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Article wrtten by: Rebecca Taylor, courtesy of xtri mag.

Rebecca Taylor's experience in the Toughest of the Ironman Competitions

Pain trickled through my veins as the wine pooled in my salt-swollen mouth and spilled into the glass. For once I didn't notice the smokers around me. The lemony grease of the calamari leapt from the plate to my quivering fork.

We had wandered the ocean boardwalk for a while looking for a restaurant. I had to hold myself upright on Adam's arm. Every jointed part of me was stiff and raw with pain. We cheered on a couple of runners still finishing laps on the run course. I had passed this point eight times, but now it was dark and deserted. I wondered if they were going to finish.

The local police officers are all smiles as they excuse our parking job to congratulate us on finishing the race and to admire my bike as Adam stacks it atop his in the tiny car. One of them had completed it before, though not in conditions as windy as today -- which is particularly windy -- he notes. I understand his Spanish well and I respond with confident malapropisms.

My eyeballs rolled to the back of my head as she ran bags of ice over the arches of my feet and shocks of burning pain ran up my legs. She gave me an extra-long massage, probably because Adam had given her his milagro, a Mexican “miracle” from a friend back home in Tucson. Mine, a silver leg strung on several pieces of brightly colored string, still hung around my neck. I watched the medics wheel someone away on a gurney. Maybe it was the man who had crashed on the bike and finished the entire race with a broken clavicle. The tent was remarkably calm and quiet. I nearly fell asleep when I put my head down and she slipped my socks off.


I clutched the finisher's medal and knew that it was now complete. The race director, Kenneth Gasque, kissed me after I crossed the finish line. Adam was holding up the finishing tape and I ran as fast as I could, upright and smiling through the agonizing pain shooting through my lower legs and feet with every foot landing. We had finished an Ironman together, erasing the memory of Canada three years ago. Peter and Iain's parents handed me an American flag as I approached the last hundred meters. The street narrowed with the thickening crowd as the announcer's voice lifted me up and carried me through it.

Everyone looks desperate. I cheer on a woman in my age-group passing me in the opposite direction. She doesn't glance my way but continues on like a frightened deer. I pulled up behind an English athlete who is struggling to walk in obvious abdominal discomfort. Since I had less than 5k left, I handed him my salt tablets and wished him luck. Charles, who had obviously dropped out somewhere, lazily chided me to get running and finish (“it's just 5k!!”) as he lay on his back on the rock wall along the beach in front of our hotel. Every foot landing on the concrete tiles was excruciating, so I had to walk again. I laughed thinking about the numerous 16-20 mile runs I completed in preparation for this. I started running again as I neared town and could see the finish line, teasing me for the last time as I took my third and final string: The yellow one.

I had an overwhelming desire to rip the coveted yellow string from Adam as he approaches me in his inimitable “Ironman shuffle”. I couldn't believe the pain I was in as he released me from a hug that had momentarily melted it away. I have counted two women in my age group ahead of me. Out of reach, but maybe I can still finish on the podium? This is not the time to be questioning why I am doing this. We are a sick bunch, feebly marching stiff-legged into the crooked wind.

I must make it two laps, and I will let myself walk. These kind of arbitrary rules and goals keep me moving. The wind is still blowing hard, though it is against my back as I run back into town after the turn-around. I move my hat around on my head finding its most stable position against the wind. I had laughed at the people on the video with their hats askew on their head at silly angles, but now I know it was out of necessity. I can't believe who is ahead of me, walking: JeanneAnne (Rebecca's friend, American pro athlete JeanneAnne Krizmann). I momentarily walk with her and she tells me not to stop, to keep on running.


Running out of transition, I knew that this was going to be harder than Lake Placid, despite the extraordinary run training I had put in and the theoretically “easy” flat course along the ocean boardwalk through town. The pain in my feet, knees and back immediately manifest itself and only the novelty of being off my bike kept my feet moving lightly and quickly. I pulled my gel flask out of its holder and held it in my right hand, as I always held my dog's leash on training runs.

I wiped the stinging salt grit off my body with a damp towel and hardly noticed the naked man next to me doing the same. With less than 50 women in the race, what's the point of separate facilities? Seven hours on the bike; I had been certain that I would go under 6 ½, even on this course. What does time matter at this point?

I thought that I would have a free ticket courtesy of the tailwind back into town after the descent of Mirador del Rio. But the climb back into central Lanzarote is cruel and unnecessary. My mind is blank as I crawl again uphill into the wind I continue to play tag with the same Belgian and Frenchman. I don't think they appreciate a girl passing them on the hills. They found their revenge on the downhills and fly by me as I top off at 47 screaming down the bumpy black road from Mirador del Rio. I hoped that my milagro was doing its thing. The climb up is so stunning that I almost forget about the wind. Only a 2 foot high lava brick wall separates me from the dramatic drop to the ethereal ocean swirling around Isla Graciosa below. A camera crew on a motorcycle accompanies and entertains me part way up the climb. I always smiled for the camera.

