Thomas Ivor's Triathlon Triumph - #7kFor700k

On Friday, I did a 3x7km triathlon to raise money for the National Autistic Society's '7k for 700k' appeal, to highlight the 700,000 people in the UK who have Autism, like me.

I had a few difficulties to overcome. The day before the event, we had to survey a new route because someone decided that I wouldn't be able to use the gym for the cycle and run as we'd hoped. They also said they thought the challenge was too much at my age, and that they wouldn't have let their own children do it. This made me a bit cross, but actually it spurred me on and I was even more determined to prove that I could do it! We decided that I would do the cycle and run on a traffic free path by the A45. My NAS collecting tin had also got delayed in the post, but luckily that was waiting on our doorstep when we got home. Later, I got my first pair of running shoes, because Daddy said my trainers were looking a bit tired. I collected up all the things I was going to need, and put my batteries on charge.

Next morning, I woke up and had tons of butterflies in my stomach, so I filled it with porridge. After breakfast I started to get my stuff together; I needed so much kit! I packed one bag for each discipline to help with the transitions.

As soon as I said that I was starting at 10 o’clock that day, people started retweeting me and donating online, which motivated me even more.

Good luck to the mighty @thomas_ivor this weekend! https://t.co/XW3XeDsyOu

— Dave Cornthwaite (@DaveCorn) January 17, 2018

Before you know it I was ready in the water to start my first ever triathlon.

Daddy set the watch going it went “Three, Two”, I felt like Kevin McAllister: "This is it - don’t get scared now" "one, GO!".

The first stint was 1¼ hours, which was quite easy, so then I went for a brief break while AQUA ZUMBA was happening, because ¾ of an hour of loud cheesy pop music often offends, and they make the water very choppy. I had done 100 lengths, or so I thought. We swapped my Swimtag for another one so I didn't get a flat battery and lose my data.

I had a break in the changing room before going back in the water. The second 'third' was incredibly hard, but my swimming teacher Glenn came to swim with me. Also, to spur me on, Daddy kept me posted on the kind people who were donating to the NAS on my fundraising page. One lady had been swimming in the next lane to me! People were also donating using the collecting tin, which I had put on reception. I had a sign next to me in the pool telling people what I was doing, and why.

After another 90 lengths, I got out for some lunch. I had a tuna sandwich, some blue 'super juice' and more bananas. We swapped my Swimtag again but it was taking ages to appear on the app, which meant that I didn't know for certain how many lengths I had left to do.

The last leg was very dull and boring just looking at the same things over and over again (mostly tiles) and the sun was in my eyes, going one way up the pool. I was also getting tired. It got worse when Daddy came and told me that the Swimtag had uploaded 7 lengths less than I thought I'd done, so I was going to have to do some extra to make sure I did 7km. Daddy then made me do 20 more lengths, just to make sure that I had definitely done it!

It was a good job he did because when we got the final download I'd only gone four lengths over!

I touched the wall for the last time and I was out. My legs were like trifle. Time for the cycle!

I was soon changed and Daddy put some air in my tyres. I tried start Strava but I’d already put my gloves on and could not work the screen! Unfortunately, there was a problem with the bluetooth and my sensors wouldn't work, which always seems to happen on important days!

The path was not the best surfaced of all the paths I’ve ever been on but it was very flat. I went past a lot of geese, swans, blackbirds and squirrels. On the way back though I went the wrong way and had to cross all the roads on the retail park again, which took a long time.

Soon in the distance I saw a man who looked like a man from ‘Ikea’ up by McDonalds, it was Daddy in his blue coat and yellow trousers, who had come to watch me across the roundabout safely. “You’ve gone the wrong way son, that's further!” He laughed.  I had a quick chat with him and got on my way again.

I got to the end of the path and waited for the team to arrive. My sister Rhoda was asleep in the back of the car by now! Daddy gave me a banana in exchange for my bike.

The cycle was my recovery for the triathlon. Now it was time for the pain!

Phone - check

Shoes - check

Gloves - check

Let's go!

The first few strides were awful but I found my rhythm. I felt soon very grumpy and tired, though.

It was dark and all the nice things that I saw on the bike were nowhere to be seen. Eventually, at the end of the path, I saw Daddy’s bright yellow trousers in the distance; I made my way towards him feeling tired.

