"Dan Hammond, you're an Ironman!"
Well, that is what the commentator was supposed to say as I crossed the line in Port Macquarie at 6.43pm on 5th April.  I had visualised this  moment many times at the most difficult moments of my training and the prospect of hearing these words almost brought me to tears every time.  He must have been distracted or ... yes, that was it, I was running so fast he couldn't see my race number.   Either way, that part of the day
didn't go exactly as planned but everything else did.

The day started with a minute's silence at sunrise for three people who had been killed by vehicles training for the event.  This just enhanced an overwhelming sense of good fortune that I was alive, was in the presence of 1400 people who had set their sights on a high goal and that I had the support of my family and the many of you who were thinking of me and sending messages of support.  The elite had set off 35 minutes before the rest of us and I floated in the water watching the TV helicopter hovering over them thinking  how amazing it must be for those guys to be doing something that is worth filming from a helicopter.   20 minutes later I was watching the same chopper with each breath as it filmed us too - I knew then that I was in for a very special day.  Just competing in this swim is a huge achievement: 4 years ago when I bought a sports watch that was waterproof to 50 metres, my wife, Juliet, said 'that's OK, you can only swim 25'.

I completed the swim in 1 hour 21 minutes and came out of the water about 10 seconds behind my friend Mark.  I staggered through the overhead showers in a way that can be achieved only by swimming for over an hour and depriving your brain and legs of blood or by spending the same amount of time in hitting yourself on the head with a mallet.  I forced myself to run the short distance to the transition area.  It doesn't make any material difference to your time whether you run or walk but there's a look that you have to achieve.  You have to run while undoing your suit and removing your cap and goggles.  That's what triathletes do.

The transition, normally a do-it-yourself affair beside your bike, is at conducted at Ironman inside a gender-specific marquee so that people can make a complete change into bike- and run-specific clothing (rather than just wear a triathlon suit for everything).   Port Macquarie had experienced 100-year storms (do we get these every year now or is it just me?) so the whole area had turned into a quagmire.  This meant that the inside of the tent was muddy and with hundreds of triathletes trying to change with the help of an equal number of volunteers, things were completely crazy.

I had been told that we would be greeted by strippers as we came out  of the swim and fortunately someone had broken the news to me that they just help you to take your wetsuit off.  My stripper was waiting for me in the transition tent.  His name was Dave.  Ironically, Dave kept his clothes on but I took mine off.   He did
perform one task that was worth the event fees in one go.   In my first couple of triathlons I wore shorts for the swim and put a shirt on for the bike.  This is a trap for young players: your back is still wet so the shirt turns itself instantly into a bra: the back of the shirt rolled up tightly so far up your back that there is no way that you can reach it to pull it down.   Resolving this issue can be the hardest part of triathlon (until you discover the one-piece triathlon suit).  Not so for the putative Ironman.  This time, I put my shirt on up to the 'bra' stage, simply gave Dave a knowing look and he pulled it down for me.  $700 just for that would be a bargain.

So I went and found my bike, pushed it to the exit with cheers from Juliet and the girls and set off on the ride.  I could not stop grinning.  I had completed the longest swim of my life and I was actually competing in Ironman Australia!   The bike course included an exciting 5km through town with loads of supporters followed by a classic
'Ironman' stretch of about 10km: straight and flat.  You could  see tens of athletes ahead of you all in the 'aero position': leaning forward and using the 'aero bars' to minimise their air resistance - an inspiring sight and one that is redolent of the photos from the mecca of Ironman racing, the lava fields of Kona in Hawaii.  There are some hills before the turnaround but it is a short sharp hill coming back into town that
was most alarming.  A large crowd of spectators had gathered here, using ropes and crampons I assume, to watch the suffering and shout encouragement.  I got up that hill three times knowing that not far beyond the top, Juliet would be there with my daughters and the families of my friends cheering their hearts out.   A fellow triathlete
jokingly asked if I could get them to tone it down a bit.

