How do you finish one of the toughest Ironman’s on the planet when you aren’t a swimmer, or cyclist and have never run a marathon? All you have to do is pay the very expensive registration fee for the Embrunman and set off for 3.8km swim, 188km bike (with 5000m+ vertical elevation) and 42km run. This is a stupid bet. A personal challenge that in hindsight has taken up too much energy. To be a Finisher would in fact be a miracle. And praying to God just isn’t enough…

Story: Franck Oddoux / Test4outside.com

Action pictures: Christophe Guiard.

“Don’t tell my mum I am doing a triathlon, she thinks I’m a pianist in a brothel”.

At the hour when some are just leaving the night club, a troop of penguins in neoprene wetsuits huddle together at the start line of one of the hardest triathlons that exist: “the Embrunman, the Myth”! This is just an advertising slogan, but that said, these few loaded words explain that to reach the end of a 3.8km swim, 188km bike and a marathon is open to few survivors.

The urine slips warmly down the inside of wetsuits, you need to release tension and fluids before setting off on the kilometers ahead, but also not to lose any time along this brutal route. The clock is ticking, all along this never ending day. The women are set free five minutes before the men, a wave of sealions slip through the water. Testosterone is silenced in this gang of neoprene clad rockets – awaiting the gun to ejaculate. An insipid music floats on the air but the tension is writhe, this is gonna hurt, there’s no doubt about it. Time to throw ourselves to the sharks – Welcome to the Embrunman.

Due to a misunderstanding, I find myself in the first wave, actually on the front row, ready to be savagely attacked in the water.

“Keep calm, breathe deeply, push the air out fully, go from two rhythms to three to have more gliding, and whatever you do don’t get your goggles ripped off in the wild rush…”. These debonair penguins have transformed into killer orcas. 1200 buffalo followed by Buffalo Bill wouldn’t have provided a better spectacle. Due to a misunderstanding I find myself in the first wave, actually on the front row, ready to be savagely attacked in the water. The first strokes are carried out at top speed, I need to slow down or my lungs are going to explode. Swimming at night is a first for me. Like in a dream you vaguely see other swimmers arms and distant lights when you lift your head out the water to breathe. The spectators are most certainly cozy and warm in their coats, whilst watching the furor of the swimmers. Later, they’ll go and drink a nice cup of hot tea, ah that’s life.

 

As a kid I used to be pretty good in a pool, regional champion in backstroke.

The acrid taste of slimy water hits me all at once, I understand a carp’s life much better. “”Find your own rhythm, don’t get carried away by the others, and don’t imagine for an instant that you are Michael Phelps”. This is actually one of the great frustrations of Ironman triathlons, you have to hold yourself back to manage your energy reserves, this rare thing called glycogen is as rare as a gallon of petrol used by Mad Max on a dusty road. 3.8km in the water, not exactly a siesta – or a stroll – you need to move forward without burning out, climb out of the water ready to jump onto a bike. I started going back to the pool two years ago. As a kid I used to be pretty good in a pool, regional champion in backstroke. The over training had created total saturation: I hadn’t put my foot in a pool in 20 years. I had to start all over again. This chlorinated world is peculiar. There are customs and ways to use it. The changing rooms are always cold and more or less cruddy. The lifesavers are Kings of the pool at the top of their high perches, whistle in hand. You had to deal with hypoxia, being walloped by other swimmers who glide through the water like torpedoes in over-populated lanes. You had to make your space in the pool, be imposing, learn the hidden secrets of streamlining. Swimming is having “fuck, lower your head, look at the bottom of the pool if you want to move forward!” groaned an ex as I was trying to catch my breath at the edge of the pool…

Swimming is a card game, you are more or less lucky with the hand you are given. Firstly you need a good cardio to move forward, using windsurfer’s arms (mine). The result, you just move the water and tire yourself out. Swimming is humiliating, when the fat guy and the anorexic girl glide past you effortlessly. So many times I have put up with this humiliation, my tears have raised the level of the water in the pool. So revenge came; in the pool when grandmas arrive. The lane “reserved for swimmers” that suddenly becomes loaded with old swimmers on their backs doing double armed backstroke with the option of legs doing breaststroke…. all in the centre of the “swimmers” lane – so yes I am guilty of giving a few elbow hits (softly), yes I know, bad for my Karma, I will surely rot in swimming pool hell.

