Tim Lebbon – horror and dark fantasy author

Brutal Triathlon Race Report – 7th September 2024

Battlestar Galactica. Caramac bars. Iron Maiden making good music. All good things must come to an end, and so it is with the Brutal Triathlon. This was its final year, and among those who have stood on the shore of Lake Padarn at 7am many times over the years, peeing in their wetsuits in anticipation of the long, tough, painful, glorious day to come, there was a sense of sadness that this would be the last time. But as one of the bike marshals said when I mentioned it later in the day … (tapping his head) “But you’ve got it all up here.” And he’s right. I’ve many great memories of the Brutal, and as it’s difficult to recall what pain actually feels like, all of them are good.

This was my fifth time racing with fellow Brutals in Llanberis. I’ve raced the full twice (including ‘The Brutalist Brutal ever^TM‘ and last year when the tarmac was melting off the roads), and the Half twice, and this year I was set to race the Half again with my friends Mike, Rita and Nat.

(A note: I once used the term ‘Just the Half’ and was berated, rightly, because this is not like any other half you’ll ever race. For some perspective … the distances are 1.2 mile swim, 58 mile bike, and 14 mile run, including an ascent/descent of Wales’s highest mountain in the run. And while I’d usually finish a normal half-iron race in maybe 6 hours, this one took me over 9. So no, it’s not ‘just the half’ at all).

After the briefing and the usual faffing, unpacking kit bags and staring at them, packing them again and staring again, prepping food for race day, checking kit again, and grabbing a few hours sleep during which you dream about forgetting your helmet or going the wrong way on the bike, it was time to get down to race HQ.

The tent was bustling. Hot. Smelling of chafe cream, sun block, and existential dread. It was great bumping into the legendary Sid, who was competing on his BMX! And Nathan and his mate, setting up to race the Full (Nathan completed the Double Brutal last year … beast). I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the Brutal tent so full, with late-comers having to grab some floor space for their kit, but it was buzzing with nervous anticipation and excitement.

The Horrible Hour (early morning pre-race) soon passed, and then we were heading into the water for the mass start. They told us it was “Around twenty degrees.” I know fiction when I hear it. Sixteen I reckon, but thirty seconds and it felt nice. I bobbed around by the first buoy, and for some reason a lot of competitors stood close to the shore until the starting horn blasted its dreadful roar across Llanberis and the valleys beyond. I’m an OK swimmer, but certainly not front of the pack, and by the first buoy I was being overtaken and batted out of the way. It soon settled down though, and I concentrated on enjoying myself. It’s a privilege to swim in such a gorgeous place.

Swim done in 38 minutes (in my defence I swam just over 2000m, either because of sighting or a long swim), I jogged to the tent and faffed around getting ready for the bike. Last year I did a full kit change between each discipline, but this year I elected to keep my tri suit on for the whole day, chucking on a bike jersey for the pockets (food, water/windproof, phone). Off I went, and the weather was teasingly perfect. Not too hot, not too windy, not raining … I mean, this is the Brutal. Surely it’s hailing around the other side of the mountain, or there are meteor storms on the climb to Pen-y-Pass?

The bike was pretty uneventful. I had to stop a couple of times. Once to phone in to Race Base for someone whose chain had snapped … I mean, don’t do a race like this without carrying a phone, guys! And once to help out someone who was cramping up badly, dishing out a few salt tabs. I also stopped and topped up with water both passes of the feed station. I finished the bike just under 4 hours, which is OK considering the stops. I was conscious I could have gone harder, but looming in the future––and quite literally looming to my left for those four hours–– was Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon). So I conserved energy, ate real food, drank plenty, and readied for the run.

Pen-y-Pass was nice, but it was a bit hazy, so the views weren’t quite as glorious as they were last year. First descent into Llanberis was lovely and quiet, so I could really open up and have some fun. The second descent was busy, and I quickly learnt to keep way back from the cars in front because people had a habit of slamming on their brakes looking for somewhere to park. Fishtailing at 40mph is a quick way to realise that my brakes aren’t as good as a car’s.

Rita and Nat caught up with me at the start of lap 2, then stopped off at their rented house to top up water and use the loo. That is some good planning there.

