Ironman Canada – July 26 – Whistler

August 10, 2015February 28, 2016 / alycouch / 8 Comments

The world is quiet at 3:30 in the morning. It feels dark and lonely and unchartered. As I sat across the breakfast table from my training partner, Tracy, we choked down our pre-race meals in silence. There really wasn’t much to say between us, and we didn’t need to talk, we already knew what was going on in each other’s minds. Just being together side-by-side heading off into the battle field was all we needed.

As we descended onto Rainbow Park and into transition for final bike set-up, it felt like any other race morning. I went through my routines like clock work as I bobbed my head to pump-up ballads thumping through my headphones. I opted to drown out the voices around me – I had enough going through my own mind and I didn’t need outside distractions or further things to worry about. After meticulously putting on my wetsuit, I begrudgingly removed my headphones, dropped off my belongings at the morning clothes bag drop, and took the long way around to the water where I happened to find one of my other training partners, Kate. The two of us could hardly contain ourselves from embracing in a long, emotional hug. Together we decided there was no time like the present to get in the water.

With Kate on my toes we slowly swam our way out to the buoy line. We still had about 10 to 15 minutes until the start but it was more relaxing to be in the water. No more pacing, no more distracting music – just me, thousands of other Ironman hopefuls, and the cool lake water. Together we bobbed, floated, and anxiously awaited the start cannon. With a mere 30 seconds to go, as if in unison and without any prompts, we all started yelling good luck to one another, and then it began.

For the first 25 metres or so, I couldn’t even put my head in the water. There was a mass assault of body parts flying every which direction and with every stroke and kick I would collide with neoprene. It felt like a charge of seals flailing from an impending predator – we were swimming for our lives. I kept thinking that if I stopped at any which point, I would be trampled from the herd and sink slowly into the dark depths of the lake. Finally, the mass settled out, and I was able to get into my pace and rhythm with mostly clear water around me. Every now and again for no rhyme or reason a body would swim directly across me, or an arm would slam on top of my head. Sometimes I yelled, other times I just grabbed onto that misguided body part and moved it out of my way. It was every man for themselves out there. Be aggressive, or be left behind.
The swim went on and on and on and on. One, two, sight, one, two, sight, repeat, repeat, repeat. I would count buoys, I would yell at other swimmers, I would sing songs, I would think of the finish line, I would think of land, I would think of the grey sky that looked the same every time I looked at it. The excitement only kicked up when I hit the turn buoys and masses of bodies would all converge together as if we were a giant magnet. Again, I would get my elbows up, yell and move people out of my way. Then it was back to one, two, sight and repeat. As I rounded the third buoy and headed out for my second lap, I turned my head to the right and breathed almost in unison with no one other than Kate. In that moment, I realized through all that chaos she had managed to stay on my toes for the entire first lap – incredible. We briefly smiled and acknowledged each other before heading off on our paths. Once I hit the second to last buoy on my last lap, I started to get tired. I was longing to be vertical and to be on my beloved bicycle and out of the water. The stretch from the last turn buoy to shore felt like the longest part of the swim. I kept thinking I would see land beneath me, but it just went on and on, until finally I was almost scraping my body against the sand and I stood up. As with every transition from the water to shore, I sauntered like a drunken pirate until my body remembered what walking felt like. I celebrated with a couple fist pumps before almost bulldozing over my competition on my way towards the change tent. It wasn’t until I ran out the other side that I realized the air was cold and the rain was coming down hard. It was going to be a freezing, wet miserable ride.

Within the first 1o minutes I felt like an icicle. My sunglasses were too wet and foggy to wear, so I opted to tuck them in my back pocket, forcing me to squint as I avoided the huge droplets of rain flying into my exposed eyeballs. Rooster tails of water would fly up from bikes ahead of me, and I did what I could to pass them without skidding in the pooling water. At every descent, I would remember the wise words of Jeff Symonds, “you can crash and run a good marathon, but the recovery afterwards is brutal.” I would be damned if a crash would end my race

As we headed for the climb up into the Callahan I felt slightly warmer, but really still quite frozen. With only my dripping, wet tri kit and arm warmers clinging to my body I was exposed to whatever Mother Nature had in store for us that day, and on this day she was a bitch. From the top of the Callahan, all the way down into Pemberton my teeth chattered incessantly against one another, as I kept saying to myself, it can’t be like this all day, it can’t be like this all day. My fingers were getting numb and I struggled to shift gears. At each aid station I could see athletes unable to grasp water bottles, while others were huddled in cars and wrapped in blankets. It was brutal. My only saving grace was seeing the spectators and my friends and family all lined up against the road cheering as if I was a rock star. At one of the bridges, I even raised my arm as if to encourage more cheering and they went wild. I had to hold onto every ounce of their positive energy, inside I was falling apart.

