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The Swim - 7.00am
A few intrepid swimmers took to the water like demons out of Hades whilst the rest of us waded into the water until the field had spread out. In South Africa they have an annual phenomenon where millions of sardines flock up the east coast of Africa along the ocean in swathes of shimmering black. Camera-men in their helicopters capture images of the sardine run, whilst the locals wade into the water scooping sardines in their nets. For a few minutes I experienced what it must feel like to be one of those sardines.

Arms thrashed and torsos twisted in a wonderful ballet of chaos. I concentrated on relaxing and going with the flow until I was confident enough to put my head into the water without fear of being hit in the face by a stray foot or fist. The cacophony of swimmers entangled in each other lasted for several hundred metres beyond the first turning buoy, until at last I was able to get into a steady rhythm.

Struggling to breathe on both sides, I settled into breathing on my left keeping an eye on the buoys and the other on the swimmers around me. I looked for a pair of heels to draft off but struggled to find anything suitable. The odd swimmer would grab at my leg but on the whole most people were polite.

The course was a two-looped rectangular course of 1.9kms with its long side parallel to the beach. The swimmers exit the water after the first loop and run around a marker on the beach, over a timing-mat and head back into the water for the second loop. I wasn’t exactly certain as to how long it would take me to do a loop but I aimed for about 37 minutes per loop, which would bring me home in a comfy time of 1:14.

Turning to shore at the last buoy I noticed a scuba diver taking pictures under the water. I waved and headed to dry land. As my chip beeped over the timing mats I glanced at my watch and was amazed to see that my swim split read 30 minutes. It’s interesting how my mind works, but all of a sudden my game plan changed. Instead of a 1:14 swim I was aiming for a 1:00 swim.

Being chased by the pack - the swimmers on my left are re-entering the water for loop 2

I entered the water for the 2nd loop feeling rather comfortable. My new Quintana Roo wetsuit was much more comfortable and faster than the wind surfer suit I had been using in the past. Amazing the additional speed a few extra Pounds Sterling will buy you.

The last loop was pretty uneventful except for the poor guy I kept on slapping over the head. I wasn’t concentrating and my right arm was dragging slightly, resulting in the swimmer to my right getting a few cracks to the head. Thankfully he didn’t retaliate and I concentrated on keeping my arms properly extended out of the water.

I waved good-bye to the photographer and even felt comfortable enough to dive down to him to wave goodbye. I ended up swimming too close to the diver as I had been waiting for a flash, which never seemed to go off. I later learnt that it was a video recorder and not a camera. I must have frightened the daylights out of him being descending on him with my mean Vin-Diesel looking goggles.

I exited the water and took my swim split which read 32 minutes. Not the 30 minutes that I was hoping for, but I was satisfied nonetheless. My final swim time read 1:03. The day was turning out just fine.

T1 (Transition One) was like an episode of Baywatch complete with towels, sunscreen and partial nudity. I de-suited, got naked and started putting on my cycling clothes. Women approached me with globs of sunscreen and began to smother me in the stuff. My skin, after a long winter, was pasty white and welcomed the skin protection. I crammed food into the back of my bike vest and headed out in my socks to my bike, with my bike shoes in hand.

I was on the bike at 1:09 which put me in a great mood. I reminded myself to relax for the long ride that awaited. My heart rate at this stage was in the low 150’s and I made a conscious effort to relax and enjoy the ride.

The Ride - 8:09am
I took a few swigs of my Lucozade and settled into my new comfy bike shorts (with the double almost-nappy-sized chamois). For the next hour I watched the bikers of the world go by. My heart rate was in the early 150’s, a bit too fast for my liking, and yet they were passing me in droves.

All competitors had to wear their numbers for the bike segment on their back and the organisers had arranged for each racer’s name and their country to be printed on the number. For the next hour, a steady stream of Germans, Frenchmen and Spaniards made their way passed me. My heart was racing and I was struggling to get it to my race target of 145. My heart and legs felt good, so I maintained my pace and didn’t concern myself too much with the sight of race numbers bearing names like Horst, Pablo Manuel and Jean-Yves heading into the distance. Obviously they had been taking it easy in the swim.

