Ironman world championship, kona 2024

Five years. Five years of clinging to a dream that seemed to play an increasingly cruel game of hide and seek. Every time I’d edge closer, it slipped just a bit further away. The competition grew fiercer, and Kona became even rarer—moving to once every two years, like some mythical beast that only emerges occasionally to mock you from the shadows. I'd nearly tossed in the towel on my dream to compete at the World Championships.

But then, at Ironman New Zealand, I found just enough grit—and luck—to snag my slot. This was happening. This was real.

After New Zealand, I hit pause, traveling through Australia for a breather. It was fantastic—a true recharge. I came back to England ready to tackle the mountain again. But it wasn’t long before I felt like a car running on fumes. The once-burning drive had cooled, and instead of feeling amped, I felt drained, like a deflated bike tire. I figured the London T100 would reignite the fire, that seeing the pros would snap me back into game mode.

Race day did get my blood pumping… but it ended up being more disaster movie than comeback story. A crash at 45km had me sprawled on the curb, using it as a very unforgiving pillow, my shoulder throbbing in complaint. Two weeks off followed, and when I got back to training, my swimming was in such bad shape I barely managed a few pathetic doggy-paddle sessions each week. One week before Kona, I forced myself into the pool and slugged through 3.8km, just to make sure I wouldn’t become shark bait out in the ocean. I managed it in 1 hour and 9 minutes. Okay, I thought, at least I won’t be fish food.

The vibe in Kona was electric. The race week hype was more intense than I’d imagined—coffee boats, swims with dolphins and underwear runs. The whole place felt like some surreal endurance paradise-meets-hedonistic fever dream.

And then, it was race morning. My bike was set in transition, my bag was ready—this was it.

At 3:45 a.m., the alarm buzzed me into the zone. I choked down some instant porridge, got in the car with my parents, my girlfriend Manon, and my oldest friend Harry, and by 4:00 a.m., we were off. Rumor had it the road to Kona could be a traffic nightmare, but luck was on our side, and we sailed right in.

I headed into transition with Manon to do a final bike check. That’s when I realized I’d forgotten my bike computer. Brilliant. Guess I’d be racing by “feel”—like a caveman with a very expensive wheel.

With fuel and hydration loaded, I stepped out, looking for a familiar face in the crowd. I finally found Manon, her smile calming my nerves like a lucky rabbit's foot. My parents were next, looking half-awe, half-confusion at the pro athletes around us. My mum, admiring their physiques; my dad, wondering how any human could get that tall and lean without snapping in half. They hugged me, and I could feel the weight of it all. I was here, at the start line of a dream.

I was suddenly stood in my start pen with all my competitors. All head deadly serious faces on and no one was keen on chatting. My tactics of getting in peoples heads were back firing. They were in mine.

Who are these people?

How are they so tall?

So fast?

Am I going to be swum over?

What happens if a shark comes… I’ll be the slowest swimmer?!

Being ushered forwards we got to see the professional start and music started screaming into my ears. Like the beating of war drums it gave me focus. I knew I was going to war.

Everyone around me was now an enemy.

In my head I pictured an arid wasteland with body’s in Tri suits scattered around.

There was one reason I had made it here, the belief that I am better, I am stronger and no one can beat me when I have a good day.

I could feel the tension crackling in the air as we waited, shoulder to shoulder, all but vibrating with adrenaline. A mere two minutes before the start, the shoulder-barging began, a not-so-subtle jockeying for position. Arms bristling, muscles tensed—it was every person for themselves. We waded in, letting the coolness of the water barely register against our overheated nerves, swimming out to the start line. That’s when the real welcome committee showed up.

Jellyfish.

The pain started sharp, stinging my ankle like a whip crack. Then, as I tried to swipe the burning off, it caught my hand and spread to my arm, then to my waist. It felt like my skin was on fire, only made worse by the salt water searing into each fresh welt. I muttered a warning to the guy next to me, noting that the others were flinching down the line as well. Perfect. I thought to myself, let’s see who can handle it.

