Swimming the English Channel

I just want to say Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all those

Sandycove/Ireland open water swimmers I have met over the last 2

years. As some of you will know, I managed a successful solo Channel

swim this summer and many of you in Ireland played a pivotal part in

that. I have written a short-ish piece about my training experience

which I would like to share with the group (see below). Sorry I

haven't mentioned you all by name but you know who you are!

Thank you all and see you some time soon in 2010 for a dip.

Carl Richards

During July 2007 I was feeling restless – I had completed the

Sheffield Half Marathon in May and hadn’t done much exercise since. I

had hated every minute of the training and the actual running of the

‘race’ (as far as I was concerned I hadn’t been in a race with other

people, just for survival!) and even when I crossed the line I didn’t

feel any of the things one should feel after such a gruelling event.

The only thing I had enjoyed during training and the race was the

feeling of well being and general good health but I could not bring

myself to pull on those running shoes again. So, I needed to do

something else to keep fit and to challenge myself. The only other

practical sport I could think of doing was swimming but I knew that I

would not be able to drag myself out of bed of a dark winter’s morning

unless I had an end goal.

Then I went to a barbecue in the country at the house of some family

friends. One bottle led to another and the next thing I knew my friend

and I were on the internet researching how to go about an attempt to

swim the English Channel! Even when the gentle alcoholic haze had

subsided a couple of days later I knew that this was going to be my

next big challenge and I got into the pool for the first time in 5

years. And it felt good.

After some more research I got in touch with some experienced open

water swimmers, Ned Denison and Nick Adams who then and ever since

proved to be an invaluable knowledge source and a great support. I

very quickly found out that I was not just taking on a challenge but

joining a community. Over the next two years the advice and spirit of

this community would get me through the inevitable times of doubt,

exhaustion and fed upness.

For the next 2 years I would get out of bed at between 5 and 6 am 4

times a week and either go to my local Virgin Active 20 meter Pool

(frustrating, having to turn every 14 strokes) or to Tooting Bec Lido

(open air, unheated and the best way to start any day). And then some

longer swims at the weekend. There were plenty of times when I just

wanted to turn over when the alarm went off and go back to sleep but I

knew the more I did that the less likely I was to make it across the

Channel, so I just kept on getting up and fighting the Demons.

My first real open water swimming experience came in Ireland in June

2008, a place called Union Hall. I met up with a bunch of local open

water swimmers, Ned amongst them, and swam just over a kilometre

across the beautiful natural harbour. I did not cover myself in glory

– it was colder than I expected and not a little scary – this open

water swimming game was going to be harder than I expected.

I returned to Ireland for the River Lee Swim in July – 2 kilometres

this time but I had gained more confidence and finished the course in

about 41 minutes. So, I was getting used to open water swimming and

improving my swim times, my confidence was up!

My next proper open water swimming experience was on a swimming

holiday to The Isles of Scilly in the summer of 2008 – nothing too

taxing but it got me closer to the experience I was going to have in

the Channel – cold and choppy! It was on this trip that I met Carl

Reynolds, who was going to become pivotal in my training for the next

year. After we met In Isles of Scilly, Carl became my training partner

– he would come to the Lido and really push me to swim harder and then

he attended all the other swim camps I went on and ultimately headed

up the crew on the day of my swim – a true friend indeed and an

awesome swimmer.

Then after a second hard winter of early morning swims I went on a

Long Distance Training Camp to Gozo, just off Malta, in April 2009.

This was where I was going to extend my experience of sea swimming but

more importantly (hopefully) complete my 6 hour qualifying swim for

the Channel – if I didn’t manage this then my chances of crossing at

my first attempt were going to be seriously compromised.

Again, I met a great bunch of people who just happen to love swimming

very far in the open water and in temperatures that most people

wouldn’t put their hands in (15C). It was a brilliant 5 days, apart

from all the jellyfish, where I pushed myself further than I had ever

pushed myself before. Crucially, I made my 6 hour qualifying swim. And

it felt good – no physical or mental exhaustion and a real feeling

that I had swum within myself – there was a lot more in the tank.

So, I was prepared for the ‘official’ beginning of the open water/

Channel swimming season, the first Bank Holiday in May in Dover

Harbour. For the past 30+ YEARS, Freda Streeter and a small band of

dedicated volunteers have been the focal point for any Channel

swimming aspirant within driving distance. Freda and The Beach Crew

spend every single Saturday and Sunday (+ Bank Holidays) from the

beginning of May until the end of September sitting on the beach (in

all weathers) training people to achieve their dream of swimming the

Channel. They do not ask for money or material reward and sometimes

they don’t even get a simple thank you at the end of the day – but

they are always there.

