Patagonman Race Report: An Extreme Triathlon That Tests Grit, Patience, and Endurance
- Dec 15, 2025
- 11 min read
Updated: Jan 1
What Is Patagonman?
An Extreme Triathlon in Patagonia’s Harshest Conditions
Patagonman is an extreme triathlon unlike any other. It begins with a swim in the icy waters of the Aysén fjord, starting in complete darkness before sunrise, with athletes jumping from a ferry into the water. From there, the race moves into a grueling 180 km bike ride through the Patagonian mountains—climbing from sea level to the tree line, surrounded by majestic scenery, relentless elevation, and headwinds so strong you find yourself pedaling downhill.
The final challenge is a trail marathon starting in Villa Cerro Castillo, featuring over 1,100 meters of elevation gain and finishing in Puerto Ibáñez. It’s raw, remote, and uncompromising—Patagonman gives you nothing for free.
Getting to Patagonia
Why Reaching Coyhaique Is an Adventure on Its Own
Getting to Coyhaique, Chile—the gateway to Patagonia—proved to be nearly as extreme as the race itself. We flew into Balmaceda Airport, but the journey came with its own set of challenges. From having to purchase a completely new plane ticket due to a spelling error that the travel agency refused to correct, to navigating vehicle shortages for airport transfers and race logistics, everything felt harder than expected.
Traveling from Toronto took multiple days—something that was new for all of us. My daughters traveled with me, while my best friend Scott had to travel solo to Santiago, where we eventually reunited for the final leg to Balmaceda. Along the way, we met several other Patagonman hopefuls, sharing race strategies, life stories, and nervous anticipation.
One competitor played what may have been the best—and worst—prank of the entire trip. During a technical stop in Puerto Montt, he approached me pretending to be a LATAM Airlines representative and informed me that my bike had been shipped to Ushuaia—the southernmost city in Chile. My heart sank. My head dropped into Scott’s lap as I prepared to lose it emotionally, until he revealed himself as one of the other Canadians racing. My response was simple and appropriate: “You’re an asshole.” Well played.
Exploring Coyhaique and Race Preparation
Adapting to Life in Remote Patagonia
Coyhaique and Patagonia are stunningly beautiful and, in many ways, completely foreign—yet oddly familiar. Daily life functions much the same, but everything looks and feels just different enough to make even simple tasks confusing. Is that a bakery or someone’s house? Turns out it’s both. Is that a roadside restaurant or someone’s home? Again—both. Can you turn right on a red light? We still don’t know, but we never tried.
Finding groceries and familiar foods was a challenge, and very few people spoke English—something I should have expected. Unlike Europe, Patagonia is remote, rugged, and unapologetically so.
On our first day, we tried authentic Chilean BBQ, including organ meats. We tried everything, and surprisingly, most of it was very good.
The following days were filled with bike assembly, practice rides, a practice swim, and short runs. Everything went smoothly—except I forgot my goggles for the swim. Thankfully, a very kind woman named Tabatha loaned me her spare pair. During that swim, my Garmin watch also died. We scoured the city for a replacement and eventually found a Wahoo ELEMNT Rival. It’s not a Garmin, but it’s my new watch—although I later learned it’s discontinued.
Race Day at Patagonman
A Midnight Start and the Iconic Ferry Jump
Race day started just after midnight. We planned extra time to ensure we wouldn’t be rushed. Like every full-distance race, the morning routine was familiar: oatmeal with fruit—this time cherries, since we couldn’t find bananas. This decision may not have been the best, but more on that later.
This race is largely self-supported, and I had the best crew imaginable: my best friend Scott and two of my daughters. They were outstanding all day long. We arrived early, which meant there was even time for a quick nap.
Transition opened at 3:00 a.m., and we headed in shortly after. The racks were tight, but we found a good spot near the swim entrance. Rachel and I set everything up, took care of the nervous pre-race bathroom stop, and got into wetsuits. Because of the early hour, I didn’t have my usual multiple bathroom visits—a mistake that would come back to haunt me later.
At 4:00 a.m., boarding for the ferry began. The nerves came in waves—task by task. The Patagonman staff and ferry crew were incredible. Everyone was checked for safety equipment, timing chips, and manually ticked off before boarding. The ferry departed around 4:30 a.m.
Due to strong currents, the swim was held in the harbor rather than the fjord, which meant slightly warmer water. With my thermal wetsuit and vest, I actually began to overheat—though better hot than cold in this situation.