Once I had finished one of the sketchiest descents of my life into Pemberton I started to warm again and the rain subsided. For the first time in awhile, I started to feel good. I knew this bike course like the back of my hand. I knew each corner, each turn, each bump, and I was so grateful for all the time we had spent training here just a few weeks ago. At this point in the race, I was able to settle into a solid pace and began ticking off the competition. I was nailing my pacing and feeling incredible – and then I made an error.
I could see an aid station approaching on the horizon and I knew I needed to pick something up but in the chaos of my mind I couldn’t decide whether I needed a Gatorade or a water. I kept thinking – Gatorade, water, Gatorade water? With a few metres to go, my brain sorted itself out, decided on a Gatorade, and then realized I hadn’t slowed down. I was coming in hot. Aid stations go by a lot faster when you forget to apply your brakes, so I had a split second to stick my hand out, grab a bottle and maybe slow down. Without thinking, I reached across my bike with my left hand, grabbed the bottle, and without even a second to realize my mistake, I had cranked my front wheel completely sideways and my head and shoulder slammed down hard against the concrete. I thought my race was over. Frantically, I hopped back up, shaking, still straddling my bike, and trying to play it off like nothing had happened. Instantly I had volunteers descending on me. I could hear them saying over and over that I had hit my head really hard. They were right, I had double vision and my head was pounding. In a panic, I tried to make it seem like I was good to go; I could almost feel tears welling up in my eyes, as I thought I wouldn’t be able to continue. The sound of my dad’s voice rang through my head, “how could you be so stupid?” Eventually they convinced me to sit on the curb for a time out and quick evaluation. Fortunately a medic was nearby and was able to bandage up the road rash on my shoulder and check me for any signs of a concussion. It didn’t take her long to give me the green light. She said my pupils looked fine and I was making sense, so it was up to me if I wanted to continue. I almost interrupted her as I blurted out that this is my first time, I’m was going to be an Ironman. So, they handed me that Gatorade, wished me luck and off I went for the last, long 30 kilometres of hill climbing back up into Whistler. My legs were tired and heavy, my head woozy and all I could do was count each stroke of the pedal – 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3.
As with every race, as much as I love my bike, once I hit transition, I am ready to let it go. I flew in feeling slightly wobbly and drunken, but with a huge bright smile on my face. I hopped off that bike almost faster than the volunteers could grab it, thanked the universe I was still alive, and bolted into the change tent to get ready for the run.
After a quick transition, I ran out the other side with more fist pumping and celebration as I ran past my friends and family. Once again, I felt like a rock star. As the cheers faded into the distance, I settled into my run pace and focused on how the hell I was going to run a marathon. Previous to that day, the furthest I had ever run was 23 kilometres, so I literally didn’t know if I was going to make it. By about the 15 kilometre mark, I had to start to thinking of survival mode and how I would get through this. I opted to stop looking for kilometre markers and start looking for people markers. There were the beer drinkers and my friends at the golf course, the lady giving out free hugs on the corner of the trail, my mom waiting on the corner of Lorimer and Blackcomb and the long crowds of people near the village – those were all markers along the course I remembered and longed to see again. They were my lift and I relied on them to bring out my smile.

