Kona 2024
My experience at the Ironman World Championship
Injury News: Hawaiian Dream Turned Nightmare
I hate when people say, “everything happens for a reason.” It doesn’t. Shit happens, and then we make meaning of the obstacle, hardship, or difficulty after the fact. Some things objectively suck, and that’s okay.
On Saturday 10/5, an MRI confirmed that I have a stress reaction and fracture in my pelvis, specifically my right inferior pubic ramus. This news was delivered to me only three weeks out from the Ironman World Championship in Kona, Hawaii.
For those unfamiliar, Kona is where the world’s best triathletes embark upon a 140.6-mile journey - a test of mind, body, and spirit. The historic race takes athletes through the clear waters of Kailua Bay, along the wind-swept coast, and across the barren lava fields of the Island of Hawaii, where strength, grit, and heart must be summoned to navigate challenging race conditions. Through 40+ years of stellar athletic prowess, emotional performances, and inspiring achievements, the Ironman World Championship has etched a reputation as the pinnacle of the triathlon landscape and an iconic global sporting event.
Like anyone who earns their spot to race on the biggest stage in the sport, I’ve worked toward Kona for many years, especially since I was hit by a car training for my first triathlon in 2019. Kona is the reason I got into the sport. It is the race. I first wrote down my goal of getting to Kona when I was a rising junior in college. I remember it vividly. I was in Snowbird, Utah at Horizons Leadership Summit for Sigma Chi Fraternity. Us Sigs were filling out our “life maps” with our ambitions and specific action items needed to achieve them. For whatever reason, I wrote, “Ironman World Championship by 30.” I wanted to conquer the physical world. Well, that would’ve meant summiting Everest, which I also wrote down, but I saw Ironman as a way to explore my limits by completing one of the hardest single-day endurance events in the world.
Eight years later, here we are. When I learned the extent of my injury, I sobbed, sulked, pointed fingers, and felt sorry for myself. I still do sometimes. I moved to Boulder for triathlon. I quit my finance job to go all in, qualify, and have a breakthrough performance in Kona. For the past six months since Ironman Texas, my training had been going according to plan - until it suddenly wasn’t. It’s been a complete 180°- from training 20+ hours/week and being the fittest I’ve ever been, to being told to fully offload, be non-weight bearing, and that my Kona dream would not be realized this year.
When I shared the bad news with friends, I heard, “you wouldn’t want it to be easy” and “if I know Adam Holz, I know a comeback.” True, but not useful. It hasn’t been easy. This was the comeback. I’ve been grieving and questioning whether the decisions and sacrifices I’ve made to make this a reality were worth it. When I zoom out, I know they were, but to get so close for my dream to slip through my fingers at the last minute was devastating. I held on to the belief that competing, in some capacity, was still possible. Delusional? Maybe, but it didn’t feel right to just call it quits.
Race Day: Man in the Arena
After much consideration, I decided to show up to the Island and give it all I have. “All I have” no longer meant going sub 9, breaking three hours in the marathon off the bike, and finishing top 10 in the world in my age group (AG) - performance goals I set for myself as I saw my training piece together the past few months. “All I have” now meant finding acceptance and making the most of the experience, even if the experience was far from the one I’ve envisioned and know I’m capable of when healthy.
Since I was on crutches, I didn’t run or even walk for three weeks until race day. I didn’t know what my pain level would be so I had to adjust my expectations and be open-minded. I understood that may have meant walking the entire marathon. That may have meant not even finishing, but Kona is Kona and I was determined to get across the line.
I’m typically stressed and nervous during race week, but I was stressed and nervous for different reasons this time. When would the pain come? Would it force me to quit? As these scenarios played out in my head, my AG lined up in the swim queue and watched the cannon fire to begin the pro race. I stood atop the stairs at Dig Me Beach, taking it all in. I get to do this, as my friends Chris and Ginny often say.
As us young guns entered the water to swim out to the start buoys, I was stung by a jellyfish in the face. My cheeks and eyes swelled, but there was nothing I could do as there were only seconds before the chaos of the mass start began. When the horn blew, front-packers weren’t the only ones fighting for positions; it was mayhem for all. After a few hundred yards, people began to spread out, find feet, and settle in. At the turnaround boat, I was choked by a mooring rope trying to find the straightest line possible. I headed back to the shores with a current that allowed me to come out of the water in 1:01 - an Ironman swim PR for me. I gingerly entered T1 with a puffy face, not only from the jelly, but from an elbow and foot to the mouth. Occupational hazards, I suppose.
Despite not doing any intensity or riding longer than two hours the last month, I was confident in my ability to throw down a solid bike split due to six hour rides I did in my build, in addition to my familiarity with the Queen K Highway, thanks to some family trips to the Big Island. Even though we faced strong winds up to Hawi and climbed 5,800 feet in 112 miles, the ride felt automatic. I took in a little more than 100g carbs and 1,000mg sodium per hour. My heart rate was elevated, though that was expected due to the heat and humidity, caffeine, and the excitement of racing; however, perceived exertion was in check and I felt comfortably uncomfortable. I came off the bike in 4:52, averaging 23 mph and 210 watts (219 NP).
I felt solid at the end of the bike so wanted to start the marathon running. I couldn’t find a porta potty in T2 so had a bathroom stop near mile two, which is also when I realized I forgot my sodium pills in my run gear bag. Oh well, time to adapt. My legs felt okay for 10k, then the pain came. I slowed down to not jeopardize my finish and risk a full pelvis fracture. It was discouraging to see my splits go from 6s to 7s, then 8s, and even 9s and 10s, especially since I had been averaging about 7:15/mi pace during my long aerobic training runs before the stress fracture. But I had to let those thoughts go. My run slowed to a jog, then to a shuffle, and finally to a limp, but I got it done. I was heat adapted. The fitness and engine were there; my run durability just wasn’t after taking a month off going into the race. A 3:48, over 40 minutes slower than my last Ironman marathon, is nowhere near what I set out to accomplish, but I’m trying to be proud of myself and the effort given my injury. I had set myself up to compete with the best guys in the world in what has become my strength, the run. I battled and gave it all I had on the day, and that’s all you can ask of yourself.
