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Cave Diving, Scuba Diving Christine Grosart Cave Diving, Scuba Diving Christine Grosart

Lessons Learned

“Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.”

Mahatma Gandhi

The author (Christine) patiently observes a trainee conductong a valve drill. Mentors and examiners need to ensure their own solid skills before educating others.

I enjoy organising things.

Especially when others don’t want to, or do less of a good job than I can. Perhaps I should have been an events planner in another life. I love stepping back and watching my plan come together and other people benefitting from the fruits of my labour, whether that be a damn good social, a networking event, a fundraiser or an educational weekend. The latter is what I’m talking about here.

When I joined the CDG some 20 years ago, I heard mutterings about ‘training camps’. These mythical training events had, at the time, gone the same way as the annual AGM dinner for a while… whether through lack of enthusiasm, willingness or know-how to put the work in to run them, they had dwindled to almost nothing.

I decided to pull something out of the ashes and took it upon myself to throw an epic bash when it came to my CDG section’s turn to run the AGM and dinner. After this success, I decided to try my hand at running training events and from around 2008, began setting a standard of sorts for AGMs and training camps, which have now become an annual event, rotating around sections and many agree, extremely beneficial to all those who attend.

As far back as 2009 we were practising underwater stretchers at an event in Derbyshire which I organised in conjunction with Derbyshire Cave Rescue. At the time the concept of moving a diver underwater on a stretcher, using a full-face mask, was snubbed and rubbished by other divers in the group and deemed unlikely to be of any use. Apparently, we were wasting our time.

How things change.

Remember Thailand?

It is not enough to put on food, booze and arrange a date and time. These events are rare and getting CDG members together in one place at one time is very much like herding cats. Once you’ve got them, you have to make the most of every moment.

Make a plan.

Then make a Plan B when things conspire to ruin your original plan.

Get friends on your side. Involve other people, even if you don’t necessarily see eye to eye, but if you have the same common goal and the same genuine desire to keep trainee cave divers alive and out of trouble, then differences need to be put to one side and the job in hand takes priority.

Such an event was arranged in February this year (2025) by the Derbyshire section. The lessons to be learned from these training events are not just the diving skills and diving related theory for the trainees. But also for the organisers, mentors and examiners. If we do not continue learning, then these events lose momentum and it’s not hard for a year to zoom by without one. We need to be passing the baton onto our newer qualified divers to have the confidence and the knowledge to keep aloft of delivering quality training. Articles like this one, which I wrote and is published in the CDG newsletter in the third person, go a long way to helping with this and critical analysis should make sure we simply get better at it each time.

Once word got out about our training weekend, a few members of other sections asked if they could join in. I would never turn a cave diver away from a training event, so we welcomed them.

A new trainee gets to grips with thicker line used in British caves. Image: Christine Grosart

When, where, why and who.

The Derbyshire Section of the CDG hosted a training event in the North, over the weekend of 21-23 February 2025.

Section secretary Jack, set about organising logistics and the base was the Bradford Pothole Club and Capernwray Dive centre in Lancashire.

The reasons for the event were twofold: The Derbyshire Section had received a flurry of interest from four prospective trainees. They had already attended a Derbyshire section meeting, so the next step was to arrange some diving with section Qualified divers and examiners.

The CDG does not have a structured programme as such or guidance for coaching mentors in how to deliver training, both above and underwater. Mentoring and delivering training does not come naturally to everybody, yet there is an expectation of qualified divers to do it. So, the section is actively working towards giving this area attention.

The weekend was an opportunity to tackle both challenges under the guidance of examiners, training officers and experienced mentors.

Productive dive training has a simple format:

-              Theory – why we do what we do, and how.

-              Dry land drills. These begin with demonstrations, usually worked through in slow time, by the mentor, then handed to the trainee for as many attempts as they wish to master the skill before taking it underwater. Dry land drills offer the opportunity to ask questions, clear up misunderstandings and hone muscle memory of the skill. Dry land drills can be used to test capacity by adding blindfolds and using diving gloves.

-              In water consolidation. The mentor gives a demonstration of the skill in water with the trainee observing, before tackling the skill themselves. The skill itself by now should be a formality and the emphasis on the capacity of the trainee to conduct it while maintaining control in the water (buoyancy, trim and positioning) and without disturbing the visibility where possible.

On the Friday evening, divers arrived ready for the first theory lecture of the weekend.

New trainees put through their gas calculations paces by qualified divers

Challenges

Prior to the event, the Derbyshire Section Training Officer laid out a plan for the weekend to achieve the above objectives, subject to alteration depending on QD/Trainee ratios and arrival times on the Friday.

Unfortunately, due to family issues, he was unable to attend the Friday evening session. I continued as planned to conduct the theory and dry land drill session on teaching and conducting a valve drill, with a view to progressing onto gas failure management. Running Friday sessions is clunky as often people will need to travel after work and traffic issues can cause delays. It is best to set a time and stick to it and begin the session with the majority in attendance, rather than delay it for late arrivals and curtail the session. In the end, everyone made the start of the session within 10 minutes.

The water in Capernwray was 5 degrees, so dives were well briefed, and equipment checks done as much as possible on the surface to maximise in-water time which was sensibly kept to 30 minutes.

Surface briefs. Keep them short, concise and to the point - especially in freezing conditions!

What we did

The valve drill is a skill that was demonstrated first using cylinders with regulators on, then each prospective trainee was given the opportunity to try it themselves. The value of the drill is to get divers new to sidemount, used to operating valves, breathing a regulator line down to empty, switching regulators, then re-opening the valve and conducting a flow check to reinstate a fully open status of the cylinders.

This drill can then be introduced underwater and the diver’s capacity increased incrementally by paying attention to neutral buoyancy, trim, staying in one place, remaining in contact with the line and blindfolded.

I then covered simple gas laws, such as Boyles Law, Daltons Law and Henry’s law. The group showed good prior knowledge of these, and we had a great starting point for the weekend ahead.

Further to this session, I showed some carefully selected video clips, to open discussion on the value of control in the water column and with some key points delivered, especially for mentors, on how to identify and rectify problems with the diver’s balance, buoyancy and comfort. This is imperative to master first, before dealing with emergency scenarios and line work in an overhead environment.

Ahead of the first day’s diving on the Saturday morning, the group received notice that the DS training officer would no longer be able to make the weekend at all.

As NS training officer and DS examiner, Ben and myself stepped up to make an adjusted plan for the days diving. The original plan had been that both DS examiners would get to dive with the prospective trainees. Now, only I was available, the plan was altered to maximise efficiency as much as possible. This was supported by DS qualified divers who stepped up to take on supervisory roles.

Following the first dive, feedback was given that was very positive and the divers were deemed good enough to begin some cave diving skills underwater. Ben used the lunch break to conduct a dry land drill for lost line searches and broken lines, which gave the re-shuffled teams an opportunity to begin some cave diving safety skills.

Skills and drills are consolidated on the surface before heading underwater.

Each team had an underwater camera and video feedback was given during the evening, which is particularly valuable when divers are blindfolded during a drill.

In the evening, supper was prepared by the prospective trainees and a large group settled in for an evening lecture by Ben on basic gas management. This included the use and limitations of the thirds rule, group worked examples on gas calculations with uneven starting pressures and different cylinder sizes. This was rounded up with a brief on the Temperature/Pressure phenomenon.

Sunday morning began with a dry land drill, teaching the basics of line laying from Ben. Rob (QD) took a more experienced trainee cave diving and everyone else made their way to Capernwray for day 2.

I had the opportunity to dive with a 3rd prospective trainee and in doing so, the objective of an examiner being able to assess the potential new trainees in open water had almost been achieved.

Other QDs set about mixing and matching divers and conducting lost line and line laying lessons underwater with video feedback. The weather conditions deteriorated alarmingly with extremely high winds causing waves on the quarry lake and making surface conditions worse than underwater.

Divers remained sensible and were concise about the underwater work and ensured they warmed up properly in between dives. Cold divers do not learn!

The occasional guest from other sections showed up to join in as well. Water temp: 6 degrees. Image: Christine Grosart, Canon R100 & Ikelite housing.

Lessons learned – (relates to running the event, not the actual lessons!)

1.        Have a plan B. If key personnel are suddenly unable to attend, the event still needs to go ahead, and I am eternally grateful to Ben for stepping in seamlessly to assist and make the weekend flow as if nothing had happened.

2.        Set up your classroom and bring it with you. The requested projector did not materialise and so we got lucky on the Friday, that the BPC happened to have one - and a screen. Their whiteboard also came in handy. To avoid lucky escapes in future, we will be purchasing a bunch of section teaching tools that can be easily transported or even posted around the country for training events. As one QD quite rightly said, we need to invest in our trainees. A load of people squished round a laptop is not great for learning.

3.        Don’t assume new divers will be prepared for British diving conditions. One diver turned up with an inadequate undersuit for the water temperature and as a result, lost one dive. Also, don’t assume everyone has dived sidemount before. By doing some homework and meeting the prospective trainees first, we were prepared and had a full set of equipment to loan to a diver to get them started in sidemount.

4.        Not everyone is born to teach. Some need assistance in their own lesson delivery skills, which is always an ongoing life lesson and to deliver lessons underwater and keep a trainee safe, it is imperative that you have solid diving skills yourself.

Do not involve line work until the basic foundation of diving skills has been consolidated. Divers cannot add value to underwater mentoring if their own basic skills require attention.

5.        Delivering theory and dry land practical sessions also requires planning and the educator needs to put time and work into preparing the lesson, especially if it has been some time since they conducted it. I fell foul of this myself when I automatically defaulted back to a different muscle memory during a drill demonstration. I had not prepared enough and did not think I would be alone in delivering the lesson.

The late and great Dr Oliver ‘Cromwell’ Lloyd, who also had a passion for education. Image: Unknown, taken circa 1983 at Wookey Hole.

6.        Communication is king. CDG divers typically dive solo and rarely pay any attention to underwater communication. When they do, it is commonly confused and misunderstood. Even in clear, open water and daylight, this was very apparent. To teach and train, communication is essential, and it is really not very difficult to have a 5-minute discussion beforehand with a trainee, on what signals you are likely to use for the session and what they mean. Do a practise run in the car park to ensure that signals are understood. If you find this difficult, pre-write clearly on some wetnotes some instructions and feedback that you can point to. Things like ‘Repeat the skill’, ‘Watch me’ and ‘Now you do it’ are common and easy to articulate underwater. One trainee commenced a valve drill underwater when I asked for a flow check. I didn’t stop him and quickly adapted, letting him complete it. It wasn’t fair to stop him because I had not explained the signals properly and ensured they were understood prior to the dive. There was no point telling him he did the wrong drill, because it was my fault.

7.        Give clear and concise feedback in short, manageable chunks. On surfacing from the dive, give a few positive points of feedback first then let them know the areas you will be covering later for improvement – then get out of the water. Cover the finer learning points in detail in the warm and in front of the video, if you have it.

Never say ‘So, how do you think that went?!” It is unhelpful and offers no value. Critical feedback is often hard to take, especially when you have been trying your hardest and don’t know what you don’t know. Conscientious trainees will beat themselves up before you do, so ensure they have some positive encouragement, no matter how hard it may be to find!

Learning to teach can be taught. There are various options for those wanting to improve their techniques, but one that comes highly recommended is: Level 3 Award in Education and Training, which costs around £200. It may be possible to ask your employer to enrol you if your job is aligned…you never know.

The biggest difference and shift in the training during this weekend was the focus on not only the trainees, but the mentors and this is something we would like to continue and improve on.

We requested feedback after the event from the attendees and this is what some of them had to say:

Evening time was well utilised, with a workshop in packing and hauling cylinders in caves, using the vertical cave training facilities atthe Bradford Pothole Club.

F: "The weekend has been fantastic. The mixture of practical scenarios and theory was well balanced. The opportunity to receive immediate feedback following a practical has been great and aided in development.

On Sunday, I was given the chance to experience my first sump dive in a suitable venue. Being able to experience the dive planning, gas calculations, kit selection and the dive itself has been amazing."

S: “The only piece of constructive feedback I have may be quickly resolved once I start actually diving in caves...

The out of water line laying was very useful but knowing what a good or bad belay is in the water wasn't immediately obvious to me.

My supervisors corrected my bad belays or re-laid some line for me in the water, but a few pictures would help me understand what 'good' and 'bad' ones look like in a representative setting. It was obvious once I saw the corrections. I just need to get my eye in...”

M: “As a prospective member, apart from the skills learning and social element, the real positive from my point of view was putting faces to names.

In this case, in the literal sense of getting to know members of the CDG (Derbyshire section in particular) but also in a more general sense. Coming from a diving background, I have long been aware of the CDG, read articles on the website and heard stories.

Despite never having dived a sump, I came to the weekend with some sense of what might be involved, the critical self-reliance, the mentoring model, how CDG approaches diving in UK sump conditions, something of the mindset and the variety of solutions members adopt to overcome common challenges.

To see this first hand, to get involved with members of the section and to even practice key skills in the open water has been really informative. It has confirmed some of what I expected, demystified parts and corrected others. Overall, it has made the prospect of sump diving through the CDG a more tangible, real prospect whilst also provoking thought on how to evaluate, weigh up and mitigate the very serious inherent risks involved.

Overall, it was an excellent weekend and hopefully the CDG will continue holding these for all levels of members involved.”

G (QD): “While it was originally planned to be an event for prospective new DS members, in the end we had prospective members and trainee divers from 3 Sections of the CDG. Christine Grosart (Derbyshire Section Examiner) and Ben Wright (Northern Section Training Officer) both provided excellent evening talks on the Friday & Saturday evenings at the Bradford Pothole Club.

Both days of the practical training sessions were held at Capernwray.   On dry land Ben provided an excellent tutorial on search reel techniques.  Then QD’s and trainees were split into teams for the underwater training exercises; valve drills, buoyancy, line laying, line following and other practical drills.

I especially benefited from Christine’s advice on buoyancy techniques that have somewhat eluded me for so many years!  I feel I remain a lost cause on that topic. (We can work with it – Chris)

All in all, it was an excellent weekend.  A special thank you goes to Jack Dewison for organising the weekend and spending much of his time herding the CDG cats.”

New trainee getting to grips with bigger reels and thicker line. Image: Christine Grosart

C: “I spent the weekend at the CDG training weekend. The weekend involved a mix of learning, freezing and a lot of good company.

Each hour of the day was made use of, with evenings spent discussing dive skills and dive goals. Topics were discussed at length, including everything from gas planning to problem solving.

The days were spent in the water at Capernwray where we experienced a whole years’ worth of seasons in a weekend. Saturday, beautiful sunshine and Sunday, torrential rain and 45mph wind. But once under the water it was all the same and all about the drills, each tailored to use in a UK cave. Shutdowns, valve drills, and laying the thickest line I had ever seen.

The weekend was a blast, but the best part was the people. Everyone was welcoming, supportive and up for a laugh. I had once heard that a cave diver sits on a chair with their ego on a shelf behind them, but this weekend couldn't have been further from it. Just nice talks over a shared passion.”

“Tell me and I forget, teach me and I may remember, involve me and I learn.”

Benjamin Franklin

The author

 

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Anything is possible.

Caroline negotiates a waterfall in Swildon’s Hole cave, Mendips. Image: Christine Grosart

 “We’re just in the bar, I’m the one in the sparkly top!”

And so she was. Not just a sparkly top, but cowboy boots as well! 

Chester Storyhouse was beginning to fill up. Caroline Bramwell and I were two of eighteen women selected to ‘star’ in Louise Minchin’s award-winning book “Fearless: Adventures with Extraordinary Women”.

Natasha, Louise Minchin, Caroline Bramwell

Caroline’s story is extraordinary and I won't spoil it too much here, as she wrote a superb book called ‘Loo rolls to lycra’ as well as featuring in a chapter of ‘Fearless’ where she overcame the rather taboo subject of having a stoma.

https://amzn.eu/d/fO70dU0

To many people, having a stoma is of course lifesaving but in a bittersweet blow can also be life limiting and even life ending. A close family friend of mine was so desperate to have his stoma reversed but he embarked on surgery to do it, with devastating results. He succumbed to septicaemia and passed away.

Caroline was diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis during her pregnancy with her second child and endured this debilitating illness for four years. As a result, her business collapsed; she became confined to her home and was unable to meet with clients, eventually leading to hospitalisation.

The procedure she underwent was a panproctocolectomy, which involves the complete removal of the bowel and the closure of the rectum—often referred to colloquially as having a 'Barbie butt'. Following this surgery, an ileostomy was formed, meaning the stoma is created from the ileum (the end part of the small intestine). In contrast, a colostomy would be made from the large intestine.

Instead of passing waste into the colon and rectum, waste exits through the stoma and is collected in an external pouch.

Caroline's story was one of such severe pain and debilitation that to have what she calls a ‘bag for life’ was the only way to get her quality of life back. And what a way to do it!

Caroline went from being a self-confessed couch potato, to learning how to swim and embark on a triathlon whirlwind.

She was determined to make sure that she was not limited by the lot that she was given and started testing the boundaries of medicine, which to be honest, were pretty outdated and archaic with regards to what an ostomate can do.

 

I had featured in Louise Minchin's book “Fearless” for my caving adventures. Caroline's eyes lit up when she found out about this.

“I'd love to do that” she said, but likely saw a look of consternation cross my face. Caroline was used to the medical profession casting doubts on her abilities to do anything other than breathe, now that she had a stoma bag for the rest of her life.

But somehow, she had got lucky. Sitting in front of her was not only a caving instructor but a paramedic and someone who was equally determined not to allow any physical setbacks to stop her achieving her dreams.

“Of course I'll take you caving” I said, not really thinking it through. “How hard could it be?”