I told him about what had happened on the run so far, ran towards him again for a bit of filming, then said farewell once more, turned round and went back on my way.

Some autistic people need music to help them concentrate on the task at hand and on the run back to the gym, I tried to listen to some music on the phone, but to my disgust the only piece of music I had was the Second movement of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto number 2, which I think is too sad to run to; it sounds like funeral music!

I needed some encouragement but the path was empty; all you could hear was the ‘zoom zoom’ of the cars, so I tried to cheer myself on but I seemed to go slower than I was before. Eventually I came down the hill for the very last time of the triathlon, going the right way this time!

Daddy and Rhoda were waiting for me with my NAS banner for the finish; soon I was crashing through the banner and reached the end of my triathlon. It had taken me seven hours and twenty three minutes including breaks, made up of:

• Swimming  -7.1km, 3 hours, 8 minutes, 30 seconds
• Bike - 9.57km, 32 minutes, 33 seconds
• Run - 8.45km, 1 hour, 3 minutes, 53 seconds

My total time spent moving was 4 hours, 44 minutes and 56 seconds.

Afterwards I felt very tired, happy and thankful that I could now rest but not for long as I have more adventures planned! I raised more than double my original target of £210 on my JustGiving page, which was incredible.

The next day I felt quite achey and tired. Oh, and hungry! I was back in the pool for my swimming lesson tonight, though.

I would like to say thank you to my family @FamilyByCycle, and also to all my supporters who have put their time and money into supporting me and other people with autism. I even want to thank the people who said I couldn’t do it, because then I was determined to show them that it is possible, for a 9 year old to take on something big and succeed!

Read more posts by Thomas Ivor

Thomas Ivor's 21km charity triathlon - going nowhere, fast!

The National Autistic Society recently launched their '7k for 700k' challenge, in which adults are challenged to swim, run or cycle 7km in a week; Thomas Ivor, at nine, is going to do all three. In one day.

7km on the turbo trainer isn't really a big deal for our long-distance adventurer, but 7km in the pool (4-5 hours, we reckon) is a serious piece of work, which he wants to do now, to reward the efforts of his swimming teachers, Becki and Glenn, one of whom is off to pastures new very soon. From not being able to swim two years ago, Thomas Ivor has gone on to win a race in the Olympic pool in London recently, and now is taking on his first serious endurance distance swim, with an eye on going further in the future. We blame Sean Conway's TV show...

Thomas Ivor swims most days, mid-morning, often during Aqua Zumba (so he can cope with tides and currents!) because he is home educated - it's been like that for well over a year now, because he's one of the 50% of children with a diagnosed Autistic Spectrum Disorder who's had to wait that long for the specialist educational help he needs. As a result, his curriculum is a tailored one, and it's allowed him to master his swimming strokes with regular repetition and guidance from his teachers, who have had to adapt their methods for him, and the wonderful team of lifeguards who have taken him under their wing ever since he won his accreditation to swim in the lanes by himself.

We also want to acknowledge all the folk from the 'adventure community' - some well known names, some less so, but all heroes - who have taken the time to train with, speak with, or otherwise encourage the lad. Many of the difficulties he faces, you would never see, but it all means a great deal to him and helps with his motivation.

Good luck to the mighty @thomas_ivor this weekend! https://t.co/XW3XeDsyOu

— Dave Cornthwaite (@DaveCorn) January 17, 2018

So, tomorrow, Friday 19 January, Thomas Ivor is going to do something about his situation, by making the most of it. He's trying to raise a tenner for every km of his challenge, and if Family ByCycle's readers would like to support him, with a donation or a message on Twitter @Thomas_Ivor - that would be wonderful! He will be back to write it up afterwards - probably quicker than Daddy...

"Ride the bike, Ruth!" - Entering the world of Under 8s cyclocross racing...

Ruth ByCycle is not a little girl to sit around and wait for things to happen to her.  Oh no.  Since she could first talk and walk, she has made things happen.  Some of the things have been very successful, others, not so much.  She learned to open doors, and baby gates because she wanted to get out to have a crack at more exciting things she could see on the other side.  She cut her own hair, because frankly Mummy was taking far too long about arranging a hair appointment.  She helped herself to her brother’s bike packing bags and tried to fit them to her frame when it seemed that Mummy and Daddy had failed to realise that 3 year olds need bike packing kit.

