had arrived at Heathrow way too early, and, with all that time in hand, decided to buy a new camera. Hurrah! We’d have photos after all.

It transpired that our hire car, a Skoda Octavia, is the same model that Beck has at home, so she was very comfortable driving. Hurrah again.
With the new packing arrangement and the extra day in Norway we felt totally calm and relaxed. This is not normal. Lots more hellos at the race briefing – and some Norwegian modern dance. The Norseman love was spreading into every nook and cranny of Eidfjord.

We had an early pasta feast and settled down to sleep at 9pm. Unfortunately, one of the instructor’s college tutors turned up from the Netherlands with his mates on motorbikes for a night of vodka and Jägermeister. They made various attempts to stay quiet, but they weren’t very successful in their efforts. It was pretty hot that evening, and, though I got to sleep quickly, I was awake by 11:30 and couldn’t get back to the land of nod. At 1am I got up and had a cold shower (the hot shower was in the cellar). This had the advantage that when the alarm went at 2am I was instantly wide awake and already clean. When I went downstairs to make breakfast we found sleeping bodies. We hoped they were Dutch bikers and not trolls. It really didn’t matter if we made a noise as they weren’t going to wake in a hurry. The kitchen had that after-party look. I made breakfast (porridge with hazelnuts and fruit) and tea for now and to take with. We were ready to go, barring a final loo visit for Spike (see his previous Norseman reports for ‘issues’ during the swim). Ah! Now let’s hunt for new loo paper….

At 2:30 we drove down to Eidfjord and were very lucky to get a parking place outside the Co-op, very close to T1.



Spike got his kit set up. Only one supporter (wearing the correct t-shirt and wristband) could accompany the athlete into T1. As Beck had no desire to help Spike strip off in T1, I was allocated this honour. Spike was pretty much sorted, so we went out to chat with Beck.



On exiting T1 I felt an arm wrap itself around me. It was a very nervous Hårek wanting reassurance. We gave him the best motivation one can give to get round Norseman: the news that Beck had brought some English bitter especially for him, to be presented at Gausta. That cheered and inspired Hårek for the next 140 miles.

Then something very strange happened. This has never happened to Spike at any race.



He was ready and not scurrying about in a tizz, checking and re-checking stuff. We had time for photos and chats and tea drinking. Eventually the boat gangway was deemed ready for action and we waved Spike off.



Now the support crew has the long wait (about 2 hours).



We met, amongst others, CJExplorer supporting Chopsy, and Grainne and Patrick, who were supporting David Costelloe of Limerick Tri. Full of enthusiasm and definitely without a clue of what the day ahead held in store, they were adrenaline-fuelled, superb company.

It’s a fact of life that when you’re waiting urgently for someone to come in, each minute feels like at least 10. Eventually the gorgeous one appeared.



Me: Come on Spike you sexy beast!



And I grabbed his hand, leading him to his T1 spot.



Fully aware of Norseman traditions, Spike stripped off his wet kit. This was why Beck really felt no need to have the T1 wristband. Nobody needs to see their mates naked. With no bathroom needs to attend to (phew) Spike was soon on his way.



Beck and I lost no time in grabbing all the discarded kit and spare clothes and heading back to Flat Earth at Øvre Eidfjord, where we cleared up our breakfast remains and packed all our kit in the car. The non-trolls were still fast asleep and not disturbed by our crashing about. Yes, we were ready for the world famous Dyranut buffet breakfast. There was no time to be lost.

When we approached the entrance to a road tunnel, where the athletes took the tourist road, Grainne and Patrick were waving violently at us. We rolled down the window and they told us that Spike had just gone past. This was very helpful as, when we emerged from the tunnel and had to stop at the race marshal’s instruction, we were looking out for our man. Sure enough, Spike joined the road and we were able to give him ‘an indication of our presence’.

Ok, time for calculations: it was 30km to Dyranut. Beck put her foot down when safe to do so, but with so many cyclists and tunnels, we definitely stuck to safety first.

We parked at Dyranut, got the lucky bottle carrier and bag of spare clothes, and had time for round 1: Tea, hot pancake with yogourt and strawberries. I reckoned I could get round 2 in before Spike emerged. Mmmm smoked salmon sandwich with some herrings on the side…. I took a mug of coffee (just 1, Cleo, honest) and stood outside with the kit.