So, from the beginning of May until the middle of June I would get up

on a weekend day morning and drive myself down to The Harbour and with

50 – 60 other aspirants, Relay & Solo, throw myself into the murky

waters and swim between the harbour walls. Initially, as it was still

around 10C, we would do short stints of 20- 30 minutes, but things

soon ratcheted up and by the end of May we were in there for up to 4

hours. For the first time I found myself not completing a challenge

that had been set for me – I couldn’t finish the first 3, or 4 hour

swim – it was just too cold! I was re-assured by Freda and The Beach

Crew that it would get better and within a month I would be doing 6

hour swims without any trouble. I was not convinced.

Then came the opportunity for me to go on a 2 week Training Camp in

Cork, South West Ireland organised by Ned Denison from the Sandycove

open water swimming community. It was the last 2 weeks of June and the

water would be cold and rough, ideal preparation for anybody who

wanted to “train hard, fight easy”. I duly packed myself off to Cork

and swam 100 km in 2 weeks in all sorts of conditions – the most

challenging day was the middle Sunday during which we did a 6 hour

swim in 13C water. Kevin Murphy, The King of The Channel (so called

because he has completed The Channel Swim 34 times!) told me after

that swim that at 2 hours he had doubted whether he could complete it

due to the cold and also, if I could do that swim then I could

definitely swim The Channel – a real fillip!

I can’t emphasise enough how important the Cork Training Camp was to

my preparation – Ned is tough but fair and took us to some beautiful

(and wild) spots to make sure that we were as prepared as possible for

what could be a brutal day in The Channel. But, Ned was always willing

to put an arm around the shoulder and give encouragement when it was

needed. Being around other swimmers far better than me helped also –

once again the camaraderie was truly inspiring.

When I returned from Cork it was back to the previous routine, 3 or 4

early morning swims during the week and then down to The Harbour at

stupid ‘o clock at the weekends. But, it was the final stretch so I

knew that the day would come when it would be my turn to take the

challenge. The weekend sessions became even more intense, a 7 hour

swim on Saturday, drive home, be a husband and father (not doing

either well I am sure), up early on Sunday, down to The Harbour for a

6 hour swim and then drive home again. This very quickly took its toll

– driving home (on my own for once) after a 7 hour swim I started to

feel tired and started to think about pulling off the motorway and

catching some shut eye. The next thing I knew I was being woken up by

the rumble strip next to the central reservation, I clipped the

barrier with my wing mirror and rear right wing, then had a blow-out.

Instinct kicked in and I managed to wrestle the car over to the hard

shoulder without hitting any other cars or being hit. I was lucky and

I learnt a valuable lesson about not driving when tired.

Finally my tide arrived, July 26th – August 6th, and as long as the

weather held out this was going to be it, my Channel attempt. I had

prepared my feeds (a carbo drink called Maxim – essential as the body

cannot replenish lost energy quickly enough after 6 or 7 hours and it

starts to eat itself), jelly babies, chocolate; then lots of grease

(not goose fat as virtually everybody thought); and my crew had

assembled – my father, a doctor whose expertise I was hoping not to

rely on, 2 friends from Uni, a guy from my first ever sales job, and a

guy who I had befriended on the Isles of Scilly trip. Apart from my

father, the meanest people I knew (in the nicest possible way), guys

who I knew would not let me out even if I was crying into my goggles –

it was essential that they showed me no quarter if my resolve

weakened.

Then, on Thursday 30th July, I called my Pilot, Neil Streeter, the guy

who with his boat was going to guide me across the busiest shipping

lane in the world. And it was a go for Friday morning at 5.30. I duly

emailed my very understanding boss, Lindsey Roberts, and then went

home to bed for the afternoon. I woke up for an hour in the evening to

eat (pasta, of course), went back to bed and then woke again at 2.30.

Four of us hopped into the car and hot-footed it down to Dover (me

snoozing on the way).