Once they faded from sight, I would stare at the ground in front of me and just keep trudging one foot in front of the other. Even as I passed the 23k mark, I didn’t feel like celebrating the distance – I still had so far to go. The final 7 kilometres was when everything started to hurt. My toes were tingling as blisters started to form, my knees would scream out in pain with each pounding step, and I was fading. As I crossed the road and looked up, I saw my dad. He seemed to be beaming with pride as he asked how I was doing. All I could muster out was that I was in pain. In a sympathetic yet encouraging tone, he told me he knew how I felt but I was almost home. It has hard to hold back a warm stream of tears. I was so grateful for his words and his company in that brief moment.
As I hit the final two kilometres and rounded the Lorimer and Blackcomb corner one final time I saw all my training partners, some who had already finished and some who had just come to cheer us on. They were yelling my name, and again, the tears almost started to stream – I was overwhelmed. Leaving them in the distance, I continued on the longest 2 kilometres of my life. I could hear the announcer proclaiming Ironman finishers, yet my journey was not quite done. At one point I thought I saw my turn into the finish chute, but I looked up to see my brother, waving at me to keep going around the other corner – I was still not there. My feet have never felt so heavy, and they were barely willing to move one step further.
Finally, as I rounded back to that corner, that actual final corner, I knew I was home free. To summarize what that finish chute symbolized to me would almost be another story in itself. I was re-energized, free, happy, and overjoyed. I took that neon trucker hat off my head, turned it backwards and fired off towards the awaiting finish line. I was overcome with emotion and overwhelmed by the crowd of strangers cheering for me as I spread my arms like a bird and flew down the chute. I yelled, I high fived awaiting hands of my friends and family hanging over the fence, and I celebrated with whatever ounce of energy I had left.

Finally with my foot over the finish line, I heard the words I had be longing to hear for the past two years, the words that I had worked so god damned hard to hear, and the words that would bring this journey to end – you are an Ironman. I almost stumbled into a volunteer as she guided me to a chair – finally I could stop moving. With an uncomfortable foil blanket draped over my shoulders I sat there unsure of what to do next. But in less time than I could sigh a breath of relief I heard the screams of my name and looked over my shoulder to see my friends and family anxiously awaiting congratulations hugs. It was exactly what I needed – that, a hot bath and some new legs.
It’s been almost three weeks since race day, and I still struggle to reflect on exactly what that day meant to me. It’s an adventure full of ups and downs, and one I will never forget. I claimed my title and no one can ever take that away from me. I poured my heart and soul into crossing that line, and even when there were days I never thought I would, I did. I’ll never be able to duplicate that feeling of crossing the Ironman finish line for the first time, but I will forever cherish it, learn from it and take it with me on whatever journey life has for me next.
aly and mom (1) aly random

And the day is here…

July 25, 2015February 28, 2016 / alycouch / 3 Comments

To sit down and try to summarize all my thoughts, emotions, and retrospects from the past two years is a challenging task. For the first time in this journey, I’m finding myself at a loss for words. Part of the problem is that my emotions jump from one to the next in mere minutes – smiles to tears, laughter to screams – so it’s hard to say what I’m thinking. The butterflies come and go, so does the anxiety, fears, and even some excitement. I’m still not sure that I’ve quite grasped the magnitude of what I’m about to tackle tomorrow – swim 3.8K, bike 180, then run a marathon- it sounds like a bit like insanity, even to me. But what has been reiterated to me time and time again, is that the work is done. All I can do from here until race start is rest, shut off the brain and trust in the journey I’ve been on. Trust that everything I went through was a part of the bigger plan to get me here. The meningitis that delayed my first half ironman, the knee injury that threatened to end the dream, the popped out ribs, the colds, the heat stroke, bleeding toes, blisters, sun burns, and all the other cuts, scrapes, bruises and obstacles, were all a part of growing me into the person I needed to be to do this thing.
I still remember when I first told people I would do an Ironman. My dad looked at me with suspicion and said, “that is a really big race.” Some of my friends also gave me the same looks of suspicions, yet they smiled and nodded that I could do it. So, off I went – like an eager kid, hopping in with both feet and never looking back. Now here I am, less than 12 hours from hearing that start cannon – it’s a bit surreal.
Over the past few days, with all the buzzing of energy, sleepless nights, and unpredictable emotions, there has been one constant in my life – the support and it’s been that way since day one. Triathlon may be an individual sport, and on race day I have only myself to rely on to get me from point A to point B, but there is no denying that there are many people who have been by my side, believing, even when I doubted myself, that I could and would do this thing.
First and foremost, I would not have even stepped foot into this sport if it wasn’t for the three most important role models in my life, my mom, dad and big brother. My love for sport and competition, and relentless determination and stubbornness comes from one of three places and I have them to thank for telling me I could do whatever I set my heart out to do, even if it was Ironman. Through the journey they have been on the other end of the line to hear it all, to cheer me on, and to build me up when I was down. I also couldn’t forget the love of my sister-in-law who, despite not understanding anything about the sport, would often send me text messages full of Ironman related questions and words of encouragement. Her curiosity of my insanity oftentimes made me smile and I loved sharing my stories with her.

