Spoiler alert: In case you couldn’t tell by the tile image for this article, the day didn’t go as planned. I finished the race, but it was a disaster. In hindsight, I wouldn’t change a thing, even if I could.

The build-up to IRONMAN Texas 2024

Context

I dropped off my fiancée in Fredericton, New Brunswick, in August 2023. She had planned to attend the University of New Brunswick to complete her accelerated Bachelor of Education program, which was from August 2023 to July 2024. I’m sharing this information because it meant I was going to have a lot of spare time over the coming winter back in Ottawa, and I figured, why not just train for my first full IRONMAN? 

[September 28, 2023] 

I signed up for IRONMAN Texas. A 3.8km lake swim, 180km bike, and 42.2km run awaited me on April 27, 2024! After all, everything is bigger and better in Texas.

I had completed my first-ever triathlon, the half-distance IRONMAN in April of 2023, which we covered in my last blog article. If you recall, I mentioned that I had experienced “the first of many humbling experiences.” Well, you’re about to read about the next of those humbling experiences.

Training

I got to work. Training outdoors for the remainder of the fall, and then spent the following winter swimming indoors and locked in the spare bedroom running on a treadmill and cycling on the indoor trainer. Ahhhh yes, the sweet life of Canadian triathletes.

When I signed up, we knew it was unlikely that Hannah would be able to attend the race, given that she was in school. Our suspicions were correct; she couldn’t attend. So I did what every young adult does when their significant other can’t be part of something: I invited the second-best option. The person who carried me in her body for 9 months, birthed me and raised me; my mother. In case it isn’t obvious, I’m joking when I say second best; I was very excited to travel with my Mom as an adult, a first. I knew right away it would be a memorable experience, and it was.

April 24 rolled around, Mom and I made the trip to Texas. T-3 days until Race Day. 

Race day

[April 27, 2024, 3:30 a.m.]

The alarm clock rang. Two and a half hours until the race gun goes, important to specify “race gun”, afterall it’s Texas. I had done the training and was as ready as I was going to get. I slurped down an enormous bowl of plain oatmeal, a glass of water with 1000mg of sodium, vitamins, and a dry scoop of creatine. Next thing you know, we were out the door towards transition for final pre-race preparations. 

We arrived at transition [the area where the swim finishes, the bike starts and finishes, and the run starts]. I started to feel the pressure; everyone does. It’s a wonderful shared human experience; you can feel the nerves in the air. Everyone’s got their own “why” for being there, but we all have the same objective: crossing the finish line in under 17-hours. Once my bike was ready, we hopped back into the rental car and made our way to the swim start.

I should note that my mother had never been to an endurance race before, let alone one of this magnitude. She’d also never been exposed to me in a “racing” mindset, meaning a quiet, almost mute version of myself; it’s off-putting. Race day as a spectator is very hectic and long; it’s a very important support role for an athlete, so if someone asks you to be their spectator, take it seriously. Kudos to my Mom, who figured it all out and was able to be at the right places at the right time to be the best supporter she could be. 

As the sun peaked over the horizon, it was finally time to race. I squeezed myself into my wetsuit and was ready to go. The wetsuit makes you feel invincible, ironically, given it’s the least flattering garment you can sport. My heart was pounding with nerves. Time for one last hug for Mom before entering the swim queue. Not really knowing what to say, and feeling that I was nervous, she asked:

“Are you going to be alright?” to which I replied, “This is what I signed up for. Love you, see you later.” 

Swim

I walked into the sea of athletes, towards the start line, like a herd of cattle. Once again, as is customary for most IRONMAN events, Thunderstruck blared on repeat over the loudspeakers, and it was my turn to GO. I ran down the ramp into the water and started my point A to point B swim, which was a disaster. My heart rate would not settle. By kilometre one, my calves were cramped from trying to catch my breath while breaststroking; the day was off to a rough start. I gathered myself and finished the swim in a time of 01:12:51, slower than what I had hoped for, but Step 1 was completed.

Bike: The chain came off

Now, the bike is what I was most excited for! I love cycling, so I was excited to make up some time after that swim. The sun was out, but it was very windy. Tornadoes swept through “Tornado Alley” in the neighbouring states of Oklahoma and Arkansas, so Texas was the recipient of residual wind gusts over 60 km/h, not ideal on a bicycle.

The first 60km of the bike ride went well despite the wind. I was holding my target speed and taking in enough fuel, but at kilometre 60, it all went to hell in a handbasket. Coming into an aid station, where volunteers hand out drinks and gels, another athlete tried to cut between the volunteers and me (by mistake). We bumped shoulders, pushing me into a tire-sized rut in the road, and I hit the pavement coasting at 25 km\h. I am thankful I didn’t crash at full speed, but still, it’s not what you hope for.

