How to describe a week ago? How to do it justice? I am simply unable to.
Patagonman XTRI. An iron-distance triathlon in Chilean Patagonia. 1600 kilometres south of Santiago. Through a landscape arguably more beautiful than anywhere else in the world.
The Water was Colder the day Before
The swim course starts four kilometres offshore with competitors leaping from a car ferry. At night. Into the freezing blackness that is the Aysen Fjord.
Once on-board the instructions are simple. "See that light? It's a Navy ship. Once you get there turn right. Look for the lights of the port. That's Transition. Keep the Navy ship on your LEFT shoulder."
My left shoulder is punched repeatedly. A useful visual. Wax earplugs, layers of neoprene and the ferry's engines are not conducive to great conversation. Then there is the teeth chatter.
It is meant to be hard. "We are not playing. This is not Ironman." Which is why only 300 entered and 189 started. Why only 149 finished. This is the reason we are there.
Onshore your Support person awaits. Joyful. Concerned. When you exit you are freezing cold. You need to get warm. But you need to get moving. The bike route climbs 2800 metres. The cutoffs are unforgiving.
A Long Way from Milford Haven
XTRI events are two-person team competitions. One races. The other serves as Support. Support rents a car and drives it as SAG. The racer cannot get in the car. The racer and Support must work together to ensure the racer has everything they need for the day. Support is allowed to run the final section of the marathon with you. The ethos is shared experience. There is no hubris. "This is not Ironman."
We begin to roll. Pavé. Lots of it. In my head I recite Kubla Khan by Coleridge. Must be the waterfalls.
"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan, A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran, Through caverns measureless to man, Down to a sunless sea."
The pain sets in. I am wondering about Coleridge's opium addiction when a camera crew roll up. They film, hanging from the back of a flatbed lorry. Kilometre after infernal kilometre. We try to look like we know what we are doing. I wish I were in shape. They must like the bike.
Ahhh, the bike. Michael Cranwell of LapDogs Cycling Club would be proud. We have the same Cannondale SystemSix. Michael calls his “The Nuclear Banana.” I call mine “Junior.” I wonder how strong Michael's sense of irony is. I craft jokes about him trying to compensate for something. For some reason I do not fancy fruit when I next see Support.
We push. Those who came on tri-bikes are riding upright. But I am comfortable in my drops. Grassroots triathlon baby! We hit the gravel sections and everyone disappears behind.
I let the bike fly. The construction crews rebuilding the highway see it coming. They rise to their feet. "VAMOS!" We take the cheers. Pure adrenaline. All week the people have been brilliant. We want to give back. We want to put on a show. I crest 82 KPH.
We shoot past lines of stationary cars. Somehow the organizers have allowed us to take over the Carretera Austral. Every time we approach a construction zone the traffic is stopped. "For you, the lights will always be green."
Here come the camera crew again. I begin to look for gears that do not exist. 9.8 KPH and all out. For half an hour! Another uphill. More headwind. The camera crew dismount and run alongside. Somehow we are passing people. How did it get so hot?
We hear strangely specific cheers. My name. From cars alongside. Horns blaring. Someone mentions Geraint. Then my name again. It dawns on me that I have been discovered by the the only Chilean / Welsh family in Chilean Patagonia.
The final crest. Two days before we drove it and punctured clouds. Today it is clear. We plummet 2500 metres through a series of s-bends. Again on the drops. I let it all hang out and beat Support into transition.
As Hard as MdS
Some context. We gravitate towards the hardest challenges. In excess of 25 iron-distance events. All of the hard ones including Tenby, Lanzarote and Silverman (before it was cancelled for being TOO hard!) Then there was Epic Camp. Through the Rockies. 12 hours a day for two weeks with Scott Molina. And Marathon des Sables. Oh, MdS! Returning in April 2020 for the 35th anniversary. 250 KM through the Sahara. Brutal.
But Patagonman. Am I fat? Old? A combination of both? Probably. Certainly! Still, an ultra-marathon with approximately 2000 metres of vertical? An MdS stage after a Tour de France stage after a 4 KM dip in a glacial fjord? We relished it.
Those who know, know. Sand climbs. Untamed wilderness. Topography "measureless to man. Down to a sunless sea"? How to describe a week ago? How to do it justice?
We forded a river. I destroyed my socks. We descended hard. I fell on the flat stretch. Blood. Lots of it. Flowing from both palms. I railed at the sky, back spasming. Then we raced. Pure. Raw. Walk-run. The Sahara Shuffle. Silk, you B******!
We rang the bell. There is but one. It came in dreams and now I feel the rope. "VAMOS!" Again, the people. Ignacio. Love / hate. Then our Welsh contingent. Stray dogs. Never so slow yet so proud.
Only a two hour drive to out hotel. "Te amos... Walter." We will return.
To get a little more insight, check out this video.
