Following the sporting events cancelled in 2020 due to lockdown, and the cancellation of the Haute Meuse International Triathlon last week due to bad weather, I was finally able to take part in the Butgenbach Triathlon this weekend.
A look back at an event full of colour, thrills and emotions.
It’s been such a long time since my last official competition - the Olympic-distance triathlon in Gérardmer in September 2019.
Exactly 685 days without being able to take part in a triathlon in a real competitive setting,
97 weeks of training almost daily, with goals that were repeatedly cancelled or postponed, taking part in virtual events, and seeking motivation from sources other than friendly competition with your peers.
22 months facing up to yourself, your motivation, your mental strength and the very reason you do sport…
And then comes the day when, at last, you’ll be able to wear a race number again!
As is my habit, I like to familiarise myself with the routes of the races I’m entered in. So I decided to combine business with pleasure and explore eastern Belgium by spending a few days camping there with my son Tanguy.
6.30 am: This Saturday, lying in my tent, I’m wide awake. It’s been a short night; I haven’t slept much, a mixture of excitement, impatience and doubts - it’s been so long, and on top of that, thunderstorms are forecast. Given last week’s flooding, the event could (once again) be cancelled.
The official start of the triathlon is scheduled for 1.30 pm, with race number collection from 11.30 am.
7.00 am: I can’t sit still any longer; it’s all hands on deck. I sound the bugle and, hop, hop, breakfast, and within two hours, camp is packed up. Everything’s packed up, the car’s loaded, and we’re leaving Lake Robertville for Butgenbach in the forecast rain, which gets heavier and heavier the closer we get.
9.45 am: We arrive at the shores of Lake Butgenbach, almost at the same time as the first members of the organising club. The site doesn’t really look like a competition venue yet. Accompanied by my dearest, sheltered under our umbrella, we take a look around the venue, whilst Tanguy prefers to watch the first events of the Olympics from the car. The swimming course consists of two 375-metre triangular laps interspersed with an Australian-style exit; the cycle park and the start of the running course - which I hadn’t had the chance to reconnoitre earlier in the week - didn’t look at all as I’d imagined. The start of the run takes place partly through woodland, on a dirt track, along the lake for nearly a kilometre of gentle climb before joining the Ravel section we’d checked out two days earlier.
10.15 am: The rain is getting heavier and heavier, so we take shelter in a pizzeria for a coffee before being joined by my friends Pierre-Yves and Gilles, who are also taking part in the race, accompanied by Antoine as a fan, spectator and photographer - whom I’d like to thank for the photos 😉.
11.00 am: Second recce of the facilities with my tri-buddies and collection of my race number: 116! There it is - inside the envelope, the long-awaited prize, the timing chip, the stickers… Tick-tock, tick-tock…
12.30 pm: The rain is coming down in buckets! In my tri-suit, soaked from head to toe, even before I’ve set foot in the water, I head to the parc fermé. Bike check by the officials from the Francophone Triathlon League (LF3): everything’s fine. I get ready, slip on my wetsuit and savour the moment. It feels so good to be able to chat with the other athletes and relive those indescribable pre-race sensations…
1.15 pm: The announcer instructs us to head to the beach, whilst observing the current conditions and rules - no warming up in the water - explains the practical details, and announces a 30-minute delay due to an oil slick on the course requiring the fire brigade’s intervention.
1.30 pm: I take the opportunity to chat and get to know a few athletes - what a superb atmosphere, a mix of concentration, a thirst for competition and results for some, kindness, good-natured banter towards first-time participants, and encouragement for everyone.
1.55 pm: I’m now retreating into my own little world; I’m visualising the course, going over my training sessions in my mind, and thinking fondly of those I love - Olivia & Tanguy, Mum - and sending a huge thought to Maxime, IronMax. I feel good; I’m going to give it my all.
2.00 pm: It’s still raining; the starting gun goes off - we’re off! Everyone’s running to dive into the water… Wow, wow, wow… A mix of forgotten memories and apprehension. Training alone in the Meuse, and then finding myself amongst more than 170 athletes all trying to reach the first buoy 125 metres out as quickly as possible - it’s not quite the same thing. It’s getting crowded, people are jostling, the lack of competition is ramping up the stress and my heart rate; I’m finding it very hard to get my three-beat stroke rhythm, and I’m only breathing on one side - something I never do. I’m veering off the ideal course to avoid being jostled so much. I regain a bit of clarity and my breath… First buoy, second buoy; the athletes are less bunched together and are spreading out a bit more. I’m focused, my eyes fixed on the Australian-style exit… Three metres from the lake’s edge, I run to start the second lap; a quick glance ahead, a quick glance behind - the elite athletes have already passed the second buoy of the second lap and have already caught up with the stragglers… I dive back in and start the second lap; I focus on each buoy as a target to reach; I’m feeling better; passing the final buoy… I visualise my transition and the movements I need to make… Last 125 metres: I extend my arms, I’m breathing better; finally, that gliding sensation returns… Last few metres in the water; my feet touch the bottom; I run… Swim: OK!
