Mooloolaba Renaissance

Evening friends,

Mooloolaba. Undoubtably my favorite race on the ITU calendar, and a race I have missed the last 2 years, sitting on the sideline with much chagrin with a litany of lower leg ailments. Therefore, it was with much gratification that I took to the start line once again, not however, in the World Cup race, but in the lower-limb-friendlier Continental Cup. That said, getting to the start line was not completely without drama, as a mid-quad niggle mid week had an unwanted deja vu feel to it. Diagnosing myself off the start line with all the paranoia of a man who just about has an honorary degree in MRI Radiology, fortunately a bit of treatment, rest, and lack of concrete symptoms had donning the race suit after all, but not without swapping the race flats for training shoes for peace of mind…

Giving World Cup Conquerer Pete Kerr a few horns out of the water...

Onto the race, and in a much welcome juxtaposition to my start in Devonport, I got off to a cracker and didn’t get touched for the entire swim, my only moment of consternation coming whilst trying in vein to keep my swim cap from coming off over the last 500m, an unwelcome trend this year. Some say it’s to do with an excess of hair (which I can do something about), and some say it’s to do with my excessively large skull (which, barring a lobotomy, I can’t do anything about). Regardless, the aforementioned hair, once unhampered by the cap, rendered me blind for the last few hundred metres, but using my keen sense of smell, I navigated successfully to the swim exit. 

Hearing a blood curdling battle cry of ‘Ubrut!!!’ from my mate Rhys Davies at T1 (If you don’t know what Ubrut means, you definitely didn’t train with us from 2004-06...), inspiration struck, and I pushed the pace on the bike early, capitalising on my break out of the water. Settling into a rhythm on the highway, I rode a solid tempo, and waited to see how this would compare to the bunch of 15 behind. Cursing the ITU restrictions which are definitely not made for a comfortable 40km time trial, I sat on a wattage I knew I could handle, and this saw me dismount at T2 with around 1:30 on the pack. 

In case anyone is wondering, yes, that's a Boston Celtics race suit, courtesy of Scody...

Running my first 10km off the bike since June last year, I was as interested as anyone as to how they would hold up over the 10km, aided by another surge of adrenaline from another ‘Ubruuuut!!!!’ from Davies on the sidelines. The legs were solid enough given my limited training load, however it wasn’t enough, and I was reeled in by Declan Wilson (yes... I was out-Wilson-ed...) with around 1500m to go, by which stage the lactic in my legs was giving me a grimace that could be seen from the moon. 

Content, for now, to be on the podium, I was happy with the race, and also special mention must go to a great race by Matt Brown in third. I’d been engaged with some serious (but light-hearted) smack talk with Browny leading up to the race, and with him hunting me down over the last kilometre, I was facing some serious (and much deserved) gloating had he run past me before the finish. Fortunately for myself, Brownly will have to wait at least one more race to win bragging rights...

From here, I’ve got 4 more weeks until the Ishagaki World Cup, in which time I hope to take a few more small steps in my running form, whilst avoiding factual or fanciful niggles...

Take care friends,

Willy (Professor Of Hypochondriac Diagnosis)

RESULTS

1. Declan Wilson (1:52.03)

2. Dan Wilson (1:52.25)

3. Matt Brown (1:52.41)

4. Joel Tobin White (1:52.55)

5. Jesse Featonby (1:53.07)

Devonport/Mooloolaba

Evening friends, 

Nigh on two weeks late, I thought it pertinent to give a cursory account of the now somewhat archaic Oceania Champs down in Devonport. I shall keep this account brief, for I fear the mists of time have somewhat shrouded the details of the events in my memory. With this in mind, I could be in danger of heading towards a distinctly ostensible parable, and I would hate to recollect incorrectly and mistakenly paint the narrative featuring myself in a gratuitously flattering manner...

Conditions: Windy. Very windy. So much so that had Matt ‘The White Kenyan’ Brown ridden a disc wheel, odds were he would have started the race in Devonport, and been blown to the South Island of New Zealand. The wind also caused the swim course to have more waves then the Queens Jubilee, and more chop than a season of My Kitchen Rules.

Swim: Managed to run at least 10 steps before comprehensively face-planting in a Wilson sized gutter in the beach break. Losing more dignity than time, I swam back up to the leaders by the time we rounded the final buoy, then promptly lost that time again, failing to catch a single wave all the way back in. Back to surf school Wilson. 