Then there have been my friends, who may never truly understand why I do what I do, but have been every step of the way. Whether it was coming to cheer me on at one of the world’s worst spectator sports, randomly volunteering at my races just to get closer to the action, talking to me about my training for hours on phone, or tracking me online – knowing you were there rooting for me every step of the way meant the world. I am especially grateful to those who made the journey to Whistler to sport a neon yellow ‘Team Couch’ support crew shirt and cheer me on for however many hours of the day this thing will take me.

I also can’t look back on these past two years and not think about my training partners, who have not only become friends, but my second family. I couldn’t possibly single any of them out because each of them has offered me something unique and priceless – from many words of wisdom, to shared tools, bike parts, tires and wheels, to shared homes, food, drinks, laughs, cries, dinners, hotel rooms, trips to Kona, chats in the hot tub, chats on the curb, and so much love. Their support over the past two years has been nothing short of incredible and inspiring. I will be thinking of each of them on race day and everything they taught me leading up to tomorrow. I could not have found a better group to go through this roller coaster with me.

Then there is coach. Before Maurice, I learned what I could from online videos, blogs and books, but his knowledge, expertise and ‘rain man’ way of looking at this sport was truly special and it’s because of him and his training program that I got to this day. Although he often said things I could only smile and nod at, he was able to look at my journey in a way I could never have comprehended. There were also times when I cursed his name. But in the end, he cared about us as athletes, and he went through every up and down with me, making damn sure I got here in one piece. I couldn’t possibly thank him enough for his patience when I chose to do keg stands instead of bike rides, for playing hockey or ball when I should have been resting, and for allowing me to ask all the dumb questions in the world. He has been one hell of a coach.
And speaking of coaches, I’ll never forget the woman who would teach me all the fundamentals I needed to know about swimming. Teresa was the one who helped get me from one end the pool to the other, and eventually into my very first open water swim. You never forget those moments or how they contributed to the overall success of my swimming.
In one last shout out, I couldn’t forget all the medical professionals I encountered along the road. From my massage therapist, to chiropractors, my athletic trainer, and hospital staff in Victoria – I saw some of them more than I had wanted, but they played an integral role in making sure I got here alive and in one piece.
As I turn off the light and try to shut off the buzz that invades my head, I will take one final thought with me, “It’s lack of faith that makes people afraid of meeting challenges, and I believed in myself.”

The final push

July 22, 2015 / alycouch / Leave a comment

Just over a week ago, I dragged my body in my front door, passed out on the couch and didn’t wake up for almost ten hours. My body was beaten. There was chaffing in places I didn’t know could chafe, there was tender skin where there used to be toenails, I had blood stained socks, clothes so soaked in sweat and mud they could only be described as hazardous materials, and muscles that would scream if I put them near a bicycle or tried to make them to walk too swiftly downstairs.

Two weekends ago I packed up my bags with my training crew for one final push of training at Whistler. One final suffer grinder fest of a weekend. For four days, we trained, ate, slept, moaned, groaned, stretched, and otherwise tried to discover new ways to work out the pain of sore, tired muscles. Between Friday morning and Monday afternoon, we logged more than 500 kilometres on our bikes, stomping on the pavement, and flailing through the water. We endured tough elements with daily relentless headwinds, white caps on the lake, smoky skies, torrential downpours and even some heat from the glaring sun. There were workouts that had me in tears, screaming in pain, cursing at Mother Nature, and otherwise questioning my sanity. I lived mostly on a diet of liquid sugar – gels, powders, and gummies. I craved salt and longed for real food. Some nights I slept like a baby, other nights I tossed and turned, unable to find comfort. With each passing morning I would wake up more weary, wobbly and hobbly than the last. It was a massively intense weekend – I couldn’t wait to taper. But like all the crazy weekend workouts our coach plans there is always a rhyme and a reason for it. Sometimes it’s not abundantly clear, sometimes you have to search for the method behind his madness, but on this weekend, in particular on the second day, it became quite obvious.
In the morning we rode down to Pemberton and out through the meadows to the turn around point. From there, we did a time trial back into town before breaking at the gas station, then time trialling back up into Whistler – a total of 130K. Once back at our hotel, we rested for about an hour, only able to consume nutrition we would have on race day, before heading out on a 21K run. As I stepped out of the front lobby, a torrential downpour started beating off the pavement. We were in for a wet, cold adventure.
For the first 5K or so, I hobbled along, not feeling well and blowing drops of cold water off my nose. It didn’t feel good, and I started to lose a bit of hope. Here I was on the run course, already doubting if I had it in me to complete the full race in just a couple short weeks. As we re-grouped before heading down the trail, I hoped to make it the full 21 without crawling back home. I sauntered off at my turtle pace behind the group, just doing what I could to keep moving. The kilometres were slowly ticking away, and with my head looking down most of the way, I really had no idea where we were going – I just sort of followed the feet in front of me. After about an hour I looked up for the first time and saw a wooden foot bridge crossing Green Lake. Instantly I recognized it from when I spectated at Ironman last year as one of the bridges on the run course. A smile spread wildly across my face. It finally dawned on me that I was on the race course and that in two weeks I would be back on that bridge competing at Ironman. It was in that moment that I recognized I was ready. I also recognized why coach dragged us all the way to Whistler for one last suffer fest – it was a chance to test ourselves and see firsthand the beast we would conquer. We would either find peace in knowing we were ready or run away screaming. I was grateful for the peace of mind.
If you had asked me the week before training camp if I was ready for the race, I would have shaken my head with an air of defeat. There were days when I would lie in bed crying in pain and wondering where I steered the ship wrong. My body felt done and I was almost positive my journey was not going to end the way I had hoped. Today is a much different story, and despite the challenge of that final training weekend, I’ll be forever grateful I endured it. Come race day, I’ll be looking for that wooden bridge and hoping it has another kick for me.

