A copy of this article was first printed in the Sunday Telegraph on 16th November 2014. A copy of the article can be found here.
It was bravado rather than bravery that drove me to leap off the back of a car ferry and swim across an icy Norwegian fjord in what could be the world’s most extreme triathlon.
I live a largely desk-bound existence, but over the past few years I’ve become hooked on pushing my body to its limits. I’ve taken part in Olympic-length and “Iron Man” triathlons: a 2.8km swim followed by a 180km bike ride and full marathon. But the Isklar Norseman Xtreme was taking my obsession to a new level.
When I mentioned it to my colleagues, silence fell. “Really?” someone asked eventually. “The bonkers one in Norway where everyone is crying at the end?”
Simply by entering the ballot for a place in the race I’d impressed my most hardcore athlete friends. I didn’t expect to get a place: 2,000 people enter for 260 places. But a few weeks later, I received an email informing me that my entry was successful. I felt sick, but knew that withdrawing risked ridicule.
Besides, on paper, there was no reason why I shouldn’t manage it.
Norseman’s distances are similar to those in other races I’d completed. The terrain, however, in the wilds of western Norway, is extreme.
After swimming almost 4km to the remote Eidfjord, participants must cycle 180km over five mountain passes with a total of 4.1km vertical ascent (200m more than the Queen stage in this year’s Tour de France) and then run 42km to the top of the 1.9km-high Mount Gaustatoppen.
There is no stopping, no breaks, and only the first 160 athletes are awarded the black “survivor” T-shirt, and allowed to finish at the top of the mountain. The rest of the field must turn back 5km from the summit, taking home a consolatory white T-shirt.
As I line up for the swim on the back of the car ferry, flanked by 259 competitors, I will myself to believe that I have it in me to finish among the top competitors. And then we’re off, jumping from the boat into a 400m-deep fjord, with the tide pushing us away from our destination.
I don’t mind the cold, but I seem to be slipping to the back of the field, and the beauty of my surroundings is lost on me. It is only once I settle into the bike ride that I start to take in the scenery, but any sense of enjoyment is short lived, as I meet a strong headwind and begin to lose momentum. One by one, my competitors sail past me, riding in a tuck position to keep out of the wind.
My demons strike hard as we cycle along the plateau, and I am relieved to start climbing again. Much to my surprise, I begin inching back up the order. However, the driving rain, combined with the relentless headwind, make the final descent a terrifying race of the foolish.
Nevertheless, at the start of the marathon phase I am in 135th position; better than I’d hoped. I had aimed to reach the foot of the final mountain, 25km into the course, without walking, but without really pushing myself I’m climbing the ranks.
A check of my watch, however, reveals that my timing is out: I’m running too fast. Over the next 10km the swimming and cycling catch up with me, until by 21km every muscle and joint is screaming at me to stop.
If it wasn’t for Mark, who is running beside me, insisting that under no circumstances can I walk until we reach the final climb, I would probably stop. But his words drive me onwards and we arrive together at the foot of “Zombie Hill”. Mount Gaustatoppen is a tall mountain. On a clear day you can see a sixth of Norway’s mainland from its summit. Today, though, it is covered in cloud.
Here, with just 17km to go, the atmosphere changes; now we all know the black T-shirt is ours if we can just hold our places. We are no longer competitors but comrades, willing each other to the top.
Five kilometres from the finish, the route leaves asphalt and becomes a rocky scramble, with support teams guiding us safely to the summit. Around me men and women are moaning and tearful, but somehow a calm has descended on me, and guided by my one-man support team Archie, I push on to the summit. We cross the line in 14 hours 53 minutes, and the black T-shirt is mine, in 122nd place.
The elation that sweeps over me is unsurpassable; and knowing that I’ve overcome this will hopefully spur me on to greater things in other parts of my life. But under no circumstances will I do anything like this again. Although I did hear about this great race in Sweden.
