I had been to Wales several times as a young lad and my enduring memory of the place was rain. Grey skies and rain. Oh, and wind. Well, in the intervening years, nothing has changed.  Llanberis welcomed the 1200 would-be half-ironpeople with leaden skies, torrential showers and gusts big enough to take the wind out of any cyclist's sails. It was disheartening but was not going to get in the way of anyone enjoying a long-awaited occasion.  

By the time I woke up at 4am on Sunday September 8th, I'd racked my correctly numbered bike, packed the right kit into the right bags, prepared my hydration and nutrition right down to the detail of cutting my Powerbars into thirds, wrapping each in rice paper so they wouldn't stick together and carefully aligning them in my top-tube-mounted Bento Box. 

Neal Dogget had fed me the fundamentals of hyper-hydration and carbo-loading so I was munching my English muffins laden with jam and washing them down with two litres of glycerin laced water and High-5 mix as I listened to the rain hammering down outside which it continued to do as I did some stretches, packed my bag and turned my back on the B&B and headed for the race area. I was definitely not having fun yet. 

When I got to the transition area, the first wave of 600 swimmers was being urged into the water. Somehow it was already 6:45.  I rushed to haul on the wetsuit and put my now wet clothes into a bag so they wouldn't get wet(ter) and deposited it in number order with hundreds of other white bags.  It was all a bit surreal really: still dark, still pouring and very unlike the glittering occasion I had expected.  

I heard the announcer say that the first wave was away and that second-wave swimmers wanting a warm-up dip should get in the water. I was actually quite disappointed that I didn't get to see the elite swimmers set off, I've always been interested to see just how fast Richard Stannard can go.  But the first wave disappeared into the distance and after a few minutes splashing to and fro I made my way to the start line.  

I exchanged a few 'good lucks' with the bobbing heads around me and was actually facing the wrong way when the starting horn sounded. Everything I'd read and had been told about tackling this was to hold back until it hurts, so I did. I crawled a painfully slow outward leg and an agonisingly retarded homeward leg. It didn't feel like a race somehow, there were others around me in the water - some of whom collided with me, one of whom gave me a good whack in the ribs, but it was really just me and the clock and after 35 minutes we were getting along fine.  

Coming away from the rhythmic splish splash of the water into the frenzied urgency of T1 was a shock. People were yelling out names and numbers and directions and encouragement and all of a sudden I was racing. I saw my bag dangling from an eager volunteer's outstretched arm and I snatched it with a hurried 'thku' and dashed the 150 metres to the change tent where I was presented with the sight of hundreds of steaming bodies in various states of dress and distress. I found myself a free square foot in which to change and squished out of my wetsuit and into my riding togs.  This was probably not the best time to be asking myself 'Now, what shall I wear today?' but vanity and common sense were still at odds over how cold and wet I might get. The answer came when the fleece I'd earmarked for insulation came out of the bag sopping wet thanks to it having been stored overnight in the all-penetrating downpour. So, tri suit and nylon gilet it was. On with the hat and gloves and off I went.  

The 56-mile bike leg started with a quick spin northwards out of town and then a U-turn and back past the accumulating crowds. Again, I had to resist the urge to try and catch the first wave but to just hold back. The first thing to do was wait for my breathing to settle and my legs to warm up. Surprisingly, it wasn't long before I started passing people with the tell-tale yellow number sheets (wave 2 had green). This was very encouraging because it meant the two waves were now one. Looking at the amount of clothing some had opted for I could understand why they might be trailing a bit. I began to feel quite underdressed compared with some folk who seemed to have come ready for a spin across Siberia rather than North Wales.  

The first 20 or so miles of the bike were real fun. The cloud was lifting and the day was brightening noticeably. There seemed to be scores of cyclists along the road and breaking the non-drafting rule was nigh on impossible at times - a fact the marshals seemed aware of as they passed by on their motorbikes without a word.  

I had been told to wait 20 minutes before eating or drinking and was glad for a sip when the time was up. Eating though was another matter. Thanks to the rain, all my carefully cut and stored Power Bars were now a solid mass stuck inside my Bento Box and the only way to get a nibble was to grab the whole lot and gnaw, hamster-like, at the gooey mess. But I was going to have to get used to it because it was what would keep me going. 

The first aid station hove into view much sooner than I expected and even though I wasn't sure how far it was from beginning or end I did know where it, and consequently I, was on the route map.  My girlfriend, Victoria had volunteered to help on this station and so I was expecting a feast of goodies to be coming my way. I didn't actually need anything I had plenty to eat and drink but you should never let a gruelling endurance event get in the way of a freebie.  I had never picked up a bottle from an aid station on a bike leg and not until the very last moment did it occur to the grey matter that it might be a good idea to slow down - a lot. Too late though. Victoria held the SIS juice bottle at the perfect height and angle for me to grab it but instead of closing my fingers round it and bringing it to my lips in one fluid motion, I hit it like a centre-court serve and sent it flying into the bushes. Well, number 893 felt pretty damn stupid at that point and decided that a sharp exit was called for. 'Bye Vic'. 

