To Much Too Soon - Lost Sheep 2019

There was no fear of not enjoying The Lost Sheep race due to the shortness of its distance. This would be my first attempt at a half Ironman and secretly the race I had been looking forward to all year. I drove down to Kenmare on my own on the day before the race and met up with the rest of the club members at the accommodation. I arrived just as it started to get dark and the predicted deluge of rain poured down from the sky. It was to be clear by morning and I really enjoyed getting ready for the big race with my fellow club members. The morning of the race we cycled to the transition area and began setting up. I had everything prepared and was in my wetsuit ready to go twenty minutes before the start time. All competitors queued at the water entry, before slowly being allowed to make our way into the water for a mass start. It was while queuing that I overheard someone mention a strong current. I didn’t think much of it at the time, the anticipation of the cold water was blocking everything else out. Entering cold water wearing a wetsuit is a strange experience. There is no immediate shock but instead a slow realisation, as the water makes its way through your new outer skin, that you voluntarily put yourself in this position. What was so wrong with spending Saturday mornings watching tv or visiting local coffee shops.

A local celebrity was to fire a shotgun to signal the start of the race. I am not sure if this happened but when everyone started swimming, I just followed suit. It took me a while to find any rhythm. I was switching between front crawl and breaststroke, trying to get my bearings and steady my breath. A lot of swimmers were heading out to the left of the course, I just pointed myself at the turning buoy and swam. When I finally found my rhythm I noticed I was being pushed by the current. I was consistently trying to correct my direction but found myself caught between the two buoys. Like being at the centre of a T junction when I should have been out to the left. I had to go back towards the first buoy and then traverse my route back towards the second. There were people around me at this stage, but I knew I was at the back of the pack. The safety boats and kayaks floated nearby, intermittently shouting out directional advice, “you are going too far left” was the common cry. I made my way around the second buoy and dug in for a long pull. Remembering everything I had learned, I kicked hard, focused on my grab and bent my elbows. Looking ahead I was unsure if I was making any progress. After about 5 minutes of this effort I looked to my right and could see the buoy just five metres behind. I was going nowhere. I continued pushing hard and like an elastic being snapped that had been tying me to the buoy, I managed to make up 100 metres in the next 5 minutes of effort. Unfortunately, I was still at least 750 metres from shore and like vultures over a corpse, the boats were circling. There was a 1 hour 25 minutes cut off for the swim and it was fast approaching. Behind me I could hear muffled arguments. A swimmer sounded upset, from one of the boats I could hear someone say “you are going backwards”. I sensed one of the boats pull alongside me, I checked my watch and could see the cut-off time had come and gone. I also noticed I had covered 2.1 kilometres in what was supposed to be a 1.9 km swim and I had 700 metres to go. One of the marshals in a kayak pulled along to my left, apologised and told me my race was over. I didn’t argue, made my way to the boat and was dragged in. I was the first to be picked from the water and helped others get onboard as we made our way back through the pack caught adrift. With the boat full we made our way to land and there was a brief moment of optimism when a marshall said we would be able to carry on but would get a DNF for the swim. This hope was dashed when we were required to have our timing chip removed from our legs before exiting the boat. A small indignity that crushed the last ounce of belief I had. My race was over.

There was consolation in the fact that a large number of others didn’t make it through the swim and those who did were a lot slower than previous years. The previous night's rain had added to a strong current as the tide went out and made a challenging swim very difficult. In reality however, this was supposed to be the peak of my year and as I made my way back towards the accommodation, dressed in my wet trisuit, wetsuit hanging over my bike as I wheeled it along, I felt lost. The sense of being lost, uncertain of where I am and where I am going hung around for several days. I couldn’t let this race define my year.

Quest Lough Derg was to be two weeks after Lost Sheep and should’ve presented a chance to get back on the proverbial horse. A standard Adventure Race, there would be no swimming to contend with. In the week leading up to the race I was hesitant. Reluctant to make any firm arrangements for travelling to the start or making my way home. In the end I decided not to go at all. My head wasn’t in the right place, I was still not over the Lost Sheep.