Disclaimer: I recognize that some readers are unfamiliar with triathlon and the IRONMAN race event. I have included a glossary of discipline-specific terms that appear in the following write-up; all underlined words are included in the Glossary.
Moreover, I recognize that some people are interested solely in the race and not any anecdotal/introspective comments. Therefore, I have organized this post into sections, as follows:
Foreword (my background and training), Travel Log (from Hanover, NH, to St. George, UT), Pre-Race, Swim, Bike, Run, Finish/Post-Race, and Summary. If you are primarily interested in race details, see Pre-Race through Finish/Post-Race.
Athlete Guide containing race specifics, course maps, and logistics.
Foreword
I am twenty years old as of writing; I am a first-generation college student; I am the son of supportive parents. I am an anxious person at times, and I adore puns, to a fault.
I am part of the Class of 2024 at Dartmouth College in Hanover, NH. I am a member of the Dartmouth Triathlon Club (“tri-team”). On May 7th, 2022, I competed in the 2021 IRONMAN World Championships in St. George Utah.
The event was a full-distance “Ironman Triathlon”, consisting of a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride, and a 26.2-mile run (a marathon) to finish.
An athlete typically qualifies for the world championships in a general-entry Ironman (IM) race and “earns a slot” to worlds. Due to the enduring COVID-19 pandemic, race organizers moved the championship from its historical site to another race schedule in St. George, Utah—this change was announced on Sept. 23, 2021, six days after I signed up for my first IM in St. George.
Thus, I became an IM World Championship competitor.
In sum, I spent 185 days training for the event. I swam over 100,000 yards, cycled nearly 2000 miles, and ran over 300 miles.
On Jan. 2nd, I injured my knee and I was unable to run for three months.
In early March, I contracted COVID-19 and I was unable to train for 10 days.
On April 2nd, I was cycling through Orford, NH, when I was bitten by a local dog. Thereafter, I received four rounds of rabies vaccinations from Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center.
On May 4, 2022, three days before the event, I left Hanover with Coach Jim Anderson of the Endurance Drive.
Travel Log
3:45 am. 04 May. Wake up. Travel to Logan Express station in Woburn, MA.
6:30 am. 04 May. Board Logan Express coach to Logan Airport, Boston, MA.
8:58 am. 04 May. Board DELTA 695 traveling to Las Vegas, NV.
— Time Change (EST → PDT, -3 HRS.) —
12:00 pm. 04 May. Disembark DELTA 695.
01:30 pm. 04 May. Commuter shuttle to car rental facility.
02:00 pm. 04 May. Drive to St. George, Utah, for athlete registration.
— Time Change (PDT → MDT, +1 HR.) —
05:00 pm. 04 May. Arrive in Town Park Square in St. George for athlete check-in.
06:00 pm. 04 May. Arrive at Airbnb in St. George.
Approximately 13 hours of travel.
Pre-Race
Jim and I woke up around 3:30 in order to make the 4:15 athlete shuttle to Sand Hollow State Park, the site of transition one.
It was still dark by the time we arrived at Sand Hollow. It was 60° F, cool enough to wear a thin layer. We found a comfortable fence to lean on for the next several hours: Jim’s race would start around 7:15, and mine would start around 7:30.
Katie joined us after a while. She gave each of us a salt tab, and we watched athletes checking in, arranging their belongings in T1, and preparing themselves for the day ahead.
I listened to an episode of the Hidden Brain podcast, then I listened to “Tales of Dominica” and other songs from Lil Nas X’s Montero album.
In the week before race day, I had been feeling under the weather. My throat was scratchy, my chest and nose were congested, and I drank Emergen-C and Skratch by the gallon. I still felt that way on the morning of the race, but I decided that if I hadn’t thrown up by that morning I would commit to the event.
The hours passed without note—no big pep talks. Katie, Jim, and I sat there, chatting idly or napping as we pleased, until the time came for us to don our wetsuits.
When that time came, we were organized into columns according to our age category (e.g. Men 18-24). These categories determined our start types. We moved in a slow herd, around one bend and down a long chute before arriving at the starting arch.
The water was placid save for the chop created by the athletes and the safety boats. Dozens of volunteers were on the water in kayaks, monitoring athletes’ progress. I’d heard race officials announce that the water was 5° warmer than the practice swim that previous Thursday. In other words, the water had risen from a balmy 59° F to a sultry 64° F. The sun had started to rise.
Then, it began!
Swim (2.4 miles)
We entered the water in a rolling start, which meant that every 10 seconds a pair of athletes crossed through the arch and dove into the reservoir.
When I entered the water, it was cold and refreshing. I had opted for two swim caps, both pulled over my forehead to provide insulation.
