Made of Iron

2000 wetsuit-clad bodies stand like a huddle of penguins on a beach in Frankston, Victoria. The sun is just awake and an arctic-like blizzard has whipped-up the waters of Port Philip Bay, sending metre-high waves crashing onto the shore. It’s bitterly cold as a flock of spectators gathers on a pier adjacent to the beach, waiting patiently for their black brood to take fright and head out to sea.

Penguins or madmen? Ironmen more likely, ironwomen too. Call them what you will, but there’s no doubting the determination of this lithe lot in lycra. The mass human migration from the beach represents the first leg – a 3.8km swim – of a gruelling event to rival wildebeest crossing the Zambezi River. If they survive the angry sea awash with porpoising bodies clambering and kicking their way around buoys and make it back to the beach, a 180km bike ride takes them to hell and back before a punishing 42.2km marathon runs each competitor into the ground. Feeling exhausted?

The rough water is too daunting for some who can’t make it past the end of the pier. Surf lifesavers on boards and in zodiacs scoop up distressed competitors as swiftly as a sea eagle hooks its prey. Poor buggers are dropped back on the beach before they even pee in their wetsuits.

An ironman is a superhero, not Robert Downey Jr the movie star. On this day, ironmen became legends in their own breakfast, lunch and dinner times. Simply finishing the race is victory. The event has a 17-hour cut-off time but prior to implementing this rule, the slowest finish time ever recorded at the Ironman Triathlon World Championship was 26hrs: 20mins, set by 73-yar-old Walt Stack in 1981. A Nutri Grain moment for sure.

Moving from the pier to the main street of Frankston, I settled on a street corner to watch the penguins morph into aliens on two wheels. Emerging from the transition zone after the swim, wearing skin-tight suits, tear-drop-shaped helmets and menacing eyewear, I could have sworn I saw Ripley, Bishop and Vasquez peddle past and into the unknown – a flat, lifeless and exposed 180km galaxy of bitumen which was closed to other mechanical life forms for the duration of the race.

If you hunger for pain, an Ironman event offers the works burger: groin rash, burst blisters, upset stomachs, vomiting, diarrhoea, headaches, cramping, bleeding nipples, painful buttocks, a raw arse, black toenails, bloody knees… it’s the chef’s special in sport and there’s no want for fries. If a competitor doesn't succumb to seasickness, one of the above ailments is highly likely to end the quest for glory. It makes for great spectator viewing.

Under a blistering sun, saltpans and dry rivulets form intricate patterns on the alien bodies on bikes. Eyebrows work overtime to stem the stinging flow of sunscreen-infused saline and calf muscles twitch in anticipation of what’s to come. After completing one 90km loop of the bike leg, the casualties mount as more competitors call it a day. But not our mate. Atop his iron horse and with dual pistons pumping he peddles against a pesky headwind, every revolution adding credit to muscles, for the wind soon turns from foe to friend as cyclists make the turn for home.

With the swim swum and the bike leg done, it’s just the run to come: a 42km jog to St Kilda. Stretched yet? Food stations manned by selfless volunteers mirror Coles Express on the running route. Cut watermelon, cups of Gatorade, Power Bars, bananas, Coke, lollies and choc-chip cookies are in plentiful supply should competitors need to top up their energy supplies. But by now mouths are candy bars coated in Gu, gel and all things sickly and sweet. Stomachs are a gaseous liability from processing thousands of grams worth of carbs since dawn. Runners fart their way towards the finish line, their race times wind assisted but who’s to judge?

Back in the pack, first timers adopt the Cliff Young shuffle to get them home. It aint a pretty running style but completing a marathon is not a catwalk contest. Dry phlegm is caked on the cheeks of some. Chiseled jaws with gaping mouths crave oxygen and sunnies are all that hide the contorted expression of runners in serious pain. Everything hurts but steps forward are kilometers covered, the finish line no longer a quivering mirage.

The winner skipped across the line, taking a mere 7hrs: 36 minutes to complete the entire event. Close to midnight, the crowd erupted as our ironman emerged from a restaurant, fed, watered and suitably satisfied at finishing under 12hrs. But the cheers were not for him, they were for others made of steely stuff, crossing the line some 17 hours after going for a swim.