2016: A page out of a triathlete’s diary

March 5
4 am: A tap on my shoulder wakes me from sleep. Rajiv Rajaram hasn’t slept a wink through the night and his bleary eyes look a little tired from his midnight writing adventures on his laptop. I move like a zombie, filled with trepidation and a spoonful of delight in anticipation of what is to unfold in a few hours. The ingredients for the morning energy boost have been laid out on the kitchen table and I mix the coffee powder, olive oil and coconut milk slowly whilst taking in the heady aroma of spices that adorn the kitchen shelves.

5 am: I journey southwest towards the starting point of the CTC Half Iron Triathlon. The darkness is slowly lifting as I move past the Pallikaranai marshes. Plaintive bird calls disturb the silence of dawn and my thoughts go to my right heel, having been subjected to what I call the Murphy’s law of Gate closing. That if one should be barefoot while closing a large metal gate there is a certainty of getting the skin of one’s heel, caught and peeled before the gate completes its closure. The moment of excruciating agony has long passed leaving behind a raw numbness that lingers on as a constant reminder of the misfortune. Not the best beginning to a race day.

6 am: There is a buzz of excitement around the registration desk as last minute forms are being handed over, arms are being marked with letters and numbers indicating the full, three quarter or half iron. In the dim light I fail to notice thorny twigs that lie camouflaged amidst the grass and manage to impale myself on both feet in quick succession. Was nature plotting against me at the very start of my adventure? The pain of my raw heel is soon forgotten and replaced with the twin pinpricks I had just awarded myself.

6:30 am: A quick warmup and Peter Van Geit announces the start. We move through the starting posts in groups of 10. The water looks inviting and I dive in, breaking the calm bluish-green surface of the Ottiyambakkam quarry as many have done before me. The water is soon boiling with frenetic activity. Arms and legs criss-crossing to a steady rhythm while heads keep pace, bobbing in and out of the water under the watchful gaze of many volunteer lifeguards perched on their kayaks and surfboards.

7:30 am: 1.9 km later I drag myself out of the water and reach my Transition 1 bag. Helmet, check! Sunglasses, check! Gloves and Shorts, Check! T-Shirt and Bib, check! socks and Vibrams, check! Energy bars and Water bottle, check ! All set and I embark on the second leg. 90 km of cycling! The number sounds daunting but taken in groups of 10, it looks do-able. I plug my headphones on and the voice of Glenn Frey fills my head. Its going to be 4 hours of Eagles today.

8:30 am: The terrain shifts from a town road to an organised crisscrossing of tar roads and gleaming glass architecture. I see a sign that says “private road” and I wonder if I have strayed. A quick check of the GPS confirms my worst fears. I am lost inside a SIPCOT around Siruseri but I am not alone. Three other riders in the same boat as we meander towards the Old Mahabalipuram Road. The others are on Roadies and fly on ahead of me and by the time I reach OMR I see that they have taken a left turn towards Thiruvanmiyur and are just out of earshot. I turn right and pray that the others realise their folly and turn around soon. Sure enough the roadies fly by me an hour later.

10 am: The Mahabalipuram checkpoint is left behind and I near the 45km turnaround. The volunteers fill my water-bottle as I cycle a random 50m till I spot a u-turn sign on the road; Halfway! A sandwich and a selfie later I am on the long haul back to the start

11 am: Cramps! I feel the telltale tightening in my quads and each stroke becomes a fight between mind and muscle. Thoughts of lying in foetal position by the side of the motorway conjures up some adrenalin to overcome the muscular contractions and slowly they dissipate.

12 noon: Having found the right path from Kelambakkam, I reach the end of the cycling, 4 hours and 15 minutes from the start. Walking seems awkward after the continuous elliptical motion. I park my bike and head to the changing tent, strip off the cycling shorts, put on my running gear, eat a few energy bars and I’m good to go.

1 pm: The sun is merciless, beating down hard, and the reflected heat from the running surface creates a column of overheated air that sucks the life force out of a runner. I labour through this shimmering envelope of heat and my agony is compounded by a pain developing between my toes which I put down to the damage inflicted by the thorn pricks that graced my soles before the swimming.

2 pm: I am ready to throw the towel in. The first loop of 10 Km is complete thanks to the constant encouragement and goading received from a fellow triathlete competing in the Olympic category. I am seated with both my feet placed on a block of ice at the 12.5 Km mark, feeling cool under the shade offered by the surrounding neem trees. The soles of my feet are not crying out anymore and I am gobbling oranges proffered by the volunteers enjoying the rest but a little voice inside my head tells me to get up and finish what I embarked upon. I acquiesce.

3 pm: The same voice in my head has now turned against my earlier decision to continue. It is now admonishing me for undertaking this mission. Words, which would have made a Victorian blush, stream ceaselessly. Adjectives that I never thought were part of my vocabulary spring out of my left-brain and are unleashed with choice expletives. As I battle this internal war of wits I find myself passing the 16 Km mark. The aid station at the 18.5 Km point is a welcome sight for my sore feet. I collapse on the mat and once again place my bare-feet on a block of ice. The turmoil in my head calms as waves of soothing cold waft through my body, sole upwards. I request the physio to look at my feet and check if there are any thorn remnants still stuck. She nods sagely and tells me that I am in dire need of a hamstring stretch. As she starts pushing, I grit my teeth to counter the wave of electrifying pain that shoots through my spine. She admonishes me for not having spent enough time on my warm-up and continues to put me through contortions that would have made a yogi proud. The pain causes me to have a momentary out of body experience and I feel like the Hubble telescope, bobbing about in hyperspace.

4 pm: On the road again with great encouragement from the aid station volunteers. I am on the home stretch now and a miracle takes place. I no longer feel the crippling pain on my feet so I start hobble-running once again. I see the finish getting closer and closer and pass a car containing friends who shout out as I pass by “Go on, well done”. I drag myself over the final marker and a wave of happiness bathes me. The euphoria is intense and I am on the verge of collapse. I make my way to the aid station and get another magic stretch done while Hema L Mani offers to park my cycle. I learn that an excruciating stretch is the sure shot way towards cheap inter-stellar travel. I am a crew member of the Starship Enterprise flying steadily onwards into the cosmos.

5 pm: I examine my feet and discover the source of all the earlier discomfort – two huge saucer sized blisters under my toes. I hobble to the podium banner and graciously accept my finisher’s medal from Peter. After posing for my bragging rights I bid adieu to the venue and all the organisers and make my way to “oru veedu” at Perungudi as my day’s activities haven’t ended.

8 pm: I am performing at the Madras Club in front of a rapt audience. In the first story my character is one of a red-faced foreigner. I find that make-up is not needed to create the red-faced effect thanks to the sunburn festival from 12 - 4 pm earlier. My character for the second reading is a wild eyed villager and I am assured by the fact that nine and a half hours of outdoor activity has bestowed on my eyes, the needed bestial quality.

9 pm: Jazz and Blues. A duet with Dr Arun on the piano and self on the soprano saxophone. I close my eyes and allow each note I play, revive my diminished spirit. I am whole again.

11 pm: I lie on my bed, reflecting on the day’s mania, wondering if I would subject myself to this torture again. A beatific smile envelops me as I slowly let the sandman take my hand and just before my lights go out I hear a small voice in the back of my head ,“Yes!”