The main objective in open-water swimming (OWS) is “sighting” well. Sighting is the practice of identifying the next buoy and swimming toward it; an athlete will “resight” roughly every seven strokes in order to stay on-course. Over a 2.4-mile swim, poor sighting can add hundreds of yards to an athlete’s total distance.
Two things helped me maintain focus during the swim. First, my watch vibrated for every 500 yards covered (I assume this was a carry-over from previous OWS). Therefore, every time my watch vibrated I knew I had completed another ⅛ of the distance: I gauged my effort and readjusted as necessary. Second, I knew the general layout of the swim course. I understood that the course was a rough L-shape, and that we crossed in front of Sand Hollow Island going out and coming back.
I found breathing difficult given my previous days’ illness. The water tasted like gasoline from the motorized safety boats. Throughout the race, I was constantly maneuvering around a man in a purple swim cap. He moved in front of me, next to me, and behind me for 80% of the swim. It was infuriating, but I focused on my sighting.
I finished the swim and I couldn’t believe that 85 minutes had passed in the water. I crossed through the arch once more and I walked up the chute to the wetsuit peelers.
It cannot be argued that the IM volunteers were anything other than angels in disguise. There is no discussion. If you are under the false assumption that these people are not the kindest, most willing, and most enthusiastic humans you have the pleasure to meet, then you are sorely mistaken. Literal godsends, doing God’s work.
Case in point. The wetsuit peelers, as they are called, sit you down and subsequently pull your wetsuit from your body. This was my first time with wetsuit peelers, but after a 2.4-mile swim I didn’t find much energy to object. Moreover, I’d had my ankles grabbed and my ass incidentally smacked by fellow competitors, so having someone remove my wetsuit seemed mundane in comparison.
At the same time I was having my wetsuit stripped, I felt a dry pain in my throat—I realized I had lost my voice during the swim. The previous days’ illness had taken its toll on my lungs, and I found it difficult to take deep breaths or speak in full sentences without pain.
By the end of the IM, I estimate I spoke no more than 150 words to competitors and race volunteers.
The wetsuit was removed and I walked into T1. I dried myself off, applied a liberal amount of Chamois Butter, and equipped myself for the ride.
Bike (112 miles)
Now you may be wondering: When do you eat during an IM?
Really, it’s more like: When don’t you eat?
I ate ~500 calories of solid food moving through T1. Then, I broke two Clif bars into bite size pieces and stored them in my bike's bento box. I walked my bike to the mount line, mounted the bike, and set off for the hills ahead.
I started the ride light and easy, remembering Coach Katie and Coach Jim’s words about IM pacing, especially with all of the hills ahead. In the days before, they had said: “So many people should pass you on the first 20 miles, control the impulse to gun it up hills.”
The course could be delineated into three major ascents: The Wall (mile 20, circled in blue), the Veyo (mile 75, circled in pink), and Snow Canyon (mile 100, circled in purple), accompanied by rolling hills.
The first 20 miles passed without note. Coach Katie found me on mile 25, gave a few words of encouragement, then carried on with her race.
I found the aid stations judiciously placed. I was never without ice (to pour down my back) or water (to pour on my head).
Around mile 40, I encountered a novel situation. I cycled over a bump and exerted force on my handlebars (as one does, as one does). However, when I came to rest on the bars they shifted ~5° down (toward the ground). So… my headset was loose. The two screws, partially rusted from recent months of weathering and numerous years of use, were not strong enough to keep the headset in place—huh.
At this point, I wasn’t foreign to “making do” with a less-than-stellar bike. The day before, Coach Jim had opened my back brake (i.e. no back wheel braking for the 112-mile ride) due to previous issues with rubbing/friction. Several months before, we had done a bike fit and we resorted to raising the seat in order for me to ride comfortably.
I had personally tightened the screws on the headset the day before. I knew that I’d tightened each screw to their limit. Though I had bike tools with me, there would be little I could do to tighten the screws further and prevent the headset from moving. From that point forward, I rode on borrowed wheels. Every bump, I minimized force on the headset; I loosened my grip on every bump, and I was careful when going into the aero position.
At mile 56, there was a special needs supply station. Athletes packed their special needs bags and dropped them in Town Park Square before boarding the shuttle that morning. My special needs bag contained a brownie, water with electrolytes, and a few Gu packets and other snacks. Race organizers had placed these special needs bags on the tarmac in preparation for athletes’ arrivals. Mind you, it was north of 90°F.
When I opened my water and took a sip, I retched. It was at a temperature comfortable for sipping tea or coffee. The combination of heat and salt was nauseating.
When I tried to eat my brownie, I found it had turned to mush. In any case, I couldn’t stomach solid food with the oppressive heat.
I asked one of the volunteers for sunscreen and I continued on the course.