Bike: Thanks to my surf skills, I had some work to do early, and didn’t join the front pack until around 10km into the bike. Having talked smack and tactics in equal proportions pre race with Ryan ‘Cancellara’ Fisher, I was probably a little too desperate to come good on our promise of splitting the group, but did manage to sneak a small advantage into T2, along with strong men Fisher, Ryan Bailie and Marcel Walkington. 

Run: Bit of a dog fight. Didn’t have the legs to contest for the win, but happy with the progression this far into my rehab. I finished 5th, the podium was 1st Pete Kerr, 2nd Ryan Bailie, 3rd Jamie Huggett, all top athletes, and top blokes to boot. 

Next weekend, I’ll be returning to Mooloolaba for my first race there since 2010, having missed the last two years due to various leg ailments. In the interests of keeping the aforementioned legs ‘ailment free’, I’m racing the Conti Cup, rather than the World Cup. Although I yearn to sink my teeth into the World Cup, running up and down Mooloolaba’s infamous hill 8 times does enough damage to healthy legs, let alone mine, which are still being kept very much under a limited load at the moment. Thus, I hope to get to the end of the distinctly flatter Conti Cup course with somewhat less moribund lower limbs. 

For those of you unfamiliar with Mooloolaba’s course, here’s a piece I’ve written previously, detailing the ins and outs of the Mooloolaba race…

Given a few idle moments ruminating over the physiological and psychological roller-coaster that a taper presents, your editor has spent a few moments postulating past experiences at Mooloolaba. The past 10 years have dealt yours truly a few lessons in the art of Mooloolaba, regrettably mostly unkind lessons. Whilst yet to have the credentials to provide an accurate ‘What to do’ guide for Mooloolaba, I may certainly lay testimonial to a “What not to do’ guide which may provide some insight in the beast that is the Mooloolaba race. Allow me to provide a concise course description; as well a few pointers that may help you avoid my disasters of the past:

The Night Before: That’s right folk’s, tragedy can occur more than 24 hrs before the gun goes. Charismatic though friend of the Guardian Jimmy Seear is, if choosing to dine with our man, avoid ordering the same poultry based meal as he chooses. Chances are he will snare a delicious meal, whilst salmonella vomiting will plague your next 24 hrs, leading to difficult race conditions, with both the chicken and your race hopes disappearing down the toilet. (Reference: Wilson 2008)

The Swim: Depending on surf conditions, the swim can either be held in the canal or on the open beach of Mooloolaba. Having negotiated the sometimes tricky currents and rips, care must be taken when catching the ‘miracle wave’ into the beach. Known for dumping on shallow water, practice is important the day’s preceding the race. Even having avoided severe spinal injury is sometimes still not enough, so take care to avoid your goggles getting ripped off, taking with it a small section of nose and leaving an unsightly gash for the crowd to ogle over at the next days race (Reference: Wilson 2009).

Race tactics include picking suitable feet to follow. Chances are if you are a 17 yr old mid- pack swimmer, picking the greatest swimmer the sport has ever seen (I.e. Walton), and following him left, while the rest of the field goes right, will result in you losing the feet, the pack, and in due course, the race (Reference: Wilson 2004).

Ticking time bomb - 2006

The Bike: Usually hot, usually windy, and always hilly, it may not be the hardest bike course around, but is enough to begin the burn in the legs. Attacking solo with 39kms left to race is not advisable, particularly on the 2005 course, notorious for being more difficult than Advanced Physics 101. Results include being shown the exit before the remaining 39kms is up, and reduced run ability (Reference: Wilson 2005).

The Run: Try to run fast enough to avoid being slagged off by the commentators (Reference: Wilson 2005). Try not to run a 5:30 first 2 km then bonk (Reference: Wilson 2006). Try not to attract the attention of vigilante civilians attempting to coax another lap out of a gastro intestinally constrained runner (Reference: Wilson 2008). Try not to have bleached hair (Reference: Wilson 2003). Try not to get outsprinted by a Frenchman (Reference: Wilson 2009).

As you may gather, the run presents more hurdles than the Grand National, not least of all is the hill that rises like puff pastry in a pizza oven, which must be conquered no less than 8 times before breaking the tape. Close races comparable to trench warfare.

After Party: Classified.

Rain and Pain

Greetings friends, and in a refreshing change of pace from recent years, it’s February, and I have a race report! From a triathlon, in fact! Indeed, my season debut at the Gatorade Series at Caloundra was the culmination to quite an eventful week. 

