Mallorca 70.3: What Happens When You Show Up Underprepared

As I slowly regain the ability to walk without looking like a newborn giraffe, I've been reflecting on what might be the most uncomfortable 7 hours and 53 minutes of my endurance life.

Mallorca 70.3 wasn't a race. It was a day of survival

And I'm already signed up to do it again.

The Six-Week Whirlwind That Led to a Very Bad Idea

The last six weeks have been a blur. Three trips to Mallorca since late March, a week coaching in Perth with the Triathlon Scotland Academy, a weekend in Nottingham for the Performance Assessments. If you'd asked me after our Total Endurance Mallorca camp whether I'd be racing the 70.3 in May, the answer would've been an emphatic no.

And for good reason.

I hadn't swam since November. My cycling consisted of a few sporadic 40-50 minute spins before the camp. During the camp itself, I managed one run—about 5 minutes before my calf forced me into a run/walk that lasted all of 15 minutes before tightening up completely.

The thought of getting through a 70.3 wasn't just unmotivating—it felt stupid. I knew no part of the race would be comfortable, let alone enjoyable.

The E-Bike Revelation (And Delusion)

My second Mallorca trip with Calum changed things. Slightly.

Knowing I couldn't hang with him on the climbs, I hired an e-bike. Best decision of the trip. I could stick the motor on, get up the climbs, ride with him, and even managing to pass 70-year-old grandmas on normal bikes that I'd have struggled to keep pace with otherwise.

We rode the 70.3 course. The climb up Pollentia was pleasant on the e-bike. By the end of 90km, I felt fine cardiovascularly. My legs, however, were stiff and sore.

And that was without the swim and run.

Two weeks out from race day, I was convinced doing it would be idiotic. I genuinely wasn't sure I'd make it around.

Then something shifted.

Back home, after a few 1500m swims, my brain started rationalising: Maybe I could just cruise the swim, see what happens, get on the bike, aim to finish the course at steady effort, and probably stop at T2.

Five days out, I hired a Colnago V3 from Pro Cycle Hire. Nothing fancy—just two wheels and a good gear range. The week became a scramble. I hadn't looked at race logistics or kit. My trisuit from Celtman wouldn't zip. My Orca Apex Flow wetsuit (size 4, when I currently need a size 8) was a non-starter. Thankfully, we had old hire wetsuits i could use and a trip to Decathlon near Palma airport sorted the rest.

Race registration, bike racking, bag drop—all standard. Except when I realised there were no change tents. My plan to swim in trunks, change into cycle shorts, then change again for the run? Out the window. A quick trip to the triathlon shop beside transition for discounted trishorts saved me from the Ironman merch store price gouge.

Race Morning: The Brain Knows

Race morning nerves hit harder than usual.

I believe that's the brain's way of telling you the body isn't ready for what's about to happen. When you know deep down you've prepared properly, a lot of pre-race anxiety disappears. This was not one of those days.

I lined up in the 35-minute swim pen, expecting somewhere between 1:45-1:50/100m. That's my default pace—the speed my technique holds me at regardless of fitness. A long way off the 1:25/100m I could sustain for 3km+ previously, but it is what it is.

The few minutes before the start, nerves ramped up hard. I focused on simple self-talk: Just get to the first buoy. Swim steady.

Then the beep. The crew lifting their arms. The race starts.

Swim: Longer Than Expected

I jogged to the water until ankle-deep, then started swimming. The goal was warm-up effort—relaxed, not racing. I drifted off course repeatedly (no open water practice showed). Goggles steamed up. But for the first 400m, I felt comfortable.

Around 600m, leaving the port's protection, the water got choppy. My arms started getting tired. This was now the longest continuous swim I'd done in over three years.

I made the turn at the furthest buoy, then the final right to head back to shore. I kept swallowing water and dry heaving, losing time. Arms felt heavy, but I was swimming steady. Started passing people in the last 600m. Water got shallower. I stood.

Wading through the shallows, I've never felt more destroyed coming out of a swim. I looked at my watch—happy with the time—but lost most of that time walking back to transition. My legs had absolutely nothing. Heart rate was very high.

T1: Wrestling a Wetsuit While Seated

Transition was massive. I grabbed my bag, sat down, wrestled the wetsuit off, got my cycle kit on, and slowly waddled toward my bike. One of the slowest transitions I've ever had.

But we made it to the bike leg.

Bike: Reality Hits on Pollentia

I grabbed my bike, walked the last 300m out of transition, mounted, and started turning the pedals. Heart rate was still sky-high. I kept it easy leaving Alcudia, trying to bring it down. My rough goal was 140bpm on the flats—where it should be sustainable.

The road between Alcudia and Pollentia is beautiful. I was spinning gently at 30-32km/h. The speed differential between what I was doing and those actually racing was massive. I was constantly being passed. I'd love to say it didn't bother me. It did. But there was nothing I could do about it. You can't expect anything else when you've barely trained and they've put in months of consistent work.

About 60 minutes in, I hit the bottom of the climb.

Pollentia is a good climb on a good day. I knew this would be a struggle. Easy gear. Keep it steady.

It didn't take long before my legs were struggling to push the pedals hard enough to get my 90kg body up the hill. Halfway up, I was really feeling the effort. I wasn't breathing hard—I just couldn't push hard enough. The road flattens briefly, giving my legs time to recover before the last section.

Eventually, I made it to the top. That should be the hardest part of the bike.

