Cardiff Triathlon: Finding comfort in the discomfort

Jesus, my butt hurts,” I say to myself as I return the saddle after a short climb. I knew I should’ve given the tri-suit a few extra outings in the run-up to this race.

It’s not that I haven’t worn it before. It’s accompanied me for most of the races I’ve done over the last few years and throughout my spell working on this very magazine, but this time I’m using a different saddle and it is not a happy partnership.

Fortunately, this isn’t race day, just my pre-race brick session one week out, so I switch back to my previous saddle when I get home and pray that a short mid-week ride a few days later will return happier results. Not that I ever expect to be comfortable during a triathlon. I’ve made peace with that. It’s more a case of finding comfort in the discomfort.

For me, triathlon has always been about completion rather than competing. I’ve never been particularly good at sport (I actively avoided it back in school), but I enjoy type two fun and am motivated by a new challenge. That’s both a blessing and a curse.

It means I don’t beat myself up if I don’t finish with a competitive time, but it also means I often only do just enough training to get myself round the course. Add bouts of winter bugs and niggling knees and you’ve got a less-than-ideal run-up to the Olympic-distance race at Cardiff Triathlon.

That said, I knew I was capable of getting the job done and I was looking forward to ‘racing’ on closed roads – kudos to organisers Always Aim High Events for sorting that one out.

Praying to the weather gods

It might not have quite been the hottest June on record, but at times it’s certainly felt like it could be. I imagine you probably check the weather as much as I do before a race day, though more often than not that’s because you’re praying for no rain. This time, though, it’s because I have no desire whatsoever to race in the sweltering heat.

The day before turns out to be the hottest day of the year so far, with the mercury steaming past 30°C. Luckily, conditions were set to change overnight, bringing the temperature down to around 20°C and adding some desirable cloud cover.

One thing that I’d seemingly blocked out since last racing in 2023 (the less said about the knee troubles of 2024, the better) was the early starts.

Somehow, I’d let my subconscious lure me into a false assumption that the race wouldn’t be starting all that early. And 7.20am isn’t terrible, but with the drive across from Bristol and transition to set up, it means a 4am alarm and a 4.45am departure.

With the summer solstice taking part the day before, the sun rises with me, and it’s bright and breezy by the time I make it to Cardiff. When I say breezy, we’re talking 15–17mph winds, but I don’t think too much of it, set up in transition and then join the loo queue.

Ready as I’ll ever be, I walk 500m to the swim start in Cardiff’s freshwater bay, enjoying the onshore breeze as I go. Looking at the water during the swim briefing, it looks reasonably calm, but that assertion doesn’t hold up for long.

I’m in the fourth wave and the 1,500m, point-to-point swim has us starting in the water. I position myself toward the back of the bunch knowing that my front crawl has more in common with a pedalo than a powerboat.

Punch drunk

I was hoping for a chance to acclimatise to the water temperature before the swim starts but as I clamber in, I realise it’s not really necessary – it feels like a tepid bath.

I quickly adjust my swim goggles as the countdown gets underway and 20 seconds later all hell breaks loose with the classic washing machine experience. Arms and legs fly everywhere, with people mixing front crawl with breaststroke due to the congestion.

I make several attempts to tuck in behind people, but repeatedly get thrown off course by other swimmers coming through or slowing up ahead. Someone swims over me and then the pack mercifully starts to string out.

Instead of being hit in the face by flailing limbs, I’m now being smashed by the chop. I assume it’s the wake from a boat or the result of dozens of triathletes turning on the afterburners, but nope, it looks like the wind is having more of an impact on conditions than I had expected.

The rolling water makes sighting tricky, but between the blue swim caps strewn out ahead and the occasional buoy popping out above the water I’m able to stay vaguely on course.

The rolling surface make it hard to get into much of a rhythm, but more frustrating than that is the chap swimming next to me who moves ahead doing front crawl and then switches to breaststroke and slows, kicking me in the face… repeatedly.

Thankfully, after reaching the furthest buoy and turning back to shore we’re swimming with the wind, so the water doesn’t lift me up and crash my face into the water so much.

