They say triathlon is a selfish sport. Yet I’d never have thought during those months of training, those months of selfishly putting my needs before everything else, that the highlight of my first IronMan would be everybody else.
Months out from the big day, six of my loved ones said they wanted to be there. They wanted to take a day off work, drive a 10-hour round trip, and give up their entire weekend to stand on the roadside and cheer me on.
I was stoked and very humbled.
Then in the days leading up to the race, I received phone calls, texts and Facebook messages from friends wishing me luck. My sister had matching supporters’ t-shirts made up and my unofficial mentors baked IM-shaped cakes and presented two ginormous ‘Go Jo’ posters.
My parents took nearly a week off, first driving me to Tāupo, ensuring the fridge was stocked with the right food, buying me a pre-race massage, reading the 36-page athletes’ guide and studying course maps. More heroically, they put up with my pre-race tetchiness without a single complaint.
I was overwhelmed by the support, and I thought, there’s no way I cannot finish this race. People would know, people would be disappointed. I couldn’t let my friends and family down after everything they had done for me.
On the day, my support crew was joined by another couple of triathlon friends and my flatmate. My coach, who on the morning of my race ran a sub-3 hour marathon in New Plymouth, drove 277 kms to Tāupo to join the others by lunchtime.
When I thought I had maybe 10 supporters on the day, I actually had 17 people cheering for me. My swim coach, my coach’s wife who I’d met the day before, a girl I knew from high school, a friend’s friend who I’d met once four months earlier – all of them yelled a “Go Jo!” “You’re doing awesome!”, which boosted my spirits and made me grin like an idiot.
There were high fives, chalked messages on the road, photos at every turn, and a hell of a lot of yahooing.
One of the hardest parts of the race was the last 20km of the 180km bike ride. The head wind and gradual climb chipped away at my motivation. I thought of my supporters
then. 20km until I get some love! … only 19km until I get some love … 18km …
And they were still there at every lap of my 42.2km run, long after th
e sun had gone down and the temperature had dropped. Surely they’re over this? But no, they were still there. Still waving and yelling.
And when I finished, there was still more – gifts from friends (absent and present), IronMan gear from parents, my sister and my incredible boyfriend. Didn’t they get it? I should be buying them presents.
When I signed up to IronMan I considered it an individual pursuit of a purely selfish goal. But my supporters made it so much more. They made my IronMan a day-long celebration where I spent most of that swim-bike-run, grinning like an idiot.
Just some of the people who made my IronMan one of my most happiest adventures.
As I approach race day, those just-too-hard-days are becoming more frequent. Physically, I doubt my training is suffering as I’m starting to taper anyway. But mentally I’m in a war zone, which is rapidly wearing away the energy stores I have left.
work an hour early tomorrow so I can get to the pool before the lane becomes crowded with the faster, more aggressive after-work set. Instead of dwelling on how long the swim will take (all 130 lengths), I’m going to cruise through it in no great hurry. I’m going to enjoy the sensation of gliding through the water and use the time to remember why I fell in love with triathlon in the first place.
runningwithabook 