I am too self-controlled to be a good swimmer, not fluid enough.

After some thought – it’s obvious, I need lessons. The swimming instructor quickly becomes my best friend….but the road is long. As soon as I have the impression to have figured something out, the instructor corrects something else, the end never comes. Swimming is most probably the most complex sport there is, which is part of the attraction. I have never got bored in a pool, constantly trying to improve, correct my movements. But my poor French body reacts like an old French car, constantly going wrong. Philippe Lucas would probably say that I am too self-controlled to be a good swimmer, not fluid enough. After months and months of training it’s finally time to talk streamlining – the Holy Grail of swimming. You suddenly feel the change of position, by reaching further with your arms, the body stretches out, accelerates, without effort: paradise is found. ….But for how long…. just when you think you have it, you’re in the groove, it escapes you and you once again find yourself pushing the water… But you’ve seen the light at the end of the tunnel, and as the distances get greater, it takes less effort, the glide becomes more and more frequent, streamlining slips into your rhythm and you feel confident to move into the fast lane, with those majestic swimmers. Respect comes from their appreciating looks, you become one of them, when you arrive in the water with a finisher’s swim cap with a triathlon logo. Swimming is a beautiful sport, the only sport where etiquette says you cannot spit in the water, yet everyone pees ever so slightly. Almost the same.

You must enjoy these moments even if the stopwatch pushes you to go faster and miss out on these ephemeral moments.

But for a triathlete the swim is just the beginning, it’s the means of starting a triple challenge. It’s disappointing because the swim is considered less important next to the bike, where the gaps can be increased more easily. For me, triathlon is a classy sport, where the athletes have v-shaped backs with a very particular muscular definition, flexible, powerful, defined and balanced. After two years messing about in the pool I am capable of swimming 3.8km with ease in an Ironman. That in itself is a victory. The battle at the buoys no longer frightens me, you just have to stay in the stream of the flux so you don’t get stuck and hit. Lift up your head every 15 strokes to be able to target the next buoy and keep your rhythm and stay calm…

The sun is rising over the ridges, the water becomes clear, I can see my hands. Life awakens at the surface. It was definitely worth all the swim sessions in the pool to finally feel at ease in open water, competing in a long distance challenge. Suddenly I can see the arrival line, people gathered all around – an image without sound. Swimmers around me accelerate, each wanting their glory, and run on the carpet (even if it isn’t a red one) to the bike park under the sounds of applause by the admiring crowd. It is a powerful sensation, where life suddenly reappears, sounds, smells, textures. You must enjoy these moments even if the stopwatch pushes you to go faster and miss out on these ephemeral moments. The gestures are automatic: unzip the wetsuit, take off goggles and swim cap, start rolling down the neoprene all whilst running on the carpet. Search for my bike. Drink. Swallow a gel. Helmet, glasses. Socks, shoes. Race bib 1032. Lift up my head and see a wave of competitors doing the same routine. Then run alongside your bike to the start line. What we have in store: 188km. Behind us the swim is done. That’s a good start. I’m feeling good.

 

 

The race really starts at Izoard, because the absolute beauty of this pass contrasts with the lesser multiple hills that follow.

Having never run an Ironman I can only guess what is in store for me. Friends who have already experienced it several times have given me tips. The Embrunman is special, its magnificent bike route of almost 5000m of vertical ascension must not be taken lightly, you need precaution and strategy. The peak of the route is the famous pass – Izoard at 2300m altitude where numerous cyclists on the Tour de France have seen their hopeful victories evaporate.  The race really starts here, because the absolute beauty of this pass contrasts with the lesser multiple hills that follow. You need to keep some energy in reserve to finish the ride without too much destruction. Eat often, drink, it’s the basic routine. I have become a digestive tract. My watch reminds me when I must send something down. The organization did a deal with a brand for the aid stations. The glucose bars are perfect for a hypoglycemia reaction, the isotonic drink recommended for removing carpet or degreasing a chain. The bananas are green, and the salty biscuits doped with OGM. Ok I’m difficult, so I drink a little Coca-Cola. Something that will surely excommunicate me. It was certainly worth eating organic food for the last few months to poison myself during the race. The beginning of the bike section is done at a million miles an hour, either the competitors are mega strong, or they aren’t being strategic. The first downhill is classic, the nutters go full pelt, hands off the brakes and head down – they over take all over the place, there’s gonna be a crash. The triathlon Guardian Angel has decided to keep them safe for now. Later an ambulance is across half of the street, nurses are busy, I notice someone on a drip… shit… two competitors are on the pavement.

