Clothing optional

Ten days before the race, Dave text the group. "Lads. Had an accident this afternoon in house." A fresh cup of tea, carrying it downstairs, missed his footing about halfway down and bent a few toes backwards on the way into the ground. Hoping they'd just been jarred, he said, though he currently couldn't bend any of them on his right foot. Then the first photo. Then a second, worse one, an hour or so later. "Bit concerned about the colour of the big toe. This foot ain't gonna be doing any running anytime soon."

By the day before the race, the verdict was already in. "My foot is completely fucked," he said. "Am limping on it." His own brother, he pointed out, once finished the London marathon with a fractured foot. "I am not my brother." Fair enough. Denied, officially, Gilbo giving him a generous five per cent chance of even making it down. Still in for food and a pint after though. Priorities.

Kev sent a video into the group a few days before. James Milner, forty years old, casually knocking out thirty-two kilometres at 4:32 per kilometre. Built different, apparently. I declared I'd attempt the Milner distance that day. Gilbo, sensibly, declined, legs destroyed from a marathon and an ultra in quick succession, which was its own kind of unwell. Twenty minutes in, ambition met reality. Blue bridge and back home, I decided, would do just fine.

It rained the entire way. Past the broken bridge, genuinely broken these days, it doesn't even cross the road it was built for anymore, and on to the blue one, where I ended up sheltering under a tree, a running belt on for the first time and already regretting leaving the house. A few photos back to the group once it was done, blue bridge for the bridge fans, and that was the extent of the James Milner attempt. Thirty-two kilometres it was not.

We arrived with plenty of time. No sign of Dave. A bit of fluff had delayed his arrival. He'd still committed. Irn Bru fuelled, he was on route too.

The bikes went in the back of the cars in the end. Gilbo's mountain bike wasn't going to cut it, so he'd come round to borrow my hybrid. The racer was fine, went in without a fuss. The hybrid just wouldn't fit though, front tyre had to come off. I always assume taking the tyre off is a faff, not helped by the security skewers I've had on since the regular quick-release ones vanished during a stint of cycling to the train station, someone just took them and lobbed them in a bush. Didn't find out until I was riding up a hill later, wobbling all over the place, and had to walk the bike the hour home in the rain instead. This time though, tyre off was easy enough once I found the secret security key. To do: get a bike rack.

Clothing optional. We'd signed up at the same time but estimated swim times separated us. I had good intentions to update mine but was still on the standard fifteen minutes. Gilbo was starting a good thirty minutes ahead of me. No chasing each other on the run. At least not this year.

Lining up, people were taking this seriously. Proper tri suits. Gilbo and I were just swimming in our running shorts and hoping for the best. Standing in the shade with the early morning wind had us both questioning life choices. Our prep, for both swim and bike, was minimal to say the least. Either way, the race was on. We'd next see Gilbo out on the run.

Early race anxiety was all about acquiring a locker for my crap. The spectators hadn't arrived yet, so I had time to get organised. Locker and essential toilet acquired. I lined up for race start. Bike, towel and socks strategically placed for a speedy transition. I don't use clip-in shoes, so straight into running shoes.

As a middle-aged man standing in line in just your running shorts you feel quite exposed, vulnerable, but the inevitable small talk with other competitors followed. Before I knew it, start time. Ideas of front crawl crept into my mind. No. My "fast" breaststroke was the plan. I stuck to it. Go.

The swim was in an outdoor pool. Sixteen lengths in total, four lanes, four lengths, done. Early signs were positive. Starting towards the back of the pack was a great confidence boost. Early overtakes were on the cards, no front crawl warrior grabbing at my ankles. I should definitely swim more, I do love it once I get going. Another thing for the to-do list: get good at front crawl over more than two lengths before conking out. Even so, before I knew it the swim was over. Breaststroke throughout, but consistent, and I could breathe. Right. Onto the bike.

The last couple of lengths were taken over by a rising thought: oh crap, where do I go with the bike again? I'd never even checked. Still thinking about it as I stuck a helmet on wet hair. Run top on. I only dried my feet ready for socks. First sign of a muscle pull, right there. Take it easy. Okay, done. Sign located, off we go.

Getting on the bike felt great. Again the thought: why don't I cycle more? The middle-aged mind, thinking this is great. Off the bike I get anxious about traffic. On it, in race mode, I couldn't give a crap, they can wait. The first roundabout, heading into the Cheshire countryside, an early overtake and then a distraction cost me, straight on instead of the turn. A quick realisation, a revert on the wrong side of the road, and I was back in business.