Redemption – Merritt Loop Round 2

July 15, 2015July 15, 2015 / alycouch / 2 Comments

Just like any other weekend morning, I was brewing away in my kitchen like a mad scientist, measuring and calculating calories and bottles of water, following a formula to ensure that I had enough to get me through a long ride. On this morning, I was fuelling up for the annual 200k Merritt Loop – a ride that just the previous year had kicked my ass. There really is no other way to describe the aftermath of what that ride did to me. I set out to as a Merritt Loop virgin to conquer the day and instead wound up being conquered, and sitting on the side of the road in delirium trying to figure out where I went wrong. The suffering began with about 50K still to go. My body decided that enough was enough, and for the rest of the journey, I wobbled to and fro, suffering with every stroke of the pedal. In the end, I was angry that I had failed, but in failing, I had learned. I learned the importance of calorie and hydration intake, I learned the key to pacing and above all, I learned how to suffer and survive – an extremely important learning lesson that you won’t find in any Ironman training handbook. Ever since that day, I have been seeking redemption, a chance to conquer that ride and to finish strong. I thought this was the year, so on this morning I had a prize in my eyes.
We hit the road just after 6am to give ourselves lots of time, and with a forecast of 35 degrees we wanted to minimize our time in the late afternoon heat. Just the same as last year, the ride from Kamloops to Logan Lake was calm and enjoyable. There were some gentle climbs to get us warmed up, and quick descents and rolling flats. As we arrived in Logan Lake, still bushy-tailed and bright-eyed, we laughed and swapped stories of the beautiful morning, and reminisced about the freezing cold we encountered at this exact location a couple months ago on our Tunkwa loop. This time we were happy to be warm and dry.
Once re-fuelled, we descended from Logan Lake along the windy stretch to Merritt. Sailing along the smooth curving pavement, we were treated to a gentle fresh morning breeze, the sights of deer and soaring birds, and an incredible tail wind that pushed me past speeds of 75 kilometres per hour. It was sheer joy – just the simple sound of my bike roaring against the pavement and the wind screaming past my ears.
As we stopped for the first time in a while just outside town I could feel the afternoon sun heating up, and as I looked behind us at the long stretch of road that had just been my playground, I realized we would be paying for the enjoyment later. As any veteran cyclist knows, a great tailwind out, means a great headwind home.

