A long day out - Ironman Lanzarote 2004

(Swim 2.4 miles, Bike 112 miles, Run 26.2 miles)

It started the way of all Jez’s daft ideas, in the New Inn. Sitting there on the right side of 8 pints, he convinced me that not only super fit athletes race Ironman triathlons but that a fat bastard could also get round if he tried hard enough ...… don’t you just wish you were deaf some times!

About to start a solo practice lap of the swim course a week before the race it didn’t seem such a clever idea at all. It didn’t seem too bad to start with, out to the first buoy, nice sandy bottom, clear water and no fish. Then as the bottom disappeared the dodgy fishy things started appearing (you can never trust fish, it’s the beady eyes; they never blink or look away). Eventually turning back towards the start the sandy bottom was regained for a more enjoyable plod home. I had to concede to Martine that perhaps it had been 1900m after all not the 5km it looked initially.

went for several short rides on the week leading up to the race including some fantastic descending practice off Mirador del Rio, where hitting 58mph saw me go whizzing past another Brit with the same idea, who’d set of two minutes before me. Just goes to show fat bastards roll faster.

I decided that a run on the course might be a good idea as well … how wrong can you be? I soon discovered that my Achilles tendon doesn’t like running on concrete and I could barely walk the next day. A few desperate text messages flew back to Gillian (a physio) to see what could be done; gentle spinning on the bike and massive doses of Ibuprofen (the latter 4 x normal doses against her wishes I might add) were the only hope. Hobbling around each night to look at where the viewing stands & transition area were being set up I reconciled myself to just doing the swim and bike sections of the race and a DNF.

Race day:- Up at 04:30, just as a pair of drunks roll in to their apartment 3 doors down from us. Staggering down under a mountain of bags to leave in the transition area, it’s a bizarre scene; piss artists rolling out of the bars at 5am as loads of fit looking triathletes and the fat bloke from Ashbourne start setting up their gear. One of us has got it wrong……

Meet some people from the Chester Triathlon Club who are looking just as pensive as me as they get into their wetsuits. Talking to a woman called Sally I suggest she should be in the ladies start 10m in front of the masses. “No way” she replies, “I’m not having 800 people swim over me”. Having decided that I’m probably going to die in the first 160m to the turn anyway, I go for starting near the front. The hooter sounds and all hell lets loose; end up swimming the first 300m head up, there is no way I was getting my head kicked off. A couple of slower swimmers get in the way (yes I did swim over them), then it all settles down. Trying to concentrate on swimming nice long easy strokes, I emerge after the first lap in 33 mins and it’s off to do lap 2. By this time the swimmers are well strung out but after an uneventful 2nd lap, I emerge from the water in 1:06:00 … that will do me nicely thanks.

Wetsuit off under the showers and a stagger up the beach for 100m leads to a mass of bags hanging up. Find my bike bag and change into cycling kit (I’d already worked out I maybe out there for some time, so I might as well be comfortable). The nice lady plasters me in sun lard before it’s off to play hunt the bike amongst the other 800 odd. Luckily it was where I’d left it but I didn’t appreciate the 400m trot to the bike mount line.

5 minutes up the road it soon became apparent my hamstrings were really tight, the only option was to keep going and hope they loosened up. Flew pretty well over the first 20 miles to the aid station. The energy drinks provided were weakly mixed and the bottles weren't full but luckily it wasn’t hot enough yet to matter. Went screaming down the Yaizi bypass (proving lard wins again) and onto the El Golfo loop, where I started to struggle a little but got the nice views over the sea and lava. At the next aid station it was the same story with the drinks bottles, so I decided to save the remaining bottle of my own stuff until just before the bigger climbs and take on board extra bottles of the drinks provided by stuffing a 3rd bottle in a shirt pocket.

The climb up past the camels at Timanfaya seemed to go on and on, nothing steep but it just dragged on into the wind. I was hoping to see Martine & Joe near the volcano visitor centre but there was no sign of them. With about 40 miles gone I started feeling quite low, as I wasn’t maintaining a decent average speed. Seeing the girlies cheering on a corner was a boost but it was short lived as the route turned inland past what we’d christened sand blast beach (where the sand blowing in the wind sticks to sun cream & sweat to form a lovely grinding paste for the rest of the ride). The temperature was soon starting to climb as the road sloped upwards at a deceptive angle for about 5 miles towards Teguise. Here the aid station was just water only and having taken a couple of bottles on board I started demolishing the energy drink I’d been carrying ready for the longest climb.

The 21km long climb of Haria is on closed roads and starts easily enough, but after a few hairpin corners gets steeper until the final 2 corners and drag to the top past the wind farm, into a howling gale. By this stage my back was killing me and I starting to realise more fully what I’d let myself in for.