Chopsy came by, suffering big time, stuck in the big ring. He had dropped from 13th out the water to 115th up the first mountain. He’s seriously well hard, that boy.



He told me that Spike was a couple of minutes behind. CJ looked after him with expert attention. He’s a handy man to have as your Norseman crew. With Chopsy and CJ en route to Geilo, I chatted with the lady that owns the Dyranut restaurant – she was supporting some local friends and recognised me from previous races as a frequent eater. Spike appeared.



Me: What would you like?
Spike: That coffee (gulps it down in one)

I took his hi-vis top, gave him a warm jacket and food and he was off. Just time for a final visit to the buffet table: one more hot pancake and another cuppa…




After meeting Spike at Geilo we got into the regular routine of stopping at the top of each summit with a variety of food, drink and clothing available.



A new addition to the support kit, with the bottle carrier, was a small hot water flask. I filled it at Dyranut, then again at the petrol station just before T2. Spike liked having v small cups of coffee as the day drew on.

We saw plenty of Chopsy and Hårek throughout the day as they were at a similar pace as Spike. Of course they got suitable encouragement.



At Dagali the rain was pretty heavy so Spike put on a waterproof which he handed back at the bottom of Immingfjell. Beck and I made an extra stop at the bottom as the weather had changed and we knew that Spike wouldn’t want to overheat on the steepest ascent.



As Spike crossed the timing mat at the summit he was in 110th place. This really shows the incredible calibre of athlete in the elite Norseman race. The first year Spike raced he came in 40th, since then, as the race has risen in popularity and notoriety, all the fast and hard boys have put it on their ‘must do’ list. Spike has slowly shuffled down the finish rankings… Importantly, he was still comfortably inside the 160 limit of those allowed to the mountain top to attain the coveted black t-shirt.

With a good descent to Ausbygde, Beck and I were barely ready for Spike when he sped into T2. Others were fussing over putting T2 kit into the wooden boxes, but I knew that anywhere in the field was fine.



Running kit on, Camel-crack (one that sits on your bum) clipped on and Mr Gazelle loped off. But suddenly Spike was contorting into all kinds of strange unlikely shapes. He was cramping badly, at a stage when this has not happened before. We found a parking place as soon as was possible and gave him salty fish and cashews. The cramps eased and Spike assumed his usual running style.



Chopsy was a few minutes ahead, but was building up to a severe bad patch, paying for the unplanned exertion on his ‘fixie’ bike.
This is the section of Norseman when you really get to know the other athletes and support crews. We all cheered on each other’s athletes, offering encouragement and banter.

Spike was taking the first 25km at a decent but steady pace, gradually overtaking a few athletes who had set off too hard. I knew that we had to keep getting calories into Spike to prevent him from bonking. Using the little and often approach we stopped pretty much each kilometre. We found that banana broken into bite-sized pieces alternating with orange segments and occasional cashews worked well. Once he managed 4 cashews in a single sitting. What a monster.

We did our best to urge Chopsy along, but he was in a very bad place. Spike caught him at about 15km. At the base of Zombie Hill we met the very friendly American marshal. Spike had completed the first 25km in 2 hours 11 minutes in approx. 100th place. Now the hard part was to come.



Beck walked a fair bit of Zombie Hill with Spike. Athletes overtook us. At about 28km a refreshed Chopsy caught Spike back and headed off up.
Action photo:



Spike saw a path off to the side and reckoned that a troll hunt was necessary. Apparently toilet paper is required to hunt trolls. Another support car wanted to join the hunt but I dissuaded him. He might have met something nasty in the woodshed.

During the long hike upwards a familiar face strode past. It was Hilde Larsen, who I had met in the same place in 2009, when she was 2nd lady. She made Zombie Hill look like a stroll in the park. Conveniently, Hilde overtaking Spike allowed me to move into each parking spot as her parents vacated it.

Spike reached the 32km point in about 100th place. I had warned Beck that once Spike got past the mountain checkpoint at 37km, he’d get a second wind. Looking at Spike plodding up the mountain I couldn’t blame her disbelief. The 5km to the mountain checkpoint seemed to go on forever.



