There was something oddly familiar about lying on the flat of my back on the soft carpet floor of the Commodore Hotel in Cobh early last Sunday morning. A certain calmness, legs in the air, feet resting against the wall.

I’d picked a quiet corner, all to myself, and just lay there, gently leafing through the sports section of the Sunday paper, and it suddenly brought me back to my championship days. This was an old routine I’d do before any big race, my way of tuning out, trying not to worry about what lay ahead.

In those days my favourite spot was just behind a high-jump mat, a sort of hideout from the noise inside the stadium, again legs in the air, some light reading at hand to distract me.

This time it wasn’t a race but my first Olympic distance triathlon, and there was no pressure. Or so I kept telling myself.

Still, it felt like a real challenge, especially as I’d only committed to it about two weeks previous. Like most things, once I commit and my mind is made up, there is no going back. And occasionally that has been my downfall.

The Jailbreak Triathlon in Cobh is a little more challenging than most as the name might suggest: conditions weren't ideal either, and even if the morning started bright and sunny, the wind was clearly picking up, white caps appearing on the water as it moved across the harbour from Spike Island.

A few days before I had met a group of women from the Cobh Triathlon Club at Cuskinny, a local swimming area where I had spent many a summer day when growing up in Cobh. I was determined to pack in as much last-minute practice as possible on the bike, on the run, and in the cool waters surrounding Cobh harbour.

That swim was not for the faint hearted, but we all knew if we took the plunge into the rough seas and crashing waves we’d be prepared for anything on race day, and so it proved: the Sunday sea was challenging but no worse than what we had swam through on Friday.

Then there was talk the swim might be cancelled for safety reasons, such were the rough conditions. We waited around with bated breath, and then they announced it would go ahead; so we cheered, then looked at each other, wondering are we all completely mad or what?

Turning up for a triathlon is nothing like turning up for a road race. There is a lot of prep work, racking your bike in the transition area, lining up the bike shoes and running shoes for a speedy change from one discipline to the next.

On Sunday the transition area also closed early as we all had to be ferried across to the start area on Spike Island. It was also getting more and more blustery as we boarded the ferry, everything thinking, well, there’s only one way back now.

There was still time to sit on the shore and contemplate what lay ahead, and again I found myself lying quietly back, awaiting the final call to the start. This is also the time to summon some quiet confidence that this is achievable.

Waves lashing over me

I was confident enough about the 1.5km swim, despite the conditions, although this didn’t last long, the pier in Cobh seeming so near and yet so far.

Even about 100m out I thought I’d never get there, the waves lashing over me and then against the pier. Concentrating as hard as possible, I got there, clambered on to the pier alongside the promenade.

Everything after that would be better, or so I thought.

The sun was out too, and I made a quick transition from the wetsuit into the dry cycling shoes, all set for the 40km ride. I'd already cycled the Rebel Tour on the Saturday, and even though I was being conservative I took several minutes off my time of 2015. Then it's hard being conservative cycling over the Healy pass and on to Glengarriff, the finish line in sight, feeling fitter and stronger the longer the cycle went on.

So I had no fear about going my hardest over 40km between Cobh to Glanmire and back. There is an advantage as well in knowing every inch of the road, every incline and descent, as I had travelled it so many times.

The wind was buffeting riders from side to side, so there was very little relief once you left the island in either direction.

There’s no drafting in the triathlon at this level either, which means everyone has the head down, chasing any riders that come into view. I took on some snacks and drinks with no worries about getting to the finish as quickly as possible, then straight into my running shoes for the final 10km.

Only it hit me, from the very first stride, my legs never feeling so disconnected from my body. I thought the Great Pink Run was the hardest 10km of my life, two weeks previous, only this was an entirely new level of discomfort. For most of my life I could glide along, without a care in the world, only now I was struggling to lift one foot over the other.

Familiar Cobh landmarks

The run was four laps along the water’s edge, and then back on the low road, past the Garda station, the train station and heritage centre, all very familiar Cobh landmarks.

For the first two laps it felt like every muscle in my legs was screaming. On lap three I met Karen from the Piranha Triathlon Club in Dublin, bouncing along and happy to chat, so we ran together for a bit, and that certainly helped. Then it was the final lap and, like the good old days, the mental games were over, the energy started to flow again, and no stopping now.

Heading along the road and into the finish I read the names of triathlon clubs from all over Ireland, and felt a little like a fraud dressed in Cobh Triathlon gear. I’ve always loved to swim and to cycle and to run, but this was certainly a new lesson in stringing them all together.

I’m not sure running will ever feel good after swimming and cycling, but at least I’ve set myself a standard.

And with a little more preparation and knowledge maybe it won’t feel so difficult because I’ve certainly caught the bug.