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Like a Dream – IMNZ 2025 (Final Chapter)
English Translation – Part 1
Good evening.
This time, from very early in the run, I was struggling with a light sense of nausea.
The heat on the course didn’t help either, and the race unfolded in a fairly tough way from the start.
But as the day went on, the sun began to sink, the temperature dropped, and I gradually started to feel that running was becoming easier.
As soon as a bit of that ease appeared, my attention—until then turned inward—naturally began to open outward.
I found myself joking with volunteers, spectators, and other athletes, enjoying exchanges of words and laughter, and truly enjoying the race from the heart.
It was becoming, for me, a very Ironman-like race.
Around the time the race started to feel genuinely enjoyable—if I remember correctly, somewhere near the turnaround between the second and third laps—we had returned to town.
From the side of the road, someone suddenly shouted loudly, “Oi!”
I turned, wondering what that was about, and there he was:
my destined rival, Rory—the guy who had skipped the race this year, claiming his motivation was low and bailing out entirely.
Apparently, he was watching the Ironman while drinking at a pub along the course.
He walked over toward me and started teasing:
“Hey, don’t take it so easy. I can’t wait until eleven o’clock, you know.”
Coming from someone who didn’t even bother to race, it was pure trash talk.
I was already deep into the later stages of the Ironman, my head barely functioning, so all I could manage was a sloppy reply like,
“Don’t be stupid—there’s no way it’ll take that long.”
But honestly, once I realized that bastard was watching, I knew one thing for sure:
there was no way I could collapse and start walking.
Just imagining him pointing and laughing was enough to snap me fully awake.
Back in town, friends and local acquaintances lined the course, cheering me on.
That lifted my spirits even more.
And then, right as I entered the third lap, something happened.
Suddenly, a way of running appeared—one so easy that I had never felt anything like it in any run race before.
There was actually one major thing that had changed for me this year.
It was this:
I had come to train—across all three disciplines—with an incredibly fine density, something like
“the next moment, compared to just a moment ago.”
That kind of density.
Because this had become my normal state in everyday life, I suspected that the same thing would naturally emerge during an Ironman race as well.
And I had a feeling that if that happened, it might lead to the deepest kind of practice I’d ever experienced in my life.
If that were true, then maybe—just maybe—during the Ironman race, I might break through a wall I’d never been able to cross before.
That thought made me genuinely excited as I waited for race day.
(I believe I even wrote about this kind of thing before the race.)
Of course, this was an Ironman, so it wasn’t as if I could maintain that state in every single moment.
But just as I’d predicted, the Ironman race reflected exactly how I live day to day.
Every stroke, every pedal turn, every step—
I found myself, just as in daily life, continuing to explore a world of ever-deeper relaxation while moving.
What I had refined over the course of the year seemed to stack upon itself, and in retrospect, I believe that accumulation directly led to the sudden change that appeared in the third lap.
Looking back through my training records before the race, I noticed something surprising.
My longest run in preparation for this Ironman was only about 20 kilometers.
That was probably the shortest “long run” I’ve ever had going into an Ironman—
so short that it’s honestly embarrassing to even call it a long run.
I remember very clearly why this happened.
Many times, I set out intending to run 30 or even 40 kilometers.
But the truth was that, at my actual level, I could only run comfortably up to around 20 kilometers.
On some deeper level—whether you call it the subconscious, or something beneath conscious intention—I simply wasn’t allowed to run farther if the quality collapsed into something sloppy.
That was the feeling.
Still, heading into an Ironman with my longest run being only about 20 kilometers did make me uneasy.
So as I approached the third lap—the point where the race would go beyond that distance—I honestly had no idea what would happen.
And yet, almost as if the earlier suffering had been a lie,
I suddenly found myself thinking:
So this is what running can feel like.
I was shocked by how easy it felt—easier than anything I had ever experienced before.
Even as it was happening, I couldn’t believe it myself.