It was on the bike that I started to get an idea of how my three training parters were doing.  On the second lap Mark came past me as usual he had been several minutes behind me despite coming out of the swim just ahead of me.  He is faster in the swim, bike and run disciplines but it looked I had once again trounced him in the 'putting
socks on' part of the race.  A small victory for which I have trained every day of my working life.  I saw Andrew belting along and joking with everyone as usual.  The surprise of the day was to see a distinctive pair of green Credit Agricole shorts up ahead.  The occupant of the shorts was Mike who is should have been the fastest of all of us but was just having a bad day.   With a few words of encouragement, I cycled on.

The feeling of exhilaration I had at the start of the bike lasted for two of the three laps.  After that, 'enjoying every moment in the moment' became increasingly difficult as, without going into too much detail, I was having quite a bit of discomfort in the sitting down department and, frankly, in the making babies department too.  I  REALLY wanted to get off the bike.  After 6 hours 21 minutes they let me: I
turned off the course, handed my bike to a volunteer and ran to pick up my running kit to go to T2 - the transition from bike to run.   A few parts of the race are videoed and are made available for viewing online after the race just by typing in your race number.   Presumably due to a technical error, the video for my number 568 has been mixed up with that of a slightly chubby middle-aged man trying to run but who is actually walking bent double, effectively still in the aero position.  Hilarious
- you should see it.  Poor guy.

I was so pleased to start running and I actually felt fantastic to be on my feet and starting the second marathon of my life.   It was  2.20pm. I was ahead of schedule.  Could I hold it together?  This was the unpredictable part. Despite doing up to 18 hours a week of training a week I had never done a 'full dress rehearsal'.  I had swum 3.2km and ridden 180km a few times but what would happen when I added the small
matter of a marathon was impossible to tell.  

Things  started well: I completed my first 10km in 55 minutes and shouted to  Juliet that I felt 'awesome'.  My 'awful' phase was just round the  corner.   Nutrition on the Ironman is a science.  Triathletes tend to  be highly analytical so all the water and food intake had been calculated and tested.  Well, calculated anyway.   After about 20km my stomach started to rebel at the onslaught of high calorie gels, drinks, flat coke, bananas, Anzac biscuits etc and I really started to feel sick.  I had to drink just water - so my energy stores were depleted - and at one point was in such pain I had to walk.   However, this passed and I resorted to handfuls of Jelly Beans from the many aid stations and they had a miraculous effect on both my energy  levels and my morale.  On my last lap, darkness and the runners were given glo-sticks to wear - it
all became rather surreal.

It was almost with disbelief that I turned left into the finish chute. And what a finish it was.  There are gantries running for about 100m up to the finish arch packed with lights so you step form the  darkness into the light and into the noise of huge crowd. Not far from the finish line, there was a crowd of small girls high-fiving everyone who came past.  Oh, that would be my daughters and their friends.  Kisses and hugs for them and Juliet - no time to really thank them properly for the sacrifices they had made to get me to that point - and I ran across the line 4 hours 21 minutes after starting the run and 12 hours 13 minutes since that swim start at dawn.  I was an Ironman. 

At Port Macquarie they give you a fitting reception: a medal the size  of a dinner plate is put around your neck, an Ironman towel is put over your shoulders and two volunteers walk you by the arm along a red carpet (I kid you not) to the finish tent.  A had a delicious can of cold drink and went to the massage area.  In fact, I initially walked into the medical area by mistake and I felt very fortunate to be able to walk back out again sharpish: 10 - 15% of entrants end up in there, according to the doctor at the race briefing.  (We also had a talk  from the head of the local Accident and Emergency/Emergency Room who said 'If you see the Race Medical Director tomorrow, you're having a bad day.  If you  see me, you're having a VERY bad day.)  So I moved on as quickly as my legs would let me to a massage table where I very nearly fell asleep.

Very soon I was at the finish hugging my family again.  It was over.  I had done it.  A sign on the course kept coming into my mind.  It said: "Pain is temporary.  Ironman is forever."  That means I don't have to do it again but I would not have missed it for anything.

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