So later that year, I phoned Roger to see if he was interested in joining me for another record attempt. I had my eye on the world record for a twenty-four-hour tandem row. This would involve two people rowing alternately for a whole twenty-four-hour period. We could arrange our time as we wished, as long as we never let the machine stop, and the proportion each of us rowed was broadly equal. The existing record looked breakable, with commitment. Roger had long since hung up his competitive boots, but I felt confident I could persuade him out of retirement. I suggested we could use the challenge not only to get fit again, but to raise money for a local charity. However, my powers of persuasion weren’t needed. Without pause, Roger agreed.
We trained hard and planned meticulously, giving ourselves six months to prepare. We discussed hydration and feeding strategies, what time we would start, where to do it and, more importantly, the length of the intervals we would row. We decided to do half-hour sessions and our training was focused on this. Our regime was simple – we just rowed as much as we could. At the peak of our training we were covering 200 kilometres a week. Roger told me that this was more than most international rowers would be undertaking. However, we were going considerably more slowly than they would have been.
The training was fitting in quite well with work. I managed to do a session before and after work most days during the week, and then two or three very long rows every weekend. It wasn’t doing much for family life, though. Anne, Jack and Archie (who was four by this time) were very understanding, and luckily had the company of Beccy, Lily and Kitty, Roger’s wife and daughters, who were, obviously, going through the same trials. The boys got used to playing around the rowing machine as I toiled away in the garden on sunny days, and Anne was enjoying having a toned and muscular husband, albeit one who needed to eat four kilograms of yoghurt and one kilo of walnuts each week, and who fell asleep every time he sat down. On the evening of my birthday that summer, my training was reaching its peak. We had arranged a babysitter so we could go out for a meal. As we sat on the sofa waiting for her to arrive, we realized we couldn’t bear to move. We hadn’t had any time just lying in front of the TV for months. While I was training all the time, Anne was having to do pretty much everything else, and we were both exhausted. We paid the babysitter anyway but sent her home and stayed in, on the sofa.
With six weeks to go, I had an anxious email from Roger – we needed a meeting! Two Germans had advanced the world record by a massive distance. Our goal had been increased from just over 300 kilometres to just under 350! The German pair were both amazing athletes and both held their respective world records for rowing a marathon. One was also an elite triathlete and had competed in the Ironman World Championships in Kona, Hawaii. There was little we could do now, though. We couldn’t train any more than we already were, and we couldn’t really abandon the challenge. The fundraising operation was in full swing, and the Herriot Hospice, for whom we were rowing, were promoting the event with enthusiasm.
And so, the day came. Fuelled by my usual breakfast of gluten-free pancakes, bananas and chocolate spread, we started rowing, again in Thirsk gym, at ten in the morning. Roger wanted to go first, which was fine by me, although it meant I would have to do the anchor leg. I knew this would be the bit where we either met with success or failure, and that thought filled me with some trepidation. Everything progressed according to plan and, as the afternoon wore on, we both felt good. Changeovers were critically important. We had to keep the rowing machine going, and we weren’t allowed any help. We had perfected a technique whereby whoever wasn’t rowing would unfasten the rower’s footstraps. He could then throw himself off the machine to the side, and the other person could leap on to continue rowing. It was quite a sight and the spectators loved it!
As the evening wore into night, and most of our supporters went home, things began to get hard. By two in the morning, we had both hit rock bottom. Roger’s meticulous calculations told us that we were still on target, but there was not much room for slacking. A friend of ours, Walter, who was a triathlete and also a sports therapist, came to help ease our aching limbs and sore backs. Lying face down on Walter’s massage table with his face through the hole, Roger vomited through the hole and all over Walter’s feet. By four in the morning on one of my breaks, I was too weak to stand up and reach a drink from the table. It was only a couple of feet away, but I simply couldn’t move. ‘This must be what it feels like to be old,’ I thought.
It was at this point that Roger began collapsing. He had done this a couple of times during our long training sessions at his house, so I knew it was a possibility. His head would go wobbly and he would drift into semi-consciousness. Each time he finished his thirty-minute session he would fall off the rowing machine, and lie motionless on the floor for what seemed like ages. His rowing pace did not change at all though, and he was pushing himself beyond normal limits. I was hanging on, but could not push myself to that extent. That was clearly the reason why he had been an Olympic oarsman.
As the twenty-four-hour mark approached at ten the next morning, the gym filled with friends and supporters, all there to cheer us through the final push. With seven minutes to spare, we passed the previous record distance, set by the Germans, and I briefly stopped rowing to high five Rog. My sister had asked me beforehand if we would stop once we had broken the record. How little she knew us! I pushed on, with the very last of my energy, to the tune of ‘Sit Down’ by James. We set a new world record of 364,465 metres (nearly 227 miles). As well as breaking the record, we had also raised £15,000 for the Herriot Hospice Homecare Charity.
It was very emotional for the next few hours. We had both known the record was within our grasp but so many factors could have transpired to thwart us. However, our commitment and determination had seen us through. Who would have thought that I would hold a world record? Certainly not me. Even I didn’t think this sort of thing happened in Thirsk! Tearfully, I promised Anne that I would never be so self-obsessed by a physical challenge again. I am not sure Anne believed me, but she appreciated the sentiment.