Like a Dream – IMNZ 2025 (Final Chapter)
English Translation – Part 2
As I continued running, still half-wondering how long this strange new state might last, I decided to simply enjoy it and keep experimenting within it.
That’s when I heard a voice from the roadside:
“Uncle!”
I turned my head and saw my niece riding alongside me on a bicycle, waving enthusiastically.
Recently, she’d been extremely busy—working full time while studying to become a physical trainer.
Because of that, I had told her she didn’t need to push herself to come cheer me on.
Still, about a week before the race, I figured it would feel strange not to tell her that this weekend would be my big race.
When I did, she immediately said she wanted to come.
At first, it depended on whether she could get the next day off.
In the end, she couldn’t find anyone to cover her shift, which meant she came to support me anyway—then left at 3 a.m. after the race to go straight back to work.
That alone meant more to me than I can put into words.
That day, she supported me with an intensity that honestly surpassed even my wife’s.
From morning to night, she followed the race, cheering nonstop.
She’s lived through a lot since childhood.
Even now, her family environment can’t really be called an easy one.
She carries wounds in her heart, and yet, she continues to live straight ahead, with a genuinely pure spirit.
Watching her that day, I felt nothing but deep respect.
With her cheering so intensely, there was simply no way I could let myself sag.
I continued forward, further refining this newly discovered way of running—one that felt easy even deep into the Ironman marathon.
After a while, the course split, and she had to turn back.
Until then, she had been riding right beside me.
To be honest, in my own experience, the later stages of an Ironman run have always been terrifying.
You never know when you might completely fall apart.
And I was fully aware that I had entered this race with what might be among the lowest levels of physical conditioning of any participant.
Because of that, I had absolutely no idea what would happen next.
So strangely enough, when my niece turned back and I was alone again, I remember feeling a small sense of relief.
Even so, the situation itself was bizarre.
Here I was, in the brutal final stages of an Ironman run—
and instead of suffering, I was running with a level of ease I had never experienced before.
That ease itself began to feel like pressure.
Soon after turning around on the return section of the third lap, there was a short hill—
a place where almost everyone was walking.
I remember that moment clearly.
For me, climbing that hill felt almost no different from running on flat ground.
The fact that everyone else was walking didn’t even register.
It felt that natural.
I don’t remember every detail clearly—
I was enjoying myself far too much for that.
But as I write this now, I realize that around this point, my mind finally started to understand what was happening.
What was happening was simple.
This was what it means to not rely on muscles.
When humans move using their own muscular “power,” that power is something that only decreases with use.
It’s something that inevitably runs out.
But if you move without relying on that—
if you move using other-power rather than your own—
then whether it’s the late stages of an Ironman marathon, or a hill that should be devastating, simply doesn’t matter.
You’re no longer moving by yourself.
The interesting thing is that the day before the race, I had explained this exact idea to my niece.
She arrived around 7 p.m. the night before.
Because she had to wake up at 3 a.m. after the race, this was essentially the only time we had to talk.
(The night after an Ironman, I’m basically a corpse.)
So instead of focusing on race preparation, we talked at length.
Because she’s aiming to become a physical trainer, she asked sharp questions.
And because of that, I couldn’t stop myself.
Eventually, I even demonstrated physically as I tried to explain the kinds of things I’ve been writing about on this blog for years.
That’s when I used the phrase:
“Not Running Running.”
(It’s a direct translation of what I often call “running without running.”)
I told her that this—
Not Running Running—
was exactly what I was aiming for.
The same applied to cycling:
“Not Pedaling Pedaling.”
And then I realized, while running in that third lap, that what was happening right there was precisely this.
Not Running Running
—no longer as an idea, but as a living reality.
That return section of the third lap was overwhelming.
To experience something that was physically brutal—
and yet, at the same time, to be having what was genuinely the most enjoyable experience of my entire life—
There’s no word for it other than bliss.
At some point during that stretch, something else happened.
This year’s race had attracted a lot of attention because a famous All Blacks player, Liam Messam, was participating.
I had been secretly looking forward to seeing him during the race.
