IM 70.3 Haines City — welcome back.
It’s been a while.
We’ve been waiting for you.
No, we don’t care that you’re older.
We don’t care that your training got absolutely torched at Thanksgiving.
We don’t care about the gaps, the excuses, the years that slipped by.
We only care about one thing:
You showed up.
And when you show up to Ironman 70.3 Haines City, anything is possible.
LFG.
Six Years Is a Long Time
I hadn’t raced an Ironman in six years.
That’s not a “took a season off” gap. That’s life happening. COVID happening. Plans getting postponed. Races disappearing. Momentum breaking. You getting older whether you like it or not.
Standing on the start line in Haines City, Florida, I wasn’t nostalgic. I wasn’t romantic about it. I was realistic.
This wasn’t going to be easy.
And Ironman doesn’t give a single shit how long you’ve been gone.
Conditions: Yes.
Wind? Yep.
Rough roads? Absolutely.
Heat? Of course.
Cold? Why not.
It was like the course designers said, “Let’s just throw everything at him and see what happens.”
Ironman has a way of stripping things down to the basics. No hype. No ego. Just you, the elements, and how honest you’re willing to be with yourself when it gets uncomfortable.
Mile 40: The Reckoning
Around mile 40 on the bike, my body staged a full rebellion.
Not a cramp.
Cramps. Everywhere.
Hips locked up.
Quads seized.
Calves went nuclear.
Feet cramped so hard it felt like my toes were trying to curl into fists.
It was the kind of pain where your brain immediately starts running the math:
Can I finish like this? Should I stop? How bad is this going to get?
That moment was both the lowest low and the highest high of the entire day.
Low—because the pain was real, sharp, and relentless.
High—because I didn’t stop.
I adjusted cadence. I backed off just enough to survive. I focused on breathing. I stayed calm. I stayed moving.
Six years ago, I might’ve panicked.
Now? I adapted.
That’s not fitness. That’s experience.
The Run: No Negotiations
By the time I hit the run, the cramps came with me. From hips all the way down to my toes.
And the blisters—holy shit.
Not “race blisters.”
The biggest blisters I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
Every step hurt. Not dramatically. Not heroically. Just relentlessly.
This is where Ironman gets honest. This is where there’s no one to impress. No crowd noise can save you. No gear choice matters anymore.
It’s just forward motion.
And something clicked.
I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t frustrated. I wasn’t bargaining with the course.
I was calm.
You don’t need to feel good to keep going.
You just need to decide not to quit.
The Finish Line (And the Only Stat That Matters)
7 hours, 55 minutes.
I finished.
And—critically—I beat Tim by five seconds. That’s all that matters. 😏
Why This Race Mattered
This race wasn’t about a podium.
It wasn’t about proving anything on Instagram.
It wasn’t about being who I used to be.
It mattered because I needed to know if I could still do this.
And the answer is yes.
Not because I’m faster.
Not because I’m lighter.
Not because everything went right.
But because I’m stronger where it counts.
I’m wiser. I pace better. I manage adversity better. I don’t spiral when plans fall apart. I don’t quit when the day turns ugly.
Ironman doesn’t reward potential.
It rewards perseverance.
The Real Takeaway
Ironman doesn’t care how long it’s been.
It doesn’t care how old you are.
It doesn’t care how perfect your training block was.
It cares that you showed up willing to suffer honestly.
I did.
And somehow—through wind, cold, heat, rough roads, cramps, blisters, and six lost years—I crossed that line knowing something very important:
I’m back.
Not chasing youth.
Not chasing PRs for ego.
Chasing hard things on purpose.
And I’m ready to fucking crush the next one.
Grateful for all the support - the people that show up - you make it easy to achieve greatness.
Lets fucking go.
