Picture: www.asiphoto.net

Eoin Scott completed this year’s Ironman UK in 16 hours, 59 minutes and 37 seconds. If the clock had ticked past 17 hours, he would have been disqualified. He was suffering almost from the beginning and in extreme pain at the end. As he freely admits, the sensible, mature, responsible thing would have been to pull out. But he didn’t. Despite finishing last, Eoin may yet become an Ironman legend. Read his story in his own words and then tell us: what would you have done?

 

Since completing Ironman Brazil and the London2Paris race a few weeks ago I’ve had a low level grumbling knee/medial quad injury. Nothing too major but enough to slow progress somewhat and to at least question the wisdom of attempting another ironman.
The few days before Ironman UK it flared up a bit but was responding to the usual RICE (rest, ice, compression and elevation) treatment, so I decided to register. If the worst came to the worst I thought, I could always pull out at 5am on Sunday morning.  Yeah, right! As if I’d be so sensible when surrounded by 1500 high-on-adrenalin triathletes.
On race-day morning the knee felt a little stiff but comfortable enough. So, unsurprisingly, I decided to start.
I can’t say Rivington Reservoir will ever be on my favourites list for swimming.  I knew it was cold (around 16 ⁰C) and this might set my asthma off, so I slipped in early to calm the respiratory spasms before the gun went off at 6am. Even so, I had to take the swim easy to keep the breathing under control, but I already knew this wasn’t going to be my best IM race, so the plan was to relax and enjoy the day. Hah!
Once out of the water it was a rather ridiculous 500m jog up a steep hill along a horrible concrete path to transition.  I was in and out in a reasonable time, and settled down into the ride. Or at least try to settle down. It wasn’t so easy when faced with a massive, challenging climb almost straight out of T1.

Under normal circumstances it should have been a gorgeous bike ride: high moorlands, lovely countryside and beautiful villages. But who pays any attention in a race? Besides, I had other things to worry about.
I had tweaked my bike position to accommodate my knee troubles and the first lap went fine. But on the second, it started to hurt. I had no option but to pull back on the power a bit, drop a few gears and try to maintain a slightly higher cadence.   It was frustrating but I was still being sensible at this point, and just wanted a comfortable, enjoyable race.
Coming into T2 I realised the ride had taken about an hour longer than I should have been capable of, but I was just glad I was back and the knee seemed to be holding up ready for the marathon.
There is a simple rule in Ironman transition: take it easy and methodically. Trying to save 2 minutes in T2 may cost you 10 minutes in the run or, in my case, several hours.

Did I stick to the rule? Of course… not. I rushed!  I slipped in the mud and landed heavily on the dodgy knee.  Bravo Eoin, Bravo!
I shook myself down and headed off onto the run. All was well… for about three miles. Not long after the first aid station the knee starting to ache like blazes, and was noticeable swollen. Being prepared, I had a knee compression tube in my back pocket, so I pulled it on and set off again.
It didn’t help. Over the next 6 miles knee rot really set in, and I got ever slower due to the pain.
By 10 miles, I was staggering 20 yards, stopping in agony, waiting for the pain to ease momentarily, and then staggering another 20 excruciating yards. 

Decision time: be sensible and pull out, or be a fecking ejit.
Guess what? I did some quick mental maths and concluded I could sneak in at around 14.5hrs at my current pace. As time went on this became 15 hours, then 16…
The realisation I probably wouldn’t make the 17 hour cut-off time struck at about 20 miles.  It was a soul destroying moment. I had stupidly pushed myself up to and over the limit. And it was all going to be in vain.  Yet, still I refused to stop. I was just so angry (with myself, I might add).
At this point I also knew I was the back marker.  Two police officers kindly stayed with me for a couple of miles on their mountain bikes. They were more than a little concerned for my sanity and well-being. And so was I, in the few lucid periods I was having at this stage. By this stage I was stumbling along a stream in pitch darkness, and nearly fell in on a few occasions.
One of the officers cycled ahead and spoke police code into his radio, but I understand the lingo: M8. I knew he was asking for medical help.  Shortly the blue lights of the ‘meat wagon’ appeared on a bridge and a hoard of paramedics converged on me. Not a welcoming sight.

I think they quickly got the message that whatever they said, there was no way now, at around 23 miles, other than my leg literally falling off, that I was stopping.
Be assured, there’s nothing like staggering down a dark road with a police escort and an ambulance hovering like a fecking yellow vulture 3 metres behind you to give you a good kick up the behind.  I had to get to Queens Park, get off the road and lose them.
The final aid station was at the start of the park, the 24 mile mark.  This was finally the point where I thought seriously that enough was enough, despite what I had put myself through.  The knee pain and staggering I could cope with, but the last 14 miles of limping had shredded my back, and I was close to blacking out with the pain.
Lee and Lisa, a couple of race volunteers, are the only reason I got to the end.  For the last two miles they supported and encouraged me and, when that didn’t work, they assailed me with abusive language as it was the only thing that kept me going.
The park was in complete darkness. It made me stagger faster. Let the winos and druggies kill me, but not these two kids just trying to help.

Apparently there was quite a drama building up at the finish line…Will he? Won’t he? And who is this fecking idiot anyway?
Coming out of the park, I was confronted with a mass of race officials, medics and police. I just wanted the ground to open up and swallow me.  An official told me I had 4 minutes to reach the end, and not a second more.  I could see the town hall, I could hear the crowds, but I just couldn’t move faster.  Finally, around the corner I saw the finish line just a few hundred metres away. Strangely, it was a most unwelcoming sight for me.  I just didn’t know if I could face it.
Into the final chute with only a 100m to go: I knew it was the final minute and somehow I had to muster enough strength and courage to jog through the pain to get to the line.
It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest. I think the locals put on a great welcome, but I can’t remember a thing. Somehow, foolishly, I got there in 16 hours 59 minutes 37 seconds. 
Within seconds of being over the line, I had the TV camera shoved in my face.  Gawd knows what I muttered. I really don’t ever want to see it, but I’ll probably be on YouTube one day.

So it’s daily physiotherapy and regular massage for me for a while. Luckily, I don’t think I’ve done permanent damage, so I’ll soon be fighting fit again and ready for the next! I guess I didn’t qualify for Hawaii though.

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