Race day!!!

In a semi comatosed state I smother the alarm and calmly fill my bottles, glad that the big day is finally upon us.
Breakfast is a not a hive of activity, more a calm quiet preparation for battle. Sustenance is prepared depending on taste for the long bike leg. I make up a ham and cheese roll and wrap it in paper serviettes.
The bus is waiting outside at 5am on the dot to take us down to the village.
Several spectators have stoically made the effort to join competitors, and while I sit in my seat and the bus pulls away, I wonder if the folks are up and heading down to breakfast, so I give them a call and leave a message.
The city is barely stiring as we approach the lake, with the watery sun gaining power with every second.
We make our way to transition and begin to fill time until the start by, among other things, getting 'vassed' up. The nether regions were well lubricated before spectators began appearing, taking huge interest (and numerous photographs) in the proceedings.
The announcer gives us a running countdown to the start, and at 30 minutes to go, it's time to join the queues for (hopefully) the last comfort break of the day.
15 minutes to go and I wait by the huge inflatable Power Bar for the other CPTers as arranged, but only manage a last words of encouragement with Victor and Louise before heading down to the 'beach'. A competitor is being helped with his wetsuit by his mum and dad: a painful looking process, and tainted with a slight air of panic.
The announcer is now whipping himself into a frenzy, while we all try and work out where the first buoy is in the dazzling sunlight. I suddenly see Phil, cheery as ever, and hand shake and back slap over, it's goggles on, cap on and get ready for the gun.
Suddenly the world has turned into a cheesey wedding video. Not only have I managed to 'vass up' the essentials, but have also managed to lube the inside of my goggles. A romantic blur of the still grinning Phil is now all I see.
I leg it down to the waters edge to try and rinse them out. Unsurprising the vasseline repels the water beautifully, and I have act fast now if I'm going to stand a chance of seeing anything during the swim.
I approach the nearest, kindest looking spectator and quickly explain my dilemma. She digs around in her bag, and pulls out a woolen sock, with which I gratefully get to work on the goggles. Next comes a glasses case with which to buff. I'm saved! Blonde spectator: I am deeply grateful.
I enjoy the relief of being able to see the helicopter hover a few feet off the lake, as the countdown enters the final minute.
Phil offers a last bit of advice: start your stopwatch 10sec before the gun, then you know it's running; then the gun and we're all marching elbow to elbow into the glistening lake.
The air is a cachophony of rota blades, falling water, cheering and barked commentary.
We all enter the washing machine together and try and find some unoccupied water, the wetsuits make this bearable, keeping body boyant and immune from raking hands.

Approaching the first buoy, about 100 swimmers have cut in front of me and are now heading for the second mark.
I'm on the outside of them so it's impossible to cut through to round the buoy. There are a few swimmers around me looking at the buoy and the swimmers cutting the corner, and we make what seems like a collective decision to do the same.
We now have a lot more space and I'm starting to get a good rhythm going.
Having turned away from the sun, the next buoy is a visible target. To the left is a pleasure boat full of spectators.
There's a bottle-neck at the next mark, but I round it with inches to spare, watched by a marshall in a canoe. Why weren't there any of these at the first mark?
Heading back into shore now, and I seemed to have hit the local Bermuda triangle. Suddenly I'm about 20m off course, heading for a nice secluded waterfront cafe.
Back on track and I follow some feet for the remainder of the stretch towards the Island.
Before I know it the water shallows and we're bunching up as we claw our way under the bridge. Some people are standing, but I manage to make it without doing an impression of a creature from the blue lagoon.
Swimming out again into the sun - the long stretch to the first buoy - threading ourselves through moored yachts.
The second lap seems to fly by now I'm in a what I can modestly describe as 'my rythm'.
The last few strokes are performed in eager anticipation of the plastic non slip ramp, looming from the shore like a giant torquoise tongue.