Battle of the Year - The only reliable account of that fateful day '
It was an evening like any other, or so it seemed. Myself, Ben Hall and Chris Ritchie were sat in Ben's front room, making our way through a crate of something cold. The conversation, as it invariably does, turned to Triathlons; more specifically, Ben's Illustrious Triathlon Career. Now, this was a long time ago and I'd already had about 5 cans, so truth be told I can't really remember what was said. So here, i'll try my best and the rest i will confidently fabricate and hope no one queries it:
Viggars: "So Ben, what sort of time would you be happy with in a [Sprint] Triathlon?"
Hall: "Dno, about 1 Hour 30?"
Viggars: "1 Hour 30? Pah! I could do a 1:20 and I’m not even a Triathlete."
The Spanish have a lovely term for what just happened: 'Error Inicial'. It, unsurprisingly, translates to ‘first mistake’. The thing is, I hadn't walked into a trap. I hadn’t been duped or hoodwinked. Instead I had quite calmly walked over to the lions mouth, popped my head inside, and laid there grinning like an idiot, giving startled onlookers the thumbs up. There's a lot of things I don't know, like how to swim. But one thing I do know is that a sentence like that can get you into serious trouble if you’re within ear shot of Chris Ritchie.
Chris, predictably, pounced. "Right then mate, put your money where your mouth is!"
"Shit", I eloquently thought.
"I'm up for it" replied Ben.
It all happened so fast: I was backed into a corner, pride was at stake here! Although In reality I probably sat there emotionless, for the sake of drama imagine that I gulped audibly and dabbed at my sweaty forehead with a handkerchief… and then told the boys that it would be a walk in the park (Which, ironically, it would effectively become for some of lap 2).
We looked one another in the eye and shook on it. I don't know if i was the only one that felt it, but just as we shook hands, the mood turned. Our eyes sharpened, the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. The clouds outside the window started to swirl menacingly into different shades of grey, each one darker than the last. Not dissimilar to that film Tiwster from 1996 where it picks up all them cows and that weird old lady with all them wind chimes gets her head cut and it's really sad but its ok cos the dog survives.
Errrr…oh yeah. That was it, a handshake, a legally binding contract in principal if not reality. Now to the gritty stuff, it was time to talk money. I can't remember what kind of figures were banded around but the damage was eventually agreed on at 100 of her majesties british pounds. Boom, it was on. We headed off into town and no more was said on the matter. I could continue to write about what else happened that night but i can already see this being a long one, so lets just say we all drank responsibly, went home early and got a solid 8 hours.
The next morning I awoke confused, with a gnawing feeling in my stomach that bore absolutely no relation to any frosty adult beverages that may or may not have been consumed the previous night. Had it all been some sort of crazy, hotspot chicken- fuelled dream? I checked my messages:
Ben Hall Mobile 2:06am
Mate…1 Hour 20 is never going to happen! ;-)
Good God, What have I done?
I was sunk. I had effectively just agreed to throw away £100. And as a proud Yorkshireman, this hit me a lot harder than it would normal folk. I picked up the framed photograph of Sean Bean that I keep next to my bed and stared at it for a while. Consumed with shame and unable to look at Sean's tiny, judgemental eyes any longer, I silently mouthed the words 'I'm Sorry' and replaced the photo on my bedside table, face down. A single tear rolled down my right cheek and somewhere a Coldplay song faded in.
Something had to be done. There was absolutely no way on God’s green earth I was about to run a sub 1:20 in my first ever race. I tried to convince Tom Stead to run in my place but all that bulking up would have taken ages. Not to mention the extensive tattoo work that would have scarred him for life, which he was less than enthusiastic about (Thanks Tom, you know who your mates are). Who was I kidding? The situation was hopeless, and it was time for plan B. With a heady mix of cunning and manipulation that I am not proud of, I managed to convince Ben that a more sensible bet would be a straight up race. Me and him. No nonsense. The first man to cross the line would take the pot which had, luckily, shrunk to a still painful but more manageable £50. And in a stroke of pure genius, I even picked the perfect venue to offer him this new challenge, somewhere I knew he would be unable to refuse: The Ritchie Family Back Garden. Where weakness is not tolerated.