Post-Race: Lessons and Reminders to my Future Self
I’ve received many flattering messages since the race. I don’t take that for granted; however, it’s weird to receive praise from others when you’re not proud of yourself. In response, I’ve felt the need to justify my marathon time. Instead of simply appreciating the compliments, I’ve replied, “…best I could do with a broken pelvis.”
There’s danger in putting all your eggs in one basket. Your self-worth and identity aren’t wrapped up in or tied to one race or even pursuit. Only you care about your finish time. Sure, your loved ones want you to do well because it’s important to you, but they’ll still love you, whether you cross the finish first, last, DNF, or DNS. You are not your results and accomplishments. It’s not what you do, but who you are.
Sometimes the work and fitness don’t show. Sometimes you don’t get the chance to even show them. The frustration is tough to deal with, which is why it’s never good to put too much weight on one day. Keep trusting that you will shine when the right opportunity meets the right day. It’s beautiful when it happens because it’s rare. Enjoy it when you taste it and remain hopeful when it eludes you. The day you’ve been working toward for weeks, months, and even years will come if you keep putting yourself out there and believing.
Just keep in mind that if you keep pushing the edge, you’ll eventually find it. As Sebastian Kienle once said, “there’s a fine line between fit and fucked.” You can’t show up in peak form without running the risk of injury or overtraining. It’s a painful way to learn, but maybe the only way to do so.
I was emotional throughout parts of the race, but oddly didn’t feel much after crossing the finish line in Kona, a moment I’ve visualized for years. What do I make of this? There’s greater fulfillment in the journey of pursuing goals than in the moment of achieving them. To live only for some future goal is shallow. It’s the sides of the mountain which sustain life, not the top. You’ve already achieved goals you said would make you happy.
After all, Ironman was just an idea made up as a bar bet. You can display your fitness, fortitude, discipline, and resilience in many other ways. There’s more to all this than triathlon. Still, when you drop blood, sweat, and tears (and vomit and urine) in a place, you’re forever connected to it. I’m excited to make some changes, grow stronger, earn my spot back, and see what I’m capable of in Kona when I’m at 100%.
When checking the tracker and results post-race, I noticed familiar names. Guys I shared the podium with at Ironman Texas stood on the podium in Kona. If I can finish in the top half of my AG with a fractured pelvis, I am confident I will be competitive at this event in the future. While I didn’t get the chance to race to my potential this time, I’m leaving with opportunity to wake up every morning and still work toward that performance. The scenic route’s beautiful too.
Recovery: Forward Isn’t Always Straight
It may seem obvious how I got here. Since leaving JPMorgan and triathlon unofficially became my job in the spring, I’ve taken it even more seriously and put even more pressure on myself. I shrugged off rest, ignored my body’s signals, and convinced myself that more is always better. Three Ironmans in eleven months. Too much running too soon. As a lifelong athlete, exercising has always been my anchor, but as I prepared for World Champs, it turned into an addiction.
Triathlon is all I thought about or wanted to do. I didn’t just love the workouts. Yes, I craved the result, but I loved the process. Dialing in nutrition, focusing on sleep, and all the small, boring victories no one sees that contribute to a peak performance months later. My favorite part of the day was making my typical pre-workout breakfast and getting ready to head out for a session. It became a ritual - grinding beans, pulling a double shot, stirring oatmeal, spreading peanut butter, drizzling honey, sprinkling cinnamon - priming my body for the work it’s about to take on.
Training rarely felt like a sacrifice or a chore. Everything else felt like an obstacle. While there were days I didn’t want to move, I always had October 26 on my mind, getting my ass off the couch when I was mentally broken. My life was unbalanced and I wouldn’t change it. It was beautifully simple. Swimming, cycling, and running gave me time to myself, away from the stress and bullshit of life. Training became a coping mechanism; however, more than anything, it made me feel like a kid again. Splashing in the water, bombing a hill, frolicking in the forest. How we play signifies our way of being in the world. In it lies life, an intimation of immortality.
I chased the endorphin rush. I felt guilty if I took days off; however, days off would’ve not only allowed me to recover better and faster, but ultimately led to better performance and potentially prevented injury. If one of my athletes came to me and shared they were experiencing the pain I was in at the time, I would’ve told them to back off immediately. For some reason, it’s easier to give grace to others than ourselves. But what would you do if you loved yourself? What would your future self want you to do? What would you not do? What are you unwilling to feel? What you resist persists.
Endurance athletes, by definition, train themselves to push through discomfort. It serves us, until it doesn’t. I had blinders on for Kona and became out of tune with my body. I didn’t listen to the whispers so I’m now forced to hear the screams. The gates of hell are locked from the inside.
Kona was my last, and unfortunately only my second, race of the season. Because I restarted my non-weight bearing time, I’ll be on crutches for another few weeks, then gradually start my return to walking, then running, if all goes as planned. I’m grateful to have wonderful PTs and doctors in my corner to guide me. For the record - none of them advised me to race. They informed me of the risks and I made the decision to proceed, the one that felt right in my heart.
During this offseason, I’m encouraging myself to embrace it all. If you numb the bad, you numb the good. Both ends of the spectrum expand at the same time. My buddy Mario reminds me that there’s a time for grit and a time for grace, a time for striving and a time for surrendering. Now is the time for grace and surrendering, and for the real work to begin. Never fear a storm. Learn to dance in the rain.
