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Goliath was a nine-foot-tall soldier from Gath. He bragged that he could beat any Israelite soldier who would fight him. But all the Israelite soldiers were afraid to fight him.
David was a young shepherd boy who believed in God. He said, "The Lord who delivered me from the paw of the lion and from the paw of the bear, will deliver me from the hand of this Philistine."
David took his sling and five smooth stones from the brook.
Then he went to fight Goliath.
David Lombard relives his encounter with the 2006 UK Ironman.
On a rainy morning In February I took my first steps into the world of triathlon by heading out to the west country to buy a bike and a wetsuit.
On a slightly drier morning in August I found myself in Dorset again. This time to do an Ironman.
In the run-up to the race, my biggest concern was the weather: contrary to my maiden cycle voyage being in torrential downpour in Richmond Park, I prefer it dry and hot. The hotter the better. So, surfing the weather prophet websites kept me occupied and left little time for developing race nerves. Plenty of rest and healthy eating further settled any stray butterflies in the stomach. (Driving to the Pasta Party across a field covered in half a metre of mud did not bode well for a dry race, but thankfully the weather co-operated. That’s if you don’t count the wind.)
A few minutes before 6am on 20 August I snapped on my red swim cap that-says-Ironman-on-the-side. The sun threatened to break through the very light drizzle, and I felt excited. Excited and ready to take on the challenge.
Sixty six minutes later strong volunteer hands helped me out the water. Sixty six minutes! That was ten minutes quicker than the quickest possible time I hoped for. I thought this was going to be a walk in the park.
After a puncture and four pee stops I thought I’d lost a lot of time on the bike, but got into T2 with less than 8 hours on the clock. I couldn’t believe how well it was going! 2 minutes 11 seconds later I was out again, legs feeling like beef rather than jelly and again images of a walk in the park came to mind: a sub-4 hour marathon (to complete the whole thing sub-12) should be a mere formality for me. Right?
If I could mimic Charlie Chaplin’s trademark side-kick under normal circumstances, I would have done so at the end of lap 1 of the run. Instead I high-fived and low-fived my support group (and various rent-a-crowd additions to the entourage).
I ate a lot on the bike, but did not feel hungry on the run. I knew that I should eat regardless, but I felt a little nauseous, and figured my legs would stay strong enough until I could stomach some gel or banana or pretzels or energy drink.
I was wrong, and so the wheels came off the trolley. Heading through Sherborne I could feel myself getting weaker and more nauseous, and my mind started with its tricks: I remembered reading “somewhere” about Ironmen in the past taking an hour’s break and still finishing in respectable times. All I wanted to do was throw up a bit and then curl up on the pavement to sleep for a while.
This was before I reached The Mountain Whence the Wind Comes From. (Perhaps a bit of an overstatement for the undulations of the A30 to Yeovil, but that’s what it felt like at the time.) All around me soldiers were failing and walking the battle field. At the start of my running career I undertook never to walk a marathon. That’s cheating. I guess I did not break this resolution, because the shuffling of my feet up The Mountain could barely even be described as walking.
Had it not been for Eugene catching up with me on his last lap, I would have walked the entire second half of the marathon. But his encouragement spurred me on and I increased the pace from walk-shuffle to run-shuffle from aid station to aid station with The Padre. One such station served full-fat sugared-up Pepsi – not the diet variety available at all the other stations, and I think I got a little bit of a rush from that. At the turning point Eugene carried on to finish and reminded me: “Vasbyt!”
I tried, but it didn’t always work and I found myself walking again at times. But as he prospect of finishing became a stronger reality with every passing metre I managed to up the pace and start chasing 12:30. Asked before the race what time I was aiming for, my answer was “Anything under 13 hours would be acceptable; anything under 12 would be fantastic.” Reaching the finish line in 12:32 thus qualifies as “acceptable”. The bar has been set, and room has been left for improvement.
Running a marathon is easy. Running a marathon after 180 kilometres in the saddle, in the wind, up and down hills, six months into a triathlon career is not easy.
But if it was easy, there would be no point. I am now an Ironman.
(Thanks to everyone who played a part in this accomplishment – the words of encouragement and votes of confidence. But Kerry, I blame this all on you. Gratefully.)
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