Training commenced. I even managed 3 straight weeks off the sauce, a new PB it had taken me 6 years to achieve. Other big changes were also taking place as Friday night curries with the boys were vetoed in favour of swim sessions and early nights. Sunday morning lie-ins made way for 30 mile bike rides and hill sprints. Preparation, it had to be said, was going pretty well. If you imagine a Rocky-esque montage of running up steps, punching meat and sparring with Mr T, you'll be there or thereabouts.
And then finally, the big day was upon us. When my alarm went off, at ridiculous o'clock in the morning, I sprang into life. Charging around the house like a man possessed, I gathered together all the essential equipment and threw it into a backpack: Bananas, Baby Oil and Goggles were first on the list (As I keep them in a shoebox under my bed), then it was down to the garage for wetsuit and trainers. Water Bottle? Check. Tyres Inflated? Check. In less than 20 minutes I was up, out the door and on my bike.
Pedalling quickly in the fresh morning air i whizzed up the hill towards the train station, and glided effortlessly past Casa Del Ritchie where this fallible endeavour had began. As i began to freewheel down priory hill (towards that stupid double roundabout where no one ever seems to know who's right of way it is) i gazed out over the cornfields. The hazy morning sun had just begun rising above the sewage farm and was sending soft streaks of blue and orange across the sky. A comforting optimism welled up inside me. Maybe i could actually do this. I pulled up outside Bens house and alerted him to my presence by ringing the small silver bell on my handlebars (only joking, i took the bell off the day before because it saves weight innit). Ben emerged in the doorway. He looked at me, and i him. It was a mexican stand off. I didn't want to admit it, but it quickly became all too clear to me: That this man, whom for so many years i had called friend, neighbour, brother…would have to be destroyed. We wheeled our bikes out of the estate and merrily chatted, little did he know that he was walking with the smiling assassin. I was happy to engage in his conversation about Hollyoaks, lulling him into a false sense of security. Every so often, when he wasn't looking, i would whisper things like 'I will crush you' under my breathe in an eastern european accent. I don't think he heard me.
We got down to the event as the sun was still rising and were immediately greeted by beaming faces. People stood in tight huddles protecting steaming coffees in cupped hands. Others were making last minute alterations to their £15k Nasa space programme dragless isotonic aero super bikes, in a park that had become a sea of metal fences and orange tape.
Chelle Ritchie walked past me and slapped me on the bum, snapping me out of my trance. 'Come on handsome, time to check in'. With a wink she disappeared into the Registration Tent. 'That was odd', I thought. But I didn't mind. It was the reminder I needed to get my game face on. (This may or may not of happened)
Fast Forward 2 hours. My transition area looked like it had been set up by a world Tetris champion (ask your parents). My bike was racked and ready. Wetsuit was on. Goggles were on. Game face was on. We were given the 5 minute warning and into the water we went. I saw Ben was hanging towards the back of the pack and I adopted a similar strategy. There would be no point in spending the first 5 minutes of the race in an underwater fist fight, just to be spat out of the back of the heard half way to the first buoy. The hooter went and we were off. I felt as though the swim had started strong; after the first few seconds I found a fairly clearly patch of water where I could swim comfortably without having to tussle with anyone else, and I found a decent rhythm and stuck with it. I wasn't travelling particularly fast but after recently attending the Lucy Taylor academy for the swimmingly challenged, I felt as if I was confident enough to push on and try and make up some ground. Apart from a late-game buoy sighting snafu, the swim had gone to plan. I neared the transition ramp, where a sight not dissimilar to the first 10 minutes of Saving Private Ryan had developed. I tried to run up the ramp but my arsehole legs were having none of it, so I reached out in front of me and a nice young man with a sizeable chin hauled me out the water (cheers whoever you were). I stumbled toward my bike like a new born baby horse on an ice rink, but found it quickly. After doing the silly get-your-wetsuit-off dance I grabbed my bike, my lid, and my sunnies and made for the exit. As I neared the bike exit marker I glanced left, to see Ben's fancy pants bike still sat on its rack. But there was no time for gloating, it was pedal time. I leapt onto my bike like a gazelle and after almost immediately veering violently to the right, nearly killing Gary Whale and taking down a fence, I was on my way.
