Over time it has become clear to me that the emotions of fear and excitement are closely linked. Ride a roller coaster, ski a black run, fly in a helicopter for the first time etc. In such cases the feelings are extreme, adrenaline I suppose and one or two other chemicals course through your body. Your mind decides, in the end, whether the experience is good or awful. Fear or excitement.

This little article is the first about my sailing experiences in later life. I wrote earlier about the first boat we owned, Tenacity, in the USA but these articles are linked to my more senior ‘considered’ years.

Having both been brought up by the sea Liz and I have a sort of affinity for the thing. In our fifties we owned a lovely sailing boat called Offchance. It was around 30 feet long and of the Moody Class, we used to sail it off the Devon coast where we lived. The boat was usually kept on the River Axe which is notorious for its demanding entrance into the sea, only accessed via a twice daily window of around 90 minutes due to the tide. We also had a mooring in Dawlish Warren on The Exe and we would often sail between the two places enjoying the Jurassic coast scenery. Over time we decided to enhance our skills and get as many qualifications as we could. Various radio, engine maintenance courses in Plymouth before both of us embarked on a Yacht Master qualification.

Half way through our course we took ourselves off to Greece, to the Southern Ionian to be precise, and we chartered a Sunsail yacht. It was probably around 40 feet long. It was obvious from the start that the set up of the boat was such that its usual passengers were people of little or no experience. Lots of the features of the yacht were in poor working order. We were disappointed. After several days sailing around the Southern Ionian (fellow charterers seemed to motor around and spend most of their time moored close to bars etc) we set off for the Northern Ionian. The link between the two seas is via a canal which has a lock system. We arrived in the Northern Ionian and set sail for Paxos, a beautiful island perhaps 30 miles to the north of Preveza. We made a fatal error as we contacted the ‘Sunsail’ base to ask for a weather forecast. Light winds and calm seas was the prevailing message.

After about an hour the wind stated to pick up and with it the sea conditions deteriorated. Soon the sky clouded over and we started to get concerned. We had every reason to as a storm appeared from nowhere. We donned our life jackets and life lines and took down our sales as we were effectively pointed into the teeth of the gale.Instead we started our motor and sitting together in the stern of the boat we scanned the horizon. Before long a helicopter came overhead, low down, with the markings of the Greek Coast guard on its side. We of course accessed the emergency channel on our radio but what ever they were trying to say to us was lost in the noise of the helicopter engines and the static on the radio. I gave them a thumbs up sign as I could not think of anything else to do. The helicopter departed and we were alone again. Suddenly Liz noticed some black smoke coming up from the bow of the boat. We were bucking up and down wildly as the boat bashed through the waves. Undoing my life line I went down below and discovered the self furling jib winch was smoking apparently not able to cut its self off after we had downed our sales. Frantically I searched for the fuse box and having found it I pulled out a number of unmarked fuses before finally getting the right one and stopping the winch from frying.

Liz and I finally got to a harbour in a place called Ante Paxos and we were at last in smooth water. The leader of a flotilla came across to see us and enquire as to how we were. ‘My goodness’ he said ‘ what on earth were you doing out in that’?. We explained re the ‘wrong weather forecast’. You made a big mistake he said the Northern and Southern Ionian seas can have totally different weather patterns. I am afraid that Sunsail gave you the wrong weather forecast. We were of course cross but we reminded ourselves that the responsibility of getting correct forecast was ours alone. Sunsail were suitably concerned. They even sent a motor launch to come and see us and fix the fault on our boat and they gifted us champagne when we returned to port. None of that stuff would ever make us use them again though.

Anyway back to the point, sailing in rough seas, safety harnesses, rescue helicopters and spray crashing over the decks. Fear or excitement? yes you have guessed Fear.

Back in the Uk we redoubled our training and as part of the exercise we hired a man whose business was training ‘wannabe’ yachtsmen. Indeed as part of the way the military returns those into ‘normal life’ from a conflict situation this man would take teams of paratroopers across The Atlantic in a sailing boat. In short he was as good as you can find and the man from ‘Red Mango sailing’ was a delight to boot.

We charted a boat from Salcombe for 3 days. It was fantastic piece of kit. An Arcona which is a Scandinavian design and about 40 feet in length. Sleek and well made it would tolerate almost any conditions nature could throw at us. We set sail from Salome to Dartmouth and over the next couple of days we were educated on a whole range of subjects. We became adept at mooring the boat, turning it on a sixpence, setting the sales in the optimum position and how to use the various charts whilst out on the sea and also how to employ all the electronic gadgetry. We knew most of this in theory of course but plotting a course when a boat is moving up and down is way different from a classroom scenario. The final night in Dartmouth we were enjoying a pub meal when our instructor arrived with some news. ‘I’m afraid the weather is deteriorating We will have to leave at first light. If you want to return by road that is fine I will take the boat back’.

The following morning we nudged out of Dartmouth and headed for the sea. Clouds were building up and the wind was freshening. I am afraid I cannot remember our instructors name but we all put on our safety gear, life lines and the like and set sail for Salcombe. As the weather deteriorated out instructor started the engine of the boat, not normal practice, and with the twin propulsion of wind and power we were flying along. The steering wheel was huge indeed it was almost as big as the person who was steering the boat. I have this vivid memory of Liz steering the thing as it crashed through the waves, spray cascading over us all. It was carnage down below as anything not tied down was on the floor rolling around. The wind built even higher and soon we began to appreciate fully the power of nature and what it was like to be in control in a top level sailing craft. Finally we arrived at Salcombe. I remember as we came up the river the effect of the incoming tide driven by the wind caused a series of tidal waves and the Arcona sort of surfed along. Several people were sitting in safety on their moored boots. I decided the looks they were giving us were those of admiration. ‘My goodness’ one shouted ‘that must have been an experience’ or similar. Liz and I were soon to learn we had passed the course although our instructor confessed that maybe we had gone outside the tolerance of a normal RYA practical experience.

Fear or excitement. Well on this white knuckle ride excitement of course, an Arcona and a trans Atlantic sailor for support. Bring it on.

Probably our final sailing experience was about ten years ago now. It was the end of the season and we were moving ‘Offchance’ from Dawlish Warren where she had spent most of the summer to our home club. The local council rules meant it was the very last day we were allowed to have our boat on the River Axe as the following day it was to be craned ashore for the winter. Liz dropped me off at the boat and with my rubber dinghy trailing behind I sailed down the river Exe into the sea. It was a lovely day with a fresh breeze and soon the various sites of Exmouth, Budleigh, Sidmouth etc were off the port bow. I had a radio on and I felt quite content. I dropped anchor in late afternoon in Beer and soon Liz appeared. She was training for an event and she had run to Beer to meet me. I got in the dinghy and went ashore to pick her up. The tides were such that the window in which we could enter The Axe was not until 9:30 at night when it would be dark. We heated some tomato soup and we decided to wait where we were. Unfortunately the weather changed and the southerly breeze stiffened and hitting the outgoing tide the effect was to toss Offchance up and down. We were pretty experienced by now but the one thing the South west Coast of England does not have is many places in which to seek shelter in the vent of a storm. Putting it bluntly the only option is to ride the thing out. Soon we were very uncomfortable and we stated our motor and moved along to the more open space of Seaton Bay. No shelter of course so we just moved around for about 3 hours. It was just miserable as the wind was blowing and we were cold.

Now there is one thing in the instructions of Axe yacht Club which essentially says ‘do not enter the harbour in rough seas’ the river entrance is only about ten feet wide it is very dangerous with concrete retaining wall waiting for any badly positioned craft. Soon it ws pitch dark. We could see the lights in the club house of course and we weighed up what to do. We had a GPS on the boat (Global Positioning System) but the instructions, yes I had read them, informed the user that accuracy was only good down to one meter. With an entry space of barely 3 this meant that it was important to be able to see where you were. At long long last 9 :30 arrived and we set up to enter the river. The sea was boiling around the river most. Liz was strapped on in the bow seeming going up and down like a giant see saw. Just as I was about to make my final approach’ a bright torch light came on. It blinded me and ruined my night vision. It was a fisherman on the harbour wall trying to help us. I turned the boat round and tried to recover my vision. The second approach we were confronted by not one but several torches as people had come out from the club house. It was like looking into a search light. Liz waved frantically, her shouts were drowned by the hiss of the foaming sea. Again I turned around. What to do? Obviously the people on the shore were trying to help but it made seeing the tiny entrance all but impossible. I took the decision to risk it. Staying out all night was not on my list of things to do. I looked down at the green lights of the flicking GPS and saw the red light of our boat identifying our position and also showing the entrance to the harbour. I tracked the centre line hardly daring to breathe. The lights from ashore blinding soon we came to the crucial moment and there on our port side perhaps a meter away was the harbour wall. Offchance lurched and we were in. Liz shouted with relief. “well done boy”.!