The bike section was by far the longest part of the race. Longer than I remembered for twenty-one kilometres, but my only plan was to keep going flat out. With little training behind me, the legs were the limit, not the general fitness. My heart rate didn't seem to go past 140, the same rate as a mild plod on a run, but on the bike, this was me going for it. The bike felt smoother than I remembered, quick for an entry-level Carrera bought eighteen years ago, a month before that first race. Last used two years previous, a sponsored ride from Birmingham to Nantwich for work's summer event, of all places. If I ever do an Ironman, it'll have to be on this bike.

Starting at the bottom of the pack again meant plenty of overtaking, which was great fun. The mountain bikes looked particularly slow, a real struggle on road. In race mode the traffic still didn't bother me, not even overtaking on a flat section with a tractor coming the other way. No shortage of nerve for that particular manoeuvre. Before I knew it we were in the last five kilometres, approaching Nantwich again. Which meant one thing. Roads and traffic. Ugh.

I hit a junction to find cones feeding traffic onto the road. Wait for a gap, or feed in and hope for the best? I waited. It felt like a lifetime, the vulnerability against proper, never-ending traffic felt real. The first reasonable gap, I took it. Straight onto a roundabout. Right-hand lane, of course. But getting into my stride, wondering what I'd even been worried about, until I saw a rider at the side of the road, an ambulance beside him. Ah.

No further incidents to note. I found myself sprinting into the run section, met by five volunteers all shouting at me to slow down and get off the bike. Run section next. My section, or so I thought. Bike racked in record time, decent spirits. Let's get this done.

But as I entered the track my legs felt lethargic. Oh god. Tired. Very tired. Five kilometres suddenly felt a long way. Head down, let's do it. A steady, beyond-plod pace, initiated. Sustainable, but for how long.

The run was on grass in the park, energy-sapping stuff, four laps to do, I think. How many laps was it, actually? Then I saw Gilbo, still running. What a boost. He was in sight. Also a useful excuse to check the lap count. Internally I was dying, but I found my voice, plucky enough. I knew it would annoy him. We both knew we weren't really racing the field, we were racing each other, but in truth we were both racing our old selves. Could I beat that twenty-five-year-old me, who'd never heard of heart rate variance, had no sub-20 target, and should have stopped playing so much football and focused on slow runs? We'd have to wait and see.

A couple of laps in, my family had come out, wife and daughter cheering. What a boost that makes. Then even big Dave was there. He'd told us he'd be wearing a standout jacket. We wouldn't miss him. It was the most generic blue jacket I've ever seen, but he's a six-foot Scotsman, we'd never have missed him anyway. He'd made it after all.

The last couple of laps were a blur. Supporters visibly losing interest once they realise you've still got more laps to go. Gilbo popping over with his medal on, offering encouragement, the same trick from when we did a marathon together and he finished an hour ahead of me, weaving side to side to keep pace with my plod. The last lap arrived. The last kilometre. Then the last two hundred metres, time to empty the tank. A sprint finish, necessary, there was some bloke already celebrating before he'd crossed the line. I had to take him. He got a bright orange, overly keen bloke photobombing his line-crossing celebration photo instead of his own, ruining it completely. The race was done.

We got our photo together after, Dave in the fold at last. A victory in itself. The same three faces from that old photo in Split 03, eighteen years on. An afternoon of catching up and taking the piss followed. A great event, a great day, all round.

For the record: swim 11:54, T1 2:08, bike 48:02, T2 0:32, run 25:39. Total 1:28:16. 128th overall, 24th of 38 in my age group.

I'm writing this a week after. Ted had been ignored for nearly a week. Rest was required. I didn't care about any "easy shakeout" run. Even stretching felt like a stretch. But I look at tomorrow's diary. A time trial, five kilometres. Here we go.

P.S. Yes, Gilbo was beaten this time. We've agreed to go again next year. Front crawl and proper bike training will come.

A crazy thing that nearly escaped me too. It was ten years since the last time I did an event like this, period. Racing with my brother. I'd completely forgotten until it turned up on social media, days before. Growing up, we were always competitive, and with him passing last year, it's been a real driver to sort myself out and get properly fit. Whatever good comes from this, I dedicate to him.

Cheers, Roj.