It was great to see some friendly faces from The Harbour and the

various training camps in the Marina – it was going to be quite a day

for us. Myself and the crew got on the boat in very short order and

we were soon pootling out of the marina and under the White Cliffs of

Dover. I was to have a classic start, from Shakespeare Beach. After

stripping down to my Speedos and donning my cap and goggles (Channel

Swimming rules dictate that men are only allowed to wear the briefest

of briefs, a cap, goggles and grease) and with an enthusiastic send

off from the crew I jumped into the refreshing water and swam to

shore. I went ashore, making sure to clear the water, turned round to

face France, signalled to the boat, the horn blasted and that was it –

I waded in and started to swim.

What a great feeling – this was it, after two years of training,

sacrifice and blathering on about it, I was going to swim to France,

from England. The first 20 minutes were surreal: a lovely dappled sky;

a gentle swell; and the ominous White Cliffs dominating my view every

time I took a breath to the right. Blissful – no more BS, this was it.

Then after 20 minutes I realised that France was rather a long way.

Such a long way in fact that I could not possibly swim that far. What

was I thinking? Did I really have the mental and physical strength to

swim for up to 17 hours? – No. And that was all I could think about

for the next 9 hours. Every time I looked at my crew I was convinced

that they were looking at me and thinking that I could not make it –

there was not one positive thought in my head. Then I started to think

about the email I was going to have to send to everybody telling them

that I had failed because I was just not up to the challenge – no

excuses, I was just too mentally and physically weak. I also started

to think about the first time I would see my family having failed; the

first time I would walk into work having failed, the first time I

would see my friends having failed; the first time I would see other

(successful) swimmers, having failed. It was relentless torture. I

knew the crew wouldn’t let me out if I told them so I just resolved to

touch the boat and disqualify myself so there would be no arguments.

But for some reason I kept putting one arm in front of the other.

I don’t think I will ever know why I kept swimming when everything in

my head was about stopping, maybe it was the hours and hours of

training through similar thoughts; or the fear of failure; or the fear

of the sense of shame I knew I would feel. Whatever it was, I kept on

going. I duly stopped for 20 – 25 seconds for my carbo drinks every 30

– 45 minutes, then just got my head down and carried on swimming. I

didn’t utter more than 10 words to the crew all the way across – I

knew if I got into a conversation with them I would tell them my

doubts and it would be all over.

Then after 9 or 10 hours of this almost literal Hell I asked for a

drink of tea instead of Maxim and it was almost as if a switch had

been hit. I looked up and I could see France almost within ‘touching

distance’ and the tea had an instant impact upon my mental well-being.

So, I got my head down and from that moment I knew I was going to make

it.

After another couple of hours and judging from the sun (ancient

mariner that I am) I thought it was about 5.30 and I figured I had

another 3 or 4 hours to go. And that was well within me. At this stage

the Pilot called me over to the boat for my feed and said, “I need you

to dig deep and pull hard. If you can do that I can get you in before

dark”. At least that is what I though he said – I figured that was

another 3 hours as I had been thinking. So, I took my feed, put my

head down and got on with it. After about 20 minutes I couldn’t

resist, I looked up. I couldn’t believe it – the shoreline was about

200 metres away. The Pilot had actually said, “I need you to dig deep

and pull hard. If you can do that I can get you HOME before dark” –

back to Dover. I was almost there and a massive grin broke out on my

face – tricky when you are swimming!

That last 200 meters was tough, the tide was beginning to turn and if

I didn’t hit Cap Gris Nez I would be swimming for a few hours more.

So, I put my head down and got on with it – after about 10 minutes I

was clambering ashore over some rocks and I had made it! I found the

biggest rock on the shore, stood on top of it, turned round to the

boat and screamed, “ I have just swum to f***ing France”. Classy and

just another reason we Brits are so welcome abroad. (In my defence I

don’t think there was anybody in earshot). Then I sat down on that

rock and burst into tears. Relief.

I then swam back out to the boat and was greeted with congratulations,

hugs and Champagne (unfortunately in that order). Before I knew it we

were on our way back to Blighty and it was all over.

I had swum from England to France in a time of 13 hours and 3 minutes

(664th fastest ever, and the 1030th person to achieve this feat, and

possibly the first black man with a nipple ring!).

Apart from having achieved so few human beings have ever achieved, I

think that what I am proudest of is that through the generosity of

family, friends, colleagues and my company I have managed to raise

over £10,000 for The Anthony Nolan Trust – so I want to thank all of

you for your emotional and financial support and one last time, please

check out the Trust website and considering getting yourself on the

register and maybe even contributing, my JustGiving page will be open

until the end of the year:

http://www.anthonynolan.org.uk/donating/

http://www.justgiving.com/carlrichards