Doin’ the Duathlon
My slot in the Duathlon started at the rather early hour of 10.40. �That’s not too early� you might think, but when you take into account scoffing a high carb breakfast, travelling from South East to South West London by public transport and getting there an hour and a half early to register, then it’s damn early.
The sky was greyish and overcast when I nervously levered myself out of bed at 6.15 in the morning. My breakfast was an unusual, but energy-giving pile of spaghetti with a tomato and sardine sauce. I cycled to Waterloo, after training it to London Bridge. Over the queue of people buying tickets piped a strangely Bollywood soundtrack, on investigation it turned out to be a film crew. �What’s going on?� I asked �it’s a bollywood film, and he’s the biggest actor they’ve got� said a cheery Londoner in fluorescent reflective jacket. Of course I whipped out my camera/phone. �No pictures� a tall, black bouncer in a black suit and overcoat snapped gruffly, �no pictures�.
Standing at the centre of attention of film crew and passers-by, did indeed stand an Indian film star of such titanic proportions that he is virtually considered a demi-god on the subcontinent. Amitabh Bachan has been acting in Indian films since the 1960’s, but now his handsome good looks and noble bearing were now swathed in a colourful embroidered jacket, with knee-length boots, a cowboy hat and a double guitar – one of the kind with two stems like Jimmy Page used to use in the 1970’s. Unfortunately, I had to get to Richmond Park.
My carriage was full of bikes by the time we reached Barnes, and the platform jammed with even more. Of course, I found I had arrived so early, that I had to hang around for a good hour feeling awkward and anxious. Then we queued up for our minute-long starting slot. The man behind me pointed to his brother, telling me he had done a the Tenerife Iron Man earlier in the year – which involves swimming three miles, cycling 120 and then running a marathon. �Gosh, what a lightweight I am� I thought.
And we were off. I seemed to be running at a mid pace, after all this 10 km run would be followed by a 20 km and then another 5 km run. Still, I seemed to be passing people every so often. Then I came across a woman running in a blue synthetic running top, I passed her and kept on. A few minutes later I heard a sort of rasping, panting sound in my right ear, looking round it was my blue topped rival. I stepped up the pace. This didn’t seem too bad, I seemed to be passing people, but wasn’t feeling done in – but then I must pace myself. �Eueeughhhh, eueeughhhh�, there she was again, step up the pace. Last night while waiting on the platform at Monument tube station, the jangle of hundreds of leg bells announced fifteen paunchy, red-waistcoat-wearing Morris men who lifted their pewter tankards high and burst into song. When they sang �Sloop John B’ I had even joined in.
That raspy rival was behind me again and was pushing hard to over take. We were nearing the end of the run, she could pull me round this time.
Now, came the transfer – I had to put on my black plimsolls that I cycle in and even managed my cycling gloves. My rival did a very fast transfer, I would have to push it.
Out on the road, I soon overtook and never saw her again. Next, a lazy, grazing deer started walking onto our path. �Dring, dring� went my Chinese bike bell, startling the man hunched over a super lightweight racer in front of me. This was fun. Looking at my speedometer afterwards, my max speed was 32 miles per hour, which must have been achieved going down the hill. For my final lap my girlfriend had turned up to call me on – woo hoo!
The last lap was like running through set honey, but I did not feel sick. Then, with a final spurt of energy it was finished with sports drinks, a finisher’s medal and welcome hugs.