Ironman Leeds: A Day I’ll Never Forget

Some races are defined by the finish time. Others are defined by the resilience it takes to reach the finish line at all. Dave’s Ironman was firmly the latter: a day of changed plans, mechanical setbacks, pain, brilliant support and an enormous amount of heart.

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With reports that the water was being tested for blue-green algae, I was devastated at the thought of the swim being cancelled. There was nothing I could do about it, but losing that part of the race really hurt. Then, after what felt like the inevitable cancellation, I received a message: “You can only race what’s in front of you.”

My mindset changed immediately. I stopped feeling disappointed. It was what it was, and I no longer felt cheated out of a swim or as though I was missing out.

The day before the race, I visited Becky’s grandparents, Alan and Pat. They were the “why” behind me doing this. A few years earlier, in a coffee shop, I’d said to Pat: “I’d love to do a triathlon.” When she replied, “Oh, I’d love to come and watch you do that,” it became a matter of when, not if.

Alan, Becky’s grandad and something of a cycling legend in Leeds, told me stories from his racing days – including a 12-hour time trial that I’m still in awe of. Hearing how much he was looking forward to watching me race made me feel like a kid at Christmas. I had butterflies.

I managed a decent sleep, got up, ate my planned breakfast and headed to the course. After checking my tyre pressures, I decided they felt low. I reached for my electric pump… and drained its battery. Rookie mistake. Luckily, I found a track pump, got the tyres sorted and was ready to go.

The Bike

At the time-trial start, I didn’t really know what to expect. I kept telling myself: you’re only racing yourself. If people go past, that’s OK. I knew my ego would cost me if I didn’t behave myself.

The ride started perfectly – even better than planned. I rode at a controlled effort, checked my pace and saw I was averaging more than 27 kph. “Am I pushing too hard here?” I asked myself. “No – I’ve got plenty more power in me.” So I kept going.

I arrived at Black Hill and climbed it so comfortably that it was almost forgettable – if it hadn’t been for the crowd. They were absolutely off their heads.

On lap two, I dropped my chain. Somehow it went over my pedal. About three minutes later, I was moving again, quickly catching some of the people who had passed me. Then, on the out-and-back along Harrogate Road – comfortably the fastest section of the course – disaster struck. Around 200 metres after the turn, I punctured my front wheel, with sealant spraying everywhere.

It quickly dawned on me that I’d never actually used my plug kit before. I flipped the bike over and tried to remember the YouTube videos I’d watched. Spin the wheel. Cover the hole. Nothing worked. I set up the plug, poked at the tyre and hoped for the best. Still nothing.

My heart sank. Was this it? Was my race over?

Then I noticed the tyre had stopped hissing and spraying sealant. It had sealed itself. My electric pump would have been useful right then. Fortunately, I had a hand pump and put as much air in as I could, knowing the personal-needs station wasn’t far away.

When I arrived, I asked for my bag – and a mechanic. I felt like a pro. The volunteers were brilliant: toilet break, bottles changed, tyre inflated back to my ideal PSI, and I was on my way again.

Soon after, I must have knocked the lap button on my watch. I reset it, but my nutrition and drink alerts disappeared. Thankfully, I noticed quickly and stayed on top of it. At that point, I was starting to wonder what else could go wrong.

Then I saw Becky, the kids, loads of family, friends, and the famous Alan and Pat. It felt like I’d been given a new lease of life. My energy rocketed and I was back in the zone.

Black Hill, round two, was more memorable – and much harder. I flew past family and friends as they cheered, thinking: right, you’ve got this.

Then my left adductor cramped. I avoided a full spasm, but my feet were really hurting too – an issue I’d had on my last few training rides. It definitely affected my ability to hold pace. I made the conscious decision to slow down and simply get through it. No more drama.

I told myself I would walk up Black Hill on the final lap. If I cramped and couldn’t unclip in time, I risked a race-ending injury.

