As usual, I like to stick my post-race thoughts down quickly before I forget what fun we all had.
I’d like to think that this was Ironman Marbella 70.3 take 1. If take 2 ever appears then this will almost definitely be take 1. If take 2 doesn’t happen, then this introduction is going to simply look weird forever. (this is probably the reality)

All will become apparent…

Marbella is the end of the Spanish trilogy. Barcelona was 2018, Mallorca 2019 and then the dreaded Covid hit the fan. Finally, through a liberal application of vaccines and determination, the Ironman season re-launched itself and 2022 was now bubbling and ready to go.
We don’t count the fourth Spanish race, in Lanzarote, as part of the trilogy because it’s not on the mainland. We do, however, include Mallorca as, despite not being on the mainland, it’s not Lanzarote… OK?

It had been hard enough simply keeping track of the hotels, flights and dates (as Wales in a Day had proved) but for this one I was positive that we had entries, flights, rooms, transfers and all the other gubbins necessary for a smooth event.

Me, Scott & Caz were the remains of the original four that started the journey. The fourth, Damian, was away competing in Lanzarote having been completely infected by the triathlon bug and swiftly progressing to far loftier and, it must be said, far more challenging heights.

For this one we were now joined by Ryan, Adrian, Simon and Emma, with Jane, Louise and Billy making up an aptly named relay team, ‘Sick of Supporting’.

Despite intending not to fret, the fretting had started.

When I asked Jane whether this relay thing was to be a regular team entry, or was it just a one off in Marbella, I was told, “I didn’t expect a Spanish Inquisition.”

Of course, no-one expects the Spanish Inquisition, so, for those unfamiliar with triathlon;

The chief discipline is the swim… the swim and the ride.
The TWO disciplines are the swim and the ride… and the run.
The THREE disciplines are the swim, the ride and the run… and an almost fanatical devotion to nutrition.
The FOUR, no, AMONGST the disciplines are such elements as the swim, the ride…

It all started rather poorly.
Even before the event had started things had got eventful with me having an accident (if you could call it that) on the M4 and then not being sure of which, if any, vehicle I was going to have to get people to the airport. An excellent opportunity to get some quality fretting in, good and early.
As it was, I was quickly provided with a suitably similar Ford Transit version of my van so that was one thing I could cross off the fretting list.

However, just as I climbed into the minibus to take me back from the Goblin car park to the airport my right foot and my brain, confused as to whether what I was about to stand on was actually a step or just a piece of trim, decided it wasn’t a step and was in fact a piece of trim, but still tried to not step on something I was already committed to stepping on and so, I flung myself, Superman style, onto the van floor – much to the alarm of the driver. Luckily, from a perspective of embarrassment, I was the only passenger, however, with a mirthful “your holiday’s off to a flying start”, ringing in my ears, we were now good to go – just slightly bruised.
Superman, of course, tended to land in less of an untidy heap.
Funny how these things come back to haunt you.

This time we’d gone for the carry-on bag and speedy boarding, expecting to still be able to check our bags into the hold as before. Typically, we expected wrongly so our fluids weren’t bagged, or were too large or were simply too actual CO2 cannisters.
Never assume – expect the worst.
Despite intending not to fret, the fretting had started.

Despite the well-publicised delays at Bristol airport, before we knew it, we’d been transferred, unpacked, built the bikes and were ready to register. Scott had chosen the decadent option of delivering his bulging bike box to a support outfit that would build his bike for him and, after the race, sneak it away from transition and similarly disassemble it and pack it safely away.
A missing seatpost clamp instantly came in very high on the fretting scale.
The bike builders couldn’t find it. Everyone else started drinking coffee and searching for ‘bicycle hire’, the bike builders still couldn’t find it, even in the frame. We’d now moved onto beer and had started designing temporary seatpost clamps from driftwood and lolly sticks until Billy went to have a look too. There it was – loose in the bike box, in plain sight. (rolls eyes…)

The confidence in event-based bike builders was slightly reduced but, more importantly, fret mode – cancelled once more.

So, bikes all built, shakedown ride completed, shakedown run completed, pool parties laughed at, room key lost, pasta supper completed, early night had and tomorrow – is race day!

Race morning was nice and relaxed – utterly chilled in fact and nothing like Barcelona 2018.
Ample time for an early brekkie then to get to the event, check over the bike, add its bottles, lube up, suit up and waddle down to the beach for a warm up.

