Lanzarote Ironman - A Personal Perspective

It has been a privilege over many years to support our Island's biggest sporting event in some way. Between us, Julie and I have variously commentated on local radio, compiled statistics for listeners, provided safety cover in Kayaks, worked on aid stations, and have generally helped at Ironman in any way we could.

I have always been filled with admiration for the professional athletes in triathlon - they have honed their bodies to the point where they have evolved almost into a new species of endurance "being."

But for me the heroes have always been people like Darren the palm tree man, Manuel the waiter and Paula from Wales. Ordinary people like you and I. People who train for a year, who save as hard as they can to buy a decent bike, and who endure pain you cannot begin to even imagine. Just so they can one day say "I did it!"

As I lay in bed this morning, I replayed my own little personal movie of some of the things I saw yesterday. Each segment a small cameo. I'd like to share them with you:

Scene One

The sun is just beginning to lighten the sky. It's almost 7AM. The streets of Puerto del Carmen are full of people and there is an air of quiet and sleepy anticipation. Worried partners holding bicycle pumps and empty kit bags look tense. Over 1500 people are gathered at the ocean's edge, all wearing dark wetsuits and orange swim caps. The gun fires and they're away! Wave after wave leaping into the water and bobbing back up - they look like lemmings going over the edge. It takes fully 4 minutes for everyone to start swimming, and the leaders are away into the distance.

The Guardia Civil cutter powers into the bay, ostentatiously late for the start, as their colleagues hover above in the green and white helicopter. A small flotilla of boats, jet skis and kayaks support the swimmers as they plough along their 3.8KM circuit. I see one guy pulled out of the water by a boat after just 5 minutes, and never find out the story.

Scene Two

The first swimmers are out of the water - they jog under a shower, then dive into a tent to strip off their wetsuits. Most have their cycle and running suits on underneath. They are lathered with sun cream by a gaggle of giggling ladies and then they run into the transition area to collect their bikes. They have to run the length of the start / finish line before mounting their carbon fibre steeds, and  they look like marionettes as they try to jog in cycling shoes and keep their bikes upright one handed.

I see a German guy looking strong and powering down the straight. Five minutes later, he's being wheeled back down on a stretcher, breathing oxygen.

The bars across the road are full of spectators, the more rowdy ones may have been up all night. They clap and cheer and shout encouragement. Partners peer anxiously through the netted fencing, checking watches and wondering when their loved ones will appear.

I reflect that there must be well over €2 million worth of bikes in the racks. Some are bizarre looking machines, with solid wheels and huge tubes. The tyres are razor thin, and the frames are festooned with elaborate looking drinks and power gels.

The cyclists are embarking on a 180 KM ride around the island. They have some murderous hill climbs, a keen headwind and a temperature in the low 30's to look forward to. And the roads will not be closed, so they will also have to negotiate regular island traffic.

Scene Three

Back to the ocean. The swim cut off time is 9.20AM. Athletes who fail to emerge in that time are disqualified from the event. There are still two swimmers in the water at 9.10. The first of them may make it - he's surrounded by Red Cross guys on surfboards, gently encouraging him in Spanish. I suspect he can understand the support, but not the words. The commentator starts to whip up the crowd on the beach. "Come on Richard"!" they shout. Everyone knows he must get his feet onto the timing mat. He staggers out of the water at 9.18 to a huge cheer.

But further out, still 600 meters from the finish, there's one more swimmer. Julie is with him on her kayak. As the cut off time is passed, the judge's Zodiac closes in and tells him he's too late. They ask him to get into the boat, and he refuses. "I want to finish the swim!" The judge's boat backs away, and Julie brings him slowly to the beach. A few hundred of us wait at the waters edge. We cheer and clap him ashore as the paramedics fuss over him.

Scene Four

The first bikes are back into the transition area. Each cyclist arrives dripping with sweat, and several with bloody knees and hands where they must have taken a tumble. An ambulance pulls up with one casualty, who is taken straight into the well equipped medical centre, blood pouring from his nose and shoulders.

Bikes are handed to volunteers at the run, who re rack them, then it's into the changing area to swap cycle shoes for running shoes, and to be plastered in more sun cream. Some have to stop at the massage tent to have their muscles loosened. Others dive into the toilets, everyone takes fluid on board.

They embark on their 42.2 KM marathon along the sea front. The temperature climbs into the mid 30's and the wind drops.

Scene Five

We walk the first 6KM of the route towards the food station we are going to help at. Runners pass us all the way, some heading back from their first lap. They have their first names on their number bibs, so we shout encouragement and share a little banter with them. All along the route, there are crowds of people watching, some swathed in flags, many wearing special T Shirts or fancy dress.

A hotel has set up chairs on the route and is playing some great music through their PA system as their residents watch the race, while drinking cool Sangria.

Scene Six

We're on the food station, with a big group of friends who are helping out. We've all donned our volunteers T Shirts and we're preparing and serving oranges, bananas, cola, energy drinks, water, sponges and power gels. We're up close and personal with the athletes, often having to run alongside them to hand them whatever they want. In no time at all, we're covered in spilt cola, wet through and sticky.

Darren the palm tree man comes through. Julie runs with him some of the way. He's doing OK, but his feet are a mess. He's doing Ironman for his Dad, who contracted cancer.

She does the same for Paula. She's a forty something lady from Wales and she's going quite well. She retains her sense of humour as she jokes that she's bored of the view from our food station already. I offer to take my shirt off next time she comes around, and she laughs.

Alberto the bank manager comes past in his pink running suit. He looks tired. He pours iced water over himself, conscious that he's over heating. A bunch of UK fire fighters are running - this must have seemed such a good idea when they planned it in the pub one night. Maybe not now, but they are still going.

We laugh at how polite the Brits are. We stand holding our wares, shouting what we have: "Power Gel, Cola, water, ice!" and they grab what they need, most without a word.  The Brits end up going down the line saying: "No thanks, no thanks, water please...thank you very much!"

We're a rowdy station and we have good fun with each other and encourage everyone loudly. Several comment as they come through, telling us we've been awesome, and thanking us for our support. It feels good.

Some remain fit and focused, but many now have that haunted, hollow look I have seen before. The race is beating them, and many will be taken back to the start line in an ambulance.

Exhausted, sticky and wet after four hours on our station, we hand over to the next team. It's 8PM and the sun is finally setting. The roads are still full of runners, although the pros have long since finished.

Scene Seven

It's now 11.00PM and the race cut off is an hour away. We're back to the start and finish line. It's brightly lit by the TV cameras. Kenneth Gasque, who brought Ironman to Lanzarote is there, as he has been since the start of the day. Every person crossing the line gets a hand shake and a "Well done" from him as they receive their medal. He's been on his own personal marathon today.

People are crossing the line all the time still. Those who have walked through the pain, find it in themselves to sprint the last 50 meters, often joined by their husbands or wives and kids. The police who were strictly enforcing the "Nobody apart from athletes on the track" rule now ignore it with wry smiles. Several burst into tears as they cross the line, it's all I can do to stop myself from doing the same. Many are taken into the medical tent for rehydration, and several are wandering around looking lost, wrapped up in blankets. There's a big crowd at the HQ tent as people try to check their times.

I see one guy wheeling his bike out of the compound and shake his hand, clapping him on the back, which makes him wince. He has his three kit bags around his shoulders. "Where are you going nowl?" I ask. "Home." He says "I have to cycle there, but it's only 15KM." As he cycles off, he shouts over his shoulder "Hasta la proxima, amigo." Indeed, until next year. I'll be there.

You can read much more detail on the race itself here: Lanzarote Ironman 2010 results.