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Ardingly Triathlon by Dan Benson

The morning of the Ardingly Triathlon started at the crack of a sparrow's proverbial with me rolling out of bed and staggering downstairs to prepare an apologetic breakfast-in-bed for my fan club. My spousal unit is happy to support my multisport habit, "Just don't wake me up for it." But as she's kindly driving me to the event, it doesn't hurt to perform a little bribery.

Time for a coffee and the last kit once-over: helmetshirtracenumber - check. Suitshortsgoggles - check. Eight safety pins, three bidons, two pairs of shoes, partridge in a pear tree - check. What's missing? Oh yeah - the bike. Sheesh.

And we're on our way, down to the wilds of Sussex.

I'd forgotten just how cool it is to be body-marked with your race number. It's the ultimate in temporary tattoos, one you wear to the pool the next week, flashing it at all passers-by as you strut, mock-yawning, across the pool deck: I'm so cool. And you're not. Ha! This is all soooo easy!

Meanwhile, back to reality. The swim start was in a crowded four-lane 25m pool, seeded in order of expected swim times. After waiting about as long as I did for the infamous cattle-call audition for 'The Pianist', nervously chatting to nationally-ranked athletes, I finally jumped in the pool at Ardingly College, one of the last in the pool.

Object? Swim 500 meters. Then run mostly naked into the 10C windy overcast, up a steep gravelly hill barefoot, and across 200m of playing field before entering the transition area. Find this at all appealing?

Well, my fan club didn't, and set off for Haywards Heath to do the week's shopping. After experiencing the best of West Sussex trolley rage, she returned to the windswept plain to find ... yours truly, staggering up said hill. 'I've finished the shopping - now what?'

I had a couple of suggestions, neither printable. (Nor uttered, mind you - I know where my bread is buttered.) My time for this bizarre new event-within-the-event: 9:49, good for 31st overall in a field of 210+.

Forty-five seconds later I found myself wheeling the Trek onto the road and struggling to put my feet, coated with grass clippings, mud and rocks, into my cycling shoes while pedaling. This is harder than it looks on the telly. Simon Whitfield, I ain't.

A mile into the 23-kilometer ride I'm still futzing with my shoes, which are stubbornly not slipping gracefully onto my feet. The ride from the college into the village is up a modest incline, which is not conducive to someone attempting to reach down and grab the heel of a now-wet, scrunched-down shoe that is pinwheeling around the pedal, to hold it in place long enough to slip a wet foot inside, rethread the velcro strap and cinch it down.

And Repeat.

To say I was peeved is an understatement. Each time I leaned over to grab one shoe, the other would run aground, threatening to topple me over. As I had made as much headway as a sloth in rush hour, I finally stopped, twisted the shoes off the pedals and put them on. Not swift and professional by any means. This transition takes a lot of practice that I obviously haven't had time for before. Lesson learned.

Just when I'd gotten into the swing of things and was reeling in the mountain bikers that had passed me, the first of five or six aero-bar carbon-frames whizzed by. Ah. This isn't going well. It wasn't getting any better when we reached Turners Hill to find two sets of temporary road works with traffic lights that we were required to stop for. Imagine the Monaco Grand Prix stopping at train tracks.

Well, Michael Schumacher here and several others got off and ran our bicycles along the two feet of grass at the side of the road, scraping against the neatly trimmed hedgerows as cars from the opposite direction whistled past. Woo-hoo.

After the Turners Hill x-treme cyclo-cross we at last found the wind at our backs and were rewarded with a gorgeous view of the valley - you can see practically all the way to the South Downs, 35 miles away - before descending in three huge gulps of 40+ mph. Wasn't too smooth either, as I saw one guy's water bottle come loose of its own accord and tumble, spraying its contents, into the bushes. Luckily the rider escaped doing the same. I shifted up into the big chainring to take advantage of the long downhills, but my rear derailleur developed a worrying hiccup. Sigh. C'est la guerre.

After a few more uneventful miles we returned to the college. I managed to get the shoes OFF easily enough - hmph - and legged it into transition. My time of 52:16 was 91st in the bike at a horrific average speed of 16.4 mph, when I know I am capable of doing at least 19-20 when properly shod.

In under a minute I had racked the bike, slipped my helmet off and my racing flats on, and was motoring into the four-lap run course. This was the fun bit. I lapped one person and wasn't passed, bringing the 5K home in 19:55, 33rd-best run split on the day.

The result? 83:37, good for 61st overall and 18th in my competitive age group (which included East Grinstead's plucky little Ivan Luck - one of the carbon rockets out on the bike course - who won in 65:43).

The Fat Boy Fan Club had frozen stiff as there was neither windbreak nor tea available, but managed to get a couple photos of its hero 'competing'. And she bought me a quality fermented beverage to celebrate my achievement. Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, I feel. Must do more of these things soon. Just as long as I don't wake her up for it …