Fretting seemed just a distant memory.

I’m definitely at the stage where I’ve done this before and was looking forward to it rather than worrying about it.
We managed a group hug in the 40 minute pen and let the stirring sounds of Hans Zimmer do its stuff on the beach.

Before we knew it the now trademark riff of AC/DC’s Thunderstruck filled the air as the pros started their race.

The pens swiftly unloaded their neoprene contents and we ran (or possibly tip-toed going “ouch, ouch, ouch!”) down a very pebbly beach and flung ourselves into the goldilocks waters of the Mediterranean.

Even writing this now, a week after the event I haven’t accepted the, errr, hilliness of it all.

I’m delighted to say that the swim was somewhat uneventful. No jellyfish, no wayward swimming, not too many collisions but loads of salt. It was long, nearly 2100m and the clock reflected that. But, as usual, staggering up the beach trying to get the salt from my mouth is in many ways one of my favourite parts – it means the swim’s over and there’s about to be a rubbish picture of you!

Leaving both the water and my dignity behind.

I find the first transition is always clumsy. I swim with my tri-suit down, for less shoulder restriction, so I have to put on my heart rate strap and squeeze myself into a wet tri-suit – never fun. Also – you’re still wet. Ironically, water, that makes for excellent lubrication on roads seems to make superb glue on clothes.
I hadn’t packed a transition towel but, luckily, someone had dropped one near my bags.
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth it was quickly pressed into action, thoroughly ignoring the weird and wonderful perils of infectious towel diseases, before dashing up the red carpet, grabbing my bike and heading up into what can only be described as rather large hills.

Make no mistake. Marbella is a hilly course.
Despite knowing it was a hilly course I still hadn’t quite grasped how hilly it actually was. Even writing this now, a week after the event I haven’t accepted the, errr, hilliness of it all.

The motorcycle referees were unnecessarily stringent on the climb. I totally understand that Ironman is a draft-free race but really, no-one’s gaining an advantage drafting up a steep climb. With a mandatory 12 bike length gap and 25 seconds to make a pass, uphill, legal overtakes are always slightly dodgy but, I think, unnecessary to police. The downhills though, with the clear benefits of slipstreaming is where you’d expect to see the referees, dishing out blue cards like a Black-Jack dealer.

Strangely they were noticeable by their absence there.

On the ascents you could hear their bikes coming so, you just put on a slight spurt to pass the bike in front rather than risk getting a drafting penalty.

Although, in fairness, despite their zeal on the climbs, with plenty of gesticulating, I didn’t actually see anyone get a penalty, they just dished out loads of warnings.

The ride was undoubtedly the toughest of the trilogy. After the first summit the descent that followed was convoluted and rolling and seemed to lead down far further than expected. It was almost as though the turnaround point was below sea level.

Or, to put it another way, under-fuelling wasn’t going to be my problem today.

The faces on the other, earlier riders (faster swimmers) coming back the other way told a tale of grim perseverance. It was hot, dusty and dry and was an energy-sapping, almost continuous ascent with minor slackening of the grade that unfortunately didn’t really provide any respite.

At least there was a photographer on some of the descents.

At one point I saw a snake.
Brown with stripy black markings, it lay sunning itself on the baking asphalt of the roadside, oblivious to the race around it, possibly the only thing actually to be happy, there, at that particular time.

Now, I can ride my Giant Propel all day generally with no issues. Interestingly, at Marbella, like Mallorca before, I found myself suffering from heartburn and trapped wind on the ride. Now whether it’s due to the closed-up abdomen when maintaining high power levels with a ‘head down arse up’ position for long periods of time or whether it’s down to swallowing so much salt water during the swim, I just don’t know. Either way it’s uncomfortable with every burp tasting not only of Veloforte bars but particularly the flavour of Veloforte bar you didn’t like. (Ironically, it’s the one with ginger)
It’s also a distraction from fuelling. You don’t feel like eating or even drinking, even though you know you really should.

So, I didn’t fuel or hydrate brilliantly on the bike but had carb-loaded and hydrated very well on the build-up so it wasn’t the disaster that it has been in the past.
Or, to put it another way, under-fuelling wasn’t going to be my problem today.

The ascent back to the first summit more or less coincided with the last feed station and then an undulating descent towards the coast with a flat, fast run through the outskirts of Marbella back to transition. I popped a gel at the summit to start fueling for the run.