After refuelling in Merritt and taking a few minutes to stretch out our legs, we saddled back up for the journey home. With our bikes now facing east, I could instantly feel the hot, dry wind pushing back against us, almost as if challenging us to carry on. For almost 100 kilometres, we would trudge through 30 kilometre an hour headwinds, gusting to 45 in 35 degree desert heat. My neck began to tense, my shoulders began to ache, and the fun started to waver. Every stroke of the pedal felt like we were going up against a hurricane and the heat pouring down from the searing sun as we rode along the exposed asphalt made me feel as if I was melting. With about 30 kilometres to go, the pain within my aching muscles forced me to pull over more than I wanted, and it was in this moment I realized that on this day, redemption would not happen.
As we approached Cardiac Hill, the last, long steep climb of the day, I had vivid flashbacks to last year when Vince pushed me up this mountain. On this day, I longed for the push of his hand because there was a hint of possibility that I might either start going backwards or come to a standstill and then topple over to my death. As I started to pedal, I tried not to think, I tried not to look too far ahead, just pedal, one, two, three, one, two, three. The ache in my quads was excruciatingly painful. I still don’t know how I made it to the top, maybe I blacked out and an angel carried me, or maybe I just made it on pure insanity. Either way I made it, but it was not in the fashion I had hoped. As I pushed out the final rotations of the pedals, I practically fell off the bike and crumpled in a heap on the ground. If a picture was worth a thousand words, this one tells the whole story. There was no super hero pose or grandeur moment – just defeat.

We still had about 15 to 20 kilometres to go and at this moment we came to the stark realization that we had completely run out of water – there wasn’t even a drop. We were nomads in the desert and it was a dire situation. Even if I had water, I would not have wanted to drink it. I could no longer choke down anymore nutrition and even the thought of the water bottle touching my lips made me gag. Instead, I would opt to dry heave, my body revolting against the torture of Mother Nature beaming down upon us. For the remainder of the ride, I would mumble my words in a way that had me sounding like a drunken fool. Even when we had friends come out to meet us on the highway with ice cold water just outside town, I could barely choke it down before staggering back off on the road. I was desperate to finish and hell bent on not quitting. Damn that last 10k – it felt like the longest 10k of my life.
After almost nine hours in the saddle, and more than ten hours after setting out on the road, we finally arrived back home. I don’t even remember how I got off my bike – just walking in the door of my friend’s air conditioned house where we lay on the cold tiled kitchen floor moaning. I had a cold cranberry juice in one hand, a bottle of Advil in the other and a cold cloth pressed against my burning head. Redemption did not happen. I did not come out the victor- in fact I was a hot, pathetic mess.
The aftermath of this ride haunted me for nearly two days. Mother Nature was the victor and my demise came in the form of heat stroke that kept me shivering with a fever and riding out the waves of aches and pains. The adventure may not have ended how I wanted it to, but sometimes you just have to chalk it up as miles logged and another challenge finished. I guess I have a date with Cardiac Hill for next year because my redemption is now long overdue.

Second chance – Half Ironman – Victoria

June 25, 2015February 28, 2016 / alycouch / Leave a comment

As I stood in waist deep water with my arms stretched above my head and an Eminem pump up ballad booming in the background I felt much of the same feelings right before every race start – butterflies, excitement, apprehension and an unrelenting desire for the start cannon to just fire already. My mind was no longer thinking about the magnitude of that day, or what I had done to get there – I just kept saying, swim, bike, run, swim, bike, run – that’s all you have to do.
As the horn sounded, I dove forward and did what I do every other race, try not to drown, get kicked or punched, and swim in a somewhat straight line. The swim felt as if it went on forever. Each time I popped my head up to sight the buoy lines, I would search for the turnaround point, which seemed to be moving further away than closer. With each stroke of my watch arm, I would try to catch a glimpse of the numbers to see how long I had been out there. “Just keep swimming,” I told myself. As I finally, hit the last buoy, I headed for the blue arch on shore. By this point, my intercostal muscles were screaming in a stabbing pain with each stroke and I was dying to be back on dry land and get going on my patiently awaiting bicycle. Heading into race day with pain in my ribs, the swim plan was to simply survive. It felt like a lazy Sunday stroll, but eventually my hands touched sand, and I shot upright, staggering across the beach and through to transition. I’ve always been lightning quick in this portion of the race – if it was a sport in itself, I’d probably go pro.