For reference: 45 minutes in the race versus 30 minutes on the e-bike two weeks earlier. And for a lot less effort.

Descending: Where Fitness Doesn't Matter

If you've descended off Lluc, you know it's brilliant. It's even better when you know the road is closed and no buses are coming the other way.

There were quite a few people around me at the start of the descent—some all over the place, clearly not confident going downhill. I was slightly more cautious than usual until fewer people were around. I like using the Garmin in navigation mode on technical descents—you can see what the corner looks like and know how much speed you can carry.

I passed 50+ people on the first part of the descent. People who'd passed me on the uphills due to better fitness but lacked either practice, confidence, or both on descents.

Some might say you can't gain much time descending. I'd argue that while the time savings might be small, you're saving time for very little fitness cost. It's one area I definitely think athletes should spend time improving. Any gains in cornering and descending are free speed.

The run-off was nice—freewheeling, carrying speed through the next few kilometres. I felt better once we were on the flat, legs having recovered slightly on the descent.

That didn't last long. A short, sharp 200m climb instantly killed my speed. I dropped into the easiest gear and tried to survive.

From here, mostly flat with a few short climbs. Still getting passed consistently. Short out-and-back, then heading back toward Alcudia, we hit a strong headwind that persisted for the rest of the ride. While the wind likely kept the temperature down, it absolutely fried my legs.

With about 15km to go, my left arch started hurting. It got progressively worse. The last few kilometers into Alcudia, the wind was brutal and fried the last bit of strength I had.

T2: Questioning Everything

As I approached T2, the run looked increasingly unlikely. My whole body was battered. As soon as I stepped off the bike, the arch pain was significant. I couldn't put much weight on the foot. Walking my bike back to the rack, I wasn't sure I could even make it to my run bag.

I racked the bike, stretched my foot, slowly made my way to find my bag. I sat down and very slowly started changing out of my cycling kit, pretty sure my race was over. So sure, in fact, I decided not to bother taking my run nutrition. I'd just find a race official and say I was done.

As I limped out of transition, there wasn't any official I could see. So I decided to keep walking and check out the first part of the run—scouting for next year's race.

Run: The 30-Second Strategy

The support along the first few kilometres was awesome. People shouting your name, cheering you on. I tried to acknowledge the support while struggling to walk. Made it to the first aid station, took on some water, grabbed a Maurten gel. I made it back toward transition, passing the point where you turn to finish on the beach. I was continually looking for an official. I couldn't get around the whole run walking like this. Could I?

Just after this point, I stopped again to stretch the foot, see if I could loosen it enough to walk without limping. This helped. The foot felt slightly better. I decided to keep going.

Maybe I could do a lap.

After about 40 minutes of walking, I decided to try running for short periods. Initially, I tried 1-minute run sections, but my legs were struggling after 45 seconds. I opted for 30 seconds running, 90 seconds brisk walking. This felt manageable. Thirty seconds was short enough to maintain some semblance of running. Ninety seconds was long enough to recover.

Shortly after I started this, I felt a real energy dip—remembering I didn't take any nutrition. Luckily, the next aid station was only a few run/walks away. I took a couple of gels and some Coke to keep energy levels up.

I continued making progress. Average pace improved from 9:50/km to 9:00/km. I arrived back at transition having finished a lap.

During the walking section, I did the maths. How long did I have to complete one more lap plus the last bit around the port? Based on pace, I should get around inside the cutoff. My mind shifted from DNF to let's just finish and collect the medal.

My legs were smashed by this point, but the 30-second running was just the right duration. My stride was getting shorter. Hips tightening up. I continued until about the 16km mark, where my legs ran out of steam and I could no longer run. Everything started seizing up.

Death march to the finish.

When I eventually made it through the port and to the left turn for the finish straight, I was absolutely burst. So much so I couldn't even run the finish. Cardiovascular wise and overall energy felt ok, it was just my legs just didn’t have anything in them.

7:53 The Best I Had on the Day

I crossed the line in 7 hours 53 minutes.

I wouldn't say I'm happy with the performance. But it was the best I had on the day.

It's definitely not a distance you can wing. It deserves respect. And while you don't need to be fast to get around, you do need to prepare so the event is enjoyable and you feel like you achieved something.

What I Learned (And Why I'm Doing It Again)

Since the race, I've already entered for next year.

I've saved lots of frustrations into folders that I'll use as fuel over the next 12 months. So that on May 8th, 2027, I'm on that start line ready to race, having prepared the best I could.

Because I know when I do that, I'll get the result I truly deserve.

The Real Lessons

1. Fitness can't be faked. You can get around on grit and stubbornness, but it won't be enjoyable. And it definitely won't feel like an achievement.

2. Respect the distance. A 70.3 is not something you show up to underprepared and expect to enjoy. It will expose every weakness.

3. Descending is a skill. Free speed exists. Learn to descend confidently. It's time saved for zero fitness cost.

4. The brain knows. Pre-race nerves are often your subconscious telling you the body isn't ready. When preparation is dialled, anxiety is significantly reduced.

5. Run/walk can save a race. Thirty seconds running, 90 seconds walking. It's not pretty, but it keeps you moving forward when everything is falling apart.

6. You don't get to complain when you didn't prepare. I got passed constantly on the bike. It bothered me. But I had no right to be frustrated—I'd barely trained. They'd put in the work. I hadn't.