Our first attempt was completely thwarted by my crashing my road bike during training for an Ironman. Luckily, as an Ironman triathlete herself, Caroline completely understood and we put the trip back a couple of months until I felt able to navigate a basic caving trip. This was still sketchy, as it turned out that I had a torn rotator cuff.

Just to be on the safe side and also to assist with underground photographs, my caving friend Elaine kindly joined the trip to help us out.

I went through my usual pre-cave briefing that I used as an instructor and it wasn't long before both Caroline and I were far more interested in the caving aspect than the stoma issue. The only thing we needed to consider, was the use of an assisted hand line. Quite often novices need this to help them up the near vertical climbs in the cave when they are not used to that sort of thing. This involves wearing either a caving belt or a harness. Obviously, this poses the risk of sitting on top of Caroline’s stoma. So, we spent the evening trying out different configurations and eventually settled on one that would work.

We packed some medical spares in a waterproof caving pot just in case and Caroline took the precaution of taking Imodium for the trip.

We went through the usual jovialities of kitting up into caving gear and looking like Teletubbies with helmets on. Elaine had the most awesome furry suit covered in sheep!

Elaine in her ‘woolly suit’

Caroline and Elaine chatted incessantly as we walked across the fields to the cave and for a moment, I remembered why I enjoyed being a caving instructor so much. I loved hooking people up to the point that I almost became irrelevant and I take pleasure in matching up my friends from all my different walks of life and activities.

Caroline stared at the entrance of the cave, Swildon’s Hole, with much the same trepidation that Louise Minchin had done. The difference being, Caroline was a little bit more aware of what she was getting into and was as excited as she was nervous.

Caroline sets off on her first excursion underground

I dumped the unwieldy camera box onto Elaine and we slithered our way down the cave, following the water and Caroline took it all in her stride.

It wasn't long before we met the first obstacle - Jacob’s ladder, where I needed to apply a harness and a hand line. Caroline managed this without any bother at all and we set off into the cave, watching her settle in and enjoy the scenery more and more as she went.

I played my usual trick of taking photographs on the way out, as this gives cavers a bit of a break from the uphill climb to the surface. In caving, what goes down has to come up and I always warn novices that as soon as they start to feel a little weary on the inward journey, it is time to turn for home. The outward trip is usually way more energetic.

Elaine climbing a cascade

Caroline stared into the black abyss as she looked down the 20 foot pitch, our turning point. I could see that she was keen to come back another day and perhaps go all the way to the sump. This meant a doubling in distance, time and difficulty of the trip.

We turned tail at this point and headed back, stopping on the odd occasion to have a snack and take some photographs.

Lying face down in a waterfall in the dark, posing for photos, I think Caroline at this point had completely forgotten about her stoma! I think we all had.

We surfaced as darkness started to fall and as we were all wet, it made sense to keep the chill off Caroline by wrapping her in a survival bag.

I can never understand why people carry survival bags but don't use them. The foil ones are useless but the big orange plastic ones make an immediate difference to your temperature, especially walking back across the fields in the wind. I simply dry it off, fold it up and use it another day.

Caroline reported after the trip that she was covered in bruises and aching from head to foot, but that she’d had the most brilliant day and her daughter was keen to give it a go as well. Whilst I may not have been able to convert Louise Minchin into the joys of caving, I had at least had some success in converting this triathlete, despite her medical hurdles to overcome, into being a caver.

Caroline in `Swildon’s Hole. Image: Christine Grosart

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Imposter Syndrome

Sunrise Barcelo Lanzarote

Going to Lanzarote for Ironman training is always mixed emotions. I'm usually out there by myself, as nobody seems to have the time, money or the inclination to join me for two weeks training on the volcanic island so early in the year.

I entered two Ironman 70.3 races in 2025. The first being a new one in France, down in the Loire valley in Tours Metropole. This has a river swim and both a flat bike and running course, so I figured this would suit me well.

However, I learned from catching Covid in the days before Ironman Venice that all my training would come to nothing if I didn't have a backup plan. So, on a whim and given that it matched my work rota, I booked Weymouth 70.3 as well.

This one however worried me because the bike course was ‘rolling’ and even though my weight was coming down, it wasn't coming down fast enough to make me competitive on hills on the bike.

In fact, I was seriously concerned that I might not finish and miss all the cut offs. Added to the fact that my swim was desperate after my rotator cuff injury in December, I wasn't leaving myself much room for manoeuvre.

So, off I went to Lanzarote to really kick start my training for the year.

My coach, Russell Carter, sets me a loose training plan depending on the weather and how I'm feeling and availability of the pool etc.

I generally choose to stay at the Barcelo hotel, as it has a 50-metre outdoor pool, it is all inclusive, so I don't have to think about where the next meal is coming from and it has easy access onto the best bike routes on Lanzarote. It is also close enough to the sea for decent sea swim.

La Santa, on the northern part of the island, is the classic training ground for the professionals. An increasing number of athletes now use the Barcelo. It's cheaper and less restrictive over which activities you can choose you don't have to subscribe to any kind of system.

Even so, a 10-day trip at the Barcelo is not cheap, so I have to make the best of every moment there.

The first job is to pick up the hire car, shoehorn my bike bag into the boot and get to the hotel to get the bike built. This usually involves a bit of faff as my hydraulic brake system often has bubbles in it following the flight.

I always get a bit of impostor syndrome when I wheel out my bike for the first time out the front of the hotel, which is riddled with triathletes who are all faster and thinner than I am.

The first time I went to Lanzarote was when I was brand new to using clipless pedals and I sat outside the front of the foyer pretending to be on my phone, until everybody who looked remotely like a cyclist had disappeared. There was no way I was going to have a clip-in fail in front of the semi-professional triathletes!

Several years on, I still get a notion of anxiety and wonder if I deserve to be there or if I fit in with these people. The good news is, I'm not on holiday with these people. Besides, since I had now completed an Ironman 70.3, I had earned my place there. After all I have a coach and everything!

The best way to shake off imposter syndrome I have found is to ‘just do you’. These other people do not matter, they don’t know me and the only person of concern is my coach – and me I guess. It’s hard and takes some practise, but life feels much calmer when you stop comparing. If you want to feel shit about yourself, at least wait until race day results before you do!

I usually have a shortish shakedown ride to test out the bike, tri bars and to get used to riding again in the wind and the heat.

Next, I ventured to the 50-metre pool. It was extremely busy and really intimidating, not least because my left arm wasn't really working. I could just about manage to get to the end of the 50 metres doing a very slow and deliberate crawl. But I knew whatever my injury was, this was too soon. I couldn't even hold a basic yoga move or keep my left arm out to my side by itself. Warrior II pose was more of a dying swan.

Swimming would just have to wait. I concentrated on my cycling and running, all the while trying to ignore my shoulder.

14km run

One thing on my list that I'd yet to try was the classic climb up Tabayesco. I've reached the observatory from the other side of the island but never the classic climb from the East Coast. It was fairly shallow but prolonged and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

As I neared the top with the cafe almost in sight, I caught up with the lady who had been dropped by her cycling group and was now walking the final section, pushing her bike, in tears.

I knew exactly how she felt and I reduced my cadence, trying really hard not to catch up with her and pass her, as I know from experience that this would have completely destroyed her.

She reached the top, where a member of her group was waiting for her. She looked absolutely finished so I pulled up behind her and gave her a big hug and a ‘well done ma’am’.

She burst into tears again, trembling with exhaustion. It looked to me that she was on the same journey that I had been on, and I was only too happy to pay forward some kindness.

The section of coastal road, just southeast of Órzola, is one of My most favourite parts of Lanzarote. To one side you have the azure ocean, only separated from the road by the crumbles of lava. On the other side, a huge lava field truncated by the odd volcano. The road passes by Jameos del Agua, which I visited on this occasion. I was spoiled with a fantastic five course meal and ended up having to get a taxi home because the waiters seemed to have a never-ending supply of wine.

The evening was finished off with some traditional life Spanish music in the acoustics of the huge lava tube chamber.

Despite my malfunctioning shoulder, I hit an awful lot of personal records on the bike and even managed my fastest 10 kilometre run to date. But swimming was still painfully slow and it was still a mystery as to what I had actually done.








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Dartmoor

It is a pretty miserable way to spend the winter, stuck indoors, with the wind and the rain lashing at the windows. Having fallen off my bike, with an injured arm, I was pretty limited as to what I could do. But, in typical Christine style, given my legs were still working and cabin fever was most definitely setting in, I needed an adventure.

Sometimes, something just goes off in my head, and I have to get out of the house. I grabbed a map, a rucksack, my lightweight camping gear, a stove and some snacks, then hopped in the car and headed straight for Devon.

I'm hugely into wild camping at the moment, albeit mostly from my sea kayak. But sea kayaking wasn't really an option as I could barely lift and hold my arm for a few seconds. I decided to head out to Dartmoor. I have quite a history with Dartmoor, having done the Ten Tors two years running as a child. It is a magical, mythical place. There are a few places that I'd never been or at least could not remember visiting. I had avoided Burrator Reservoir as it's something of a tourist trap. I don't think I'd ever been to Crazy Well Pool either. So, I created a little route that took in all of these sites and set off walking from Princetown.

It was a foggy, murky morning. I'd recently bought myself some Shokz headphones, mainly for swimming training. They were the perfect accompaniment to my morning’s walk. And I decided to scare myself silly by listening to the audio book of The Hound of the Baskervilles, which I had not read since I was a child. It was seriously atmospheric, listening to the words of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, complete with sound effects of the howling hound, as I trudged into the thick mist across the silent moor.

I will forever be grateful that I was taught the old school way of navigation. I'm super comfortable whipping out a map and compass to pick my way through the fog. When I was training with my school friends on the moor, we didn't have mobile phones back then. GPS devices were in their infancy, and we weren't allowed to use them in any case.

Nowadays, we are spoiled with Google Maps, Komoot, Strava and all manner of walking apps, not to mention my Garmin trustily strapped to my wrist as if it were part of my body. We are spoilt for choice as to which navigational aid to use. But the only one I ever truly trusted was my map and compass, which I would pore over obsessively, checking out contour lines, rocky features and trying to figure out if the pile of rocks looming ahead was the Tor I was looking for…or perhaps it was the next one.

My shoulder didn't seem to mind carrying a rucksack. I always use walking poles when I'm out in the hills or on the moor. They're great for stability, save me from tripping over when I'm top heavy and they're great for testing the depth of bogs and rivers.

The first day I only covered 13 kilometres, which was pretty pathetic in comparison to the distances I was doing in training for Ten Tors, where often we would cover up to 20 miles a day.

Crazy Well Pool

The weather was dank and a little bit grizzly, but I was just delighted to be out and doing something in the outdoors. I visited Crazy Well Pool and then carried on to Burrator Reservoir. Both were annoyingly busy, so I headed away from the road up towards Sheepstor, which seemed a reasonable place, off the beaten path to spend the night.

I'm one of these sad people who get really excited about camping kit. I love trying new camping meals, the latest camping gear and trying out various ways of keeping warm during the night.

In the Ten Tors of 1996, there was heavy snowfall and high winds all across the moor. I woke up in the middle of the night to an enormous slab of snow that had dumped itself in the entrance of our tent. Luckily, we had made really good progress and we're already on our way back up the moor towards Okehampton when, unknowing to us, the event had been called off. It took everything we had to finish the event, and we completed it in good time and received our medals. The rivers had burst their banks and, in an attempt, to jump one of them I become completely submerged. I think everybody was on the brink of hyperthermia and many of the children that year we're either airlifted off the moor by Chinook helicopters or simply could not be rescued and were forced to spend another night up on the Tors with the Army.

Cozying up for the night on Sheepstor during a relatively mild winter was a bit of a doddle in comparison. Not only that, but I was older, wiser and had a significantly better kit!

I put up a few social media posts sharing my little womble and was a little disappointed in a few folk, who seemed horrified that I was sleeping out by myself. It really was the easiest and nondescript overnight camp that I think I’d ever done, but somehow it filled them with utter terror on my behalf.

Perhaps it just takes a lot more to convert excitement to fear for me, but at no point did it cross my mind that anything I was doing was in any way unsafe. There didn't seem to be any logic to what they were saying. “But what if something happens to you, what if you get injured, what if you get ill?”

Wow. If I lived my life by all those ‘what ifs’ I would be sitting on my sofa right now wrapped in a serious amount of cotton wool.

There's something about being self-reliant, well organised, planning for all eventualities and leaning on all my experience, that means that the likelihood of any of their fears coming to fruition is extremely unlikely.

And in any case if they did, I would have done everything in my power to sort myself out before requesting help. I’m a Paramedic, after all…

What it did show me was that there is a huge spectrum of what people consider to be acceptable risk and what they consider an adventure to be. I'm loathe to call this weekend an adventure because honestly, it was just an easy walk with a little bit of camping.

In my world, I think the word ‘adventure’ was even a little bit extravagant. But to some people the concept of going out onto the moor camping alone was just a step too far. I tried not to let it annoy me and spoil my weekend and reminded myself that this was a reflection on them and their lives - not mine.

At about 2:00 in the morning I heard some voices.

What the actual hell?!

I come all the way up here into the back of beyond to be alone and yet here we are - people!

The voices passed very close to my tent and then faded as they went around the edge of the Tor. There was the rustling sound of tent material and then silence.

When I woke in the morning, I had a mooch about and bumped into two young lads who arrived very late at night ready to start climbing in the morning. We exchanged pleasantries over coffee, and they set about trying to climb the extremely greasy, lichen covered granite. I pulled a face; rather them than me and I packed up my tent ready for the second phase of my walk.

On the way down from my camp, I bumped into a very pleasant gentleman walking his spaniels. We had a long and pleasant chat which culminated in him enthusiastically telling me about a sign on the church door, down in the village of Sheepstor.

I almost didn't bother going but it was such a short deviation that I popped up to the pretty little church to take a look.

There was nobody around and the whole place was dead. I walked up to the church door and found the sign that he was talking about which, no word of a lie, actually moved me to tears.

I'm not a religious person and as I've got older, I do feel a little resentful at the amount of time I was forced to spend at church concerts, sitting on a hard floor in my primary school singing hymns instead of learning maths, where I struggle, and going to confirmation classes, which was a complete waste of my childhood.

The sign was so moving that I was almost tempted to push the door and go inside. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it. So, I turned my back, walked away and continued on my journey, thinking about everything that sign meant.

I covered about 15 kilometres more, working my way back around Kings Tor back into Princetown. It was hard going under foot mostly on the old railway lines and my feet were definitely starting to feel the lack of walking over the years.

The dark shapes of Dartmoor ponies came out of the gloom and disappeared back into the mist along with the occasional highland cow and dog walkers, who didn't seem to stray very far from Princetown. As I approached my car, the soggy blues and pinks of Christmas lights in the drizzle greeted me. I had hoped for golden, crisp, frosty mornings and blue skies, but they seem to be a thing of the past in England now.

I promised myself that I wouldn't leave it so long next time and given that Dartmoor is barely 2 hours away from home, there really isn't an excuse not to visit more often.









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Cycling, Inspiration Christine Grosart Cycling, Inspiration Christine Grosart

The crash.

I lay crumpled on the tarmac, waiting for the inevitable flood of pain to come over me.

My bike lay some 20 metres or so further down the road, having carried on under its own steam.

As I hit the ground, I heard a rib crack and thought to myself “Don’t worry, just a rib...they don’t take too long…could have been worse…”.

My head and neck was fine as I tucked and rolled, just how I had learned on racehorses. But I had never come off on unforgiving tarmac before.

It really hurt. I didn’t bounce or slide. Just bang, smack, straight into the middle of the road.

I couldn’t move.

I looked frantically round behind me. I was relieved that I wasn’t on a sharp bend and just prayed that anyone coming along behind me could see me in time and wouldn’t finish me off.

---------------

I wasn’t entirely sure how to follow 2024….but on 15th December I made sure that I wouldn’t be able to.

Last year was a whirlwind of training camps in Lanzarote, Mallorca and France. I did my first Ironman triathlon in Venice, then an Olympic distance triathlon in Annecy. I went paragliding, climbed Sa Calobra and Alpe D’Huez, had a week’s kayak camping in Menorca, circumnavigated Portland by kayak, dived with seals on Lundy, saw the Peatbog Faeries live, rode in a velodrome for the first time and loved it!

Devastatingly, I lost my beloved Uncle Phil and was heartbroken, but it taught me as if I needed telling, to make the best of every day and make every moment count.

How right I was to do all that because, on 15th December, it all changed.

How it started….

A landrover soon came along with an elderly gentleman who got out to see if I was Ok. He didn’t say much and didn’t really know what to do. I told him not to try and get me up as I was still very much winded but nodded in the direction of my bike. He walked over to pick up Orro and place it on the side of the road.

He stood over me not really knowing what to say or do. It really sucks being a Paramedic on the wrong side of needing help.

Soon afterwards, a car coming the other way slowed down and stopped. A couple got out of the car. Their names were Mike and Andrea. They had been Christmas shopping and their car boot was full of swag. They were both extremely kind and made sure that nobody else ran me over while Andrea tried desperately to get me up off the floor. She managed it and I got myself over to the side of the road.

It was then that my breathing became more and more difficult. I concentrated on making sure I exhaled so that I didn't build up CO2 but I could already feel the panic rising. What the hell had I done?

Sensing that I was no longer in control of my own injury, Mike did absolutely the right thing and called an ambulance. Unfortunately, he didn't have the insight that I did of the ambulance service and the crumbling NHS at wintertime. I already knew there would be no vehicles available and guess what - there weren't. The irony wasn't lost on me. I had spent 20 years as a Frontline Paramedic for the NHS and when I needed them for once in my life, I was left literally on the side of the road struggling for breath.

Mike didn't have space in the car for my bike, so he jogged up and down the road looking for somewhere to leave it and eventually found a kind lady from a local stable yard who said she would take it for me and look after it. Something for which I'll be internally grateful. Mike and Andrea then insisted on taking me to hospital themselves.

