Ironman 70.3 Alucdia-Mallorca

The first bars of Thunderstruck did it. The registration, Ironman store and related paraphernalia failed to rouse even a modicum of excitement in me. Yes, I had been here before, but it was more than that. In our small group of three (Barry, Mark and myself), we had collectively completed more than 15 70.3’s and 8 Ironman’s. We were familiar with the routine of preparing for these races, occupying the days leading up to the race with last minute testing and prep. Even on race morning, we ate breakfast casually and strolled to the start line without urgency. After we had applied the necessary lubrication and zipped up our wetsuits, we sauntered to the starting pen, making light of the MCs' attempt to stir the crowd with a choreographed Viking Clap. Yet when I heard the first murmurs of that famous Angus Young guitar riff an involuntary tingle of excitement pulsated through my body, I was ready for this, I wanted this. – Thunder!

I jogged into the warm water of the Mediterranean sea, and began swimming when the water reached knee height. Breathing to the right, I could see the morning sun rise over the picturesque port of Alcudia. To my left, a line of yellow buoys marked the course's outward leg. I felt comfortable in the swim, the simplicity of the course and frequency of the marker buoys, helped discern progress, 100 metres at a time. Two right-hand turns at two red pyramid buoys, and I was heading back for the beach, and its black exit arch. I stepped out of the sea 35 minutes after entering and made my way to transition, with the energy of Thunderstruck still coursing through my veins.

The first 20 kilometres of the bike route were busy. I did not get to take in the views as I cycled along the coast. As riders found their level on the course I felt I was overtaking and being overtaken in equal measure. There were also at least six roundabouts and several turns to be safely navigated. It was a surprise when I passed the first aid station, and a needed reminder that I had barely touched my nutrition. Just after the 20 kilometre mark, I rose from my tri-bars, placed my hands on the hoods and started climbing. For seven kilometres I grinded my way upwards without relief. The hairpin bends and stunning scenery provided a majestic backdrop to my suffering. When the climbing finally eased I felt strong, not drained by my efforts as I had feared. I pushed on to the peak of the course at the 35km mark and then the descending began.

Giant cliffs and rock formations, bright vibrant vegetation, and sweeping bends all whizzed by as I sped down the mountain. The exhilaration of leaning into corners and powering out of them was thrilling. After the halfway point of the race there were a few narrow towns and ramps to navigate, but there was a sense of momentum now as participants collectively accelerated towards transition. The course took the scenic route back to Alcudia, detouring down single vehicle lanes with patchy surfaces. In one of these lanes, I swerved to avoid a pothole and hit a full bottle that had rattled loose from the rider in front of me. The bottle exploded under my front wheel drenching me in its isotonic contents. I managed to stay upright and eventually rolled into transition slightly sticky and very happy.

In transition, I quickly changed into my running gear and applied sun cream poorly (this was all too evident after the race). I jogged out onto the run course determined and ready. The first two kilometres of the course zigzagged through a residential area before exiting out near the main road. I remained calm during the early part of the run, wanting to feel my way into my running pace. Temperatures were in the low twenties and I knew pushing it early would lead to me blowing up. I found a steady cadence, working hard without raising my heart rate too high. As the course looped back on itself I saw Barry and Mark for the first time since entering the sea that morning. I stopped at each aid station, taking one cup of water to drink and one to pour over my head, before quickly returning to my race pace. Exiting the seafront path at the end of my first 6km lap I was in the zone. Then I saw Karen.

Karen had not travelled with me to Mallorca and I was unaware of her plans to surprise me during the race. When I heard her screaming from the side of the course and saw her waving the NTC flag my brain was unable to comprehend what was happening. I yelled “what are you doing here?” without breaking stride and before I knew it I was at the next aid station drowning myself in water again. It took another kilometre to put the pieces together and understand the effort Karen had gone to be there to cheer me on. That middle lap went by quickly as I mentally and emotionally processed Karen’s presence. Thankfully I managed to maintain my pace without too much concentration. Six kilometres later I greeted Karen properly and kicked on for my final lap on a high, it was as if I could hear that guitar riff starting again.

As the last lap progressed, I needed to work hard to maintain my pace. Thankfully I had managed my nutrition well, leaving enough in the tank to push towards the finish line. After the last aid station, the route turns on to the sea front, going over a small arched wooden bridge. At the top of the bridge I raised my arms in the air to feel the breeze and took it all in. Then I ran hard. On the seafront path I passed the crowds of supporters for the last time. The handmade signs that had made me giggle on the previous laps were now a blur as I allowed my heart rate to move into the red. At one kilometre to go a person dressed in an inflated unicorn costume shouted words of encouragement. As I passed the lap turnaround, the crowds on either side deepened, I saw Barry and Mark cheering from the right and then Karen screaming from the left, I waved without breaking stride and crossed the finish line with one hand raised in the air…….. “I was caught, in the middle of a railroad track (thunder)”!