The descent was fast; too fast for some. Not in that they fell off, more that their line showed no respect for either their fellow competitors or the actual rules. Either way, other than looking like unruly ducklings, my ‘crowd’ arrived swiftly and safely back in Marbella. There were some odd road closures on the final road section where the bikes were only separated from the oncoming traffic by plastic barriers, or, slightly worse, were the segregated traffic simply moved through the cones, onto the bike course, to overtake someone in their way. It is not without some irony that I’d previously commented on social media about not taking my dashcam on the bike.

Due to the long transition, I’d planned my dismount days in advance.
Undo the shoes, slip out of them, hop off the bike, leaving my shoes on the bike, and merrily sprint down the red carpet to the cheers of my gaggle of supporters.
Of course, the reality was somewhat different. The competitor in front pulled up early, whilst I was just undoing my shoe, meaning I had to unclip quickly before throwing myself to the floor thus resulting in me hobbling through transition in my clumpy bike shoes, now loose, no cheers, no rousing applause.

Shoes off, shoes on and I’d got 20 metres away from my changing point when I felt the thump of all my bike fuel still in my tri-suit banging me in the small of my back.

I later found out that Emma had done half the run with her pump still in her back pocket. It’s nice to know we all get it wrong sometimes.

The run was hotter than Satan’s armpit. It was staggeringly hot. So hot in fact that the locals were actually in their shirtsleeves. I might have even seen one in shorts!
It was effectively two loops of a beach-front course that went off around the harbour then up towards Marbella. Even the loop out to the navigation beacon at the end of the breakwater was hot and muggy with no sea breeze.

Looking strong on the first run loop – ironically at the crash site.

At 11km, on my second loop, the unthinkable happened – I fell over.
At a change in level on the breakwater, clearly obscured by swamp gas from a weather balloon reflecting the sun’s rays, my left foot landed on ground that wasn’t actually there, but my brain thought was, and most of Isaac Newton’s laws of motion suddenly became instantly real and very, very applicable.
My left leg went down hard, my right leg couldn’t come to the rescue quickly enough and yet another superman dive commenced.
Luckily, my hands, already out and flopping about in front of me, were there to do some of the deceleration work before my right shoulder, sunglasses and temple did the rest.
The path was made of rough, flinty concrete which is ideal for both grip and abrasion of flesh and did both of its jobs only too well. Just to add to my embarrassment, my last dregs of momentum carried me off the breakwater and into the revetment boulders where I felt a little well-earned sleep was in order.
From a distance it probably looked like a surreal, solo flamenco with a dramatic finale.

The growing drips of blood on the rocks and concrete were evidence of a severed artery or a missing limb at the very least. I lay on the rocks with my head on the breakwater gathering up the remaining pieces of my £600 varifocal, photochromatic, scratch-resistant sunglasses and worked out the repair bill; frame ok, two lenses, neither scratched, one arm missing. I gathered their remains into a pathetic pile.

On the bright side, my heartburn appeared to have now gone.

‘Luckily’, I’d fallen near an official photographer who was already on his phone getting assistance whilst telling me to stay where I was and not to move.
He looked really rather worried, so I did as I was told.
An official on a massive scooter soon turned up and I was helped onto its corpulent rear seat. The rider picked up the remains of my glasses just a little too keenly and I watched in horror as one of the lenses sailed up and away from his hand, in a delightful arc, to land on the rocks below and then disappear into a crevice.
Weirdly, despite everything else, it was only at that point that I felt my day had gone sour!

I managed to catch myself in the mirror of the scooter as we rode to the medical centre and I now understood the concern of the others. My right temple was bleeding profusely and the side of my face was one red sheet looking like some grotesque Halloween face-painting. For some reason Braveheart was now stuck in my head.

At the medical centre I was leapt upon by four delightful Spanish nurses who irrigated and cleaned my wounds. Some freezing spray, some stitches in my head and a few bandages where I had holes and I was finally allowed to leave, along with strict instructions to now get some rest and behave myself.
On the bright side, my heartburn appeared to have now gone.

Conveniently the medical centre led to the finisher’s tent and beer; as good a place as any to comply with the nurses’ instructions.