I sat in the front seat for the short journey to Dorchester hospital trying to make light conversation, but all the while struggling for breath and clutching my left arm.

They dropped me at A&E and I was very quickly seen by a Doctor and sent for an X-ray. I didn't know who to call, but it made sense to call my coach Russell Carter, as he knew I was practising on the Weymouth Ironman bike course and would soon be wondering why I hadn't finished.

How it ended…

I had two Ironman races in my sights this year; one in France, a lovely flat course in the Loire valley. The other was in my home country, just down the road in Weymouth, Dorset. This one was worrying me as the bike was a so-called ‘rolling’ course. Weight is a huge disadvantage when it comes to climbing on a bike and I was still heavy, so even making the cut-offs would be a huge challenge. But it was one that I was determined to meet.

In preparation, I decided to go out on the course and practise it to see how long it would take me. Riding on British roads in the winter is always a risk. I wasn't speeding. I wasn't going fast at all, but fast enough for it to do some serious damage when I clipped some mud at the side of the road and went hurtling down the tarmac.

Russell was far more organized than I was. Straight away he told me to call Dave Brock. He is the secretary of the Cave Diving Group. He lives in Dorchester and Russell was in no doubt that he would help me. I rang Dave somewhat incoherently and, being a cyclist himself, he didn't really need me to finish my sentence. “Get your X-ray, tell me where your bike is, I'll go and get your bike and then I'll come and get you”.

Several hours later, I was given a pain patch that fell off; some paracetamol and ibuprofen and was dismissed from the hospital with a broken rib, query punctured lung (they weren’t sure) and nobody checked my arm.

Dave was waiting for me and drove me and my bike back to my car which was parked in Weymouth. Of course, he was concerned about me driving home but I just wanted to get home before I stiffened up and was unable to. My breathing had improved but the biggest problem seemed to be my left arm.

Determined to continue training, I mostly ignored the pain and carried on working through it. I figured with time it would get better by itself and it did gradually improve. The only thing that seemed to aggravate it was swimming.

Several months later the pain on the outside of my humerus wasn't getting any better. I had it X-rayed and it was clear, so then I went for an MRI. This showed quite a significant tear of the supraspinatus tendon, part of the rotator cuff. I mulled over my options, but despite a very slow and gradual improvement, my full range of movement still evaded me. I became extremely picky about the activities I undertook and was very cautious about sticking my neck out too far. Cycling and running seemed to be fine but swimming was painful and I didn't trust my arm enough to do any significant caving trips. In fact, I only managed one very small trip surrounded by friends who could help.

I had to accept the fact that at some point I would need to have this tendon surgically repaired - something I dreaded and was actually terrified of.

As I write this in September 2025, my left arm is in a sling five days post surgery, which went really well. It will be a long road to recovery but with the hope that I will get full movement back in my arm, or at least, the best part of it.

While waiting for surgery, along with all the pitfalls that come with arranging dates around my work, I made the best of my summer despite the limited movement in my arm. Many people would have had me sit on the sofa doing nothing all year, but as you would have gathered by now, that is just not me. I'm not here to sit there and do nothing. People who would have me do that are not my friends. What friends wish me to be miserable?

So, I dug deep and made the best of it.

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Cycling, Sea Kayaking, Triathlon, Ironman, Scuba Diving, Photography, Cave Exploration, Cave Diving, Offshore Life Christine Grosart Cycling, Sea Kayaking, Triathlon, Ironman, Scuba Diving, Photography, Cave Exploration, Cave Diving, Offshore Life Christine Grosart

2024 Mash Up

2024 left me gobsmacked. So many things I’ve always wanted to do, a bucket list of joy and so devastatingly interrupted by the passing of my Uncle Phil. I needed sport more than ever to keep me going.

Sitting around doing nothing is not a good way to recover from loss.

Not for me, anyway.


I trained in #lanzarote and #mallorca , climbed #sacalobra (again) completed my first #ironman 70.3 in Venice (when sick!) raced #annecy #triathlon olympic distance, went paragliding over #lakeannecy climbed #alpedhuez for real, learned to fly a drone @djiglobal sea kayaked the length of #menorca camping on sandy beaches with just the best people @muchbetteradventures raced Weymouth 10k, circumnavigated #portland by kayak with @channeleventsuk and saw a dolphin, learned to roll my kayak (work in progress) Dived with #lundy seals and bought some shares in racehorses!! I don’t think I’ve been caving or cave diving once, but there is more to life and I’ll get back to it when the mood takes me.
People keep trying to get me to slow down. Why would you do that? I like my life how it is. Why would I want to slow down? Life is too short, so make the best of it now. It’s not a dress rehearsal....

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Sea Kayaking, Cycling Christine Grosart Sea Kayaking, Cycling Christine Grosart

The beach

Paddling the south coast of Menorca. Image: Karetta Expeditions.

I love sea kayaking.

I really only got into paddle sport properly when I was persuaded to race the Devizes Westminster marathon in 2009. I trained solid for 2 years in a racing K2, burning up the canals and waterways of Dorset and Wiltshire. We were finishing mid division in the warmup races and doing really well. Then disaster struck. 4 weeks before the race I suffered a herniated disc in my back, which rendered me unable to walk, or even sit in a car. It was almost career ending. I sold all my kayaks (I had 5 in my garden at one point!) and vowed never to set foot in one ever again.

Racing K2 in 2008

Time passes and after almost a decade, my back started to heal. I was still nervous of it but missed being in a kayak.

I didn’t think I could ever cope with a tippy racing boat again, but during covid I needed a new passion to get into the outdoors. I watched a video on social media of a friend of mine and his wife, paddling in Scotland with crystal waters and surrounded by peace and serenity.

The beauty of sea kayaking is that it is not competitive, so you can take it at your own pace and as much or as little as you choose. I figured if my back wasn’t feeling it, I just wouldn’t need to go. I bought 2 second hand, barely used Dagger Stratos kayaks for little over £1000 and have had nothing but fun and adventures with them ever since.

I’ve paddled in Dorset, Cornwall and the Outer Hebrides – but never anywhere particularly warm

Circumnavigating Mull, Scotland, in my Dagger Stratos.

I kept seeing adverts popping up on social media for ‘Much Better Adventures’. I generally ignored them. I was quite capable of organising and running my own kayaking adventures and was loathe to use a guide.

The thing is, I very often end up going alone. I bought two sea kayaks so I could take my friends out, but they lacked the time to progress their skills and experience, so I couldn’t take them very far.

My mates just don’t have the spare time, cash or freedom to just drop everything, up sticks when the weather comes good and set off to any corner of the UK for an adventure.

With no ties and 6 months of the year off, I could do this. But inevitably it means it is a solo venture.

I missed company of like-minded people. So, I signed up for a 4-day camping and kayaking trip in Menorca. It promised a leisurely few days on the water, camping on sandy beaches, sunsets and excellent guides who make your food and take care of the housekeeping.

It sounded a bit easy compared to the sort of thing I’m used to, but I decided that, given the tough few years I’d had, I’d give myself a break and let someone else take the weight off for a change.

Going on holiday with strangers is not really my cup of tea, but I figured a good guide would keep everyone in check and if anyone annoyed me, I’d just go and get in the sea and swim or paddle away from them.

I need not have had any of these worries at all.

From the outset we created a WhatsApp group and on the first night, having checked into our own hotels, a gang of us met up in Mahon, Menorca, for supper and some wine. We mooched around the bustling market as dusk fell and the vibe was good.

It was a mix of people, some from as far away as America, some with kayaking experience and some with none. It didn’t matter, we’d be well looked after.

In the morning the minibus picked us up and took us to the depot, where we would be given dry bags and set about packing. Travel light and go minimal was the order of the day.

I was seizing the opportunity to try out stuff I hadn’t had the opportunity to until now, such as dry shampoo and seeing of my solar panelled power bank actually worked…

Packing seemed to take ages, and it was well past lunchtime when we finally made our way to the kayaks that were waiting for us at the eastern, southerly end of the island.

There we met our guides Lucas and Jan, who walked everyone through a lengthy explanation of how to paddle a sea kayak. We had decent boats and paddles and loads of storage space, mainly owing to the ginormous double kayak which acted as the ‘hospital’ boat. It also contained lots of food, water and camping equipment and weighed a tonne. It turned out to be a godsend for one lady who was terribly seasick. Once in the more stable boat and plied with a cocktail of drugs, she overcame it and enjoyed the rest of the trip, much to our relief.

We finally got out on the water and very soon we were forced to settle into Menorca time. Nothing was hurried and dinner time wasn’t until around 9:30pm.

We paddled gently for around an hour in glassy, calm conditions before stopping for a late lunch at a busy, sandy beach. We had ample opportunity to lay about, swim, and eat lunch. It was a lesson in slowing down and enjoying the vibe, but it took several of us a day or two to adjust to this new pace of life.

The plan each night was to put our tarpaulins up as dusk fell. The beaches were therefore cleared of people, and we would have them to ourselves.

We arrived at our first overnight stop of the trip, a secluded sandy cove, and set up our tarpaulin wigwams and groundsheets. Thermarests were provided but most of us brought our own sleeping bags.

Sand. It just gets everywhere. There is nothing more irritating than gritty sand in the bottom of your sleeping bag. The humidity overnight added to the issue, to ensure that the sand stuck to everything, and our bags never really dried out throughout the whole trip.

This aside, we were treated to some super starry nights from under our canvas, complete with shooting stars and arguments about whether or not it was Orion.

“That’s Orion, there…”

“No that’s Ursula major. Or is it minor…?”

“That’s the Scorpion isn’t it?”

“No, it’s the saucepan, look there’s the handle”

“I’ll get my app”

“What’s that noise?”

“It’s my app….it plays music when you use it…I can’t turn it off”

“Look, I told you that was Orion…”

“Oh look a shooting star!”

“Make a wish…”

It was like being on a school camp again. And we loved it! We woke early to a cool sunrise. It took some adjustment to realise we were not against any tides or the clock. We could have a leisurely wake up, without being hurried. I did some yoga on the beach at sunrise, which frankly is something you only ever see on Instagram and never do for real!

We were starting to live the dream.

Each day, we made our way along the south coast of Menorca, stopping for long, leisurely lunches with sea swimming, sunny snoozes and bobbing about, chatting in the water. We went snorkelling, I had a chance to practise my self-rescue skills and on the odd occasion we snuck off to a beach bar in the evening, feeling guilty, but not for long, for making the expedition less of an expedition by joining civilisation.

We worked out that we were all on a well-deserved break and opted to make it easy, rather than harder than it needed to be.

I managed to sneak some early morning drone shots of the camp one day and these really did the trip justice. We were treated to warm, clear waters, rocky cliffs, sea caves and pine forests as we made our way along the entire length of Menorca.

The sea state picked up over the last few days, but the gang coped with it really well and nobody took a dunking. We were starting to get the hang of things and eating simply, enjoying the local produce that Lucas fed us from the never-ending Tardis of the giant double kayak.

All too soon it was over. We pulled into a rocky beach with swanky beach bar and emptied the boats, piling kit into Ikea bags ready to be taken back to the depot.

We were all a bit sun burnt, desperate to shower in fresh water and we all took turns to stand under the beach hose pipe to get the salt off our skin.

We all sat and drank cold beers, half pleased to be back to some normality but half sulking that it was over.

We all decided to meet up that evening for one final supper at a pizza place. I grabbed my hire car ready for the rest of my trip, as I was staying on for a few more days on the island. Then we had supper and said our final goodbyes.

I cannot recommend Much Better Adventures and Karetta Expeditions highly enough. On my final day I booked a sea kayak rolling lesson with Lucas and progressed a lot. Karetta were friendly, professional and highly skilled. I’d been a caving instructor myself for 10 years, so was able to see the way things were run from a slightly different angle. I could not fault the guys and wouldn’t hesitate to use them again.

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Scuba Diving, Photography Christine Grosart Scuba Diving, Photography Christine Grosart

Lundy

Arrival on Lundy Island

I live only a few hours’ drive from the North Devon coast. It is shameful therefore that in my 20 or so years of diving, I had never visited the island of Lundy.

But perhaps not that shameful.

Lundy is a small island, only 3 miles long, that sits 10 nautical miles off the North Devon coast. Day trippers sail on the regular ferry MS Oldenburg from Ilfracombe to visit the protected and preserved island, which is home to puffins and seals, one campsite, a pub and 3 lighthouses.

Lundy is protected under a Marine Conservation Zone designation as well as a Marine protected area and the reefs surrounding the island are a strict ‘no take’ zone. This has allowed the underwater flora and fauna to flourish.

Dive boat for the weekend

Situated where the Atlantic meets the Bristol Channel, big seas meet a large tidal range and consequently, boat rides to Lundy can be ‘bracing’.

It is for this reason every trip I have ever attempted has been ‘blown out’. There just wasn’t a safe weather window for the dive boat to transit.

So, after a Facebook message from a diving friend, making an attempt at a trip in August – seal pup season – I thought I’d have another shot. As the date approached, the weather forecast deteriorated and I envisaged yet another failure at trying to get to Lundy Island.

It turned out that the Friday was a no-go. But Saturday and Sunday looked promising, if a little wild.

Whilst we would be too late for the puffins, it was optimal time for last year’s seal pups to come out to play.

On board with Kirsty Andrews, top drawer underwater photographer.

I drove down to Ilfracombe the evening before to stay with a friend, Caroline Bramwell, who has competed in Ironman distance races with a stoma. She also featured in Louise Minchin’s ‘Fearless’ and it was great to catch up with her and spend an evening overlooking the harbour, putting the world to rights.

The next morning the heavens opened. Sideways rain greeted us as we tried to get our cars as close to the boat as possible to unload diving cylinders, camping kit and tonnes of camera equipment.

Boat loaded and cars parked up for the weekend, among throngs of anorak clad tourists, we set off towards an island that we couldn’t even see.

Bone dry diving with my trusty Santi Elite drysuit

As soon as we left the harbour, we knew it would be a rough ride. The catamaran took off out of the water as we battled waves all the way out to the island and it only really settled after 90 minutes of not being able to stand up.

Divers hunkered down with looks of concentration on their faces as they tried not to throw up.

As we arrived, whilst still windy, the island looked wild, with blue skies and turquoise waters. We passed all the camping gear up onto the jetty and it was loaded into a landrover to be taken up the steep hill to the campsite, where we would be staying later.

Now it was time to dive.

Smiling for the camera. Image: Christine Grosart. Camera: Canon EOS 100D, Ikelite housing and strobes.

As the boat swung round and chugged into a sheltered bay, there they were. Waiting. You could almost see them tapping their watches; “Where have you been?”

The Lundy seals were in full chorus and at the sight of the dive boat, they flopped their way ungracefully off the sloping rocks and into the water to bob about, and wait.

We kitted up, cameras checked, buddy checks done and in our own leisurely time owing to no tides, we jumped off the boat and into the turquoise, clear, cool water.

Image: Christine Grosart. Camera: Canon EOS 100D, Ikelite housing and strobes.

 

“Don’t go looking for them….they will find you” was the instruction, along with general seal encounter etiquette.

“And if the come up and cuddle you….don’t cuddle them back!” Apparently, they can be covered in all sorts of bugs and nasties.

Seals are endangered and their behaviour suggests they know it. It wasn’t long before we caught glimpses of large, white and grey bodies flashing past as they sussed us out.

They are behind you - always behind you - as this is where they feel most on control. If you turn around to make eye contact, they vanish, quick as a flash.

Knowing this, I decided to experiment with my relatively new toy, an underwater housing for my Insta 360 camera.

My buddy Matt and I went through our pre dive checks and jumped into the inviting dark blue-green water.

My buddy, Matt

Dark round heads popped up and howling could be heard from the beach. You could almost see the seals tapping their watches and telling each other “The divers are here!”

We swam slowly towards the rocks, staying pretty shallow and fiddling with our cameras, getting the settings right, making sure the strobes were firing. I unravelled my selfie sick for the insta 360 and filmed a little bit of us swimming just to check it was all working. There was no sign of any seals just yet.

When I got back home and checked the footage, swinging the camera view around to look behind me, there were three seals quietly following us the whole time!

Image: Christine Grosart. Camera: Canon EOS 100D, Ikelite housing and strobes.

It wasn’t long before they started to get more inquisitive and flashes of large white and dark grey bodies shot past us. We milled about, not really sure what to do or where to go as we were now pretty much up against the rocks where the waves broke the shore below the tall cliffs towering above.

Then, it began.

Whilst I was looking the other way, a turned my head back and came face to face with a large, whiskery head. He was sniffing out my camera housing, able to see a reflection of his head in the port.

As soon as he’d been there, he was gone.

This game of cat and mouse continued for the next hour. I tend not to move much in the eater and can hang motionless without moving my fins at all. The seals seemed to love this as they could swim up behind me, grab my fins and hug them with theirs whilst having a good chew of the rubber, my ankles and my drysuit pocket!

Image: Christine Grosart. Camera: Canon EOS 100D, Ikelite housing and strobes.

While this was going on, my buddies would get the opportunity to get some great photos while the seal was falling in love with my fins.

The downside for me was that this was all going on behind me and I wasn’t getting much in the way of photos! I used my insta 360 on the stick to film the shenanigans going on but eventually I put it away and chanced my arm at some stills.

These depend entirely on the seals. It is a matter of patience, being in the right place at the right time, the seals mood and the settings on your camera being ready for the photo that presents itself.

Image: Christine Grosart. Camera: Canon EOS 100D, Ikelite housing and strobes.

 Seals love admiring themselves in the dome port of your camera. In reality, they probably think it is another seal that looks just like them!

This presents great photo opportunities but also puts the fragile and easily scratched dome ports at risk – teeth and claws come out as they try to investigate. I didn’t want to spend my next few months polishing scratches out of acrylic, so I flicked them away when they got too ‘chewy’.

