Chasing Nothing, Finding Everything

Chasing Nothing, Finding Everything

What Was I Hoping For … And Did I Get It?

I did an Ironman.

But for a long time, I didn’t think I ever would again.

The last time I toed the line of an Ironman – my 14th Ironman – was in 2019. It’s not just that six years have passed – it’s that so much has happened within those years.

When I raced last, the world was different. I was different. Since then …

• A global pandemic turned our world upside down.
• We’ve had four Prime Ministers.
• We went from Queen to King.
• Brexit formally happened.
• Toddlers grew into teenagers right before our eyes.
• I’ve turned from 46 to 52 😫
• After such a long wait, Liverpool won the Premier League … twice.
• And our Swim Squad was born and developed into what it is today.

Life has been busy, as it often is, often in very difficult, unexpected ways.

But the Ironman idea never really left me. It sat quietly, in the background. Not demanding attention, but waiting for the right moment to resurface. A whisper, not a shout.

When I entered Ironman Leeds in September 2024, I wasn’t making a statement. I wasn’t proving anything. I wasn’t chasing a time. I just wanted to return.

• To return to something that shaped me in my 30s and 40s.
• To return to a version of myself that I wasn’t sure still existed.
• To return to the discipline, the process, the being in the trenches if you like – the parts of Ironman that I’d missed more than I realised.

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Training

When I committed, entered, paid my money and signed up, I couldn’t run. And hadn’t run in a long time.

I’d been stuck in a frustrating cycle of injury – try a few runs, get hopeful, break again. Start from zero. Rinse and repeat. It became hard to believe that my body would ever let me train properly again, let alone complete an Ironman.

So I stopped trying to run. I let it go – for a while.

I focused on the things I could do: swimming, cycling, rebuilding some aerobic fitness and consistency. And when March came around, I tentatively introduced running back into my programme. Cautiously. Quietly. With a bit of hope, and a lot of realism.

And something clicked.
I didn’t break.
I ran.
Not perfectly, not quickly, not pain-free every time. But I ran.

To be able to run pain-free in training – and in the first half of the race (more later) – felt like a gift. A reward I didn’t think I’d earn. This Ironman process gave me my running back. That alone would’ve been worth returning to Ironman for.

The early long rides were a wake-up call. Humbling, if I’m honest. Getting out on group rides told me everything I needed to know – about where I was, how far I had to go, and just how gently I’d need to build.

No shortcuts. No panic training. Just patience and consistency.

It was a very different training build from previous Ironmans. I was older. I was starting from scratch. I had some difficult challenges, which impacted on many things, especially training volume. But I had a stronger sense of why I was doing it. And that helped.

My swim training changed too. Since my last Ironman, I’ve kept swimming regularly – and swimming well. But when the bike and run returned to the programme, I couldn’t keep the intensity up and manage two other sports.

So I adapted.

Instead of continuing to chase fast times in the pool, I took the watch off. I swam by feel. I shifted from short, fast intervals to longer, steadier sets – 50s, 100s, 200s – with less rest. I gave myself permission to swim more gently, and in doing so, I stayed fresher for the rest of the training.

It was different. It was honest. And I liked it.

Most of all, what I discovered in this build – perhaps more than I thought I would – was a real love for the process. The training itself became the reward. The effort. The consistency. The routine.

That’s where I found joy.
That’s where I found peace.
And that’s where I found myself again.

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Race Execution

I felt ready for the swim.

Of all three disciplines, it was the one I had true confidence in. I knew I could swim well – maybe even fast – and still come out feeling fresh for the day ahead.

And, according to the result sheet, that’s what I did.

But it didn’t feel that smooth at the time.

A delay getting into transition meant I ended up starting further back in the field than planned – behind hundreds of swimmers. From the first few strokes, I was weaving, dodging, overtaking.

• No drafting.
• Plenty of contact.
• Some off-course swimming.
• A lot of frustration.

There were moments where I lost focus completely – distracted by the traffic, by some unusual negative chatter in my head, by three separate bouts of dry-heaving that had me stop in the water each time.

Then, to top it off, I exited via the wrong staircase and had to double back before finally making it into transition. At that point, I caught myself thinking:
This might be a long day.

