My Two Provinces Triathlon: Older, Slower, but Still Claiming the Paella

My triathlon training regime has, shall we say, matured over the years. I’ve been subjecting myself to this sport for nineteen years now. In my glory days, I used to train two or three times a day—swimming at dawn, bike-commuting to work, and squeezing in a long run before bed. Nowadays, my sixty-something-year-old body would protest loudly if I tried that. Instead, my “rigorous” daily prep consists of a 60-minute morning session of swimming, running, or a slow combination of both. As for my cycling? That’s strictly limited to my twice-daily commute across the immense, harrowing distance of 3km each way.

In short: I am firmly in the “completer” category, miles away from being the “contender” that I used to aspire to be, and I’ve made my peace with that.

Which brings me to the Two Provinces Triathlon—a race that suits my particular athletic profile beautifully. There are no terrifying ocean waves, no soul-destroying, heart-breaking hills on the bike, and no unexpected cruelties on the run. It has been a personal favourite for years, so I was delighted to see it win Triathlon Ireland’s “Triathlon of the Year Award 2025.” They deserve every bit of it.

Why I Keep Coming Back (apart from the Food)

For starters, it’s a civilised two-hour drive from Dublin. With registration open until 10:00 AM, you can roll out of bed at a reasonable 7:30 AM without questioning your life choices. The road trip—spent in the company of my coach and his son—flew by in a blur of pre-race chatter and lofty tactical delusions.

The venue itself is rural Ireland at its absolute finest. Lanesborough is a classic small Irish town surrounded by lush green countryside. The swim takes place in a quiet offshoot of the Shannon, followed by a flat, out-and-back 20km bike sprint on closed roads, and a lovely run through forestry and quiet country lanes.

The weather this year was idyllic: gentle breezes and sunshine masked by patchy clouds. We all slathered on the sunblock like wall-plaster—because it’s bad enough limping around with screaming joints after a race, but doing it with a second-degree sunburn would just be idiotic.

What really sets this race apart, though, is the town itself. The entire community gets behind it. Friendly stewards were stationed everywhere, making sure directionally challenged competitors like me didn’t end up in another county, shouting warm encouragement, and keeping the energy high. The local triathlon club even donates to the local Tidy Towns committee every year—a perfect example of the “we’re all in this together” spirit that small Irish towns do so well.

Add to that a roaring sound system, an MC who somehow made all 700 of us feel like elite athletes, and a hot, glorious plate of seafood and chicken paella waiting at the finish line, and you have a world-class event.

my Execution of the race: A Comedy of Errors

As for my own performance? Let’s just say my inner GPS needed a re-calibration.

• The Swim: My plan was to carve a straight, hydrodynamic line between the marker buoys. My body had other ideas, drifting aimlessly with the gentle currents. My Garmin watch later revealed I had swum 880 metres instead of the actual 750 metres. Naturally, I’m blaming the watch for my dismal swim time, rather than my complete inability to sight in a straight line.
• Transition 1: Stumbling out of the water like a beached sea creature, I immediately executed a classic rookie error: I lost my own bike. I spent two frantic, embarrassing minutes wandering through the transition area searching for it, confirming my long-held suspicion that I am, on occasion, a total idiot.
• The Bike: Once on two wheels, things went smoothly—until I suffered the ultimate humiliation. A motorbike marshall pulled up alongside me and flashed a yellow card. Drafting! A 30-second penalty! You’re supposed to stay five metres behind the bike ahead, but with 700 cyclists jockeying for space, I found myself trailing too close – two metres – behind another rider. Caught red-handed by the referee. Guilty as charged, I’m afraid.
• Transition 2: Miraculously, T2 went off without a hitch, allowing me to sneak past a few rivals and head out on foot for the final 5K of the race.
• The Run: This is where my hubris truly caught up with me. My adult daughter had recently run a 5k personal best at a blistering 4:43/km pace. Sitting at home beforehand, my bossy brain decided that my usual, sensible 5:15/km pace was just a mental weakness, and that I, too, would run a 4:40 pace—regardless of what my joints, muscles and cardiorespiratory system thought. Predictably, my body staged a full mutiny. The 27°C heat combined with a steady, unrelenting uphill gradient for the first half of the race put a swift end to my ego. I dragged myself across the line at a 4:59/km pace, completely spent, with all hubris fully thrashed out of me.
• The Finish:  As I crossed the line, the MC blasted over the speakers: “And here’s Pete the Vet—remember him from Ireland AM all those years ago?!” There was no possibility of me blending into the background at that stage.

And just like that, the pain was over. I immediately plunged back into the cool waters of the Shannon to extinguish my flaming muscles, before heading off to devour my well-earned paella alongside forty fellow members of the Wicklow Triathlon Club and the rest of the “completers” of the day’s racing.

It was a brilliant day out.

Is a triathlon work or play? I’m still not entirely sure. It certainly feels like hard labour while you’re out there on the asphalt, but standing around with a plate of paella, surrounded by good people, it’s about as good as play gets.

Huge thanks to the Two Provinces team for hosting such a fantastic event. I’ll definitely be back next year—though hopefully, I’ll manage to find my bike a bit faster.