You don't just decide to swim 2.4 miles in open water because you're bored. For most, an Ironman is a bucket list item or a midlife crisis. But when you’re doing it to honor someone you lost, the stakes change. The water stops being a physical obstacle and becomes a place of reckoning.
I’m currently training for an Ironman triathlon in memory of my wife. She was the one who usually cheered from the sidelines, the one who kept me grounded. Now, her memory is the only thing keeping me afloat in a literal sense. I didn’t grow up swimming. I was the guy who splashed around the shallow end and called it a day. Taking on a 140.6-mile race—starting with a massive swim—is objectively terrifying when you can’t breathe through a single lap without panicking. Meanwhile, you can read other stories here: The Tactical Cannibalism of Manchester City.
Most people think the marathon is the hardest part of an Ironman. They’re wrong. The marathon is just a long, painful walk if you have to. The bike is about gear and grit. But the swim? The swim is where the race can end before it even starts. If you can’t handle the water, you don’t get to do the rest.
The brutal reality of adult onset swimming
There’s a specific kind of humility that comes with being a grown man in a public pool, gasping for air while an eight-year-old glides past you like a dolphin. Swimming isn't like running. You can't just "try harder" to go faster. In fact, the harder you try in the water, the more you sink. It’s about efficiency, not effort. To explore the full picture, check out the detailed article by Sky Sports.
When I first jumped in, I thought I’d just power through. I’m fit. I’ve run marathons. I thought my lungs would carry me. They didn’t. Within twenty-five yards, my heart rate was at 170 and I was convinced I was drowning. This is the "adult onset swimmer" syndrome. We have the engines, but we don't have the technique. Our legs sink like stones because we’re used to gravity pushing against us on land. In the water, gravity is your enemy.
To honor my wife, I had to stop trying to fight the water and start learning to exist in it. I had to go back to basics. Bubbles. Gliding. Rotation. It’s a slow, frustrating process that feels nothing like the "heroic" training montage people imagine. It’s mostly just me, smelling like chlorine, wondering why I signed up for this.
Why the Ironman swim is a mental game
If you’re swimming in a pool, you have a black line to follow. You have walls to push off of. You have clear water. An Ironman swim is nothing like that. It’s usually a mass start with thousands of other people. It’s dark. It’s cold. You’re getting kicked in the face and swam over by someone who weighs 220 pounds and doesn't care about your personal space.
The trauma of loss actually helps here, in a weird way. When you’ve been through the worst day of your life, a foot to the ribs in a lake doesn't seem that bad. The grief provides a layer of armor. I find myself talking to my wife when the panic starts to rise. I tell her I’m doing this for her. It sounds cheesy until you’re in 55-degree water and your goggles are fogging up and you can’t see the next buoy. Then, it’s the only thing that matters.
Safety is a huge factor. According to data from the Journal of the American Medical Association, the majority of deaths in triathlons occur during the swim. It’s usually due to SIPE (Swimming-Induced Pulmonary Edema) or sudden cardiac events triggered by the cold and the stress. You can't ignore the risks. I’ve had to learn to manage my heart rate and stay calm. If I panic, I fail. If I fail, I don't get to cross that finish line for her.
Technique beats fitness every single time
I spent months trying to get "swim fit" by just doing more laps. It was a waste of time. I was just getting better at swimming poorly. If you're in my shoes—learning to swim for a major event—you need to change your approach.
- Fix your body position. Your head is a lever. If you look forward to see where you’re going, your hips drop. If your hips drop, you’re dragging an anchor. Look at the bottom of the pool.
- Exhale under water. This sounds simple. It isn't. Most beginners hold their breath until they turn their head. That creates CO2 buildup, which triggers the "I’m dying" panic response in your brain. Blow bubbles constantly.
- Get a coach. Or at least a friend who knows what they’re doing. You cannot feel what your body is doing in the water. I thought my arm was straight; it was crossing my midline and making me snake through the water.
I started using a "Total Immersion" style approach, which focuses on being slippery in the water rather than being powerful. It changed everything. I stopped fighting and started flowing. It’s still hard, but it’s no longer a fight for survival.
Training through the grief
There are mornings when I don't want to get out of bed. The house is quiet. The motivation is zero. But the goal of the Ironman is a fixed point on the horizon. It’s a commitment I made to her memory and to myself.
The pool has become a sanctuary. It’s one of the few places where I can't check my phone. I can't see the news. I can't hear the noise of the world. It’s just the sound of my own breathing and the rhythm of the stroke. Left, right, breathe. Left, right, breathe. It’s meditative.
I’m raising money for charity as part of this journey, but honestly, the money is secondary to the personal transformation. Grief can make you small. It can make your world shrink until you’re just sitting in a room with your memories. Training for a 140.6-mile race forces your world to expand. You have to meet new people. You have to go to new places. You have to push your body until it breaks and then rebuild it.
The gear you actually need (and what you don't)
People love to buy gear. They think a $900 wetsuit will make them a better swimmer. It won't. It might make you 2 seconds faster per hundred yards, but if your technique sucks, you’re still just a slow guy in an expensive suit.
You need a good pair of goggles that don't leak. That’s priority one. I prefer the ones with a wider field of vision for open water. You need a comfortable swimsuit—not baggy board shorts that create drag. And eventually, you need a wetsuit that fits properly. If it’s too tight, it’ll restrict your breathing and freak you out. If it’s too loose, it’ll fill with water and weigh you down.
Forget the fancy watches and the drag parachutes for now. Just get in the water and get comfortable. Spend time just treading water. Spend time floating. You need to feel "at home" in the lake before you try to race in it.
Practical steps for your own journey
If you’re doing this—if you’re taking on a massive physical challenge to process a loss—don't do it alone. Join a local triathlon club. Most of them are full of "normal" people, not just elite athletes. They’ve all been through the struggle.
Start small. Don't look at the 2.4-mile distance. Look at the next 25 yards. Then the next 50. Break the race down into tiny, manageable chunks. The same goes for grief. You don't get over it all at once. You just get through the next minute, then the next hour.
Sign up for a "splash and dash" or a sprint triathlon first. You need to experience the chaos of a race start before the big day. Nothing prepares you for the "washing machine" effect of a mass start except actually being in one.
Get your heart checked. Seriously. If you’re over 40 and taking on an Ironman, go see a cardiologist. Make sure your engine can handle the stress you’re about to put on it. My wife would never forgive me if I went out trying to honor her and ended up needing a memorial race of my own.
Keep your "why" front and center. I have her name written on my transition bag. I have a picture of her in my car. When the alarm goes off at 5:00 AM and it’s raining outside, I don't get up for the exercise. I get up for her. That’s the secret to finishing. The fitness gets you to the start line, but the "why" gets you to the finish line.
Go find a pool. Put your face in the water. Start blowing bubbles. It’s a long way to 140.6 miles, but the only way to get there is to start sinking or swimming. I chose to swim.