2.18 pm: On the orange mat at the water exit, I undo the zip on my wetsuit and start taking off the sleeves. Green mat - I’m in the bike park. Hop, hop, one leg and then the other; wetsuit off; I take the energy bars and gels out of my shoes and slip them into the back pocket of my tri-suit. I rehydrate, helmet on, shoes on, race number holder in place - ready for the bike leg…
2.20 pm: I cross the white line and get on my bike; a short, “quite a leg-breaker” transition to join the double loop of the cycle course. The road is slippery from the rain, so I’m taking it carefully. As I ride past the car at the side of the road, Tanguy cheers me on. I’m feeling good. We’d recce’d the cycle route together. It’s demanding - a succession of steep climbs requiring strong bursts of power and fast descents demanding even greater concentration, given the weather conditions - but I like it: 18 km and 400 m of elevation gain. My legs feel strong. However, I decide to play it safe on the first lap, as I hadn’t realised where the oil spill was - which had delayed the start. The route is closed to traffic, and on some sections, one lane is reserved for both the outbound and return journeys. I move up a few places and am overtaken only very rarely. The first lap ends with a lovely climb of nearly a kilometre; in the distance I can see the spectators, their cheers growing louder as I approach. Their response is immediate; as the rain has eased off, there’s applause, shouts and cries of “Go, go, go” - what a joy to experience this again! Off I go for the second lap; reassured by my relatively cautious first lap and the fact that the rain has stopped, I’m now giving it my all, with one sprint after another…. I finish the second lap and begin the transition - just as gruelling as at the start - to reach the bike park. I shift to a lower gear to get the blood flowing back into my legs; the white line is just a few metres away, and I jump off the bike. OK!
3.08 pm: I put down my bike and helmet, change my shoes, take a few sips of isotonic drink, a biscuit, a gel… Off I go for the run…
3.11 pm: I exit the cycle park; the elite athletes crossed the finish line a few minutes ago when I set off down the dirt track, which, over the first few tens of metres, has been turned into a muddy trail by the rain and the athletes ahead of me. I’m slipping - I’m wearing track-style trainers… I can feel my legs struggling to get going, and if I push too hard, I risk falling or getting cramp. A few racing machines, the TrailMan sort (Fabrice)😉, overtake me; I pay them no mind. Well below my training pace, I know I’ll be more at ease on the Ravel. My thoughts go out to my Leg’s Go training partners, who have each in turn become real friends during the interval sessions led by our much-loved coach Pascale. (Pierre, Raph, Florent, Vanessa, Sophie, Martin, Séb, Mahia the bee, and all the others …). Being back on the tarmac gives me a new lease of life. There’s still a 4 km out-and-back stretch to go. On my first pass near the finish line, I hear a familiar voice shouting “Come on, Dad!”; my daughter Olivia has come to surprise me and it makes me want to do well ten times more. As I run under the railway bridge, a “Come on, darling” further strengthens my resolve and motivation … I’m happy, I’m in my stride, I feel great, I’m running at my ideal pace - between 5’50’’ and 6’20’’ - I’m enjoying myself, making the most of it, living in the moment and savouring every second. Both on the way out and on the way back, everyone is smiling, despite the effort! Cheers, congratulations, a high-five with Pierre-Yves and the other runners I pass. I run under the bridge again; the finish line is 400 metres away… 400 metres - just one lap of those hundreds of laps round the track, completed over these 685 days, 97 weeks, 22 months….
3.44 pm: I pick up the pace a little more, pass under the arch - an explosion of emotions! What a joy it is to be living in the real world and to share moments like these with my children, Tanguy and Olivia, my friends and even strangers! So much gratitude!
The day will end, as it does after every race, with a good, well-deserved meal!
See you very soon to share more emotions 😉.
Well done and thank you to the organisers for such a brilliant event.
My heartfelt thoughts go out to everyone - whether direct or indirect victims - of the events that have turned our lives upside down over the last two years and the last two weeks.