We moored up and were soon surrounded by Axe Yacht Club members who were keen to know what we were doing and why we had performed our manoeuvres. The lighting issues explained a pint of beer was produced and let me tell you it tasted wonderful.

Fear or excitement? Well let’s put it this way sailing a 30 foot boat off the South west Coast of England is not the luxury most would perceive. We sold the boat the following Spring. We were sorry to do so in many ways but we now enjoy the water by swimming or in our kayaks and at least if the weather deteriorates getting to shore is immediate.

Another serious piece here but the message has been entirely true for me in my life.

It was the spring of 1972 and I was 22 years old. I was working as a dealer, buying and selling shares for clients, on the floor of The Liverpool Stock Exchange. I had a wonderful boss called George Robinson who had been blown out of the water, literally, twice in convoys in the North Atlantic in the 2nd world war. He was an immaculately dressed man with a love of whisky and he became my ‘champion’ and taught me all he knew. He had no children of his own and maybe I was like a surrogate son to him. Having received little or no advice from my own father it was really good to have someone who was there to support and direct me.

Now on the Stock Exchange in those days were some remarkable characters. Men who had real tales to tell. Of tragedy, conflict and fear. Amongst these men was a Jewish man who went by the name of Topalian. I know not what his first name was but he worked for the very Jewish firm of Blankstone Singstone. He always wore a black 3 piece suit with a white shirt stiff collar and black tie. He was bald with straggly grey hair and his love of cigarettes left him with a tawny complexion and nicotine stained fingers. On the journey to and from work or walking around the City he would always wear a homburgh hat. He was very witty but had an acid tongue and those who were foolish enough to cross him would receive a withering ‘put down’ that demonstrated his intellect. Of course he was universally known as ‘Toppy’.

It was a time of my life when uncertainty was everywhere. What was I doing, what was I to become?. Would I find a wife and would I have a family. One day George told me that Toppy would like to get to know me better and he was keen to buy me a drink. (Drinking and Stock Exchange business were as one back then). Thinking about it I would make George laugh a lot and he probably wanted one of his ‘drinking buddies’ to share in the fun of a younger man. Anyway I went to the back room of ‘The Bodegga” pub in order to rendezvous with the man. This was my first conversation with him of any note. ‘Hello’ he said ‘what can I get you to drink’?. ‘the same as you’ I said. He smiled and returned from the bar with two huge pink gins-no ice. I sipped the thing and gulped my eyes popping. The effect of the elixir was of course to loosen my tongue and soon we were chatting away. I can see the smile on his stained teeth now along with the flash of the odd gold filling. Before long our conversation became serious and for some reason I confessed to him that I was struggling with my emotional life and how on occasions I had become very depressed as not being able to see a future was very difficult for me, as because of my education, my internal goals had been set very high.

Toppy gave me some of the best advice I have ever received and for me any way what he told me was so true. “There are many sorts of people’ he said ‘some people have almost no emotion they live their life on a basis of low highs and low lows. They are reasoned and practical and in truth are seldom fun to be around.’ ‘At the other end of the spectrum are people who experience high highs, they have the ability to soar mentally and appreciate life on a level that only people wit similar make up will understand’. Those people however will also experience low lows, the polar opposite of their joys’. All in all Toppy called this ‘The Iron Cold Law of Equal Opposites’. How ever high you go be assured the lows will follow and vice versa. On those days when you feel just ‘going on’ is all but impossible you can rely on one thing and that is a brighter day will come and if you wait long enough and if you open your heart then the joy that will be forthcoming will compensate for all you have been through-until the next cycle comes around that is.

Now I have no idea how other people see me. What is true is I am someone who can experience life, on occasion, in ‘another worldly’ way. Enough to make me shed tears of joy and to experience ecstatic feelings. You will also have guessed that I have also known deep dark ‘downs’ although most may struggle to accept this fact I assure you it is true.

The message of this tale is that as I have gone through my life that drink with Toppy, the only pink gin I have ever consumed, has given me some blessed wisdom. It has given me warnings not to expect perfection and joy as a condition of existing and maybe better still it has allowed me to weather the darkest of days because I was able to promise myself a brighter future awaits.

Looking back I cannot say why I was blessed with a variety of older men giving me help and advice, there was more than one. Maybe it was ‘an equal opposite’ for all I had missed with my own father. What I do know is I owe those wise men lot. For those reading this I sure you the rule works think about your own personality and experience and see if it makes sense to you and your life too.

Now this is a short but largely serious piece that maybe one day one of my grandchildren might read. It is all to do with the ‘potential’ each of us is born with and what we do with it.

My Headmaster at School was a man called John Gwilliam. For what ever reason I seemed to build a relationship with him that not only resulted in him helping me in practically in my life but also in giving me some great wisdom. I pass his wisdom on here.

John Gwilliam believed that everybody on earth is born with a set of capabilities and gifts. He also believed that most people failed to recognise their gifts and as a result squandered their opportunity and ‘potential’. For those who manage to recognise their particular set of ‘God given talents and do something about it’ (he was a religious man) opportunity awaits on a scale that few get to experience.

He was of course an intelligent man given his lifetime academic role but it was in sport that he had formulated a set of rules that transfer into everyday life. He was athletic and a large man such that his nation Wales’s national sport Rugby was something he was introduced to at an early age. As a young man he told me he would go to bed and dream of playing for Wales. He had heroes and he would watch them play and observe what they did and what made them the best. In time his progress on the field confirmed he had a future as he was selected for some representative teams. It was at this time that he told me of a very important formula he had discovered in order to make his ambition at the highest level a possibility. ‘I decided I wanted to be the best’ he told me, ‘and I sat down to work out what would make the best Rugby forward in the world’. He was big and mobile but he needs to learn to jump in order to catch the ball in the line outs. As a result he decide to take up skipping in order to be light on his feet and he described how he would work up and down his mother’s washing line leaping as high as he could and imagining himself heading a football, as he believed this would enhance his timing. He told me he would practice doing this for hours. He also wanted to be the fastest forward on the pitch and he decided to learn to run fast ‘downhill’. His logic was impeccable as he believed the velocity he gained from the relative lack of gravity would ensure his balance and actual running style would benefit. He ran down the road in his Welsh village hour after hour of course becoming, as a result, fabulously fit. This tale has a significant conclusion. In time John Gwilliam did play for Wales and what is more he captained the National team. He did so to win a triple crown but perhaps best of all he was the last Captain to lead Wales to victory over The All Blacks. Surveys of players did not exist back in the day but as far as rugby is concerned John Gwilliam lived up to his ‘potential’ and then some.

Of course, for those who would listen to him, his philosophy regarding rugby translates into real life.

I remember one Friday morning he was giving a lecture to the Sixth form on how to be ‘successful in life’. Most missed the point of what he said. Thankfully I did not. His message was threefold. First of all aim as high as you can. Be the best in your chosen field. Not ‘one of the best’ not ‘amongst the best’ the very best. If ever you bother to look at the really great companies in the world you will see that clearly defined in their corporate goal will be an intention to be at the very top of their chosen field. Secondly he encouraged the idea that in everything you do in aiming for your goal you need to do it to the very highest standard you can possibly think of.Thirdly and in some ways the most important of all, do what you do with an attitude that represents ‘doing the right thing’. Do not compromise and do not let those doubters or people who seek to take short cuts influence your drive and what ever you do be honest and upright as a person.

Interestingly only last week I was listening to a podcast in which the Head of The British Army was interviewed and his life pathway almost exactly mirrored this thesis.

When I look back on my own life I am happy to say that I took a lot of John Gwilliam advice on board. What ever success this grandson of a coal miner has had can be firmly identified as benefitting from approaching challenge based upon these three principles. In truth I now think that rather than making life difficult it does, looking back, make it way easier. If in any business your benchmark is ‘pre-eminence’ then taking ‘ordinary steps’ becomes a ‘no go’ so you don’t waste time. If you want to win at something then practicing for second place has no sense. Finally in the end your own soul will confirm or otherwise whether you have appoached life with a pure heart. For those who are interested my school motto was ‘Beati Mundo Corde’ another reason maybe while all of this made sense to me maybe.

I have of course passed on these words of wisdom to many but few interestingly have followed its message. To those who read this and have I suspect a moment of reflection might be in order. Well done by the way.

To those who read this and maybe recognise that they have not in fact lived up to their potential then perhaps it is not too late. In part anyway change your ways, aim high, set yourself the best of standards and behave with honour and integrity. It makes sense.