Safe and sound into Llanberis, I quickly changed and headed out onto the lake run. This is a misleadingly tough 5 miles, flat on the Llanberis side but with long slopes and technical trail running on the other side of the lake. I bumped into Niall again (we’d chatted a bit on the bike), over from Ireland with his Tri club and racing the Half so that he could crew for a mate racing the Double! Hats off. It turns out that Niall and I share a dark history. I’m not sure I should share it here. I mean … we both have Quantity Surveying in our lives. He is one now, and I was one twenty years ago before I quit to become a full-time horror writer. I know several local government surveyors who became horror writers. I’m not saying there’s a link. Perish the thought.

Back to transition, and now … time for the mountain. This is always my favourite part of the race. It fucking hurts, but it’s the mountain that makes the Brutal brutal. That first drag up the tarmac road is shattering, especially when I was already seeing competitors running down ready to finish. Humbling. But I kept my head down and stepped it out, drinking, eating a Jelly Baby every 1k as a reward (really, Jelly Babies are a divine creation), and passing tourists. Now, there were lots of tourists on the mountain. The Llanberis route is the ‘easy’ way up, and some of them must have heard this because they were climbing in flip-flops and thin tee shirts. They were encouraging though, and hacking my way through clouds of cherry-scented vape exhaust was more than made up for by claps and cheers of encouragement.

At the halfway point I met Samh. He’s a young lad (I mean, he’s twenty, I could be his bloody grandfather). Samh was finding it hard, so we walked on together and started chatting. He didn’t have that much water with him, but he still looked good and fresh. Samh told me he thought I was 30 (I’m 55), so as far as I’m concerned he’s a friend for life. We soon caught up with Nat, and the three of us ended up doing the rest of the mountain and crossing the finish line together.

It was tough, brutal fun. Nat was a bit worried about her sister Rita, who’d told her to go on without her, and I was looking out for Mike. My mate Mike is a proper mountain runner (he’s doing a 50 mile ultra in two weeks!), and while I knew I’d been ahead of him up until now … he’d be closing in soon. We paused a bit at the turn around, then started running back down the mountain. In retrospect it was probably a bit dangerous, especially sharing the path with herds of tourists, but we were going for it. Nat and Samh set the pace, and I kept up.

We saw Mike, and he wasn’t far behind! And then we saw Rita, and she looked good. She had an hour or so to go, but we left her with a hug and continued on our way down (Rita is a bloody inspiration). That last three miles … I was fading, finding the pace really tough, but determined to keep up with Nat (a self-confessed mountain runner and strong), and Samh (20 years old, lean, a mountain goat, and did I mention he thought I looked 30?). And we did it.

Crossing that line was a great moment, but it also struck me then … this is the last time. I hit the deck for a few minutes, because that last half hour had absolutely hammered me. I wouldn’t have been nearly as fast if I hadn’t stuck with Nat and Samh. Someone bent over and drape a medal around my neck, and a few minutes later I took it off and gave it to Brutal Claire, and asked her to give me my medal. A hug, a quivering lip (me), and then Samh’s lovely mum bought me a coffee.

Mike finished, bearing bloody scrapes and bruises from (another) spectacular mountain tumble (he was fine). We went to stand in the lake … lovely. Faffed around a bit, saw that Rita had finished, and that was it. Job done.

I finished in 9:17, which I was pretty pleased with for an older bloke (although I agree with Samh, I’m actually 30). That was halfway down the finishing list, and I’m happy with that. More perspective: the winner did it in 6:19. Final Half finisher was 15:41. I estimate that this race is 50% harder than a normal half or full-distance triathlon, at least. Hey, they call it The Brutal.

Home. Shower. A beer sitting outside with Mike. The four of us had a curry, then sat on a bench by the lake with a beer like a bunch of wayward teens, looking up at the looming dark mass of Yr Wyddfa and seeing the faint head-torches of people still up there racing.

With the Brutal Triathlon, Claire Smith and her amazing crew (and they are amazing, every marshal is experienced and smiling and utterly encouraging) created and ran something wonderful. It’s been truly life-changing for me and many others. I told several people on the day that I rarely enter the same race more than once or occasionally twice. This was my fifth time at the Brutal, and I loved it as much as every time before. My mates in my brilliant N.E.W.T. triathlon club take the piss and ask if I’m on commission* because I always rave about it (*I’m not), and I’m glad I’ve talked* (*hassled and bugged) friends like Mike, Rita, Lyndon and others to experience it. Without doubt my favourite race, I’m sad it’s done, but like that marshal said (tapping his head) “… you’ve got it all up here.”

Good memories.