Then I saw my training partner, Mike, on the out-and-back. He screamed my name and I was made up to see he was still going strong. He caught me on Black Hill and we shouted encouragement at each other. At the top, he waited for me. We had a quick chat and completed the rest of the final lap together.

Coming into transition, mates Damo, Ash and Gav were screaming, jumping and dancing. They would have fit right in on Black Hill. I ran over and hugged them all before heading out onto the run.

The Run

I initially felt pretty good, apart from my feet. I got through the first lap well, saw my mates again and headed out for lap two. That was when it hit me from nowhere. The second lap absolutely hammered me.

I could no longer make it between aid stations without walking. I felt sick, my stomach was in turmoil and my feet were as bad as ever. I told Mike to go ahead – I didn’t want to affect his race.

“No. We’re getting this done together.”

What a hero.

Eyes closed, we kept moving. Then I saw Vicky and Matt from work: an instant morale boost. Head down again. New strategy: run for three trees, walk for one. It worked for a while.

Then Swim-Squadders Matt, Jon and Jo came around the corner like an ambush. I can’t express how much I needed them then. I ran towards them with my arms out, hugged all three, and somehow held back the tears. They ran with us for a bit before heading off.

Then I saw Becky and the kids. That nearly set me off again. More hugs, and the kids ran with us for a little while too.

Lap three was the hardest 10k I’ve ever done. I spent most of it walking, but now Mike was suffering too. It was my turn to be the strong one. We ran as much as we could, but it was tough.

We bumped into more Swim-Squadders, Dani and Matt, who were incredibly encouraging and explained how hard the course had been the year before. Hearing that from such strong athletes was reassuring.

Coming out of the final aid station, I lost it. The tears came, and I let them. Nothing was going right: my feet hurt, my legs were giving way and my stomach simply wasn’t playing ball. The realisation of just how hard an Ironman is finally dawned on me.

Mike and I regrouped: run/walk, find a target, get to it, walk, then find another. And that’s how we got through the final lap.

Before the race, Mike and I had agreed that if we reached the finish together, we would play Rock, Paper, Scissors to decide who crossed first. Mike won – and it felt right. He had helped me so much through that run.

Running down that red carpet was unbelievable. I couldn’t make out who was there or where they were, but I could hear them cheering me home. Unforgettable.

Aftermath

I had a little food in the tent, and then Mum and Dad were there waiting. Here came the tears again. I was emotionally, mentally and physically empty.

My family gave me so much support over the months it took to get there: early mornings, late evenings, prioritising training over family days out. They sacrificed just as much as I did. I completed the Ironman, but that medal belongs as much to them as it does to me.

Then there’s Bryan and the Triathlon Swim Squad family. I feel at home with them. I’m not sure how Bryan has done it, but he has brought together people who are not only incredible athletes, but genuinely lovely people – people who will give up their weekends to support their mates when they are not racing themselves.

Bryan took my dream of becoming an Ironman and gave me the tools, advice and encouragement I needed to achieve it. One hell of a coach – but an even better human being.

I never knew whether I would be a one-and-done Ironman kind of guy. But with that swim being cancelled, it feels like I’ve got some unfinished business.

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Coach’s reflection

Dave’s result is a good reminder that Ironman success is not always about having a perfect day. The swim cancellation, a dropped chain, puncture, lost watch alerts, cramp, foot pain and a difficult run would have given anyone reasons to doubt themselves. Dave kept adapting, stayed calm when he could, accepted help when he needed it and kept moving forward.

What I’m proudest of is the way he handled the changing circumstances. He put his ego aside on the bike, made sensible decisions when his body began to struggle, and drew strength from the people around him. His friendship with Mike, his family, friends and the whole Triathlon Swim Squad community is exactly what this sport is about.

Dave earned that medal through resilience, perspective and courage. The swim may have been taken away this time – but I suspect it has only added fuel to the next chapter.