Pedals, paddles and pain

For the benefit of the superstitious, maybe it would have been easier to cross out the `13' on my race bib and simply print `jinx'.
Take my woeful weather forecasting, for example, or the aborted first attempt of a submarine expedition down the Wairoa River.
Heck, let's get all my excuses out of the road early.
I was crook three days before race day, far too trusting of meteorologists, got cramp on the road bike and some damn fool swapped my shoes for concrete blocks before the final 11km slog over the Minden.
And maybe, just maybe, I didn't do nearly enough training to finish higher than 32nd overall.
Other than that, I actually had fun.
The Dispensary First Kaimai Classic was my first crack at a full multisport event.
When the early showers cleared to a glistening fog over McLaren's Falls, an 82-strong field set off on the first 5km mountain run, anxious to put distance between the hoards of teams starting an hour later.
Half an hour later, with scorched lungs and searing legs, the field had spread considerably and we were heading off on our mountain bikes, only another 62km to go.
Misadventure lurked around every corner. I invented a new riding style, both brakes locked on and scrambling feet skiing down a particularly steep grassy bank.
Fast times may not result but tactically it was sublime _ the guy behind me was giggling so much at me, he was quickly out of breath.
Leading into the race, I'd frantically searched for mates to act as support crew. They proved elusive, so sheepishly I enlisted my parents and big sis instead.
They were absolute troopers, and I take full responsibility for not explaining to them a fool-proof technique of getting a kayaker into his boat, hence my unscheduled dip in the Wairoa.
For the first time, however, my luck held. I ditched out to my left, leaving Bay Times photographer Jimmy Joe no shot of capturing my ignominy in glossy colour.
The long haul down the flat waters of the Wairoa was in stark contrast to the increasingly rough state of my mind, which manifested itself as I came into transition.
I meant to say to the gathered marshalls: "You may want to give me some room _ I dunno if I can feel my legs."
But it actually came out: "Gwolfff gwiggy hyfggjh mmwaffa looogee."
By an astonishing coincidence, one of the marshalls turned out fluent in Swahili, with German inflections, and he swiftly sidestepped my lurching frame.
Getting cramp is a little like JFK's jaunt through the streets of Dallas. It comes out of the blue _ or even the local book repository _ strikes when you're cruising and ricochets around your body.
It even felt like I'd been shot, halfway along the road bike leg through Te Puna, and for a moment I thought I was still on the mean streets of Welcome Bay.
From there, my race resembled seven shades of ugly.
That final run was pure porridge _ and not the creamy stuff Grandma used to make with raisins, brown sugar and cinnamon. This was unadulterated four-days-in-the-pot, baked-on horse-oats.
A sweeping tide of runners started passing me just out of transition, increasing in volume during the tortuous 8km uphill grind to the top.
I felt like an undersized snapper flopping on a long-line as runner after runner reeled me in.
"Righto," I grunted, to no-one in particular, as I reached the top. "No way anyone else gets past on this final stretch downhill."
Whammo. A congo-line of runners appeared out of nowhere, sprintingpast me like madmen.
It was all I could do to stagger over the line, 4hrs 16mins and 10secs after starting, offering a half-hearted grin to the legions of cheering fans. Or maybe they were laughing ... I couldn't tell by then.
The fog rolled in again _ this time in my head _ but a couple of points suddenly became dazzlingly lucid.
In those crucial seconds, I decided; you can never, ever, do enough training; I'm not, nor should I pretend to be, a runner; and sausages taste sensational after 4hrs ingesting energy bars.
I'll wait and see if the multisport bug has bit _ I loved the training but felt more relief when the race was over.
Maybe when my aches subside, it'll be time to dust off my surfboard and reacquaint myself with gentler, liquid inclines for a while.
Jamie Troughton competed in the Dispensary First Kaimai Classic with help from Bike & Pack, in Mount Maunganui.