Darting through the twisting roads of the small white-washed towns, I receive more than my fair share of applause: “Go Chica!” “Lady! Vaya!”. By the time I start the bike, I will have traveled most of the island. The stark unvegetated lava piles are oddly beautiful to my desert eyes. The lava rock windbreaks built around every single plant are interesting frames that protect the bits of plant life struggling to grow on the island; they also clue me in to what direction the prevailing winds blow.

The left hand turn into Haria is terrifying in the wind and descent. I squeeze my knees against my toptube, plant my butt far back on my saddle and hold onto the drops with a death grip as my rear Zipp shimmies in the crosswind. I check over my shoulder that someone is not careening out of control behind me and then cut the 180 degree hairpin turns wide and brace myself for the gust of wind waiting around every corner.

I unclip my left foot for 10 seconds as I reach for my special needs bag, the only time I disengage from my bike; in this wind, I'm not sure I can let go of the handlebars and keep myself upright. The windmills at the Wind Park atop Mirador de Haria are turning full speed. In my 25 “bail out” cog, I dodge the weaving cyclists at 5 mph. Several people are pushing their bikes up the hill.

In the stillness of oppressive heat, sweat crawls up my face in a small stream into my helmet, drying my eyes out. I squint in the dull haze at the road stretching upward into the barren midland further and further away from me as I roll steadily down the hill. The wind whips up and carries the heat in eddies around me. Gel slides up my throat and barely passes my taste buds as it oozes back into the bottle. Or is it sliding down my throat? Four hours to go, and time and gravity are having their fun with me.


The clouds swallow the sun and the temperature drops on the descent into La Santa. The water is not peaceful on this side of the island and crashes in white waves against the rocky coast. As if I were on the moon, I climb up the surreal Fire Mountain with levity and ease, gaining strength with each rider I pass. The clouds clinging low to the oddly beautiful black and pink peaks beckon me. Charles said this was the worst climb; he was wrong.

I do my best Lori Bowden imitation and scythe through cyclists with only two hours to go. The bullying wind continually pushes me over and I hold on to my handlebar drops with all my strength as I turn the pedals over fast and hard to cover these flatter miles as fast as I can. Susie is ahead and I'm thrilled to have someone to chat with briefly. I sweep out into the middle of the road and back in the gusts of the wind and worry that I might fall over. I really have to empty my bladder, and I face the decision that all age-group athletes make. I pass a W25-29 and am not willing to stop and lose sight of her.

My teeth are chattering and my vision is blurry as the wind dries the salt water dripping into my eyes. I'm not sure I can grip my bars tight enough in the gusts so I pedal cautiously. I sail back to the tent and wrap myself in a towel for several minutes. I am shivering and cold. I take my helmet off and run down the beach through the showers and struggle into my wetsuit. 1:08 on my watch! The water is choppier now and I swallow several large mouthfuls as the sun blinds me on my left side. 33 minutes to go! This is my second ocean swim and I am trying to survive with calm. I remind myself that there are no sharks, no sharks, no sharks. Despite a field size half that of Lake Placid, the water is chaotic. The gun quietly goes off and I have barely adjusted my goggles. Susie and Charles and I laugh and push our way through the athletes milling about the beach. The deep blue water laps on the fine black silt beach.

It is 5:30 a.m. and the island is black as we drive in the complete opposite direction of Puerto del Carmen. Don't let Charles navigate; he is wrong. It is amazingly easy to get lost in the roundabouts where all roads connect and diverge. I have only seen traffic lights in one town. It is 5:00 a.m. and the palm trees are bent over in half in the wind. Charles says it's like this when the sun isn't up; he is wrong. It's like that all day and gets worse.


There are few Americans in the race, and I have the opportunity to meet almost all of them. I couldn't tell you one person who has played in the pro football ranks except for Darryl Haley, and he happily pauses for a picture in the transition. We are a funny pair together, Adam remarks, the largest and smallest competitors in the race. My confidence plummets as Charles, an American pro who just pulled into the hotel, tells me about last year's race in which he crashed on the bike. Yet he's back for more. Lanzarote has this effect on people: many athletes develop a love-hate relationship that draws them back year after year. My confidence resurfaces when I meet Susie – a mother of five children!!! – whose express goal is the only Lanzarote goal: FINISH. (note: this was no problem for Susie, who ran across the finish line with all five kids.)

I am so strong. I am running and riding like I never have before. The downside to Ironman for the amateur athlete is that you have to decide a year in advance that you are going to do a race, unless you are game for the exotic.

It is March, and JeanneAnne suggests we do Ironman Lanzarote with her. Yes, I think I'd like to do Ironman again. Now. I am ready NOW.