PRE-RACE
I toss and turn for the hundredth time, barely having slept. Raindrops have been beating down on the motorhome roof for hours, promising a dreary day. Not a day to even think about sending a dog outside, let alone completing a long-distance race. I sigh and get up. The alarm clock goes off at the neighboring pitch as well. Misery loves company.
After breakfast, I slip into a sleeveless tri-suit, which I plan to change out of after the swim, and pull my wetsuit up over my hips. My start time will be earlier than in Klagenfurt due to a smaller number of participants. We secure our gear for transport, wake Mathilda, and head off on the 10-minute drive to Thun. There, I say goodbye to my two companions. Depending on the weather, we might not see each other until the end of the run. In the transition zone, the atmosphere is electric with nervousness, anticipation, and tension, which, as always, calms me. I check that my transition bag and bike have survived the wet night, slather my neck and face with plenty of Vaseline to protect against the cold, and drop off the rest of my clothing.
On the way to the swim start, I make a quick pit stop and then slip into the neoprene socks that Thomas managed to get for me just two days ago after an email from the event organizers. The announcer asks all athletes to line up in the start blocks, only to shortly announce a 10-minute delay. I’m unsettled and try to catch a glimpse of the lake through the neoprene suits, but all I can see are low-hanging rain clouds obscuring the view. Well, today I’ll just have to take it as it comes.
SWIM
All athletes are asked to stretch their arms overhead and clap in rhythm. It’s a goosebumps moment. During the rolling start, five competitors are sent off every three seconds. So, just 8 minutes after the starting signal, I find myself under the starting arch. Here we go! However, the first 50 meters are through shallow water. When I dive into the cold water to start swimming, my body goes into shock. I can’t breathe and panic sets in as soon as my head hits the icy water. Like a drowning dog, I flail helplessly, keeping my head above water. I need to swim breaststroke to get my breathing under control. Being constantly swum over and pushed under by other swimmers isn’t helping. I have no idea how I’m going to complete the distance and feel desperate. I manage to make progress by clinging to the first three buoys like a cork. Only gradually does the panic subside, and I try to swim with a two-stroke breathing pattern. It’s exhausting and slow.
I’m constantly swallowing water due to the waves and other swimmers. After another buoy—by which point I have no sense of orientation or time—I find myself repeatedly pushed into a swimmer by other athletes. I feel bad about this, but the presence of this very calm, experienced swimmer reassures me. I position myself diagonally behind her, saving myself the exhausting task of constantly orienting. I defend this position against anyone trying to swim over me. I stay near her for what feels like an eternity, feeling the cold seep into my bones. My hands are so cold now that my wedding ring is almost slipping off my finger. Eventually, the harbor comes into view. Plants keep appearing beneath us, and the water leaves a gasoline taste in my mouth. I feel nauseated and decide to leave the safety of my rescuer’s position and put in some extra effort to finally escape this dreadful lake.
BIKE
Only when I’m pulled out of the lake do I realize it’s raining buckets. The volunteers in the transition zone are very concerned, asking about my well-being and offering warm broth. Looking around, I see why they’re worried: many athletes are shivering uncontrollably, and some are wrapped in emergency blankets. I’m grateful for my “bioprene” compared to many long-distance athletes! I head to my transition bag. The ground of the sports field where the transition area is set up squelches under my feet. I take my time changing into dry clothes. I’m glad I packed for all contingencies and put on everything: race suit, socks, windproof shoes, arm warmers, vest, rain jacket, headband, and gloves. Today isn’t about seconds; it’s about finishing. 600 out of 1,800 athletes won’t make it to the finish line today.
On the first few meters, the usual thrill of transitioning to the bike is absent. Within three pedal strokes, my feet are completely soaked and freezing cold, and that won’t change over the next 6 hours. During the first hour, I check several times to see if any debris from the transition zone is stuck between the tires and frame because it feels like I’m pedaling in place (on the second lap, I’ll discover it’s due to headwinds and elevation). The course is challenging, but most riders are also being defensive and cautious due to the conditions. After 45 km, my neck begins to ache. I had issues with a tension in recent days that is now aggravated by the aero position. After 2 hours, I peel off my rain jacket and gloves. According to the weather forecast, it will stay dry now. The roads are filling up with spectators. Towards the end of the first bike lap, I’m heading towards Thun with a tailwind. During an overtaking maneuver, I spot my two companions at the roadside.
On the second lap, the field spreads out significantly, and I can pedal at my own pace. Without the rain, the route through Gantrisch is impressive, though I can slowly feel the 2,200 meters of elevation gain in my thighs. I follow the course profile taped to my handlebars and am quite relieved when I reach the highest point at Pötsch at KM 150.
RUN
In the transition zone, I slip into dry socks and running shoes. It feels wonderful as my feet slowly warm up on the first few meters.
I start the marathon at a deliberately easy pace. The thought that I’ll have to run each meter of this first lap two more times is demotivating. I try to focus on the course to push away the negative thoughts. And if there’s one thing the running course in Thun offers, it’s variety: streets, lake promenade, park, harbor, bridges, turnaround points, old town, a lap around a stadium… I completely lose my sense of direction but have two more laps to regain it. At the aid stations, I stick to broth and pretzels to avoid upsetting my stomach. After completing the first lap without any issues, I’m overjoyed: in Klagenfurt, this was when the suffering began. However, the salty broth now makes me crave water. I occasionally drink water and cola but, after 22 km, I’m alarmed to find that my stomach cramps after every aid station. 100 meters past the last aid station of the second lap, I can’t manage to run and have to keep doubling over. Gradually, I’m overtaken by all the runners I had passed earlier. What a shame. Have I already walked 2 km?! I can’t seem to rally myself.
I’m desperate: during my preparation, I tested various types of nutrition, exchanged experiences with other athletes, and monitored my diet for tolerance over the past few weeks. During the race, I did everything to avoid stressing my digestion: I only consumed water, bars, and bananas, and carefully avoided overpacing. Is this always going to be my pain point? Could long-distance racing not be right for me, even though I love long distances so much? I’m lost in self-pity when I catch a glimpse of Thomas’s jacket flashing at the roadside. I update him on my condition. He had suspected something was wrong, as he’s been tracking my splits. How wonderful it would be to lie in the cozy motorhome after a long shower. When I hesitate to keep running, he urges me on. Okay, I’ll drop out at the next aid station, get rid of everything that’s troubling me, and then push through. I give a kiss to the visibly bored Mathilda.
Indeed, I manage to run another 5 km before cramps force me to walk again. The aid station volunteers now recognize me and encourage me as well. I take another quick stop and decide to run the remaining kilometers, no matter what. The thought of Mathilda waiting at the finish line motivates me. The atmosphere along the course has quieted down.
I pick up the pace again and pass a few runners. One last right turn, left turn, right turn, past KK-Thun, and then the bend into the finish area! While I had been focused on myself all day, I now high-five the spectators, do a victory dance, raise my arms in triumph, scream with joy, and leap under the finish arch. The announcer greets me: “Silvia from Germany did her first Ironman last year and said she would never do it again. And here she is today! Will we see you back here next year, Silvia?” I laugh, give him a wink, and choose to keep that part to myself for now.