Still, 52 years old, 56 minutes for 3.8k, 18th age grouper out of the water in arguably the UK’s main long distance race of the year. Happy enough!

On the bike, I played it safe.

I hadn’t ridden the course in training – but many of the athletes I coach had. They’d shared their insights with me, which helped. I also hadn’t done many long rides, so I chose caution over ambition. I rode within myself all day. No big risks. No chasing.

Black Hill stood out. It was a proper climb – one I had to work on. But weirdly, I enjoyed it. I stayed seated, stayed steady, and passed people on each lap.

And somewhere mid-way up the climb on the third lap, I smiled to myself.
Because at that moment, I realised I was ticking off my first 100-mile ride since Ironman Vichy 2019. What a moment – and what a place – to clock this particular milestone.

On the run, I felt better than expected – at least early on.

I started running well. In fact, I was running quicker than I had in training. Downhill sections came fast, and I took them. The planned run-walk strategy went out the window – replaced with a new rhythm: run the downs, walk the ups.

It worked. For a while.

Then came the familiar sensations:

• Quads melting.
• Feet sore.
• Stomach churning.
• Glutes aching.
• Head spinning.

And somewhere on that third lap – the lap where your inner voice gets loud and negotiations start – I let go of any outcome-based goals.

No more chasing a time.
No more pressure to push.

Just the goal I’d started with months earlier:
Finish this.
Be proud.
Soak it in.

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Feelings and Reflections

Throughout the build-up, I told myself it wasn’t about time. No splits, no power targets, no magic number on the finish clock. No “I’d be happy with …” thoughts.

I was doing this because I could. Because I missed it. Because I wanted to be part of something again.

But in the final few weeks, the emotions built. The nerves crept in. The years since my last race started to feel very real. And I found myself slipping into the numbers trap – the one I’d been trying to avoid.

It took conscious effort to step back again. To re-centre. To remind myself:
This was never about a number. It was about coming back.

What really carried me on race day was the people.

The Swim Squad were everywhere. Loud. Smiling. Engaged. I never knew where they’d pop up next. But they did. Again and again. Their energy mattered more than they probably realised.

And throughout the bike and run, I was constantly scanning the course – hoping to see familiar faces. Some joy, some shared effort, some connection.

Delighted for Dan as he broke the hour for his swim (smashed it, actually—57:11). I was really pleased to see Shane and Matt ease past me early on the bike.

Then I didn’t see our athletes for a long time.

But as my pace slowed, more came into view.

Tenchy coming towards me on the run – a fist bump and a chat. A high five and cheer with Jon. A ‘short’ walk and moment of mutual honesty with Matt midway through the run. Sammie gliding past as if she’d done this fifteen times before. And then Luke – telling me how delighted he was with his swim (target: 1:30, actual: 1:12). Meeting Graham shortly after the finish to hear “Buzzing! I’m absolutely buzzing with that!!”

These were other people’s moments.
But they were highlights of my race.

One of the best memories came not during my race, but after – waiting at the finish line for Sammie. A bunch of us from the Squad had gathered along the chute, ready to welcome her home. But Sammie wasn’t stopping. No high fives. No chit-chat. Just a massive grin and a full-on sprint for the line.

It was brilliant. She was brilliant.

And it reminded me: this is what it’s about.

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Lynn

Among all the cheers and noise, there was another kind of support – quieter, deeper.

Lynn was out on the course too. Up at 3.30am and keeping me organised. She’s been there for almost every race I’ve done. She knows what to expect. She cheers, yes – but never to get something from me.

She cheers to support whatever I’m trying to find. She gives me the space to define my own version of success. And somehow, without me saying it, she just knew.

She knew this wasn’t just about finishing another race. It was about returning. Rebuilding. Reconnecting. It was about being part of something again. Finding myself again.

Her support wasn’t overly loud. It didn’t need to be. It was there. It was grounded. Thoughtful. Constant. Meeting me exactly where I was – emotionally, physically, mile by mile.

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So … What Exactly Was I Hoping For?

Good question.

Maybe …

• To find something I’d lost.
• To remember something I used to know.
• To move forward without having to let go of the past.
• To reclaim my hard-earned triathlete identity.
• To feel like me again.

And did I get it?

Having read this, what do you think?

The medal’s nice.
But the person I became to earn it?
That’s what I came back for.