the breakfast of champions

It's 5.57 on Saturday morning. My shoulder pings, my back twangs, my sinuses are blocked, the rest of me is having a neuralgic meltdown. I had a really tough week.  All I can think is, "why didn't my alarm go off" and "I want my coffee." I know Jeremy will be outside the house in roughly 33 minutes.

I get the Aeropress, make coffee. (Sumatran Java pure Arabica in case you were wondering). With the remains of the hot water I make rooibos tea for my flask. Sit down for several minutes.

I mix two heaped tablespoons of powdered barleygrass and one of spirulina, organic of course (enough to send a small elephant into a healing crisis). Scrambled free range eggs with double cream on soya and linseed toast. En route to Dover we stop and eat McDonalds.

Some would say my feeding strategy is unorthodox. Inconsistent it certainly is. Ultimately I want to do these long swims carb free. A hangover from a winter of ice swimming, I haven't overcome the cravings for cake and bread. Carb free apparently means no cake.

It's the first Crunchie that does the damage

We arrive at Dover harbour about an hour before (the scheduled start of) the swim. A few words about the swim and the organisers, the British Long Distance Swimming Association (BLDSA).
The Champion of Champions is really three races, a 5 mile, a 3 mile and, finally a 1 mile leg. Each has a time limit, which, in theory seem entirely reasonable.  They are 4 1/2 hours, 3 hours and 1 hour respectively. On the day, though, for me, one swim merges into another and the times go out the window.

BDLSA swims operate under channel rules, which you may know means (for boys) only swimming trunks, one, and only one, silicone hat, and goggles can be worn. You may also use earplugs and a lubricant to prevent chafing (but not as a thermal insulant).

Let me qualify what follows, by first saying that I love the BDLSA. They are old school. First and foremost, they are supporters and enthusiasts of 'real' swimming. Unburdened by frippery, such as technological know how, advance knowledge of buoy position, course layout and so on, they are the 'real deal', northern, gritty and down to earth.

Eschewing fussy preparation, Leslie is happy (15 minutes before the start) to conduct the race briefing at the same time as the course markers are anchored in an increasingly strong and gusty south westerly breeze. We can see his lips moving, but the wind is whipping away his words before all but those closest to him can hear them.

So it's a cross between Chinese whispers and a Mexican wave of instructions rippling up and down. At last we all agree, we are going to swim 5 one mile laps.

In the run up to the swim I fully expect to finish the 5 miles in under 3 hours and I am thinking that once the 5 mile is out of the way, then, and only then, I'll think about the 3 mile. In the event, the opportunity for a mid swim picnic in the sun vanishes, what with the wind, the shoulder, the chop, the late start, the buoys which seem to have a mind of their own.

Did I mention the mental and physical exhaustion? More than about 5 times so far? Well if the moaning in this account sounds repetitive, imagine what it sounds like inside my head. Awful. This is even before I start a swim.

We all gather for the briefing, then are sent back to our stuff because the course isn't quite ready. Soon we'll meet for briefing take two.

Dover Harbour at 8 am lulls us into a false sense of security

Post briefing, we huddle at the the bright, but windswept and nippy water's edge. It's a little disquieting to see the buoys as they move up and down the harbour (sometimes attached to a boat, sometimes not). Leslie orders us in to the water, then shouts, " there's been a change of plan, swim around the safety boat, then up to the far buoy, around and back down the pier wall ten times.

The guy in the safety boat tells us no, swim round the longer course 10 times. Everyone is getting cold(er) now so there is a collective decision to swim now and worry about the distance later. For the first half a lap I have to stop 5 times because my goggles steam up and I can't see anything. As I fiddle I see every swimmer who wasn't already ahead go past me.

At last I settle into a rhythym and manage to complete the first lap. At the last turn buoy by the pier, I have to shout my number to the lap counters who are high on top of the pier. I can do better than that; I shout my number and gargle dirt-brown salt water.

For the first four laps the sea is relatively well behaved and after the bad start I catch up with a few swimmers. I'm swimming ok, (for me) despite having decided that I would protect the right shoulder and sacrifice the ability to pull very much on that side.

As part of my preparation for the Channel swim next June, I want to complete this swim even if it's cold, (12.5C on the day) I'm in pain, I can't swim properly (even less properly than normal) and I'm knackered. That might sound perverse and masochistic to some, but to me it makes perfect sense.

I swam for a couple of hours on Thursday night after a hard day of physical work, which heaped exhaustion on top of just plain dog tiredness. Great for my plan to 'swim while tired', but not good preparation for the 9 miles plus of the Champion of Champions.

5 or 6 laps in it's ok but I start to wish I took a feed with me- those 'half mile' laps are taking their toll. 7 laps on and I properly hit the wall, many times. The wind has picked up and the leg across the diagonal is getting harder, the right side breath is mostly water and it is my default when tired.

After rounding the last buoy for the 10th lap the kayaker tells me I've only done 9 laps. The derisory snort I let out could be misconstrued as a mere watery snuffle. So I make light of the situation, shout, "ha! no it's 10" and head for the shore.

I'm so hungry, if you go near my chips, chances are, I'll eat you too

A mere 4 1/4 hours in the water. I make very short work of a bag of jelly babies, squash, water, several raw chocolate bars, dash for the shower. In the changing room two swimmers shiver and eat fish and chips. One tells me, "look in the mirror". I look at my face and can't recognise the wild eyed, sun dried, traumatised, salty, kipper face staring back at me. "That's what it does to you", he says.

They offer me a chip and say they won't go back in. It was 7 miles, not 5 they say. Maybe because I look so savage and don't just stop at one chip, one surrenders his fish and chips. I slink off back to the picnic table jealously guarding my catch. Philip tells me to get dressed and warm up. I do, but I finish my chips first.

About 3 seconds later I am being called to yet another briefing. I am shivering and very, very tired now. Leslie says that the second lag will be a mere 4 laps instead of 6, and the third an almost non existent 1 lap instead of 2. Because they fucked up the circuit (my words, not Leslie's). Yay. Excuse me for not being hugely enthused. Maybe a little relieved.

The wind is picking up now. I spend the longest ever 4K emptying my left goggle 10 or 12 times per lap. The abiding thought in my mind is, when will the energy kick in? It has to happen soon, etc. I stagger out, knocked down by a 6" wave. Get up, fall down. My left eye is puffed up and is totally bloodshot- I can't see anything out of it. The energy never comes.

Guess what? It's briefing time. Just the 1 lap sprint. I put new goggles on and stagger shivering to the water. I manage my fastest lap since lap 2 or 3 because I know I can get out and not get back in afterwards. There are several others still in the water when I get out.

Job done. Only 6 hours 36 minutes in the water. Easy as that.