Finally, the starter released us, and we surged forward like a pack of unleashed animals. The sea transformed into a roiling cauldron of thrashing arms and legs, the water churning like a fight scene. Elbows and fists flew; I was struck from all sides. Bodies everywhere, panicked and desperate, some stopping, some veering left and right, losing all sense of direction. The only way forward was over or under them.

I kept on for two or three rounds of this aquatic boxing match before reality set in—I just wasn’t keeping up. But that was fine. They’d get their time on the bike and run, I told myself. For now, survival was the game.

At 500 meters, the salt started biting into my raw skin, each stroke digging my swim skin into a wound I hadn’t even felt yet. It cut like wire, but the pain had all but numbed me to everything else. I realized, right there, just how brutal the day was going to be. This was a different level of suffering than I’d ever signed up for.

But I made a choice. Stay the line. While others zigged and zagged in panic, I straightened out and swam with purpose, letting every ounce of discipline I’d built in training drive me forward.

The turnaround came quicker than I thought, and before I knew it, the swim back felt almost automatic, the rhythm settling like second nature. Finally, I hit the shore, hauling myself out of the water at 1 hour, 10 minutes—right on target.

It was time for the real battle.

Jumping onto the bike, I could tell immediately that I was in over my head. Riders blew past me as though I was a statue, leaving me with a sinking feeling that I’d gone from roaring tiger to a wounded gazelle in seconds. Confidence dropped like a stone.

I knew I was probably mid-pack material here, but nothing prepared me for the pure humiliation of watching dozens of athletes pass me in those first 90 kilometers. Usually, I’d tell myself, "I’ll catch you on the run," but today that felt like a lie. This was the world championships, and I was in survival mode.

This was where the race shifted—from physical endurance to sheer mental will. Accepting I was far from competitive in this field, I recalibrated, settling into the mindset that maybe I was here just to make it through.

At about 90km a guy called Donald Brooks came past me, a fellow Brit who last time we raced was in Leeds in 2020. We had an epic sprint finish only for me to find out he started 10 minutes behind me!

This gave me a bit more drive and up the hill to Hawi I chased after him, using my one advantage I had over everyone else. I can climb. Flying past 25 people who had previously made me feel mortal brought the agression back.

‘Okay, Fuck you, Watch This’ I went full The Bear, flying back down from Hawi realising my bike power was the highest it had ever been. Swallowing gels and electrolytes like I was a starved black lab at dinner.

Starting to catch those who had over cooked it, I headed back into the furnace.

The hottest part of the course was dry and arid with a belting sun shining from the sky boiling the melted tarmac under my tires. A drip of sweat slides down my nose and immediately evaporated. The heat of Kona had arrived. Measuring 45 degrees from my watch I doused myself with the last of the water, barely lukewarm from the last aid station.

I could taste nothing but salt and sugar. My head pounding and my legs…. My legs were responding. Slowly taking places back watching as the heat took control of my competitors. A wounded gazelle no more.

A vulture picking at carcasses, I was feeling good.

15km to go I caught my first glimpse of the pros starting the run—Kristian Blummenfelt, no less. Seeing him stumble forward, his gaze unfocused confirmed to me the real race was coming.

And then, before I knew it, my bike was in transition. I was back on my feet.

My bare feet hitting the scorched earth caused the smell of burnt flesh to linger in the air. Blisters the size of my palm or 3rd degree burns? I’ll deal with that later. As I whipped off my helmet, my sunglasses tumbled to the ground, and with them came a sharp sting above my ear that pulled my focus like a hook. Dazed and confused, I glanced down at the sunglasses in my hand—and that’s when I noticed it. The rubber protector was missing, replaced by a thin, exposed piece of metal.

I realized, with a sinking feeling, that I’d just spent the last leg of the bike ride with that sliver of steel slowly slicing into my ear. A desperate touch to the side of my head confirmed my ear was still there.

Slipping my foot into my race shoes, a sharp, seizing pain shot up from my left arch, sending my entire foot into spasm. I froze, heart thumping, the familiar feeling of numbness creeping in like it usually did with only 5K to go. But this time, I was just starting the run. Panic flared up, tempered only by determination. I hadn’t come this far to give up. This was going to be a long, painful walk if I had to—but I wasn’t about to give in.