We stopped frequently to offer support. Spike was not in a happy place. He knew that he was safely inside the 160 limit, but he was digging pretty deep to push himself onward. He asked for more water, so I handed him some energy drink and swore blind that I wasn’t sure whether it was water or a mix. With 500m to the checkpoint we went ahead to park and get the mountain kits out.

Dave and Beck embarked on the rocky trail to Gaustatoppen. Beck told me that after a few minutes Spike realised that he was catching the person ahead. Suddenly he was in race mode and he scampered off. Beck next saw him at the café at the top!

Meantime I saw a very cheerful Hårek reach the checkpoint to a rousing chorus of Happy 10th Birthday (in Norwegian) from the marshals. I chatted with one of the marshals. She asked me how my day had been. I got as far as saying how relieved I was that he would get his black t-shirt, and promptly burst into tears. What a wuss.

I drove to the hotel, unpacked the car, did a load of sorting out grotty stuff, washing water bottles etc. and realised that I couldn’t find my purse. Oh hell. I must have left it in the garage at Ausbygde. Reception kindly called the garage for me, but they hadn’t seen it. Damn. I called the bank and cancelled my credit cards. Then I cleaned up and got cross with myself for being so bleeding stupid.

I cheered up when I received a text from Beck that they were enjoying hot drinks in the café at the top. Spike had overtaken Chopsy on the final ascent. That’s quite a scalp. Everyone was happy. I suggested that when they reached the road they should catch the shuttle bus to the lift exit, where I would meet them. By this time it was dark and I was exhausted, so I was delighted when they managed to cadge a lift all the way to the hotel. Next thing we were all hugging in the hotel lobby.

Beck had been a superb support athlete all day, doing loads of driving, keep calm and good-humoured while I flapped, and accompanying Spike up a lot of Zombie Hill and the mountain. Thank you.

As athlete, Spike took first dibs on the shower, but I had to remind him not to stay there all night as Beck wanted to get clean too. A few minutes later I had to remind Beck that if she stayed in the shower much longer the dinner buffet would shut. Lovely, thoughtful Beck had brought a mini bottle of champagne to celebrate. That was about the right amount we could deal with. A clean happy team did justice to the amazing Gaustablikk Høyfjellshotell’s evening meal. Little did I know that I was eating the last of the hotel’s smoked salmon…

We slept thoroughly and next morning we took on the breakfast buffet challenge. I had to make do with herrings, and pretty much every other foodstuff known to mankind, but no smoked salmon. Happily, I found my purse in my coat pocket. D'Oh!

We went to the t-shirt ceremony, gave beer to Rolf and Hårek, and listened to the amazing traditional singer.



I was shocked at the number of people who carried on chatting over her beautiful and passionate performance. Then more trouble started… there is one man who has completed every Norseman. He was presented with a pink t-shirt.



I know someone who is planning at least 4 more trips to Norseman…
If Spike gets a slot to race next year, I’ll learn some Norwegian.

There are some perks to doing Norseman support:me with Spike and Hårek

]]>
We were delighted to hear that a good friend, Iain, also of Ipswich Tri, was keen to race hard in his homeland, not least, because I would get to play with his partner, Julia - a wonderful friend and brilliant company.
Now to arrange transport, accommodation, a support athlete, food, general fussing. :juggle:

I realised that accommodation would be tricky: 150 athletes each with at least 1 support crew over a limited area. I managed to secure a 5-bed room in Torridon Youth Hostel. We would have preferred a 3 and a 2, but they had all been snapped up.
The Youth Hostel turned out to be an excellent choice as it was only a few yards from race HQ and the finish line, and had all the facilities we needed. The manager, Matt, was a gem. He was as accommodating as possible to us ‘special needs’ guests, letting us sleep in, not kicking us out during the day, allowing use of the washing machine in the morning (usually for hostel use only), and was a generally friendly chap.