So it should have come as no surprise that when Ruth, now 4, decided she wanted to enter a race on her bike, Ruth was going to enter a race on her bike.  Or rather, on her brother’s bike.  Ruth had decided that she was going to need something more competitive than her 16” wheels, so 'Merida' was consigned to the cupboard and Ruth pestered Daddy until he conceded that she could have a go on the semi-retired 20” Islabikes Beinn, which, she pointed out, she could test ride on the turbo trainer.  The reach was a bit more of a stretch than ideal, but having taken it for a spin around our usual training ground, the nearby “Secret Squirrel Velodrome”, Tom was happy enough that she wasn’t going to do herself a mischief.

Training with Dan Lloyd. Like a boss.

So it was that we found ourselves headed for the Milton Keynes Bowl on the cold but sunny morning of 30 September.  

Until this morning,  I associated “the Bowl” with concerts - not bike racing.  We arrive in the car park (such is our eagerness that we are uncharacteristically early) and get Beinn the bike out, and some extra layers to keep Ruth warm while we wait for the race to start.  

Kit is very important to our little people.  They want to feel part of things, so Ruth was already fully kitted out in her mini Canyon-SRAM jersey, her tri shorts and leg warmers (again, shamelessly pinched from big brother @Thomas_Ivor) and had been since she arrived in our bedroom at 6am declaring herself “ready”.  Rhoda, likewise, absolutely required full cycling kit for her role as her big sister’s chief cheerleader, but equally absolutely shunned the idea of wearing anything to cover her legs, so it was shorts for her.

“Mummy, I need my Laura Trott plaits”.  I dutifully braid Ruth’s hair to her satisfaction - if it’s good enough for an Olympian, Ruth thinks it will probably do for her first race.  “I need plaits too”.  Rhoda likewise, is soon sporting her own tribute to the mighty Laura Trott - if you need proof of what the influence of successful women on little girls can be, look no further than these two!

We were ready: time to sign on.  We walked through to the bowl from the car park. As well as being Ruth’s first cyclocross race, it was also Mummy’s first time at a cyclocross race.

It is probably time for a confession:  I am not sure I really understand the point of cyclocross racing.  It appears to me that a group of fully grown adults, and a smaller number of children,  take their bikes to chase around a churned up patch of grass over which they ride lap after identical lap and then go home in a muddy mess having gone, well, nowhere.  However, I am not one to stand in the way of a dream, so I donned my wellies and kept my counsel.

Arriving at the gates, I look around and take in the Bowl, filled with what looks like several hundred miles of plastic tape marking out a course that traverses and climbs the sides and bottom of the bowl, disappearing off into trees.  I try to work out where you get into the taped labyrinth for practice.  I can see the start/finish line, but struggle to work out much more than that.  

Clearly the under 8s weren’t going to tackle the whole course (not unless we wanted the race to last an entire week), but which bit would they race over?  The flat bit at the bottom?  How was four year old Ruth going to fare with navigating her way around this?  Good job we came early for a look at the course, I thought.

But first things first:  a very proud Ruth, grinning ear to ear, was hanging Beinn on the bike stand (which it is barely big enough for) by the registration desk and was soon clutching her very first set of race numbers, and a timing chip (which looked rather large) for her (implausibly small) shoes.  We pin and stick the race numbers to her jersey and look around to see where to get into the course to give Ruth a proper look at where she would be going.  Tom set off with her to walk along the course with her.

This was no flat course, and Ruth was soon having to work out that she needed to get off and push her bike up the sloped side of the bowl, before getting back on to roll down again.  This all took quite a long time, and she lost confidence as other kids warming up zipped up  and down past her.  Urged on by her friend Jake (racing in the U10s) and Daddy, she was soon back with us in the start area to be marshalled.

The body warmer came off.  The drinks bottle found its way to Mummy’s handbag (where all discarded items belonging to the children seem to end up, no matter what I do) in the name of "weight saving", and she was ready.

There were quite a few parents watching, but most it seemed were getting ready to race themselves.  At aged 4, racing in the under 8s, Ruth was one of the youngest competitors.  She looked serious as she listened to the commissaire’s instructions.  As the race began, there was such a look of determination written across her features- I have never seen her so intent on anything.  They were off, with Daddy strategically positioned further up the course to help make sure Ruth goes the right way through the taped maze...

