Recovery days became recovery weeks

4.5 minutes into a 12-minute sweet spot effort, my HR and RPE were already too high. Frustration built quickly, and before I knew it, I’d stopped pedalling. The tears were welling. My natural response was to fight them, but instead I let them fall… dripping off my nose onto my bike. Why was I getting so upset? It was just a bike session… but it wasn’t just a bike session.

The session that unravelled it all.

My legs already felt heavy in the warm-up and there had been no real pop for a while. For weeks, I didn’t feel like myself. Recovery days were turning into recovery weeks. I knew myself well enough to know that something wasn't right.  This led me to get bloods done - my ferritin was 8. Three days later, I got an iron infusion. A few weeks later, I sensed glimmers of my old self, but they didn’t last. I could still barely pull myself through the water with fins on. 

Looking for answers.

Then, even on the good days, there was the foot pain. It began in December and became louder and louder each week. I’d limp out of bed in the morning, unable to put my heel on the ground. It was an entirely new injury; as if my body had found another way to make training even harder.  I learnt that after an hour upon waking, it settled enough to let me run on it. So that's what I did. 

Outside of training, my life felt full. For the first time in years, my life wasn’t just training sessions and early nights. I got to enjoy my life with someone else - slow morning coffees and crosswords with my partner. That shift gave me perspective and joy alongside triathlon. 

The calm between sessions.

Still, with four weeks to go to Ironman Texas, I would be lying if I said I felt great about it. I’d never felt less ready for a race. I reminded myself that years of hard work were somewhere within me. That doesn’t just disappear. I knew that whatever happened in Texas, I’d show up as myself, fully human, fully invested.

Four weeks later, I was standing at the start line. After all the uncertainty, there was a calmness in that moment. Nothing left to fix, only a race ahead of me.

Nothing left to fix.

The gun goes off, I sprint into the water. It's pre-dawn and the water is dark and murky with little to see. I stay alert as I hit the chaos of the age group men and  weave my way through. Then suddenly, there's no splashing. Clear water ahead, no feet, just me. My body relaxes, my natural cadence returns. The final 1km, lined with spectators, I’m scanning the crowd. I finally spot them - my parents. I smile. I haul myself out of the water and into transition, feet hurting with every impact on the concrete.

Onto the motorway, I'm alone with my thoughts, staring at my bike computer. It feels too easy but there’s a long way to go. My stomach aches. I worry it's my gut reacting to the fuel, but it all stays down without a glitch. There's a lot of time on the bike. Enough time to distinguish between abdominal cramps and the tell of period pains. Some relief that this wasn't going to derail my fuel plan.  

As I ride, there's plenty to take in - the pros flying in the opposite direction, freight trains tooting, and my support crew with the Scottish flag in hand. At 30km to go, I realise I'm having a far better race than I expected. My breathing softens and the tailwind carries me gently back into town.

Alone with my thoughts.

I start the run at my race pace but it feels harder than it should. At 16km I slow to a walk with a massive stitch and my legs not cooperating. My goal time is slipping and my brain scrambles to recalculate splits. My chest tightens and I just want to cry. 

And then I stop fighting myself. I take away the expectation that I’ve put on myself. It should be hard to let go of, but in that moment it melts away. My people are on the sidelines to see me race no matter the outcome. They are always there. My life is more than this race. 

For so long in my life, sport had been all consuming and I let it define me. Somewhere along the way, that changed. Life became bigger than training sessions and race results.

I breathe and my chest loosens. I keep moving forwards, feeling the concrete beneath each step. I surrender to the rhythm and my focus becomes the next aid station.

From there to the finish, my legs alternate between feeling like lead and finding the smallest bit of spring. The crowd help me to the finish line, especially Hippie Hollow and the handmade signs from my support crew. They make me laugh out loud. Every lap, they never let up. 

I run across the finish line with the Scottish flag flapping above my head. My number 1’s are there watching. Somewhere in the middle of the uncertainty and self doubt, I forgot that racing could feel like this. I couldn't stop smiling.

I couldn't stop smiling.

Four weeks earlier, I wouldn’t have seen this outcome coming. I used to chase time, control and execution in my races - every watt, heartbeat and second feeling like something I had to hold onto. This time, it was about staying in it, not controlling it. I crossed the line and my people were there. I didn’t do this one alone. x