Most of Brisbane was the focal point of apocalyptic-esque weather last weekend, with wind and rain delivered in a cannonade of fury, the weather reports reading like a passage out of Genesis. Despite the weather, I found myself somewhat reluctantly dragged out for a ride on Saturday morning, by the weather-immune hard-arses Jimmy, Burger and Max.  Riding in sideways rain, the few brief moments that I could open my eyes without being blinded by the torrent were spent trying to identify the road, which closely resembled the general Mt Nebo wilderness amongst the debris. We also, dodged some falling trees (see photo), and saw a 60 year old man ride a mountain bike through a thunderstorm wearing nothing but a pair of underpants (photo not taken, but unfortunately permanently etched into my memory…)

Sunday night saw our house lose power, again thanks to the weather, which would not return until Wednesday morning. This came with the realisation that despite the adds on TV, we were definitely not ‘Ready for Storm Season’. With no torches, no batteries or radio, were were reduced to borrowing some gas from a benevolent neighbor, and cooking by the light of our phones, which worked well until I accidentally threw my phone down the stairs, breaking it and rendering myself completely bereft of illumination and communication. If it had have continued for a few more days I was considering passing out tin cans attached with string to all my friends. So with no power, internet or light, we sat around in the dark and made up songs on the guitar, which was easily more entertaining than anything on TV anyway. Energex, I apologise for some of the content of my impromptu lyrics. I love your work. 

However, retiring for the night held the biggest challenge, with the heat, humidity, and lack of fans or aircon making for terrible sleeping conditions, despite trying everything short of walking out into the backyard and bellowing at the heavens for respite. In conclusion, pay your power bills people. Especially in summer. 

The week also saw a Wednesday crit, which was almost a motorpacing session, as I found myself in a 4 man break early and we were dragged around for 45 minutes by Malcolm Rudolph of DRAPAC, who dealt us more pain than a 1960s dentist. My trademark sprint saw me claim 4th out of 4, which was better than the second crit of the week on Saturday, where I finished nowhere out of 50.

Onto the race on Sunday up at Caloundra, where I managed to grab a win and blew out more cobwebs than could be found on a steak-knife at a vegans house. Great to be back racing, but still a little rough, as is evident by my 15 second penalty for throwing my helmet in T2. Very unprofessional, kids, don’t follow that example. Despite the win, I lost an outrageously handicapped wager with my housemates Jamie and Jack, based on their times from their 3000m on Saturday, so now I have to cook them dinner. Based on their cooking skills, I might have done myself a favour…

Take care friends,

Willy

Seasons Celebrations And Southern Migrations

Evening friends,

Seasons greeting, salutations and wishes to you all. I trust you have had a pleasant festive season as I have, trading gifts, pleasantries, and jokes with those friends and family you hold dear. 

The festive period holds a litany of traditions myself, including, but not limited to; playing with my young cousins christmas presents, partaking in ridiculous swim sets, postulating over a career as a Christmas cracker joke writer, as well as the predictable overindulgence in all manner of edible extravagance. Of notable mention was this years Christmas eve set with the Lawnton Swim Squad, which my choice of 40 x 250m (10km) was a surprisingly amicable option, given the ‘proper’ set of 72 x 250m (18km) for the open water swimmers. Insane. Inspirational, and impressive, but still insane. 

In other news germane to the blog, I have started hosting a column in the bastion of triathlon literature, Australian Triathlete. Fans of the rambling narrative idiosyncratic to this blog, should find the dialogue to their liking, so be sure to grab a copy, or subscribe to the iPadable edition, for those who scorn the feel of parchment under thumb in this digital age. However, fear not, this blog shall not remain bereft of updates, and the trivial narrative will continue unabated right here, although if I should chance upon some mildly entertaining subject matter of around 700 words, odds are it will find it way to the pages of Oz Tri. 

The winds of change are howling through the world of Wilson in the new year, with several  new changes ushering in new challenges for the future, largely aimed at ensuring my body stays in one piece for 2013. Most significantly, this will involve a change of locale from my long time stomping ground of the North-side of Brisbane, to the daunting, inner city (still Brisbane!!!) scene, featuring close proximity to my new home away from home, the QAS gym. Of significance, commuting impracticalities will mean I no longer grace the aforementioned Lawnton Swim Squad with my truncated swim sets. A big thanks to the squad for their hospitality over the last 2 years, and a special thanks to supercoach Harley Connelly. The Lawnton cognoscenti was given the dubious honor of a ‘Wilson Song’ a the recent going away soiree for the departing superfish Pilar Geijo (departing to Argentina, distance 12,000 kms), and yours truly (departing to Toowong, distance 25 mins, depending on traffic). Sharing the vocal work with Pilar lent a somewhat more mellifluous juxtaposition to the hideously familiar Wilson monotones... 

