Free Accidental Ironman by Martyn Brunt Page B

large corporations, doing things so pointless that if I tried to explain them you’d be asleep before I reached the end of the sentence. A great test of this is whether or not you can explain what you do for a living to your mum. Mind you, based on what she’s heard from me, my mum thinks triathlons basically involve cycling around in a leotard, shitting in hedges. However, something happened to me while I was training for Ironman Lake Placid a few years ago that changed all this, which is that I got banned from driving. I’m at pains to point out that I was not banned for drink-driving or insane speeding, but under the totting-up rules that come with regularly acquiring three points on your licence thanks to driving through speed cameras at 5–10mph over the speed limit. The camera that did for me was in Melton Mowbray, which I was only passing through because I was off to do a triathlon at Rutland Water called The Vitruvian. It was about 4.00 a.m. and I was peering for road signs when a flash alerted me to the fact that the speed limit had just dropped from 40mph to 30, and with 11 points already to my name, I’d just fucked my driving licence into a cocked hat. I subsequently had to appear at Melton magistrates court and stand before three very stern looking public servants who pronounced the death sentence until reminded that this wasn’t an option any more. I hoped that transportation to Australia would be next, but instead I got a six month suspension and told that if I drove during that six months I could go to prison. My prosecutors did not look amused when I said, ‘I thought all the prisons were full’ and it was with their dire warnings ringing in my ears that I subsequently drove all the way back to Coventry …
    Fair dos, though I didn’t drive after that and I have no complaints because I deserved it, having driven like an arse for many a moon. Not one to have his stride broken, I took this as an opportunity to do some extra cycle training by riding to work every day. What I hadn’t considered, though, was that commuting by bike through towns during rush hour is very different to Sunday morning training in country lanes, and the roads these days are just about safer now than in the Middle Ages when we slept on straw and were regularly attacked by marauders. The longer I went on cycling every day, the more I realised how bad it could be trying to get around on a bike thanks to the way roads were designed and the way some drivers behaved, and the more I resolved to do something about it. Consequently when my six months’ ban was up three important things happened:
    1.   I didn’t bother getting another car because despite the difficulties with cycle commuting, I was better off and less stressed than when I had a car, and if anything was getting to places earlier.
    2.   I decided to leave my job and get one that tried to improve the lot of cyclists in the UK.
    3.   I ended up spending a fortune on chafe cream and Anusol to get rid of the bad case of arse-biscuits (those small but painful lumps that appear on your chuff) I’d acquired through cycling every day.
    So when I say cycling rules my life more than anything else, it’s probably true because it accounts for work time, playtime, commuting time, training time and toilet time. I now have seven bikes in my garage, each with a specific purpose – road racing, triathlons and time trials, commuting, mountain biking, winter training, turbo-ing and unfolding so I can perch on top of it to be mocked by schoolchildren. I’m not ashamed of having this many bikes, in fact I’m quite proud of it, and my only real fear is that one day my wife will sell them for the amount of money I told her that I’d paid for them …

Chapter 5
    I am currently typing while sat at my dining room table wearing nothing but a pair of split-sided running shorts, long compression socks and nipple tape – and if that mental image doesn’t put you in the mood for