Our record stood for three years, until it was broken by a couple of much younger Aussies. Unsurprisingly, neither Roger nor I were keen to attempt to regain it. We did it once and that was sufficient, and we do, at least, still hold the record for our age group.
I did a few more rowing events with Roger following the world record, but after so many hours churning backwards and forwards in the garage or the gym, I was ready for something new. With running and cycling so strongly in my blood, I had, for some time, thought triathlon could be the sport for me. The problem was that I couldn’t even swim one length of a pool in front crawl. My children were both good swimmers, especially Archie, who is currently in the top ten swimmers for his age in the UK. I was the weakest link when it came to swimming. I felt I had set a great example to our boys in my training and achievements on the rowing machine. They were delighted to have a dad who held a world record, and it had shown them that anything was possible, with dedication and hard work. Now I needed to apply this to learning front crawl, if I was to take on triathlon as my next challenge.
I arranged a lesson at Thirsk pool. I couldn’t manage a single length. The task of 1,500 metres in a lake seemed impossible. The 40-kilometre bike ride and 10-kilometre run would be straightforward, but getting out of the water alive would be a different matter.
Eventually, with much determination, and help from my friend and unofficial coach, Donna, I could swim more than one length. Archie would accompany me to the pool on a Sunday morning and offer advice. ‘Daddy, your feet are too far apart’, ‘Daddy, your head is too high’, ‘Daddy, you need to go FASTER!’ He was five, and better than me. My first race was an off-road triathlon based around Coniston Water in the Lake District. It wasn’t an easy introduction. Most beginners start with short, pool-based races, but I had entered one with a swim of almost two kilometres in a freezing lake, a technical mountain bike course around Grizedale Forest, and a run
that went up the Old Man of Coniston. It was a baptism of fire.
I was very nervous before the start, but Donna had briefed me thoroughly, and given me some great advice to make it easier, and give me an edge over my competitors.
‘Julian, you must cover yourself in baby oil.’ This seemed strange advice, but Donna was a qualified triathlon coach and had competed on an international stage – she knew what she was talking about, so that was what I did. It was supposed to help me slip out of my wetsuit more easily after the swim and before the bike. I liberally basted myself as instructed, and made my way to the race briefing area. I felt conspicuous in my skin-tight wetsuit – it did not leave much to the imagination – but this wasn’t what made me stand out. Every other competitor’s suit was matt black. I was the only one who was shiny and glistening. By now, despite my fear of the swim, I was desperate for the race to start so I could hide in the water. There must have been an oil slick that endangered ducks behind me as I swam, haphazardly, towards the first buoy.
The water was cold and black, and there were waves, which made it almost impossible to see where you were going. I made it out of the lake about half way up the field, again thankful to be alive. The bike, although tough, brought me back into my comfort zone, and once I was out on the run, I was truly in my element, picking off runner after runner. I ended in a respectable twenty-second place (out of 200 other competitors), unscathed and hungry for more. I could see why triathlons were becoming so popular and I was hooked.
After another season of racing, the old urge to push myself further resurfaced. The ultimate feat of endurance in triathlon, the Ironman, could not be ignored. I discussed it with Anne and the boys. It would mean another prolonged period of life-consuming training. ‘Just get on with it,’ Anne said. ‘You won’t be happy until you have done it, and we are used to all the training anyway.’ So, in 2013, two years after my first triathlon in Coniston, I found myself on my way to Bolton, for Ironman UK.
Ironman is the daddy of all triathlons. It takes the same format as other triathlons, but over a much longer distance. The swim is 3.2 kilometres (2 miles), followed by 180 kilometres on the bike and finishing with a marathon distance run. Any one of these would make a serious outing on its own, but adding them all together does sound rather stupid. However, as I racked my bike, before the race, in T1 (Transition 1, where we come out of the water, take off our wetsuits, put on our helmets and get on our bikes) beside the long expanse of water that is Pennington Flash, near Bolton, I felt confident. If I finished in the top eight in my age-group category (although forty to forty-five-year-old men is, annoyingly, the most competitive class), I would qualify for the World Championships in Kona, Hawaii. This is the pinnacle for any long-distance triathlete and I knew it was a possibility if everything went according to plan.
Again the swim would be my Achilles heel, and it was, as expected, very hard. My plan was to linger around at the side and near to the back, to avoid being caught in the maelstrom at the start. A mass start of 1,500 swimmers is never fun. It is impossible to see what is going on around you and water splashes everywhere. If you are foolish enough to stop swimming, to readjust your goggles or catch your breath, the people behind simply swim over you, and you are submerged underwater. It is likened to being inside a washing machine and that is a good analogy. A few minutes into the race, which would take me ten and a half hours, I was convinced I would only make it out of the water with the help of a marshal in a kayak. This was because, rather than sticking to my plan of starting off out of danger at the sides, I had noticed a large space in the water, right in the middle and right at the front, just behind the elite athletes (who started 20 metres ahead of the masses, to avoid the scrum). In the excitement of the moment, this was the place I opted to tread water before the hooter went off. As a result, I had a terrible start and was buffeted and dunked repeatedly, as better and stronger swimmers powered over the top of me.
