It didn’t feel real—not at all. Physically, I was ready. I had the endurance, the training, the miles under my belt. But mentally? I was somewhere else, with this gnawing dread hanging over me. I knew I wouldn’t sleep, that I’d spend the night checking my watch over and over, waiting for the perfect time to wake up. I smiled through it all. In the morning, I told my mom, “Oh yeah, I slept great.” But inside, I just wanted it to be over so the incessant thinking would stop.

At an Ironman, you get to have a “drop bag” for the each transition. One between the swim and bike and then one between your bike and run. I dropped off each of my drop bags, each one a reminder that this was really happening.

Oh Those Nerves …

The start line wait dragged on endlessly, yet strangely, my nerves were nowhere to be found. I kept searching for that familiar, heart-pounding anxiety—you know, the one that always hits before a big race, when everything feels like it’s on the line. But nothing came. I just felt… numb? “What the hell?” I thought to myself. “This is the Ironman, the race I’ve dreamed about for years. Why am I not freaking out? Why does this feel like I’m waiting in line for coffee?”

It felt surreal. This race that had shaped the last 7 years of my life was finally here, yet I couldn’t fully grasp it. I was present physically, but mentally distant—my thoughts kept drifting back to that first time I heard about an Ironman at age 16.

The Birth of a Goal

I was working at a coffee shop in my hometown. I was behind the drive-thru window, just doing my usual thing when a woman pulled up wearing an Ironman hat. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t help myself—I had to ask, “I’ve heard of an Ironman, but what exactly is it?”

She looked at me, a little surprised, before casually dropping the bomb: “It’s a 2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike, and a marathon at the end.” My jaw dropped. I stood there, stunned, trying to process what I’d just heard. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Finally, I blurted out, “Wait… what? You did that?”

Her eyebrow shot up as she replied, “Yes.” My surprise had clearly struck a nerve—she wasn’t sure if I was mocking her. Realizing how it sounded, I stumbled over my words: “No, no, no—I just mean, that sounds absolutely impossible. I can’t wrap my head around it. That’s crazy. I mean… congratulations? Is that even enough to say? You’re literally the coolest person I’ve ever met. How do you even train for something like that?”

While I stumbled over my words, she tried to gracefully exit the conversation as the line of cars stretched around the block waiting for coffee. But before leaving, she paused to share a thought: “It’s not impossible. Maybe one day you’ll do one.”

For the rest of my shift, I could barely focus. My mind was consumed with one thought: researching Ironman triathlons the moment I got home.

At that point, running was an important part of my life, but not an obsession. I ran cross-country and track in high school and competed in a few half marathons. A marathon seemed inevitable somewhere in my future. But the bike? The swim? Those weren’t even close to being in my wheelhouse.

I figured the bike may be something I could pick up without too much struggle. But the swim? That seemed insurmountable. I couldn’t imagine learning to swim, let alone in open water. I hated the water, and the cold made it even worse. The mere thought of jumping into a pool left me uncomfortable and downright terrified.

Maybe Later

So I put the Ironman dream aside. I kept quiet about it. Learning to swim seemed like such a massive hurdle—way beyond what I thought I could handle—that I simply tucked the idea away.

But life has a funny way of bringing things full circle. I kept running after high school and completed my first full marathon. After spending a year in Australia and returning to the States during the pandemic, I discovered thru-hiking. In 2021, I found myself on the Appalachian Trail for my first major thru-hike. It changed everything. On the trail, I met incredible people who, like me, were searching for something deeper. As the miles passed, thoughts of the Ironman gradually crept back into my mind.

“Ironman” kept surfacing in conversations everywhere I turned. I met people who had completed it, and I peppered them with questions—hungry to learn every detail, every struggle, every triumph. The more I talked with them, the more I realized this wasn’t just some far-off fantasy—it could be real for me. I clung to that “one day” possibility.

