Lanzarote Information

Not yet dawn – a light wind and scudding clouds, I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever seen 6.30AM in Puerto Del Carmen.....possibly, but not after having been to bed! Navigating my way around the backstreets, hunting for a space to park - this is worse than Arrecife on a Saturday. Walking down the hill, I can hear loud music, a hum of conversation, railings in the middle of the road. There are the bikes, 800 of them, all neatly racked and waiting for their riders. Two bottles on each, containing exotic looking brews, strange brown biscuits taped onto the top tubes, spare inner tubes hanging from the saddles like udders, footless shoes clipped into pedals. Find a gap and get onto the beach side – there they are! A mass of arms and orange caps. God they’re swimming so fast! I expected a gentle breaststroke, but these guys are sprinting along, arms pumping, some breathing every four strokes. Lots of boats out there, jet skis and people on surf boards. Back across, into The Sports Bar for breakfast. Nobody downstairs.....hellfire! Upstairs is packed, every table with a list of British competitors. Great breakfast, the leaders are coming in for their bikes. Any Brits get a loud cheer from up here. Bit sad really, who cares where they come from – every one of these people should be cheered. Can’t believe the guys drinking pints of Guinness at 7.45 AM......must be real iron men. Let’s go down to the start line, one competitor stops and kisses a wife or girlfriend through the railings – we see her later drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette and biting her nails – she looks lonely and worried. Most of the riders are focussed, some smiling and relaxed, others even wave at the crowd and get a resounding cheer as their reward. Jules Weakley shouting into the microphone, paying far more attention to female competitors than male. A lost child being called over the PA system. Jules looks tired, I thought he was a breakfast DJ, he tells me it has been a hard week. They’re coming through in big waves now, thrusting from the start line, white with sun cream, not yet sweating. Out to sea, a lone swimmer, surrounded by surfboards. I can’t hear of course, but I’m sure the Red Cross guys on the boards are urging him on. The last arrivals collecting their bikes – walking like Thunderbirds puppets on their cycling shoes. These are the journey men and women, here not for glory, money or prizes – they just want to do it, and to be able to say one day that they did it. A lone female, looks older, heavy busted – she looks like she’s going to cry. Is she injured? Or has she messed up the swimming? The Race Director urges them all on – his enthusiasm as apparent as it was for the leaders.

Brilliant organisation at the start / finish line – some people are on their laps running, others flying in on their bikes – all directed by the Club La Santa volunteers. Pretty girls handing out coloured string to identify which lap of the marathon they are on. Amazing contrasts, some runners are hardly sweating, they're smiling at the crowd, others look to be finished – zombies running on reflex alone. One man is simply walking – his eyes are hollow and aren’t focussing – somebody grab him please and get him to the medical tent. Three girls wearing bizarre hats and waving Danish flags – what is it about Scandinavians and alternative sports? They seem to be brilliant at stuff like World’s Strongest Man and this crazy triathlon event. Two young British boys talking “OK we’ll do our own Iron Kids tomorrow – ten lengths of the pool, bike to The Airport and back, then five laps of Las Villas – we’ll get my Dad to time us.”

The event has long been won, but even now there are people arriving on bikes to start the marathon. The circuit is still full. Many are barely running, they have adopted a soft-hipped shuffle. The stands are still full, almost everyone gets a cheer now as they either funnel into the finishing straight or grab another string for yet another lap. Mercifully cool now, and the wind’s dropped.

I’m home,....reflecting – it’s past midnight and the track is closed. An extraordinary day, full of extraordinary people. I have spent much of the day choked with admiration at their endeavours. Yes the “Elite” athletes are truly the endurance champions of our species, but the people who really stir my emotions are the ordinary folk, the waiter who has spent three months salary to buy his bike, the lady from England who couldn’t afford to come out to acclimatise and whose pale skin stood out ghost-like against the bulk of bronzed runners. I try to imagine what it feels like – I look online at the statistics to put this into perspective. Could I do this event? How much training would I have to do? I was always a good swimmer, almost made the Moscow Olympics – let’s look at their times........ my personal best for the 100 metres, multiplied by 3.8 KM.....that’s 44 minutes. Oh my God, they swum, in the sea, faster than I used to sprint in the pool. 38 personal bests and I still would only have come in fourth in the only part of the triathlon I could ever contemplate. The thought of doing that, then riding 180KM, then running a marathon puts my imagination into overload. Iron People, you truly have my respect.