I know it's pretty late but since nobody said anything about such race I'd like to add my two cents...
The first thing to say is that I "discovered" triathlon about two years ago due to a friend of mine who made me sign up for this "ironman utah thing." Until then I was a (lousy) basketball player who had never run more than 5 miles and who could barely tread water.
Fast forward to May 2003, the venue is the beautiful island of Lanzarote. After the disappointing end of IM Utah I wanted to test myself again (the triathlon bug had got me big time).
I landed in Lanzarote on Monday with the race being on Sunday and the first thing I noticed was the palm trees literally bent because of the wind. It was blowing so hard it was difficult to walk straight. First thing in my mind a filthier version of "who the heck made me do this?"
The situation gets worse the next day when I go for my first and only bike ride. I leave the hotel at 8 am and the first 6 miles are mostly flat, but the headwind forces me to use a 39/25 gear, going only 8/9mph. I almost cry. I ride for about 3 1/2 hours, managing to do only about 60miles, with hills so hard that sometimes only my pride prevents me from putting my feet down. Downhills are another story altogether. I had never gone faster than 55mph. Here I reach 60/65, almost shitting in my pants. I reach the hotel literally traumatized, and an hour later I go for a light run under the blazing sun. Later I get back to the airport to pick up my girlfriend and I spend the rest of the day in complete depression.
The next day I try the wetsuit. The water is cold but not as chilly asit is in Italy right now, so it's okay. It's Wednesday morning and at 9 am I just completed my last workout before the race. The bike ride has left so many scars that whenever I see someone riding a bike or running, my sotmach twists and turns. I spend rest of the days touring around the island, drinking Ribera del Duero wines and eating chorizo and jamon serrano (life is good again).
The morning of the race I wake up around 3.45 and strangely enough I am not that nervous, maybe my mind has just given up... I arrive to the starting line around 5.30, and the first thing I notice is the enormous amount of english people leaving clubs totally drunk and completely oblivious to what's going on around them (i.e. us).
Tension mounts, but I'm here and I can't go anywhere but forward. By 6.45 I'm at the beach, friends and family members surround us, people laugh at the stupidest jokes, we're about to dance. At 7am the cannon fires and we must go. I slowly move toward the water, I start walking until the water reaches my waist, I gotta start swimming now, s**t! The course is made of a rectangular lap that you have to do twice, leaving and reentering the water at the end of the first lap. The fist lap is pretty smooth, I line up next to guy who seems to go straight and I basically follow him almost all the way throughout the first 1900 meters. I leave the water, step on the timing mat and look at my watch. 33 minutes, cool! I'm almost worried that I went too fast, but it's time to reenter the water. At the first turn I get kicked hard in the nuts. The pain is excruciating, I swallow a pint of salt water and I tell myself "there you go, you found a reason to give up." But I keep going and I leave the water in 1h9minutes. Still ahead of pace and a great result considering where I was two Summers ago
Of the four sports that make triathlon, transitions are by far my weaker one. Why? Simply because I haven't raced that much and I still don't have the necessary experience (I never practice transitions and that's probably not a good thing). Anyway, I take my time showering, then getting rid of my wetsuit, then I grab my T1 bag and move to the chaning tent, where it seems to be in Dante's Inferno. A mayhem of men and women fighting for a few square inches. I find my half meter and I start drying myself, then wearing my socks, bodysuit, vaseline, gloves, helmet, food in my back pockets, chapstick, send a couple of emails, etc...Volunteers cover me with enough sunscreen to go for a week in sahara and after 8 minutes or so I'm off to my bike.
The first 20 miles are pretty much okay, I take time to adjust to the new environment, I eat a lot (it's so true that the bike makes the run) I drink like a fish and I'm not really bothered by those who pass me. The race is just beginning and the nasty hills are ahead. We rach the Timanfaya National Park, a land made of volcanoes and lava fields, where the first serious hills begin. It's raining now, the wind blows as hard as usual, plus the asphalt here is the worst I've ever seen in my life, it seems to be at the Paris Roubaix, but I'm dancing now and I feel great. My friend Amedeo Bonfanti, veteran of more than 20 ironmans passes me throwing an imaginary football for me to catch and making fun of me, I'm really enjoying this thing. I realize that there's no Pantani nor Indurain here and in fact when the hills get steep I pass many many people, not without a grin on my face... Around the 55th mile the sun finally comes out and the first serious problems begin. The sun is hot and a strong head wind together with the nastier hill of the day (12miles long) makes a recipe for disaster but I hang on despite going sometimes 5mph "pushing" a 39/25 gear. After this little crisis the rest of the problems on the bike are just figuring what to do with the special needs bag (especially considering that it's handed out right before the scariest downhill of the day) and decide whether to stop to pee or act the part of the real ironman and pee on myself (I decided to be a true ironman...yuck!). My philosophy is that if the gear seems to hard, it probably is, thus it's wiser to push an easier one, and it pays, because my legs feel great.
