I have a standard recovery position after my events – it’s probably not unique but for me it works.
It’s the lie down on the floor, close the eyes and feel terrible position. Usually with an ice cream.
Sunday was no different – after staggering up the stairs to have my picture taken with the massive pint I walked through the food tent which made me feel sick and out into the sunshine and back to the main stand to attempt to find everyone. I had some sweaty hugs form various people and stumbled across Pete again and met
@BrianDrought for the first time then walked back to the end to see my folks who were by this time concerned that I hadn’t appeared.
Sweaty hugs all round, plenty of holding back the tears and emotions some more and with the bride of an ice cream we went back round to the main stand again. I sat down and sent the ever useful Sue to get me some ice cold coke and an ice cream whilst the kids played football.
Then the world started spinning a bit and I dashed off to the toilet. Just a pee was required but I leant against the wall and had another cry to myself and a couple of fuck yeahs were said. God knows what the person next to me thought I was doing.
After collecting the kit and heading back to the car I was ordered not to drive back to the hotel. Once back the world was not right inside my body by any means. I have a few bodily function rules one is that I don’t ever be sick. I haven’t been sick for years regardless of how full of Guinness I am, it doesn’t matter – the last time was probably 4 years ago at Pamplona where I am pretty sure my drink got spiked.
So when I rushed back up, via the lift clearly, to the room and headed straight for the bath I didn’t know which end was going to erupt first. Towards out it was south and it was quite violent – the immodium keeping everything in check all day had finally warn off – oh well I knew that might happen just glad it happened back in the hotel and not during the race. I stood up and started to wander towards the bed for a lie down.
Projectile coke / gels / water / orange segments all came erupting out of most of the officious in my head in a I am sure stunningly pretty arc – pretty convinced some even came out of my ears. I don’t do being sick well, maybe it’s the lack of practice I get. Another blast and my streaming eyes made me briefly think that it was now coming from my eye balls as well.
I collapsed into bed, still smelling of the adventures of the day, not bothering to shower or wash and just lay there in a semi drugged up, ill state. After a short kip my guts settled and I woke up starving hungry and convinced myself I needed a McDonalds – luckily one was next door. Again the ever wonderful wife was despatched with orders of a chocolate milkshake, burger and chips. She reappeared in a matter of seconds – confirming that I must have fallen asleep again and the smell of food made me feel instantly shocking.
I nailed the milkshake – no matter how ill never waste a milkshake – had a single chip and fell asleep again. Woke up at 1 in the morning full of energy, apart from the sore bits, and caught up with all the lovely lot on twitter for a couple of hours then dosed from 3ish till 6ish where again I was awake.
This was my time to shine.
This was my moment.
This was a Holiday Inn breakfast buffet.
Quick shower to make me look vaguely human – attempted to get swollen feet into trainers and headed down for food.
4 courses later and a full 90 minutes ( full English, toast, pastries, toast, pastries, fresh bread) and a jug of ice cold water and a jug of orange juice I felt full – the fullest I have felt in a gods age. It was good. Swapped war stories with a few others eating about the day before, but it already seemed a long time ago.
Another shower, another dodgy stomach moment and we were homeward bound, via McDonalds for another chocolate milkshake.
In the days since I have eaten everything possible – Chinese takeaway, endless yogurts, gumbo (which I made and was rank), ice creams, fresh breads, beer, fish finger butties, prawn crackers, chips. And it’s been great – but now it’s time to focus on the next challenge.
My only war wounds which remain right now are a sore and bruised big left toe – which I can only assume happened in the swim and swollen feet – so much so that I can’t get into my usual work shoes still at the moment. Along with a still sore knee – randomly it feels better post-race than it did pre-race, which I am sure makes me a medical miracle.
So I did an ironman distance triathlon as an under trained and slightly injured numpty in 12:43 – the next challenge in theory is Ironman Wales in September. Can I do it?
During Outlaw I said numerous times to anyone who would listen that this was it – I wanted to go long to prove I could do it, scratch the itch and move on, but the pain wasn’t worth it, this would be a one stop shop – get in and out and forget about it. My body isn’t designed for long races – hell it’s not even really designed for a super sprint distance.
Winning the entry to Wales has changed that, it’s a great opportunity to go and do a really tough event. Something I would never have paid for or put myself forward for.
At Outlaw I didn’t get to break the tape, I didn’t get the ‘Rob Jude you are an Outlaw’ moment and I still remain jealous of those who can rightly claim to be an Ironman. I was called an Ironman on twitter on Monday, but to me that doesn’t sit right – at the moment I am not an ironman I am an outlaw.
I think I want a crack at going long again, I think I want the ‘Rob Jude you are an Ironman’ moment and I think I want the bragging rights of being a proper Ironman.
After all I know I can do the distances; wales brings its own unique challenges – sea swim, hilly bike course and then fairly hilly run course. But I am confident that if I readjust my goals to a more realistic view point ( i.e. not a target time of sub 13 hrs, but maybe sub 15hrs) and am prepared to walk the majority of a marathon route, I should hopefully beat the cut off times.
Tenby I am coming for you.
46 days and counting.
Best go find a hill or two.