The light is divine on the wheat fields up above the turquoise waters of the Serre-Ponçon lake. A serendipity moment, lifting  my head and smelling the soft scent of hay in the warm air. But don’t get too absorbed, concentrate on the crazy cyclists, flying gravel, endless switchbacks. If a cat crosses the road, I’ll exterminate it. Don’t get too carried away with a pace too fast, eat and drink disappears and only pedaling is in my mind.

I became that guy who is no longer invited to parties because he only nibbles on half a raw carrot, asks for organic cranberry juice and licks the back of an ice cream spoon then goes and vomits in the toilet because of its excess.

On the road side I hear encouragements from the spectators: sun-hatted holiday makers with admirative gazes, kids that think it’s the Tour de France, other competitors’ crew applauding everyone without distinction. Circling a roundabout there are masses of people cheering, you can hear it from far away, I have to pedal hard, directed by a wall of raised arms – incredible! It’s the fifteen minutes of Warhol glory. The triathletes pedal even faster seeing the tourists and hearing the cheer gives everybody wings …

Alarm bells started ringing already during the swim, some muscles had contracted in a no- fun way. It’s starting again on the bike, but more painful. I need to keep them at bay – surely I am not cramping already? I have been watching my acid levels for several months, gave up alcohol, no red meat, vegetable protein and legumes, magnesium, mineral water, a cure to boost the macrobiotics, ginseng suppositories, no sex… I became a real monk.  That guy who is no longer invited to parties because he only nibbles on half a raw carrot, asks for organic cranberry juice and licks the back of an ice cream spoon then goes and vomits in the toilet because of its excess. The triathlete that slowly cuts away from his circle of friends, unsociable, due to the ever increasing training programme. The endorphins that govern the mind and body, the new drug. You feel in control of a formula one machine, with no limits. You only have to look at the amount of training triathletes do to prepare an Ironman: over months and months, even the entire year. On social media you see that these athletes spend all their time on their bikes to build up the miles. The same for swimming, some swimming sessions are frightening, aquatic torture! The blink of an eye that is known as rest between the big training blocks, is short, intense, like a quickie… But it doesn’t last long. Your body gets thinner and thinner, the women almost disappear: they go from being a 110 double D to an ironing board. Libido sinks to the bottom of the pool. Language changes to pull buoy, watts, power sensors. Reading time is triathlon magazines whilst being attached to the electro stimulator next to the fireplace. Unfortunately all these stages are necessary if you don’t want to suffer too much in an Ironman race. Things can get out of hand in the obsession and lead to overtraining, fatigue, injuries and burn-out… One day at breakfast you suddenly realize that the amount of food supplements is as many as someone with an incurable disease. It is urgent to find the path again of sport in its simplest form, to share and enjoy.

So Guinness is not good for performance, I need to point out my subtle observations to my coach.

