Corporate Superheroes - (Ironman Part 2)

At a spritely six o’clock the next morning, I disembark a shuttle bus along with forty shaven headed (it’s for aerodynamics, clearly) middle aged white men, and a smattering of youths and females confused as to why the number 7 has seemingly transported them back to 1984. My are led out onto a field filled with hoards of lycra-clad figures bonfiring hundred euro bills in offerings to the cycling gods. 

I muse to another competitor that cycling seems to be the new golf. He gives me a stern look. ‘This is different, this is so much more inclusive’ he replies, presumably speaking on behalf of the other 82% of the competitors who are both white and male.

In an attempt to lighten the mood somewhat, so I turn to a man with a beer belly and some form of serious genital swelling beneath his cycle shorts. He is dressed as the Human Fly. ‘The year 3000 called, they want their space suit back’ I jest. He lowers his visor and looks at me, presumably zapping me with some form of mind control powers. Luckily, no obvious side effects were forth-coming.

We finally get round to starting the race and, as I join the herds being cattle-prodded toward the start line, I overhear an interesting conversation. ‘I do hate when people pull over to go to the toilet.’ Complains competitor one. ‘I peed myself three times last year’. ‘Three? That’s nothing,’ responds number two; ‘I went five times in my last race… and that was just on the bike!’ I begin to wonder if I am baddass enough for Ironman. 

My fears are misplaced. It turns out that the Ironman is basically a really long cycle ride bookended by a paltry swim and a jog. The jog, it transpires, neatly manages to last around the same amount of time that most MAMILs take to describe how their bike’s performance over the preceding cycle. 

One man’s wife and children cheer him on from the sidelines with a homemade placard, as we race through a small village. ‘We love you!’ they cry out. ‘I love you too’ he purrs, stroking the shaft of his bike frame. 

I trot round the run course sure footedly, eschewing the Powerbar aid stations for the snickers bars I had stashed in my pockets earlier. ‘See, money can’t buy you this sort of achievement’ wheezes Fly man, as we head round the final lap. ‘I spent €3,000 on my bike but in the end, that’s not what matters. It all comes down to you,’ he says, without a hint of irony in his voice. ‘Sure,’ I think to myself. Money may not be able to buy you a winner’s medal, but it does buy you race entry, luxury training camps in the Algarve, time off work and padded bike seats that massage your glutes while you pedal. The final straight I occupy myself my thinking of the funniest line I could say whilst crossing the approaching finish line. 

‘Allah Akbhar’ I bellow as I cross the line, but my exhortations are drowned out by the sound of 2,000 grown men masturbating furiously over their bicycles.