Around mile 60, somewhere in the valley leading to the Veyo, I received a drafting violation on the bike. Rather than dispute the violation and risk disqualification (DQ), I nodded and continued on the bike. For the rest of the course, regardless of ascent/descent or speed, I placed myself to the left or right of an upcoming cyclist. Some cyclists rode in the smack center of the road (instead of staying to the right, as is courteous and conventional), at which point I maneuvered around them, too.
The drafting violation cost me five minutes of my race, which in all honesty was a welcome respite at mile 90 (before Snow Canyon).
Entering Snow Canyon, cyclists were sitting or lying down on the side of the road. Their hands were on their stomachs, their heads to the sky, their bikes strewn in the dirt. They had been put to a halt by heat exhaustion or heat stroke.
I overheard a volunteer speaking over the radio: “Yeah, we’ve got a guy who’s been here for thirty minutes…” The volunteer stood alone, a silver SUV parked 20 feet behind him. “What? No, we don’t have any water.”
This was mile 100. People were walking, spitting, hacking, and coughing. It was about 2 pm. I decided to walk most of the ascent in Snow Canyon, recognizing the marathon ahead and the conditions of other cyclists on the course.
When I crested Snow Canyon, I knew that it was a steady downhill all the way back into town. I cherished the downhills and peddled only when I fell below 25 mph, monitoring my heart rate and saving myself for the run.
Run (26.2 miles)
As soon as I dismounted the bike I felt a ball of pain in my right foot. I believe that during the bike I tiled my foot outward (with clipped pedals) and added additional force to the right side of my right foot. Thus, for the first miles of the run I hobbled at a 15’ per mile pace.
The course consisted of two, 13.1-mile loops beginning and ending in Town Park Square. There were aid stations at every mile of the course.
I met Coach Jim on my mile 2 (his mile 11). We checked in briefly before continuing our respective races.
Miles 1-12 didn’t leave an impression on me. It was still hot, and I think that those first hours were the origin of my horrendous sunburns. I took ice and water at each aid station and put one foot in front of the other.
Between miles 12 and 14, I decided that I should probably start “racing” again (especially after seeing Coach Katie finish her race as I was starting lap 2 of the run course). By that point, I’d been walk-running (walking for a time, running for a time, repeat), and I’d had some success.
I tried making promises to myself. I’ll walk for 100 paces, then I’ll run for 100 paces; I’ll run half a mile, then walk half a mile; I’ll walk the aid stations and run between them. Nothing stuck.
Then, I started to calculate the finish. At mile 14, it was about 8:36 pm. I needed to cover 12 miles before the time cutoff. Each athlete as a rule had 17 hours to complete the course, and seeing as my start time was approximately 7:22 am, I needed to cover 12 miles before 12:22 am (May 8th).
Of course, this is what I thought at the time. I didn’t know for certain when the time cutoffs occurred, and none of the race volunteers or athletes could tell me, either.
Nevertheless, I was worried about not finishing the race. I had 12 miles to cover in just under four hours; I had to travel at an average of 3-point-something miles per hour in order to finish within the time limit. Since my watch was still tracking my speed (the battery life of the Garmin 935 is outstanding), I knew that my fast-walking pace was slightly faster than 15’ per mile (4+ mph).
I didn’t know if I was going to finish the race. I knew the numbers.
I decided on a new strategy. I would run every flat and downhill, and walk every uphill. This strategy was founded on simple logic: the run was easiest on the flats and downhills. If I was going to maximize my speed while also economizing my effort, I needed to utilize the flats and downhills and earn myself the time to walk uphill (and conserve energy).
I started thinking to myself: “I’m running on easy money!” (flats and downhills) and “Why would I ever run uphill?” (because why would I ever run uphill?). This made miles 14-19 straightforward.
Reminder: I lost my voice after the swim.
At each aid station, I made exaggerated gestures and used eye contact to communicate with volunteers. At mile 18, when I rasped to a volunteer that “I [was] cramping”, she knew to give me salt—another volunteer handed me a full banana (this would be my fourth or fifth of the run). You wouldn’t think it, but consuming a condiment cup of table salt does help with severe cramps. After the salt, the cramps subsided and I was able to continue the race.
Around the same time, my mind wandered to a metaphor I’d heard among people with the Endurance Drive (link) and the tri-team. It goes like this: you have a finite number of “matches.” Matches are strong efforts (e.g. a sprint) that you “burn” (perform) during a training session or a race. The thrust of the metaphor is that you have a finite set of opportunities to burn matches and if you burn those matches at the wrong times you can end up spent before the finish.
At mile 17, I thought about the matches metaphor. I said to myself, “I have nine dry, unused matches.” Each mile, I updated the number, “I have eight dry, unused matches.” Each time I clocked a mile I burned another match, if only to focus my mind and visualize the finish. This mental trick carried me back to Town Square Park.