After those first ten minutes though, the race began to go well, and I was soon taking my place on the bike. The course was hilly, which really suited me. It was also cool and damp, in contrast to the searing heat of many Ironman races. Bolton didn’t seem quite as exotic as Mexico or Lanzarote, but the grey drizzle had its advantages and, as I sped past my competitors, I knew I was on track for a place at Kona in September later that year.
I whizzed into T2 (the changeover from cycling to running), cheered on by Anne, Jack and Archie, and my mum, dad and sister. It was almost empty of bikes. This meant I was near the front. With blurred vision, I had a quick count up. No more than eighty, I reckoned. Assuming at least thirty of those were elites, it meant I was in the top fifty. As the run was my strongest discipline, I knew it should be possible to hold my position. I swapped my bike for my running shoes and burst out of T2 at great speed. I knew if I ran a three-and-a-half-hour marathon, I would grab a place for Kona. My plan was to run the marathon as four sections, each of about 10 kilometres. I felt fantastic, and ran the first 10 kilometres in forty-two minutes. This was a phenomenal pace. I sped past fellow racers who spurred me on with inspiring comments. One American guy shouted, ‘Great running, dude,’ as I flew by. At one point I ran alongside Lucy Gossage, the elite triathlete who won the ladies’ race. She was a lap ahead of me, but I thought if I could keep up with her, it would cement my chance of qualification for the World Championships. It was a blistering pace, but I figured that the longer I could maintain it, the more time I would have ‘in the bag’.
However, the metaphorical bag where I hoped all my spare time was being kept appeared to have a large metaphorical hole in it and by the time I got to my last lap I was completely buggered. Trying to run a marathon at half-marathon pace, it turned out, wasn’t the best strategy. I realized I had been racing for ten hours and hadn’t stopped for a wee. As I approached one of the many Portaloos dotted around the course I stopped to make use of its facilities. I stood still for the first time in ten hours and stared at the toilet seat. With the door behind me locked, I contemplated sitting down and simply going to sleep. ‘No one will notice,’ I thought. Thankfully, I snapped out of my reverie, and continued to run, if that was what it could now be called.
When the finishing line approached, I put on a massive sprint (which was completely unhelpful as it happened) and finished in ten hours, thirty-eight minutes. I was seventeenth in my age group and eighty-eighth overall, out of about fifteen hundred starters. It was a very good performance, especially for my first Iron distance race and a good time on a hilly course. Sadly, I was ten minutes too slow for a place at Kona. Archie was cross. As a very competitive athlete himself, he couldn’t believe I’d spent all that time in the toilet, and to this day he still thinks his trip to Hawaii didn’t happen because of this. I suspect his own time will come soon enough, though. I was cross, too, but it mattered little, since on my last lap of the run I had promised myself never to do this sort of thing again.
That resolution lasted about a week, though, because it turned out that I had secured a place in the GB age group team based on my results in Bolton. The day before the European Middle Distance Championships in Mallorca the following year, I stood on the beach in Paguera and tried to ignore the huge waves and the surfers. The water was so warm that it was to be a non-wetsuit swim. The words ‘non-wetsuit swim’ make the blood of a weak swimmer run cold. Wetsuits make open water swimming easier because of the extra buoyancy they afford. I had never raced in the sea before and now I had to do so with no buoyancy aid and, unless the weather changed overnight, I would have to cope with waves that everyone else appeared to be negotiating on surfboards.
Middle-distance triathlons are half the distance of an Ironman race, so the run at the end is only a half marathon. I had reasoned that since the last half of the marathon at Bolton was the bit where the wheels came off, I should excel over this distance. I hadn’t factored in waves, but luckily, when race day came (I love the phrase ‘race day’), the sea was as flat and calm as a millpond, and the 1.9
-kilometre swim was really beautiful. The water was clear and the sun was shining and, for the first time in a triathlon, I could see under the water. Usually it is brown or black, full of pondweed or duck poo, and always cold. This was the opposite and I remember noticing how colourful everybody’s tri-suits were, in the national colours of all the European nations. My own tri-suit, at last, bore the words ‘NORTON GBR’.
I had a great race, probably the best race I had done, and I was very happy with my position. I was the third GB athlete in my category to finish. As I enjoyed a drink in the bar afterwards, pondering my retirement from competitive racing, a fellow athlete told me that a top three finish entitled me to automatic qualification for the European Championships in Rimini the following year. ‘Bother!’ I thought, and looked at Anne who rolled her eyes – more training was needed and another six months of juggling the balls of family, work, being on call and training!
18
Things Stuck in Animals and Animals Stuck in Things
No book of the memoirs of a vet should be considered complete without stories of things being stuck in animals. It is a common problem. Dogs and cats have different penchants for the type of inappropriate object they eat, many of which can be very serious but – assuming the foreign body can be removed safely by endoscope or by surgery – can also be amusing.
: The Life of a Yorkshire Vet Page 17