Now the fact is I think betting on horses is stupid. it would appear obvious that there is all sorts of bad practice going on from doping horses to jockeys throwing races. yet many people seem to enjoy wasting their money and ‘having a bet’. Not for me.

When I worked on the floor of the Stock Exchange every year I got the chance to buy a ticket for the annual Stock Exchange Grand National draw. Whilst the prizes were large the whole idea was to raise a lot of money for charity and people were very generous. The chance of actually drawing a ticket and ‘getting a horse’ was remote. Every year I would buy £100 of tickets and I would, like everyone else, bemoan my luck when I drew a blank. Some years on I was working for BZW (Barclays Investment bank) and out of the blue someone came around selling tickets. Most of my colleagues bought £5 or so but I had a tradition to uphold and when the man came to me I produced a furl of notes and paid out my £100. I don’t know if people were impressed with my largesse or if they thought me mad or perhaps some ‘heavy gambler’. A week or so later the list of successful tickets was circulated and I was not a little surprised to find that not only had i drawn a horse but it was also one of the favourites. News got out and people bid me for the horse. I will give yo a thousand pounds said one man. The actual value of getting the winner on the day was £25000 with the second £12500 and the third £5000. The scale of the whole thing was such that despite these fantastic prizes a large sum was given to a list of charities. Seeing my luck I determined to keep my ticket despite the bidding moving up. One man bid me £5000 as apparently my horse had moved ahead in the betting. I cannot remember the horses name now but it all git quite exciting.

The week before the race we went on a family holiday to France skiing. On the day of the race we were driving back home and around 3 pm or when ever it was i turned on a very scratchy radio 4 I think to listen to the race commentary. It is of course a long race and between crackles and fade outs the listen was excruciating especially as my horse was to the front. In the end it came home in second place and I was to receive £12500. I spent the lot, or nearly all of it by taking my family and my Mum and Dad to Paris for a long weekend. No expense spared the best hotels, cruises on the Seine and meals at the best restaurants. There was but one problem in this extravaganza and that was somewhere during the first morning we all started scratching our heads! My darling son had bought some extra visitors with him, lice, and we all got them. Getting lice oil is quite a challenge in a foreign tongue but soon we all looked like ‘the greasy family, who had not washed their hair for a week. We had special combs, we had to wash our hair in foul smelling shampoo. In truth it was as you might guess a bit of a downer. I bought everyone a gift, including myself. I bought myself the most expensive shirt i have ever had. It was from the main Pierre Cardin shop and there were no prices on the goods. It was sort of if you need to know the price you are in the wrong shop. Any way it was pink and because I ‘smelt’ i did not try it on-an error! I twitched violently when at the till as my beautifully wrapped shirt was presented to me in exchange for a Kings ransom. I could hardly decline to pay after the way it had been wrapped.When I got it home the slim fit was way to slim and whilst I would wear it on occasion the worlds most expensive shirt threatened to pop its buttons. I kept it for years hoping that one day i might slim down-i never did.

One Friday evening I found myself at Harpenden Rugby Club. I was not a member there but we lived in the town and someone had asked us along to join a table. I cant remember who was there but it was a dull lot. In the middle of the table were some raffle tickets. The prizes were given by members and the whole idea of the raffle was to boost club funds. The miserable lot put in the odd pound and some did not even bother. I struck with a certain amount of flamboyance I seem to remember. I will take the rest I piped up and dug in my pocket and produced my roll of fivers. £25 or so pounds later I had a whole host of various coloured tickets lined up in front of me as the club Chairmans wife made the draw. In third place an evening at a local restaurant everything paid for. In second place a pair of tickets on Monarch airlines to the sun. The people on my table gave me knowing looks as if to say ‘you fool wasted your money’!

And now the “Star Prize’ announced a clearly inebriated Mrs Chairman, a bathroom suite! Blue ticket 179. It was mine. I stood up triumphant and marched to the stage clutching my token of success. The thing I remember best was the fact that Mrs Chairman was very excited and that she had a moustache of sorts. ‘What is your name’? she said as I mounted the stage to cheers and the odd catcall. My name is Dennis I said. “here is tonights winner of the star prize’ she announced before kissing me all too keenly for my liking as her moustache scratched me. ‘The winner is Terry’ give him a cheer. ‘Well done Terry’ some shouted and for the rest of the evening the people on our table called me Terry. It was strange but heh I had won the star prize- a bathroom.

In truth we had a magnificent bathroom in our house courtesy of Smallbone I seem to remember, it came with the house. As a a result I looked for someone to ‘bless’ with the prize. Now if the truth is known i am not the favourite of my mother in law. I don’t blame her in the least indeed I might write about her at some point just so you can see how right she is to doubt me. Any way I rang her up and asked her if she would like a new fitted bathroom. She seemed overjoyed if a bit suspicious. I got in touch with The Rugby Club in order to get details of how i was going to collect my prize. Now here is the rub. The ‘star prize’ given by one of the club members was in fact a toilet, bath and wash basin. No fitting no tiling nothing just the three items. I was committed so i arranged to pick the things up and took them down to Poole where ‘herself’ lives.

It cost me around £2500 to get the thing fitted and all the tiling done etc. It was a secret I kept and when ever I visited ‘herself’ I made it my business to enjoy my time in the small room. It was kind of special to me.!!

Back in the 1980s I seem to remember being told the following fact. The most popular flying route in the world was the New York Boston route. Affectionately known as ‘The Shuttle’. Starting at 7 am once an hour a plane would take off at either end of the journey and the final flight would land at around 10 pm. The total journey time including airport’ taxi’ was an hour. The route was served by Pan Am which was on its last legs as a company. The planes, normally 727s, were old and rickety. I vividly remember catching the first plane out of Boston one morning after a drinking session with a client. Feeling awful I sat on the plane as it bumped down the runway everything rattling. So much so that suddenly the overhead safety hatches opened and breathing masks appeared. In that state of semi inebriation/sobering up the effect was terrifying. Sometimes for reasons, I know not, the descent into Boston would be super rapid. The captain would announce the same, everybody would moan and for the next five minutes or so a collective super steep white knuckle ride would ensue.

The Shuttle was a huge money spinner for Pan Am and usually on Friday afternoons, because of demand, a larger plane was put on the route. I can’t quite remember what but it had 5 seats across in the middle. There was no seating plan. You turned up at the airport paid your money and queued up for the plane.

One Friday afternoon I boarded one of these bigger jobs and instead of sitting near the front as my position in the line allowed me to do something took me to the back of the plane where I sat on the aisle end of the middle row. It was an intended act of relaxation as I was able to watch my fellow passengers board and see numerous attempts to get baggage into already filled overhead bins.

The plane was late inevitably and I stated to nod off. Just as I shut my eyes I felt the seats along from me in the central aisle move. I opened my eyes to see an amazing sight. There squashed into a single space was the biggest man I had ever seen. He wore a black vest, yellow pants and on his head was a baseball cap with a foot of long blond hair protruding beneath it. Alongside him was a blond woman who was literally a quarter of his size.

He looked across at me and smiled. The plane was now ready to go almost entirely full. Our row had two spares seats in theory but as soon as the plane got going the large man put his armrest down and spread his muscled frame into two seats, getting close to me. he excused himself and I told him not to worry. I started looking at his body. His arms were literally massive and you could see that he needed a refresh of his body hair shave as stubble was apparent. His yellowish tan was uneven in parts giving away the use of lotion! He must of picked up on my accent. ‘You Australian’? he asked. The first question most Americans ask of an Englishman in the North West of The USA. ‘Certainly not’ I retorted indignantly. As usual my ironic response was not picked up on and instead the man seemed concerned he had insulted me. ‘So sorry’ he said. His girlfriend piped up with ‘I went to London and Paris once’. Anyway we started a conversation around the flight. It was very bumpy and the young lady was not happy. His giant paw grasped her hand as the plane bucked along. Oddly there was always a cabin service on ‘The Shuttle’ it was either coffee or juice and maybe a bag of pretzels. I could not help but notice the cabin crew being somewhat overattentive to the big man. I assumed that maybe he was an American footballer or something.

Anyway we arrived a New York and we said goodbye. I remember thinking how funny it would be to have a picture taken of me with the man. Today it would have been easy of course. we were just about last off and all the crew enthusiastically bid the man a warm welcome to New York. Soon he was gone.

