A serious (but ultimately futile) attempt to write an objective account of Ironman Lanzarote, without descending into nothing more than gratuitous abuse of Eric Blakie

So what has been the biggest challenge of my triathlon career this year? (2005)

1. To finish Ironman Lanzarote in under 13 hours
2. To persuade Dr Bob that Ironman France (in Gerardmer) really was harder than Lanzarote

Or

3. To write a newsletter article without slating the Big E

1 & 2 - Hmm
3 - Well, he doesn't make it easy.

On 21st May 2005, myself, the Big E, Paul Cook and Andy Smith took part in Ironman Lanzarote. If you decide to do an event such as this then you can generally be assured of several things:

• It will be tough
• It will be hot
• The Big E will do something ridiculous.

Now Dr Bob will tell you that competing at Ironman distance is, above all else, about nutrition. Or fuelling, if you like. Get this aspect of your race wrong, and you simply will not survive.

Another important aspect of such an event is to attend the pre-race briefing. We all stayed in Puerto del Carmen, where the race started and finished. The briefing, however, for reasons best known to the Spanish organisers, took place at Club la Santa, on the other side of the island. Quite a distance, but no problem to us, as the Big E had availed himself of a hire car for the duration of his stay. So the Big E, Cookie and I set off in the quasi-Blakiemobile, bound for La Santa.

On the way out of Puerto del Carmen, the engine began to splutter. "Hmm" said the driver. "Something not quite right about this car. It's been doing that since I filled it with petrol yesterday".

"Are you sure it doesn't have a diesel engine?" I said.

This prompted some investigation, during which various pieces of evidence were weighed up. The clincher was probably the word "DIESEL" written in very large letters across the key fob.

The engine's health continued to deteriorate, and it died, by the most amazing coincidence, just before we reached the garage where the Big E had purchased the erroneous hydrocarbon. He managed to coast onto the forecourt, and went to seek assistance. Un(?)fortunately, the member of staff chosen to assist us turned out to be the island's answer to Jasper Carrot. His English seemed poor, but he gave the impression of being able to understand what the problem was. He asked us to wait over at the side, implying that he would assist us in due course.

He then proceeded to ignore us for some considerable time. Eventually, the Big E got sick of waiting and hauled him over. He then explained again, a bit slower and louder this time, exactly what the problem was. Rather than embarking on some rescue measure, the bloke then proceeded to burst out laughing, and made the internationally recognised "dick-head" sign on his forehead. Now I know it's not nice to laugh at other people's misfortunes (especially when they're also your own - our chances of reaching the briefing in time were becoming less than slim), but Cookie and I nearly split our sides.

You have to stand by a mate in a crisis don't you. Yes of course. So me and Cookie decided to make a sharp exit, by jumping into the nearest taxi, leaving our driver and his immobilised vehicle at the mercy of the tittering forecourt attendants. "Bye bye Eric. We'll let you know if they say anything useful at the briefing. If you've escaped from here by race day, that is."

As it turned out, attendance at the briefing was somewhat less than vital.

It was a noble gesture by the Big E to get his burst of outrageous behaviour over and done with in the early part of the trip. This meant that we could all move on and concentrate on the more serious business of the race itself.

The race started with a two-lap sea swim, quite close to the shore. Over the years I have got used to Ironman swims, accepting being kicked, punched and clattered for the first half mile or so as part of the event, learning to brace myself, give as good as I get, and protect my goggles at all costs. Lanzarote, however, was not at all pleasant. The problem seemed to be that all of those people who struggle to navigate in lakes (do we have any of those in our club, Bob?) have absolutely no chance in the sea. So although the field was only half the size of France or Austria, and the course was very well marked out, it never spread out. The fighting continued unrelenting for the whole two laps.

Eventually I emerged from the swim just about intact. The watch said 45 min, so either I was in the lead, or it had been switched off and back on again in the battering. The only clue as to how well the swim had gone was the shout from the fan club, "You're first out" as I ran up the beach.

