Siobhan Brewer Lanza 70.3

I have very fond memories of the Canary Islands. My parents held the view that Tenerife had all you ever required from a holiday destination (unless of course you have small children and then everyone knows you can’t beat Blackpool). The criteria included; direct flights from Glasgow, all year round sunshine, banana liquor, Scottish football shown live in Irish Pubs and cheap cigarettes. I had spent many a holiday indulging in such delights.

Yet here I was, over 20 years later and 50 years of age, back in the Canary Islands – this time Lanzarote. Parents long gone, wearing a wet suit at 7am preparing to jump into the harbour to commence a half Ironman Triathlon. What’s more I was peeing myself. No – not metaphorically. I was literally peeing myself. Two coffees and a continuous slug of electrolyte drink I was too lazy to queue for a portaloo and wrestle with the roka wetsuit again. I was peeing like a horse. The warm torrent filling my legs. It had come to this. My mother would have killed me………

This was my first triathlon abroad post covid and it felt a bit lack lustre. I couldn’t help but think the Austrians would never have tolerated the wrinkled, faded out ironman carpet. They would have had wall to wall pristine carpet with no prospect of ripped toes from the stones on the pavement. There was no tannoy announcer or jamboree. The Finns had the deputy prime minister welcoming every nation to Finland (including the sole Scot – me) . The Danes had rock music and Icelandic claps for a warm up. It all felt a bit confusing, I didn’t know where to go, what’s more there was no swim warm up and no pens for predicted swim time. The setting however was magnificent. The sun was rising over the magnificent marina rubicon, the air temperature was already balmy and it felt special.

The lack of organisation played a part in my badly placed entrance into the water. I am always reticent to throw myself into the swim and naturally hold back. Suddenly, I realised I was almost at the very back of the pack. I looked round and asked what swim time these fellow triathletes predicted. I saw the light of fear in their eyes, like bambi in the car headlights. As one they said ‘ I just need to get on the bike….’. Yet again I thought to myself, I really need to have more confidence and go further forward on swim starts. I never learn.

I ran down the ramp and into the water. I was met by a wall of breast strokers. I acutely realised that this water wasn’t Copeland Pool. It was moving all by itself. It has a will and a power all of its own and was a huge body of water. A wave of sheer panic rose up within me. I focused on expelling all air on exhalation and repeated ‘tranquilla, tranquilla’ to myself. (I have watched all seasons of Money Heist on Netflix and despite basic Spanish I have learned that tranquilla roughly translates as ‘calm yer’sel Hen‘) This seemed to work and I swam on.

As I approached the first buoy I couldn’t cut back in due to the line up of breast strokers. What’s more there also appeared to be a gang of swimmers who would swim over me doing front crawl only to stop five meters later and start breast stroking again. I felt irritated. We then turned and headed to sea. As I sighted I saw the water tilt and we were heading out into the ocean. I recalled that ‘him indoors’ who should be well used to my exploits by now had scoffed that seeing how I was pulled out of the swim in Marbella 70.3 in the Mediterranean why did I think it was a good idea to enter an event in the Atlantic? I felt the panic rise again. Normally when I swim I monitor my breathing to gauge how much effort I am putting in, or in a long swim I focus on technique like the diamond shaped catch or one goggle out breathing. I gave up on all of this. This swim was about survival. On I went - just swimming. Eventually we turned again back towards the harbour. Now I had had enough of the partial front crawlers who swam over me and I was kicking them off with some force. I was going to make it. The swim exit looked iconic. I started to remember all the ironman swim exits and how they were all special. And then I remembered Pennington Flash….. There was no one to hold your hand exiting the water and there was a solitary rope for you to pull yourself up the steep ramp. At that moment it felt like the North face of the Eiger. Still grown men were clawing at my trisuit trying to haul themselves over the top of me to climb the ramp. I let out a roar of annoyance, which seemed to do the trick and they let go. As I got to the top of the ramp for the first time I looked at my watch and pressed stop. I could see it had the number 45 in it. I was ecstatic, I had survived a swim in the Atlantic and completed it in a personal best time too. It was a miracle. As I jogged down transition I mused that there were no shortcuts in achieving this. The long swim beyond distance and the killer intervals had worked. Some of my friends had been concerned that coach Paul was a masochist intent on killing me by training. This was patently not true and in fact at that moment I reflected that coach Paul was the triathlon god who had bestowed this miracle swim accomplishment upon me.