A few weeks later I was sitting with my son watching the wrestling. The WWF as it was. Tom just loved the thing. Huge men throwing each other around and mouthing blood curdling oaths at each other in various interviews. Tom was very excited (i know I was probably wrong to allow him to watch this stuff but he did love it). It was soon to be a championship bout and the World Champion was taking part. Somehow Tom knew who that person was he was called Hulk Hogan, The Hulkster! I sat down probably with a beer in my hand and hoped Liz would not appear advising me to turn off the rubbish as secretly I was fascinated. The lights dimmed a fanfare was played and fireworks were set off and into the ring stepped the mighty Hulk. All six feet 8 inches and 300 pounds of him. There he was flexing his huge biceps and looking deep into the camera lens. It was non other than my travelling companion on The Shuttle.

I don’t do all that film star and personality stuff. I don’t see why people fawn over others because they play football or can sing a bit. As such this is a bit out of the unusual for me as it is all about one of those sort of people. The point in the story is the wisdom of the tip this person gave me.

Around 5 years or so ago now I was in France for Christmas. It was cold, like very very cold. Europe was gripped by some ‘Beast from the East” The weather had been wet in the preceding weeks and with a few snow flurries the pavements in France had become skating rinks. I was waiting for my son Tom to arrive from London and was acting as Taxi man. The arrivals hall at Geneva is a fun place I always think. Twin electric doors open as passengers arrive. As many are off to ski the atmosphere is full of energy . Clearly many have partaken of a few glasses on the flight as there is always laughter and banter in the air.

I stood along with a number of others and I picked up on a voice just along the reception line from me. It was familiar in some way but I also realised it was not the voice of a friend. I looked right and realised the voice belonged to a man of similar age to me wearing a baseball hat. It was Phil Collins. People arrived from various places and soon I was standing alongside him and we started to chat. He was waiting for his son too and we had a nice conversation. He probably assumed I knew who he was but my questions and comments ensured we were just two Dads waiting for our family members having a chat.

Of course the weather soon came up and the subject of icy pavements and the likes. ‘I have got a good tip for you’ said Phil. ‘you will really thank me if you take my advice’. ‘Look at these’ he said pointing to a pair of black boots protruding below his denim jeans. ‘Olangs’ he said and he proceeded to display the bottom of the boots. In the sole and heel area was a red plastic bar that could be pulled out and reversed on the bottom of the boots. Once turned over in the reversed hoop were several metal lugs. These lugs, so he told me, offer perfect grip on any surface. ‘Even on sheet ice you can skip and dance around’ Shortly after his son arrived and he was gone.

Two days later I was in a shoe shop in St Gervais asking for Olangs. They had some I was delighted to learn and soon Liz and I were kitted out. Now let me tell you that not only was Mr Collins right these boots are just incredible. You really can with the flick of a finger walk safely and securely on any icy surface.

So whilst I don’t intend changing my attitude to celebrity I would like to offer my thanks to a wonderful musician who gave me a top tip. Thanks Phil!!

Triathlon du Mont Blanc.

The French nation loves ‘extreme’ they just do!  Think Vendee Globe, Marathon du Sable, Paris Dakar rally. The sport of triathlon is booming and here too the ‘sexy sport’ has attracted French interest. The area of Haute Savoie beckons extreme skiers to Chamonix and many other resorts too to truly test themselves, as do the various slopes of this mountainous region as each year Le Tour de France cycle race comes to visit and face the mountainous terrain.

The impossibly beautiful Lac du Passy is the setting for the Triathlon du Mont Blanc (the clue is in the name) 1500 meters of swimming 50 km of cycling and a 10km run.

In all things French there is a ‘difference’. 

The racers line up on the shore of the beautiful lake their bodies honed by years of exercise in this playground for the extreme, MTB, Skiing, Rock Climbing and even the infamous 200km running race ‘Ultara trail’.  The various tri suits disappear into the uniform black of their wet suited owners.  Not blue or black lycra for them but pink and turquoise and  purples and reds-a vibrant scene of colorful gear stretched over tanned super fit bodied.

The race is due to start at 2:15 to coincide with the peak daily temperature at this time of year of 30 degrees! Inevitably there is a delay as one competitor decides to swim the course in final preparation hounded now by a flotilla of whistle blowing canoeists.  He returns to the shore unconcerned but now the chief referee sporting a black and white shirt of office has his day, strutting back an forth behind the lined up competitors he issues orders and signals his importance brandishing stopwatches, neck hung maps and various other badges of office.  Suddenly without any apparent warning he steps forward and depresses his hand primed Klaxon and the race is on.  The early turmoil abated the swimmers settle down to their task. As the swimmers turn around the far bout first a brief glimpse of the Aigle du midi and then the magnificent view of Mont Blanc-the very symbol of the region.  The final meters of the swim are a mix of shallow dives and swimming glides before emerging on the shore where excitable young marshals implore the swimmers to hand over their ‘nylon red and white swim hats’ in preparation for another day. Allez allez yell the crowd a soon to be familiar cry. 

As the adults set off the childrens race begins. Imagine 100 kids dressed in the tri suits. The swim phase reminds one that France is now a leading world nation I n this   as technique is excellent and the mountain bile leg around the lake is no less than spectacular.  The run is accompanied by the yells of anxious parents until finally the winner arrives his victory salute quite splendid and obviously practiced in the bedroom mirror. The whole thing a window on the lifestyle and attitude of the local youth.

No TT bikes are lined up in the adulttransition but road bikes with dinner plate rear cogs and super light climbing wheels.  The first 25 km miles uphill consist of ramp after ramp with hairpin bends and brief sections of relief. Setting ones own pace is the only way as a visit to the ‘red zone’ in this territory can prove fatal in terms of ones ability to keep going. At long last the Plateau of Passy is reached an racers drink in the thin mountain air and pass a series of buildings which were once sanctuaries for the serious infirm but are now transformed into holiday complexes for those who love the great outdoors. At the head of the pass the riders make their turn around a round about whose position allows a viewe of the ‘altiport’ where lovers of that other great adventure sport, ‘parapenting’ line up to launch their nylon rainbow coloured canopies into the void.  The cyclists lycra echoes this color in a spectacular moment as they turn and their climbing machines transform into those prepared for flight. With speeds in excess of 40 mph the riders swoop down round bends, the only sound the screech of brakes and the odd shriek of sheer glee. At each junction marshals brandishing red table tennis bats forbid motorists to proceed. At last the lake is reached again and two laps of running demonstrate the class of the field. Various officials (arbiter-referee) emblazoned on their shirts watch over events one man with a twisted mouth stops a runner and rebukes him for not wearing his number straight and brandishes a yellow card (3 pins are obligatory on the race belt!! It is France after all).

The crowd is whipped up by an MC although strangely some dog walkers seem not to see the whole thing! The finishing shute is bright and the final meters are accompanied by techno beat music. Beyond the line not a tee shirt but a towel with an image the mighty mountain worked into its texture. Finally as only the French could do there is an athletes banquette table not ten metres from the finish with sandwiches chocolate every type of fruit crisps and drinks.  The winner seemingly unconcerned by his effort munches on a slice of melon. Tom Elliott of the N1 tri club came 42^nd out of 450 locals although pleasingly and English ski instructor won the women’s prize. Next year we might just take a party to race this event it is truly spectacular and to see the French approach is quite something. As you drive away from the race the signs adorn all the local lamp posts announcing next week the famous  “ultra running race of Mont Blanc and surrounding area-300 km anyone?

I have been happy to write in the past on my wonderful experiences doing Ironman races. This week in Vichy France Liz and I were in the same race and the wheels came off. Here is the report I wrote for my fellow club members as I know a lot of you will be keen to know what happened and have been too polite to ask.