After a serious dowsing with sun cream, I headed off on the bike course. The bike course in Lanzarote, which gives quite a comprehensive tour of the island, is fantastic. You hear lots of horror stories about the course - 90% of them from Dr Bob - but they are, in my opinion, unfounded. Yes there are climbs, and yes, it's windy, but when you've spent the winter "training the Cook way", it's no big deal. This training method involves climbing the steepest hills in Weardale for six-hour spells in any combination of gale-force wind, torrential rain, sub-zero temperatures and deep snow. (sun shining - no wind - stay at home)

Unlike so many of my club colleagues, who ride around the island regularly, I had never ridden any of the course before, and so had no idea of where I was for most of the time. I do recall that the Fire Mountains was the bit with the horrible road surface, Tabayasco was the bit where you had to go up a steady climb into a strong headwind for a hell of a long time, and that Mirador del Rio was the bit with the nice view, but I don't recall much else. Having heard the message from the fan club on the beach, my next indicator of how well I was going was to see how long I could stay ahead of my two main inferior swimmer/superior biker rivals - Cookie and the Big E.

After about 170k, with, therefore 10k to go, the Big E finally eased past. I greeted him with such pleasantries as "where've you been? Did you have a crap swim, or am I having a good bike?" And "Where's Cookie?" I had of course used my long lonely bike ride to concoct a barrage of diesel jokes, but in the event couldn't keep up with him long enough to get them out.

I finally finished the bike in 7hrs 12, which I was quite pleased with in view of the terrain. The Big E finished the bike ahead of me but, as ever, took his time in T2, so I caught him back up. We didn't quite start the run together, however, as I had to make a quick pitstop.

The run course in Lanzarote is more or less the complete opposite of the bike course. While on the bike you do a single lap tour of the whole island, for the run you simply run up and down a 5k stretch of the Puerto del Carmen coast 4 times. It sounds tedious, but during the event it simply doesn't matter. Doing an Ironman run is basically horrible. It's not supposed to be anything else. So what the terrain is like isn't really of any consequence. Besides it was actually nice to be able to see where all of the other competitors were, and to be able to pass the fan club eight times - even if they were quite repetitive in their encouraging shouts - "Eric's two minutes ahead, if you speed up you'll catch him". As if I didn't know that! I even enjoyed running past the "witty" dj about half way out, who kept announcing competitors' names and making humorous comments about us. On two separate occasions he came out with the extremely funny line "he's a chartered accountant - but we won't hold that against him!" Marvellous.

It was at the start of the run that I finally learned why Cookie hadn't blasted past on the early stages of the bike. He had actually dnf'd and joined the spectators. Plagued by a mystery chest affliction in the weeks prior to the race, he had reduced his training volume below 40hrs per week, and sensibly replaced his 6hr road rides with 4hr turbo sessions. He seemed ok leading up to the race, but on the day it all fell apart. He seized up on the second lap of the swim and had to be hauled out of the water. After some treatment he got back in and tried to finish, but to no avail, and had to be hauled out again. He was then taken, much against his will, to the medical tent, where he underwent some sort of intensive emergency treatment. I'm pleased to say that he kept the ironman spirit by doing exactly what I (and the Big E of course) would have done. That is, trying like mad to escape from the medical tent and get back to the race ("how dare you give me this emergency medical treatment, I've got a race to finish!"). As we all know, it is the sworn duty of any ironman competitor sent for emergency medical treatment prior to finishing the event to escape.

Eventually, with the help of 10 volunteers, the medical staff managed to straightjacket him and fasten him to a bed, and he was given his treatment.

Six months and dozens of hospital visits, tests, scans, x-rays and all sorts of other investigations on, and what happened to Cookie that day is still unexplained. I have my own theory, which arises from observing the uncanny similarity to what happened to the hire car two days earlier. Cookie himself refuses to take my theory seriously. Mind you, I do know he's resolved never to borrow drinks bottles from the Big E again (or let him buy a round the day before a race).