Aid station volunteers and medics were around to help me, luckily. Medics can’t actually touch you during a race. If they do, you have to forfeit the race, so they handed me sterilizing wipes to clean up my split knee and elbow. They asked if I could continue, I nodded “yes,” and they wished me well. I was flustered, but happy that my bike and body could continue the race. I straightened up my handlebars as best I could, and I was on my “merry” way. 

It took about 5km for adrenaline to wear off and for a harsh reality to sink in: I still had 115 km of cycling left, crooked handlebars, a little road rash, and, to make matters worse, food or drink wouldn’t stay down anymore (a pleasant sight for fellow competitors).

I finished the bike portion of the race in a time of 05:50:30, again, slower than anticipated, but all I had left was a marathon...

Run

Unlike after the swim, when I got off the bike, I got to see my mother, who anxiously waited by the bike’s finish line. By this time, she’d gathered that something was wrong based on the information she was getting from the athlete tracking app, which the visual evidence on my body confirmed. I shouted as I jogged towards the run transition tent: 

“I crashed at 60k. I’m sore, but I’ll take time in the transition tent, and I’ll be fine!” 

Boy, was I wrong. I wasn’t fine. The run was 3-laps, for 42.2km total. I jogged slowly for the first lap, trying to recover, but it all fell apart. Having not eaten or drunk nearly enough over the past hours, dehydration had set in. My stomach, legs, and abdomen were fully cramped; there’s no salvaging that. Every step sends shocks through your core; it sucks.

Run courses with laps are fun, very spectator-friendly, and as an athlete, you get to see your people. By the end of lap one, I finally crossed my worried mother. I stopped for a much-needed hug. The exhaustion and pain went away for a brief moment while we shared a teary-eyed, sweaty hug. Before I took off again, I said:  

“I’m sorry you have to watch this, but I can’t quit; I have to keep going.” To which she replied: 

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Just keep moving, you can do this. I’m so proud of you!”

In the moment, I didn’t catch this, but in hindsight, it was a remarkable shift in attitude from ol’ Mom! She’d gone from pre-race concern about me being “alright” as I bounced up and down with excitement, to not even considering that I might quit, even in my piss-poor condition. That was the biggest turning point of the day. I remembered the “why” that drives why I even show up in the first place, and it had nothing to do with a finish time. 

On the second lap, I stopped at an aid station to try to eat some stale pretzels, only to puke them up in front of teenage race volunteers who stood by giggling and trying to act as if nothing happened. As I leaned on a garbage can, I heard a voice walking towards me say: 

“You okay, brother? Grab some water and walk with me, keep it moving.”

I didn’t know it yet, but I had just met my new marathon walk-jog buddy, Chris (shoutout!), who was on his first lap of three. A gentle, soft-spoken engineer from Texas, who was also having a tougher day, but was in great spirits, which I needed. We walk-jogged the next 30-kilometers together. At one point, Chris said: 

“Man, how lucky are we to get to suffer voluntarily?”  I smiled, he was right.

Note to readers: This is something that cannot be understated, the triathlon\endurance sports community is maybe the kindest and most supportive group of people I’ve ever met. If you’re even floating the idea of getting involved: do it. It will restore your faith in humanity. It doesn’t need to be an IRONMAN, sign-up for any race, and you’ll know what I mean.

Finally

After a marathon worth of walking, it finally came time for Chris and me to part ways; he had a lap left, and I was headed for the finish line. We promised to follow each other on Strava post-race and to keep in touch. 

A few minutes later, I finally laid eyes on the finish line. I picked up as much pace as I had left and finally heard those glorious words: 

“Ryan Jones! You’re an Ironman, Ryan!” 

12:41:40, official finish time. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. By the time I crossed the line, I couldn’t even be disappointed that I’d missed my goal time by nearly three hours. I honestly couldn’t believe I’d finished, and neither could my Mom, who said: 

“That was the most insane thing I’ve ever witnessed… Good lord, I am tired just from watching.”

I collected my medal and made my way to the medic tent, where they cleaned me up and extracted my race suit from my skin; it had fused into the road rash on my shoulder (yummy). Once again, the medics sent me on my merry way (I actually mean it this time). 

Although the race had been a disaster, I was super proud. I learned a lot about myself and how resilient I truly was. 

To IRONMAN Texas: “I’ll be back” Terminator Voice.

Don’t be afraid to fail. If failure isn’t a possibility, the thing you’re doing likely isn’t challenging enough. The full IRONMAN is no joke; it will humble you, it can be cruel, but such is life. I love it.