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Who left the frig door open? I was in a stream of triathletes scurrying towards their bikes. The drop in temperature between the change tent and the outside air was dramatic. I could accept that the damp mist at body marking time had turned into rain during the swim but this coldness gave me the frights. I thought of the cycling jersey that I had not taken out of my transition bag. Why oh why had I not put it on? In truth I had been seduced by the “when in Rome do what the Romans do” syndrome. Most of those in the change tent were exiting in just tri suits or cycle tops. At least I had donned a jacket but that seemed within seconds to be paper-thin. I wondered about returning to the tent to retrieve my jersey but assessed the chance of finding my bag in a reasonable time frame as very poor. Another possibility was the waterproof parka that my elder brother was wearing. I could swap my jacket for that parka even though it would not be a very nice way of treating a 79 year old who had flown half way round the world to support me. Then the remembrance of Erin Baker being disqualified at Hawaii for accepting a drink of water from a bystander crossed my mind. Such a swap would put me in breach of the unfair assistance rule. No one would notice as both jacket and parka were yellow. But I would still have to live with myself.
I rejoined the stream of athletes. It was July, the height of the European summer, so the odds were that things would improve. But they did not, worse still it seemed the bike course was designed to direct competitors to the blackest part of the thickening cloud cover. The first long up hill on the course is through a village where the spectator barriers are only metres apart. As is usual for me in such situations I went to put on a spurt. If I was younger it would be called showing off. But nothing happened. I glanced back to see if some prankster was holding on to my bike. No one was there. It had to be that the cold was infiltrating my bare legs.
On the open high ground beyond that village a competitor was being wrapped in an aluminum blanket by an ambulance crew. My need now was to get down to the valley below where it should be warmer. The descent proved worse than the ascent; the cold in my arms and fingers meant any descent at racing pace through the bends would be too risky to contemplate. Afterwards I learnt that Kieran Doe, the race leader at the time, had been taken out of the race by one of those bends. Safely on the valley floor I looked for a warm place to stop. A café would be ideal. Once again the memory of Erin Baker came back. The problem was how to explain to the proprietor in my virtually non-existent German that I could be disqualified if I ate or drank anything from his premises.

A motorway underpass provided cover from the rain but was otherwise damp and draughty, no point in stopping there. An oasis appeared in the form of a vacant garage; an ideal place to stop and do some skipping on the spot to warm up. I had time for such a diversion, as finishing was now all I wished for. But as I slowed I could make out the words “penalty box” on a temporary sign. If I was recognized there how could I convince anyone that I was a voluntary prisoner? You cannot be in real estate for fifty years and not worry about your image. I envied the storm gear of the draft busters on guard duty there and cycled on.

Shortly after that on a gentle downhill the aerobars tried to jump out of my hands. I stopped to see if a tyre was flat or if the front wheel had come loose. As I leant over to check I knew it would be neither, it had to be a speed wobble. But the roughness in the preceding patch of road was minimal; the problem had to be with me. The cold was slowing down the responsiveness of my arms. My wife Judy might consider me obsessed with doing ironmans but I am not foolish; it was time to pull out. And I made that decision notwithstanding that almost all of those going past had less clothing on than me. For example arm warmers were the only concession made to the weather by kiwi Gina Ferguson who was third elite in a personal best time though the droplet on the end of her nose evidences the miserable conditions. Such conditions resulted in 2008 having the highest proportion of non-finishers (9%) in the 20 year history of the race.

Now all that was left for me to do was to cycle about 15 km back to the swim bike transition at the end of the first lap and hand in my transponder to the officials. With such a short distance to contemplate my spirits lifted and more importantly so did my cadence. The clouds changed colour from black to grey and the precipitation changed from downpour to drizzle. To borrow a phrase from the spin-doctors I did not reach the end of the first lap, I reached the beginning of the second. A mere 90 km left to cycle, my tank had been refilled with energy, why had I ever been thinking of pulling out. During the second lap the weather continued to improve. By the time I entered transition I was the only one around wearing a jacket. “Do you want to take it on the run” asked the helper in the tent. “Too right” I responded, “I have been cold once today, I do not want to take the risk of being cold again”.

A mere two hours later the heavens opened again. At first it was not of great concern though I felt sorry for the people at the aid stations with their token shelter and for the spectators who had no shelter at all. Subsequently when there was no sign of a let up I thought I would request a plastic poncho at the next aid station. I had no doubt they would be available there, particularly as covers for the bikes had been supplied at the check in the previous day. But the aid stations had nothing to offer. Wondering how to conserve body heat I sighted a sheet of plastic on the grass beside the gravel path, presumably left behind by supporters who had retreated to their cars when the rain got too much. If I wrapped it around myself it would keep the cold at bay. But then that unfair assistance thing came back. How could I prove I had not come along the day before and hidden it in the grass? I would just have to suffer it out.

After what seemed like hours and probably was an official appeared out of the gathering darkness and asked me to have my number showing as I was near the finish. My eyes began to water as I recalled the other overseas ironman (China, Japan and Kona) that I had failed to finish. I took off my jacket and tied it around my waist. The moment I entered the bright lights of the stadium the crowd started to cheer. My body responded and I started to run. The crowd cheered more and I started to sprint. That assistance to my speed was unquestionably unfair. Why should a guy who was virtually the slowest of all the thousands of people who finished that day get seemingly the most support? Such quibbles were not on the race director’s mind when he hugged me at the finish; on the contrary he offered me the chance to do a lap of honour around the stadium. No one handed me a New Zealand flag to wave so I held my jacket high in the air, its lightness was now an advantage as it wafted in the air. It deserved such reverence for without its protection the oldest competitor in the race would never have finished.