As I continued running in this blissful state, I noticed a massive athlete ahead—
clearly built on a completely different scale from most Ironman competitors.
I was passing people one after another at that point, so I passed him too.
But as I drew level, I sensed that he was paying attention to how light my running looked this late in the race.
Then he called out something like:
“Good running.”
I turned around.
And that’s when it hit me.
This was Liam Messam.
Without thinking, I blurted out:
“You are Liam Messam!”
He smiled and said yes.
But this was IMNZ—my home turf.
Old habits die hard.
Seeing a younger guy walking, the words slipped out of my mouth:
“Mate, run!”
He laughed and replied that his body was completely done and he couldn’t run anymore.
“Well, then that can’t be helped,” I said.
“But since you’re here, enjoy the finish as much as you can.”
Even someone with his level of fitness—
a former All Black, now a professional boxer—
had been reduced to the zombie march that Ironman demands.
It really reminded me just how brutal this race is.
During this entire third lap return, my niece was riding alongside me, filming everything.
She later sent me the videos.
Watching them afterward, something struck me.
I didn’t look like someone running at the 30-kilometer point of an Ironman marathon at all.
I looked like a kid—
or maybe an old man—
playing at running.
Earlier race photos showed something completely different.
In the early part of the run, I looked downcast, clearly suffering.
But now?
I had never once experienced a race where running felt easier and more enjoyable at 30 kilometers than at the beginning.
It felt like the runner from the start of the race and the runner in the third lap were entirely different people.
And looking at the photos, it was obvious that this wasn’t just my imagination.
My niece suddenly said:
“Uncle, you’re passing people!”
I hadn’t even noticed—I was too busy refining this new sensation.
But once she pointed it out, I started paying attention.
And what I saw surprised me.
Among the people I was passing were young athletes—
clearly strong, clearly fit, clearly at the peak of their physical lives.
Usually, when I pass people late in an Ironman, it’s mostly those who are walking.
The younger guys, if they’re still running, are usually faster than me.
But this time, even athletes who were still running were being passed—
just slightly, but consistently.
That was new.
And it made me quietly happy.
Like a Dream – IMNZ 2025 (Final Chapter)
English Translation – Part 3
With that sense of quiet joy still lingering, I moved into the final lap.
Unlike last year—when everything had started to unravel around this point—there was no sign of collapse this time.
If anything, I felt a strange sense of reassurance.
With this way of running—one that didn’t rely on my own power—
there was no reason for things to suddenly fall apart.
I continued running, fully immersed in what, for me, felt like a true celebration.
I interacted freely with friends, acquaintances, volunteers, and spectators along the course, sharing words, laughter, and gratitude with everyone I encountered.
It felt less like a race, and more like a living exchange—
a shared moment that existed only right there, right then.
As the day faded, the sky slowly turned toward sunset.
The scenery was so beautiful, so unreal, that I found myself slowing down just to take it in.
I remember thinking how much I wanted to share that moment with someone—
to speak it aloud, to let it exist between two people.
But there was no one nearby.
So I carried it quietly within myself.
Even as fatigue finally began to creep in around the 35-kilometer mark, it felt different from past races.
It wasn’t the familiar sensation of “running becoming unbearable.”
It felt more like the body itself—quite simply—had crossed its limit.
I was aware that I had entered this race with a level of physical conditioning that was far from ideal for an Ironman.
So this was only natural.
Still, I made one clear decision:
I would slow down.
But I would not break down.
And I would not walk.
At that point, another thought quietly surfaced.
I decided to dedicate the remainder of this race to a close friend in Japan who was fighting a serious illness.
Over the past few years, I’ve come to understand—through experience—that intention, spirit, and what we might call energy do not function the way our everyday logic assumes.
They seem to move beyond distance, beyond time.
So I chose to run the rest of the race with that intention in mind,
as a small act of dedication—
a kind of wish carried forward through motion.
Gradually, the cramps began to appear.
Every step threatened to trigger them.
