28th June. 3.8km Swim And All The Rest.

The signal for the start goes for the experience known as swimming with rubber dolphins.

You can't go there and you can't go here but there's a bit of water! then an anonymous rubber dolphin is trying to swim through you to get to it.

Eventually there are less dolphins and things calm down a bit but not too calm or you might be veering off at a complete tangent adding another kilometre just for fun, you must keep 'in the swim' but don't get kicked in the eye.

The thumping beat of the music and the bellowing French DJ fades to nothing and there's just the sound of your own splashing and breathing, the goggles mist up, now what the hell do you think about for 1hr 23 mins?

Normally it would be - this is hellish, I'm tired now, how much further is it? or THERE'S A LONG WAY TO GO ISN'T THERE? MY GOD THERE'S A LONG WAY TO GO! THIS IS JUST THE START AND THERE'S A LONG WAY TO GO THERE'S THE CYCLE AND THEN THE MARATHON IT'S CERTAINLY A LONG WAY A VERY LOOOONG WAY TO GO!

This is where I was able to recall the words of Auld  Jimmy the painter from Glasgow working up at Turin House. There he was in his white overalls sitting painting endless numbers of cast iron radiators which had lots of finicky bits in the castings.

"God don't you get bored doing all those radiators?" I said

"Nah! Just blank it oot! Blank it oot, whit else can  ye dae?"

180 km BIKE.

One down three to go.

Needless to say I easily have the oldest least competitive bike out of 2800 but as I said to the guy behind in the queue for the check-in "One should choose a bicycle that matches your ability to save embarrassment."

Anyway after a tour of industrial estates we come to a short but steep hill, gears crunch on the carbon bikes all around me and there is the first of many casualties a guy holding up pieces of his derailleur at the side of the road with an expression of WTF??

"For you Tommy ze war iz over!"

It's certainly an international field, everyone's first name is on their racing number and because I seem to suffer from that condition known as Hyperlexia - (an involuntary reading of everything you lay eyes on) I'm all too aware of this as other riders are passing me all the time.

Is it because I've got a crap bike? No it's probably just N.W. (Natural Weakness), because it happens going uphill.

"It's like the Rocky Mountains." comments a seated gent who's getting on a bit as he comes past in the cooler air at altitude.

"Male 70." Seventy! Jeez! Unlucky for old Horst I saw him later on struggling with a puncture at the side of the road so at least he didn't finish in front of me.

Despite the endless 2000m hill the bike is proving to be almost enjoyable with French people in villages shouting "Allez! Allez!" Until I feel the sun beginning to burn the not often exposed flesh of the shoulders obviously that Factor 30 isn't sweat resistant.

There are people throwing up at the side of the road, women crouching in long grass,  more broken bikes, and the occasional sound of the ambulance siren, so long as they're not coming for me.

Eating is right out with all that acid, there's a choice of "water"?, "energie?" or "cola?" which is the cry at every feeding station just grab as you go past, amazingly I never have to stop for a pee in the entire 180kms.

42.2 km Run.

Two down one to go but the run was going to be bad - Your First Marathon.

When I was coming in on the bike I saw the Otter starting his 2nd lap having collected the first hair band round the wrist -  blue.

Now it's pretty hot because it's mid afternoon the whole thing is just a bloody mind game. 

How hard do you push it? Not as hard as the bodies laid out in the Red Cross tent wrapped in space blankets with a drip set up or that guy unconscious on the pavement.

All you've got to do is keep running and don't forget to drink. "Energie?" "Cola?" "Water?"

Trouble is the whole time is spent peering at other peoples wrists to see how many bands they've got, none at all, a blue one, blue and white, or blue, white and red? lucky bastards on their last lap.

To tell the truth I'd been farting all day I think it was the "Energie",  was it the third lap? and I farted once to often if you get my meaning, then had to clench up until I came to the three portaloos.

There was only about a total of six portaloos on the whole run for 2500 people so it was worse than T in the park, well I just had to sit down in it all and those Tri suits you've got to strip off basically, that was a good ten minutes extra on that lap and no bumff of course.

Eventually I'd got red white and blue hairbands, even Isabelle had got caught up in the spectacle.

If you kept running the spectators where more encouraging, quite a few competitors had been reduced to walking by then.

Isabelle ran with me for the final couple of hundred metres to the Finish Line but couldn't keep up, it was a searing indictment of her current fitness level.

At some point prior The Otter had past going the other way and had said "Are you going to finish?"

"Finish?"

I'm going to finish this damn thing no matter what, I really wanted that brass plated medallion thing that says Ironman France, principally so when I'm in a care home with my chin on my chest drooling, they can say "Him? Oh he's an Ironman you know."

"No shit?"