So—despite being hit by a storm of forgotten items before the race, I somehow managed to safely make it to the start line π.
When I arrived at the start area—people, people, people! The energy was unbelievable π€―.
I thought the last 70.3 was impressive, but this was on another level—after all, it’s the Ironman. Many participants seemed to have brought their entire extended families along, making it so packed there was hardly any room to move.
Well, my father-in-law had stayed at our house the night before, and he was coming to watch from the start, so this time I wasn’t completely lost in my own world. I could relax and just wait for the start with a smile π.
Wearing my wetsuit, I waited for the pro athletes’ start—which is 15 minutes earlier than the general field—and as I stood there, the sky began to brighten.
The crowd was so huge that I still couldn’t really see the lake, but my son suddenly muttered, “The waves look pretty strong—are you gonna be okay?”
Not yet aware of the actual situation, I confidently replied, “No problem, no problem.”
Well… this is exactly what they call “ignorance is bliss” π
.
Still chatting casually with my family—BOOOOM! π₯
An enormous blast! I’d completely forgotten that the start of IMNZ is signaled by a cannon. I was so startled I thought my heart would jump out of my chest π³. I got a bit worried for my father-in-law, who’d recently had heart surgery, but thankfully he seemed fine π.
With the pros off, it was finally our turn. I said goodbye to my family and headed for the start gate. I passed through with a strange mix of emotions—part excitement that I’d finally get to unleash everything I’d been building up to, and part fear of whether I’d actually make it to the finish.
And then—the lake opened up before my eyes for the first time…
“What the…?!” π²
I couldn’t believe it.
The glassy, mirror-like surface from yesterday had completely vanished—now the waves were crashing with a deafening roar!
I’d done some swims on slightly rough days before, just in case, but this was beyond anything I’d ever practiced. This kind of condition would’ve been too dangerous to train in! Still, “ignorance is bliss” again—having no experience meant I didn’t feel much fear yet, so I just thought, “Eh, I’ll manage somehow,” and started getting ready π΅.
Unlike the last 70.3—which had a floating start farther offshore—this one started closer to the shore. Lucky for me, that meant I didn’t need to get in the water early to claim a spot. I decided to stay on shore, relaxing until just 2 minutes before the start.
Others seemed to have the same idea—some were stretching repeatedly, others stood like statues in some kind of standing meditation, each waiting in their own way.
Keeping my body loose, I entered the water right on schedule—2 minutes before the start—and found a relatively open spot near the front. I took a breath—BOOM!—suddenly the cannon fired again! The race had already begun π΅.
In the last race, I’d been battered in the chaos of the start and briefly thought about the unthinkable—quitting after just 100m. So I was a bit nervous this time. But surprisingly, the pack spread out pretty quickly. With such a long distance ahead, everyone seemed to be starting cautiously. Even though I started gently, not many people came charging past me. It felt like a pretty good start π.
But that relief lasted only seconds—what followed was a survival race straight out of a nightmare ππ.
The course buoys were in the same location as before, so we first headed toward one offshore. But the farther out we swam, the bigger the waves grew—until massive swells were rolling through! Once I reached the main course, the waves were so high I couldn’t see anything—no buoys, nothing but more waves π±.
It felt like, “Where am I? Middle of the Pacific Ocean?”
I couldn’t see the shore either. The only reference point left was the other swimmers around me—but even they were only visible between swells. Breathing alone was a full-time job. And I was colliding with other swimmers constantly—it was like washing potatoes in a barrel! π³
I had no idea what to do, but there was nothing for it but to keep swimming forward…
Except I wasn’t entirely sure where “forward” was ππ.
Normally, my sighting is decent, but I could only spot the buoy maybe once every three tries. Everyone else seemed to be struggling too—even though we were probably only about 100m from the start, many were doing breaststroke just to figure out the direction!
As triathletes know, if the person in front of you suddenly switches to breaststroke, you risk a solid kick to the face—so this was a new hazard, on top of the waves.
In the early stages of an Ironman, especially in a swim I’m not great at, the last thing I needed was an injury. So I had to zigzag and detour around any potential “breaststroke kickers.”
Eventually, I got used to the situation. I decided to let those breaststrokers do the sighting for me, while I focused on conserving energy and keeping my breathing secure.
But even breathing wasn’t simple. If I breathed normally, every few breaths I’d gulp water. So I abandoned my practiced stroke entirely and invented a “breathing-first” stroke on the spot π.
Lately, I’d gotten comfortable with 3–1 bilateral breathing in open water practice, but in these conditions, I shifted entirely to my stronger side. From somewhere mid-course to the end, I think I breathed only on the right.
I found that if I let the wave lift my body and raised my head a bit higher than usual, I could breathe without swallowing water. Once I figured that out, I felt reassured—at least I wouldn’t drown π΅.
Okay, breathing sorted—now I just needed to head for the finish… π
Still, that was easier said than done. Every so often, a swimmer would appear in front of me heading completely sideways π³. But I couldn’t be sure if they were wrong or I was wrong ππ.
With time, I learned to judge the general direction from the occasional glimpse of a buoy and the orientation of nearby swimmers. But at one point, when I glanced back, I actually saw the soles of someone’s feet—they were swimming back toward the start ππ.
