Race Action

I watch some of the World Duathlon Championship junior and elite races in Rimini. The marshals are very officious: some with whistles; some with guns. A Brit wins the junior women’s race – it’s good to hear the anthem. Vanessa Fernandez flies through the elite race, blitzing the field and showing up the lack of depth.

I cheer on the Brits and the Kiwis and feel very egalitarian. One woman asks if I can cheer for Canadians and I don’t see why not. South Africans are cheering Brits and Kiwis; Americans are cheering their own massive team, and some folk are supporting everyone – it’s a good atmosphere.

Him Outdoors talks to everyone – Americans; Canadians; South Africans; Australians – okay, anyone from an English-speaking nation; he just smiles and nods at the others. The Brits say it is impressive we can support so many of our team by name – they don’t even know who half of theirs are.

A young American lad comes last in the junior race and promptly bursts into tears. I know how this feels. His coach says he has come from being a big fish in a very small pond and is now floundering at the World Championships – chalk it up to experience and note what you need to improve for next time.

Him Outdoors stubs his toe while practicing his transitions. I mock, I must confess, until I see it – all purple and swollen; not ideal for a race. He sits around all morning whingeing that he’s bored and wants to be on holiday, annoyed with his cold and his ‘herpes’.

I go down to the beach to watch him run and cycle up and down the front. Supposedly the folk on motorbikes arte pinging people for drafting, but I don’t see much evidence of the pinging, although there is a lot of drafting going on. It’s a good job that I’m not relied upon to count the number of bike laps because I get it wrong and stand waiting for him to complete his last bike leg when he’s already started his last run.

We race from side to side of the course for a couple of hours, especially through the convoluted and contrived running course. It is hard to know where people are placed, but apparently Him Outdoors comes first Kiwi in his race. He does really well and I’m so proud of him, even if it’s not his best race ever. At one point Dad asks, ‘He looks very white – is that normal?’ No, in a word. He runs his little heart out, or certainly his stomach, the contents of which he leaves behind a tree in the finish area.

Back at our hotel with my parents we crack open the champagne. Him Outdoors has half a glass and needs to go to bed. Committed supporters that we are, we finish the bottle for him. He gets up later and we go to the evening ‘do’. All the age group folk get awarded their medals and the bianco is soon finito – unusual for these athletic types to drink their wine.

It is customary at these functions to swap apparel and the Kiwi kit is in high demand – Him Outdoors leaves with a new Brazilian team jacket.