At the sunscreen table, I emptied half a bottle into my hands and slathered it onto my face, shoulders, anything exposed. This Kona sun would scorch my skin, but it wouldn’t stop me. I may cook, but I won’t burn.

I limped forward out of transition, forcing each step. Then, just in time, I saw two familiar faces: Manon and Harry, cheering like there was no tomorrow. Their energy shot through me like adrenaline. With their voices echoing behind me, my foot jolted back to life.

Then, like a beacon, I saw him: Noel Mulkey, no more than a minute ahead. A jolt of electricity went through me, and suddenly, every ache, every cramp, every ounce of fatigue melted into the background. Noel and I had an unofficial rivalry, but in my mind, it was anything but. First time we’d met in Thun, he’d beat me by 40 minutes; in Western Australia, he’d still edged me out by two. Today, on the world stage, with the lava fields of Kona beneath our feet, I had the chance to turn the tables.

He was struggling too, slowing down just enough for me to close in, step by step. I pulled alongside him, managing a casual, “How’s it going?” He looked over, trying to hide the fatigue in his face. Through gritted teeth, he shot back, “It’s hard on the Queen K, and you’d better put 20 minutes into me if you want to win.”

Nice try, Noel. The words only fueled me further, fanning a fire that had already been set. I didn’t need to be in his head; I needed to be in front of him.

As I left him behind at the next aid station, I doused myself with ice water, letting it seep into my suit, chilling every nerve, and reseting my focus. With every stride up the infamous Palani Road—a gruelling 500 meters at a 6.4% incline—I felt the heat, the strain, the weight of it all. But I also felt something stronger: purpose. Bodies were splayed around me, souls lost somewhere back on the bike course. But here, amidst the wreckage, I was where I thrived.

At the turnaround, I glanced back, frantically calculating the gap. Noel was trailing, my fierce competitor now falling behind. The heat had done its damage; exhaustion was written across his face. In my muddled state, I managed to calculate that I’d gained about eight minutes on him, with only 15K to go.

I felt the course pulling me onward. I was pushing myself past any comfort, but I knew this was where the legends of Kona were made—not in the early stages, not even at the start of the marathon, but here in the final miles. My legs were trembling, every cell in my body begging to stop, but I held on, running strong—not brilliantly, but with a strength that surprised even me. For the first time in my racing career, I was no longer trying to beat someone, to achieve a perfect time. Here, in the heat and the agony of Kona, my only goal was to cross that finish line.

The final 7K stretched out before me like an endless desert, each step a mix of elation and exhaustion. I could feel the atmosphere of Kona buzzing around me—the cheers, the drums, the smell of salt and sunburn. The crowds lined the course, faces blurred by fatigue but their energy piercing right through, pushing me onward. My legs had given up on their sprint long ago, so I found myself in a rhythm of walk-running, just keeping the momentum.

With every step, the reality sank in: my fitness had hit its limit, and I was running on pure will. But I soaked up every last drop of the atmosphere. This was Kona. This was everything I’d worked toward.

In those final meters, as the finish line came into view, a surge of disbelief flooded me, and then euphoria took over. My mind, usually brimming with chatter, was silent for once, stunned into pure awe. This was a victory of heart over anything measurable by pace or time. I had survived the lava fields, the scorching sun, and the mental battles that had raged for hours.

I crossed the line—an Ironman, and not just any Ironman. I had competed in the World Championships.

Today, I may have been average, but I was average among gods. And standing there, I felt like one of them.

Once again, a heartfelt thank you to every single one of you who has supported me along the way. Whether it was a simple smile on the bike course or being a part of my full support team, each of you has played a vital role in helping me reach this point.

The encouragement I’ve received from those who have read my write-ups has been truly inspiring. So, with that in mind, I’m excited to share that I’ve decided to write a book about my journey—the ups, the downs, and everything in between. I’ll be including grueling workouts, little tips and tricks I’ve picked up along the way, and much more. I can’t wait to share it with all of you, so stay tuned!