Now, I wouldn't say I'm REM's biggest fan but whenever one of their bigger hits comes on the radio I tend to know most of the chorus at least. Within the space of thirty minutes of picking up my rental car I'd heard 'Everybody Hurts' three times, which - according to my alter ego - was a premonition of what the Monaco Half Ironman boasts as its tag line. The fact that the little Renault Clio seemed to be doing nothing but groan as it struggled up the slope between Nice and the little province reinforced this Monaco notion; a destination that would soon play host to my step up from Sprint to Half.

Taking the plunge to the 70.3 was a decision made a good ten months previous. Reading Judith's article on her debut at the event two years prior had whet the whistle and what better place to get your wings than the sun soaked region of the Cote D'Azur? Hell, the comedown on the beach after could almost be classed as a holiday!

I firmly intended to bridge the gap between Sprint and Half during the build up to Monaco but the best laid plans never seem to come off in the desired style. I was confident that through my marathon running and regular club swim sessions that endurance issues wouldn't rear their ugly heads in the respective sections. The bike, however, was a completely separate issue.

Token 10k bike warm ups at Virgin coupled with a consistency to avoid any form of long distance bike work (bar one 90k burst in August) was always going to prove my nemesis in the surrounding Alps. Talk amongst the athletes preceding the race was of only the witchcraft and trickery associated with the incessant climbing offered on the 90k circuit. It appeared that using Monaco, as a stepping stone to the bigger stage was a faux pas in itself and my naïveté was surely about to take the full tilt of the mountains' slopes. That the first 23k led only towards the clouds was neither a myth nor fable as hoped.

Luckily, for all first timers there's always an old head or two in close proximity to soothe the negativity heaped on the shoulders by the little voice inside our head. Ian, Ant and Lewis all made the pilgrimage and were full of useful titbits to assist my prep for the kick off. I was assured that spinning could beat the slopes and that my arse would very rarely leave the saddle. Whilst most of their foresight helped tremendously I freely admit that at times
I rode the bike like a jockey and hung on with dear life on some of the descents. I certainly wouldn't have been awarded points for style!

The delayed start left many nervous entrants pacing the beach and burning precious energy reserves. Sod that. This beach had sunbeds and I kicked back for half hour taking the sunrise in. Hell, I was even smiling!

Once notification left the speakers the bodies congregated on the beach for the mass start. Off went the pro's followed by us regulars and I was about to test my brand new X2 wetsuit (purchased 48 hours before) for the first time. At first I took exception to the flailing arms and incessant kicks to various parts to my anatomy but I realised that this was a war of attrition I had no chance of winning.
Head down, drive on. Six strokes look up, six strokes, look up. Yeah right. How about thrash like a beast and hurl abuse at the knuckles constantly whacking me in the head more like. Eventually the waters opened and a rhythm ensued. Never before have I bathed or cajoled in such clear waters and this was turning into one pleasurable paddle. Lap 1 concluded with a beach exit and a glance at the watch indicated 17 minutes. Happy days! I soon tired. Making the fatal mistake of following the feet in front I drifted slightly off course, adding a hundred metres or so onto what was already enough of a challenge.

Feeling sand on my paws and the bellowing of the crowds was a huge lift. Phase 1 had lasted 37 minutes and I felt pumped. A few lessons were learned at T1, including the need to avoid pins by investing in a running number belt. Wearing shorts under my suit and switching to tri suit also added time but I had performed 8 minutes quicker than planned in the sea so 3 decided not to self-harm at this point.

The air was cool and my Specialized shoes (purchased the week before) felt snug on the bike (borrowed off a mate 24 hours prior). Despite the aggressive topography I built a rhythm and marvelled at the exceptional assistance from the numerous volunteers dotted around the course. With a ratio of 1/1 you felt assured that a vocal word of encouragement was never far away. Now if only they could have pushed me up that last damn hill...

Some parts of the course were not at all pretty in terms of my style but I felt good physically and buoyed with the knowledge of the last 9km leading in to T2 being downhill.

A change of socks put a spring in my step and the first of the 4.5 laps flew by, aided by the 500m famous tunnel offering shade from the now pounding sun. The remainder of the race was a different story. Despite the 1500+ miles I had under the belt from the year's race training the legs were bearing the brunt of the Alps. The hill before each lap checkpoint was, in a word, sadistic and I found myself creating new blasphemies on each circuit. I had bypassed my planned run target of 1.35 and eventually crossed in 1.52 offering a total time of 6.29. Thank f**k that was over!

My initial feelings were that of extreme hunger. My stomach was roaring like a tiger, taking three platefuls of recovery food to tame the pangs before my legs received a little R & R from the masseuses.

Spending the rest of the day on the beach was a chore and refuelling with even more gratis snap at the prize giving took some accepting! It was great to have the company of the guys and their families from the club and a pleasure to clap Ant as he took the podium for third in his age category. I desperately wanted to sink a few cans of grown up pop on offer but the road was calling and a long drive to Carcassonne ensued for my morning flight. The unscheduled forced snooze in a Marseille lay by is another story and should all the tickets come through from the flashes of speed cameras I'll be entering France next year with a false moustache and a pseudonym!

All in all a fantastic experience with great weather, great memories and great company. I highly recommend Monaco to all club members with one piece of advice; don't be as disorganised as me and you'll do well!

Mark Gardner