The section I least looked forward to was coming up next. The Nant Gwynant hill had folk in tears last year. I had seen it when driving into Llanberis two days before and I had almost turned tail for home at the prospect of trying to cycle up it. It isn't so much steep as seemingly endless. When I first saw it, the bottom was shrouded in mist, now, from the bottom the top was obscured by cloud. Anyway, I put the bike in low gear, sat back in the saddle and whirred the pedals as best I could. Some folk tried the out of the saddle technique and it looked good while it lasted but I soon had them in the bag. Bunching was inevitable on the way up and in between huffs and puffs it became a chance to chat to fellow racers - it was all quite jolly really. Despite the intermittent rain, a crowd had gathered at the top of the hill and I thought I'd make the effort to at least look like a racer and all of a sudden I was. The long uphill soon became a long shallow downhill and the chance to get into top gear and feel the breeze.  

At this point, it is only fair to the Almighty to point out that of my three main prayers, He did answer one - He didn't make it sunny, He didn't stop the rain but He did work wonders with the wind. Not a breath worth mentioning - thank you God. 

Cycle racing is a bit like rally driving in that you get to travel through some magnificent scenery but aren't really in a position to appreciate it much. That's probably where the similarity ends. Having said that, I was very aware that I was passing through some beautiful villages and some magnificent natural scenery. At times I felt like slowing or even stopping to absorb my surroundings - but thought better of it.  I was also aware of the number of people who came out of their homes to cheer us on. It would later transpire that many people in the area were outraged that the roads should be closed for the day - so much so that next year's race will not be held there. On the day, however, there seemed to be nothing but support and encouragement for the sweaty invaders. 

Coming back into Llanberis made me very happy.  Physically, I felt OK. Mentally, I was tired. Tired of urging myself on, tired of chomping Power Bar goo and sucking back gels and sickly sweet energy drinks. I didn't want to stop but I did want a change, and that came at just the right time. 

It is amazing how a crowd can give you a lift; coming into the applause at T2 shot me sky high. I was off my bike and running in one easy motion - so my memory tells me - and actually had to order slower transitioners out of my way. T2 was organised so that instead of my having to rack my bike, a handy helper took it and did it for me, I would have asked him to wash and lubricate it too but I was in a hurry.

In the change tent, all I needed to do was pull on some socks with my trainers, grab my bum-bag full of gels and juice (there was no escaping them) and set off up the hill. The half marathon ahead was 6.5 miles up Llanberis Pass and 6.5 down again. Keeping my heart rate low in the early stages was, I was told, vital if I was going to finish, so 142bpm it was for about 3 miles. Early on, I fell into a group who were going at about the same pace. One was a young lad from Yorkshire, Simon, who had done Ironman Lanzarote earlier this year after only having done a few sprint races and a couple of standards.  

Just after leaving town I saw the race winner, Richard Jones, striding to glory - the car leading him to the finish line read 3:52 on its roof-mounted clock; then came Stephen Sheldrake, the Edinburgh-based Kiwi - I remember him because he flew past me at Gullane too. Then there were all the folk from the magazines and telly - Annie Emmerson (winner of the women's race), Richard Allen, Richard Stannard, Nina Kraft.

We could but cheer them on briefly and return to our own race.  

It was good to chat but by mile 5, I was wanting to keep all my puff for running. Just before the top my running mate's calf cramped and he urged me to go on rather than wait which I felt bad about but, all things considered, had to do. The turnaround point, which for so long had seemed so far off and seemingly unachievable was suddenly there. It was like coming across Shangri-La. Tables laden with drinks and oranges and bananas and energy bars and people clapping and taking pictures. I did my 180 degree spin and set off for home. What a difference.  

For miles I'd watched people bounding down the hill as I struggled with the upward gradient but now it was my turn and it felt wonderful. I just lengthened my stride and let the hill carry me down while I took an unsporting pleasure at seeing just how many there were behind me. I passed Simon who was still in discomfort and egged him, glibly, to the top.  

About halfway down the hill, I became quite emotional. I was prematurely thrilled that I was going to finish this race in a half decent time. I had had a hoped-for finish time of around 5 and a half hours and with 4 miles to go I was going to do it unless things went horribly wrong. And things were going horribly wrong - to people all around me. Some came to sudden stops to stretch knotted quads and calves others were being sick over walls. A few just slowly ground to a halt. If I wasn't careful about my pace, it would happen to me too.  

As the gradient lessened I slowed right down. I was now feeling the strain and my stomach was beginning to rebel against the day's sugary intake. The last mile and a half was a very long mile and a half. I wanted so much just to stop moving, just to sit down and be motionless for a while. Coming back into Llanberis the onlookers began to multiply from a man and his dog through married couple with 2.4 kids to extended families looking out for their representative runner. By the time I hit the main street the crowd was two or three deep and the noise was amazing. By now I was in a trance and I could feel a fixed, stupid grin on my face - complete strangers were clapping and cheering me, the least I could do was smile - the most I could do was smile.  

We had to run right through the village and then turn back on ourselves onto the High Street towards the finish line. I wished I had been able to put on a final sprint for the occasion but I couldn't think of a good reason why - this wasn't a sprint race, it had taken me a long time to get here and I wanted to enjoy the final run in. Crossing the line was a magnificent feeling but not as magnificent as stopping to stand still for the first time in 5 hours and 16 minutes. And to mark the occasion, the clouds parted and the sun burst through. An elderly lady came up and put a medal round my neck. She was the most beautiful elderly lady in the world so I gave her a thank you hug, "Ooh, get off yer sweaty git," she said.* 

*not really.