On to the bike. I started eating and drinking straight away. I was still bathing in the glory of surviving the sea swim but I was concerned about the imminent arrival of the killer climb. Shortly I rounded a corner and there it was. I nearly laughed at loud. It was mercifully short and I could see the top. Compared to lake district climbs I wouldn’t even call it a hill. In my mind this climb had reached Mont Ventoux proportions but in reality it wasn’t even as steep as the lower slopes of Whinlatter Pass. I would have called it an incline. On inclines my experience is that everyone else appears to stay still and almost stop whilst I sail pass. I fought down the urge to start picking them all off and stick to the plan that triathlon god Paul had formulated. I focussed on the watts on my Garmin. Still I was moving past quite a few. Near the top I passed a woman in a 70.3 world championships skin suit. What’s more she was puffing like a train. This was going to be alright. On the descent the roads were smooth and the visibility was good. The only hinderance being some rather inconveinient speed bumps at one point. The vista was spectacular. I was wearing a sleeveless tri suit and I was riding my bike outdoors. This was great. There was little on course support or entertainment compared to other events. In winter training I had blasted trance music on the turbo trainer. Now there was absolute silence. I felt my shoulders drop and relax. For the first time in nearly two tumultuous pandemic filled years I managed to achieve something no yoga or meditation had done. My mind emptied. There were no thoughts. This ride was like a balm to my troubled soul and my mind was at peace. I maintained this meditative state until near the end of the second lap when I started to feel mildly irritated by how long this was actually taking. On Rouvy my best time was 3 hours and 7 mins , I was pushing out more watts now yet this was going to take much longer. What was going on? For the first time I looked at more measurments on my Garmin than watts and noted that I was cycling downhill back into Playa Blanca, pushing out 150 watts (3w/kg for me) and was going at a measly 12mph. It was the wind. The wind. I hadn’t considered the wind. Forty five minutes later than anticipated I was heading out onto the run.

As I started the run I heard a voice purposefully shout out ‘go on Siobhan’. This was unexpected. For reasons I won’t bore you with I am a solo traveller. People don’t shout out my name in races, usually because by the time they have figured out what it actually says I have ran past. My parents probably thought they had given me a sophisticated name which reflected their Irish heritage. In reality being called Siobhan meant that no one in the UK could say it and the Irish linked it to a phrase ‘Siobhan have you got your knickers on?‘ I looked up and saw a familiar face from Keswick Tri Club. No dead legs I was running quite well and I planned to notch the speed up when I had got past the first two miles. I rounded an off road section past a lighthouse and suddenly I felt a familiar feeling of my head being cooked in warm events. This for me is an uncomfortable sensation when I feel like my head is puce red and is going to explode. I akin it to being cooked. I was going to have to dial it back. I slowed to what felt like a sustainable pace for the rest of the race. I was running past the ocean and I was enjoying myself. There was member of staff from my work, unrecognisable almost without her uniform on who was waving a banner and shouting at me. Coincidentally she was here on holiday. I appreciated the support enormously. What’s more my poor running buddy Andrew was laid up with Covid back in Carlisle but was tracking me and sending motivational messages which by magic come up on my Garmin. For a solo traveller I felt surrounded by friends. Half the course was beautiful and half was perfunctory. At one point there was a scaffolded bridge over the road with a steep ramp up and down. It was amusing to watch some competitors haul themselves up the ramp and teeter on the short descent. Fell running experience has its advantages. I chose my aid station that I was going to use each 5k. I looked at my watch and noted I was running about 9min/miles. Part of me felt disgusted. For the first time in a long while I had broken the golden 8min/mile at home and was even running 6min/miles in intervals. I levelled with myself that 7min/miles in cold Cumbria must be equivalent to 9min/miles in Lanzarote sun and ran on. I felt good until the last loop when the nausea arrived. I slugged coke and with only a mile left the job was done.

