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The 2004 Report
After cycling around Europe, running a few marathons, doing a bit of rowing and having climbed a few mountains, we looked towards a new challenge. The natural transition (excuse the pun) was obviously to move into Ironman Triathlon.
Chris emailed over a link to the Norseman site during one of his many revision breaks (in fact revision was probably a break from challenge browsing) and as usual I was full of excuses - not fit enough, don't have any equipment, can't afford it, will probably die. But he was persuasive, and something about this event niggled. Perhaps it was the scenery, perhaps that no Brit had done it before, perhaps it was the distance and the hills, or perhaps it was the thought of Chris strutting round in the finisher shirt that finally ensured I would be on that plane to Oslo Torp Airport.
We left Exeter ridiculously early and cruised up the motorway in Granddads Rover 214 (slowest and noisiest car ever to drive the M-roads), arriving at Stansted with enough time to catch some sleep on the floor at check-in before our 7am flight. Two bike boxes, two large rucksacks, two small rucksacks... complete with two (wannabe) "triathletes" chained and locked to the lot. Not surprising that the look from the cleaner who woke us when check-in opened was quizzical to say the least.
We were chuffed to discover that our bikes had both arrived at the same destination as us, it was slightly annoying however when one of our fellow travellers decided to pick up my main gear bag, get on a bus and drive for several ours in the wrong direction across the country. Much time was wasted whilst we waited for my bag to return, mostly by photographing our team mascot Alan the Frog in "extreme" positions around the airport.
(Chris picks up the story..)
After the helpful soul who had removed Ross' bag and leapt aboard a coach to Oslo finally returned to the airport (with a mumbled "Sorry, it's a bag I borrowed from a mate, and it looked just like his..."), we had missed the opportunity to make the transfer to Eidfjord that day, so decided to head into Sandefjord to find ourselves a hotel.
After a restful night's sleep we were on board a train speeding north through the Norwegian countryside, accompanied by an enormous kit bag and bike box each, admiring the increasingly dramatic scenery and snoozing in equal measure. A train transfer left us wiling away an hour or so on a platform where Alan (the aforementioned frog), became a tree frog, posing for photos in a small end-of-platform shrubbery arrangement. Another train took us to Geilo, where we struggled off the train with our assortment of bulky luggage, and dived into an outdoor store to purchase a few essential cycling provisions (gas cannisters for tyre inflation etc). Then came a 90km bus ride down what is in fact the first 90km of the bike course (see here for the course map) in reverse. The journey was punctuated with comments along the lines of "Well this won't be too bad..", "This seems fine..", "Are we going uphill or downhill?", before arriving at Rjukan, whereupon a distinctly more distressed tone took hold, "Oh no..", "This is just silly..", "You have got to be kidding me..", and "I wish I had a triple..".
Trying desperately to put the ghastly image of the last section of the journey from our minds, we arrived in Eidfjord fairly tired, after about 8 hours of travelling across Norway. We had chosen to stay in the TriCamp - which is a great concept at NXTRI, where they open up the school sports hall for competitors to stay in. This was a brilliant idea as it turned out since it had everything we could need, was perfectly comfortable, and there was barely anyone there for the first night (except Mick Clark and Adam Laycock from FVS TRI, Dave Baker from the Isle of Wight, and John Hey from the West Pennine Road Club - in fact for the first night the sport's hall was almost entirely occupied by Brits..).
Chatting to our fellow competitors revealed a stark difference in levels of preparedness, and I think it would be fair to say that Ross and I were in the lower quartile when it came to both triathlon experience (a previous 2 sprint races between us) and levels of relevant race-specific training (repeated lengths of a small outdoor pool in Devon aside). We settled in, unpacked, sorted, cooked some food, and went to bed.
The next day (Friday) brought with it a chance to explore Eidfjord (which didn't take long), register for the race (not long either), and go for a quick spin up the first incline of the race (which we decided definitely shouldn't take long since it was painfully steep and was starting to frighten us and our two measly chainrings and sprint cassettes). In the evening came the race briefing and pasta party, at which was uttered the immortal line (in reference to the final descent of the bike leg, which is also rather steep and has a couple of very tight hairpins at the top) "You will need to brake on these corners. Please do not go round without braking, because if you do, you will fly. And if you fly, you will die.". When explained in such stark terms as these, we figured it was best to check our brakes. The atmosphere amongst the competitors, supporters and race crew was great, with everyone eating together and chatting freely(some more nervous than others). The range of competitors was quite broad, with predominantly Scandinavians, but also a wide range of other European countries represented, and with experience ranging from absolute beginner to seasoned Ironman (despite our various other endurance exploits, we placed ourselves firmly in the former category).
