There are some distances that sound reasonable until you put them together.

A 3.8 km swim.

A 180 km bike ride.

A marathon.

Individually, I knew what each of those felt like. But doing all three in one day? That was new territory.

This summer, I stood at the start of IRONMAN Ottawa about to find out exactly what 140.6 miles feels like.

It was my first full IRONMAN.

After months of early mornings, long rides, brick workouts and endless kilometres, there was only one question left to answer:

Could I actually put it all together?

Getting to the Start Line

I wasn't coming into Ottawa without an endurance background. I'd raced a half IRONMAN, run a marathon and completed a 55 km ultramarathon.

But a full IRONMAN is its own challenge.

3.8 km swim | 180 km bike | 42.2 km run

The intimidating part wasn't necessarily any one of those distances. It was doing them back-to-back.

Especially the marathon.

Training for Ottawa meant preparing for that moment. Long weekends, early alarms, brick workouts, pacing, nutrition and learning to keep moving when my legs were already tired.

Eventually, race week arrived.

The work was done.

All I could do was trust it.

And, as I was about to find out, accept that not everything was going to go according to plan.

3.8 KM | The Swim

I panicked.

But here's the thing: I knew I was going to.

Open-water swimming does that to me. It doesn't matter how much I've trained or how prepared I am. When I'm surrounded by people in open water and the race starts, there's usually a moment when panic takes over.

And going into Ottawa, open water was one of the parts of the race I was least comfortable with.

So instead of pretending the panic wouldn't happen, I'd planned for it.

I gave myself permission to panic.

To freak out.

To let my brain tell me for a moment that this was a terrible idea.

And then I told myself:

Okay. That's enough. Let's go.

So I went.

I found my stroke and started moving.

Then I got kicked in the face.

I bit my tongue.

I swallowed water.

Not exactly the most peaceful swim.

But I kept moving forward.

That's really what the swim became for me. It wasn't about making it perfect or pretending I wasn't scared. It was about accepting what was happening, letting the panic pass, staying afloat and continuing to move forward.

One stroke.

Then another.

Then another.

There were 140.6 miles to cover, and I wasn't going to let the first few minutes decide how the rest of my day would go.

Eventually, I came out of the water.

Maybe not gracefully.

But I came out.

One discipline down.

Two to go.

180 KM | The Bike

This was the section I trusted.

Cycling has always been a big part of my endurance training, but my race setup wasn't exactly the stereotypical IRONMAN setup.

Walk through transition and you'll see some incredible machines: carbon TT bikes, deep wheels, aero everything.

Then there was my Garneau Exalt.

No fancy TT bike. Just my road bike which, technically, was designed as a kids' bike.

And if there was any doubt about how small it was, the transition rack provided some pretty convincing evidence.

When I hung it by the saddle, my bike was literally dangling from the rack. The wheels didn't even touch the grass. 🤣

Surrounded by full-size TT bikes, it was quite the sight.

I'm 5'1", so finding a bike that genuinely fits isn't always easy. The Exalt fits me. I'd trained on it, ridden countless kilometres on it and knew exactly how it handled.

It wasn't the fanciest bike in transition.

Apparently, it wasn't the tallest either.

But it was mine, I trusted it, and we had 180 kilometres ahead of us.

And off we went.

Trust What You've Trained With

An IRONMAN bike leg isn't just about riding 180 km. It's about getting through 180 km while remembering you still need your legs for a marathon.

So I settled in.

Eat before you're hungry.

For those who asked, I ate an entire family-size pack of Oreos.

Drink before you're thirsty.

Don't chase everyone who passes you.

Just keep moving.

I raced in my Garneau tri suit, the same gear I'd trained in leading up to Ottawa.

After 180 kilometres in the saddle, I can also provide perhaps the most practical product review possible:

The chamois was good.

Very good.

After that much time on a bike, you develop a whole new appreciation for a comfortable chamois.

On my feet were my Garneau Jade XZ cycling shoes, another familiar part of my setup.

My bike needed to fit.

My shoes needed to be comfortable.

My tri suit needed to stay comfortable hour after hour.

The best gear on a day like this is the gear you don't have to think about.

Eventually, my little Exalt rolled back into transition.

A kids' road bike had officially completed an IRONMAN bike leg.

Now I had to run a marathon.

42.2 KM | The Run

This was the part I'd thought about throughout training.

What does it actually feel like to start a marathon after swimming 3.8 km and cycling 180 km?

Pretty much as ridiculous as it sounds.

By then, you've already been moving for hours. Your body is tired. Your brain is tired. And somehow the finish line is still 42.2 kilometres away.

So you stop thinking about 42.2 kilometres.

Get to the next kilometre.

Get to the next aid station.

Eat.

Drink.

Keep moving.

Repeat.

A marathon on fresh legs is already a long conversation with yourself. An IRONMAN marathon starts after you've been having that conversation all day.

There are moments when you feel good.

There are moments when you absolutely don't.

But by this point, that had become the theme of my day.

Keep moving forward.

I'd done it when I panicked in the water.

I'd done it after getting kicked in the face.

I'd done it for 180 kilometres on my tiny Exalt.

And now I just had to keep doing it for 42.2 more.

Somewhere along those kilometres, something changes.

You're no longer wondering whether you can complete an IRONMAN.

You're completing one.

The Finish Line

Before Ottawa, IRONMAN was something I was training for.

A date on the calendar.

Three distances written beside each other:

3.8 km.

180 km.

42.2 km.

But those numbers don't tell you what actually happens between the start and finish lines.

From the moment you decide to sign up, the distance is only part of what you're committing to.

They don't tell you about the early mornings, long training weekends, brick workouts or the days when nothing goes according to plan.

They don't capture the challenges you have to overcome to keep moving forward.

But you have to trust your training and keep moving forward until you see that red carpet and hear the announcer's voice.

There's something I like to do when I reach a finish line.

I look back.

Just once.

I turn around and look at where I came from.

I want that second to understand what I just did.

To see what I've accomplished.

To soak it in before I cross the line and the thing I've spent months working toward suddenly becomes something I've already done.

At an IRONMAN finish line, there was a lot to look back on.

The panic.

The swim.

The bike.

The marathon.

The things that went right.

And the things that absolutely didn't.

The months of training that came before any of it.

So I looked back.

I took it in.

And then I crossed the line.

I went to Ottawa wondering whether I could finish a full IRONMAN.

I left knowing I could.

Not because everything went perfectly.

It didn't.

I didn't have the fanciest bike in transition. I didn't have a TT bike at all. My swim definitely didn't start according to plan.

I had a bike that fit me, Garneau gear I trusted, months of training behind me and one simple job whenever something went wrong:

Keep moving forward.

And somewhere between 3.8 km of swimming, 180 km of cycling and 42.2 km of running, 140.6 miles stopped being something I was trying to do.

It became something I'd done.

My first IRONMAN: complete.