The finish like the start felt a bit lacklustre and I didn’t know where to go. There were no medals presented or posing at Ironman banners. I eventually found the white bag pick up and the post race food. I had to ask where my medal and t-shirt was.

The post-race food looked surprisingly alright. The Finns are very on trend. In Lahti the race t-shirt was made of local merino wool and the post-race food was plant based. In Finland post-race there was a group of strapping big Irish fella’s asking where the chips and pizza was. They took one look at the buffet of salad and gherkins served up by the Finns and headed off to Macdonalds. However, here in Lanza the contingent of big strapping Irish fellas (if indeed there was such a gathering) would have approved of the pizza and rice on offer. I still couldn’t face it and sat down by the side of the road with my usual tried and trusted post-race favourites of a bottle of full fat coke and a packet of salt and vinegar hula hoops.

As I supped on the coke I reflected on the race. It was without a doubt the hardest 70.3 I had completed and I felt grateful to come away unscathed and feeling relatively alright. There had been a lot to contend with, the sea, the wind and the heat which set it apart from your average 70.3. I was relieved I had committed to some serious training as I wasn’t convinced my usual tactic of rock up and wing it round for a good day out would have worked. Two weeks ago today I had had a complete crisis of confidence as I failed to complete a key training session. Normally I pride myself in being able to soak up miles of training in my stride- I was admired by my friends for my ability to keep going. However the intensity of coach Paul’s training regime had eventually broke me. Subsequently my doubts and fears had magnified. I am a mediocre athlete on my very best days but definitely devoid of any real talent. My biggest attribute being stubbornness and mental fortitude. However now I had been broken, I was in a Facebook group with ‘proper’ triathletes with talent and competitiveness. Who did I think I was with an elite coach and attempting proper training methods? I wasn’t worthy. However, here in Lanza post-race I had a dawn of realisation. I may be an ordinary middle aged woman with no particular talents but I was at the stage in my triathlon journey where I wanted to do extraordinary things. Getting a coach and committing to a training regime wasn’t being above myself, it was sensible and indeed essential to achieving my goals. Four months of committed training with coach Paul had seen me beat my previous best swim and run times in Lanza of all places. What’s more I wasn’t destroyed. I felt fine. You couldn’t argue with any of this. I reasoned that the trial of coaching had been a success and I vowed to continue onwards to my next crazy stupid goals.

(ladies- I also look at young triathlete girls in events feeling jealous and in awe of their shapely legs. They look so fit. I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror in Lanza and noted that a by product of four months of training meant that I had developed such limbs too. For a middle aged woman this was good news and I could wear my bikini to the beach with confidence to work on a tan (unfortunately my upper body now looked after a lot of swimming as if I was ready to row the atlantic , but I let that go)

I spent the next few days post race in Lanza eating, sleeping, reading books and doing a little amount of easy training. This included a swim in the sea. Now that the race was over I was chilled and relaxed. Normally post ironman I visit cultural sites of the host country or even get on a train to a neighbouring country I have never been to before. This all culminates in me sleeping at the airport on a bench like a homeless person before snoring my way on the entire plane journey home. This time I recovered properly. I realised I hadn’t lain on a beach in the sun, relaxing with the sound of the waves for over twenty years – pre children. It was long overdue.

When I returned my bike for packing down into the bike box at Papagayo bikes, the young bloke had noted all the ironman stickers I had on my box. He was keen that a Lanza sticker would be joining the others. ‘You are incredible’ he said ‘look at all these races you do – and full distance one’s as well’. As I was old enough to be his mother I decided he definitely wasn’t flirting with me and was actally genuine. ‘But’ I said ‘I’m not really any good….’ . ‘Rubbish’ he retorted, ‘how can you say that? Those events are really hard, no ordinary person can do them. Just completing them must mean that you have to train all the time’. This time I agreed with him. Yes I do train all the time, that’s what’s needed to get round these events.

Over the next few days I decided I was definitely returning to Lanza for the 70.3 event next year and that I would commit to doing the 140.6 in May 2023. My parents may have given me a name no one can say, but they were right on one thing, maybe not in the way they intended. The Canary Islands are the best place for a triathlon holiday it has everything you could possibly want. Why would you feel the need to go anywhere else?