At the foot of Izoard the muscles in my left leg start contracting, and not in a good way. Cramps are not far behind. I know this uphill well and especially the mental breakdown it takes out on you when suddenly the climb gets vertical in the turn on the right after leaving Brunissard. A Brit who has no doubt spent plenty of time in the local pubs flies past me with his extra kilos creating lunar energy. I am a chicken carcass in comparison. Instead I tell myself that I will do the uphill in standing position to avoid my thighs cramping up. Stay calm, find your rhythm, let the sweat roll along the helmet. The drops of sweat fall rhythmically on the bike frame. A timepiece. Time gets stretched out of reality, speeds up and slows down. The miles sink into the abyss of time. Powerful flashes of landscape. Her Majesty’s subject is lying down on a bench on the side of the road, his hands over his face: his stomach is emptied. SO Guinness is not good for performance, I need to point out my subtle observations to my coach. Suddenly the pass is in sight. The aid station is in sight in this mineral universe. The granny who brings my personal aid bag is astonished by the amount of food I want to take with me on my bike. But her look of disgust changes nothing in my mind’s eye, eat and drink, are the two number 1 rules – to be a finisher. The descent is done in Formula 1 style – full gaz! The road is closed the high speed makes the race bib bang wildly in the wind. The thighs can hardly believe this sudden release. Being a skier has its uses, knowing the right trajectory. “If you brake you are a coward”, “ if you forget to brake you are dead against a Mélèze”. It’s all about balance. The cyclists are often strewn along the side of the road: flat tires, mashed up wheels, mechanical problems, falls, broken spirit, gastric problems, refusing to believe the sword of Damocles, “DNF”, Did Not Finish, the crucifying letters that spell out Abandon.

I overtake the Russian Spy. She crushes me in the next uphill. I humiliate her in the downhill. She glides by on the flat. I nail her before the aid station. She charges over a hill. Impossible to get rid of her, she’s stuck like glue.

One by one the muscles in my left thigh tetanize. I have just enough time to stop at the bottom on the side. The pain doubles with the muscles in my other leg that does the same dance. I have two logs of wood instead of legs. The pain is excruciating. I can’t move. Bent in half on the ground. I need a solution , fast. I scream! No way is the race going to finish like this. I am going to quash the pain and cramps. I get back on my bike, my legs are practically locked tight. It has to pass. The first feet are torture, then the muscles begin to slowly let go. What is the solution? Eat as much salt as possible around the pecan nuts from my aid bag, take a gel, drink the small bottle of mineral water that I’ve been carrying with me since Izoard, eat…. and stop doubting the eventual cramps in my mind. The downhills and the flat are complete nightmares, muscle pains come back at regular intervals. The hills are systematically done standing up. Impossible to ride at my own pace. A Russian girl screeches by me Holy S*** I’m going so slowly. Don’t take any notice of the others, centre yourself, do your own race. Get in your bubble. What does that mean actually? Autistic? Ok well let’s be an autist until the end of the cycling. You have to ignore the frustration of not being able to cycle at your usual speed. You have to deviate your thoughts. If only I had some music. Ok I just need to think hard and the decibels will reach my ears. An imaginary reggae song gives me the tempo and the energy to refuel my batteries.  I overtake the Russian Spy. She crushes me in the next uphill. I humiliate her in the downhill. She glides by on the flat. I nail her before the aid station. She charges over a hill. Impossible to get rid of her, she’s stuck like glue.

She is my defeat, my cross, my antithesis. I console myself by telling myself that the organization would love to do some femininity tests. She is no doubt a former shot-putter.

The Embrun village finally surfaces after a turn, BUT, it’s only the start of the end because you have to do a last loop to knock up the 188km and it climbs…a lot! The heat is crippling. Someone forgot to turn off the oven. My legs return from holiday and I stick to the guy in front like a fly to a turd – not too close as it is prohibited to draft, like many other things that are prohibited in triathlon, nudity in the bike park… Triathlon is an individualists sport.

As usual on the running section of the triathlon it’s total shambles. No one knows who is in the lead or at the back.