With bed-time looming, the tri camp slowly filled up with competitors finding a spot for their sleeping mat. Bikes were leant all around the room, and, as the main lights in the hall were switched off, a bevvy of headtorches flitted around the room as competitors made last minute adjustments to kit, filled waterbottles, and nervously arranged and re-arranged their morning's supplies around them. Slowly the lights switched off and the snoring began, and, in what seemed like both the shortest time yet longest period of awakeness, the lights stated coming back on, and the first queues began buildiing for the toilets, as about 40 highly hydrated athletes did the needful. Muesli was eaten, energy gels consumed, tyres checked again, transition bags filled, checked, emptied, filled again, and then, finally, people started moving down from the sports hall to the fjord. Getting Ross out of his sleeping bag was easier said than done, since he informed me that in actual fact his head was hurting a touch, and left upper arm was a little stiff and he might just sit this one out. However, once again the prospect of being left without the finisher's tee-shirt seemed to do the trick, and, eventually moving at somewhere approaching glacial pace, Ross grumbled himself out of bed and into a state to walk down to the fjord.
The transition area was gradually livening up, with competitors and support crews alike sorting kit, marking arms with race numbers and putting on wetsuits. Mindful of the fact that we'd hired these wetsuits for the event, and had to pay £10 for each and every hole we put in them (mine was already beginning to look a bit like a collander), Ross and I took ourselves off to a quieter corner to begin the laborious process of getting our own wetsuits on.
Ross is caught grinning mid-way through the wesuit process
We were rapidly running out of things to distract ourselves with, and, all too soon, it was time to get onto the ferry for the journey out into the fjord. Even at this stage there were queues for the onboard toilet facilities, with general hydration levels and nerves running at a new high.
The boat trip seemed to be both interminable - drawing us further and further away from the transition area, till all that could be made out was the tiniest of pin-pricks of light on the mist-shrouded horizon - and far too quick - just as we were getting used to the steady speed and relaxation of a motor-powered jord trip, it was time to leap athletically (hardly) into the fjord, and make the human-powered journey back to where we'd started from.
With a brief blast on the klaxon, the 100 or so competitors in the 2004 Norseman stopped bobbing around in the water, and began, with what must have looked something like a bunch of clock-work swimmers being slowly wound up, to head off up the fjord. Styles varied hugely, from Ross' and my graceful (I like to think stately) breast-stroke, to the frenetic front-crawl of an enthusiastic but largely ability-free Norwegian lad who seemed intent on both zig-zagging his way up the fjord, and splashing everyone else in the process.
Ross and I had already decided that to try and swim the whole thing front crawl was a recipe for disaster given our own levels of ability, so processed steadily up the fjord, sticking pretty close together, doing breast-stroke. Ross admitted after the swim (half way through the ride infact), that although he had called out to me with some conviction that he thought we should be heading directly towards a small protrusion of rock into the fjord (rather than for the light of the pier in the far distance), and I, foolishly thinking he had counted on the current being less strong there, or applied some similar intelligent tactical reasoning, had agreed, the truth was that he couldn't really see without his glasses on, and that was the only real objective he could make out. Despite the slight detour this course involved, we made pretty good progress, and leapt nimbly (read were dragged unceremoniously by the armpits) from the fjord at the pier and headed into transition in around 1:20.
Whilst many of the competitors, upon reaching transition, took a very much 'time-is-of-the-essence' approach, Ross and I, being students on a budget and aware that this was to be our only real holiday for the year, were more in the 'savour-every-moment' mindset. The other competitors did still seem a little confused when we pulled out our bath towels, and took an extra ten minutes or so drying ourselves off and chatting to a small Norwegian girl wielding a camcorder. Ross' hairdryer in particular drew some confused glances from other competitors hurrying past.