Also, in a stimulating test of cognition, I will be dabbling in some uni work over the upcoming year in an effort to keep what remains of my mental function supple. I’m studying psychology, which I hope is not, as some have taken great delight in pointing out, the mental equivalent of an obese person studying nutrition. It will provide myself with some much needed mental stimulation to match the physical exertion inherent in my current profession, also inaugurating the pathway to my admittedly romantic post-triathlon dream of helping the headspace of humankind, one nutcase at a time...

Physician, cure thyself...

Take care friends,

Willy

Christmas Day masterchef-ing with my uncle Wal, and a lurking cousin Maddy. You can imagine those sausages are low-fat, low salt and fully organic, if that's what you would like to believe...

A fatigue-induced dummy spit at poorly made East German paddles. This one is about to get spiked. 

Love song dedications, Pilar Geijo singing straight from the heart to Codie Grimsey.

Some deep thinking moustache wearers… The Grimsey brothers and I at our spiritual home of Sizzler.

The Words Yearbook

Evening friends,

Twelve months ago, the previously unsullied dominion of the internet was forever stigmatised with the catalogue of mindless waffle emanating from this site. As such, I’ve decided to mark this watershed of literacy my compiling a yearbook of sorts from the last year of etymology on this site. Thus, with a hint of nostalgia from the year gone, peruse the countdowns, highs, lows and favorites from a year of bloggin’ about joggin’. 

Top 5 Gags Of The Year

Clearly, the most important subject first. I’m quite partial to the odd gag being bandied about, especially on training camps, usually with the aim of having a laugh and keeping the mood light. Except if the gag is on me, when it’s never funny, just stupid, and definitely grounds for getting kicked off camp. Here’s a small selection from many...

1. Replacing the inside of roommate Matt Brown’s cereal box with washing powder. The memory of him pouring himself a nice big bowl of detergent after a hard swim set still brings a smile to my face today. 
2. Fireworking Boxy. A two man operation, 1 bunger was lobbed in the back door, and when he went to investigate, another thrown in the front door, presenting multidirectional consternation.
3. Boxy again (I do love you, Boxy!). Inviting Boxy around for a meal, then carefully preparing a 1/10 scale replica of our meals for his degustation. His howls of outrage at the miniature meal were definitely larger than life. 
4. South Korean Coach. Still not sure if this one was intended or not. Day 1, morning 1 of staying with the South Korean triathlon team, and the coach invited me for breakfast and presented me with a sweet potato, and apple, and lastly, a tomato and walnut milkshake. He drank one also, so he may have been genuine, but I did detect some sniggering amongst the athletes...
5. The Old Switcheroo. Being ‘gagged’ ourselves on camp, we sensed foul play when our bikes went missing, but some amateur sleuthing by Mitch Kealey soon discovered our truant bikes secluded in our neighboring athletes abode. Casually mentioning we had to leave swimming early to meet with the police, soon had the gag flipped like a pancake. 

Top 3 Favorite Races Of The Year

1. Alpe d’Huez. An iconic climb, an idiosyncratic race, a fun road trip and a decent performance by yours truly, made for a memorable race. Beer shower provided free of charge was much appreciated. 
2. Tiszaujvaros. A neoteric race in an eccentric place. What better place to start a dynamic new format of Semis/Finals than the notorious triathlon stomping ground of Tizzie. Loads of fun racing the new format, which was exciting to race in and watch, and brought a whole new branch of tactics to racing. The future of triathlon if you ask me.
3. Bike racing. No race in particular, but having spent some time out with injury, bike racing went a long way to keeping me sane, giving me an outlet for my competitiveness. Sometimes, it’s a pleasure just to get beaten. 

Best/Worst/Biggest’s Of The Year

Best Race: Stockholm, getting back to WTS level.

Worst Race: Hamburg, not back at WTS level. And missed the bike prime. 

Biggest Blow Up (Physical): Long, hard ride with Mitch Kealey. Dehydrated badly and lost the plot somewhere in the French hinterland. Finally, a concerned Mitch took pity on me and purchased many cool beverages, ensuring I didn’t have to hitchhike back to Aix. 