I have often written in the past of the relationship between ‘challenge’ and ‘sense of achievement’ and why it is the human spirit thrives on this particular phenomenon. The greater the challenge the greater the sense of reward etc.. This simple relationship explains why nearly all Ironman races sell out and why late on the day, at the end of any Ironman race, you will see people at the very edge of their human endurance celebrating widely as they accomplish their dream. Ironman races are very, very hard to finish and that is why people do them.
However there is a third leg to this particular triangle of ‘challenge and achievement’ and it is a very powerful one. Until this date I have thankfully avoided discussing it, but now I must. The third leg is ‘failure’. Failure happens to us all, in work, maybe in our education or worst of all in our relationships. The fear of failure is a mighty force as it spurs us on to achieve because the alternative is unthinkable. Lets be honest failure hurts it really does and on Sunday in Vichy Liz and I felt that pain full on.
We were both ready for the race as, despite my lies, we had trained hard and all our times were good,particularly in Liz’s case her swim times. The weather in Europe last week was freakish and we spent all week dreading the news that was delivered to us a mere hour before the race start-No wetsuits! No excuses but Liz and I are both just hopeless in open water (and anywhere else for that matter) without the support a wetsuit brings, especially over a long distance swim. My heart sank as I lined up with many other disillusioned Brits all who were facing a similar challenge to us. The start area provided some relief as we met the wonderful Elizabeth Model again (she needs only 3 more IM races to join an exclusive club of 3 men who have finished all the 56? IM races in the world)-her other half,the famous John Wragg, has completed well over 200 races!!!) Elizabeth is an absolute joy of a person and she spread positive cheer to all around.
Our time came to enter the water and we had to drop off a pier. I sank so deep into the water I feared never surfacing again and Liz, who was alongside me, got stuck under the pier.! We were then water bombed by following racers as they entered the fray. We had decided that given the hot weather and given we had trained together, we would face the Ironman challenge as a team. Not to cheat in any way but to support and care for each other just in case the heat was too much. As the swim progressed I was to have a ring side seat at a macabre dance. The water was inky black and we soon reverted to our worst swimming style and generally floundered along. In truth Liz has had many swimming demons over the years to deal with, as many others have, but as I mentioned above she was well prepared for the swim as she was comfortably recording swim times of 90 minutes for the 4 km distance-in a wetsuit of course. The first lap of the course took us nearly an hour and with the second leg slightly longer the prospect of not finishing began to dawn. Liz absolutely refused to give up and my admiration for her spirit was coupled with the sad realisation we would not finish ahead of the cut off time. Soon we had an escort as we were right on the limit for the cut off. The time remaining was read out to us and we were surrounded by a flotilla of canoes and the race umpire who was on a jet ski. This jet ski was most annoying as it belched out black smoke and from time to time its pilot would jet off enabling us to imbibe some of the black water as he created unwanted waves. With six hundred metres to go we got the bad news,6 minutes left. Still Liz refused to give in until, with perhaps a hundred meters to go, she decided to avail herself of the rescue boat and ‘enjoy’ a ride in. I joined her and we came ashore. We then suffered a further ignominy as our swim hats were removed and taken away. Thankfully I have benefitted a lot from Ellie Dominey’s efforts to improve my colloquial French. As a result I was able to fully express my sentiments to the marshal who triumphantly seized my cap.I encouraged him to put the thing somewhere personal- I fear I may soon receive a lifetime ban!
There were tears of course but as we walked along the jetty, the lovely Down family were there to welcome us. Some quiet words from Jane will stay in my heart for ever. We then went to the bike park and joined a rapidly growing party. A party we would never choose to be at. We were mostly Brits at this party, many were openly crying. A man from Jersey listed the amount of money he had spent on the adventure -his detail was remarkable. An Irish man sobbed in Liz’s arms and various others just wandered around with blank stares on their faces. The array of beautiful bikes, hanging redundant from their racks, were strangely reassuring but also achingly sad. We were the ‘failures’.
I spent most of the day in relative silence,for me anyway, as I tried to rationalise events. Nigel Down was superb as he provided all the support I could need. “Why on earth in many other Ironman races do they allow wetsuits for those taking part with a temperature up to 28 degrees.(apart from the professional racers and relay teams) with the proviso that wearing a wetsuit in warm water precludes entry to Kona?Yet here they were banned to all? For all those in our ‘failures party’ Kona is not remotely realistic anyway. Unfortunately the French organisers,for all their wonderful attributes, did not seem to get this fact. Interestingly after the longest swim Liz and I have ever had Liz was shivering uncontrollably when the end came.

Now before you reach for your handkerchiefs there is a happy end to the tale. Of course we had Helen and her ‘boys’ to cheer on but we also had a very special person to support. I will not repeat Matt Collin’s story here but he is a man who we both hold dear to our hearts. When Matt announced, last November in The Bowd Inn, he intended doing an Ironman race we both decided to join him. Matt could hardly swim at the time of entering the race and as we floundered in the water my deepest fear was that Matt would not have made it too, especially as he had aligned his efforts to a particular children’s cancer charity. Thankfully that was not the case and he managed his first ever triathlon race,of any sort, in a way that many could learn from. He battled through the swim, he rode as fast a bike leg as was sensible and then executed a run plan that suited his stamina and the weather conditions perfectly. The result was an almost ‘fairy story’ ending to the day and an example that even when times are dark if you hang on the light will come. Liz and I were heading to the finish line to await Matts arrival when, as luck would have it, I spotted a tall man ‘galloping’ around the approach track in the darkness. It was Matt and Liz and I sprinted to the finish area to see a wonderful sight as ‘Mathew Collins- N1 Tri Club -Great Britain – entered the floodlit arena and was hailed an ‘Ironman ‘. His victory dance was something to behold.
When failure hits it will hurt but it is time for us to “bank the experience” (thanks Rich Coleman) face up to your failings and then move forward because you cannot change what has happened and to wallow in self pity serves no purpose. We both failed because we could not swim the course distance without a wetsuit in the necessary times and we both chose to ignore the possibility that we would have to do this. Rules are rules.

We are now back home, some polite letters have been written to the Ironman organisation and I am sure my letter asking for a more consistent approach to wetsuit policy will be joined by many others. In the meantime we have both committed to learning to swim well in any conditions so you won’t see that fat pull buoy any more at swim sessions.
In the end, honestly, failure is a good thing as it makes you take a step back and evaluate your life. Triathlon is only a sport after all and Liz and I have so many things to be grateful for and we are currently counting our blessings.
For the many words of support we received thank you all. As Nigel Down so succinctly put it. ‘Ironman’ races are incredibly hard and inevitably some people fail, if only to prove the point. I am immensely proud of all N1 members who have completed Ironman races and after Sundays experiences even more so. I end this rather personal article with a salute to all of them and if you will forgive me a very special one to Matt Collins.

View From The Back.

To put the whole thing in context I am now 66 years of age (so?) and I was joined in Copenhagen by 10 of my club mates of the N1 Tri Club to race in the 5th edition of Ironman Copenhagen.

In case you need to be reminded 2.4 miles in the water,112miles on your bike and the final ‘mad dash’ of 26.2 miles. There should have been 12 of us in total but my best friend and training partner did not make the start line due to a serious Achiles injury. She has trained with me supported me,cajoled me and occasionally bullied me. She was of course there to support us all. Liz Thanks xx. I approach the race as fit as I have been in recent years according to all my numbers. A lot lighter than last time,faster bike times and a resting heart rate of 39.(fact not a boast). In the weeks approaching the race I have to record that I began to get sharp pains in my left leg. I considered asking my doctor for an injection but decided in the end to just hope ‘all would be alright on the night’. I did notice however that when it rained the condition got worse.

The day before the race things got off to a terrible start. I received a call from my cousin Christopher in Wigan. We are what we are because of our genetics of course but along the road some people make a difference to the way we act the way we perceive challenge etc. Those who know me in my current life may think the wonderful lifestyle I enjoy is something I have always had. It is not. I am the proud grandson of a Wigan miner, a man who at a very early age help condition my attitude to life. His son,my Uncle Vincent, helped me a lot too especially in my sporting life, which has formed such an important part of my existence. His was not the school of cosset and kind. His was the school of determination, not giving in and teamwork.Hash Tag Owen Farrell,Northern Grit Never give in. He was a superb rugby player himself and I owe him an awful lot as what he taught me has coloured my attitude to life. On the Saturday morning I learned that he had passed away. I have made it a habit to dedicate my Ironman races to key figures in my life because when you get weary, imagining someone special is along side you can be very helpful.

As I woke on Sunday morning,race day,I committed my efforts to Vincent Egan.The truth can now be told that the three previous Ironman races I have finished have in the round been very enjoyable. Yes I finished tired, but not exhausted. The actual races themselves I found enthralling in the way I seemed to experience the whole thing. A sort of ‘spiritual trip’. On the morning of this race, for some reason, I felt horribly nervous and despite encouraging my team mates I was truly afraid. The forecast for the day was for heavy rain showers.My first experience of Ironman racing was years ago now in Majorca where I tool part in a ‘half distance race’. It was there I first enjoyed the thrill of racing in front of huge crowds, on closed roads with every junction manned by an official. It was there I realised why IM races cost so much to enter and it was there when I came out of the water confronted by a wall of cheering people I heard the that magical Black Eyed Peas. “tonight is going to be a good night’ blaring out on the PA system-It was!The scene at an Ironman start is amazing. 3000 wet suited racers in the different coloured hats of their swim wave.

