Bournemouth Triathlon - English Championships Race Report.
With the World Triathlon Standard Distance Champs in Abu Dhabi just round the corner in November, my summer training races had had more disruptions than South Eastern Rail on an autumnal day. The arrival of baby Freddie, now three months old and showing his first smiles and a DNS at Bewl meant I was heading to Dhabi with no standard distance race under my belt since Summer ’21!
A last-minute entry to Bournemouth rectified that. The logistics of parenting meant leaving my ever patient wife alone with three kids under four. Stories and bedtime complete I jumped in the car and headed to Bournemouth, arriving in the dark for a quick glimpse of transition and the dreaded Zig Zags.
A few hours later the alarm goes off and the routine begins. Porridge forced down my neck, racking in the dark and fighting with the wetsuit until I find myself standing under the start banner on Bournemouth beach.
It’s stunning. A beautiful sunrise over the calmest of seas.
I take a moment to think about the fact I’ve never raced where you’re required to run down the beach to start the swim. When do I put my googles on? Everyone else had them in place, so I copied. Other thoughts crept in too; do I run down the beech opting for the powerful, striding Hof approach, or the dainty, bouncing Pam style? It doesn’t matter, the horn sounds and we’re off.
I hit the water, I’m up to my knees, I dive, the water is clear and the salt hits the senses, it’s still shallow enough to stand and take another dive. Arms and legs thrashing all round, a kick to shoulder, maybe those would be good legs to try and draft. I’m on the inside track and can feel the group squeezing coming into the first buoy. More thrashing as I round the buoy then suddenly it’s open. The field spreads and I take a moment to sight and find a pair of legs to draft. I settle down and find my rhythm. Pull, pull breath, pull, pull breath…. This is actually fun and I’m hanging on to a far more competent swimmer’s legs!
100m to go and I start thinking about the exit, the sand appears and I can stand. I’m up and running, googles placed on the head so my eyes help get my balance, wetsuit zip undone, rip each arm out in turn, push wetsuit down to waist, swim cap and googles off. This sand is hard to run on!
A shout from the crowd, “Go Robbie Lawrence, you’re looking strong!” Mark Poulton's smiling face is urging me on and I feel lifted. Then I hit the zig zags. Any brief momentary showboating infront of Mark evaporates as I attempt this Alpine esque climb through eight switchbacks to T1.
T1 goes well, and I quickly settle into the ride. A very fast out and back on good tarmac. A strong cyclist passes me, so I work hard to stay around 11(ish!!) meters behind him, knowing i’ll still get a marginal gain from their draft at that distance (The non-draft legal race rule book stipulates riders should keep a 10m gap or risk a time penalty, so knew I was playing with fire!!). Following my new strong cyclist friend we pass a few riders and eat up about 20km until the elastic snaps and I find myself heading back to T2 in isolation.
Stupidly, I miss a turn on a roundabout, and even more stupidly I turn into the direction of traffic, loop back on myself and pick up the missed junction. I just looped the loop on a roundabout. Wow. That was stupid, thank God there was no traffic or that could have ended in a very different way. (I’m sharing this to reinforce to myself how f*ck*ng crazy and stupid the move was. My instinctive reaction was to literally risk my life to save the few seconds it takes to go round a roundabout – on a flipping dual carriageway! I hope that by sharing this my dumb brain will take the message in, if others learn too, even better)
T2 goes well and I’m up running. Inevitably, this summer’s lack of racing hits and the run bites hard. I fall off my target pace and the wheels start to feel like they could come off. I count down the kilometres and try to hang in there. It’s a 10km out and back along the sea front, so approaching the turn around point I count the other competitors coming back towards me. By my reckoning I was 12th overall, and most of them looked younger than me. I dared to dream, I might be on the podium for my age group…
The final 5km are hard work. I try to maintain my pace, willing it all to be over and still counting down the distance, comparing what’s left to things I’m more familiar with; “2km to go, oh that’s just five times round the track…”
I maintain my position in the field and the race finally comes to end, the last ten meters taking me back onto the sands of Bournemouth beach into what feels like a mix of treacle and wet cement. Over the line I don’t quite collapse, but I take advantage of being on the beech and take dip in the cool sea water. I have no idea where I placed in the race and my thoughts jump to getting home and the family commitments I need to rush home to. I drag myself back to transition, pack up and start the two-hour drive home.
In my rush to get home I hadn't checked the results, but one hour into my drive I get an excited call from my wife telling me I’d won my age group! Should I turn around, return to retrieve my medal and claim my podium photo?
Don’t be ridiculous, I’m a father of three and some things are more important than gold medals and photos. I’m sure it’ll catch up with me in the post one day. [It did turn up!]
Interested in racing in the English Age Group Championships?
Check out my splits for this race on Strava and benchmark yourself.
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