In this mess, I had no idea what pace I was swimming. The sensation of being moved around by the waves was stronger than the feeling of forward progress. At times, a swimmer next to me would suddenly appear a meter above me on a wave!
It was ridiculous—I briefly thought about just stopping altogether π .
Still, seeing others struggle along too, I decided to forget about pace and just focus on not being alone. I aimed for the turn buoy and kept swimming.
Anyway—this is already getting way too long, so I’ll stop here for now.
Like my race, I have no idea when this report will actually end π³.
But as I’ve said before, this doubles as a personal record, so I plan to write down everything I can remember. My mentor has even requested that I write as much as possible—so I’ll use that as an excuse and keep going without hesitation.
If anyone has read this far—thank you very much π.
If you’d like, I can also prepare a polished “storytelling” version of this translation that reads like a sports feature article, while still keeping your humor. That would make it even more engaging for non-Japanese readers. Would you like me to do that next?
You said:
ChatGPT said:
Alright — here’s a polished, storytelling version of your race report.
I’ve kept your humor, personality, and “you’re-there” feel, but tuned the pacing, structure, and imagery so it reads like an engaging Ironman feature article.
Ironman New Zealand – The Start That Turned Into Survival
It began with chaos.
Even before sunrise, I was already fighting my way through a storm—not of weather, but of forgotten items. Somehow, I still made it to the start line intact, grinning despite the morning’s comedy of errors.
When I stepped into the start area, the scene hit me: people everywhere. The air was thick with energy. I’d thought the 70.3 had been intense, but this was different—this was Ironman. Whole families were here, cheering, hugging, filling every inch of space.
I wasn’t alone either. My father-in-law had stayed over the night before, determined to see me off. His presence, along with the rest of my family, kept me from disappearing completely into my own pre-race tunnel. I could relax, share a laugh, and wait for the moment.
The Calm Before the Cannon
Wetsuit zipped, I stood waiting for the pro start—15 minutes ahead of the rest of us—as the first light crept over the lake. The crowd was so dense I still couldn’t see the water.
That’s when my son leaned in and muttered, “Waves look strong… you gonna be okay?”
I hadn’t seen the conditions yet, so I just shot back, “Piece of cake.”
Ignorance really is bliss.
BOOOOM! π₯
The sound nearly stopped my heart. I’d completely forgotten—the Ironman New Zealand start is signaled by a cannon. I worried for a second about my father-in-law, who’d recently had heart surgery, but he seemed unfazed. Tough man.
The pros surged into the water. Now it was our turn. I hugged my family goodbye, stepped into the start chute, and felt that strange blend of emotions every Ironman knows—half the thrill of finally unleashing months of preparation, half the dread of wondering if I’d make it to the finish at all.
And then… I saw the lake.
From Mirror to Monster
Yesterday it had been glass—a perfect mirror.
Today? It was a churning, roaring, white-capped beast.
I’d swum in light chop before, just to be ready for surprises, but this? This was beyond anything safe to practice in. And yet, without the experience to truly fear it, I shrugged: “It’ll be fine.”
This start was mercifully closer to shore than the 70.3, so I stayed dry until two minutes before the horn. Around me, some athletes were stretching like machines; others stood completely still, deep in a pre-race meditation.
I slid into the water, found a rare open spot near the front, and—
BOOM!—we were off.
A Promising Start… for About Thirty Seconds
Last time, I’d been mauled in the washing-machine chaos of the start. This time, the pack spread quickly. The distance ahead encouraged caution; even my easy pace kept me near the front.
For a moment, I thought: This might actually work out.
That’s when the survival race began.
The course led first to a buoy offshore. With every stroke toward it, the swells grew, until they were towering walls. Once out on the main line, I couldn’t see the buoy at all—couldn’t even see the shore. Only waves, and more waves.
It felt like I’d been dropped in the middle of the Pacific.
Breathing was a battle. Sighting? Almost pointless. I could only glimpse the buoy maybe once in three tries. Around me, swimmers were popping into breaststroke to figure out where they were—dangerous, because a breaststroke kick to the face can end a race.
Now my race had two enemies: the ocean and the unpredictable kicks ahead of me.
Adapting on the Fly
To survive, I zigzagged around “breaststroke kickers” and decided to let them do the sighting for me. My job was simply to keep breathing and conserve energy.
But even that was tricky. In normal breathing, every few attempts ended with a mouthful of water. I scrapped my practiced stroke mid-race and invented a new one: wave-assisted, right-side-only breathing. Let the swell lift me, raise my head higher than usual, grab the breath, keep going.
Once I figured that out, I knew I wasn’t going to drown. Small victories.
Direction remained uncertain. Sometimes a swimmer would appear, heading sideways across the course. Were they wrong—or was I? Hard to say. Once, I glanced back and saw someone swimming straight for the start line.
As for pace? Forget it. The waves moved me more than my own strokes did. At times, a swimmer next to me would literally rise a meter above me on a swell. Ridiculous. For a moment, I thought about just stopping.
But everyone else was struggling too. So I stopped caring about speed, stayed close to others, and focused on one goal: reach the turn buoy.
To Be Continued…
I’ll stop here before this turns into a novel. Like my swim, I have no idea when this race report will actually end.
But my mentor insists I make it long—and I promised myself I’d record every detail I can remember.
If you’ve read this far, thank you. Truly. The race was only just beginning.
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