Camera drones flying overhead,rock music blaring and the ‘helpful’ man on the mike reminding everyone of what is to come. I looked across the beach and I saw Michele Vesterby being interviewed for Danish TV. Michele is a professional racer with a huge following because not only is she a superb athlete but she is glamorous and has personality that delights.A one lap Ironman swim course,2.4 miles, ‘does your head in’ if you look at it. The only thing that stops most people from packing up and going home, then and there, is they can tell themselves they have done it in training. ‘You will be fine’ I said to myself repeatedly. Races start in waves,the professional racers first then the very best age group athletes and so on. The race is effectively a personal time trial, although you do race in your own age category. You wear a transponder in a band on your left ankle and you have 15 hours 45 minutes to get to the finish. I lined up in the starting pen with the truly amazing Vanessa Glyn Jones my club mate. Vanessa is 70 year old and she was the oldest woman in the race. We hugged each other, waved to one or two of our other club mates and entered the starting gate. You enter the water in fours every five seconds. BOOP BOOP BEEP and you are off. I started swimming and felt relief we were rolling. One two, one two, relax relax. Of course you bang into people, you might get kicked too but all racers know the score and most behave well. For a very ordinary swimmer like me the swim is in truth boring. You can look around but you don’t see much,one two one two, you go under bridges where you catch sight of worried faces of supporters seeking the man or woman in 3000 person throng of thrashing humanity. You hear muffled roars then onwards to the next bridge ,one two one two. Around the half way point a sort of relief kicks in but I started to get sharp pains in my left leg. I cursed and had a mini panic attack. On two one two. Finally after what seems like an age you turn the final buoy and there perhaps 400 metres away you see the welcome yellow arch of the swim finish. Like a load of slippery eels the swimmers emerge, helped by an army of yellow shirted helpers. Swimming for an hour and a half,in my case, can make you very dizzy when you stand up. Some people stagger like a drunk up the runway. I like to see these scenes cos the make me laugh. Into transition,rip off wetsuit on with bike gear and off we go to the next bit my favourite part.

I love my Time Trial bike. She is called Tanny and she is made out of black carbon fibre. She has special pedals that send information to my bike computer telling me such things as my pedalling rate,the power I am exerting with each revolution and the left right balance of my effort. My back wheel is a disc,also carbon fibre. The wheel is supposed to save me several metres every mile as its wind cheating qualities cut through the air. However its best quality is the noise it makes,thrum thrum, as I go along. When I am really going I make believe the noise is that of a motor driving me on ,thrum thrum. The first lap of two started well I was soon going well my speedo showed a steady 20 miles an hour as I moved down the coastal strip. It is a fantastic sight to see a line of triathletes disappearing down the road. Every now and again a race marshal will come into sight on a motor bike. There is a strict non drafting rule and the marshals can evict you from the race is you close within 12 metres of the person ahead. Thrum thrum thrum thrum. After 20 miles the course turned in land and the road began to rise and fall and twist. It was at this point as I stood to drive up a hill a shooting pain in my leg caused me to panic again. I switched pages on my bike computer and the message told its tale my right leg was putting out way more power than my left. 55%/45%. After 40 miles or so the race leaders swept by with their escorts of motor bikes. How on earth could they be going so fast. Their wheel noise was a higher pitch than mine The women pro field looked just amazing and there she was Michele Vestrby at the front,I felt elated and yet strangely sad at the same time-there was still a long way to go on the bike. Around mile 80 despite all the training you may have done fatigue begins to play its part. At first it may be a mental thing or else maybe it is a small cramp. Whatever it may be it always accompanies something else and that is the realisation of something to come-the run leg of the race. I passed my final feed station where a line of helpers stand profferring their wares. They shout out to you,’water,sports drink,banana,energy gel or bar.’ You point at the person you want to ‘deal with’ and you fix your eyes on them and the drop is made.

The rain came pouring down,oh thanks! Spray was everywhere and my cycling helmet, which makes me look like a bee or something with a less kind description if you listen to my son, became covered in rain drops. My leg ached.Thrum thrum thrum thrum. I was really panicking as we swept down into the second transition,it was a huge underground car park. It was an amazing scene. Bikes on racks seemingly hundreds of marshall and racers coming and going. At this moment I was nearly saved from myself. In triathlon there are many rules and one of them is ‘no public nudity’. I had grabbed my ‘run bag’ from the rack my number 3001 making it easy to locate as it was right on the end. I sat down and removed my cycle shirt. At this point a tall man in a yellow gilet with ‘marshal’ written across it stepped forward. ‘Stand up he said,put your shirt back on’. I obliged his order somewhat confused. He then delivered a lecture in which he produced a red card from his pocket and warned me that unless I followed the rules He would wave it at me and that would be that. Well lets be honest I though why not? I escape the run and everyone in my club will be amused that I got ‘kicked out’ for nudity-win win!.

The moment past and I shuffled off to the nearby changing tent.Emerging on to the streets of the city centre is quite a thing.Huge crowds -like at the London Marathon. Every racer wears his or her race number,their country flag of origin and their name. In the past the adrenaline rush of thousands of strangers yelling my name was just amazing. This time it was different. ‘Go on Dennis you’ve got this’ someone yelled with 26.1 miles to go I thought this comment to be a bit too optimistic. I tried to run but a hobble emerged instead. Lets be honest I can’t run properly anymore anyway indeed I refer to this section of the race as ‘the plod’ but on this day the description was really true- plod plod plod plod. I just wanted to give in I was panicking, I was crying if the truth is known,thank god for my sunnies-no one knew. It was then that I was given my first gift because coming towards me on the other side of the too and fro course was the wonderful woman that is Helen Jones. Helen is all but a professional athlete,someone should sign her up. She is however sponsored by a variety of companies and she wears a super cool light blue race suit albeit with an N1 logo on her bottom. Helen is one of our own female superstars. She is a superb athlete who frequently gets on the podium and she was our first finisher in Copenhagen in a shade over ten and a half hours. I never tire of telling people that if some way you could bottle her sense of fun,enthusiasm and determination you would become very wealthy very quickly. She has single handedly transformed my Mondays too as she is a yoga teacher and Monday night ‘contortions’ have become a highlight of the week. She is someone with a quick fire sense of humour and splendid banter.There she was, probably hurting herself, she jumped the bollards in the road and ran towards me and gave me the biggest sweaty hug I have ever had and she shouted ‘go on Mr E you can do it’ I plodded round the next corner and out of the sea of faces there was one I recognised shouting at me. It was Helen’s husband Aled. Boys own stuff this!. Aled,himself a fantastic triathlete, had actually won a bike race outright in Copenhagen the previous evening. Aled is member of the Royal Marine display team. If you ever see a man abseiling down an office block in London carrying the colours of Her Majestie’s’ finest’ or you watch in awe at a premier league game as the match ball comes flying down from the top of the stands carried by a man on a zip wire that is likely to be Aled. Here he was shouting at me in that military way,you know a sort of encouraging imperative. thanks you Aled.

I struggled on looking out for help. Soon it came. Rae Owen ia another of our amazing women athletes she oozes fun and laughter I don’t think I have ever seen her without a smile on her face, She is always first to offer thanks as well but she is a fine athlete too. Rae is a teacher and she is also the proud Mum of Osian and Amelie and at the age of 40 she had decided to show her two children what she was made of. Amelie is,like her Mum, always smiling and the smile she would have worn if she had seen her Mum at this point would have been huge. ‘Well done’ Rae shouted ‘well done. Adding to the wonder of our collective tale Rae was not alone in the race because further down the road was another Owen,her husband Luke.After maybe 3 miles or so I saw in the distance the fantastic monochromatic N1 logo amongst a sea of runners coming towards me. It was carried by the wonderful Anne Ephraums. She is a superb swimmer and to prove it she not only was fastest in her age group but 12th woman in the race- including all the pros. She actually swam 2.4 miles in 58 minutes. She has taught half of the people in the town where I live how to swim. There she was looking superbly fit. An example of what a healthy lifestyle can do for the body. In ‘real life’ she has buckets of style and always looks the height of cool. At 54 years of age she is a credit to everything she does. Never one to overdo the hype she looked across at me her nod conveying a load of messages.I had now somehow covered around 5 miles and I had concluded it would be just a matter of time until my leg seized up and I would be forced to stop. A club member friend of mine who is now an former Royal Marine told me in the week approaching the race that if I got into trouble of any sort I would reach a point of despair and then, as long as I held on it would not get any worse. I was about to find out if this was true.

The next person I met from our club was Tony Spencer he came up behind me on his final lap. Tony is in fact a South African by birth. I have met many South African sportsmen via rugby and cricket. All seem to have a sense of organisation and order in what they do. Their kit is always smart and well prepared and of course they are often superb athletes. Tony runs his own business and is a busy man with his family and so we only see him occasionally round the club. He is popular with everyone and always polite. His arm came round my shoulder and he stopped to urge me on with some kind words. Thanks Tony. Some time later I was to see his wife Katya in the crowd whose parents live in Copenhagen. Plod Plod Plod plod.