It wasn’t too long before the gang started to arrive in the tent and our table started to swell. I can’t remember the exact order of arrival as we had a relay team with two members already finished and Caz & Adrian had missed the bike cut-off and were also finished.
I’d also had rather a large bang to my head…

At some point during the beer drinking my slightly bruised mind turned back to my posh sunglasses and the discarded lens and whether there was any chance of our emotional reuniting. I had visions of the tide coming in and disturbing the debris within the revetment, burying my lens forever.
I found an Ironman official (Andrea) and negotiated a way out of the finisher’s tent and promised to return. I followed the trail of blood back to the scene of the incident and set about searching the rocks. I’d seen where the lens had flown but the crevice in which it fell was alarmingly similar to that film ‘127 Hours’, and I was conscious of the fact that I didn’t have a penknife about my person!
After carefully removing smaller rocks to gain greater access and groping around beneath the larger ones, my injured hand finally felt the smooth surface of a precision-ground Adidas lens. The odds of more than one being down there were remarkably slim but I quickly pulled it out and this one was definitely mine.
It instantly darkened having once again been thrust into the Spanish sunlight.
The photographer, who was still at his station captured the moment for posterity.

Happy to have found my lens. Actually, just way too happy.

Now I had to get back into the finisher’s tent, I still had a beer there with my name on it. I just knew the plan I’d hatched with Ironman wasn’t going to work so I quickly changed it on the fly. I was just in no mood to argue with a jobsworth at the tent exit. As I was now out on the run course, I simply ran it back to town, up the red carpet through the finish line and back to the finisher’s tent. It was a brilliant plan for me and worked flawlessly. In a Forrest Gump moment, I ran straight through the finish, past the medals, past the T shirts and straight into the tent. As I disappeared into the gloom I could hear the announcement over the PA, “you can stop running now Jon.”
Ironically, as I still had my timing chip on, I’m credited with a finish time, although, let’s be real here, it’s not one I’m willing to shout about!

That, as they say, is that.
Louise brought the gang home, our last official finisher. Scott, Ryan, Emma and Simon performed superbly, Jane missed the swim cut-off, Billy fought Ironman bureaucracy to get out on the bike and Caz & Adrian missed the bike cut off.
I was just happy to see us all together again.

Because we use a local parking site at Bristol Airport I tend to zoom through baggage, jump on a minibus, fetch my van and then collect everyone else and their luggage from the drop of point. Consequently, I tend to go through the green channel in some state of urgency. On this day I was dragged to one side, “Do you know the limits for alcohol and cigarettes?” One chap asked. “Haven’t a clue.” I said. After extra x-rays and minor searching I was declared uninteresting and free to go. “What were you doing in Spain?” They asked.
Big mistake.
“Ironman Marbella” I replied, and began to tell them ALL about it. “…and I saw a snake.”

Sometimes they just stop the wrong chap…

Unusually, this time I don’t have a support crew to thank. They were all there, sick of supporting and now also racing.
I’ll simply take this opportunity to thank anyone that knows me and to ask for a signed photo?

Footnote 1:

Regarding Ironman relays.

Don’t – just don’t bother.

It’s fair to say that Ironman had no idea how to organise the relay.
It was effectively an afterthought.
They didn’t print off enough race numbers so that the cyclist AND the runner could have a number.
Four officials gave five different instructions and none of them were consistent with others.
Louise couldn’t get into transition to Billy.
Billy & Jane couldn’t get to Louise on the run despite their need to finish together.

It was staggeringly poor.

Almost all events seem to be able to organise a relay yet Ironman can’t.

Take from that what you will…

Footnote 2:
It’s surprising how often when taking bikes abroad we find that some of our group have lost (sometimes permanently) parts of their bicycle.
My advice; when packing a bike into a bike box is to start with a bike and a nice empty area with a selection of Ziploc bags.
Mark everything that comes apart, seatpost, bars, stem etc with paint marks to ensure perfect realignment.
Slacken pedals first.
If Di2 – move rear mech inwards to its limit before disconnecting battery with correct Di2 tool.
Put any screws removed in little Ziploc bags – don’t screw them back into their original holes.
Put bags of screws and larger components into larger Ziploc bags.
Don’t remove any tools or components from the nice empty area.
Pack everything from the area into the bike box so that all the tools used to disassemble are with you to reassemble.
Add a pump, spares and a torque wrench.

Footnote 3:
My sunglasses have been discontinued.

Footnote 4:
Came home and tested positive for Covid.