The next year, I hiked the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) and spent time in Nepal and India. Everywhere I went, I kept meeting people who had completed an Ironman. They became a regular part of my world. If they could do it, why couldn’t I? After all, I was already walking across the country, climbing mountains in Nepal, and completing a 200-hour yoga certification. I could do hard things … dammit! The same kind of things my Ironman-completing friends were doing.

That next winter, after finishing the CDT the Ironman consumed my thoughts. It wasn’t just a passing idea anymore—it had become a constant presence in my mind. I wrote about it in my journals and added it to my list of goals for my 20s, right alongside other major life ambitions. But the Ironman stood apart—it felt inevitable, like something I absolutely had to do.

In April, I went back to Nepal with a friend from the CDT and some of her friends who had hiked the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) together. My plan was to ride my bike around Europe after Nepal—my way of getting comfortable on a bike and exploring a new, faster way of traveling. It seemed like the perfect bridge, a stepping stone toward that “some day” Ironman.

But then, while talking to my friends about the PCT, I found out it was one of the highest snow years on record in California. Having just climbed Island Peak in Nepal, I immediately felt drawn to climbing Denali—the highest peak in North America. Denali would be a 3–4 week expedition entirely on snow, and the PCT would be perfect training ground. So I faced a choice: stick with the Ironman dream and bike around Europe, or dive into another thru-hike for the third year in a row.

I Chose the Thru-Hike.

Looking back, I chose the thru-hike partly because walking across the country and tackling record-high snow levels in the Sierra Nevadas felt easier than figuring out how to train for an Ironman. Plus, I had this weird fixation on completing the Triple Crown (the Appalachian, Continental Divide, and Pacific Crest trails) before turning 22. Want to know how many people have asked about achieving that age-specific goal? Zero. Absolutely no one cared.

Even though it may have been the easier choice, the hike was transformative. The experience, the people, the places—those moments will stay with me forever. Yet deep down, I knew I couldn’t shake the Ironman dream. What I never expected was that the PCT would bring me Everett (trail name Jynx)—the person who’d become my best friend and, eventually, my boyfriend. (Watch my video of the PCT below.)

It’s Like Riding a Bike …

Everett and I talked about the Ironman all the time while on trail. After finishing the PCT, we settled in San Luis Obispo, California, where we started training for ultra marathons and gradually explored cycling. Without a car when I moved there, a bike became one of my first essential purchases.

I remember my first visit to the local bike shop. The guys started asking me about what kind of bike I wanted—touring, road, TT? I had no idea what any of that meant. When they handed me a bike to try, the seat was so high I could barely reach the ground. “No, it’s supposed to be like that,” they assured me. I was terrified. There I was, in the parking lot, completely clueless about how to get off this bike. Do I jump off? Tilt it?

I panicked. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I muttered as I slammed on the brakes and ended up in a tangled mess, landing on the handlebars. The guy at the shop tried not to laugh. “I’ll take this one,” I said, nervously laughing. Everett took me on rides around town so I could get used to it. I had no idea how to shift gears, but he was patient. He was okay with stopping randomly and explaining it to me over and over.

Eventually, I bought a road bike. I finally understood why my surly touring bike was not going to make the cut at an Ironman. My road bike is fast. The fear of going downhill was real—I’d be holding onto the brakes for dear life. But after a month of riding, I was starting to feel more confident.

The next hurdle: clip-in pedals. I was scared to death of those. But Everett took me out on our neighborhood streets, teaching me how to clip in and out. My first real ride with them was on Highway 1, the whole time I was in a constant state of terror that I would have to stop when I wasn’t prepared.

Alas, at a busy intersection, I tried to clip in but failed miserably. I fell right in front of all the waiting cars. Instead of gracefully remounting, I had to awkwardly walk my bike across the intersection, trying desperately to act cool. I seriously doubted whether clip-in shoes were for me. But like everything else in training, it got easier with practice. Eventually, clipping in felt natural.

How’s the Water?

I was kind of enjoying living in denial, but I had to face reality. While the biking had been challenging, the real test lay ahead of me—the swim.

