Ten minutes till seven in the morning. Several meters in front of me, 500 triathletes, age-groupers and pros, men and women, Australians, Americans, Europeans, Asians, toeing the sand of CWC’s (CamSur Watersports Complex) man-made lake, muscles poised to hit the water. Above us, the camera crew in a helicopter, blades chopping the air, the draft whipping up a whirlpool. The atmosphere? ELECTRIC. This is Ironman!!!

Motorheads have F1, triathletes have Ironman. It is the pinnacle of the sport, a worldwide brand that has stood for toughness, resilience, and unbelievably fast times. After all, almost anybody can dog paddle 750 meters, spin through 20 km, and walk five kilometers, but race four times that distance? It’s real, and it happens with every Ironman.

I wasn’t even supposed to be there. Well, at least not part of the throng. My original plan was to make the trek up nearby Mount Isarog, then climb down in time to cheer for my friends who were racing the inaugural Cobra Ironman 70.3 in CamSur. But fate had other ideas. Two nights before my trek, and three nights before the race, C! Magazine’s Kevin Limjoco called to ask if I wanted to race the Ironman. The relay team of Nike Park-Livestrong had suffered a setback; their cyclist had been stricken with dengue. (Doctor: “The good news is you don’t have H1N1! The bad news is you’ve got dengue...”) Would I be willing to sub for them?

I gave it some thought. On one hand I wasn’t exactly in tiptop shape. My wife had just given birth a few weeks before, so I’d only been able to sneak in several workouts between diaper changes and catnaps. On the other hand, a chance to race the Ironman (albeit in the relay) was staring me in the face. And I was already psyched for the long drive anyway. Mazda even lent me a BT-50 for the drive, gas card included. And finally, how could I pass up the chance to race for a team carrying such hallowed brands? Livestrong? Hell, yeah!

I threw out the tent and the backpack from the back of the truck and tossed in the essentials for my 90 km time trial: helmet, shoes, bike clothes, spare gear, First Aid kit, pump, race wheels, gels...the list went on. Oh well, at least I didn’t have to pack the camping stove and canned goods since I’d be billeted at the posh Avenue Plaza hotel. Next, I set about securing my road bike in the bed, a simple operation thanks to my handy bike mount and a couple of bungee cords. With my EZ-Map road book on the passenger seat, iPod jacked in, I set off for CamSur one fine Friday morning. Distance to the destination? Between 350 to 400 km. Driving time? Eight to nine hours. My road book maps out the provinces and regions on every page, and each one covers a lateral distance of roughly 50 km. To get to Naga City from Manila, I would have to drive from Manila, cross Laguna, Quezon, parts of Camarines Norte, and most of Camarines Sur to get to Naga City.

Flipping through the book, I tried not to lose heart when I’d flipped through four pages and still hadn’t found “Naga City.” If I had 400 km to cover, I’d have to average 50 kph to get there in eight hours. That seems easy, and you probably think you can go faster than that, but the reality of driving on Philippine roads is that high speeds (over 100kph) are rare when you’re covering long distances. Most of the time, you’re accelerating between 40 to 80kph on two- lane roads, passing countless jeepneys, tricycles, and 18-wheelers.

And that’s exactly what I encountered the moment I hit Laguna, a tedious exercise that had me rowing between third and fourth gear most of the time. Things got better when I crossed into Quezon, made more entertaining by a persistent Isuzu Crosswind whose driver suffered the illusion of actually being able to outrun my 156 hp Mazda. I’d slow down in the curves, mindful of the rippled pavement that threatened to bounce my bike off the back of the truck. Here the Crosswind would catch up, body leaning dramatically in the curves. On the straights, I’d floor the throttle and watch him shrink in my rearview mirror.

Eventually he was gone for good, and eventually I got tired of my own pace. With road trips, aggressive driving quickly gets old. After several hours, it just gets tiring treating it like a race, so I settled down, popped the m/t into fifth, and tried not to dwell on the fact that I’d only gotten two hours of sleep the night before. Plus, the Mazda - like its Ford Ranger mechanical twin - has that old school ride: stiff and choppy. It’s not as bad as trucks a generation ago, but still a buckboard experience. I equate it to riding a horse. There’s no sense fighting it (and losing), so it’s best to just relax and go with the motions. After a few hours, the ride had actually faded out of my consciousness.