The bike park! Deliverance! Two of the sections done and dusted! I have no idea how long I have taken, my watch gave up way before I tried to. No heart rate monitor since the beginning of the race and the battery just gave up. Which is OK as I am doing everything just be listening to my body. So many people talk about the immense solitude when you finally leave your bike behind you, and you put your running shoes on and set off for a marathon: 42km and the 195meters which count more than ever! During my training sessions bike to running I have thought about this transition often, imagining how I would find the resources to run a marathon. I have never run a marathon. I have always run in the mountains, on hills. I have no idea what it is even like to run on the flat this length of time. I realize I don’t even think about it – I just go. Probably thanks to the adrenalin coursing through my body – I’m ready! I have to admit that I love the transitions, Formula 1 style. Transitions are the reason I do triathlon, The King of the bike park ! It is spectacular, full of suspense, agility. Juggling between several sporting disciplines. I knew my legs would feel heavy once off the bike in the first kilometers. But nothing ever happens how you expect it to, you have to do three loops with some hills. As usual on the running section nobody knows who is in the lead or at the back. Runners cross over, overtake. You have to look at their wrists to understand the game: each loop a different colored bracelet is given. My pace seems good and I feel good. The first loop is really fun, incredible – I am going to be able to finish my first Ironman! Of course too much confidence is bad in ultra-distances, suddenly some muscles start to twitch, my thighs, are they going to start cramping again? Keep drinking and eating. There are sponges for the runners, better than a breath of fresh air to lighten your spirits. Is the hip-bath allowed in the rules I wonder to myself? Surely due to missing neurons, I have the brilliant idea of mixing fizzy water with an isotonic drink: my limited intelligence thinks it’s found the renaissance against cramping. The result doesn’t take long to materialize, a few kilometers later, it is Beirut, the few meters of my digestive tract did not absorb the magic potion – the effect was the opposite: total rejection. The start of a tortuous path, horrible. My field of vision started closing in, just enough to see the asphalt in front of my feet. I can hardly talk, no voice. I’m holed up leaning against a barrier at the aid station with a cup of water in my hand, I throw up on the feet of a kind man who came to see the wild show of suffering triathletes. His moccasins have been decorated. I can’t run anymore, I have to walk like a grandad escaped from a sanitorium. It’s simple, if I go slower, I go backwards. Everything that wanted to escape from the top, over the shoes of Raymond the Voyeur now decides to exit from the nether regions. I have to quickly find a place to relieve myself of this intestinal fire. I am not alone. The gels, food, drinks, effort have overturned the machine. A finisher of an Ironman is maybe the one with a high performance digestive tube! So near, yet so far from the goal! Another two loops, I have done a third of the course route… All great ultra-running champions that I have met  in my life as a journalist have always used these few words: “when you are at the bottom of a deep hole, be patient, the light always comes back, you can have the cherry on the cake”. I didn’t really understand the cherry on the cake, right now I just needed to get my mojo back. Walk first, then let yourself slide in the downhill, jog. Accept the fact you will be overtaken and remember you are just in the process of being resuscitated. My favorite film: Freeze Die Come to Life by Vitali Banevich. In any difficult times the music from Bobby McFerrin is like a comforting bandage: “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”.

I am empty, I can no longer think, I don’t even hurt any more: like an empty shellfish dried up on the shore.

Keep moving the feet. Crossing the village’s main street is a culture shock: the calm, relaxed onlookers drinking chilled drinks on café terraces and the violence of the triathletes, some of them in complete agony , like me. The thick scent of grilled shrimp gives me nausea. And the last nail in the coffin – the Russian Spy has just overtaken me! I can see her fat bum moving from side to side in her faded triathlete suit. I never saw her face, only her back. Maybe she’s a ghost, a specter, from my delirious mind: like in “Duel” by Steven Spielberg, you don”t know if the truck is real or imaginary. Anyway – I see the girl’s backside disappear in the ether. If I make it o the finish line I promise I will never take the mickey again. I can’t eat, drink anything, especially not gels, or energy drinks. A kind volunteer offers me some water with a few drops of lemon juice in it. Every 10 minutes I try and drink a mouthful. At each aid station I stick my lips in some Coca-Cola. The sickliness is still there but legs have started walking again. All around me is suffering. Some incapacitated by cramps give in. What a shame so close to the end.

Only one loop left to go. Even crawling around I should be able to make it, no pain, no gain. And finally it’s there, that moment I have been waiting for that now seems unreal, the finish line, the speaker who calls out the name of each carcass that crosses the line. I get nearer. This time I will make it unless an old Russian satellite lands on my head. A couple more steps and I cross the imaginary line, the one that separates movement with stopping. Pause. The photo, the medal around the neck and the path to the bike park. The End.