Next we had to find a support athlete… As with Norseman, you need a pal to accompany you on the final climb of the day: 18km up and down 2 Munros. Let’s face it: I’m not up to the job and would have held Spike back by hours. So we contacted our pal Chris (aka DividedAlien of this parish), who indicated that whilst several of his COLT club mates were racing, none had solicited his services as a support athlete… yet. We have known Chris for several years, always meeting up at Helwith Bridge Duathlon, where he usually finishes close to Dave in the results list. So we snapped him up, which turned out to be an excellent decision as, not only is Chris built compactly, and thus doesn’t take up much room in the car, but it transpires that he is an experienced hill walker, a very desirable companion when you’re up a mountain in the cloud.

After due (but perhaps not sufficient) deliberation, we decided to drive to the race. This decision was based mainly on the amount of kit we had to transport.

Now it’s a fair old way from Ipswich to Torridon, so some planning was required. We were keen to catch up with Mr and Mrs NewarkTricky in their new home, so invited ourselves over to stay the night. This had several good points:

1. We got to play with our friends who provided a first class meal and wonderful hospitality
2. It got the car packed and us a couple of hours into the journey.

Spike can prevaricate for Britain when given the slightest opportunity, so getting him on the road on the Wednesday afternoon would save me much frustration the next morning. :frustrated:

On Thursday the Trickies, of course, had to earn their respective daily crusts, so we set off reasonably early and drove to Inverness station. Blow me down with a feather if Chris wasn’t there waiting for us.

We drove on another few miles to a wonderful B&B just outside The Muir of Ord. I chose this location for 2 reasons:
1. It sounds a bit like the Ood from Dr Who (but I stress that our hosts bore little resemblance)
2. It had a humungous Temple of Satan (Tesco) nearby. :devil:

On Friday morning we stocked up at said den of iniquity with food and petrol and tootled off to Torridon, via Achnasheen to check out T2.

We soon met up with a multitude of friends including a selection of Ladyboys and all the other Xtreme Triathlon suspects who came out of the woodwork on hearing of a new race. Much of the day was spent working out where we had all met: at which Norseman – or was it O till O, or Coniston, or Wensleydale…?

There was no doubt that the vibe was warm and the camaraderie plentiful.

The key information provided at the Race Briefing was that nudity was permitted in transition. Hurrah!

We did a reccie down to Shieldaig to check out the T1 location and design,

and to spend a lot of time oohing and aahing at the stunning scenery.


Julia was excited to spot a seal, but this seal was wearing a swim hat and wet suit

On Friday evening we tucked into a massive spag bol to set us up for the next day’s travails. Then an early night was required.

Oh the joy of the 2:30 am alarm. Tea was made. Porridge was shovelled in and we were soon in a long line of cars heading for Shieldaig. Spike registered and I helped faff about T1.





Kisses goodbye and the boys hopped on the bus. Wandering along the loch shore an older man in a wet suit asked where he could find registration. It was only our pal, Milos, who we met at Spike’s first Norseman. I helped him along and he was reassured by race organisers that he’d get to the start ok, and to stop panicking.
Then it all went quiet. Time for a cuppa. We strolled into a bar that had evidently not closed that night. The barmaid was wired on caffeine. A couple of regulars were taking advantage of the unusual opening hours. A Norwegian support team was bemused. The midges were getting an unexpected feed.

It was a beautiful morning which was a relief after the rain and drizzle of previous days.
A little before 6 am some swimmers were visible. I knew that Iain would be in the top 10 out of the swim. We don’t call him ‘Aquaboy’ for nothing. But how tricky is it to recognize people in wet suits? I have trouble enough recognizing Spike and I’ve been looking out for him for more than several years now. 6th out of the water looked familiar.
I yelled out “Is that Iain?”.
“Yes” he replied.
Julia was nowhere to be seen, so I ran forward, grabbed his hand and led him to his T1 spot. I told him I had no idea where Julia was, and then there was a familiar laugh: “I’m behind you taking photos”.
“Err you’re supposed to be Iain’s support helping him take off his wetsuit”.
Julia got big-time payback on me a couple of hours later…

Halfway down the field the gorgeous Spike emerged from the deep.
I had seen that the athletes had to run on sharpish stones to get up to T1, so I brought him down some shoes to slip on as he came out of the water. Not quite Keith’s bowl of warm water to thaw the delicate toes of ladyboys, but I definitely got some brownie points for that.
Spike was shivering so when trying to choose what to wear I got him to remove his cold wet tri-shorts and put on his over-knee cycle shorts. As soon has he had dry clothes on, he cheered up. It saved him from being frozen for the first few miles.