The Patagonman Swim
Cold Water, Darkness, and Finding Rhythm
Around 5:30 a.m., just before sunrise, we began the iconic Patagonman jump. Without hesitation, I walked up, jumped, and swam to the start line. The horn sounded, and we were off.
Everyone started fast. After about 300 meters, the pace settled, and I found my rhythm. The first leg was approximately 2,200 meters to a distant ship lit up in the dark. I stayed wide right for sighting and consistency. At one point, I realized my watch hadn’t chimed—I hadn’t actually started it. New watch problem number one.
I pushed through, shoulders tiring, using a longer glide to survive the flat, calm water. As the sun rose over the mountains, the lights gave way to the brown arch marking the swim exit. Rachel was there immediately, guiding me to my bike and shoving overly thickened chicken soup into my face. I spilled a lot—sorry to the racer beside me, your transition looked like throw-up.
Despite the watch issue, I was thrilled with my swim time: 1:14.
The Patagonman Bike Course
Mountain Climbs, Headwinds, and Technical Descents
The bike course was absolutely stunning. Early miles were relatively flat, and I kept my power conservative knowing the long climb from kilometers 100 to 157 was coming. The crew and I had planned support stops roughly every 30 km.
At around 70 km, the heat began to rise, but I stubbornly kept my layers on, expecting cold conditions in the mountains. By 100 km, I was overheating badly. Nutrition began to slip, and by the final planned stop at 127 km, I stripped off all extra layers and loaded up on fluids and calories.
The climb was brutal. Winds were icy and relentless. Even downhill sections required pedaling in the lowest gear. What should have taken an hour took far longer, and I found myself questioning every life choice that led me there.
Finally, at 157 km, the descent began—fast, technical, and terrifying. I hit speeds of 79.9 km/h, and at one point a stray dog ran directly in front of me. Easily the scariest moment I’ve ever had on a bike.
Rachel was there in transition again, grabbing my bike while Stacey had to yell “DAD!” to snap me back to reality. A quick change, hydration vest on, and I was off to the run.
The Patagonman Run
A Brutal Trail Marathon That Breaks You Down
This was the hardest run I’ve ever done—by far. The first half felt like a Spartan Beast race. I started too fast, backed it off, and hit the first climb at 4 km. The hills were relentless, the heat oppressive, and by 6.5 km I was completely gutted.
At a stream crossing around 7 km, let’s just say the cherries and missed bathroom stops made their presence known. Never trust a fart. Thankfully, the stream was right there.
The course was brutal—sand-like trails, rough gravel roads, steep climbs, and punishing descents. The Spartan training Rachel and I did earlier in the year paid off in a big way.
At 30 km, I saw Rachel near a bridge. She couldn’t step onto it without disqualifying me, but her presence was enough. I completely broke down—exhausted, emotional, convinced I couldn’t go on. That hug was everything. After a five-minute emotional reset, she refilled my hydration pack and laid out a run-walk plan that carried me forward.
At 41.5 km, I realized something was wrong. Rachel finally admitted what she hadn’t planned to tell me: the run was closer to 44 km. My world crashed—but we kept going.
As I approached the finish, every emotion I’ve ever felt surfaced. Patagonman had asked beforehand: What kind of finisher will you be? I always knew I’d be a crier. I rang the bell in tears, surrounded by hugs from Rachel, Stacey, Scott, and the race director.
The Finish Line
Ringing the Bell and What It Really Means
Patagonman asks you to give everything—and you do. Then it asks for more—and somehow, you give that too. Some finish. Some don’t.
This race is less about finishing and more about understanding yourself. Are you willing to give more than you think you have?
For those who’ve done Patagonman, they already know the answer.
Patagonman Support
Endurance Isn’t Solo — It’s Shared
Patagonman may be raced by one athlete, but it is never completed alone. Behind every step, pedal stroke, and moment of doubt stood an unwavering support crew who endured their own version of the race—quietly, selflessly, and relentlessly.
Scott – The Long Road Friend
I’ve known Robert since we were teenagers, and over the years I’ve watched him chase more goals than I can count. For nearly eight years, he pursued the dream of racing in Kona. When that legacy slot finally came through and he asked me to go to Hawaii with him, there was only one answer—how could I say no?
I’ve spent countless hours keeping him company through training sessions and supporting him from the sidelines at Ironman races all over the place. So when he came to me in a panic and said he needed a driver for Patagonman—because the only rental vehicles available were manual-transmission pickup trucks—I didn’t hesitate. “Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’m your guy.”
