Earning my stripes wore me down

I'll be putting my faith in a different type of suit for the mile swim through the murky waters of London's docks.

"It's not the Thames and it has passed all the usual health and safety checks," race organisers were quick to point out this week. I have a vague memory of similar reassurances six years ago when, after the inaugural London Triathlon in a different dock, I was ill for a week. Flu symptoms, sickness, you name it, I felt it and that was without the pain from completing the race.

True, it was a different dock then, but I am assured the rats in this year's venue are the same breed.

There was no escape from the docks's brown salty fug two years later but at least I had a wetsuit this time - they weren't obligatory in the first event - which saved me from the weird bits of weed which creep into uncomfortable places. Four years on and a stone-and-a-bit heavier, I've wised up even more.

Swimming training has been sporadic - a wife, two kids and a dog take up most of my spare time - but I have discovered the joys of the North Sea.

The sea next to Sizewell, one of Britain's finest nuclear power stations, has given me plenty of experience of churned up water. And there was the added bonus of the sea being heated by the reactor's coolant water - so my family ought to be able to see me glowing as I take part.

In between trips to Suffolk, Queen's Park open air paddling pool has been useful for sprint sessions with my threeand five-year-old as training partners. To make up for the pool being only 2ft deep I have taken the odd dip in Hampstead Ponds.

In keeping with my commuting-cumbiketraining regime, my running programme has centred around London underground escalators. I once tried to run up the downward one, but my fellow commuters were less than understanding even when I said it was all for 'Charidee'.

Long-distance work - walking the dog - has gone well but the labrador seems strangely to have done most of the running.

Finding time for endurance training, not the training itself, is the hardest thing of all. Either the other competitors have self-styled Tri-widows as partners or their stop watch takes the place of any long-term relationship.

My wife, Rachel, tells me she completes a pentathlon everyday. Kids' pack-lunches, school-run, her own work, much of the housework, finished off by listening to what a hard day I've had.

Maybe that's why she feels none of this bizarre masochistic compulsion to put her body through the Triathlon.

One's thing for sure - her bike will not help me in my race against the clock. That has been my main mode of transport for the last few weeks. Six months of morning fry-ups added a few inches of extra muscle to my waist which in turn brought an early end to two cheap bikes with buckled wheels.

I am convinced they don't make wheels the way they used to but one thing is certain, my speed on Sunday is unlikely to attract the attention of the police. Recently, having gone through five red lights and two pedestrian crossings, I was the scourge of rush hour traffic as police blocked off the road.

Work-mates tell me my dietary preparation breaches the Tour de France recommended regime.

It's too late to worry about it now, but mending at least one of my bikes ahead of time should help.

What's up dock