Much like the swim, the bike was uneventful. I got my head down, spent as much time on my tri bars as my old man back would allow, and got the job done. As I rounded the corner at the end of Bushmead Road I heard a familiar voice call out. It was Chris Ritchie! "Great effort mate, you've got 3 minutes on him". 3 Minutes! 3 Whole Minutes! This was music to my ears. I knew that if I had any chance of doing this I would need to make as much time up as possible before the run, the dreaded run: my weakest discipline, and Ben’s strongest. I gave it everything my legs had left to get back to the transition area, where I hopped off my bike, (nearly forcing an old bloke off the side of the track in doing so) ran it to the rack and kicked off my shoes. Socks on. Trainers on. Helmet off. And away I went.
Just as i was leaving the transition area I glanced to my right, and who did i see steaming in on his bike? You've guessed it. My old pal Benny Hall. Brilliant. Cast your mind back to the James Bond Film Goldeneye. Remember when Piers Brosnan tells Sean Bean (legend) that he's set the explosives to go off in 6 minutes? But really he only sets them for 2? And consequently all manner of explosive hilarity ensues? Well this was pretty much exactly what had happened to me. Cheers Chris, for metaphorically getting me blown into a million pieces: the three minutes I thought I had to play with was now looking a lot more like 45 seconds. Right Laugh.
As we passed one another I called out to Ben, "Come get me!!" In hindsight, shoulda probably kept my mouth shut. I shuffled my concrete legs as fast as they would move, but I knew my pace was slow - even by my standards. I wheezed my way around the first lap. It seemed to take forever. A few people were starting to overtake me and every time I looked up to see if it was Ben. But it never was – and slowly, my confidence started to build again. What if he's had a nightmare transition? What if his legs are as useless as mine? Just before I finished my first lap, all my questions were answered. I heard Ben's unmistakeable “Weeyyy Viggars!” just behind me, and with a pat on the back, my fate was sealed.
Being a jolly good sport I smiled, and shouted "Go get em Mate!". I contemplated going for a death or glory leg sweep, but we were approaching spectators so I thought better of it. I tried my absolute hardest to keep up with him, but the gap was growing and there was nothing me nor my spirit guide Sean Bean could do about it. I resigned myself to the loss, and trudged on. Even if I couldn't win the bet, I could still aim for a good time. I had numerous attempts at picking up my pace up, but just couldn't sustain it. Nik Payne passed me near the ramps and gave me some encouragement; I tried to keep up with him, but after 30 seconds he was gone. Another NiceTri member, a girl whose name I never caught but had bumped into the day before in the Grafham bike shop, also passed me. I again tried my damndest to pick up my pace to stay up with her, but to no avail. Neither a sweaty bearded man, nor a pretty girl with a nice bum could kickstart my legs that day. They were done. Apart from an awkward half-stride that I managed to struggle through for the crowds at the finish line, the rest of the run was nothing more than a torturous jog.
Nevertheless, finishing that race was one of the best feelings I have ever had. It takes 22 muscles to smile, and they were about the only 22 I had left. As I crossed the line, I couldn't help but break into a massive grin. I may have lost the bet, but I was ecstatic. I'd pushed my body further than I'd ever pushed it before, and I’d made it. I'm even smiling while I type this, as it's probably the first time I've really sat and reflected on it. Finishing my first Triathlon is absolutely one of my proudest achievements to date. And as for the money? Well there's always next year. Double or Quits mate…?