Chris and I collected up the wetsuit, stuffed it in a bag and headed off with a mission. The logistics for getting out of Shieldaig were good, as the car route was not the race route going up the sharp hill. We were keen to pass as many cyclists as possible on the road to Torridon as it was a 2-lane road, and therefore relatively safe. From Torridon to Kinlochewe the route is single track with passing places, and it became a little jammed.

We headed straight to Gairloch and located the Old Inn. Proffering our buffet breakfast tickets we tucked into to a full Scottish. Nom nom nom.
We met up with Julia, who soon left as Iain ‘Flipper’ Downie was considerably ahead of Spike, and with Iain’s sister and partner, who had come from Edinburgh to cheer him on. With full tums, Chris and I decided we should look out for Spike as he’d be along soon. Another supported told us that she’d seen Spike just behind her athlete and he’d be along any minute.



I willed each helmet that appeared in the distance to be red and white. But it wasn’t.
Chatting with a Norwegian support crew I mused that this was rather like Norway. “No” he replied “It’s like Norway, but with beautiful old pubs and reasonably priced beer. And midges.”

Then I got a text from Julia saying that Spike had already passed her and she’d given him a banana and energy drink. So we had missed him while stuffing our faces. Oops. Thanks, Julia. I felt suitably chastised.
We didn’t hang about getting back in the car and along the race route.
We saw black and red Ipswich colours ahead. There he is! Yay! Caught him. Oops no. That was Iain. The inevitable catch had already happened. We gave Iain a cheer, hopped back in the car and went Spike a-chasing.




Once we reached him we got into a good rhythm of driving 10 or so miles, stopping, asking what Spike needed next, getting it ready, going another couple of miles and handing it over.



Requirements can be energy drink, water, gels, bars, salty fish, ham in tortilla wraps, cashews, clothes, jelly babies, coffee…



This worked pretty well. Of course, we were getting to know the support crews of the athletes near Spike in the race. We all cheered on each other’s athletes and shared stories and jokes. That’s part of the joy of being part of an active support crew.
The route had plenty of good, safe stopping places, which made supporting relatively straightforward. I also remembered to take plenty of photos. It is easy to be so totally focussed on supporting your athlete, that at the end of the day you have only taken 3 pics, and 2 of them are of dawn at T1.



As we approached the final stages of the bike leg we had to plan our approach to T2. To say that T2 was compact with limited parking was an understatement, so we didn’t want to arrive too soon, blocking the way for faster athletes. I realised later that we were very lucky to be allowed to park actually in T2, not along the road. It was raining here all day – localised rain that got each and every athlete. Spike did not seem sorry to get off his bike. While he changed into running gear I rolled on DEET midge repellent. It was Midge City here. There was more than a trifle of wincing when I accidentally got some repellent on his wet suit rash on the neck. I call it character building.
Over the years I have learnt something about race nutrition, and that Spike sometimes doesn’t know what he needs. I got Chris to peel him a tangerine (well he had the choice of that or help Spike with his shorts). Spike wasn’t too sure about citrus, but I informed him that he really wanted it and put it in his hand. The orange seems to kick-start his stomach (in a good way) and help him accept more food. Sometimes mild mid-race bullying is appropriate.

The Celtman marathon is split into 3 sections:
1. 17km from T2 to T2a along forest track over the Coulin Pass (that’s a pretty big hill for normal people). This section had a couple of aid stations as support crews could not access that route – unless running with the athlete. But a support athlete on this stretch could not be the same person as for section 2.
2. 18km from T2a to the car park, aka T2b, up and down the big bastard mountains. For this you had to have a support athlete to accompany you
3. 7km from T2b to Torridon along the road to glory, soup, pasta and beer.

Spike got his appetite going and set off for the Coulin Pass. Chris and I packed away the bike and got out of T2 as quickly as possible, to make space for the next support crew.
We knew that we had about 1.5 hours to cover the short drive to T2a and that parking at that transition was limited. So we went back to the Achnasheen roundabout and cheered on cyclists. We were hoping to see Iain, but we had evidently missed him, approaching T2 . Grrr. Anyway, hopefully we helped to spread some joy through the field.