After a wonderful morning of playing with seals, we had a leisurely lunch and went on a dive around a reef pinnacle. I had the wrong lens for macro shots so mooched about a bit, trying to remember the names of the various squidge I was looking at from my Seasearch lessons.

We pulled into the pier and had some fun hauling cylinders up onto land. I think next time I’ll take my perfectly good caving rope and hauling system!

We opted to walk up to the campsite and we were treated to a stunning view as well as a puffy PFO test!

It was really quite windy and as beer time approached, there was some fun to be had putting up tents and blowing up air beds. I don’t know how I do it, but I always seem to end up on trips with people equally as bonkers as me!

 

The pub on Lundy fortuitously feeds the locals and those who work on the island, so despite being the only one and therefore a captive audience, the food was very good, the booze reasonably priced and the staff and service was excellent.

We made the best of it, interspersed with a very windy walk to watch the sunset from one of the lighthouses, before returning to the pub.

The next morning we all managed to grab a coffee and breakfast roll from the pub which was most welcome, before eating it on the walk back down to the boat.

Luckily the tide was in, which made loading the cylinders a bit less necky.

Off we went for seal round 2.

They were there again, waiting for us to sort out gear out. They seemed a little keener this time, already in the water with lots of howling going on.

Their heads bobbed patiently while we tested our cameras, did our pre dive checks and stepped into the water.

As we approached the rocks, the familiar tugs on our fins began.

I assumed the position and got mauled while Matt and Daryl this time, who wanted to hang out with us, got their cameras in position.

 

It wasn’t long before the seals started to get the upper hand. They had worked out that if they got really close, the divers didn’t know what to do and fell over backwards, rendering them completely helpless like a turtle on its back.

The mauling began.

Mugged by seals. Images: Matt Emmerson

One rolled me over and I lost balance, my double 12s twinset pulling me onto my back. Now, fins up and fully exposed, the seal took the opportunity to just get a mouthful of whatever he could. Camera, drysuit pockets, bit of hood, glove…

My buddies were insanely helpful, getting right in with their cameras to film this loss of fabulousness, whilst I completely failed to right myself for laughing and flooding my mask.

Daryl thought this was hysterical, until the seal turned its attention to him and, whilst on his back trying to get the classic Snell’s window seal silhouette, he instead got a good humping and was left abandoned in the weed!

The seals were definitely more boisterous and were having serious fun at our expense.

Image: Christine Grosart. Camera: Canon EOS 100D, Ikelite housing and strobes.

 Being only a few metres deep and with tonnes of gas, we had all the time in the world – and it seemed to stand still.

It is an amazing privilege to be approached by wildlife who just want to play and interact with you. The seals are not fed by humans, they simply seek out play with their curiosity.

 In the afternoon, we set off on another reef dive but in my hurry to swap lenses, I didn’t quite put the dome port on the housing properly and flooded my camera and lens.

This was pretty devastating and despite my insurance covering some of it, this worked out to be an expensive mistake.

 Fortunately, a brilliant outfit called Nemo Photo who now deal in Ikelite and underwater camera gear in the UK, have been very helpful and I have a new camera set up coming very soon, treating myself to an upgrade.

I can’t wait to get it into the water! 

The Lundy Gang

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Cycling, France Christine Grosart Cycling, France Christine Grosart

The Alpe

Orro bike part way up Alpe D’Huez, France.

The Alpe

I sat at the dinner table, staring at my small plate of white fish, a little rice and some lettuce. I was too tired to start eating it, pushing around my plate instead.

“That’s a proper fucking climb!” My mate and colleague said, slightly outraged and surprised at what I’d just done.

“I know…” I said, picking at the fish.

“How long did it take you?” he asked.

“Fucking ages!” I replied.

As luck would have it, I was down in Annecy competing in an Olympic distance triathlon and had some time to kill afterwards. Alpe D’huez was only a few hours drive away.

I booked a campsite at Bourg D’Oisans which was conveniently right at the start of the famous climb.

Lake Annecy from the air. Shot on Insta 360 camera.

But, not before I took to the air and went paragliding in Annecy – something I had always wanted to do ever since I started visiting France as an adult in my early twenties.

Wherever you go in the French mountains, you see colourful canopies, dots in the sky, circling the thermals and gently, like leaves falling from a tree, spiralling slowly down to earth to land in some field somewhere.

In my youth I simply couldn’t afford it. Other times, I just ran out of time or couldn’t motivate the people I was with to come with me.

Free of all ties, I booked myself onto a tandem flight. Just 20 minutes, in case I didn’t like it!

View from the best seat in the house. Lake Annecy. Flights by Takamaka.

I rocked up at the flight school and a few of us piled into a minibus, packed out with parachutes and harnesses and our pilots.

We drove up the Col de Forclaz, which is one of the highest points above Lake Annecy. It looked like a half decent cycling climb until the hair pins ramped up to a ridiculous gradient and I thought better if it. We climbed higher and higher.

As we walked to the take-off ramp, the views were spectacular, and the height made you feel a bit dizzy.

My pilot was Mitch and he spoke better English than I did French. He was good looking, smoot and impressed that I worked offshore. We chatted easily and he fitted me out on my harness and helmet. We didn’t faff at all. There was no time to even think, really. I felt a tug of the parachute behind me and we took a few awkward steps back.

Then very quickly, those words again: “Allez allez, go, go, go….”

We ran a few strides then whooomph! We were up in the air very quickly. I wasn’t really ‘in’ my seat, so he quickly showed me how to lift myself into the seat properly and get comfy. He’d kindly allowed me to bring my Insta 360 camera and I started filming the incredible views as we flew up and down the tree line chatting and laughing.

Eventually we crossed the lake and after he’d let me have a go at steering, he was keen to show off his aerobatic skills.

I’m up for pretty much anything and away we went. After three big swoops where my stomach almost fell out, I had to stop. I was the kid who clung to the top of a death slide, hating that ‘dropping’ feeling. I hate roller coasters and theme parks and it’s the reason I won’t do a bungee jump or jump from a plane.

It might have been easier if I’d known what to expect or was controlling the chute myself, but either way, I decided to park the aerobatics for another day.

We had a gentle landing. “Just stand up” he said. I did, and that was it.

Encroyable!

I had also recently bought a mini drone and had lots of fun learning to fly it. I was looking forward to getting some classic shots of the Alpes.

It was a wonderful way to round off my week in Annecy and to be honest, I didn’t really want to pack up and leave, but I had plans and set off to Bourg D’Oisans.

The mountains got bigger and I could see snow on top of some of them. Then I saw some road signs ‘Alpe D’Huez’. I couldn’t believe I was really here.

Chateau Duingt, Lake Annecy. Shot with DJI Mini 4k Drone.

The campsite wasn’t as posh as the one in Annecy, but it had everything you needed and a pool, which I wasted no time jumping into. As I relaxed on the sunlounger, I could see, rising above me, the first few bends of the Alpe D’Huez before the road disappeared out of sight into the mountains. The first few bends are the steepest, averaging about 10% and it looked intimidating from my seat by the pool.

I knew I could climb it, but I also knew that real climbs are also much, much harder in real life than on the Watt bike indoor trainer.

Still recovering from the Annecy Triathlon, I decided to give myself another rest day and go for the climb on the Friday.

View from my van

Instead, I took a gentle womble around a flat route by the river to find places to fly my drone and, as ever, it turned into a complete epic!

It started out fine, passing stunning glacial lakes with unreal turquoise colours and little picnic areas. It was beautiful but I didn’t feel confident flying my drone around people, so I moved on a bit.

A little further along I found an empty parking place which was quiet. I launched the drone and captured some amazing shots of glacial lakes, rivers and mountains.

I rode on along the river and the track became covered in several places with deep sand. I wobbled to a halt and ended up ‘hike a bike’ on and off for quite a few kilometers.

Bourg D’Oisans valley. Shot by DJI Mini 4k Drone

Bourg D’Oisans valley. Shot by DJI Mini 4k Drone

Then, to my horror, I really was stopped in my tracks as the road just ended! It had been swept away by the river which crashed past in front of me.

Nope!

This meant going a little off piste and following a track mostly covered in deep sand and then a grassy path with rocks in it.

Orro Venturi does not like grass, nor lumpy tracks and I completely agree.

I ended up carrying Orro most of the way back to tarmac, boulder hopping yet another dry riverbed, sans road that had collapsed.

Back on terra firma and bumped into some Americans who had been up Alpe D’Huez that morning and were looking for an easy route to do in the afternoon.

I diverted them away from my hike-a-bike trail and they were super grateful.

I chose a Friday to go up the Alpe. Weather looked sunny but not baking hot, so blue skies were promised and I guessed there would be far fewer cyclists midweek.

After breakfast and lots of nervous faffing, I set off on the very short lead-in to the start of the climb, which was pretty much round the corner from the campsite. Not much of a warmup then.

As I started plodding up the first few bends, the steepest of the route, it became apparent that a Friday was a bad idea.

Lorry after lorry came trundling past, belching out black stinking smoke and it was relentless. There seemed to be some sort of quarry works going on up in Huez and heavy plant and vehicles passed at regular intervals.

They were respectful and clearly used to cyclists and I never felt in any danger. It just spoiled the experience somewhat.

A few other cyclists plodded by in their own time not going crazily faster than me. One set off just behind me but never passed until I stopped briefly for a breather on bend 19.

I kept plodding and the heat of the day set in. Fuelled by jelly babies, Nutella biscuits and water with dioralyte, I enjoyed the views as the hairpin bends offered views of the snow-capped Alpes. It was quite humbling to see that some of the lower bends were adorned with very high mesh fencing. These were clearly designed to catch cyclists who descend too quickly and risk plummeting off the edge of the mountain, literally.

Each of the 21 famous bends on the climb has a plaque naming previous winners of the Tour De France stage involving the Alpe.

The Alpe D’Huez climb ends at 1860 metres altitude, climbing from Bourg D’Oisans cyclists ascend 1143 metres elevation, over 14.5km distance.

The average gradient is 7.9% and the maximum, 14%.

The first landmark was the pretty church, Saint-Ferréol, on a sweeping left-hand bend 7 with a stunning mountain backdrop. There are also some facilities opposite, with fresh water to refill bidons, toilettes and recycling bins.

Climbing ever higher, you pass through a small village which gives some respite as the gradient backs off for a short while. It then picks up again as you head into the upper bends, with a little more shade and luckily, during lunchtime the road was quieter as the lorry drivers took their siesta.

Saint-Ferréol church, bend 7. Image: DJI Mini 4K drone (Christine Grosart)

I passed beneath the ski lift station, as if I needed any reminding how high I was. Just 3km to go then….

This is where the cowbells start and the marmots begin chirping. I’m not fast enough to outride the flies that seem to go for slow moving cyclists, as a refreshing change to the cattle that graze the higher slopes.

There were a few stings in the tail on the last part of the climb and I finally finished conveniantly close to a bar that was something of an anticlimax after such a classic ride.

I had a pint of lager and messaged my friend who had got me into cycling 3 years ago. I spotted some guys standing on what looked to be a podium that had been set up for anyone to have their photos taken.

Some nice ladies from New Zealand obliged and we had a laugh as I enjoyed the moment. What I was really looking forward to was the descent. Mostly facing the right way on the way down to enjoy the mountain views and with a dry road, I went as fast as I dared without needing the cyclist-catcher nets.

On top of the world

I chilled out the next day in the pool and the bar, with a quick drive up to the Alpe to shoot some video with my drone and do some jersey shopping. I rounded the day with a fabulous steak frites and rosé wine in Bourg D’Oisans, watching the world go by.

I didn’t really have any plans after that, but didn’t want to waste a day. Despite an upset tummy, I decided to cycle in the evening up Col D’Ornan. Not steep but quite long, I ignored the thunderstorm warnings and set off. Thunderstorms were usually short lived. Except this one.

A few hundred metres from the Col I couldn’t take any more. It had been steadily raining and now it was a steady, torrential downpour. Thunder clapped, water cascaded down the road and I still had quite a long descent home. It had set in for the evening. I decided that as I was alone and out on a limb, with hypothermia a reality, I’d head home. I was trashed and didn’t feel an sense of achievement at all. Lesson learned. But probably not…

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Cycling, France, Triathlon Christine Grosart Cycling, France, Triathlon Christine Grosart

Allez Allez

If I ever hear those words again, I think I’ll scream!

Orro on Lovers Bridge, Annecy.

June in France is meant to be warm, glorious weather with balmy evenings in the bar.

Sure, up in the mountains you can get the odd rumble of thunder and dramatic flash of lightening with some refreshing downpours, but it’s normally all ok by the morning.

The early heat of the sun lifts the dampness into low hanging clouds until they disperse and reveal another blue sky and sun-drenched day in this beautiful country.

But oh no, not today. Not on the day of the Olympic distance triathlon I had been training for since last August!

My first visit to Lake Annecy was after a caving expedition to the Dent De Crolles cave system in the Chartreuse. I fell in love with the warm, turquoise, clear lake surrounded by snow-capped mountains and the chilled, cosmopolitan vibe.

I returned again in 2022 to start dipping my toe into the world of triathlon and it was the most stunning place to train. With an (almost) pan flat cycling and running circuit of the lake, mountains surrounding the lake to get the climbing legs going and the fresh, clear water to get used to open water swimming – it was perfect.

I cycled up my first Col, the Col de Leschaux and was hooked.

I wondered if there was a triathlon in the area and sure enough, an Olympic distance triathlon was held each June.

This comprised a 1500m swim, finishing just beyond the classic ‘Lovers Bridge’, followed by a 40km bike which included Col de Leschaux (11.8km long/ 3.7% average / 8% max) and then a pan flat 10km run.

I set off in my van which is really a car, to Dover and it felt unusually empty with just athletics gear, a driveaway tent and my bike. I planned to stop in the champagne region of Epernay where the Municipale campsite is friendly and a safe place to stop over for a night. I arrived in good time, enough time to go for a run along the river and canal that threads its way through the Marne.

I don’t know how, but I got completely lost and ended up doing a very hot and scenic 7km. Turns out you cannot cross locks on canals like you can in the UK as they were well barriered off with large gabions.

After my ordeal, I spent the evening in the golden hour drinking a pint by the river.

The next day I loaded the van with food, wine, and pretty much all the amazing things you find in French supermarkets and drove a further 5 or so hours to Annecy. I settled in, did a quick spin on the bike and a swim in the lake and I was ready for the triathlon.

I drove into Annecy to register the day before and despite a parking nightmare, this proved a good move as the heavens opened while I was there and getting soaked and risking the bike wouldn’t have been a clever move.

The children’s race was on the Saturday, and I felt sorry for the little mites as they swam, cycled and ran their hearts out only to be met with horrible weather. They finished their races, shivering and teeth chattering, not really knowing what they had just accomplished – some were very small! Their parents yelled encouragement from the sidelines like their lives depended on it.

I smiled and felt happy for them. My mother wouldn’t even turn up for school sports day, never mind take me to anything like this.

As it turned out, the bike distance in the grown-ups’ race was more like 47km and to complicate matters, the two transition areas for bike and run were in 2 different locations! It was logistically a bit fiddly.

Mountains obscured by clouds and rain. Could have been any field in England…

I had originally booked a large apartment overlooking the lake, very close to town, thinking that camping would be too hard if I was too broken following the race. But given that it was half the distance of the Ironman 70.3, and I was infinitely fitter, plus parking threatened to be a nightmare and expensive, I opted for a very nice campsite instead down in Sevrier, close to where I had stayed before. It was right on the cycle way and short waddle to the lake for swimming.

More importantly, the campsite barrier would open for me in the morning. You have to be careful with French campsites, as often they forbid vehicle movement before 7am and locked electric gates to enforce this.

That’s a big problem if you need to be up and away before 6am for race day.

Thankfully camping L’Aloua were accommodating, and the facilities were superb.

The morning of race day was grey and drizzly. This progressed to a proper downpour. As I pumped up my bike tyres the visibility reduced so much that the mountains surrounding the lake were completely obscured by low cloud and torrential rain.

The French didn’t give a monkeys.

It wasn’t particularly cold, but rain capes and brollies came out and competitors squelched barefooted through the mud into transition.

I started to set up transition in a state of disappointment. All that time, all that training and it had come to this. My forté is descending but now I’d had to go super slowly on the wet, greasy roads to avoid crashing.

The lake had never looked so uninviting.

I racked my bike, wrapped my cycling gear in a towel hoping it would stay mostly dry and put my running gear into a bag which would be taken by the race volunteers to Transition 2 about a kilometre away for the run later.

I sat on the back bumper of my van, trying to shelter under the boot lid as I put on my wetsuit. People dressed in plastic bags wandered past and nothing was dry anymore.

We all walked slowly to the water’s edge after what seemed an eternity, waiting for the briefing. The rain had started to subside, crowds began gathering on the promenade and muddied lawns that grace the beachfront of Annecy. We gingerly stepped into the water to flush our suits, get our faces wet and fiddle with our swimming goggles. A few of us dove into the shallow, crystal-clear water and all of a sudden, the weather didn’t matter. The mountains began to appear again, and steam rose off every bit of tarmac that was wet. There was no sun, but the downpour was giving us a reprieve.

The starter arrived on a large pedalo with his loud haler. This was a mass start, but they did separate the men from the women.

“Les hommes, à droite…. Les femmes, à gauche!!!”

This didn’t help at all, as all it meant was, thousands of athletes of various speeds and abilities were destined to converge at the first, right-handed buoy before setting off across the lake into the funnel under ‘Lovers Bridge’.

This was my first mass start for the swim. I figured if I started near the front, I would be among the faster and therefore better, swimmers.

Oh, how wrong can you be!!