Biggest Blow Up (Mental): Injury concerns abridging my trip to come home early, but still coming home via a race in Chengdu, a race which I had no plans of finishing. A low. 

Biggest Blow Up (Vehicle): Broken muffler gave me brief illusions of being Batman, with some serious flame emitted when it dragged along the road. RIP The Gurgler.

Biggest Blow Up (Navigational): Turning a 3km jog of the bike, into a 12km odyssey through the French forest. Another thank you to the benevolent, direction giving French mountain bikers, I swear I never even thought about stealing your bikes. 

Biggest Curveball in a swim: Losing my cap and goggles 100m in to the race in Tizzie, combined with long hair meant complete blindness for the rest of the swim. Navigated by sense of smell alone...

Biggest Curveball on the bike: Snapping a gear cable 15 min into 45km bike race over a hilly course, straight into the big dog for the rest of the race, creating a new training acronym in the process ESEE (Enforced Strength Endurance Effort)

Biggest Curveball on the run: My ankle instability is world renowned, and facing trails at the top of Alpe d’Huez, I was a tad unsettled. Set a record for the loudest obscenity uttered at altitude whilst nearly taking a stumble at 2km.

Biggest Lactic Acid Spike: Doing a few ‘easy’ pre-race efforts with Ryan Fisher and Jan Rehula. The big Czech still has some HP. Fish and I nearly quit the sport on the spot. 

Best Decision: Taking Moffy’s advice to try making my own Peanut Butter. Look for my new range of spreads, Willy’s Nuts, available in supermarkets soon.

Worst Decision: Blending the aforementioned spread a little too enthusiastically, and completely frying my blender. However, this added a sublime ‘smokey’ note to the flavour. 

Training Favorites Of The Annum

Favourite Swim Set: Sprints. Or anything not involving a kickboard, band or sponge. 

Favourite Ride: In AUS - ‘100% ride’ A cult followed, hard-mans-ride in Brisbane. At is best/worst, it’s dark, freezing, and fast. 1 hour of lactic. 

En FRA: Mont du Chat. 14 kms at 10%. It’s bright, hot, and slow. 1 hour of lactic.

Favourite Run: Given the time off with injury, anytime I lace up is currently a favorite. Sandgate wetlands in solitude is bliss though…

Miscellaneous Favourites Of The Annum

Album: Panopticon - Kentucky, Runner-up: Ahab - The Giant, Neurosis - Honor Found In Decay

Coffee Shop: Bunker (Brisbane)

Tweet: Mitch Robbins : ASADA Whereabouts form v challenging 2complete, nearly everynight at a different girls house I barely even get a name, let alone an address.

Blog (There is only one eligible author, of course, chosen by viewing figures): A Day In The LIfe

Compliment: You speak very good english... for an Australian. 

TV: Curb Your Enthusiasm

Way to annoy people: (I have loads...) Sprinting the last 10m of the easy part of the swim set to ‘beat’ far superior swimmers than myself. I’ve never seen Trent Grimsey look more horrified. 

Video Clip: Optimism 101

Another twelve months of irreverence and irrelevance to come...

Take care friends,

Willy

Grafting at Grafton

Evening friends,

As alluded to in an earlier post, I had made the commitment to race the 228km Grafton to Inverell cycle classic, a decision full of enthusiasm yet devoid of sense. Preferring to ride the wave of enthusiasm, and not dwell on the realities of the endeavor, I packed the Cannondale, filled the car with enough Gatorade to kill a horse (briefly considering filling the car’s tank with some electrolyte as well), and set off down the Pacific Highway to Grafton. 4 hours and 3 black metal albums later, I had arrived in Grafton, and immediately bumped into triathletes and cycle dabblers Shane Barrie and David Mainwairing, also committed to the Inverell Odyssey. A lazy pizza that night, and a bit of nervous banter, we were ready to go. 

Having previously expressed outrage at the notion of ‘warming up’ for a 6 hour bike race, extreme nerves and a decent splash of ‘do what everyone else is doing’ attitude meant I was doing laps around Grafton and urinating in equal amounts for a good 40 minutes prior to race start. Whilst adding even more kms to an already ambitious day, I had recalled setting new power PBs in the ‘neutral’ section of the only other cycle race I’ve ever done, so was a tad wary about the extreme embarrassment that could befall me if I got dropped before the start horn had even been sounded. 