After being in the horizontal position swimming for the past 40 minutes I quickly discovered my sea legs made getting onto a bicycle a little more challenging. Unlike the shorter distances I’ve done in the past, this one requires a little more patience and time. Some hop on quickly, while others wobble to and fro like drunken fools riding their bikes in the night. What a fascinating place for a spectator to watch.
It didn’t take long to settle into my rhythm – one pedal after the other, I quickly began picking off the competition one by one. I knew I had some ground to make up for the slow swim, so I pushed into beast mode. Now was the time to focus. The bike requires a lot of thinking – at least it does for me. I have a mind that tends to wander and there is so much happening when riding a bicycle. “Look at the pretty tree, oh there’s a pothole, that guy looks good in spandex, where’s my water bottle, should I pass her, yes I should, I need to eat, I need to drink… squirrel!” For an ADD mind, everything is amplified. Nonetheless, I find a system that works so that I can take in the scenery, feed and water myself, keep on track with the race, not think about mechanical failures or flats, and even pee on the go. No – triathlon is not glamourous. With all the peeing, eating, drinking and other focused distractions, it’s incredible how fast 90 kilometres goes by. In fact, so fast, I got behind in my calories and hydration. In panic mode, I quickly choked back 400 calories of shot blocks and chugged a bottle of water with about 10 kilometres left on the course. I didn’t think it at the time but this would eventually come back to haunt me.
As I came flying down the hill into transition, I smiled like a giddy little kid. Heading back into transition after the bike is one of my favourite parts of the race. You get to see all the fans again, the mass of strangers cheering you on – it feels like a homecoming celebration. There is nothing like friendly faces or even complete strangers rooting for you as you struggle through what, at times, can be a suffer fest. It can be the difference between feeling like shit and feeling like gold.

As much as I love the bike, I also love the freedom of dropping off my bike and knowing the last portion of the race is relied solely on the mechanics of my body. No flat tires or broken chains to worry about – just tired and failing body parts, which can most always be overcome with a little bit of grit.
As I hit the shady trails around the lake, I was on par for a great time. All I had to do was settle into a comfortable pace for the next 11 kilometres or so, then start picking off the competition again. For the first 6 or 7k this felt doable, but then I started to play mind games with myself as my body grew tired and sore. The adrenaline of the bike was leaving me and here I was to slug it out – one foot in front of the other. This was the point in the race where the suffering began, and I started to question why I was here, why I thought this was remotely enjoyable, and even started questioning how the hell I was going to double the distance in just six short weeks. The focus had left me. My first half ironman was starting to eat me alive. As I rounded back towards the 10 kilometre mark, I could hear the spectators and I was able to pick up my pace. In fact, before heading back onto the trail, there was a smattering of familiar faces, including my dad, yelling my name, picking my spirits back up. I couldn’t help but find that giddy kid smile again and just kept right on moving. But it wasn’t long after that I felt the kilometres ticking away at an unbearably slow rate and felt as if I couldn’t even lift my legs one step further.

As I went to choke down another gel, I felt that uncomfortable feeling in my gut rise up, and I knew the run plan was out the window. Here was the last minute overkill of calories and water on the bike coming back to haunt me. I will spare the gory details of the remaining kilometres of that run. Like I said, triathlon is not a glamorous sport and what happens on course, stays on course. Now it was about survival. The time I was hoping for slowly ticked away, and it was all I had to dig deep, reminding myself that yes, I did love this sport and yes, I had worked hard to be here, so I would be damned if anything stopped me from reaching that finish line.
As I reached the final kilometre marker, I started to move faster than I had moved in the past two hours. In that final 200 metres through the crowds of incredibly supportive cheering spectators, I saw my dad and the sound of his voice and smile on his face was all that I needed to turn that corner with a burst of energy. I flipped my signature bright neon trucker hat backwards, almost as a sign that the work was over and the celebration was about to begin. As my feet hit the Ironman red carpet, stretched out for less than 100 metres to the finish arch, I reached out to high five complete strangers.

Running through the arch, I flexed my arms in triumph and tears streamed down my cheeks. Finally, I had done it. For six hours and 16 minutes, I swam, biked and ran, thinking really only about how to survive. It wasn’t until those final few seconds that everything sank in. If you had seen me cross that finish line, you would have thought I won the damn thing.
I hate sappy endings, but I have to admit, I felt like I won or at least proved to myself that with a little bit of grit and determination you can beat your body to a bloody pulp and still keep going. Through all the obstacles this last year has thrown at me, I’ve got back up, and just kept moving forward every single time until I got to my finish line, beaten and battered, but still kicking. My first half Ironman was incredibly humbling and inspiring. To be surrounded by thousands of other athletes, all from different backgrounds and with different stories and reasons for being there, grinding it out with you, is a pretty incredible feeling. It certainly wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine, but that’s the beast of this sport, and I can’t wait to see what is possible at double the distance next month.