We parked up along the road at T2a. Chris got himself sorted for running with his mandatory kit, while I got Spike’s T2a stuff ready. The organisation was impressive. They had a gazebo and everything. Support athletes had their kit checked before the athlete arrived.


Soon young Spike came bouncing along the road looking jolly chirpy.



He had his kit checked and off they went up into the clouds.



Now this section doesn’t show me in the best light.
I hadn’t thought it through thoroughly. I thought “well, 17km took about 1.5 hours, so 18km with a bit of uphill will take a couple of hours, and I don’t want to be late to meet them at T2b to take the mountain pack off Spike.” So I zipped back to Torridon, cleared out the car, washed out sticky water bottles, put the wetsuit and soggy shoes from T1 out to dry on the car. I wasn’t hanging about as I pulled on my cycle kit and got my trusty steed out of the bike shed. I nipped along to the Finish line to check on progress, where I was told they were waiting for the winner to arrive.
Now, had I engaged brain before pedalling off to T2b, I could have thought
“Hmmm. Winner not in yet. Spike is likely to be at least 2 hours after the winner. :? Perhaps I should spend a bit more time preparing myself, getting some warm gear for me and some possible nutrition for my athlete.”
But no, off I pedalled in the warm summer afternoon.
I cheered wildly, whooping each of the teams as they ran along the road towards the finish. About half a dozen athletes had descended the mountain by the time I reached T2b, where I joined the supporters party. Everyone coming down the mountain got plenty of cheers from us all.
It was a thrill to see Matt The Cat doing phenomenally well. It started to get a bit chilly, and all I had was my lightweight showerproof jacket, so that went on. A lovely French supporter, who I had met several times through the day, couldn’t stand to see me in cycle shorts a moment longer and insisted I sit in her car awhile. She then rummaged in the boot and presented me with a jacket and sports leggings – her husband’s clothes. I was very grateful and returned to front line cheering with the gang. Soon Eric Abecassis from Poissy appeared. He didn’t seem at all surprised that I was wearing his clothes.



Three hours after I had cheered the race leader along the road, Spike and Chris came down the mountain.
Phew.
I took the mountain pack. Spike wanted peanuts or cashews – but numpT me had brought nothing. A kind lady from Edinburgh RC gave Spike peanuts. Thank you.
I cycled back to the Youth Hostel, reckoning that I had a good 30 minutes on Spike and Chris, to get myself sorted. I put my bike away, had a quick shower, put on clean clothes, grabbed some warm layers for Spike and Chris, packed up the French clothes in a bag with a bottle of St Peter’s Ruby Red (definitely a warming brew) and dashed to the Finish line – only to find I had missed the big moment by a couple of minutes. Oops. :sheepish:
Spike was desperate to brush his teeth and get cleaned up, so he and Chris returned to the YH for ablutions, while I chatted away with whoever would let me near them (mainly Matt the Cat, who was too knackered to escape).
The clean boys appeared. We drank soup and ate pasta. We drank beer. By this time it was dark. We then took a finish line re-enactment photo.


There was lots of chatting, each time a new Celtman appeared through the Community Centre door. I cheered some people in to the Finish. We were getting pretty sleepy, but couldn’t go home yet. At 11:15pm Iain and Julia loomed out of the dark. Yay! Iain was a Celtman. Their descent of the mountain had been considerably delayed by another support athlete suffering from vertigo. Iain and Julia assisted the athlete in handholding his friend down the mountain.
Soup and beer were applied, but they couldn’t deal with pasta.
We all toddled back to the YH for some deep snoozing.
Unfortunately the wet suit and shoes were still out on the car and it rained quite heavily overnight. Damn. If I had stopped to think, when I had loads of time after T2a, I could have put those things in the YH drying room. That’s a lesson for next time…

At the t-shirt ceremony the room was full of smiles and satisfaction. New friends had been made, old acquaintance rekindled. There was also an amount of returning borrowed kit to rightful owners. The camaraderie at these events is what makes them great. Someone needs help, and you give whatever you are able.





