They say lying to your wife is a bad idea, and wives, in particular, are strong advocates of this viewpoint. Strictly speaking, from my point of view at least, it was more an omission of the full truth than an actual lie. Regardless, this semi-lie-half-truth would ultimately cause more suffering than I could ever imagine, adventures beyond my wildest dreams, and the discovery of my true human potential.
The Carbon Fiber Siren
On that rainy Black Friday of 2009, the cold London fog blanketed the damp earth outside our modest, mid-terraced brick home on the outskirts of Bracknell Forest. My mind was focused on Friday morning priorities. I opened my calendar and inbox, and while it was loading up, I walked over to my trusty Gaggia Titanium coffee machine to pull a few shots of the requisite pre-productivity caffeine.
I sauntered back to deal with the deluge of emails, primarily to get them out of the way so I could start my weekend early with a lunchtime mountain bike ride in the forest. I did a quick scan, deleted most of them, and just as I was about to close the lid of my MacBook Pro, an incoming email caught my eye. Evans Cycles, my local bike shop, with the enticing subject line "Black Friday Carbon Beauties Ready to Roll."
Most mountain bikers have a vehement disdain for their road-faring compatriots, their lycra, and their thin-wheeled machines. But there is some distant appreciation, deep down, for beautifully crafted carbon fiber objects. The first page was filled with race-car-inspired time trial and triathlon bikes, their sleek carbon frames exuding magnificence. I fell in love with a red and black beauty called the Felt B2 Pro, the name itself conjuring up images of supersonic velvet-clad fighter jets. I knew I had to have it. The fact that I was purely a mountain biker seemed irrelevant.
I made a deal with myself that if the bike fit, it was meant to be. When I arrived at the store, they only had one model left, one size smaller than my usual. The sales guy, with the practiced wisdom of someone who'd seen countless cyclists rationalize their way into carbon fiber dreams, assured me he'd never seen a bike fit anyone as perfectly as this one fit me. I nodded sagely, pretending we both didn't know exactly what was happening here.
The Spare Room
An hour later, I was sneaking through the front door, guiding my new steed swiftly through the entrance to the spare room at the back. A room rarely visited by Michelle. I was mainly storing the bike there to be out of her way, in order to not inconvenience her. To those that implied I was in some way hiding it from her, those people don't truly understand how considerate I was being.
A few weeks later, however, Michelle was very considerately looking for a place to keep her newly acquired Jimmy Choo handbag. She decided that the back room was just the place to store it. Upon seeing the carbon rouge beauty, she formulated several questions. Pretty uncalled-for questions really, if you ask me, delivered with an expression that suggested I'd somehow committed a crime against both logic and marital harmony. Questions such as "why do you need a skinny-tired carbon fiber triathlon bike, when all you do is ride that mountain bike in the forest with your mate Dave" and "why is there a bicycle that costs more than our car in our back room?"
At that point, I knew it was time to come clean. Strategically ignoring Jimmy Choo for the time being, I pointed out that I would need a triathlon bike to compete in the London Triathlon coming up the next summer. That explanation, along with my strategic silence on all matters Jimmy Choo, seemed to satisfy her curiosity. I made my escape before any follow-up questions could surface, sprinting to my MacBook Pro with the same urgency I'd soon need in transition areas.
"When is the London Triathlon," I typed, fingers trembling slightly.
Ten minutes later, I was registered for my first triathlon. There was just one small problem: I had no idea how to train for one.
Scuba Suits and Survival
What followed was months of haphazard training. Swimming laps in the warm spa pool at a fancy hotel. Running 30 minutes a day. Riding the indoor trainer at 4:30am before my three-hour commute to Google's London office.
My first race was a sprint triathlon at Dorney Lake. I lined up at the front of my age group, confident I'd be faster than most of the 89 other guys. The gun went off and I sprinted to the front. Then my arms seized up. Turns out that the thick 5mm scuba diving wetsuit I was wearing is not great for swimming. Your shoulders need to be mobile, and a scuba suit creates massive resistance to that movement. Within 30 seconds I was in oxygen debt, gasping for air, and I inadvertently took in a mouthful of Dorney Lake. I had no option but to slow to almost a complete stop, at which point 80 hyped-up alpha males plowed straight over me.
I came out of the water in 76th place out of 89. But I made up ground on the bike, finishing 13th, before fading on the run to cross the line in 43rd place. Not last, but not exactly the dominant debut I'd envisioned.
The Flying Mount
By the time the London Triathlon came around, I'd done two more races and improved steadily. I'd bought a proper wetsuit. I'd practiced transitions obsessively, getting Michelle to time how fast I could put my shoes on during TV ad breaks. And I'd been working on the "flying mount," where you jump onto your bike at full speed instead of stopping to get on. The pros made it look effortless.
The London race had 2,000 athletes and a stunning route through the city. I came out of the water in 183rd place, ran to my bike, and hit the mount line at full speed, launching myself into the air and over the bike, flying past more than 10 guys who were standing still. As I was mid-air, a rider in front swerved slightly, and for a split second I lost focus. I completely missed the saddle, landing my crown jewels squarely on the top tube of the bike, with a collective groan erupting from every single male spectator that witnessed the impact. My left foot also slammed into the ground.
Despite the agony, I recovered, rode a strong bike, ran a solid 10k, and finished 85th out of 482 in my age group. As soon as I crossed the finish line and started walking, a searing pain shot through my left ankle. The next day I discovered I'd fractured it. That was also the day I decided to no longer do flying mounts.
The Chain Reaction
That fractured ankle healed, but the triathlon obsession didn't. A chance encounter at a Google event led to me entering Ironman Switzerland on a dare. That led to a move to California. That led to Ironman after Ironman: 20 and counting. Then Ultraman. Then a World Championship.
All because of a white lie about a bike.
Whether you're aiming for your first triathlon or dreaming of ultra-endurance events, the journey always starts somewhere unexpected. Mine started with an impulse buy, a hidden bike, and a suspicious wife. What matters isn't where you start. It's that you start.
Want to work with me? I coach athletes from first-time Ironman to Ultraman.