I reach T2 after 6h and 48minutes spent with my ass on the saddle and I start thinking that I can do it. T2 is unusually fast (only 2 minutes) and...well I knew that my legs were okay but I didn't know they were so fresh. I start running right away. Cool! The run is 4 laps of 10.5km up and down, so basically it's 8 times the same 5.250km, really boring. I run the first half lap (5.250km) in 27 minutes. Up until the 25th km I never walk, not even at aid stations. For the first 25km I only eat gels and fruit and drink water. I keep going with my clumsy 5'45''/km pace and I start to realize that I'm about to do it. My body feels great, the only pain is given by the blazing sun and by the never ending wind. From the 25th km I start walking a bit at aid stations, where I drink mostly coke mixed with water. I could go a little harder but what for? Why kill myself? I'm about to finish with plenty of daylight, in excellent mental and physical shape, what could I ask more? The last mile is a rollercoaster of emotions, I almost cry, I laugh histerically, I wave at total strangers, I high five people in the stands and I finally cross the finish line, in a little more than 12 hours, like Armstrong at the Alpe d'Huez. Kenneth Gasque, the danish race director congratulates me and asks me how I feel. I manage to say "I feel great sir it was awesome" with a huge grin. I then get my finsher t-shirt, medal, then collect T bags, bike and girlfriend and we start the long (5km) walk back to the hotel (unfortunately she didn't think she was gonna find a park, thus she left the car at the hotel).
About 4 hours after I finished, we finish dinner and there are still people going, almost all of them simply walking. It's dark, it's freezing cold and I feel really bad for these people.
Filippo
The first thing to say is that I "discovered" triathlon about two years ago due to a friend of mine who made me sign up for this "ironman utah thing." Until then I was a (lousy) basketball player who had never run more than 5 miles and who could barely tread water.
Fast forward to May 2003, the venue is the beautiful island of Lanzarote. After the disappointing end of IM Utah I wanted to test myself again (the triathlon bug had got me big time).
I landed in Lanzarote on Monday with the race being on Sunday and the first thing I noticed was the palm trees literally bent because of the wind. It was blowing so hard it was difficult to walk straight. First thing in my mind a filthier version of "who the heck made me do this?"
The situation gets worse the next day when I go for my first and only bike ride. I leave the hotel at 8 am and the first 6 miles are mostly flat, but the headwind forces me to use a 39/25 gear, going only 8/9mph. I almost cry. I ride for about 3 1/2 hours, managing to do only about 60miles, with hills so hard that sometimes only my pride prevents me from putting my feet down. Downhills are another story altogether. I had never gone faster than 55mph. Here I reach 60/65, almost shitting in my pants. I reach the hotel literally traumatized, and an hour later I go for a light run under the blazing sun. Later I get back to the airport to pick up my girlfriend and I spend the rest of the day in complete depression.
The next day I try the wetsuit. The water is cold but not as chilly asit is in Italy right now, so it's okay. It's Wednesday morning and at 9 am I just completed my last workout before the race. The bike ride has left so many scars that whenever I see someone riding a bike or running, my sotmach twists and turns. I spend rest of the days touring around the island, drinking Ribera del Duero wines and eating chorizo and jamon serrano (life is good again).
The morning of the race I wake up around 3.45 and strangely enough I am not that nervous, maybe my mind has just given up... I arrive to the starting line around 5.30, and the first thing I notice is the enormous amount of english people leaving clubs totally drunk and completely oblivious to what's going on around them (i.e. us).