At the top (about 60 miles in) I had to pause to collect a special feedbag, which contained only the items you’d placed in it. Having reread the race info just before the start I’d put another couple of drinks bottles in the bag … a real bonus as there were no drinks available and more than a few people who’d not read the race info properly were not best pleased especially as it was 20 more hilly miles to the next aid station.

A screaming downhill followed, with some tight hairpins cut into the rock. The descent proved a little trickier than expected when I rode through a cloud of flying biting things. Beating my chest like Tarzan finally squashed the things inside my shirt but I could have done without it. The road continues to the top end of Lanzarote scaling the climb of Mirador del Rio, it’s not quite steep as Derbyshire’s Winnates Pass but not far off. For some reason I was feeling strong all of a sudden and managed to pass a few other riders on the steep bits plus a couple who were pushing their bikes. Disappointingly, I only got to 56mph on the descent this time, then it was on to what turned out to be a character building ride along the coast road. For the best part of 15 miles it was time trial mode along the flat but empty road, nobody else in sight in either direction, baking hot & not a breath of wind to cool the 80F heat.

Reaching the roundabout where the closed section finishes, the girls were there again cheering and waving the union flag. From here, the route climbs in towards the middle of the island but now there was too much wind, in fact enough to slow me to less than 8mph for around 3 miles. But by now I was counting down the miles to the end and they seemed to be falling fast, 40, 30, uphill at 25 past a Brit sitting on a crash barrier who said he couldn’t carry on. I told him to get back on but checking the results he never did.

Shoving yet more Ibuprofen down as I rode down the seafront past 1000’s of people (all whom seemed to be British, and were probably last nights drunks starting the afternoon session), I decided that I didn’t really want to get a DNF and I’d at least try and start the run. All what could possibly go wrong walking a marathon starting at 2pm on a shadeless course in 85-90F heat after 7hours 10 mins of cycling & 3000m of ascent?

I’ll swear that transition area is a time warp. I went in, wiped the road dirt & shit off with a damp towel, got changed, got slapped with sun tan lard and went out. There were people in before me who were still in after I left but someone stole 9 minutes off me! I still think it was about 3 minutes.

Leaving transition, I had to try to run, there was no option; two stands full of people watching & cheering, you just can’t walk. Just out of sight of the stands someone had built a replica of Mount Everest whilst I’d been out on the bike; the only option left was walk up it to the aid station. At this point an athlete would have bounded towards the finish line. However, it was here that my hamstrings decided they preferred a DNF to hours more suffering and would cramp up to halt proceedings. Stretching relieved them a bit and I walked on swigging flat coke, as I knew it had salt in. Joe appeared on the pavement I asked her to find some salt form somewhere.

I dropped in to a miserable routine of trotting a 100m and then having to walk a bit and started to think of the run as a series of short jogs & walks between picnics at the aid stations. Joe reappeared and slipped me a couple of sachets of salt as I headed towards the end of the first lap. After collecting the first coloured wristband, and walking up Everest again, the salt was chucked in more flat coke. The next 20 minutes were spent feeling really sick but then things started to improve, the jogs got longer and I started to pass a few other sufferers. Joe would appear on the pavement every few 100m to encourage me, then run off to pop up again further down as I struggled on. By the end she must have covered 18 miles herself in a mini skirt & union jack g-string.

I’d noticed that there were a lot of zombies with a 1000 yard stare on the run most of whom seemed to be on the 3rd lap of 4. It felt like the decent thing to do to join in; apparently Joe had pointed out the topless ladies on the beach … I didn’t see them, Martine saw me following a black line of tiles along the seafront, it weaved about a bit but as I was trotting along she didn’t say anything, then I’d convinced myself I was going to run out of time (“7 miles to go and only 5 hours left, it’s impossible!”) – basically I was in shit state but somehow the lap splits were getting faster.

Then suddenly having got the wristband for completing the 3rd lap, it dawned on me I could actually finish the race and maybe even not be last. Ritchie from Chester Tri mob passed going in the other direction and called out to slow down and we’d finish together. That was the kick up the arse I needed, there was one thought “you can **** off, I’m ahead and that’s how it’s staying”. The next lap was a bit of a blur apart from peeing up a palm tree with 3 others but by the end I was running something like properly and crossed the line on my fastest lap, trailing the union flag behind in 14:00:08. A handshake from the organiser & having the Ironman medal hung round next I staggered off to find the girls and my kit. Within 2 minutes I was asked if I’d do it again … the answer was (& still is) yes! Within in 5 minutes I was having my first beer for 5 months. Within 6 minutes I was sick on the pavement!

Russell