Rhoda and Mummy begin whooping and hollering:  “Go Ruth!  Whooooo!”.  Mummy realises that she might be the only grown up cheering.  What is wrong with everyone?  Why is no one else cheering?  Wait, no, there is someone else shouting.  That would be Daddy.  We are potentially committing a cycle parent faux pas - I have no idea.  Maybe people don’t cheer?  They definitely cheer at road races.  Does cyclocross have different rules?

The race moves away from the start/finish line, and Rhoda and I set off for the side of the bowl where we know Ruth will struggle to push her bike up and around.  There is an interminable wait (at least three minutes) until we can see Ruth well enough to see how she’s doing.  She is dead last.  She is crying but she is still riding the bike.  She approaches the bottom of the hill and looks unsure.  “That’s it Ruth” - I can hear Tom hollering.  “Jump off and push, now”

“GO RUTH!”  Rhoda joins in.  

“Push your bike to Mummy - good girl - you can do it!”

She heaves.  The grass is wet and she struggles for grip.  She sobs, but she doesn’t stop.  The first child laps her.  She stops while they pass her but then she is moving again.

“Ruthie, Ruthie, Ruthie!  You’re doing it - keep going!”

We are still the only parents cheering.  People are looking.  And frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. That’s my girl, and I’m going to make ALL the noise for her.

She crests the hill, briefly triumphant.  Rhoda and I are jubilant and immediately make a lot more noise.  Tom (down the bottom) is louder still.

Now, get back on the bike, Ruth, I think.

She is still walking.  She turns and looks doubtfully at the slope back down, now churned by the wheels of the previous 30 odd kids to pass over it (twice by now).   She stops and looks some more. 

“Get on your bike, Ruth”, I venture.

“Ride the bike, Ruth”, I hear Tom shouting from some considerable distance away, and briefly register what a ludicrous thing to shout this must sound to anyone else who came here to watch a bike race.

Ruth has rolled down slopes like this hundreds of times, but in this moment she has misplaced the confidence to do it.  She scrambles down slowly on foot until she is back on the level.  She is still running with the bike.

“GET ON YOUR BIKE, Ruth!” She looks at me.  Tear stained.  Muddy.   I want to go and grab her and hug her and take her home.  “You can do it Ruth -just get on your bike!”  She looks daggers at me, briefly, but then climbs on and pedals away from me. She expects to see a flag at the finish (and so do I - she has taken over 9 minutes at this point).  There is no flag.  So she..... sets off for a second lap.  Just like that,  no fuss.  She’s just as intent as she was for the first lap, as the entire field begins to lap her again.  

I can see Tom jogging along with her.  She is making good progress along the bottom of the bowl, and then, they are back at the slope again.

“You can do it, Ruth, up you come!”

She gets off, she grits her teeth. She wails, she cries, she shouts, she growls, but she does it.  Herself.  She is up.  Other parents look at us like we are a) insane and b) possibly torturing our daughter, who is by now so far behind the field that it is starting to look like she isn’t even in the same race.

“Ruthie! Ruthie! Ruthie!  You’re a star! You did it! Woooohooo!”  

She rounds the corner and again refuses to ride down the slope, and slip-slithers her way back down.  The determination face is there again at the bottom.  She is going to finish this.

Rhoda and I hare back down to the finish area, waiting for the marshals to allow us to cross the course to get back.

Ruth is there, muddy, beaming ear to ear.  She came in last, and probably about a minute after the rest of the race finished, one lap down on most of the other participants, but she did it.  

I ask her what she might like as a treat for completing her first race.  She wants to watch the podium. She doesn’t say it, but I watch her as her friend Jake collects a medal and I can see on her face that she knows that one day that will be her on the podium.

Medals awarded, Ruth is back to business.  “Mummy, I have thought of what I would like. An egg sandwich.  And when we do this next week, I would like to win”.

"Next week?"  What?  We have to do this again?

Footnote: Ruth has indeed been Cyclocrossing again, on a brand new steed. As if we could stop her...

We are very grateful for the warm welcome (and cake!) we all received at the MK Bowl, from the Central Cyclocross League. You can find out more about the Central Cyclocross League on their website, and if you're elsewhere in the country, try the British Cycling website for Cyclocross events listings near you.