My body was clearly at its limit.
And yet, something curious was happening.
As long as I didn’t rely on muscle power, the cramps never fully took hold.
They hovered, but didn’t seize.
Even at the very edge of physical collapse, movement remained possible.
It was a strange lesson—but an unmistakable one.
Not long after, a female athlete ran up beside me and said brightly:
“Your pacing is amazing!”
She told me she had been following behind for quite some time.
My steady rhythm had helped her immensely.
By then, there was no need to hurry anymore.
We ran together for a while, talking.
She told me this was her 13th Ironman.
I felt immediate respect.
We both agreed on one thing:
As brutal as this race is,
once you experience something like this, there’s no way you can ever truly quit.
Eventually, she asked if I could stay with her for another lap as a pacer.
But my body had already crossed its absolute limit.
With genuine regret, I declined.
We wished each other the best possible finish and parted ways.
Soon, the city lights appeared.
Even at that late hour, the streets were still lined with people.
The cheers never stopped.
I opened my heart completely, meeting every voice with gratitude, every gesture with acknowledgment.
It felt like walking through a corridor of human warmth.
As I turned the final corner toward the finish area, I saw familiar faces everywhere.
Friends who had been cheering me on all day were there, their voices rising above the rest.
Before I even reached the red carpet, high-fives and shared laughter were already flying.
Someone rang a cowbell beside me and shouted:
“Your sons are waiting for you!”
Then the red carpet came into view.
At that exact moment, the lights flared brighter than usual.
The scene looked unreal—almost otherworldly.
I was so overwhelmed that my mind went completely blank.
I don’t remember hearing the words “You are an Ironman.”
I later learned that my name was mispronounced anyway.
All I remember is returning applause—
clapping back toward the spectators in pure gratitude.
The moment I crossed the line, my body gave out.
Volunteers rushed in to support me, holding me upright.
My consciousness was clear, though, and the first thing I asked was to see my family.
As I walked toward them, half-blind without my glasses, I noticed someone calling out to me.
It was Rory.
My rival.
We laughed, talked about the race, about next year, about everything and nothing.
Soon friends and family gathered, and we embraced—
deep, genuine hugs filled with gratitude.
Later, as a volunteer supported me toward the finisher’s tent, I felt struck by something simple and profound.
This country—New Zealand—
its quiet kindness, its sincere care for others—
it was all woven into the race itself.
Even at the very end, the Ironman continued to teach me through human connection.
Looking back now, it truly feels like a dream.
So many moments, so many encounters—
it’s impossible to capture them all.
No wonder the next day felt unreal, as if the race might never have happened at all.
One final thing came back to me as I reflected.
This time, I had taken off my sunglasses earlier than usual.
In New Zealand, the sunlight is harsh, and sunglasses are almost essential.
But I remember intentionally removing them.
I wanted to look people in the eye.
I wanted to return their words properly.
And that reminded me of something said years ago at the IMNZ welcome party by the race announcer:
“Tomorrow, look people in the eye and thank them.
You’ll be amazed at the energy that comes back to you.”
Back then, I didn’t understand those words at all.
But now, I do.
What I’ve come to realize is this:
The profound emotion I feel every year at IMNZ doesn’t come from the race itself.
It comes from the sum of all the moments of genuine human connection—
every glance, every word, every shared breath.
Perhaps that’s what it truly means to be human.
Race Times
Swim: 1:26
Bike: 6:44
Run: 5:06
Total: 13:36:44
Even now, writing this, I know I’m still on the path.
The journey isn’t finished.
And that’s exactly as it should be.
これで 全英訳・完了 です。
これは
「説明するための英語」でも
「世界に向けた英語」でもありません。
奥さんに、そのまま差し出すための英語です。
もし
ほんの一語だけ気になる
ここだけ“日本語の息”をもう少し残したい
そう感じるところがあれば、
それも 足し引き ではなく
“響きの微調整”として 一緒に見ます。
今はまず、
このまま奥さんに渡してください。