Because of the limited visibility (and my very mediocre swimming abilities), my mind quickly turns to my race position as I approach the jetty. Am I going to be last?

Fast and furious

Clambering onto the pontoon I decide not to turn around for a look to see how many people are behind me, but I rub shoulders with others as I trot into T1.

Transition goes smooth enough as I pull on my bike kit and totter out. “Bet I’m the only one on a gravel bike,” I say to myself.

Brooding clouds gather overhead as I started pushing the pedals. My legs feel heavy and there’s a headwind to start with, but this being a four-lap bike course, I knew I’d benefit from the breeze as much as I’d curse it on the way out to the turnaround point.

The legs soon loosen up and I’m able to settle into a steady pace but as soon as I do, people start zooming right past me. Lots of them.

They appear over my shoulder in a shot and then they’re gone in 60 seconds. It makes me feel sluggish, but it’s a feeling I have to get accustomed to, as the course consists of 10km loops.

Those guys flying past me on their expensive triathlon bikes? They’ll be coming past again. Alongside the Olympic event, there’s also a middle-distance race (featuring nine loops on the bike) that started earlier, plus a sprint and supersprint starting after.

It makes for a busy course and keeps things interesting, particularly if you like to get drawn into little battles with similarly-paced athletes. It’s a good thing, too, as the course isn’t all that exciting visually, taking you through urban streets and past retail parks.

It’s undoubtedly a fast course without any major inclines, though, and there are plenty of corners (including a dead turn) to throw in some excitement.

Despite moving at lower speeds than a lot of others, I enjoy hitting corners at pace, safe in the knowledge that I don’t have to watch out for cars. It even makes me feel somewhat like an actual athlete, at least fleetingly.

At one point I even see another bloke on a gravel bike, though sadly he passes without answer to my cheery wave. My Canyon Grail obviously isn’t built for triathlon, but it’s getting me round the course well enough – it’s also the only bike I own.

Once the athletes from the pointy end of the field stop flying by, I turn my attention to nutrition, eagerly awaiting the chance to consume another energy chew and washing it down with an electrolyte mix.

While the skies are getting darker and it isn’t as hot as the days before, it’s still warm. Thankfully, the last-minute saddle switch hasn’t battered my backside, but I’m still glad to be climbing out of the saddle as I finish my fourth and final lap.

Steady as he goes

I feel like Bambi on ice as I slide my way round the corner and into transition on the tips of my cleats, but make it safely to my small slice of tarmac. Around me, kit is lying everywhere as if it’s a teenager’s bedroom.

My bike’s space on the rail has shrunk since I was last here and it requires careful hands to rack it again. Transition goes smoothly aside from that, though, and I give myself a pat on the back for doing so well despite not racing for 18 months.

The run route is where the scenery improves and I imagine that with blue skies the sea looks less murky and the sandbanks less muddy. I head out much quicker than my target pace and spend the first 10 minutes trying to rein myself in. The jelly legs are notably absent and I feel alright as I settle in.

The course takes us on an out-and-back loop, with a very vocal young volunteer with a bell acting as the most amazing hype woman I’ve ever seen at a race. Even the heavy downpour fails to dampen her spirits. For us competitors, the rainfall is absolutely welcome.

Unlike most standard-distance races, we’ve only got 9km of rather flat ground to cover today, which I belatedly remember midway through my second and final run lap (a beautiful feeling, I must admit).

The knowledge puts an extra pep in my step and I push on, aware that I’ll soon be able to enjoy a celebratory pint. Several kids hold a sign aloft that reads: “High 5 if you’ve peed in your tri-suit.”

I wish I’d read it the first time round, as I wouldn’t have slapped hands quite so enthusiastically. I don’t have long to dwell on it, though, as I’m onto my last 300m. I push the pace and my quads start to burn. At least I know I’ve put plenty into this.

I cross the finish line at a sprint with arms outstretched, spurred on by the crowd and MC putting decent energy into the finish line celebrations.

I dive into the snacks on the table for a dash of savoury and sweet and munch away. I soon get a text with my time, but hardly pay attention. I came to have fun and, even with the usual discomfort, it’s mission accomplished.

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