Riding The Hebridean Way

We're home, busy getting back into familiar, and less familiar, routines - this year seems to be one of those where the weather saw 'September' come up on the calendar and promptly flicked a switch! Sitting in front of a log fire with drab, autumnal rainfall outside, it's hard to believe that last week we were on the very edge of the United Kingdom, in relative warmth, if still a little damp at times. The unfortunate reminder is that the car boot still has panniers in it which need unpacking...

We left it properly late this year to hatch our plan for the summer, last year's bike theft having put paid to plans we had for 2016. As ever, it's been a year of change, with bigger children, new kit and new skills to accommodate. This time, with Thomas Ivor elsewhere, it was just the four of us, with the trailerbike rigs we shook down in Denmark back in May. Without the luxury of a trailer's 'boot' to stow bulky items in, we had to find a way of carrying a suitable tent for us all, in just panniers.

2014

2017

Late in the day (as in, we only really decided for sure once we were already on the M6!) it was unfinished business that drew us back to the Outer Hebrides, where we'd had to bail out half way through our journey in 2014 thanks to sunshine bringing strong headwinds as we made our way up the Uists. Could we make it all the way up the archipelago this time, with the girls out of their trailer and on their own pedals?

Over the next little while we will tell the story of our expedition, what we did and how we did it. We have kit and destinations to review, and as always, advice and opinions along the way about adventuring with children and the particular things that matter to us.

Can a four year old on a trailerbike rack up 200 miles in eight days, in all weathers, over wild terrain? Too right they can. Stick with us to find out how!

It's raining midges - crossing the Uists

Having spent a small fortune, we took our time to savour a later than usual start, waking as we did in proper beds with our panniers still largely packed on the bikes; our roomies, meanwhile, had left early. We were the last to leave Howmore at quarter past eleven, and even though the day was well on, boy, the midges were bad. Clouds of them outside the buildings (which we had to move between) and a shedload in the toilet. In discomfort and cheesed off, I attacked them with the air freshener to protect the few parts of me as yet unscathed, while I used the facilities.

Ironically, the weather was dry and improving, which is often what happens when we see a dodgy forecast and get ourselves under cover for the night. We posed for a picture and rushed to get moving, to give the midges a slightly harder time, setting out once more onto the (happily, quiet) spine road in very similar conditions to our previous visit. Passing the statue of Our Lady of the Isles, we remembered how a coach load of pensioners from Ayrshire stopped us and gave Thomas Ivor a big bunch of grapes, anxious that he had enough fuel for the task at hand!

Today was the point where we would start to break new ground, heading up the West coast of North Uist towards Berneray, rather than bailing out to Lochmaddy and Skye as we had to previously. The road off South Uist is really rather dour, and in our frustration at the expensive night out, the midges, the changeable conditions and slightly recalcitrant children, arguments broke out between Katie and me, mainly about pacing and every filming opportunity I tried to take being wrecked by rare but seemingly deliberate appearance of cars running through the shot!

Via a predictably unsuccessful otter-spotting stop at the causeway, we pushed ahead to the Co-op megastore in Benbecula. After the retail desert we'd been through, I was astonished to count seven tills and be able to pay with my watch for the first time in about a week! The weather, muggy and moist as it had been all morning, was warming up, and so the shopping, which had to be more expansive than usual because of the impending Sabbath and our proximity to Protestant islands, began with a round of ice creams. I cracked out the big seat pack to help stash extra shopping, thereby proving that if you can't decide between bikepacking and panniers, you can always use both.

The children were still in a funny mood when we got to Benbecula's war memorial for our planned lunch stop, previously the scene of the 'lady and the cake' incident where a man (possibly me) once dared to suggest to a lady cycle tourist (definitely Mummy) that we could "keep that cake for later". This time she was taking no such risks with her Tunnocks teacakes. Ruth proceeded to make her own contribution to a thus far rather chaotic day by wetting herself, whilst doing Vic Reeves impressions involving Jack Dee's face and a blacksmith's bum-bag. This scene may, or may not, reach the final edit of the film of our trip...

