A Different Kind of Race
I've been fortunate to have some incredible experiences in this sport.
I've won my age group at 70.3s. I've run a 2:39 marathon. I've raced the Ironman World Championship in Kona and finished in 9:15.
I know what it feels like to race when you're fit, healthy and chasing performance.
But Ottawa came under circumstances I had never experienced before.
In the weeks leading into the race, I got sick.
Really sick.
Vomiting. No appetite. Chills. My stomach was a mess, and even as race morning arrived, I still wasn't right.
Then there was everything happening outside of racing.
My little cousin Harrison had been going through something infinitely harder than anything an Ironman could throw at me.
I went into this race emotional. Fragile, if I'm being completely transparent.
I wasn't just thinking about watts, pace, nutrition and placing.
I was thinking about this little boy and his family.
Before the race, Harrison's mom, my cousin Simonne told me to race my heart out for him.
So that's what I was going to do.
Whatever that looked like.
3:45 A.M.
After only a few hours of sleep, I woke up still not feeling well.
I forced down as much cream of rice as I could, got my things together, and my friend Renee and I left for the race at 3:45 in the morning.
At that point, I was still trying to tell myself:
Just get there.
Don't think about 226 kilometres.
Don't think about how your stomach feels.
Don't think about the marathon.
Just get to the start line.
And then came the announcement.
Wetsuit optional.
The water temperature was above the legal limit for age-group awards and qualification. We could wear a wetsuit, but if we did, our results wouldn't count toward the competitive race.
That announcement hit me harder than it probably should have.
I'm not ashamed to admit that.
I was already emotionally exhausted. I was sick. I hadn't slept properly. And now something that would make the hardest part of the race considerably easier was being taken away.
For anyone who doesn't swim, a wetsuit isn't just about warmth.
It gives you buoyancy. It helps keep your hips and legs up. It improves your body position and makes swimming more economical.
For someone like me, that's a pretty big deal.
To make matters worse, I hadn't even brought a swimskin because I genuinely hadn't considered the possibility that we wouldn't be wearing wetsuits.
For a moment, I thought about wearing it anyway.
Forget the result.
Just get through the swim.
And then I thought about Harrison.
I thought about what this little boy had endured.
I thought about what his family had endured.
And suddenly my problem seemed pretty small.
No wetsuit.
Let's go.
1:23
The 3.8-kilometre swim was choppy and wavy, and I slugged my way through every metre of it.
It wasn't pretty.
It wasn't fast.
But every time things felt hard, I thought about Harrison.
Stroke after stroke.
#14Strength.
I finally came out of the water in 1 hour and 23 minutes.
I was 78th in my age group.
If I was going to salvage a competitive race, I had a lot of work to do.
But I was out of the water.
And now I could ride my bike.
78th to 8th
The bike was where the day finally started to feel familiar.
My body came around and my legs felt good.
For most of the 180 kilometres, I was able to settle in and do what I've trained thousands of hours to do.
Ride.
Stay patient.
Fuel as much as possible.
Keep moving forward.
The final 30 kilometres of an Ironman bike are always a grind, and Ottawa was no different, but I held on.
I covered the 180 kilometres at an average of 38.3 km/h.
By the time I got off the bike, I had moved from 78th to 8th.
Seventy places.
Now came the run.
Normally, this is where I do some damage.
Except my stomach had other plans.
"You Are Not Stopping."
Almost immediately, my stomach turned.
I stopped at the porta-potties at the first aid station.
Then again at the second.
And twice more later in the race.
Still, the first 10 kilometres weren't terrible.
I kept telling myself to stay calm.
It's an Ironman.
Problems happen.
Solve the problem in front of you and keep going.
But then I couldn't hold down my nutrition.
That changes everything in an Ironman marathon.
I couldn't take in what I normally would. Eventually, the only things my stomach seemed willing to accept were Coke and water.
My energy started disappearing.
Things started going dark.
And there was still more than 30 kilometres left to run.
This was the point where the race changed for me.
I stopped thinking about my finishing time.
I stopped thinking about what marathon I was capable of running.
I stopped thinking about the race I should be having.
Instead, I saw Harrison.
I pictured my little cousin fighting for steps.
His older brother Hughie holding onto him.
His parents Simonne and Kody watching with tears in their eyes..
A little boy fighting with everything he had.
And I told myself:
You are not stopping running.
You are running the final 32 kilometres of this course.
Whatever pace you've got, that's the pace.
But you're running.
No matter what.
Be a Light
There was something else I wanted to do that day.
If I was going to race for Harrison, I didn't just want to suffer for him.
I wanted to represent him.
Anyone who knows Harrison knows the light that kid carries.
So when the race became really hard, I made a decision.
Be a light.
Smile at the volunteers.
Thank people.
Cheer for other athletes.
Give people encouragement when you pass them.
And when you can't, give them a thumbs-up.
Because that's what Harrison did for us.
Even while he was the one going something so difficult, he gave everyone a thumbs-up.
Like he wanted us all to know:
I'm okay.
So even during some of the darkest kilometres of my race, I tried to do the same.
Smile.
Thumbs up.
Keep moving. Although I admit I didn't do it as good as him.
9:49
Eventually, the finish line came.
9 hours and 49 minutes.
From 78th after the swim to 5th in my age group at the finish.
It was my second-slowest Ironman.
It was my slowest Ironman marathon.
And if you only looked at the numbers, it would be easy for me to find reasons to be disappointed.
I've raced faster.
I know I'm capable of racing faster.
But sometimes the clock doesn't tell you whether you had a good race.
Sometimes the result isn't the result.
Who you were when things went wrong is the result.
I wanted to honour Harrison.
I wanted to race my heart out like his mom asked me to.
And although it wasn't the race or result I originally wanted, I did that.
I emptied myself.
I kept running.
And I'm proud of that.
The Will to Endure
I've spent a lot of my life thinking about endurance.
Long before Ironman.
Long before Kona.
Long before I ever cared about splits, watts, podiums or finish times.
My life has taught me that endurance isn't about being unaffected by difficult things.
It's not pretending something doesn't hurt.
It's not always looking strong.
Sometimes endurance is being scared, exhausted, emotional or completely depleted—and taking one more step anyway.
Then another.
Then another.
I've built so much of my life around that idea.
One rep at a time.
On this day, it was one stroke at a time.
Then one kilometre at a time.
Then one aid station at a time.
And when I didn't think I had much left, I borrowed some strength from a little superhero wearing number 14.
Thank You, Harrison
Harrison, I've crossed a lot of finish lines.
I've had faster ones.
I've had podiums.
I've had races where everything clicked and I felt unstoppable.
But I'll remember this one differently.
Because when I was hurting, I thought about you.
When I wanted the easier option, I thought about you.
When my body was shutting down and I still had 32 kilometres to run, I thought about you.
And when things got dark, you reminded me to be a light.
I wanted to honour you that day.
I hope I did.
You are a superhero to me, little buddy.
Thank you for being with me for all 226 kilometres.
Thank you for getting me to that finish line.
And thank you for reminding me what strength actually looks like.
#14Strength ❤️
