
It’s been just over a week since I raced Ironman Australia. During that time, I’ve had an abundance of moments to feel sorry for myself. You see, things went pear shaped, just like I described in The Curse of the Ironman PB!
I should have seen it coming. It was whilst riding one of the steepish rollers past Flynn’s Beach just before the 60km mark that a guy stepped out from the side of the road and yelled “you’re sweatin’ like a pig mate!” that hinted things weren’t quite right. Upon reaching the crest of the climb, I looked down and noticed I was absolutely drenched. At the time there was no need to panic and I focused on maintaining my fluid intake. In hindsight, the damage was already done.
To complicate things further, my dehydrated state was making it difficult to digest anything sweet. Gels had to be forced down with the effort akin to a child eating their most hated vegetable at the dinner table. It’s a painful, drawn out affair!
Through 120km I could feel my muscles tightening slightly. The jaggedness of the roads made climbing hills a refreshing retreat, thanks to the easing of pressure it provides to tired arms and hands. The descents became agonizingly tiring.
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