I should mention that Everett had been swimming competitively his whole life—convenient, right? In December, I started swimming lessons with my boyfriend-turned-budget-friendly-coach. We focused on the basics: breathing, arm movement, keeping my core tight, and not lifting my head too high out of the water. It was a lot of small adjustments, and I knew it would take time. At first, I struggled to swim even 50 yards without getting winded. My breathing was all over the place.

During Christmas break, Everett’s mom, a lifelong swimmer herself, gave me a crucial tip: “Breathe every two strokes rather than every three.” This simple change transformed my swimming. Within a week, I was able to swim 1,000 yards without stopping. It felt incredible!

Everything was falling into place—the biking, swimming, and running. I was building the foundation for something that had seemed impossible just a year ago. With each training session, my confidence grew. The Ironman transformed from a distant dream into a tangible goal I was actively pursuing.

The Starting Line: Tallinn, Estonia

1… 2… 3… Go. The race started, and just like that, I plunged into the water. It felt amazing—probably the best I’d ever felt swimming. The waves rolled in, but they didn’t faze me. At the halfway point, I checked my watch and saw I was ahead of schedule. That surge of confidence carried me through, and the second lap felt incredible.

Transitioning from the swim to the bike, I felt strong. Though I knew my poor eating habits over the past few days could come back to haunt me, I stayed optimistic. Just eat all your fuel on the bike, no exceptions.

Fueling on the bike had been a struggle for the past month—everything tasted awful, and I couldn’t find a routine that worked. When a friend suggested mashed potatoes as a good option, I packed three bags to test during the race, despite never having tried them before. I figured I could always toss them at an aid station if they didn’t work out. I stuffed the bags into my bike shorts—they must have weighed at least two pounds. Spoiler alert: they were a disaster. By mile 30, I’d thrown them up and they were history.

Looking back now, it’s almost comical. Baby Flo attempting her first Ironman.

The bike ride was brutal. The side winds battered me relentlessly, and I felt my energy draining away. Though I had moments of feeling strong, they were quickly followed by crushing lows—my stomach churned in knots, and I knew the upcoming run was going to be… interesting.

Need to learn how to fuel. Check.

Despite everything, I kept leaning into the experience. I kept telling myself, I’m doing it. I’m actually doing what that girl from the Biggby Drive-Thru did—the same thing that left my 16-year-old self in awe.

When I got off the bike and started running, I experienced the worst stomach pain of my life. I had to walk the first mile while giving myself a pep talk. Then I discovered my armpits were completely chafed from the swim, and my tri-suit had only made it worse during the bike ride. At the med station, they taped me up—an excruciating process that had me already dreading my post-race shower.

I started moving again and eventually settled into a steady 10-minute-mile jog. I broke down the run in my head: Five more miles. Three more laps. You can walk one mile, but you’ve got to run the next one.

The run was a four-lap loop, and each time I turned around to start another lap, I could hear the announcers on the far side of the crowd shouting, “You are an Ironman!” Every single time, I’d start tearing up. What can I say? I’m a sucker for sports.

After days of feeling numb and experiencing the race like a surreal blur, it finally felt real. The next two laps, I couldn’t help but tear up hearing the cheers as others became Ironman finishers.

On the final lap, I stopped worrying about fuel and focused solely on reaching the finish line as quickly as possible. I couldn’t stop thinking about how fucking proud I was of myself. I would’ve crawled across that finish line if I had to.

With the biggest smile on my face, still riding that wave of reality hitting me, I ran down the final stretch as they announced, “Kd, you are an Ironman!”

Looking back at that day—from the embarrassing market incident to crossing that finish line—I realize it was never just about completing an Ironman. It was about proving to myself that those seemingly impossible dreams we hold onto, the ones that follow us through coffee shop drive-thrus and across mountain trails, can become reality. Sure, it wasn’t pretty. There were mashed potato disasters, chafed armpits, and moments of complete despair. But that’s what makes it real. That’s what makes it mine. And now, whenever I face something that seems impossible, I remember: I’m the girl who shit herself the day before an Ironman and still became one. We’re all capable of so much more than we imagine—sometimes we just need to get out of our own way and let it happen.