I am lying in bed with the curtains open, it’s a beautiful sunny morning on the east coast of Ireland, the sort of morning that puts a bounce in your step and has you leaping out of bed excited about the day ahead. For a few moments anyway. Because from my bed I can see the waves of the Irish Sea crashing in on the coastline, and I remember – it’s open sea swim training tonight!

Oh God, I hate it, not even the glorious sunshine can make the murky deep waters look appealing. That is my day ruined, as I will spent the next 11 hours thinking about it, dreading it, thinking of reasons not to go; if only my wife would go into labour this afternoon, OK, so she would be five weeks early and there would be obvious stress involved, but I wouldn’t have to swim tonight … crack open the raspberry tea and let’s get the labour going!

Ordinarily I wouldn’t be so opposed to it, but I had my first sea swim last week and it was hell. I entered the water screaming like a woman who has just had her handbag nicked. As the icy liquid hit my groin my shouts could be heard in the Welsh valleys across the Irish Sea. Thankfully, my training partner was feeling the same, so off we went. I couldn’t feel my hands or feet and I had the type of brain freeze only experienced if you demolish two litres of slurpee in one go.

Alongside me Darren felt it was getting warmer, and he was getting faster. Soon I was on my own and moving very slowly, I had taken on so much water that people relaxing on the Wicklow beach were able to walk to North Wales. After battling through 750 metres I chased Darren out of the water and jumped on my bike.

Transition is tough when you can’t feel any part of your body, isn’t it?

10k into our bike session the age difference between young Darren and I was beginning to show. While he worried about cadence or something else that I don’t understand, I worried about the fact that my testicles appeared to be residing in my stomach and I had to get home and cook tea for the kids and write a script and research my radio guests for the show that weekend.

Focus is clearly an issue for me!

Meanwhile Darren was looking forward to his 26th birthday and talking about love or something that people my age used to chat about!

Farewell my training friend, there is pasta to be cooked and nappies to be changed. That Saturday Darren finished 10th in the hotly contested Valencia triathlon, so well done to him.

I of course got a fresh chest infection after that swim and bike session, my third of the year. I never used to get sick, but the fitter I get the sicker I get … Hmmm! perhaps fat is good after all.

Two days later I was back in action, a little 10k. I thought I had broken my personal record with a very comfortable 36 minutes. I celebrated with a turbo session that night. But the next day I measured the run in my car and realised I was a full kilometre short! I am desperately in need of some ‘feel good’ at the moment.

It wasn’t to come at the track session. I have missed a few and it really showed; 4 x 1000m at 8.5, with a quick 400 to round it off, I was beaten into second on the line and subtly threw up!

The following day I dumped my training schedule to play football with the fat lads, nothing like chasing around a load of chubby old boys to boost your ego. Back to the pool the next morning for a 1500, and then a load of drills.

Saturdays are a non runner for me, I usually have a hangover and I always have a radio show to do. This week’s live guests were the brilliant, Tiny Dancers, good music to train to I reckon. And that was the end of training week, as Sundays are a family day, the most difficult and tiring session of the week!