Up The Gibraltar Range

8 am rolled around and we clicked in and were away, thankfully at a moderate tempo for the neutral section. Once we had conquered the lamentably brief neutral section the flag dropped, and we didn’t see much below 50km/hr for the next hour, until the early break was established. Given that the idea of spending 200km + in a break was about as appealing as a Mitt Romney presidential term, I was content to sit mid pack and munch powerbars for the early segment. Once the break was established, we took a quick toilet stop (established by someone yelling ‘Pissa!!!’, followed by stopping en mass to empty our bladders), and rode a solid tempo to the bottom of the Gibraltar Range. 

Bludging At The Back...

The pace up the Range was nothing short of pyroclastic for the first 10 mins, before settling into a consistent tempo that I was pretty comfortable enough with for the 17kms of climbing. By this stage, the main pack had dwindled to just over 20, with the break still up the road consisting of 13. I amused myself for the next hour or so bludging at the back whilst some of the teams chased the break down, keeping myself entertained by almost crashing at the first feed station, and spending a good 2 kms trying to de-tangle a feed bag which had quite vexingly entangled in my handlebars.

We picked up all bar 2 of the breakaway at around 140 kms, and so the onus was once again on the big teams to do the chasing, as the two riders out in front were both from Team Budget Forklifts. Once again I kept myself amused by starting some conversation in the bunch, subtly trying to figure out what the hell was going to happen over the last 50 kms, and what sort of terrain was ahead, whilst also congratulating myself on an error free second feed station. 

Bludging In The Middle...

The break had a maximum of around 7 mins at one stage, but was whittled down to around 3 mins with around 30 kms to go, following some committed chasing by some of the NRS teams. Once we hit once of the last hills at 208km, the race exploded, turning into a last man standing free for all, with attacks flowing like cliches from a newsreader. Despite the copious attacks, our bunch only shed a few, and we were still 22 strong heading into the last few kms. With the 2 lads from Budget Forklifts holding on to take the win by 29 seconds over the bunch, the famous “Wilson Sprint” was involved in the sprint for 3rd... but finished 19th. No Cavendish fibers in my legs, it would seem... However, I was happy with my strength throughout the race and over the hills, certainly a fun way to spend 6 hours...

Check the stats...

Time: 6hrs 14 mins 08 secs

Distance: 228km

Vertical Metres Climbed: 2948 m

Maximum Averages (68kg)

1 sec: 987 Watts

12 sec: 718 Watts

6 min: 411 Watts

30 min: 351 Watts

Ave Power: 257 Watts

Max HR: 194

Ave HR: 150

Calories Burned: 5146 (Equivalent to over 20 mars bars...)

Food Consumed:

2.25 L Gatorade (585 calories)

1.5 L Coke (645 calories)

250ml Red Bull (115 calories)

4 Powerbars (912 calories)

3 Gels (300 calories)

1 Fly (negligible)                       Total: 2442 Calories

The Cheeky Dabbler

Evening friends,

As the dust from both long and short course pinnacles in Kona and Auckland settles, it would appear that most of the athletic fraternity are now happily wallowing in perhaps the most sangfroid word of the triathlete vernacular, aka ‘break’. Having made neither the trip to Kona or Auckland (cognisant recognition of my current ability preventing the former, and a lower back ailment preventing the latter), my season was slightly bereft of competition worthy mark as the end of my season. As the medically diagnosed ‘Busted Arse Syndrome’ would prevent running with any real velocity, I’ve decided to have a cheeky dabble at arguably Australia’s toughest one day cycling race, Grafton to Inverell. At 228km, and featuring a sinister 17.5 km climb, the race has been known to eat riders whole, with the ease and regularity of Wilson eating a Curlywurly on the way to swim training. Given I’m about as experienced with this sort of racing as Paris Hilton is with fine literature, I’m approaching the race with a healthy amount of ignorance, hopefully offset with equal amounts of enthusiasm. Time will tell which holds stronger after 6-7 hours of racing...

On a personal note, a certain amount of inspiration was gained by many performances at Auckland and Kona, none more so than those of Dave Dellow and the U/23 Boys. Dellow, a long time collaborator, all-round-good-guy, and infamously one half of the Delson combination, bagged a top ten first time out at Kona, and watching the U/23 lads at Auckland execute a brilliant race was truly a pleasure to watch. 

Stay tuned for a race report from saturday’s 228km peregrination, hopefully not featuring a pyroclastic explosion over the last half of the race. No promises though...

Take care friends,

Willy