I assumed this race would be similar to others I’d supported. I couldn’t have been more wrong. As travel days approached and the race drew closer, Rob, his daughter, and I began mapping out battle plans for race day. That’s when it became clear: this was going to be unlike anything we’d ever done before. Race day started early, ended late, and from the moment it began, I was completely immersed in it.
This wasn’t a race where you wait on the sidelines and see your athlete for a few seconds at a time. Our role was to be on course—providing hydration, nutrition, mechanical support, clothing changes, reassurance, and problem-solving on the fly. Every stop mattered. Every interaction counted. It was our job to keep him moving forward and remind him, again and again, that he was doing exactly what he needed to do.
Watching Robert and Rachel come down the final stretch of the run course is something I’ll never forget. Seeing the exhaustion build throughout the day—physically, mentally, emotionally—and knowing he still found a way to keep going filled me with an immense sense of pride.
Patagonman doesn’t just test the athlete. It tests everyone who stands beside them. Being part of that journey was an honour I’ll carry with me forever.
Stacey – Support Crew Perspective
Being part of the support crew for my dad at Patagonman was its own kind of endurance test. It meant early mornings, cold hands, quiet nerves, and a constant mix of fear and awe as I watched him take on something so vast and unforgiving.
I wasn’t the one swimming those waters, biking those miles, or running through that terrain—but I felt every moment with him. The waiting, the wondering, the hoping. Standing on the sidelines, cheering, watching the clock, trusting the process, and believing in him was an honour I’ll never forget.
Supporting him reminded me that love sometimes looks like simply showing up—again and again—in the cold, with a full heart, trusting the strength of someone you admire more than words can explain.
Rachel – Coach, Daughter, and Anchor
Watching my dad push himself beyond his limits was extraordinary. Most people complete one Ironman and say, “That’s it. I’m done. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” Not my dad.
He qualified for Kona, completed 18 Ironmans, and instead of hanging up the wetsuit, racking the bike, and storing away his shoes, he asked himself a different question: How can I do more?
Time and time again, he proves that no matter what is thrown at you, it’s not the obstacle that defines you—it’s how you respond. Through every setback, hiccup, and challenge along the way, he continued to show up for training, often with a smile on his face. There are no words to describe how proud I am of him for finishing this race.
From a coaching perspective, this journey felt full circle. He once coached me through my first Ironman, and now I had the privilege of supporting him through one of the toughest journeys in the triathlon world. I wouldn’t say I coached him—but understanding what he was feeling, knowing when to push and when to simply be present, made me realize just how much he has taught me over the years.
Why Support Matters at Patagonman
Patagonman tests the athlete physically and mentally—but it also tests the people standing behind them. It asks for patience, resilience, emotional strength, and unconditional belief. The finish line belongs just as much to the support crew as it does to the athlete.
At Patagonman, endurance is shared and behind every finish line is a community—something we emphasize deeply in the Rapid Snail Racing coaching philosophy.
Rapid Snail Racing Reflection
What an Extreme Triathlon Teaches You About Yourself
Patagonman isn’t just a race—it’s a mirror. It doesn’t just test your fitness, it interrogates your mind, your expectations, your patience, and your preparation. It exposes the places where you excel and the places where you stubbornly refuse to adapt. It reminds you that the race you’re running isn’t always the race you planned to run.
There were moments when my physical strength carried me forward. But there were also moments when strength wasn’t enough—when grit, humility, humor, self-awareness, and support mattered more than watts, splits, or pace.
Patagonman didn’t care how much I trained for hills, or how many hours I rode in the cold, or how many miles I logged in the marathon brick sessions. What mattered was this:
Could I stay present when everything hurt?
Could I reset my expectations when the plan fell apart?
Could I accept help and lean into support?
Could I adapt instead of just endure?
In Patagonia, there are no perfect conditions, no familiar rhythms, and no guarantees. The cold water, the headwinds, the brutal climbs, the misleading distances—all of it forced me to continually ask: Am I willing to give more than I thought I have?
And the answer wasn’t about crossing a finish line. The answer was in the process of giving it all away—piece by piece—and discovering that whatever you think your limits are, you can still keep going.
That’s the lesson of Patagonman:
Not that you’ll always succeed.Not that you’ll always finish.But that you can always try harder than you thought possible—and in doing so, you learn something about who you are when the world asks more than you ever expected.
In the end, Patagonman doesn’t just ask what kind of finisher you will be — it reveals what kind of you you are willing to become. I sincerely hope you enjoyed this Patagonman Race Report.
If you’re training for an Ironman, extreme triathlon, or simply want to explore your limits, Rapid Snail Racing helps athletes build the fitness, grit, and patience required to finish what they start.
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