Dalkeith was TEH SUCK.

I observed some days ago, upon learning of how the swim was to be conducted, that the continuous wave format blows goats. The organiser’s arguments, after I emailed him to complain that I’d never have entered if I’d known, were that they had insufficient marshals (fair enough); they had insufficient time-keepers (but we had chips); and this format reduced drafting, bringing the race back to its original time-trial design.

I emphasised that last for a reason. Keep note of it.

He did offer to put me on one of their other races if I had a really big problem with the format, but that would have done me no good at all as I’d have lost my May event. So Dalkeith it had to be. It was too late to enter the Strathclyde Open Water (this coming weekend) and I’ve had no open water training this year anyway.

The alarm went off at 06:00 (“COME OOOON, EVERYBODY!!!! Daaaaa da daaaaaa, daaaaaa da daaaaa, da da da da…”) Fuck me. It’s Sunday morning. It’s early Sunday morning.

Up and at ’em soldier!

I’m not good first thing in the morning.

Loaded the car with tri kit, bananas and caffeine and drove out to Dalkeith. Arrived 07:30. Frood sat in the car and dozed while I went in to register and get my number written on my skin in evil black marker pen (and the only thing guaranteed to take that sucker off is, ironically, my guaranteed 8-hour, triathlon-special waterproof sunblock).

Urgh. Number stickers for helmet and bike. What the fuck is ever the point of that? The stickers are about the size of my thumb. They tell you to yell out your number at every transition anyway, because the big black ones on your arm and leg and the number pinned to your front aren’t enough of a giveaway. Why put tiny stickers no one will see on helmet and bike? They’re a bitch to get off.

Grumble.

What’s the freebie? Ooooh. Honey Stinger sachet, my favourite. In… what flavour? Cola nut. Blech. No water? Damn. Have to hydrate with coffee then. What else? A MUG?

A fucking MUG?

Let me just email Profile and see if they do a special MUG MOUNT for me to put this on my carbon aerobars. I can HAVE TEA while I RACE. I’m sure I can stick a STRAW in there so I can drink TEA while I’m down on the TRI-BARS. The straw won’t FALL OUT at all, even if the road surface is bumpy. Sure, the mug’s quite a lot HEAVIER than my ordinary bike bottles, but what the fuck. What’s a little weight, eh? I’ll just have to make sure to have a really huge DUMP before I get in the pool.

It’s not like this is a TRIATHLON, or anything.

By this time I realise I’ve got 20 minutes to get my transition area sorted out and get changed before the race briefing at 08:20. Frood at this point tells me I’m 4th in the pool so I’d better hurry.

After organising my space it takes me 5 minutes to find the changing rooms. Get changed, run (barefoot) back to find Frood, hand over my clothes and phone, dash back to the changing rooms for the inevitable toilet visit. Briefing is at poolside. At 08:20. It’s 08:17.

08:20 comes and goes and no sign of the race organiser. I go to the loo again.

I observe that my fetching yellow swim hat says “Portobello Triathlon” on it. Humph.

08:30 race briefing starts. Blah blah blah continuous wave format… blah blah blah cycle route change… blah blah blah no drafting… blah blah blah traffic light penalites.

Fine.

Back to that continuous wave format. I have drawn an explanatory diagram:

Get your head round that, folks. Lane 1 was a warm-up lane (except for Wave 1, which included me, because they were running late so we had to forego ours). Enter lane 2. Swim up and down, under the rope, repeat all the way to the end. Get out. WALK (don’t run) to the start of lane 2. You may not dive or jump in. One hand must be on the side of the pool when you enter. Repeat all of the above a further 2 times for three “laps” of the pool. Get out and run to your bike.

Reduced drafting my arse. In my second 50m someone swimming in the other direction caught my HRM watch strap and undid it, so I had to stop for a couple of seconds to refasten it rather than lose it or try to swim holding onto it. This allowed one girl to go past and I was stuffed. I went past her in the end, but she’d bunched up with 3 others. I couldn’t get past the whole bunch. Plus, there was no consistency over whether people hopped out of the pool at the end or used the steps, which led to some confusion.

I spent the whole swim languishing in the bubbles of some other girl. It’s the first race that has had me so angry and frustrated that I felt like quitting after the first 250m. It seemed utterly pointless. I just gave up. I didn’t care. I didn’t bother trying. I just swam along, trying to ignore my feet being brushed by the person drafting me because there was bugger all I could do about it.

Got out of the pool. Running to T1 I was cursing and swearing and so was the big bloke next to me. “That sucked ass!” I said to him. “Damn right,” he replied.

I experienced a major dizzy spell bending over to put my shoes on in T1. By this time I was so far past caring that it didn’t matter to me if I fell over so I ignored it. I didn’t fall over. Yay.

Bike. Great. Draftbusters getting in my way even as I’m trying to exit transition. Little did I know at the time that they would be doing that all the way through the bike leg.

I’m good on the bike. The bike is my thing. Destroy destroy destroy.

Peregrine nearly threw me off on the steep descent (again). We hit the manhole that nearly had me last year so hard I bit my tongue. Then he got a speed wobble I couldn’t control. It felt like the wheels were moving side-to-side on their axles. I was petrified. Suddenly I was very aware that I was doing 40mph wearing little more than lycra [ObUS: spandex] and a polystyrene hat.

Managed to get to the bottom, but I was sick with fear. Just like last year. Then he threw his chain in Whitecraigs, which jammed. It took me 3 minutes to get it unjammed and back on the transmission. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

On lap two I fell foul of the draftbusters. Again. Whenever someone went past I’d pull out to the side so I wasn’t drafting him and put my head down to retake him, but on this race the draftbusters would be there. Two of them, on motorcycles, and they’d slow right down in my path, side by side, and force me to drop back. I lost three places that way.

By the run leg I just didn’t care any more about any of it. So I plodded along, enjoying the sunshine, chatting with my imaginary friends about all sorts of rubbish.

Run was just over 26 minutes. Which isn’t great, but, crucially, I wasn’t trying. Last year I was. I did it in about the same time.

Swim was 16:40 to the timing mat, but 15:47 to the end of the pool (by my watch). Last year’s swim was 15:49 and that was a proper format. Bike was around 40 minutes (last year’s roughly 39) despite all the difficulties.

I was about 20 seconds slower this year overall. I had a blistering T1, despite the massive wobbly spell when I bent over to put my shoes on.

But most of all I realised that I don’t actually care all that much. Triathlon for me is a means to an end. I don’t train for triathlon: I do triathlon for the training. Every race is a benchmark, something to punctuate the schedule and keep me on track. That’s all.

The weather was perfect. So while it was most definitely TEH SUCK in terms of races, and I doubt I’ll be returning to this event, it wasn’t all bad.

Final results:

You can see the photos here.