When you reach the welcome arch of Camarines Sur, you’ll get this feeling of relief that you have arrived. Yes you have, but the part of CamSur that you really want to go to is still a long way off - nearly 120 kilometers away in Naga City. Which amounts to three pages of the road book. It took around an hour and a half more to go, (for a total of 7.5 hours of driving time) when I finally checked in at the Avenue Plaza hotel to unite with my teammates - Akiko Thompson and Ton Concepcion. Our “managing team” was also there: Mike Arcenas, Luigi Sison and Miguel Fabie, all making sure we were loose and comfortable for the race to come. Miguel Celdran, the team’s original biker, would also join us the next day to help out. Honestly, we were pretty spoiled compared to the other “serious” racers. Not that I’m complaining. 104 www.c-magazine.com

Everything about Ironman makes up for the ordeal the moment you check in. Because “Ironman” has global standards, this isn’t like your typical, low-key triathlon. Every participating hotel in CamSur has a dedicated Ironman desk to give you information about shuttle schedules, registration deadlines, and the pre-race activities. At the race site (CWC), there’s an orderly sequence of tables you go to for signing-in to pick up your race kit (which includes a timing chip, special needs bags, sunvisor, etc.), as well as for filling you in on critical details like race numbering and wave start times. There was even free wi-fi everywhere (thanks, Globe)! During the pre-race briefing, a nifty CAD program detailed each athlete’s route from T1 to T2.

I rode the bike course the day before the race to familiarize myself and found it mostly flat and hot. Mt. Isarog was only several kilometers away at some points, a forbidding yet calming presence. And to think I was supposed to be somewhere on its slopes. Instead I was on my bike, from McGyver to Lance, as it were.

While I’m not a math genius, I do like to play with numbers when it comes to average speeds and ETAs (estimated times of arrival). Fearless estimate? I’d average 35 kph on race day for a time of 2:30 (two hours, 30 minutes). Never mind that the longest time trial I’ve ever done was 40k, and that was three years ago when I was in the best shape of my life.

Race morning. I’m sitting in the relay team waiting area alongside other cyclists, most of whom look much better prepared than I am. Their tummies are flat, they’re wearing skinsuits, and their tan is the color of asphalt. Me? I had shaved legs. And I managed to borrow an aero helmet from a triathlete, Andy Aguila, who actually came with two helmets because he couldn’t decide which one to wear. Near me was Lloyd Reynante, a professional cyclist. Around me were several others wearing the logos of Timex, Herbalife, and Microsoft. Yep, we’re all here just for the fun of it.

When our relay swimmer, Akiko Thompson, arrived and breathlessly handed me the timing chip, I get down to the business of biking. After 10 minutes, I was warmed up and feeling goooddd! In fact it was too good, as I passed more than a handful of racers on the course with a heart rate hovering in the 160-170 bpm (beats per minute) range. Then again, I hadn’t just swum 1.9k like them, and didn’t have to worry about a 21k run after the bike.

The crowds were wonderful. All along the route, men, women, and kids would be cheering and waving little flags at each passing racer. At the aid stations, you even had your choice of water or Gatorade. Ice-cold, too. I averaged 37 kph on the first 45k, but going back I would pay for it. Headwinds, false flats, and cramps would knock me down to speeds as low as 31kph before I was able to regroup myself with 15k left. I rolled into T2 with a time of 2:31 (two hours, 31 minutes), handing the chip off to our runner, Ton Concepcion. Then I retired to the team’s cabana for a shower and a beer. With the temperature hovering at around 34 degrees centigrade (plus intense humidity), I would say the runners had it worst of all. Triathletes I’d traded leads with during the bike would suffer the dreaded bonk on the run. One training buddy I know even crossed the line delirious! Ton had earlier aimed for a sub- two hour run, but the intense heat put him (and everyone else) into survival mode. He’d eventually finish at around 2:15 (two hours, 15 minutes). All in all, Team Nike- Livestrong would finish 19 out of 19 out of 58 relay teams, fifth in the Mixed Relay category, and would have finished third in the Corporate Relay if we’d entered as such. Not bad for a team that was racing for the fun of it!

In the Pro category, Terrenzo Bozzone beat Aussie Chris McCormack by less than a minute, while Canadian Lisa Bentley toughed it out in the heat to add yet another Ironman to her palmares. Heading home the next day, I reflected on how quickly plans can change with one simple phone call. From climbing a mountain to joining an Ironman. From playing Survivor to racing a pseudo- tour. Actually, I was so wrapped up with the serendipity of it all that I made an incredibly stupid mistake. Not one kilometer from my hotel, I took a left onto the bike course thinking the highway was the same as the one going back to Manila. Realizing my error an hour and 65 kilometers later, I turned the Mazda around and dropped any pretense of a leisurely solo drive home. It’s the kind of pedal-to-the-metal, shift-shift-shift, use-that-ABS kind of driving that I haven’t done in a while. The only time I’d slow down was to check that my bike hadn’t bounced off the bed already. Not counting the two hours wasted, I made it home in a little below seven hours, Mazda looking none the worse for wear. Would I go to next year’s Ironman? You bet I would.