“Trois, deux, un…….Alleeeeeezzzzz”

Everyone threw themselves into the water and a mud churning, washing machine which resembled charge of the light brigade, ensued.

It was little more than aquatic self-defence!

First off, starting to swim was a mistake. We were being kicked in the face by people running through the silt, as the water was still really only waist deep.

I felt that I was wasting energy fighting a losing battle trying to swim beautifully amongst this chaos of all the running, staggering, falling and flapping. I stood up, defogged my goggles and got jogging until the water got deeper and people started to actually swim.

The damage was done.

I’m a reasonable swimmer, with no fear of water but my heart rate had spiked in the maelstrom, and I struggled to get it back under control.

I had also committed the cardinal sin of triathlon – I had done something new on race day. I’d switched sports bras and gone for my training bra which I use for running, to keep my assets under control!

However, I’d never swum in this sports bra, and it immediately felt tight, and I felt short of breath and tight chested. I’d never felt like that in the water before and I had to work hard to ignore everyone around me – quite difficult when you are being kicked and punched from all sides – and slow down.

I moved to the outside of the pack to get some clearer water, but it didn’t work. Some bloke, who had clearly never considered sighting, was zig zagging wildly across the pack of swimmers. He crossed diagonally in front of me no less than 3 times, both ways, and even worse, he was still going about the same speed so there was no escaping him.

I couldn’t go any faster and to slow down and lose him would spoil my own race.

The next time he crossed me he stopped me dead, and I had to bob upright to avoid another mowing down. I instinctively gave him a good hard kick to push him back in a straight line. He was completely oblivious and continued zig zagging and flapping his way wildly to the entrance of the canal, where I finally lost him.

As we entered the canal the water became shallower. I swam as much as I could, worried about cutting myself on any glass or other nasties that might be at the bottom in the thick, gloopy mud. The water turned an opaque grey, and I tried hard not to swallow any of it. We were soon at the carpeted steps and whisked onto the muddy grass by the volunteers to go and find our bikes. I pulled my wetsuit off, tucked my hat, ear plugs and goggles into a sleeve and tried to dry my feet. For distances longer than sprint I prefer to wear socks for the bike and the run. Getting wet socks on in a hurry is always stressful so I decided not to hurry. Once on, I put my cycling shoes on, then gloves, then helmet, then number belt and finally my shades – not that I needed them today!

I trotted in the slippery mud with my bike to the mount line. We set off on a fairly flat run through Annecy, lined with cheering crowds as well as holiday makers who were oblivious to a race happening, and stepped out in front of cyclists at fairly regular intervals.

Orro on Lovers Bridge, Annecy on a gentle lap of the lake after the triathlon.

It wasn’t a closed road event and whilst I got some speed up on my tri bars setting off towards Sevrier, the start of the climbing, several white vans belching black smoke decided they were going to hopscotch the riders and then brake. I decided to keep my momentum and passed both them, and the other riders in the middle of the road where I had both visibility and a clear path. It worked out to be the safest thing to do.

Leaving the carnage behind, I picked off a few more riders and felt good.

I had to make hay while the sun shone (or not) because I knew these riders would all, one by one, pass me again as we started the ascent of Col De Leschaux. And sure enough, they did.

I was heavier than most of them and putting out significantly more power than they had to in order to achieve the same thing.

There is a reason why the pro peloton looks almost emaciated. It doesn’t matter how fit or strong you are – if you are heavy, you will suck on climbs.

Despite a personal record time climbing the Col, I was left with only a few stragglers behind me. All I could do now was descend like a demon and whilst I probably wouldn’t make up the time I’d lost, I definitely couldn’t afford to dawdle. There were cut off times at various parts of the race although I’m not sure how much they were enforced. I seemed to be clear of them.

The rain had stopped, and the roads were not awash as badly as I had expected. I didn’t hang about. I took it steady on the bends but otherwise, went full gas downhill on the aero bars and punched through the irritating further climbs that spattered the remainder of the route.

We rolled back into a strange industrial estate and found a different transition area set up in a school yard. I racked my bike and swapped my cycling shoes for running shoes. I left my helmet and replaced it with my running visor and shades. As I set off at an extremely uncomfortable trot for the 10km run, I was horrified to find that the first kilometre was straight up a sharp hill, alongside traffic belching out fumes and spraying us with puddles. It was horrid and not the idyllic and flat run I’d expected along the shores of Lake Annecy. This was shortly followed by an extremely steep, cobbled descent and some very fiddly turns through the pavements of Annecy, including an underpass stinking of urine.

I didn’t feel like I was going well, despite all my training and I walked a little to try and sort my legs out and get my heart rate down. I had worked very hard on the bike and used a lot of energy which I needed for the run. I had been trying to buy myself time for the run and now I needed every minute of it. It turned out that the bike was several kilometres longer than advertised and much longer than an ‘Olympic Distance triathlon should be.

The run finally found it’s route out along the promenade, and I suddenly realised it was going to be 3 laps. This didn’t match the course that was in the athlete’s guide, which was out and back.

I hate multi-lap runs. Psychologically it is wretched, as you pass the finish line twice, or three times in this case, but cannot go down that finishing chute until the end. You also pass the same spectators who witness your struggle several times over.

At 4km I bonked. And not in a good way!

Like a car running out of petrol, I had run out of fuel, and it was instant. With all the breathless climbing and super-fast descending, I hadn’t taken on anywhere near as many calories as I needed. My little aerodynamic food pouch on the bike still had plenty of items in it that I should have eaten. I had nothing with me on the run.

I stopped at the aid station and grabbed a banana and a piece of cake. I don’t like either, but I was in trouble. I drank some water and set off again, the fire stoked, and was able to keep jogging.

By the time I got to 7km the same thing happened again and I stopped at the same aid station, again. This was definitely not how to do it.

I limped home the final 3km and felt nothing but exhaustion and disappointment at the end.

The atmosphere had been fantastic, with my French being good enough to understand what people were shouting and I was able to converse back. I enjoyed the idea of the event but didn’t particularly enjoy the event itself.

I’m still learning about long course triathlon, nutrition and of course, having to train on a ship 6 months of the year, unable to swim, has its challenges too.

But it’s easy to look at the negatives, especially if you are a fierce self critic like me. There were so many positives about this event, as it was the one I had wanted for so long.

In 2020 I learned to ride a bike and only 2 years ago couldn’t use clip in peddles. I hadn’t swum in open water in a wetsuit and couldn’t bilateral breathe until 18 months ago. My running always halted at 5km with back spasms and calf injuries, all of which had now subsided, thanks to learning new running techniques from my friends. I hadn’t used tri bars on a bike until January this year. I had achieved a lot and built the base for a lot of success in the future. I was strong for sure, but as ever, let down by my weight on the bike and run which I had struggled with ever since I was a child, wanting to be a jockey.

With everything I needed to be competitive in place, I just needed to shift those dead kilograms – easier said than done, but it will happen. Never again do I want to see people flying past me up the Col de Leschaux.

It goes without saying that I would never had got there without the daily support and hard work of my coach, fellow cave diver and 10 x Ironman, Russell Carter. I have an awful lot to thank him for. And importantly, our 100% finish record remains intact.

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Sea Kayaking, Ocean Christine Grosart Sea Kayaking, Ocean Christine Grosart

A perfect day

Last year I took part in my first open water swim triathlon - in Minehead, of all places.

The day before, Channel Events, a nonprofit outfit headed up by an enthusiastic team who just love sport and the outdoors and encouraging newcomers to get involved, laid on a practise day.

I was introduced to the brown, rather chilly Bristol Channel and with kind guidance and advice I was coaxed into the water and was swimming front crawl in my brand-new wetsuit, as if I’d been doing it all my life.

Dan Brice, who runs Channel Events, found out I was a sea kayaker and gave me the heads up on an event he runs every year.

‘Springboard into Summer’ is a chilled event, organised for reasonably experienced paddlers with guides to keep the show together. There were BBQs, guest speakers, camping and sea kayaking along the Dorset Coast. As soon as registration opened, I signed up, delighted that it did not clash with my work rota.

The date came around and I loaded my sea kayak onto the roof, packed the car full of camping kit and set off down to Burnbake campsite in Poole.

I was super excited and motivated by the promise of a circumnavigation of the Isle of Portland. I knew it was possible in a sea kayak, but having dived there for over 20 years, I was acutely aware of strong currents, short slack times and rough seas that Portland Bill was notorious for.

I decided to get back into the swing of sea kayaking on the Saturday by signing up for the Old Harry Rocks to Swanage trip. We were treated to calm, warm, balmy weather and the sea state was like glass. I had never seen Old Harry Rocks in such calm waters and as we lined our boats up on the sandy beach just along from the chain ferry to Poole, I knew we were in for a good day.

I was delighted to find I was paddling with Nienka. She was a triathlete and part of a small group of volunteers who gave me my confidence in my first wetsuited open water sea swim in Minehead the day before the triathlon there.

The sea was so calm we could play around in little rock hopping tunnels, go through arches and sea caves and enjoy a close up view that you definitely don’t get when you’re diving the area. We paddled across the bay to Swanage and stopped for an ice cream and lunch with a super friendly group of like-minded people, who loved the ocean, paddling and being outdoors.

We weaved our way back through the chalk stacks and archways, enjoying idyllic conditions. Once back at the beach, Nienka and I needed no persuading to get into our cozzies and go for a swim off the beach.

The water was chilly but it was wonderful to be swimming in clear, calm water in the UK and a rare treat for me. I spend half my year at sea but I’m not allowed to swim in it.

The evening was spent sitting around a campfire, enjoying a BBQ and some beers and a guest speaker talking about his long distance adventures.

The next morning I had signed up to the lap of Portland, as had pretty much everybody else!

We set off on the hour drive to Chesil beach and dragged our boats up onto the pebbles. A few of us had some fun seal launching onto the water and we set off on a slightly overcast morning towards the Bill.

It was a real privilege to get so close to the coastline, when normally I’m far out on a dive boat zooming past. The nooks and crannies, caverns, archways, crystal clear water with a green hue, were so pretty and inviting and I relished every moment of it.

The sun all the while was trying to appear and once round the bill, where a seal joined us at Pulpit Rock, it came out and gave us a glorious afternoon of warm sunshine and sparkly water.

We pulled into Church Ope Cove for lunch and basked in the sunshine. I couldn’t resist another swim in the glassy, clear sea. This really was the perfect day.

We continued the journey in glorious sunshine back through Portland harbour and were treated to the local dolphin putting on a display.

Time stood still and all our plans of getting away home at this time and that time were just forgotten. Days like this are becoming rarer and rarer and we all wanted to absorb every minute of it.

Sea kayaking is the most wonderful sport and allows people of all levels, ages and abilities to access beautiful parts of our coastline where larger craft cannot. It is a silent sport which causes no pollution to the environment and paddlers tend to be very environmentally aware.

Whether you are joining friends for the day, going on a solo adventure or a multi day camping trip, or even a daring long distance expedition, it really is the most wonderful way to see our winderful coast. As we passed Portland Bill a dive boat I knew passed us and not for one moment did I wish I was on it. My love of the ocean goes way beyond just diving in it and the purchase of my two Dagger Stratos boats are some of the best impulse buys I ever made!

I cannot thank Dan and his Channel Events volunteers enough for laying on such a great event. I’ve made new paddling friends and hope to be able to head out on the sea with them again in the near future.

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Triathlon, Cycling, Ironman Christine Grosart Triathlon, Cycling, Ironman Christine Grosart

Ironwoman Part 3

I felt fit, but my lungs had other ideas.

The lady marshall held her arms out to create a barrier for my group of 6. Every time an athlete ran into the water her shoulders got hit as they barged past her. She just smiled and propped herself back up for the next 6.

I mouthed ‘Thank you’ – these volunteers do an amazing job and have a very long day. She smiled and gave me a fist bump before the count down.

3…2…1…

She lowered her arms and I trotted off down the sandy beach into the sea. As soon as it got to hip height, I started to swim.

The water thankfully wasn’t cold enough to take your breath away and I settled in steadily towards the first buoy.

Well, I was off.

I tried to find a reliable strong swimmer to draft but honestly, it was carnage. Most people in my pen couldn’t actually swim very well. One guy was doing backstroke which apparently is legal – but because he couldn’t see where he was going, he zigzagged all over the place, going just fast enough that I couldn’t get past him.

Another woman kept stopping every couple of minutes to ‘meerkat’ and doggy paddle then set off again, carving everyone else behind her up. As the swimmers got more strung out, I found some feet to follow but they didn’t stay straight, and it was more of a hindrance than a help.

I decided to stay wide at the final few buoys as the ones who couldn’t swim decided to use the buoys as a safety float and there was some significant congestion to go around.

Despite this, I found some free water and concentrated on having a clean exit.

The guys at Channel Events who had got me started in sea swimming, advised that as soon as your fingers touch the sand, it’s time to stand up.

I waited for that first touch of the sand then got up to waddle out of the sea. 44 minutes. Considering I was trying not to get out of breath and start coughing, I was happy with that. I was well inside the swim cut off too.

Swim exit. One job done.

Deciding that playing it safe was the order of the day, I walked to transition as did many others. I took off my goggles, swim hat, ear plugs and unzipped my wetsuit as I went.

So far so good.

I went straight to my blue bag and kicked off my wetsuit. Grabbing a towel I tried to dab my feet dry and pulled on my cycling socks, pre-loaded with talcum powder to make them easier to get on.

Cycling gear on, I stuffed my swimming gear back into the blue bag and shovelled down half a sandwich and stuffed some goodies in my jersey pocket. I trotted off to find my bike.

“Lane C, just past the parking sign on the right”. I found Orro and popped my bike computer on before wheeling her to the mount line. I was delighted to see others taking their time and not running. I’d learned my lesson about getting out of breath in T1 at the start of the bike. I wouldn’t let that happen again.

I hopped onto Orro and set off, starting the eating and drinking early. My plan was a 3-hour bike. This would leave me lots of time in the bank for the run, which I already knew would be a disaster.

I tried to reach 30kmph without getting out of breath and trying to keep my heart rate down. I rested on my tri bars and tried to settle down. The first 3rd went well and was quite quick. I soon found that any time I tried to put any power down my lungs protested.

As the bike went on, I just felt weaker and weaker as whatever I had started to really get hold of me.

Despite this, I didn’t stop until my planned wee stop at the final aid station which had porta loos likely to be less busy than transition.

I pulled in and the marshalls held my bike while I sorted myself out. My legs felt like jelly and I still had 20km of cycling and a half marathon to go!

I had timed my fluids so that I had just one small water bottle remaining. This was to save some weight in the last 20km. When I came out of the porta loo, a young volunteer with a big grin informed me he’d filled all my water bottles.

Bless him.

I thanked him, got back on the bike and when I was out of sight, poured 3 of them away. He meant well.

The last 20km was on rough tarmac and into a headwind. Drafting isn’t allowed on the bike part of a triathlon and getting too close to another competitor can lead to a disqualification. So, we sat and suffered, taking the full brunt of the wind. I started to flag but kept the peddles turning and concentrated on saving my legs as much as I could for the run.

I got off Orro at the dismount line and thanks to my recent loo stop, my legs weren’t too bad. My 3-hour bike was 3 hours 38. It was a 90km personal best for me, but I was fuming. On any other day I’d have smashed 3 hours.

I racked Orro in disgust and set off to my red bag. Helmet off, jersey off, cycling shoes off. I changed into running socks which was a good plan as I didn’t have a single blister afterwards. Trainers on, sun visor on, shades back on. I always leave my cycling gloves on to make wiping my nose easier!

Cycling gear got stuffed back into the blue bag and I put on my camelback which had some nutrition and was part filled with water.

This turned out to be a godsend. The sun was out and it was getting quite hot. The aid stations only offered small cups of water and cola. The ability to swig off my camelback whenever I wanted was a huge comfort.

My plan of running 07:30 minutes, walk 03:30 minutes went out of the window pretty early on. My lungs and throat were audibly wheezing and if I even began to get out of breath, the coughing started.

This was damage limitation now. My 7 hours was gone. I just had to finish and even that was looking necky at one stage.

I jogged when I could and walked when I couldn’t.

The run was three laps and psychologically this was awful. As time went on, more and more people finished and just assumed I was on my final lap. One guy shouted “Come on, only 2km to go”. Bless him. He was completely unaware that I actually had another 9km to go!!

The assumption must have been that I was just fat and slow. Nobody knew I was sick as well!

It was the worst feeling in the world.

As I passed the car park for the final time with 7km remaining ahead of me, I did consider just walking to the car and driving home in disgust.

It took all the strength I had to keep going in just an attempt to finish. I jogged when I could and walked when I couldn’t – and repeat.

I kept an eye on the clock and made sure I was always in a position to finish within the cut off time of 8 hours 30 minutes. Beyond that, I would be listed as ‘DNF’ or ‘Did Not Finish’.

Over my dead body was I going to do all that, only to be listed as not finishing!

I jogged when I could, walked when I couldn’t….

 

I was really starting to feel quite ill.

Pain is only temporary.

You only have to do this once.

I started to worry about getting back to the car and the hotel. I didn’t think I’d be able to collect my bike. Would they sell it if I didn’t go and get it? Could I afford another Orro if I just left it there? It would save packing it for the flight home…

If only my ‘friend’ who said she’d come and support me had actually turned up. If only my family cared. If only my Uncle was still here…

Thoughts whirred around in my head and I tried to block out the comments from people as I passed them. They had no clue.

The finish was in sight. I was going to make it, albeit my aim to have a 7 in front of my finish time had gone. But only just.

As I turned into the red carpet, I managed a jog. The finish line marshalls were amazing and I ran through a Mexican wave of arms and lots of cheering.

The tears came immediately, and they kindly waited for me to gather myself before presenting me with my medal.

People I didn’t even know came up to say well done and all the way back, during my VERY slow walk back to transition to collect Orro, people high fived and clapped.

