It seemed like a good idea at the time. I wasn’t even drunk.

Life was feeling pretty odd. My thoughts felt constantly complicated. I felt like I needed a new focus. A challenge to really push myself. Too see what I was capable of. To quieten the doubts I often carry around.

It needed to be big. It needed to feel outside of my abilities. Stupidly so, ideally. Something that would surprise others, but most importantly myself.

Bragging rights might come but without doubt it had to had to have a big, shiny medal at the end. If there’s no medal it doesn’t count, right?

I’ve done a few half marathons and one marathon (London 2015, bloody brilliant!) although I’d not run for a while. I knew that I needed something horribly audacious and scary, and something that meant I’d have to start from scratch for at least some of it. So triathlon it was.

Start small, build up the distance and see if you like it.  That would make the most sense. It didn’t take into account that I’m a) stubborn b) basically a bit of an idiot and c) prone to jumping in head first without considering the repercussions of my decisions.Clearly I was going to go large. Despite having limited running ability. Despite not being a good swimmer. Despite not owning a road bike.

And so, ummmm, it happened.

One quick Google search.

One £400 debit card transaction.

One ‘IRONMAN UK – July 2017’ entry confirmation email.

Fuck.

Let’s see how this malarkey pans out.