Friday and Saturday:
Drive to Forster. Day one we get to Goulburn (700km) and then to Forster on Saturday (a further 500km). I drive 200km (odd for me as I don't have a licence). Get into Forster on Saturday and head for the beach. This is the life. Look forward to two weeks of holiday.

Sunday (one week before race day):
Did one lap of the bike course with my friend Marty. The roads are much crappier than I remember them. Thank god for my Softride bike. I am not riding fast and struggle to sit on to my mate's wheel at 37-39kph for the last 20km back into town. We average only 29kph for the day. I reflect on just how long 180km is going to be. I wish it was only a Half Ironman distance race.

We buy a box for our potatoes at a roadside market in Pacific Palms for $36. These would be $80 at home. We congratulate ourselves on our bargain finding abilities and at the same time wonder how we are going to fit the thing into the car for the trip home.

Monday to Wednesday:
Go body surfing every morning and sit on the beach every day. I could get used to this relaxed lifestyle. More athletes coming into town now.

I consider going for a real swim but decide that if I haven't done *any* swim training in the last three months then why should I start now. I have done no swimming (except in races) this year and even the races have only been short ones. My last decent swim was in August when I did the Half Ironman at Yeppoon. I am shi**ing myself over this one but console myself with the thought that at least we'll be able to wear wetsuits and that will get me through.

On Tuesday evening I went for a short run, about 6km. I covered the first part of the run course (the flat bit). I felt stuffed. No run training for about three weeks is also catching up with me. But at least I can walk during the run - no one cares if you do this. Well, I don't care.

Thursday:
Register for the event, and get my wrist band which I must wear for the next five days. It identifies the real athletes from those in town who just *think* they are good! I am even more nervous now. We spend a lot of time at home playing Uno and Scruples with our friends. I learn they have no scruples and I cannot play Uno. To avoid getting attacked by the mossies at night I lather on the Aerogard.

Marty and I make our annual pilgrimage to the supermarket to select a colour for our hair. Last year it was blonde/yellow. This year it is ... bright red. Fiona mixes up the chemical cocktail for us and applies it to our heads. Our hair looks ridiculous, but the red colouring on our scalp and parts of our faces looks downright ludicrous. Marty has an Indian-style red dot on his forehead.

Friday:
Go for a swim down at the race venue, Forster Keys. There are about 50-100 athletes down there at 7am. The water is warm, very warm, and with a wetsuit it is bearable (just). My friend Chris and I flail up and down the course, covering about 1km. Feels pretty easy. Thank god for wetsuits, they make life comfortable. I am now happy that I'll be able to complete the swim.

I check out my race band - bad news - my number has rubbed off. I go to the rego folks who check my photo id again before writing over my number in texta. I come back and tell Marty who notices the same thing has happened to his band. I get a phone call from the race directors wife, Glenda Baggs - "come to the race office immediately." She is angry and we are accused of cheating. When we tell her we think it is the Aerogard she says "don't use it" and admonishes us again. I don't think she believes us.

That night is the carbo party. The first thing they do is tell everyone not to use Aerogard as it causes the numbers to rub off. We are vindicated, but receive no apology. I stuff myself full with food. I feel sick, must not do that again!

Saturday (race day minus one):
Attend pre race briefing in the morning. They drop a bombshell on us. The water is so warm (above 25 degrees) that no wetsuits will be allowed. Aaargh! The swimmers applaud, the rest of us quietly shit ourselves. This is an 'interim' ruling and the final decision will be made on race morning. No one expects the decision to change. The weather forecast is for warm weather to continue. I pray for a sudden cold front to hover over the lake.

Go home and try to figure out what I will do. I come up with some new ideas for clothing management (cannot wear them under the wetsuit anymore) and I curse not having done any swim training.

That evening a group of us head out to the golf course section of the run and cover the entire footpath with chalk drawings and words of motivation.

Sunday (race day):
Awake at 3.30am and have a shower and then breakfast - baked beans on toast. Meet up with the others and we walk down to the bowling club to catch the bus to Forster Keys for the swim start. It is not a cool morning (quite warm by Forster standards) and I know that there will be no wetsuits today. We wait (and wait and wait ...) for the bus. Seven full ones go past before we get on one.

The first thing I do when I get off the bus is go to the toilet (damned baked beans) and then make my way to the transition zone to prepare my bike and other race gear. Not having to worry about a wetsuit it is quick and easy to get ready. As I make my way into the water I hear Mike Reilly, the race commentator, on the microphone. It is 6am and only 15 minutes to race start. The water is not cold - but it's not all that warm either. Surely they could have let us wear wetsuits?

I head up to the second group of swimmers (white caps) and wonder what it is going to be like when all the folks from the two groups behind swim over the top of me. Too bad, at least I don't need to swim as far as they do. The gun goes off and we are on our way.

With no 5mm thick piece of rubber for protection every bump, scratch and punch from other swimmers hurts more than it should. I swim a conservative (read: wide) line around the course and stay mostly out of trouble. I go around the first lap of the swim in 38 minutes. To my surprise the swim is not difficult at all and I feel comfortable and relaxed. The second lap is longer as I get a bit tired (surprise, surprise) and I exit the water in 1 hour 20 minutes. Everyone's swim times are 5-10% slower than normal and so I am rather pleased.