The road headed to the National Park of Timanfaya, with its own devil (trident and all) standing guard over the awe inspiring barren land of folded lava, that had solidified into fields of black mille-feuilles as far as the eyes could see. The road tears its way across the landscape like a piece of rough liquorice on crystallised blackberries. The overwhelming desolation of the land took my mind off the bumpy road and my internal trepidation of getting a puncture.

The first puncture I saw was about an hour into the race and some poor Brit was stressing ripping out his inner tubes and searching for his CO2 cylinders. I reminded myself that for my next race I would learn how to pump up my tyres with one of those takes-one-second-to-fill-the-inner-tube babies. About 5 minutes later down the road, the same guy came bombing past me on the winding roads, on the wrong side of the road. A race-judge on the back of a motor bike had been tailing this guy and blew his whistle before pulling alongside the guy and showing him a yellow card. The card was for the infringement of crossing a solid white line. That’d be an additional 6 minutes for him in the sin bin at the end of the bike segment. This guy’s race was going from bad to worse.

The road through the lava fields eventually lead to the vineyards of Tinajo where the resourceful locals have made walls out of lava rocks to protect the vines from the wind.

Grinning through the lava fields

The aid stations were a welcome reprieve from the consistent effort and the locals were very friendly and informative in handing over bananas, water, Power bars, Gels and Power energy drinks which were on offer. I used the aid stations to serve as a reminder to keep on drinking and eating consistently throughout the race.

After we had passed Club La Santa and before the half way mark, we started on the climb up to the two Miradors: (1) Mirador De Haria and (2) Mirador De Rio. At this stage I calculated that I had been averaging well over 30 kph. This was soon to change as the gradual 25km hills to the first Mirador began to wear away at the legs.

I sucked it up and concentrated on getting to the top of Mirador de Haria, the highest point in the race at about 600m above sea level. My heart rate at this stage had settled at 145 and I was enjoying the views that the island had on offer.

The supporters were a great bunch with continuous shouts of “Aye – Ron - man” with an emphasis on rolling the ‘R’. They helped considerably in getting me to the top of Mirador De Haria, even after I was duped into thinking I had reached its summit when, in fact, I was only half way up. Brett had given me a map of the course which I had tied to my bike stem, and even that didn’t adequately show the gap in the climb.

White wind turbines turned slowly on the opposite side of the mountain as I eventually crested the hill. I was grateful that the wind hadn’t made them turn any quicker.

At the top of Mirador De Haria everyone was permitted to leave food for themselves in a Special Needs Bag. I had been pedalling out of my seat for the last half an hour and had been looking forward to my jam sandwich which Natalie had prepared for me. For some reason I had been craving it since I left the lava fields, some 40k’s ago. Once I had my bag, I retrieved my jam sandwich, ignoring the Snickers, energy bars and fruitcake which I had brought along just in case, and tossed the bag to the side of the road.

I forced the sandwich down my throat and prepared myself for the descent down the back of Mirador De Haria. These were a series of switchbacks which led down to the valley (aptly names Los Valles), and I thought of Marc Herremans gunning it down this part on the fateful day that left him paralysed. My hands were always on the brakes but I was able to work my way through a few other riders who enjoyed the respite from the long climb they had endured.

The final climb up to the second Mirador, Mirador Del Rio, was difficult but well worth the effort as a view of the ocean and neighbouring island of La Graciosa opens up beneath you and is the last big climb of the day. I thanked the heavens for getting me this far and finished a gel pack in preparation of the speed-fest back to Puerto Del Carmen.

Besides one crazy Frenchman, whom I would see on and off for the rest of the ride, not many people overtook me on the downhill, whereas I was able to pick up a few places I had dropped on the climbs.

My heart rate drifted downwards for the rest of the ride and I averaged 138 for the rest of the bike course. I was struggling to keep my heart rate up but kept faith that I was working within the limits of my perceived effort.

T2 was a site for sore eyes. Runners were already spread out along the run course as I spun my legs down the main road of Puerto Del Carmen.