Now I was barely able to speak. My voice was hoarse and my cough worsened.

I loaded the car which was trashed and drove the 10 minutes back to the hotel.

On arrival they had already reserved me a table and I feasted on all my favourite things hurriedly, before I could no longer taste them.

Scallops, steak and champagne later, I was ready to turn in.

The next morning was like the black death in my room. I wouldn’t let the cleaner in in case she caught whatever I had, so she just posted boxes of tissues through the door and said to call if I needed anything.

Hotel Atlantico, Jesolo are just the best.

I desperately wanted to look round Venice so after some rest and when my cough had cleared up, I headed to the water taxi stop.

Venice was even more incredible than I imagined, and I couldn’t have picked a better venue for my first Ironman.

Almost 3 weeks on, I’m back into training but my lungs are still struggling and I feel weak. With Annecy Olympic distance triathlon (half a half Ironman) looming, I’m desperate to maintain and even increase my fitness, but it will be one day at a time.

 

I cannot thank those people – they know who they are – for taking time out of their personal lives to support me, coach me teach me, advise me and inspire me.

 

I apologise now to anyone I have forgotten.

In alphabetical order…

 

Adam Raines Sports Massage

Andy Sparrow

Caroline Bramwell

Caroline Lance Sports Massage

Cath Pendleton

Dan Brice & the Channel Events volunteers

Ed Collins

Hotel Atlantico

Jason PDQ cycling

Jayme Fraioli Harper

Joan Woodward

Kelli Coxhead

Lisa Page

Louise Minchin

Mark Julier

Maxine Bateman

Mendip Cycling Club

Michele Reed

Mint Cycle Works, Priddy

Nienke Hensbroek

Paul Duckworth

Redd Rises

Russel Carter

Sheena Warman

Steph Dwyer

West Country Triathletes

 

Click here for a flavour of the day.

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Triathlon, Ironman, Cycling Christine Grosart Triathlon, Ironman, Cycling Christine Grosart

Ironwoman Part 2

Training at work is unique. Running on a treadmill on a moving boat is an art form. Seven Kestrel is 125 metres long and 24 metres wide. There are not many places you can go. You can’t pop back to land when you fancy and the amount of mileage you can clock up in a day, mostly spent at the computer, is very limited.

The boat is always moving, even in the calmest of weather. The diving bells are up and down, the 120 tonne crane is always busily leaning over the side, lifting and lowering things and the ship’s heading changes regularly.

In rough weather, despite being quite stable, the vessel lifts, rolls and heaves and sometimes the bang of a wave against your porthole makes you jump out of your skin.

Seven Kestrel working at a windfarm. Image: Subsea 7

Russel and I use Training Peaks combined with Strava to track my progress. We converse mainly over WhatsApp which is the offshore communication channel of choice. Our schedule has to work around weather, port calls when the medic (me) is super busy, and crew change days which move multiple times over one week.

The great thing about having a coach is they do all the number crunching for you. It wasn’t long before Russel got the measure of what I could and could not do and he was soon dialled in to giving me training sessions that were spot on. Hard enough to get me fit and faster and stronger, but not so hard that I couldn’t finish them.

Jesolo 70:3 came around and I’d planned the whole thing meticulously to perfection. The hotel was superb and had a nice spa to relax in. I rented a car so I could get about easily and run up and down to the Ironman village for registration and shopping.

Oh my word – shopping!

There were so many lovely things in the Ironman village I had to restrain myself from buying all of it!

Registration was painless and I took the time to write a little note for my uncle Phil who I’d lost only a few weeks before. He was basically the Dad I never had.

I was going to miss his funeral. But I’m certain he wouldn’t have wanted me to throw away all that hard work on his account. I knew he’d be watching and behind me all the way.

I popped my wetsuit on and walked down the pristine sandy beach to the water’s edge. It wasn’t as cold as expected and the waves had gone away as the weather started to settle. I didn’t really feel like I had much energy, so I just did a slow 400m swim and got out.

Russel said I was likely to feel sluggish during tapering week, so I put it down to that. Then I went and changed by the car and jumped on my bike.

My Orro venturi went beautifully with her new tyres and tune up at the Ironman village. The Italian traffic though was a little scary, so I bailed early and ran for safety back to the car.

The evening was spent packing the Ironman specific bags for transition.

Transition is considered the fourth discipline of triathlon. It is where the athlete switches from one discipline to the next, dumping swimming gear for the bike and then the bike for running gear. There are two transitions; T1 is from swim to bike and T2 is from bike to run.

For the professionals, races can be won or lost in transition. In regular triathlons, your bike, trainers, helmet, shades, cycling shoes, towel, race belt which holds your race number, all reside in a neat pile under your bike which is ‘racked’ on your numbered station, usually hanging on a scaffold railing among hundreds of other bikes.

At Ironman events, things are done slightly differently, otherwise the transition area would look like a burglary at a jumble sale.

Athletes are given coloured and numbered bags: Blue for Bike, Red for Run. They hold all your equipment you need for the next phase of the race.

Transition opens the day before the race and athletes started to congregate at the entrance to the two huge transition areas.

Blue bags are hung on pegs with your corresponding race number and the same for the blue bag rack. They started to fill up, with 2800 athletes taking part. I racked Orro on number 721.

I planned to walk the triathlon routes the next morning as it would look very different once all the bikes had been racked. It is imperative that athletes remember how to find their bikes or you could be in transition a lot longer than planned!

My next job was to go and find some food. I don’t have a sweet tooth and anything sugary or sticky will go untouched, so planning my nutrition for something useful to me that I would actually eat, always proves difficult. A mouthful of sandwich and focaccia seemed the way to go, along with some dried papaya, mini pizza crisp breads and tasteless carb powder for one of my water bottles.

I cut everything up into bite size pieces and put them in ziplock bags ready to stuff into my cycling jersey and transition bags on race morning.

As I walked round transition, I felt lethargic and had developed a dry cough. It seemed to come out of nowhere and initially I just put it down to the hotter climate. As the day went on, my voice changed and the coughing became more regular. I started to feel wheezy in my upper chest. I prayed it was an allergy of some sort but deep down I knew I was getting sick.

I forced a pizza down the night before the race but didn’t really want it and couldn’t really taste it. I drank full fat coke in an attempt to stifle my cough, but it didn’t work. I headed to bed early, struggling to get to sleep as I kept on coughing.

I woke the day of the race before my 5am alarm. The hotel Atlantico Jesolo amazingly had laid on breakfast super early for the athletes and the volunteers staying there.

I was still coughing. I just didn’t know what to do. I had to get on that start line in the hope that this was all a fuss about nothing. Better to start and not finish than to not start and find out it was just an allergy.

I stashed my food in transition, checked my bike tyres and changed into my wetsuit. Any bubbly excitement was killed by the incessant cough and generally feeling rubbish.

The party atmosphere was electric, and I desperately wanted to enjoy it, but I stood in the heat of the swim pen knowing full well I was getting sicker by the minute.

I figured I could only really die on the swim, so planned to get that part over and done with and the rest would be just academic.

For various reasons, the traditional spectacle of a mass start had been curbed to staggered starts. Swimmers were initially divided into ‘pens’ according to their swim speeds and then let go 6 at a time, 10 seconds apart.

Marshalls held the swimmers back and we were standing around in the heat for a long time as 2800 athletes started the swim, 6 at a time.

I should have started in a faster pen, but knowing I was sick I decided to play it safe and go in the slowest group.

That was a mistake.

As I got closer to the start line, we filtered into lanes on the sand. I felt quite emotional at this point. I was on the start line of an Ironman 70.3. This was real.

In a few seconds I would start swimming and would not let up racing for another 7 or so hours.

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Triathlon, Ironman, Cycling Christine Grosart Triathlon, Ironman, Cycling Christine Grosart

Ironwoman - Part 1

“Everybody put your hands in the aaiiiiiirrrrrrr!!”

The tannoy boomed across Jesolo Lido beach, Venice, Italy as 2800 athletes dressed in wetsuits and wearing yellow swim caps, raised their arms in unison.

Stomp stomp clap - stomp stomp clap…it went on.

I wanted to join the party, I so badly wanted to join.

Instead, I stared into the abyss, knowing I was doomed to failure. I had started coughing the day before the Ironman 70:3 triathlon race – a dry, hacking cough and I’d started to feel ‘achy’ and just not right.

I’m in that lot somewhere….

My voice had gone hoarse, and I was getting breathless doing nothing, with my heart rate refusing to budge from 106. It was normally 56 at rest, owing to the 8 months of intensive training I’d done for this very moment.

Now, I was staring out to sea, looking for the distance between jet skis in case I needed to hail one for help. This was not how it was meant to be and the situation I had dreaded.

Ironman is probably the best-known brand of triathlon. Triathlon is a multisport competition, beginning with a swim, followed up by a bike course then finishing up with a run. In between each discipline is the process of ‘transition’ where the athletes must switch between sports, and this is all done against the clock as well and is included in the total time. Practising putting your socks on, with wet feet quickly, is a thing!

Triathlons have varying distances. From super sprints which are very short with only a few hundred metres of swimming, 20 or so km or cycling and a 3-5km run at the end. Then there is the extreme end such as the holy grail of the ‘full’ Ironman, which is:

Swim: 2.4 miles (3.9 km)

Bike: 112 miles (180.2 km)

Run: 26.2 miles (42.2 km) or, a full marathon.

In total, a full Ironman Triathlon covers 140.6 miles (226.3 km).

Given I work on a ship at sea 6 months of the year, a full Ironman wasn’t realistically achievable. Despite being surrounded by the ocean, it is not permitted to swim. It’s probably not the best idea to hop off a North Sea dive vessel into 160m of water with 6 thrusters going, saturation divers and ROVs in the water and currents running…besides, it would be considered a suicide attempt, and definitely career-ending.

Despite this, you can’t explain this to folk at home who just say, “Can’t you just swim off the boat?”

No, I cannot. And that is why.

My office, Dive Support Vessel - Seven Kestrel, working at a previous office, the Claymore platform, North Sea. Taken from another previous office, Boka Atlantis.

So, swim training is limited for me. I only get so much time I can reasonably spend in the gym and the gym on board is also limited. Some days, you cannot go in due to bad weather and some days other people will be using the equipment you need, and your time window has passed.

When I get home, I have to run my house and do adulting things, plus try to make time to see friends that I miss when I’m away so much. It can be a lonely existence just training all the time without having any social time with people I know. Most of them are at work midweek when I’m off on shore leave.

So, it is not as idyllic as it sounds.

I figured a half Ironman, or an Ironman 70:3 was achievable and still quite a challenge.

I was aiming at an Olympic (standard) distance triathlon (Swim 1500m, Ride 35.5km, Run 10km) in my favourite spot Lake Annecy, France, but was worried about getting registered and getting a slot. I got itchy feet and wanted an interim challenge.

It was as if Facebook read my mind. A Venice-Jesolo Ironman 70:3 advert popped up. A pan flat course for both the bike and run seemed idyllic. Without blinking, I signed up.

Then I told my coach.

Russel Carter is a legend in cave diving circles. Understated, but hard core, his mantra is well known within the Cave Diving Group of Great Britain: “If you weren’t hard enough, you shouldn’t have come!”

A significant support diver in the expeditions in the 1990s in the Doux de Coly, France, Russel moved on to Ironman triathlon and didn’t do that by half either, finishing no less than 10 full distance Ironman races. Some of these were on particularly tough courses, such as Lanzarote and Mallorca.

Russel Carter racing Ironman Barcelona. He’s in there somewhere!

He had been following my progress as I dabbled in sprint triathlon over the last few years and was always on hand to offer advice or check in on how I was doing. It was no surprise then that when I asked, as a level 3 triathlon coach, if he’d like to coach me to Annecy. Of course, he agreed on the proviso that I kept his 100% finisher record intact.

A half Ironman wasn’t on the table. Now we were going to have to get down to work.

An Ironman 70:3 is basically half the full Ironman distance. I guess it suited me, being little miss average. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Good enough, but never the best.

Given I’d limped round sprint distance triathlons finishing in the bottom 20 with no real clue about how to train for multi-sport, this would be a proper challenge.

I’d held an amateur jockey’s license in my 20s, riding in 3-mile steeplechases and raced kayak marathon, finishing mid-divison – and I won the high jump on school sports day and 2nd in the 400 metres! I was on the school netball team – always goal attack, never goal shooter even though I scored the most goals…and I was in the hockey team and went to ‘away’ school competitions. So, I wasn’t a complete slacker at sport. I considered this an achievement, given I was not blessed with athletic genes, or the sort of parents who come to watch me compete. Neither of them turned up to my first horse race.

My second race on board Clashbridane.

But athletics was another game altogether.

I mean, why be crap at one sport when you can be crap at three?

I grew up knowing how to ride a racehorse but couldn’t ride a bike. Everything I did was in the shadow of an absent father and an uninterested, unsupportive mother who said no to anything that cost money or involved any effort on her part, such as getting out of bed early or driving anywhere.

Triathlon is not a cheap sport. I could only embark on it once I had learned to ride a bike in 2020. Plus, I had to get myself a decent job to be able to be able afford it.

I spent the deep winter and early spring taking myself away on solo training camps in between my work rotation, first to Lanzarote then to Mallorca. The sea was calm and warm enough to swim in and the cycling is world class. The running through the volcanic landscape in Lanzarote was preferable to the streets of Alcudia in Mallorca, but I kept on increasing the mileage under the daily watchful eye of Russel.

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Cycling, Cave Diving, France Christine Grosart Cycling, Cave Diving, France Christine Grosart

The French Connection

Christine on her way out of Cregols. Image: Jo Croimins

The Lot region of France, adjoining the possibly better known department Dordogne, is a mecca for cave divers.

I first visited in 2006 as a trainee cave diver and in my sidemounted 12 litre cylinders, had a blast visiting all the ‘classic’ sites such as the Emergence de Ressel, St Georges, Cabouy, Fontaine de Truffe, Source Landenouse as well as the lesser visited sites such as Emergence de Cregols.

The following year I supported Rick Stanton and John Volanthen in dragging all their gear to sump 5 in the Truffe while they pushed the end at sump 12. Subsequent trips were in a similar vein, a mixture of tourist diving, training and exploration. And of course, enjoying the wine, food and scenery the region had to offer, in addition to excellent canoeing on the rivers Celé, Lot and Dordogne.

Going on holiday to the Lot with the Cave Diving Group always leads to adventures and we always took our ropes ladders and dry caving gear to have a ‘day off’ from diving to visit the other caving systems in the region.

Despite visiting the region regularly on and off for almost 20 years, it had never once occurred to me to ride a bike there.

Now, with my newfound passion of cycling and triathlon, I was very excited about visiting such a stunning region and being able to combine my two sports on the same trip.

I was super keen to kick off with a loop of the two rivers that run through the region, the Lot and the Dordogne. Peppered with classic cave diving sites I loosely named the route ‘cave divers loop’ and the 100km mostly flat ride, took in some stunning scenery.

The first thing I noticed was that, by being on a bike, I was obviously going much slower than a car and could notice the classic French buildings nestled in the rock faces, the wildlife and the beautiful summer river ambience that you just don’t notice when you are driving to the dive site, your mind on the job ahead.

I started in Marcilhac-sur-Celé which boasts probably the most famous cave diving site in Southern France, Emergence de Ressel. That would come at the end though, as I set of in the opposite direction to do the route anti-clockwise. I passed through beautiful gorges, passed old water mills and stunning villages. I stopped halfway in Cajarc, hoping that being a Sunday lunchtime something would be open for some proper food. There were a couple of restaurants that claimed to be fully booked and I finally managed to get some nice pastries and a cold cola from the patisserie. I was never really sure if the restaurants were booked or if they just didn’t like English cyclists. I had noted a rather less than friendly tone in France since the Brexit debacle. I’m still not sure what that whole thing was meant to achieve. All it has done is made it harder to take French wine back home.

Not far from Cregols I was somewhat surprised to see the Canyon-Sram ladies pro team bus parked up. I got a bit bedevilled on directions at the roundabout and was very relieved to set off without having any clip-in fails in front of the pro peloton!

La Piscalerie. A nice (but out of bounds) dive worth doing just once.

I set off again in the glorious sunshine and it was getting rather hot as I tackled the only climb in the route. I started to flag a bit over the last 10km and was glad to see the familiar roadside cliffs which indicated the Ressel on my left. It was the first time I had seen the new car park which had been built to accommodate the ever-growing cave diving community.

Back in 2006 you would be lucky to see another car perched on the side of the road near the cave. And if you did, there was a good chance you knew the diver or had heard of them. You would undoubtably end up in a bar with them later.

Now, the car park had been built to get cave divers off the road as the line-up of multiple cars and vans was getting more and more dangerous and unfair to locals. I stopped to take a look. It was absolutely rammed.

I arrived back in Marcilhac-sur-Celé disappointed that the ice cream shop was closed, being a Sunday afternoon.

Feeling the effects of a 100km ride in the heat, I went for a lay down by the river and ate a banana. It was tranquil, apart from the toad chorus that echoed around the Celé and the sound of water rushing down the wier.

La belle France.

I took a day off and fettled my diving gear, thinking about where I’d like to go.

Diving solo isn’t very sociable but I’ve never really had an issue with it. I had got used to diving with others as it was kind of drummed into me over the last 12 years. But I was always capable of diving alone, having been brought up in UK caves where diving as a team wasn’t always possible. I found it much safer than diving with a poorly trained buddy. Poorly trained being the key words. A well trained buddy is a huge asset.

I needed some gas so drove to Gramat to get some fills from Olivair. Olivier set up the gas station just along the road from where we always used to get gas from Frenchman, Andre Grimal. I missed the spontaneous parties and BBQs we would get tangled up in waiting for gas, and the excitement of meeting and befriending other occasional cave divers you might come across at the same time. Andre would test out his homebrew Eau-de-vie on us and it was quite deadly.