Tension mounts, but I'm here and I can't go anywhere but forward. By 6.45 I'm at the beach, friends and family members surround us, people laugh at the stupidest jokes, we're about to dance. At 7am the cannon fires and we must go. I slowly move toward the water, I start walking until the water reaches my waist, I gotta start swimming now, s**t! The course is made of a rectangular lap that you have to do twice, leaving and reentering the water at the end of the first lap. The fist lap is pretty smooth, I line up next to guy who seems to go straight and I basically follow him almost all the way throughout the first 1900 meters. I leave the water, step on the timing mat and look at my watch. 33 minutes, cool! I'm almost worried that I went too fast, but it's time to reenter the water. At the first turn I get kicked hard in the nuts. The pain is excruciating, I swallow a pint of salt water and I tell myself "there you go, you found a reason to give up." But I keep going and I leave the water in 1h9minutes. Still ahead of pace and a great result considering where I was two Summers ago
Of the four sports that make triathlon, transitions are by far my weaker one. Why? Simply because I haven't raced that much and I still don't have the necessary experience (I never practice transitions and that's probably not a good thing). Anyway, I take my time showering, then getting rid of my wetsuit, then I grab my T1 bag and move to the chaning tent, where it seems to be in Dante's Inferno. A mayhem of men and women fighting for a few square inches. I find my half meter and I start drying myself, then wearing my socks, bodysuit, vaseline, gloves, helmet, food in my back pockets, chapstick, send a couple of emails, etc...Volunteers cover me with enough sunscreen to go for a week in sahara and after 8 minutes or so I'm off to my bike.
The first 20 miles are pretty much okay, I take time to adjust to the new environment, I eat a lot (it's so true that the bike makes the run) I drink like a fish and I'm not really bothered by those who pass me. The race is just beginning and the nasty hills are ahead. We rach the Timanfaya National Park, a land made of volcanoes and lava fields, where the first serious hills begin. It's raining now, the wind blows as hard as usual, plus the asphalt here is the worst I've ever seen in my life, it seems to be at the Paris Roubaix, but I'm dancing now and I feel great. My friend Amedeo Bonfanti, veteran of more than 20 ironmans passes me throwing an imaginary football for me to catch and making fun of me, I'm really enjoying this thing. I realize that there's no Pantani nor Indurain here and in fact when the hills get steep I pass many many people, not without a grin on my face... Around the 55th mile the sun finally comes out and the first serious problems begin. The sun is hot and a strong head wind together with the nastier hill of the day (12miles long) makes a recipe for disaster but I hang on despite going sometimes 5mph "pushing" a 39/25 gear. After this little crisis the rest of the problems on the bike are just figuring what to do with the special needs bag (especially considering that it's handed out right before the scariest downhill of the day) and decide whether to stop to pee or act the part of the real ironman and pee on myself (I decided to be a true ironman...yuck!). My philosophy is that if the gear seems to hard, it probably is, thus it's wiser to push an easier one, and it pays, because my legs feel great.
I reach T2 after 6h and 48minutes spent with my ass on the saddle and I start thinking that I can do it. T2 is unusually fast (only 2 minutes) and...well I knew that my legs were okay but I didn't know they were so fresh. I start running right away. Cool! The run is 4 laps of 10.5km up and down, so basically it's 8 times the same 5.250km, really boring. I run the first half lap (5.250km) in 27 minutes. Up until the 25th km I never walk, not even at aid stations. For the first 25km I only eat gels and fruit and drink water. I keep going with my clumsy 5'45''/km pace and I start to realize that I'm about to do it. My body feels great, the only pain is given by the blazing sun and by the never ending wind. From the 25th km I start walking a bit at aid stations, where I drink mostly coke mixed with water. I could go a little harder but what for? Why kill myself? I'm about to finish with plenty of daylight, in excellent mental and physical shape, what could I ask more? The last mile is a rollercoaster of emotions, I almost cry, I laugh histerically, I wave at total strangers, I high five people in the stands and I finally cross the finish line, in a little more than 12 hours, like Armstrong at the Alpe d'Huez. Kenneth Gasque, the danish race director congratulates me and asks me how I feel. I manage to say "I feel great sir it was awesome" with a huge grin. I then get my finsher t-shirt, medal, then collect T bags, bike and girlfriend and we start the long (5km) walk back to the hotel (unfortunately she didn't think she was gonna find a park, thus she left the car at the hotel).
About 4 hours after I finished, we finish dinner and there are still people going, almost all of them simply walking. It's dark, it's freezing cold and I feel really bad for these people.
Filippo