It was great to see Milos safe and sound. He hadn’t got in till well past midnight. I had felt guilty not waiting for his arrival, but my body protested too much.
That afternoon Team Ipswich split up for relaxing walks (Oh, and Spike rode up to Diabaig and back for good measure). Then we all met up for a celebration meal at the YH. Good friends, good food, good wine followed by good sleep.

On Monday morning Team Spike set off, we dropped Chris at Strathcarron station, and headed to near Plockton, where our friends, Roger and Iris awaited our arrival at their holiday rental cottage. Roger and Iris are very good friends to visit for post iron-distance recovery. Food is central to every part of the day and we did our level best to accommodate this Over the next couple of days we indulged in walks and cycle rides, and Spike met a seal when swimming off the coast of Skye.

When we got home the cat slept close to me all night. Only the first night, mind. He pretty much ignores me, as usual, now.]]> ]]> Of course, they're rarely races I have done myself - 95% are those in which Spike has competed and I have attended/marshalled/been support crew.
The common factor in all these races is that they all have a certain zing.
Key factors are:[list] - Something amazing that makes this event stand out from the crowd
- Location - it's gotta be somewhere gorgeous where I want to spend a weekend or longer
- Grass roots feel - generally < 200 competitors with a strong cameraderie amongst competitors, crew and supporters, where each person counts
- Reasonably priced and relatively bling free[/list:u]
My current list is [list] * Norseman Xtreme
* Celtman Extreme
* O till O
* Wensleydale Full Cheese (was Yorkshire Dales)
* Coniston Old Man
* Blaenafon
* Helwith Bridge Duathlon [/list:u]

So...how they qualify:

[size=18]Norseman [/size]
- competitors jump off a car ferry and swim to shore, cycle over 5 mountain passes, run round a lake and finish at the top of a mountain.
- it's in Norway. It is so stunningly beautiful it takes your breath away
- previous years have had about 200 competitors. This year that is doubled over 2 days, so we'll see how it goes.
- all the race crew are caring and fun. Each athlete has to have their own support crew to provide clothing, food, drink, motivation, love and accompany them to the top of the mountain
- price is about £250 for an iron distance race. You get a t-shirt for winning or completing

[size=18]Celtman[/size]
- insprired by Norseman - nuff said.
- as a Norwegian support crew said to me "It's like Norway but with lovely old pubs and reasonably priced beer". And midges.
- Inaugural year accepted 150 entries - just under 130 starters.
- price £225 for an iron distance race. Includes a mountain survival bag. Winners got champagne and Oakleys. Everyone gets a t-shirt for winning or completing

[size=18]O Till O[/size]
- Go to Sweden, get a boat out to an island. Run across island and swim to next. Repeat till you reach island 19
- Like Norway but flatter.
- 100 teams of 2
- I think it cost about £200 which included 2 nights accommodation and quite a lot of food.

[size=18]Wensleydale Full Cheese (was Yorkshire Dales)[/size]
- "The oldest and toughest". It's history is the stuff of legend.
- Swim in Semer Water, cycle up and down ridiculously steep hills, run up and down Great Shunner Fell (was Pen y Gent)
- If you don't love gazing at the Yorkshire Dales you have no soul. Official.
- Entry rarely reaches 100 competitors. No idea why not. This race has everything and then some. And cheese.
- Price for a near as dammit half iron-man is £50 - and you may bag yourself an early bird discount.
- And our fave B&B is 50 yards from the finish.

[size=18]Coniston Old Man[/size]
- Think Wensleydale Tri in the Lakes. Organised by the same crew, with a similar friendly, inclusive atmosphere.

[size=18]Blaenafon[/size]
- Slightly sneaky putting this in the list. But it's my list and I can put what I like in it.
- It's early season, really friendly and the dirt cheap entry includes a buffet for 100 athletes and supporters.
- This race has the most amazing trophies I have seen. I openly covet the winners lump of amethyst. Every year I'm disappointed that Spike isn't allowed to take it home.

[size=18]Helwith Bridge Duathlon [/size]
- Yes, I have completed this on several occassions. I have been last on several occassions.
- Another weekend in the beautiful Yorkshire Dales.
- With around 100 competitors, everyone counts.
- Funny how all the women seem to win something :-)
- Loads of alcohol and choc related prizes.

I'll be working on my Celtman report soon...]]>