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.