Finish, Post-Race
I finished the race with a sprint down the chute. After crossing the line, Daniela Ryf (the women’s 1st place finisher that day) was there to give me the IM World Championship medal. I was led through the chute, collected the rest of the finisher swag, and finally released into the athlete area for food and refreshment.
Shortly after sitting down and attempting to eat, I found myself unable to keep down solid food. I remained in the athlete area until I reconnected with the support squad; we returned to the town house.
I finished the race at 11:18:59 pm. I was unable to stomach solid food until noon the next day. The sunburns on my thighs and back were 2nd degree (blistering/bleeding)—I sought medical attention at the College’s health center after I returned to campus on Monday. I was limping for a week following the race (due to the burns). Because I gripped the headset so tightly on the bike, I lost (and mostly regained) fine motor control in my left hand; on the Sunday night following the race, I was unable to hold a pencil.
Since then, however, my burns have healed and I have resumed light training. I look forward to summer in Hanover.
Summary
I sustained burns, I lost my voice, I had multiple injuries in the leadup to the race. Over the past six months, training for this event became my most salient character trait and came to define my social and academic lives. In full transparency, my academics suffered as a result of my poor time management. I found myself mentally fatigued.
To be certain, I’ve gained physical and mental strength. I ascended to one of the highest peaks of athleticism.
I have Coaches Katie Clayton and Jim Anderson, as well as their families and friends, to thank for their support around this event.
I have Coach Jeff Reed, and my teammates on the tri-team, who tracked my progress throughout the race and cheered me on in the months prior to the big day.
I have my colleagues, my peers, my fraternity brothers, and my circles, all of whom influenced my thoughts and perspectives on this event.
I have the 26 donors that helped me raise $1500 to pay for race-related expenses (plane tickets, entry fees, etc.).
Writing this report has been a mechanism to process the physical, mental, and emotional stress of this journey. It’s also a way of documenting what this experience has required of me: where and from whom I found the will to keep training and adapting to new circumstances.
This has been a long haul and I’m truly glad it’s over. I’m looking forward to focusing on my academics and building better relationships with my friends and family.
To some, doing an ironman could be considered a special type of hell.
To me, doing an ironman with so many people behind me—supporting me, cheering for me, congratulating me—made this experience a boon. I will never forget the overwhelming support of my teammates, friends, and family.
With their support, I have become an Iron Man.
Crossing the finish at the 2021 Ironman World Championships.
OT: 15:16:22 (S-1:24:42, B-8:05:12, R-5:58:01)
Glossary:
Ironman Triathlon: In 1978, the first “Ironman Triathlon” was held in Kailua-Kona, Hawai’i. It was designed as a competition between swimmers, cyclists, and runners to determine which discipline was the strongest. The route of the race combined a traditional swim, a circumnavigation of the island, and a marathon to finish. The first Iron Man in 1978 completed the race in 11 hours, 46 minutes, and 58 seconds. These distances are generally regarded as the “Ironman” distances for triathlon. There are triathlons of varying distances, including sprint, olympic, half-Ironman, and full Ironman.
Transitions: Transition one (“T1”) is the swim-to-bike transition area: it is where athletes exit the water, remove their wetsuits, and change gear for the bike portion. Transition two (“T2”) is the bike-to-run transition area: it is where athletes dismount their bikes and change gear for the run portion.
Salt Tab(lets): A tablet of salt, consumed to boost electrolytes. Salt intake is crucial during long-distance events, where water and other essential nutrients are sweated out over time.
Skratch: A brand of electrolyte powder, mixed with water.
The Arch(es): At each transition area, and at intermediate points in the race, tracking devices recorded athletes’ times and paces. This was accomplished using an ankle bracelet that athletes were required to wear at all times during the race.
Chamois Butter: A brand of anti-chafe cream, critical for long-distance bike rides.
Equipment for the Ride: Per Ironman regulation, athletes need to have their helmet on and clipped before exiting T1. An athlete will be stopped if they are seen without their helmet on and secured.
Bento Box: A small, trough-like compartment with a mesh net cover, meant to hold nutrition. Secured between the top-tube and the headset of the bike.
Bike Fit: A fitting session for a bike, to adjust seat height and other features (such as stem length, handlebars, etc.) for comfort and power efficiency.
Aero(dynamic) Position: Triathlon bikes are unique for their design, particularly the “aero-bars” that stick out from the front of the bike. These bars are used when the athlete can comfortably enter the “aero position”, with both forearms on the pads. This position is aerodynamic and is preferred for long-distance races, where small efficiencies save time over the course of the race.
Drafting (violation): Drafting is the practice of sitting behind another cyclist to save energy. Sitting in someone’s “pocket” (the pocket of air behind the cyclist), is said to save up to 30% of your energy. It is illegal in ironman races because it goes against the idea of “moving by one’s own effort.”