By Raymond Britt
It can take years to earn your trip to the Ironman Triathlon World Championship in Kona, Hawaii. And once you get there, you realize why the race, the course, and everything about the Ironman in Kona seems sacred. It’s an amazing place, an amazing event, an amazing experience, no matter who you are, how you got there, and what you have to deal with out on the magical course. Even the unexpected.
Less than two weeks before the 2004 Ironman, my Dad, who was at my official Ironman debut in Canada in 1997, had stopped by our house to see my family and to ask about Kona preparations. Since that debut at Ironman Canada, he had traveled to see me race in Roth, Germany, Zurich Switzerland, and on return trips to Canada, always at similar places on the course, cheering and providing support. From those early, slower days, he knew how far I’d come to qualify and race in Hawaii.
He had also been with me at Kona 2002, from walking in the rain to the swim start, throughout the day, all the way to the end and beyond. On this visit before the 2004 race, he mentioned he was tempted to get a plane ticket and join me again. We smiled at the thought. He hugged my kids and he hugged me goodbye.
Two days later, Dad died suddenly and unexpectedly at 67 years old.
Our family waded numbly through the next few days, through the visitation and through the funeral, without an eye toward the calendar or other things happening in the world. Then my mother said to me, ‘you’re still going to Kona, right? He’d have wanted you to go. When is it again?”
Keep Going
The cannon was due to fire in Kailua Kona Bay less than six days after my father’s funeral. I knew I had to go. He had been there in 2002, I sensed he would be there again this time. I’ve always said you can live a small lifetime on the racecourse in an endurance event. This time I knew I’d get that and more. I expected a small firestorm of memories and emotions on the course in Kona, and as tough as I knew that would be, I welcomed the thought of them. There is no better way to be alive than to feel deeply, I told myself.
As my Wednesday departure approached, I had no interest in getting ready. My bike and race gear were not packed until 30 minutes before leaving for the airport. On the plane headed to Kona I realized that I was physically ready to race, but mentally a million miles away. I hoped that would change once the plane touched down in Hawaii. Despite the company of great friends, and being in a magical place, it didn’t.
The night before the race, emails arrived wishing good luck. In one reply, I just said it like it was:
“I’m trying to find a way to lighten this invisible load, and it’s a little tough. Reminders of Dad here with me in 2002 are everywhere, from friends, to places to things.
“To have a great Ironman race here takes more than ability to get to the finish. You need an attitude that says ‘attack’, one that devours the course, and finds exceptional life in the process. It is simply indescribable when it works.
“However, honestly, I feel deflated at this moment, far from attack mode. That’s dangerous; enter this course not on offense, it can eat you alive. I’m trying to find all the inspiring reasons to reverse this heavy feeling, and struggling.”
Magic and Community at Ironman Hawaii
There is no Ironman swim more beautiful than the one in Kona, with great visibility, surrounded by talented swimmers. The bike course through the lava fields with legendary winds continues to be awe-inspiring, even if the winds added huge amounts of time to almost all racers. And there’s nothing like making the turn to and from the Energy Lab on the marathon course, and of course, the incomparable final steps on Alii Drive. You realize that every stroke you swim, every mile you ride, every step you run on the Ironman course in Kona is magical, special, regardless of your circumstances.
Undoubtedly there were people on the course this year carrying heavier loads than me. The inspiring physically challenged racers were unbelievable. There were certainly others who had lost loved ones and were also hoping to encounter them somewhere on the course. I was lucky to be racing healthy, while knowing that cancer survivors and even cancer sufferers, among others tackling health challenges, were making their way to the same finish as me.
As much as I was dealing with my own world that had changed, I was blessed and honored to be sharing the course with the entire community of Ironman athletes, volunteers, and supporters. I was alone with my thoughts all day on the course, and they were plentiful, but I also felt embraced by everyone and everything on the island. They helped me continue to go forward.
You can live a small lifetime on a race course, and it’s over in the blink of an eye. That’s exactly what happened to me in Kona 2004. The best summary of my race is contained in a blend of email excerpts composed just hours after the race, and they are below. They were my direct impressions of what amounted to a unique spiritual and personal adventure, and they tell the story, short as it was.
2004 Kona Race Notes
Once on the course, I realized how completely exhausted I was. I had totally underestimated what the previous days had taken from me, and was a shell of myself. That’s a tough thing to realize with hours and hours to go, in a place that unforgiving. But I wasn’t there for me; I was there for Dad. Trying to celebrate life, even if it hurt. A lot.
The winds in Kona this year were powerful and unrelenting almost from the start. I’ve been frustrated and have even cursed less formidable wind on Ironman bike courses in six different countries. This time as the winds kept coming, a lyric from a song I like immediately popped to mind: ‘. . . in the wind, he’s still alive . . .’ and ran through my head over and over. It made sense.
With this thought, I never complained internally. Instead I tried to figure out what Dad and others might be doing with this wind. Trying to make the experience more legendary? At 6:15 it was my longest time on a bike in 4 years (most felt the same way about their times), but I never felt insistent that it should end. I felt I was supposed to be there, feeling that wind.
But I was so exhausted. I started the run even with the thought of just walking. I made it running to five miles then had to shut down. I had nothing left in me, and everything of the last two weeks came crashing on my shoulders. I did stop and walk then, and decided that I would only run when I could, would walk if I needed, and would just finish. Given that, I did not run badly. I chatted with a few people I was near, talked about Dad, and that felt good.
The last miles were in pitch dark. A good opportunity to have a short conversation with Dad, to thank him, to say I missed him, and finally to say: ‘let’s go, time to finish.’
As I approached the line, announcer Mike Reilly had picked up word from a friend and called out my name, saying I was running for my Dad who passed away two weeks ago. I did not break down there; there had been plenty of that on the course.
It was very hard, very powerful, very right, very magical. I can’t believe I did it.
