Not what it seems

Well I’m getting fed up with this tooth malarkey. I was up in the night gobbling painkillers again, and still tonight it is sore. I’m almost halfway through the course of antibiotics so if it’s still not right tomorrow I’ll have to gear up for the receptionist interrogation.

I did get on with the memoirs. I’m writing about challenges, mainly of the physical kind, and as this rather tatty (and tacky) little item was still on the desk, i blipped it.

Many years ago I heard there was to be a triathlon in our area so thought I’d have a go. Fun, fit or super-fit were the categories. Best go for the middle one. After all, I could swim (self-taught breast stroke), ride a bike (we all cycled to the pub in Suffolk) and I jogged down the lane to de-stress after work. What could possibly go wrong?

Arriving in the pool changing room I was accosted by a fellow competitor, asking what my splits were. I didn’t know what she was on about. I was busy trying to locate the hair dryers for later, after my swim.

Swimming time - oh I had to swim in a narrow lane between two men splashing along making a lot of waves which I tried not to swallow. Eventually I’d done however many lengths were required. I found my arms were a bit sore. Surely I hadn’t been trying to keep up with the chaos?

I noticed while getting dry and changed that people were dashing out the door dripping wet to get to their bikes. Oh, your time is counted from when you get in the pool until you cross the running finishing line. Not each stage. No time for the hair dryer then.

Off I go for the 12 mile cycle. Some of the guys I pass seem to be at the running stage already. I have got 3 gears but the route took us up the only hill in Suffolk so quite a few bikes whizzed on by.

Once that was over I was ready for the last stage, running. But first the Marshall said I had to hang my bike up on a high rack. My arms were sore and it seemed very hard. I couldn’t lift it high enough. It was a heavy old bike. He said that proved I wasn’t strong enough to continue. The ignominy! All those boys in Year 10 who had sponsored me, saying they knew they were safe as I’d never do it would get the last laugh. Over my dead body. Well not quite as I managed on my third and last go.

Phew only 6 miles to run. Run? My legs were twice the weight they’d ever been. My arms ached. I plodded on. And on. Run? Jog? Waddle? But I completed it. Before Mr C had got there to cheer me home.

I was Second woman veteran. I think there might have been two in the category.