The Race Delusion

I was part of a pack of five, hurtling past purple heather on the slick wet road, smoky cloud clinging to the hillsides, when the epiphany came.

It was early Sunday. As we ascended the fine mist became rain – our route took us over the shoulder of Schiehallion, into low cloud. Some comments were spat about the rain, but nobody really cared. We were wet anyway, soaking Lycra clung to us after our swim in the cool waters of Loch Tay.

When I say I was part of a pack I mean momentarily. They slowly became a pack of four and for the umpteenth time that morning, I faded back to myself, dipping my head in a nod to being aerodynamic. For a cyclist of my calibre, the only thing which is pursued on a 90 km race is thoughts. Chief among them that morning was ‘Do I enjoy this?’

Triathlon requires serious time for training. Costs are not insubstantial. In the months leading up to this event there was pressure to do certain weekly distances, certain times. I looked at Strava as I look at my banking app; the hard-earned figures never seemed enough. Worse, they were wiped clean each Monday. As the date drew closer logistics became a headache. None of my friends do this. I’m not good enough to win anything. So why, I wondered as another mini-peloton passed me in a sprite of spray, do I bother?

I’ve done several triathlons, mostly through Ironman, the eponymous company which puts on the swim-bike-run events at half (1.9k/90k/21k) and full (2.9k/180k/42k) distances across the globe. I’d focussed on the obvious: simply finishing. The cliché of having a goal.

This focus builds to a crescendo, followed by a sharp anti-climax. The finishers medal put into a drawer, bragging rights only last a week before feeling thin, suddenly having all that training time empty, the body acclimates back to being sedentary. I knew this pitfall yet here I was again, pain becoming palpable as we reached the half-way point of the cycle, still drawn to this tribal sort of gathering.

As more cyclists passed me I noticed membership of the tribe on calf muscles – many have a tattoo of the Ironman logo. Celtman (an ‘extreme’ triathlon in the Highlands) was popular too. Among us are various sub-tribes; the ‘all outers’ at the front who would actually win, the ‘have a goers’ at the back doing it as a one-off. But the mass was us; those who wouldn’t win, would finish somewhere in the anonymous middle, who’d plan and plot to be here just for the sake of doing it.

Perhaps my reflective mood was brought on by reading Steve Hagen’s Buddhism Is Not What You Think in my camper van last night, surrounded by hundreds of others. We were camped and parked in the field by Transition 1 (T1) where, the following morning, we’d run out of the water, peel off our wetsuits, clip on our cycle shoes then gallop onto our bikes. By 9pm the only sound was a light lapping of waves from the loch.

Or perhaps it’s the views as I freewheel down around Loch Rannoch, whose waters like Loch Tay’s are still as glass. I flash past people camping on the loch. An early morning dip followed by camp coffee on a quiet loch seems, as my saddle sores kick in, a wise choice. 

I cringed yesterday at the peacock mating ritual of racking the bike in T1. Women and men stand with arms crossed, mentally undressing every bike, helmets are held up in profile, knuckles wrapped against their coating, bikes lifted with fingers, heads shaken. Mine is a hand-me-down late 90s road bike. I racked it next to a carbon-grey thing with the thickness of paper. I did so quickly.

‘Shit!’ The figure is not happy. ‘Shitty shit!’ A visor covers his eyes but he has a ginger beard, freckles, bright white skin, and is about to hurl his wafer-thin bike onto the moor. Chain snapped. Our worst nightmare. Unforeseen, unfixable, months of preparation gone. The bike is launched, it sails surprisingly high and far. I wonder, as anyone would, what Rob Roy would make of all this.

This is his old stomping ground. Isolated herds on the high hills made cattle rustling easy. It is an undeniably picturesque spot to race a triathlon, yet another reflection as I grunt back up onto Schiehallion is that I rarely take in much of the external on these races. Bolton or Breadalbane, it wouldn’t matter.

Despite all this soul searching, pushing myself feels honest. Once the hooter goes to start, everything fades. The posturing, the preparation, the goals. Five hundred of us are doing this together. Few words are exchanged. Yet there is a connection. Rob Roy passed me half-an-hour later, his new chain glinting as the sun came out. Someone had stopped to help.

When I finally started running with legs like lead, the pace, the stage of the race, made talk easier. ‘We’re almost there’ was common while rubbing sweaty shoulders. ‘Here,’ someone said, ‘have a jelly baby.’

When I crossed the line, I didn’t finish. If you enjoy these things it’s never over. Thinking in terms of the end is folly. That was the epiphany up on the moor. As Steve Hagen says, ‘there’s no end to anything, just ongoing change and flux’. Races like this are means, not ends. There’s something in the training, the doing, and the buzzing which transcends the race itself, and feels very honest.