As I believe I've already said, the run was horrible. Nevertheless, despite the tedious course, the heat, and total absence of shade, I did manage to register my best ever ironman run performance. All went well until approaching halfway when I started to get what is known in ironman circles as "Blakie's Problem". That is, unwanted bowel movements. Hoping to defer corrective action until after the race proved to be over-optimistic towards the end of the out section of the third lap, when I was forced to stop. Four minutes and a very unpleasant visit to the porterloo later, I was away again. I then surprised myself by picking up the pace, and managed to finish just under the 13-hour mark, 1 min 13s behind the Big E.

As in Austria, I was joined in crossing the line by the club's youngest ironman, Bruce. Once again, he outsprinted me to the line. Bruce had the club banner with him but, unfortunately, wasn't tall enough to unfurl it properly. I was of course supposed to take it off him, and the failure to do so earned me a severe reprimand from Ms Richmond. But I didn't have time to clart around with a banner; I had a 13-hour mark to beat and, potentially, a Blakie to catch. Who does she think I am, the Piestalker?

My banner-waving inadequacies were however compensated for later on when Andy "Eyes down for a Full House" Smith crossed the line. He gave a virtuoso performance of bannering skills of which even the Piestalker himself would have been proud.

I only met Andy a week before the race, at Alnwick, and I remember the first thing he said to me. Or rather the second thing, after "Who are you?" It was: "Are you the one who writes all that tripe about Eric Blakie in the newsletter?" Modestly, I conceded that yes, I was indeed the one responsible for that particular single-themed line of drivel which had been pervading the newsletter at that time.

"Don't write anything about me mind!"

I assured him that he need not worry. If a group of Ryton Tri members go off somewhere to do an event then, as sure as eggs is eggs, the Big E will do something so ridiculous that anything anybody else may do will go unnoticed. I think I'll just change my name to Nostradamus then!

Actually, with hindsight, the more I look back, the more I think the Big E knew exactly what he was doing when he filled that car with petrol. I suspect he thought it was the only way he could finally stop the flood of testicle jokes.

Anyway, back to Andy Smith. It was Andy's first ironman. He picked the hardest one and approached the race with the sole aim of surviving and finishing. This he duly did, in the time of fifteen (that's one and five) hours, fifty-one (that's five and one) minutes, and fifty-five (and that, of course, is all the fives) seconds. Andy then availed himself of an after-race option which I have never felt tempted to take up, and allowed himself to be put on an intravenous drip for half an hour.

Fifteen (that's one and.......sorry) minutes later, Sean Scotney crossed the line. Sean is not a club member but lives locally and is a friend of Cookie's from the cycling fraternity. Sean approached the race in a similar way to Andy, and did a similar time, but suffered a bit more afterwards. In fact he actually couldn't get out of bed for 2 days afterwards, and we didn't see him for the rest of our stay. I have heard that he's better now though.

Finally I will mention the exploits of another competitor who is not a club member. I am talking about an Irishman who was staying in our apartment block, and became very friendly with Cookie during our stay. He was an experienced, and relatively quick marathon runner, who decided to have a crack at ironman after being disappointed with his performance, due to the heat, in a marathon in Lanzarote over the winter.

He'd never cycled before, so bought a bike, a top of the range Cannondale, specially. He almost completed a total of 100 miles in training, prior to the race. Similarly, he bought a top-notch wetsuit, the week before the race. Not quite the right size, the Big E (and the Piestalker) could have got in there with him, but he didn't see this as a problem. He couldn't swim crawl, and aimed to breastroke the course just inside the 2 ½ hour cut off.

Sadly, he failed to complete the event. He was actually forced to retire after suffering a number of punctures on the rough descent from Mirador del Rio. He'd just put new tyres on (very wise, the previous ones having done almost 100 miles) and didn't know there was such a thing as a track pump. He'd used a hand pump, and probably only had about 30 psi in them at the most.

What impressed me personally the most, however, was the contents of his special needs bag. This is a bag in which you can put things such as particular energy drinks, or food, to be collected at a certain point about half way round the bike course. I thought Cookie was a bit unorthodox putting a chip buttie in his, but our Irish friend topped the lot. The contents - a can of Guinness and a packet of cigarettes! Oh, and what was the first thing he did when he got back after his disappointing dnf? Put in an entry for Ironman France a month later - most impressive.

The End
(Sponsored by Shell)