I arrived but the gates were locked. He was unlikely to be gone long, so I waited. Then another car pulled up. A Belgian cave diver called Jo was also waiting for gas and we got chatting. He was here with his girlfriend but she didn’t dive, so he was also facing diving alone. It didn’t take long before we were planning dives together and I was grateful of the company.

Over the next week we had some very cool adventures, though mainly in places I had been before. I added some interest by trying to take photos and showing Jo around places he had never been, such as the Cregols. I was amazed to see other divers in there. In years gone by it was the place where you were guaranteed to be alone.

We did some touristing and photo dives in Ressel and Truffe and a disastrous fail at trying to find Combe Negre. But I was itching to get back onto my bike and try my hand at an ascent of Rocamadour. It was steep at the bottom but such an iconic climb which still had the Tour de France scrawlings all over it and inside the tunnel. I was utterly delighted to manage a clean ascent with no stopping, in the warm evening sunshine.

It had always been my plan to visit friends who lived in the south of France and I chose the middle weekend to make a foray, some four hours south, to the Herault region. My first stop of course was to Jean Tarrit in Larzac. Jean has been a friend for many years and he offered me his annexe in his chic and rustic stone house up on top of the Larzac plateau. Of course, I was invited to visit one of his local caves with his friend Philippe who I had done some surveying with several years ago. It was another surveying trip and it was nice to back on rope again. At least, it was until we met the 3rd pitch which was slathered in thick, gloopy mud which took several episodes of pressure washing to remove.

All I could hear from the 3rd pitch was lots of squelching and protests in English that it was ‘absolutely ‘orrible!!”

I decided of course, once caving was done, to go for a bike ride. I had the whole of the Herault gorge at my disposal, including the hairpin climb with stunning views that always offered the gateway to the region. The day began in glorious sunshine as I parked up at St Maurice de Navacelles. I told Jean not to worry about me and I would be fine. So he didn’t. As I climbed the really quite steep ascent above the Herault gorge the clouds started to gather and as I entered the commune de Rogues, I could hear big rolls of thunder in the hills. I got a move on but before long, I was faced with a steep, never ending descent on wet roads covered in slippery leaves and branches.

Do. Not. Crash.

The wind picked up and the heavens opened, accompanied by the intimidating claps of thunder and terrifying lightening, with a deafening crash only a nano second later which went right through me. Despite being quite warm, hypothermia was still a possibility if I stopped, now that I was totally drenched. My gilet was as much use as a chocolate fire guard. I sheltered under a tree which only threatened to fall on me, so I made haste to the next village, hiding under a shop canopy. The place was deserted. Sheets of rain and lightening carried on relentlessly and water poured in rivers down my face, my front, my back and I the visibility was reduced to a number of metres.

I made it to Gournies. I knew there was a cafe there as the rain started to ease off and steam rose from the roads and the river Herault.

I pulled up and asked if they were serving food. Perhaps a sandwich?

Non.

Coffee?

The grumpy guy nodded and in some kind of sympathy, offered me a paper napkin to dry my face. He then delivered the smallest expresso coffee I have ever seen in my life. Cheers dude.

I made it back up the climb to Saint Maurice, which was a lot easier than I imagined and drove back to jean’s place, insisting on taking him out for pizza which turned into yet another epic.

I had to get fuel for my van first, but by the time we found a parking spot and the pizza place, Jean pointed out that we might have to fill up my car again!

I almost crashed the thing laughing!

Next stop was Nimes, a couple of hours further south, to catch up with my old boss Craig Frederick. I hadn’t been to Nimes for about 20 years since my first caving trip to the Herault. It is a fabulous city and I’d really love to dive the Fontaine de Nimes resurgence one day, which currently is only accessible by the French Pompiers for training.

My final ride was a big circuit, taking in Rocamadour and out to Souillac. I was quite out on a limb but it was a cracking day and I think I found the best cycling cafe on the planet! On my way home, thanks to Komoot, I found a cracking flat ride, mostly traffic free, along the river Loire.

The beauty of travelling alone is being able to what you want, when you want and not being beholden to someone else’s plans or commitments. I ate nice food, had great bike rides, did some cave diving, made new friends and reconnected with old ones.

Life is good and I wouldn’t swap it for anything right now.

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Fearless, Inspiration, Triathlon, Outdoors, Cave Diving, Cave Exploration Christine Grosart Fearless, Inspiration, Triathlon, Outdoors, Cave Diving, Cave Exploration Christine Grosart

Fearless do Kendal

Louise Minchin, Caroline Bramwell, Christine Grosart, Cath Pendleton, Imogen Sykes

“Reveille Reveille Reveille!”

Cath Pendleton’s strong Welsh accent reverberated through the Fearless house.

Christ on a bike. Was it that time already?

We were all getting up to go swimming in Lake Windermere. In November. In the rain. As you do….

 The Fearless gang, some of us anyway, had headed up to the Kendal Mountain Festival for a weekend of cycling, swimming, running, kayaking, watching inspirational talks and films, catching up with friends and getting Louise Minchin tipsy, so she had to run a 10km off road race with a hangover!

The weather was its usual November offering in the Lake District – grey and drizzly. Not put off, a gang of us headed North with bikes, kayaks and our tow floats and moved into an Air BNB for a long weekend.

The Ice Queen ‘Merthyr Mermaid’ Cath Pendleton swims in Windermere

I was super keen to go for a bike ride with Caroline Bramwell, who wrote ‘Loo Rolls to Lycra’ – her ironman journey with a stoma. I was also keen to go swimming with Cath Pendleton, known as the Merthyr Mermaid. If you haven’t seen the documentary about her Antarctic swimming, it’s an absolute must. No wetsuits here. She did it in her cozzie.

I’m not into this ice swimming lark so I took my wetsuit, which I was still getting used to. This didn’t stop the snatched intake of breath when I put my face in the water. It was cold. Very cold.

I put Caroline, who had done her swim, into my sea kayak so she could shoot some video. With her hands tied up with cameras, she started to drift down Windermere as she handed me different sets of swimming goggles to try on. My open water ones leaked, so I was after another pair.

While Cath was off networking at the festival, Caroline and I set off for a cold and really rather hilly bike ride. Our plans to cross Windermere with our bikes and ride down the opposite side of the lake were thwarted when a big sign said the ferry was closed. Arse.

Ladies that do cycling

Caroline Bramwell and Christine Grosart

This meant a bit of a different route, taking in a main road with quite aggressive traffic but we managed and finished our 39-mile ride in the nick of time to get back for a shower, change, quick slap of makeup and a taxi into Kendal for Louise Minchin’s gig on stage.

Safely in the VIP lounge at the festival, we prepared to go on stage. I was feeling much less nervous as there is nothing like having done something before, to quash the fear. Something I reiterated when Louise asked her ‘panel’ how to manage fear. Fear isn’t necessarily a bad thing – it keeps you alert and aware as to what can go wrong. Fear can be healthy. But when fear turns to terror, that is the time to call it a day.

I’d spoken at Kendal in 2018 and knew the audience would be kind. I’d also spoken on Fearless in Chester at the book launch, so with these under my belt and with a great presenter, we were in safe hands.

Cath Pendleton, Christine Grosart, Caroline Bramwell, Louise Minchin

Our view from on stage

Flanked by Caroline Bramwell and Cath Pendleton, we were more like Fearsome than Fearless, and the session was fun and heart-warming. What I hadn’t banked on was a book signing afterwards. Fully expecting to leave that to Louise and sneak away to catch my caving friends over at the Petzl Underground Session, I got roped into also signing the books as the queue spilled out of the door. Cath and Caroline were well ahead of the game and had wonderful little straplines to write alongside their signature.

Armed with a sharpie, feeling a total fraud, I just signed my name. This was not at all what I was used to, and I could see Caroline was struggling with the same imposter syndrome.

Cath got around her nerves by talking to everyone at length and making the queue go even slower. It was exhausting and humbling.

Finally, book signing done, we headed to the local Pizza express for a well-earned meal and drink, catching up with the ladies from Her Spirit too.

The group thinned out a bit as we went on a bit of a mission to find a nice pub afterwards.

It was of no consequence to us that Louise had a 10km trail running race to do the next morning, as we continued to top up her wine glass.

Trying to hide Louise Minchin in a pub takes quite some doing and it wasn’t long before folk started staring and whispering and one slightly worse for wear held her captive in a one-way conversation for a while.

I can’t imagine being so famous that you are recognised wherever you go. Thank goodness for online shopping I’ll bet!

We spent the last day of the festival actually watching some films and talks we had planned to see. I particularly enjoyed finally meeting Jenny Graham and hearing about her round the world cycling endeavours. As the weekend drew to a close we all headed home in the grizzly weather exhausted, motivated and with plans afoot for more fearless adventures together.

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Fearless, Inspiration, Outdoors, Cave Exploration Christine Grosart Fearless, Inspiration, Outdoors, Cave Exploration Christine Grosart

Fearless

In the summer of 2022, I received a message out of the blue from Louise Minchin.

A quick Google to jog my memory, as I’m not a big viewer of morning telly, and I recognised her straight away.

Take a moment to watch this:

Louise Minchin's Goodbye

Louise had delivered the daily news from the BBC Breakfast red sofa for many years, getting up before the sparrows to provide that familiar, friendly face that everyone takes for granted while they get ready for work.

Louise was writing a book about amazing women doing amazing things. My immediate reaction was to cringe and pull a face. I don’t consider myself amazing nor what I do as amazing, especially among my peer group which comprises cavers and cave divers significantly better than me.

Louise and her team had been doing their homework and wanted me to take her caving, something she had never done before, and she was super excited about it.

Louise Minchin tries caving. Image: Christine Grosart

Trying to line up two very busy women’s schedules was a battle, but we got there. Louise did brilliantly in her first trip underground, not least because she had kept a lid on her very real fear of claustrophobia throughout.

Almost a year on, following several more adventures with some amazing women, Louise was ready to launch her book, ‘Fearless’.

I was invited to a book launch in Chester, which wasn’t really on my route home from my trip offshore on the diving vessel, Seven Kestrel. Even worse, the ship was due to crew change in Great Yarmouth. This was going to be a hire car job, going round the houses to get to Chester before heading south back home to Somerset.

My office. DSV Seven Kestrel.

Luckily our crew change was on time, and I started driving. I didn’t really have any nice clothes and no time to go shopping. I wasn’t too worried as it was only a book signing, probably in the front window of the local WH Smith or something.

As I got closer to Chester, the WhatsApp messages started to ping about.

“Is there anywhere to change?” I asked, fully expecting to change in the car park.

“Oh yes you can use my dressing room” Louise said. How posh I thought. They have a dressing room in WH Smith? Perhaps it was a Waterstones.

Who knew?

As I got within a few hours of arrival I re-routed my sat nav to the address Louise had given us all. The Playhouse, Chester.

Hm. That’s not a bookshop.

I parked the car and walked into quite a large building. It soon became apparent that Louise had booked the whole thing. It also became apparent that the throngs of people gathering at the bar had all come to see her – and us!

Louise Minchin - ready to launch her book.

We were going to be on stage to talk about our respective chapters in her book.

Oh crikey.

I ran up to her dressing room – which had lamps all around the mirror and everything – and had a quick shower and tried to look presentable. Not easy when you have been at sea for a month and up since 6am.

Note to self – don’t complain to a BBC Breakfast presenter about early mornings!!

I managed to find some of the other women in her book.

Caroline Bramwell sent her description over WhatsApp, and I found her and a few others at the restaurant table.

Caroline had taken up Ironman distance triathlons in later life, having been a self-described couch potato. But that wasn’t the end of the story. Caroline had suffered for many years with ulcerative colitis. After years of suffering, she ended up with a stoma bag.

This is something that many people would feel was life limiting, even life ending – there were people in my family and family friends who had stomas, some with devastating outcomes.

They certainly hadn’t taken up triathlon soon after.

Caroline was a true inspiration and kindly sent me a copy of her book ‘Loo Rolls to Lycra”. Between her and Louise Minchin, I was hooked on the idea of triathlon. Now that I had learned to ride a bike, there was no excuse anymore.

Also sitting at the table were women who had yet to reach my radar. Shamefully (but not my fault) ‘Fearless’ had been sent to my house – but I had not seen my house for a month!

I had not had the chance to read it. I had absolutely no clue who these women were or what part they had played in Louise’s mission to celebrate women doing incredible things.

The whole thing had come about because someone had pointed out to Louise that, whenever BBC Breakfast came on, her male co-host would always introduce the programme, followed up by the female co-presenter Louise, playing second fiddle. When Louise challenged the BBC about this, they said it was because ‘that’s the way it has always been’.

Not really good enough.

Furthermore, Louise was getting tired of hosting men who had done world record this or adventurous that.

Where were all the women?

Weren’t they doing these amazing things or were we just not hearing about them?

The calm before the storm. Signing as many books as she physically can.

Louise went on a mission to find out who these women were, doing the business and to celebrate their achievements; from swimming the channel to the most southerly ice mile; swimming Alcatraz to free diving under ice – in the dark – to cycling across Argentina and of course, caving with me!

It took a while to sink in that there were quite a lot of women out there doing hard core things, amazing things, fearlessly all over the country and the globe in fact – but Louise had whittled them all down to just 18 women. And I was one of them. In fact, until I sat here writing this, that had not really registered at all with me.

Louise Minchin, Caroline Bramwell, Lucy Gossage, Rhian Mannings

I Googled the book and read the reviews from Waterstones book shop.

It had been read by Sir Chris Hoy and Dame Kelly Holmes! They had read about my cave diving adventures. That was just bizarre. I do rather like Dame Kelly Holmes…

Wow - I loved this book. What a wonderful celebration of women's courage, resilience and endeavour. ― Dame Kelly Holmes.

I made my way up to Louise’s dressing room, where she was surrounded by her close entourage and half buried in a landslide of copies of her book, as she tried to sign as many as she could.

After a time, we all started to make our way to our seats in the rather large theatre.

It was packed.

Louise found it hilariously funny that I still thought the whole affair was going to be in a high street book shop!

Whilst the Fearless ladies got deep into conversation, an older gentleman, dressed in tweed and with pink trousers, very well spoken, approached us and asked what our roles were in the book.

“Who’s he?” we mouthed.

“I dunno. Just play along…”

We entertained him for a bit, still wondering who he was and why he was asking so many questions.

A while later Louise appeared out of nowhere and swooshed in to give him a kiss and said “Oh you’ve met my Dad!!”

Let the ground please swallow us up, whole…

It turns out Louise’s Dad is the epitome of the word gentleman and I felt a pang of slight jealousy that her father was so interested in everything she did and was so proud of her. I guess not all fathers are made the same.

Louise was introduced and soon came on stage looking amazing and relaxed as she always does, well-polished after 20 years on live TV.

I looked like something the cat had dragged in.

We were going to be called on stage in groups of four and with no briefing at all, invited into discussion about our respective chapters in the book.

There was method to this madness. Louise wanted an unbriefed, honest discussion with the women in her book and we trusted her entirely to lead us through it and she would never trick us or trip us up.

Louise Minchin, Kadeena Cox, Cath Pendleton, Vivienne Rickman

The evening was incredibly enjoyable and as it went on, all the women in the book, as well as the audience, were being incredibly inspired.

My mind started whirring about what things were possible and how I’d limited myself to being a cave diver by identity and a jockey in a previous life.

My second ride over fences, age 21.

I realised that nobody needed to be pigeonholed as only one thing, that nobody is identifiable by just one thing they’ve done. I suppose it is a bit like being typecast; everyone knows Louise Minchin for being on that BBC red sofa but to me, she was identifiable by being an GB triathlete age grouper who had pretty much started from scratch.

Like me, she had been heavily involved in sport as a youth and we had both abandoned it for different reasons.

My previous life.

It opened up my mind in the most incredible way. I knew I’d gained a lot of weight over the years, with no real goal or target to aim at and the only sport I did was really diving.

Once I’d started cycling it created so may new opportunities for me and the weight started to come off.

But I was still held back by my personal life, where I was deeply unhappy. I couldn’t really be myself unless I was by myself.

I was fed up with conforming to what other people wanted when they gave so little back. My remaining family were much the same – only bringing problems and no positivity at all. So, I created distance there as well.

With my newfound freedom, having removed the ‘mood hoovers’ as I call them, my whole world opened up in front of me and I could breathe again.

Lucy Gossage, an oncologist and ultra-runner and triathlete, winning Ironmans and all sorts, put it very well when she said that she was so lucky to have a body that functioned and allowed her to do these things. She saw being able to do things that other people find too hard, was a privilege and she almost felt it was a crime not to take advantage of that.

Don’t mess with this lot! I don’t know how many GB medals, ironmans or channel crossings are in that lot, but quite a few!!

I came away from that incredible evening slightly hungover and incredibly motivated.

It gave me permission to be me again.

And for that, I cannot thank Louise and the other 17 Fearless women enough.

In chapter order:

1. Anaya and Mitali Khanzode – Escape from Alcatraz
2. Christine Grosart – Wild Caving
3. Cath Pendleton – Freediving Under Ice in the Dark
4. Belinda Kirk – Overnight Dartmoor Crossing
5. Zainab (Zee) Alema – Rugby
6. Sophie Storm Roberts – Cycling
7. Mollie Hughes – Mountaineering
8. Caroline Bramwell – Long Course Triathlon
9. Lucy Gossage – Team Hike Bike and Paddle Board
10. Vivienne Rickman – Mountain Swimming
11. Kadeena Cox – Indoor Track Cycling
12. Rhian Mannings – Hiking
13. Mimi Anderson – 1200km Cycle Across Argentina
14. Lizzie Carr – Stand Up Paddleboarding
15. Anoushé Husain – Indoor Climbing
16. Rhiane Fatinikun – Hiking
17. Susie Chan – Ultrarunning

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Cycling, Triathlon Christine Grosart Cycling, Triathlon Christine Grosart

Mallorca Part 2 - The Pig.