I had now done around 7 miles and Rae’s husband Luke hove into view. Luke is the headmaster of a local school and is fiercely proud of his Welsh heritage. he is often given to translating any given sentence or phrase into Welsh. It his highly amusing. He is a rugby player, in fact he is a prop forward!! He is a bull of man physically but for this race he had got himself super fit. Amazing to think that twelve months ago one length of the swimming pool left him fighting for air. His son Osian,a prop forward too, would be ever so proud to see him here. Head held high his sun visor framing his strong head. He looked across at me and shouted some words of encouragement. the word ‘beer’ was mentioned-he did not translate-he did not need to. Soon after Jim Ephraums appeared. Some members of our club do not get why it is a constantly harp on about team work and team values. Some openly defy my requests to wear club kit when they race- I understand why. But here coming towards me was a man whose whole appearance made me feel good. I won’t pretend I know Jim well,I don’t. What I do know is that at sixty years of age he decided to get himself properly fit. I do know in his younger days he was an outstanding windsurfer and maybe he was better than that,he is not the sort to brag. In the last twelve months he has totally changed shape,he was never overweight,he has shed well over a stone in weight but he has also built an amazingly athletic frame. Those of you who have let your sport go and miss it as you age might consider Jim. I know Jim has always been very very proud of his wife Anne but now Anne will have her own Ironman to train with.

Somehow I approached half distance my leg a constant low grade throb. I tried to quicken my pace but it was pointless. Plod plod plod plod. Nick Johnson is now a 3 times Ironman. He is made of stern stuff. He is the partner of a major law firm in Exeter and his speciality is litigation. I don’t know if many lawyers carry tattoos, I suspect not. However on the back of Nick Johnson’s right calf is the most magnificent and symmetrical Ironman tattoo you will ever see, it is perfect. As Nick stands in court I wonder if those who dare to oppose him know what they are dealing with. Nick was polite and reassuring as ever as he passed me. A warm touch on the shoulder a comment of encouragement and off he went the tatoo made me smile. Across the top of his race shorts our club motto stood out in white against the black, ‘be the best you can be’ I am sure that message lifted many racers morals on the day on their journey.

I like Matt Collins a lot and I hope he will agree we have been through a lot together. Matt trains for ironman races by lifting weights he is very strong he does not bother with long runs he just grunts and strains in the gym. It works. Now Matt is man who knows all about courage. A number of years ago now Matt was diagnosed with serious illness and he came to stay with Liz and I when he was recovering from a bout of treatment. Of course I decided to take him to the pub,The Hare and Hounds for those who know, and as we entered Matt put on a show of public defiance. He removed his beanie hat to reveal a completely bald head and walked up to the bar. He ordered two pints of Guiness and turned to me and said. You have to show all those people that you are fighting and life goes on. Many people stared that night and I saw in some eyes they fully understood Matts gesture. Anyway here was Matt. Indeed Matt ,bless him, stayed with me for about 6 miles plod plod plod plod. We chatted about many things and I confessed to him that I was about to ‘give up’. A medic on a bike came along side me and noting my gait he enquired if i was fit to go on. I almost felt a surge of relief as quitting under the advice of medical opinion was surely OK. Matt was quick to answer the question for me. He’s fine mate its a bit of cramp in his muscle. The medic rode off. Urr!Matt came up with a ‘cunning plan’ he decided that I need to relax my muscles and he revealed he had smelt the aroma of ‘Ganga’ on the air. His idea was simple we would identify the smell,he would trace the user down,do some sort of deal, and return for me to imbibe and hopefully relax my legs. It seemed a good idea although we became concerned that I might get an attack of the munchiees and leaving a feed station might be problematic. The plan did not come to fruition. In the end having sacrificed a really good finishing time Matt left me. I was all alone but not quite.

Vanessa Glyn Jones is a remarkable woman I could write pages about her. She took up serious sport late in life,e she looks amazing for her age but best of all she has a will of steel. Vanessa was gaining on me and as we passed at one point on the course she shouted what I knew. ‘Its just us now.’ Plod plod plod plod. At long last I started on my last lap. There are in fact 4 and bit laps in this race and after each circuit you are given a coloured band to wear on your arm. 4 bands and you have a special key -it is the key to enter the finishing straight.As I started my last lap my brain was a total scramble I knew i was pushing things close in terms of time but my mind would not work out how close. Some will understand what I mean. As I turned on to the final circuit I was met with a very sad sight. My good friend Lisa Braunton.. I later learned Lisa had not made the cut off by 3 minutes and she had been disqualified. I had been an eye witness to her bike crash very early in the race and I was not surprised at all she got up-thats Lisa. I did not know about her puncture of course or even worse the mechanical problem she incurred that slowed her radically. I had trained with Lisa, I had promised her hubster my good mate ‘Big Dave’ I would make sure she got round the course if I possibly could and here she was helping me. ‘Go On Den’ she shouted ‘Go On!’ Whatever you decide to do next Lisa we will ALL be behind you.Suddenly Liz jumped into the road with messages from my watching children back home. Tom says “gerron”! (a reference to our particular our sense of humour-a Devon phrase that has many meanings- I won’t elaborate) Jo says ‘Rubber Duck Rubber Duck’. This is a reference to phrase taught us by one of my sons good mates another ex marine. In times of real adversity when you want to give in the mantra goes. ‘Rubber Ducks don’t die-I am a rubber duck you can’t kill me.Endless repetition against the pain and doubt you feel. Just for one second a glimmer of hope emerged. Where the road got darkest just after the final turn point of the race with perhaps five miles to go two amazing things happened. Through that darkness I caught sight of the N1 Logo a white haired woman striding out. Now only a couple of miles behind me.Vanessa is normally reserved and softly spoken but not at this moment. ‘Get on with it’ she roared ‘make sure you make the finish line in time’. Amazingly, for me anyway, this order was issued perhaps a few hundred metres from the most famous of Copenhagen’s symbols. Just below where we were on the rocks stands the ‘Little Mermaid’. Not sure exactly what mermaids are supposed to do but this one, in N1 Colours, steered me from my personal rocks. My admiration for Vanessa knows no bounds but for those of you are reading hold tight, for you are about to gulp in admiration. Vanessa had entered this race for two reasons. Firstly to demonstrate that her first Ironman was no fluke-respect! Secondly because this was the 5th staging of the Copenhagen event. It is five years since Vanessa was diagnosed with breast cancer-Gulp myself. What ever forces are around us all I can say that the Gods were with Vanessa on this day because in the end she crossed the finishing line with 14 seconds to spare. Around 500 racers failed to finish and collect their medal.

Then into my life came Eliot Maslan. We exchanged greeting we both confessed our ‘state of play’. This was his first ever Triathlon of any sort(!!!!) and as we moved along I learned something of his history. This was a man to have along side you when the going was at its toughest. The Ironman organisation recognise that those left at the end of a race have a tough time of it. Essentially these are the people who have to struggle the most. Those who have taken a bet on to enter-there are some -normally Irish! or those who are taking part to raise money for a particular charity dear to their heart or those who have found the whole thing too much and they are about to fall apart. They call it ‘Heroes Hour’. My new friend Elliot referred to this final few miles as the ‘circle of doom’ but what a performance he delivered. His voice a sort of rich gravelly sound with a Welsh accent a bit like Richard Taylor for those who remember. He is a former Welsh Guradsman and he marched with purpose, my plod was forced to keep up. I always encourage club members to thank each and every marshall but I was spent and Elliot did it for me. ‘Thank you thank you’ he shouted. He thanked each and every one of the road side rock bands that were now packing their equipment up to go home and he managed to roar on encouragement at the frail and in some case those who had stopped. Who ever you are Hilary if ever by some chance you read this, respect to you well done!. Go on Hilary go on roared Elliot. Between all this encouragement I learned a little of this man’s past. He has completed the Marathon de Sables, John a Groats to lands end bike rides and many other things all in aid of that magnificent charity ‘Help for Heroes’. I took some men to Afghanistan, he told me and I had to leave some behind,others came back but were not the same as they had left. I do all this for them he said you must never give in!

He actually asked my permission to cover the last mile alone-he moved ahead- strangely this may have been a special gift as it allowed me to experience the final part alone. Amazingly as I rounded the final turn I recognised the music blaring out on the PA system You have guessed it the Black Eyed Peas. As it signalled my first Ironman race would it signal my last? I turned into the finishing straight. I later learned that in ‘heroes hour’ all the people are given those plastic balloons to beat against the boards along side the finish shute.The finishers name is announced to the crowd and they give each and every one a special reception. The wall of light was such i could see absolutely nothing I tottered forward like I was approaching some heavenly gates.