Soon enough though, we were in our cycling kit, on our bikes and away along the approach to the first hill. There has been a slight re-structuring of the event in the last couple of years, meaning that competitors aren't allowed to take part without their own dedicated (or semi-dedicated) support vehicle. In 2004 however, the second year the event had been run, there was no such rule, and Ross and I were embarking on the route unsupported. After reading the recommended 'dosage' of SIS Go Gels and realising that to carry enough for the event we'd probably need somewhere in the region of 20 each, we decided to take 5 each and wing it (which was more in the spirit of the way we were approaching the event in any case).
The bike ride was great fun - personally I quite like hills, so enjoyed most of them, and the section over the top of the Hardanger plateau was spectacular. Ross nearly veered of the road a couple of times staring at the views, and we stopped pretty frequently to take photos (with our super-tough disposable Kodak camera, which spent a very sticky/sweaty day in my back pocket with a couple of gels and some tyre levers). We weren't going particularly fast, since we weren't in any great rush - instead opting to pace ourselves and enjoy the day - stopping at the two food stops to have a chat to all the marshals, stock up on bananas and wheat bread, and have a quick photo shoot.
Chris and Ross on the first major hill climb up past Voringfossen.
The section immediately after turning South from Geilo is more challenging, with three hills immediately after each other, as the route traverses three valleys. Each hill is of a reasonable gradient (varying from 6% to 8%), and fairly long, with the third the hardest and longest, especially given that it's coming at the end of a 100mile bike leg. Ross and I tagged up with a small bunch of young Norwegian riders, and ploughed through the first couple of hills (we met Dave Baker trying to get back onto his bike on the second hill, having lost momentum and then got a bit stuck with his new SPDs), chatting and cycling in a small pack. Normal triathlon drafting regulations are relaxed for the hills in Norseman, which is sensible, given that drafting at 6-8mph makes minimal distance, and it is much more in keeping with the spirit of the event. Each of the hills also gave up a wonderful reward for the ascent, in the form of some exhilarating downhills, where we topped out at c48mph, hanging on grimly and blinking sweat out of our eyes.
What we have here is a classic case of profuse sweating, light sunburn, and mild fatigue... plus helmet hair and puffy eyes... oh and what looks like a double chin developing on the left. All in all a real gem of a photo.
After topping out of the final Immingfjell climb, the last little section of plateau before the final descent into T2 seemed to take forever, with a brutal headwind, and slightly tired legs by this stage. With recourse to the traditional weapon of the endurance competitor (cursing through gritted teeth), we made it across to the top of the final downhill, and freewheeled the rest fo the bike leg, grinning as we pulled into T2.
By this stage we had hooked up with Dave, who was also doing the event unsupported, and agreed to carry on and do the run together as well. After a further demonstration of 'how not to make your transition an efficient process' (unlikely to be a feature you'll see any time soon in any triathlon publication), the three of us trotted off onto the run route. After about 10 minutes, we realised we'd forgotted the disposable camera, and despite a fair deal of debate, I about-turned and headed back to T2 to grab it (not something my body particularly wanted to do, although I personally think it counts towards having done an extra mile or so, which means I've done the Norseman and some - definitely the hardest triathlon in the world).
Chris on the run, with the summit of Gaustatoppen (the finish line) clearly visible ahead
The run, to be honest, dragged a bit. We were reasonably tired before not too long, and running soon became fairly unlikely - a half-trot half stagger, with intermittent walking more the norm. But spirits remained pretty high, with the three of us chatting as we made steady (if very slow) progress to the base of the final climb (subsequently dubbed Zombie Hill by the organisers). Stopping for water and anything else the support marshals could give us we continued to make friends on the course, even managing a crowd-raising jog, skip and heel-click for the marshals half way up Zombie Hill (for evidence, check out the 2004 race DVD - we feature towards the end (as is fitting), and they caught the heel-click perfectly).