With Sa Calobra under my belt, it was time to enjoy the other ‘classic’ cycling routes the island had to offer. On my bucket list was Cap Formentor. This lighthouse was a picturesque beacon at the end of a stunning ride with climbing, pine forest, fast descents, scenic cliff tops and a tunnel!

Because of all of this, it was extremely popular, and I was soon tangled up in a long stream of cyclists of all nationalities, winding our way up the first hair pinned climb above Porto Pollensa.

It was a proper day out, covering 61 kilometres and 933 metres of climbing and I spent just over 4 hours on the move.

The lighthouse route had been closed for some time, and newly opened it not only attracted cyclists but tourist vehicles. These were a concern, as hundreds and hundreds of rental cars shoved their way towards the lighthouse, weaving in and out of cyclists and as the lighthouse got ever nearer, the traffic jam grew.

I rode past the stationary cars which couldn’t get into the lighthouse car park which was rammed and decided that I didn’t want to be here. It was too busy, too many people, too many bad manners. The café looked like it was going to be a miserable affair, so I ate my flapjack, didn’t particularly enjoy the view, and left. It was even busier on the return ride, and I was grateful to get back down to Pollensa and pull in to the famous Tollos bar for a well-earned beer and lunch.

After a rest and a bit of swimming, my last ride was out to the ancient town of Petra on a very flat and fast cycle route. A 65km round trip, interrupted by lunch in the town centre in a café full of cyclists, and that was my cycling trip to Mallorca over.

I absolutely vowed to come back as I had fallen in love with the island. There was just so much more to do.

I returned in September and of course, headed straight back to Sa Calobra, this time for an evening ride in an attempt to catch the sunset. I timed it perfectly, although I paid for it a bit as the darkness fell quite quickly as I descended back to the car.

Sa Calobra at sunset. Photo: Christine Grosart

The ascent was super slow as I had made the mistake of thinking I could do it the day after riding up the highest and hardest climb in Mallorca – Puig Major.

Nicknamed ‘The Pig’ this climb went on a bit but wasn’t particularly steep. I rode all of it, no walking, only stopping a few times for a snack and a drink as I’m still a bit wobbly feeding on the bike, especially when pushing up a hill.

Puig Major is a category 1 climb, 13.9km in distance with an average gradient of 6.2%, gaining 830 metres of climbing.

Ascending Puig Major

I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have been able to do this earlier in the year and avoided it for that reason. My cycling fitness had been improving with the help of Jason at PDQ cycle coaching. Although I hadn’t lost much weight, climbs were getting easier.

I was delighted to reach the mountain lake at the top and pass through the tunnel which marks the official end of the climb.

I had a fast and fantastic descent among several other cyclists and treated myself to lunch at the popular Kingfisher restaurant overlooking the marina in Soller.

Completely addicted to triathlons now, I had been talked into an end of season open water tri in Minehead. There was a small issue – I hadn’t really swum any distance in the sea. Whilst I was a strong and fairly quick pool swimmer, I hadn’t done much more than bob about in the ocean. I mean, that’s what it’s for – and diving and snorkelling, of course.

I thought I had better get a move on, so I tentatively stepped off the sandy beach by the hotel, complete with my new swim float, and procrastinated a bit. I picked a mooring buoy not too far away and decided I’d swim to that and back. Baby steps.

As I put my face in the water, I tried to slow my breathing and kept telling myself to stop being so silly. It wasn’t the same as diving, nor snorkelling, which I do without a single thought.

This was different. I felt vulnerable, totally dependent on my own buoyancy and breathing technique and reaching the mooring buoy felt like a huge milestone. I like to know what’s beneath me, and I like to see what is anchoring that buoy to the seabed. Crazy.

As a diver I don’t give a monkeys. But swimming on the surface, I was paranoid about absolutely everything.

I got back to the beach and gave myself a silent pat on the back.

“Now go out and do it again. But further this time.”

As I increased in confidence I concentrated on my stroke, distance, and time rather than being paranoid about what was beneath me and actually began to enjoy it.

I stopped worrying about whether I could see the sea floor or not and put my efforts into ‘sighting’ the buoy ahead and keeping to a straight line.

The beach next to the hotel was Ok but the water was a bit shallow as it passed over reefs. I needed a much longer swim.

I set off on my bike to the long beach in front of Porto Pollensa and out in much deeper water, was the perfect line of mooring buoys to swim along. I began to relax and enjoy it and before I knew it, had swum 1400m, the distance of the Annecy triathlon swim which I was aiming for in 2024. And I’d done it in well inside the cut off time.

Running of course was my nemesis. Running in Mallorca is a horribly sweaty affair, and I didn’t enjoy it at all. More work needed there, unfortunately.

I had another short ride out to Cala Vincenc, but this time stopped to have a swim in the sea on the sandy beach that always looked so stunning as I rode by. I also managed to grab a table for lunch at the bar which was heaving with cyclists.

Returning to the UK was a shame, but I had a very determined goal. It was the Minehead triathlon that very weekend.

Brilliantly organised by Channel Events, the Minehead tri was a bit of a step up from the beginners’ triathlons I’d been entering. There were lots of expensive, specialist tri bikes on the racks and a lot of very fit looking people wearing aero helmets.

It was a sea swim in the Bristol Channel, which was a far cry from the warm swimming pools I’d been used to.

I’d had a quick foray to Yeovil to try on and buy a wetsuit and Channel Events had thankfully laid on a trial swim the day before the race, for people like me. Swimming in the muddy, cold waters of the Bristol Channel was far from appealing to someone like me, who had actively avoided the open water swimming scene.

I arrived early on race day, registered, racked my bike, and was overwhelmed with support and good vibes from the people I’d met at Channel events the day before and Kelli Coxhead who had organised the Cheddar Triathlon.

It was a family atmosphere which was ironic. Nobody in my family was remotely interested in supporting me or coming to cheer me on. Luckily, I was used to it and actually pleased not to have these distractions. I was afforded the headspace to concentrate on my race.

The swim was an aussie style mass start off the beach, and it was super exciting. My swim was good, and I even passed a few people, playing it safe and starting at the back. The first transition up the beach to the bike was hard running uphill on sand and my running fitness, or lack of, was already starting to show.

I had a good bike section, but being hilly and me being heavy, I couldn’t pass anyone. Then the run, which was disastrous. It was entirely my fault as I hadn’t really trained for it. Running hurts my back and sets off back spasm, so I’d just avoided it. The 25% hill in the middle of the run course wasn’t helping either!!

It didn’t matter though. I was hooked.

If I could find a way of sorting my back and improving my running, I’d be heading to Annecy in June 2024.

Interested in giving tri, a try?

Grab yourself this inspirational book ‘Dare to Tri’ by Louise Minchin.

While you’re there, pick up a copy of ‘Fearless’ - you might recognise someone!

Louise Minchin

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Cycling, Triathlon Christine Grosart Cycling, Triathlon Christine Grosart

Marvellous Mallorca Part 1

The ship roared and wallowed as the dynamic positioning system fought to keep it in one place over the seabed, as the wind started to pick up. Sweat poured onto the deck of what used to be the cinema room, now converted into a cardio gym on the Dive Support Vessel Boka Atlantis.

I gritted my teeth as the movement of the ship made my predicament even harder. I was halfway up Sa Calobra in Mallorca, an iconic climb for cyclists apparently. The new Watt Bike Atom indoor training bike on board the Atlantis was reacting to every % of incline that this hill threw at me, and my heart felt like it was going to burst as my lungs screamed for air.

Desperate to pass an HSE diving medical, with the help of a friend, I had taken reluctantly to the exercise bike to shift some weight and deal with my fitness, both of which had downward spiralled out of control in the final years of a miserable relationship.

I needed something better, something more – and I needed to feel like me again. Not someone’s ‘other half’. I’m not half of anybody, never have been. I needed Christine the gritty, determined jockey back.

I punched my way up the hill and collapsed in a heap of sweat and whining.

Roll on two years later and N+1 was really taking hold (that’s the formula for how many bikes a cyclist should own…. however many you have – N – just add one….).

I had Orro gravel bike (with slick tyres, not doing any of that off road nonsense) and now Orro Venturi road bike with Di2 (posh electronic gear shifters) and the now redundant £400 Trek ladies road bike which had been relegated to my indoor Wahoo trainer. No regrets with that one, my first ever road bike, I rode that up Mont Semnoz blissfully unaware it was a category HC climb (really hard!)

Orro Venturi on holiday

I actually love climbing. But I’m so heavy that I’m painfully slow. Luckily Orro Venturi has better gears for climbing than my gravel bike, so I started to get brave and decided to take myself to Mallorca. It is, apparently, a mecca for cyclists.

Sun, turquoise blue seas, Spanish tapas, cold beers, and scenery to die for. And Sa Calobra. The real thing.

Booking with Jet2, who seem less likely to trash my bike than other airlines, I packed up Orro in pieces and set off to the island I had not visited since a family holiday when I was just 9 years old. I had spent most of it snorkelling and doing handstands in the pool with a new Spanish friend, while my mother and grandmother loafed by the pool doing absolutely nothing.

I was bored. I was happy to come back and at least see some of the island and get some proper miles in.

Hotel Astoria, Alcudia

I settled into the hotel which was in the ‘German’ region, Alcudia, and the hotel was spotless, with fantastic food, wine, and ice-cold pool with bali beds to lounge on. I rented a car as I thought I’d need it to get me to the start of some of the mountain climbs, not quite being up for big hills in the middle of +100km rides just yet.

I built my bike in the on-site bike ‘garage’ where it would live all week and sorted out a route for the next day. I love Komoot and use it in conjunction with Strava to plan my routes.

Hotel Astoria Alcudia

Not wanting to stray too far on the first day, I lined up a nice little loop to Porto Pollensa, then down to Cala Sanc Vicenc and back round Pollensa to Alcudia where I had the most amazing lunch by the marina.

Cala Sanc Vicenc

Truffles, goats cheese and olives - all my favourite things!

48km shakedown done, I was ready to have a go at Sa Calobra.

There had been a lot of rumblings about closed roads and access as one of the hairpin bends had collapsed in the winter storms. The road to Sa Calobra was indeed closed, but only between 8am and 4pm….

It was accessible via Puig Major, the hardest climb on the island…Not overly keen on that just yet, I went to bed ruminating and annoyed at having a potentially wasteful day ahead doing nothing until 4pm when the road finally opened. I’m not really an evening rider – I prefer to be in the restaurant and bar by 6pm!

For no reason at all, I woke at 4am. Irritated, and knowing there was no way I would get back to sleep, I got up.

Clouds starting to clear at the start of the Sa Calobra route.

Maybe it comes from riding racehorses, where you are not allowed to be scared or overthink, or maybe cave diving which is much the same – or maybe I just have this ability that allows me to do crazy things and remain totally focussed. I didn’t even think about anything – I just put my cycling gear on, check listed my bike and bag, filled my water, and walked out of the hotel to my car, much to the dismay of the night shift hotel staff on the desk.

It was dark and drizzling.

I put Orro in the back of the car and drove through the dark and rain for a solid hour, half of which was hair pin bends, to the viaduct where many cyclists meet and greet either at the start, end, or part way through their day.

I stopped at a garage that thankfully let me in at this ungodly hour and bought two packs of ham and cheese sandwiches, some juice, and a strong coffee to go. I ate one pack for breakfast – obviously the hotel had no intention of serving me breakfast in the middle of the night – and I kept one pack for after the ride.

I pulled into the parking spot. Not surprisingly, it was completely empty. The road works had not started.

I tried to sleep in the car until it started to get light but to no real avail. It kept raining but gradually started to ease off as daylight tried to break. Dark, heavy clouds ever so slowly began to break and lift but I wasn’t going to be treated to a glorious, sunny ride. The descent was going to be lethal on wet tarmac, but I didn’t care. I had my determined head on, and I was going to do this, no matter what.

Just as well really, as I had no idea about what manner of hell I was about to endure.

The beeps of large road maintenance vehicles and orange flashing lights approaching the viaduct was my cue to leave.

I hopped onto Orro and felt a little bit emotional as I rolled out of the car park, thinking about my friend who had helped me lose so much weight, get fit again and be myself again. I hoped he’d be proud of me, which was promptly followed by being glad he couldn’t see me as I struggled to clip into my pedals. I hadn’t been riding clipped in for very long and it was all still a bit hit and miss.

The unique Sa Calobra archway

Sa Calobra is unique as you start by descending it first to a dead end by the sea, before climbing back up it.

As I swung away from the car park, I suddenly remembered my cycling mates telling me that it was the climb ‘up’ to the start of the descent that got most people. I wasn’t sure if they were talking about approaching it via Puig Major (not my problem today) or the sharp little switch back climb that I was soon confronted with on the way up to Coll dels Reis, where the descent starts proper.

I plodded on the wet road, storm clouds slightly lifted but not really giving in and was grateful at least that the Mallorcan sun wasn’t beating down on me.

Delighted to have reached Coll dels Reis, I knew this pinch point in the rocks would be the finish official point for the Sa Calobra climb.

I set off gently, taking in the stunning vistas and immediately had to stop to photograph the bizarre road which curves around in a complete loop and passes under itself beneath a beautiful archway.

Once past the famous landmarks, I began the descent.

Oh my word. Ok, I was going slowly as I knew the road was wet and with the road closed behind me, there was no traffic. No cyclists. Which meant no help if I was to crash.

I possibly have the record for the slowest descent of Sa Calobra and, even though I was slow, it didn’t half go in a bit.

I descended through the cliffs on the constantly winding and hair pinned road, first through mountain scrub, then becoming greener and finally through other worldly pine forest with huge boulders strewn among the trees. The distance played on my mind. If it was taking me this long to get down, how long would it take me to get back up?

I don’t remember taking much more than an hour on the watt bike on my ship at work. In fact, my personal best up Sa Calobra was 80 minutes. I started to doubt if I’d manage that today.

As I reached the small port at the sea front, I passed through the slightly ugly coach car park with barriers and speed bumps before rolling up to the sea front. It was quiet and the sun hadn’t quite made it.

Port of Sa Calobra

Looking desperately for coffee and a loo, I spotted a hotelier half-heartedly dragging plastic chairs out onto the terrace. I asked if I could get a coffee and he pointed inside.

One strong coffee and loo visit later, I was ready to go. My sandwiches had worn off and I was left with a couple of Giant bars to get me up the hill.

The official segment starts just beyond the coach park, which is just as well as the first ramp out of the port was very steep.

The first part of the climb gains height quite quickly but fortunately mostly in the shade. It’s not long before you reach a clearing at the side of the road and can look down on the port and see how high you’ve climbed already. But there was still an awful long way to go.

Once through the famous pinch point in the rocks, fortunately no coaches here today, the route passes through pine forest strewn with huge boulders. The light started to stream through in rays split by the trees and it looked like something from a fantasy film.

I kept the pedals turning but began enjoying the scenery and relaxed into the ride. Bend after bend, ramp after ramp the climb continued winding up the valley in no real direction. I stared at the highest point I could see, wondering if that was the top, or not. It looked an awfully long way up and so, so far away. I kept moving.

Eventually, I caught sight of the collapsed part of the road and the brightly coloured cones and workmen starting their day. The end was in sight.

At just this moment, the sky went dark, and a cold wind howled up the valley. A deep, loud rumble of thunder echoed across the valley. “What on Earth….?”

I didn’t even have time to finish the sentence in my head when the heavens opened. It was as if someone had just turned on a fire hydrant and was pointing it right at me.

Water ran down my face, down my neck, into my eyes and saturated everything I was wearing in seconds. Luckily, I’d packed my gilet – which was as much use as a chocolate teapot, but at least it was another layer as I knew getting cold was going to be an issue now. I stopped to put it on, ate another soggy piece of flapjack and knew I had to keep moving to stay warm. In Mallorca.

As I turned the pedals, I started giggling.

What would Mark Julier say if he could see me now? He was the guy I was cycling with in Lanzarote when it snowed, and we had to bail out back to the hotel by taxi – bikes and all.

Then I saw another cyclist. A small French guy had begun his descent and got caught in the monsoon. He was off his bike and sheltering under the sagging leaf of a fern.

I asked if he was Ok in French, and he replied that his mate was coming to get him. Sure enough, as I crawled up the ever-steepening hair pins, a Berlingo van pulled up beside him and bundled the sodden rider and his bike inside.

No way on Earth was I going to try to blag a lift now – but they didn’t offer anyway! I was so close to the top.

I met another lady starting her descent, looking bewildered and she had stopped on a bend clearly wondering whether to continue. I hoped she wasn’t using me as a barometer of whether continuing was a good idea or not. I started giggling as I passed her and she started giggling as well at the ridiculousness of it all. I didn’t look back to see what decision she had made.

On the last little straight, I could see the archway where the road bizarrely passes under itself. I was absolutely drenched. Thinking I was almost at the top, I was slapped in the face yet again by a really quite steep ramp which is the final section of road before the narrowing in the rocks, which marks the top of the Coll des Reis.

I didn’t stop for another photo. The last bit of downhill was going to be greasy and cold. I descended carefully, shivering, back down to the car.

The clouds had broken and cyclists had started to arrive from having ascending Puig Major, taking in the two mountains in the same day. Good luck to them.

I stripped off all my wet gear and huddled into a towel, trying to eat a sandwich at the same time. Once my dry gear was on, I chucked the bike in the back of the car and grabbed a coffee from the little café just under the viaduct.

This was not how I wanted my first ascent of Sa Calobra to be. But in typical Christine style, I did it the hard way.

In love with Mallorca

Evenings with great food, wine and GCN+

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