The sound was deafening my name coming from all around me. As I crossed the finishing line there was one final surprise because waiting to hand out my medal was my own special angel none other than Michelle Vesterby, who had won the women race. Apparently the tradition is that all race winners give out the medals in ‘heroes hour’-a lovely touch. As this was not enough as she place my medal over my head she grasped me by the shoulders and placed the sweetest of kisses on my left cheek and she told me what I already knew. ‘I think that this was one of the toughest days of your life-well done you’. I shuffled off.

I am ashamed to say I did not wait for Vanessa I feel so bad about that but frankly my brain had ‘gone’. She was to receive a special tribute as all spectators were allowed to climb over the crash barriers and form a guard of honour to welcome her home-i can wait to see that pic. For the record the whole thing took me just over 15 and half hours. I am ashamed to admit I joined an exclusive club of participants in an IM who spent longer on the run (plod in my case) than the bike. Where is my tee shirt?I entered the recovery tent wrapped in my golden space blanket and I sat on a bench.

Well to be honest I sat on the end of a bench which overturned an rather comically left me lying on the floor. people came running to my aid. A kindly lady asked me if she could get me something and of course I ordered a beer. She returned shortly after with a half full glass, perhaps fearing I might not be in a fit state. As I sat there I raised my glass towards the heavens and I offered a silent prayer. Dear Uncle Vincent Rest In Peace.

Somehow I got back to our accommodation and I lay on my bead. Sleep was way beyond me and I undertook a sort of psychedelic trip of memories and images of the day. Slowly a sort of sanity returned an with it some reflections of the day.

Was i glad i finished ?Yes I was and here is why. If the going gets tough in life in any circumstances, if you feel you cannot go on then don’t give up. Don’t give up because if you do you will be very disappointed and all your fiends will feel that disappointment too.

Don’t give up because if you do you will feel very sad and those who love most,your family will feel sad too.

Don’t give up because if you do you will be failing the memory of those you have left behind and those who have made you what you are.

I will of course be getting my knee sorted out but it may be my last ironman It was certainly my toughest. On the subject of tattoos i have never considered getting one until now because somehow I have not felt my effort worthy. However Vanessa has a theory that in time when we are wheeled into that old peoples home having an IM tattoo might give us cred. Maybe the next thing I will do is email Nick Johnson for the phone number of his tatoo artist.If you are still reading all this then thanks to you. Especially though a huge thanks to my team mates who supported, most of all Liz and anyone I have forgotten. Please do remember I am not writing this because i want any praise or anything like that I just wanted to tell my tale. I will of course be buying Eliot a beer.

Ten members of the East Devon N1 Tri Club travelled to Spain to compete in The Ironman Barcelona Triathlon 2015, writes Dennis Elliot.

N1 Tri Club members were in action in Barcelona 

The event comprised of 2.4-mile sea swim, a 112-mile cycle and finally 26.2-mile marathon.

The very idea of doing an Ironman Triathlon normally provokes two questions in people. How on earth do you prepare for it and why would you do it anyway?

The answer to the first part is relatively easy you take around 12 months to build a high level of fitness with this commitment comes mental resolve.

This resolve is vital as you stand on the start line.

At 8.45am with camera drones hovering overhead and rock anthems blaring the race began.

The swim was a rolling start and each racer in turn approached the waters edge the timing chip on their right ankle recording precisely individual start times.

Seeing the course stretched out in the sea was a daunting thing with the 2,600 competing athletes from all over the world on it, it was just incredible as the different colour swim hats denoting age and status looked like coloured pin pricks on the water.

The swim done racers emerged form the sea and entered the transition tent where wetsuits were ripped off and cycling gear put on. The bike course in Barcelona is flat and fast. All roads are closed and every crossing and junction marshalled by a policeman or volunteer. Somewhere around the 100-mile mark all racers experienced the same sinking feeling as the prospect of the marathon became real.

All racers carried their name and nationality on their race number and the huge crowds shouted support. ‘Vaya, vaya’ (go, go) the locals shouted and each competitor, in turn, had their name shouted out hundreds of time as they move four-and-a-half times round the course.

At the turn point club mascot ‘IronTed’ and a large group of N1 supporters urged their club mates on and all racers were able to pay homage to our mighty bear. The third circuit of an Ironman marathon run is almost impossible to describe. The mind battles with an aching body a peculiar and sometimes terrifying emotional dance. It is here that support of friends and loved ones became vital. At long last the finishing shute arrived. The red floodlights illuminated the early evening /late night sky and each athlete in turn took the final steps as they were confirmed to the grandstands as an ‘Ironman’.

To single out any one of the N1 athletes would not be fair and none of them would want it anyway as on the day they were a team supporting each other and taking pride in each others efforts.

So why do it? One of our racers put it this way- ‘Achievement is fuel for the human spirit, but it sits on the other side of fear and challenge. The greater the challenge, the greater the sense of achievement.’

In terms of the N1 competitors, the first home was Tom Elliott in a time of 9:15:10. Next home was Matt Player, 10:43:14 and he was followed by Fred Matysek, 10:48:39; Hadleigh Davies,11:44:50; Anne Ephraums,13:06:14; Phil Rees,13:27:52; Phil Bayliss, 14:05:13, Dennis Elliott,14:10: 24; Nick Johnson, 14:16:07 and last, but most certainly not least, Vanessa Glynn Jones, 15:13:15.

The N1 Tri clubs ‘Ironman Roll Of Honour’ is becoming a long one-salute to you all!

Another piece.

Achievement.

‘Achievement’ is fuel for the human spirit but it lies on the other side of challenge and fear. The greater the challenge, the greater the sense of achievement can be.  For the last six months or so I have been keeping a very big secret from many of my fellow racers-that is how very, very hard it is to finish an Ironman race. 

For a club of our size to have 10 members on the start line (it was nearly 13) is a remarkable thing I am sure all will agree.

All of us who stood on the beach with the 2600 other competitors in Ironman Barcelona had the benefit of teammates to reassure us but in the end deep inside we knew we were on our own.  

The race itself was as slickly organized as all IM events are and bang on time with Rock Anthems blaring and camera drones whirring overhead we each in turn walked forward to enter the sea. A recent spate of bad weather had meant there was a swell running and some competitors failed even to get into the water as rollers threw them back on the beach- their race done! The swim itself was something of a trial for most as the constant rise and fall of the waves bore no comparison to those we have all experienced in Devon.  Each in turn exited the water relieved it was over. Remarkably we seemed to form club pods in the sea although none of us was aware of the fact at the time.

The swim done it was on to the bike and this is where Barcelona is different to many IM races as the bike course is for the most part flat. However this made for a new challenge for most of us, as knowing what speed to go at and how to measure effort was problematic. For most at around mile 90 a very unpleasant feeling emerged-‘I may have gone too fast’.

Each in turn took to the run and for those who don’t know each athlete carries their name and nationality on their race number. Huge crowds leaned over crash barriers exhorting the runners round the course -4 times in all. The locals rose to the challenge ‘Vaya vaya’ they roared. All sorts of regional GB dialects rang out as no less than1200 racers came from the UK. Perhaps best of all the Irish were there in force too-as IM supporters they have no peers. As we circulated the course for part of one circuit we were all running at the same time and I was able to witness one by one my club mates doing their thing. I was able to relax as  I realized all who started would finish. Whilst many might scoff, the fear of any of us failing has haunted me for months.  In the critical place – the turning of the course – our fan base was established. With Iron Ted (and his lad) sitting proudly on his throne our wonderful band of supporters urged us( and many others) on too. As each in turn realized ‘I can do this’ the pain they were all feeling turned in to joy as some of the pictures in the album will communicate to you best of all. The final 25 metres of an Ironman is like no other experience I have ever encountered. It is something I know each of us and all who have completed an Ironman will carry with them forever. For some it will be genuinely life changing. 

After the event each confessed to me it had been far harder than they ever could have imagined and all felt they had got their money’s worth from the Ironman organization. I will not mention people individually because all in their own way lived up to our club motto. Suffice it to say we do have a new IM Club record. ( 9 hours 15 minutes 20 seconds).

A final wonderful touch to the day, which perhaps demonstrates why the Ironman spirit is alive, was the fact that the outright race winner, a professional athlete who had covered the course in an astonishing 8 hours 4 minutes, was at the finishing line to present the final competitors with their medals. The fact that the man who won the race was there to salute those competitors who had labored so hard to complete the course, was a remarkable thing.

Well done to all of you and indeed to all members of or IM roll of honor. In the next few weeks we will get together to celebrate our season and recognize all of our club achievements this year. There is one final act to take place. Catherine Hilton we are all with you  -“Do your thing!”