The course takes two further dastardly twists in my opinion, once Zombie Hill has been overcome. The first is the seemingly never-ending circle the road takes around the mountain-top - you can look up and see the chimney on the summit all the way round, but it taks what seems like forever to get to the road-head where you can put on your mountain rucksack and head up the scree path. The second is that scree path itself, which, if possible, seems to take even longer - with the chimney never getting any closer, despite the path getting steeper and steeper. I know both these things now, having finished the event in daylight - in 2004 however, as Dave, Ross and I arrived at the turning for the final mountain section, it was just past 9pm, and rapidly darkening. Sadly, the event rules stated that if a competitor arrived at the mountain checkpoint past 9pm (we were about 10 minutes late), they had to wait to be accompanied by a mountain guide for the final section. These guides were due to set off from the checkpoint every 30 minutes, but unfortunately ours didn't arrive until about 10:15, losing us an hour or so. The time wasn't so much the issue as the fact that, in waiting, we quickly became cold and started stiffening up. Worse, I made the mistake of sitting down, which sent all the blood rushing to my legs, and before I knew it I was lying on the ground, mildly peeved, and a little giddy. The Norwegian paramedics, upon rushing over in a blind panic and immediately trying to stop me from continuing (I was still lying down at this stage) decided upon chatting to me (still lying down) that I seemed lucid enough not to withdraw me from the event (something to do with the way I grabbed one of them by the throat (still lying down) and explained in no uncertain terms that after almost 18 hours on the road, I most certainly would be finishing this event), but decreed that they wanted to see me on my feet and walking around first. This seemed reasonable, since I had no intentions of making the last section any harder by crawling, but, in a moment of particularly poor medical knowledge, the paramedics grabbed me under the armpits and hoisted me straight from prone position to standing in a little under a second. Now I'm not short, and am inclined to suffer from headrush at the best of times, so it was no huge surprise when, having travelled from an inch from the ground to about 6 foot four inched from the ground very quickly, the blood hadn't quite kept up with my head, and sure enough, as quick as I'd been up I was down again. This sent the paramedics into a further tiz, untill, doubting their credentials a little now, I explained that if they would kindly let me stand up myself, I would probably manage. Sure enough, a steady ascent from the ground to my feet was much more the order of the day, so, after the arrival of the mountain guide, and in the company of Ross and Dave (who were in equal parts amused and concerned), we headed off onto the darkened mountain track.
 Post pass-out, waiting for the mountain guide
(All the above must have looked pretty funny to an outsider - since by the end of it most people had been called upon to proffer a medical opinion, or been involved in hoisting, supporting, or watching, and so was with general sense of relief that we were waved off into the darkness, with our nervous looking guide).
Sticking with the guide didn't last long, since he seemed to be going largely in circles, and Dave, Ross and I ended up losing the others in our little group and instead making what we thoght was the most direct route for the light atop the summit chimney. The last section was pretty tough, whether you'd just passed out or not. The three of us weren't chatting quite so much now, and although still upbeat, there was more of a sense of urgency creeping in now - all three very keen to get to the summit. And get to the summit we did, in a time of 19:28:22. (For full results click here). It had been a particularly epic day, very good fun, and a real adventure, but beyond the elation, the principle feeling on top of the mountain at half past midnight was exhaustion. Thankfully there is a furnicular railway that runs back down from the summit to the car park beyond the mountain checkpoint, which we gratefully boarded (after a brief sit in the mountain-top cafe). Unfortunately, due to a mild logistical confusion, Ross and I had no means of transport back from the car-park to the tri camp in Rjukan, and Dave, who had generously agreed to giving us a lift down in his car, was unsure of where his car was. Thankfully two of the other passengers in the railway cart with us had a van waiting for them in the car park, and agreed for us to jump in the back (cramped in with all their event supplies and equipment) for the journey down to the ski hotel (where the next day's presentations were to take place, and where most of the competitors were staying). Once there we found Dave's car, but sadly no-one with any clue as to where the Tri-camp might be located. It was by now about 1:30am, so most people had retired after a long day. Finally someone explained that if we headed down into Rjukan (at the bottom of the valley), there were signs to where we would find the Tri-camp.
Unfortunately, after the 20 minute drive back down the valley, we were unable to locate anything that looked even remotely like a sign to the Tri-camp, and, after a brief exploratory drive around the sleeping town, we decided to sleep in the car - three of us, still in the kit we'd competed in all day, and Dave's bike, in a by now rather pungent estate car - but I've never slept quite so well.
The next morning we were back at the hotel. One of the features of Norseman is the camaraderie amongst the competitors that develops. The morning after the race the organisers present each of the finishers with their t-shirts and take a big group photo of all the competitors.
We came away from Norway with an incredible sense of achievement, some moderate sunburn, a host of crazy memories and an inordinately large lump of Norwegian cheese from the leftovers of the buffet lunch.
Ross tucking into the half kilo of cheese we came away with.
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