I farnarkle around in the transition tent for nearly seven minutes (just what the hell I was doing I can only wonder) before making my way out onto the road with my bike. I am surprised that there are still quite a few bikes left (nearly 400 as it would turn out). Crikey, can there possibly be 400 people worse at swimming than me??? Well, yes, and my mate Chris is one of them. About 1km into the ride he comes up beside me, says hello, then rides ahead.

For the next 50km we ride near to each other, taking turns with other riders as we move along in a pace group. Being paranoid about drafting I have a chat with a draft buster as he rides past me. "Am I ok?" He says "yes" as he has been watching us, "you are all ok." After the u-turn at the bottom of Coomba Road I lose Chris. I am not feeling bad, but he is going ok. I lose my other group companions too.

When I get back into town at 85km the cheers of the crowd are tremendous and it is very motivating. I see Fiona who is standing with Chris's wife and children. His eldest yells out "PB, you are last out of everyone." That is not motivating. Chris is some minutes ahead and I am stagnating. I pop the first of my Ibuprofen tablets and ride the next 30km at a comfortable pace. I make the u-turn at Sugar Creek (120km) and see that Chris is four minutes ahead. I resolve to catch him.

Five km down the road I need to stop for a pee. The portaloo is occupied and so me and another bloke stand behind it and pee against the large steel ... oh, shit, that's an electricity transformer! Thankfully our willies do not disappear in a puff of smoke. I have lost a minute or so but then back on the bike and resume the chase.

By Coomba Road u-turn 20km later Chris is only 1 minute ahead. When I catch him shortly afterwards it is clear he is having a very rough patch. This happens to everyone in an Ironman at some stage. I wish him well, but at the same time try to bust his chops and accelerate up the road. It feels good to get near to town and know that the bike is finished and I only have (oh no) a marathon ahead. The ride has taken about 6 hours 11 mins.


More stuffing around in transition and eventually I move out onto the run. It is quite warm by now. I shuffle over the Tuncurry bridge and make my way around to "Grandfather's Café" (aka the Rockpool aid station). Mmmm, vegemite bread and a new treat for this year ... fairy bread! I gobble as much as I can, wash it down with some coke and grab a lolly bag for afterwards. All they need here is a jumping castle and a pass-the-parcel game and I'd never leave.

I have my first walk break. Snap. The race photographer is there to record this moment of ignominy. Doh! A spectator encourages me to run. I tell them that on the first lap of the run I take walk breaks in between bursts of running. On the second lap of the run I know it will be running breaks between periods of walking. Back through the finish area, say hi to Fiona and stop for a photo.

The next 16km to complete the lap takes a long time. I am sure they've moved the turnaround point since I was here last year. And the hills are a bit steeper too. I see many of my friends heading in the other direction. They all look great and are having fantastic races. I curse them - and my lack of training. Go past the chalk drawings and words on the footpath. They are funny, but not as motivating as they seemed when we wrote them.

Coming back to complete the first lap and many people have already finished the whole race! The first 21km has taken me 2:15. I know the next half will be longer. It doesn't matter to me. I'm here for the long haul. After completing the Tuncurry loop for the final time I see Fiona and swap my sunglasses for regular glasses. It will be dark soon and I need to see where I am going.

I catch up to an American fellow, Scott Massey, and for the next 2 hours we walk/run together whilst talking about politics, sport, children, food, and the general state of life on earth - everything except this darn race we are in! The time passes quickly. Before long we are handed glow sticks, but we are now only 5km from home.

I need to make one final toilet stop. Unfortunately I smack my head on the doorway going in to the portaloo which almost knocks me out. I narrowly avoid falling head first into the cesspit. That would have been bad! I escape with my dignity intact and my bladder relieved. Scott and I head towards the finish.

As we approach the line we discuss whether we are going to cross together or apart. We decide that as we have come this far we might as well go the whole way as a team. We cross the line, arms aloft, together. A bond forged on the run course is sealed on the finish line. It is a tick under 12 hours 30 minutes since we began. More importantly, we can now stop!

I collect my medal and finisher's shirt, have some food and a massage. Fiona is waiting for me outside. With our other friends we cheer on those yet to finish (yes, there are a few) and once the race is ended we stand as a group under the finish line for a photo. We collect our bikes and ride home in the dark. I take some of Fiona's "magic drugs" and try to sleep.

Monday (race day plus one):
I wake to the sound of rain. How ironic, it is now raining quite hard. I can hardly walk. This is not surprising. When the rain stops we spend the day at the beach. My legs feel better immediately when in the water. When back on dry land they immediately feel worse again. Eat fish and chips, drink beer, then go to awards night. Eat more food, drink more beer. Feel crook from ingesting too much.

Tuesday to Thursday:
One day blends into the next. Body surfing, junk food, beer.

Friday and Saturday:
Drive home again. Saturday afternoon. Melbourne traffic. Reality bites!