As we packed up to move on, a cyclist whom we recognised from the hostel the night before, stopped to say hello. He had done the loop of North Uist and was on his way back to Howmore. I must confess I was secretly rather jealous of the ground he'd covered - touring with the children has been a serious change of pace from going out on my road bike at home most days over the past few weeks.

Crossing the causeway to North Uist, our hearts sank as we saw a Police car in the distance, blue lights on and apparently waiting patiently for us to reach them. We debated what they might be picking on us for, but when we got to them, they turned out to be guarding a rather mysterious crime scene!

Berneray, our 'stretch target' for the day, was starting to look a long way off and Katie was in search of a toilet - a proper one, she insisted; not a cycle tourist's one. Right on cue, we waved back to a man cutting the grass at the church whose car park we had sat in to feed Rhoda and plan our bailing out move to Lochmaddy in 2014. We decided to ask him for advice about where we could go to church tomorrow, and came away having had a tour of the church (including the toilet, much to Katie's relief) and, to our collective relief, a suggestion for wild camping, not too far from the Sound of Harris ferry - within sight of the gentleman's house, it transpired.

Quite how and why, since the spine road runs continuously across the islands, we knew not, but the local traffic was palpably more friendly on North Uist; it seems to rub off on the visiting drivers. who were treating us rather more gently. Rhoda's interactions with passing cars become more smiles, waves and 'thank yous' and fewer grumpy faces for close-passing vehicles. Taking the West side of the island, it was time to crack on and hit our first new roads since Vatersay. Almost in celebration of this fact, very shortly afterwards Rhoda suddenly decided she would start pedalling forwards continuously for the first time ever. Jelly babies all round! It's amazing how, when you're touring by bicycle, your children hit all sorts of developmental milestones, and I am sure that in many cases the experiences and opportunities that are coming their way when we're on the road are directly contributory to their progress. After many frustrating trips to the bandstand, Rhoda had cracked pedalling when we least expected it - and she was loving it! 

North Uist was a stunning island not quite having the best of days thanks to the iffy weather, and the exceptionally violent midges. Mistaking one for the other, I stopped to film Katie, thinking it was starting to rain, before realising that the 'rain' was biting me all over! There were some very long straight runs, and behind us as I turned to film, views of what we presume were the mountains on the east coast of South Uist in the distance.

Whether it was the results of the effort from the pedalling, or the performing for the other road users, or both, or as it turns out with hindsight possibly a dose of the lurgy, Rhoda was flagging as the miles racked up, and we rounded the North West corner of the island. A 'nodding off session' had us rather concerned but she rallied after some jelly babies and stroopwafels. The weather was still and pleasant though cloudy, but dark clouds were rolling in and we needed to get a squirt on, find the promised camp site and get the day done with, if we were to be suitably rested for a church service and a ferry crossing the next day.

The disparity in our pace continued and in the end we decided (well, I remember a group decision; Katie is less convinced) that I would get the hammer down a bit, spend some tokens and get to the proposed camp site, so as to check all was well and get Rhoda and myself under cover before she revisited her 'can I sleep on the back of the trailerbike' game, to which we felt sure the answer was likely to be, 'NO'. Just sometimes, we miss the trailer! Rather than being constrained by tired children, in the old days we'd have been able to wrap the girls up in their blankets, get them comfortable and push on into the evening, probably making really good time. Not only does your kit solution seem to change every year, the dynamics of personal needs and the ability to make progress change so much from tour to tour, as well.

I found the road end where the man from the church lived and just as promised, there was a flat patch of grass with a lovely view overlooking the bay we'd just ridden round. I took a quick screen grab of our grid reference off the Ordnance Survey app, to help us locate it again. As it happened, Katie and Ruth had got a squirt on, too, and came in close behind. We sadly saw little of the beautiful spot we'd hurriedly pitched overlooking, because the midges got bad soon after we arrived, and apart from scurrying out to boil water and fry scallops (the location having some culinary benefits, as ever!), we stayed inside and got to bed. Rhoda was decidedly off colour; we dosed her with Calpol and got some sugar into her. I swapped inner tents and shared with Ruth so Katie, the more reliable of the two of us at actually waking when the children need us, could keep an eye on Rhoda.

I remember looking at my watch having stirred, at 0330 and apart from some rain having developed, and an aeroplane flying over, which had likely woken me, all was well again. For now, at least...