“This is the mountain that shapes our horizon, our stories, our lives. A place where raw nature, rich culture, and deep history come together - and leave no one untouched.”
This isn’t a race recap, but a dive into my brain thoughts. I spend a lot of time in my own head. It’s a special super power of being a scientist and having bipolar disorder. One part of my brain is very rational and logical, while the other part of my brain is off the deep end dealing with the emotion of the moment. But I digress, back to the mountain. Really, this mountain meant so much to me. It was literal hope.
When I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 2008, there was such a monumental sense of confusion and loss. So I turned to triathlon. When I found out about Norseman after my first Ironman in 2014, that mountain turned into a fixation - it became a beacon of conquering my brain. When I got into the 2016 race and finished DFL, there was no doubt in my mind that I needed to do it again and come back stronger because I needed to conquer my mountain.
Little did I know the twists and turns my life was about to take. Dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer in September of 2017, ultimately passing away on April 20th, 2018. I found myself once again battling an all consuming loss and I turned back to the sport. I thought about the mountain, I dreamed about the mountain - I imagined that finish at the highest point in Norway, one step closer to dad. So I continued to enter. Got in a bike crash in 2021, dealt with several hamstring tears, and then finally got a lucky ticket for the 2023 race. I was lucky enough to endure another hamstring tear and a dog attempted to eat me 3 months before the race, but I persevered to get a black t-shirt, even with the mountain being closed due to weather. It wasn’t enough - I had to finish on the mountain. I had to conquer my mountain. Another year passed before I had accumulated enough points to go to the 2025 edition. Since this time last year, the mountain once again haunted my dreams. I imagined my finish over and over again, but nothing prepared me for how overwhelmingly raw the emotion was when I finally crossed that finish line.
I finally conquered my grief and brain for that beautiful, brief moment. When I look back over the last 10 years, I realize how true the above quote is. I am not the same human I was in 2016, 2023, or even 2 months ago. Many will say it’s just a race. It’s not. It’s so much more. The collapse and sobbing at the finish line was part of my healing. Some part of me was allowed to let go and allow myself to feel my grief, my joy, my fears, and my gratitude. For so long, I’ve endured and survived, but I finally let myself feel deeply on that mountain. Now with Kona in just a few short weeks, I’ve been trying to pinpoint how I feel about - remember I spend a lot of time overanalyzing myself and my brain thoughts. The best way I can describe it, is that I feel some sort of peace. As they say, you don’t leave the mountain untouched and perhaps these cracks that have been gaping in my heart have healed just a little bit. I feel like the fear that has gripped me since dad died/after all the injuries, has eased just a little bit and that has been liberating.
And now, as I set my sights on the finish line in Kona, I’ll come away changed once again as I move into a new phase in my life beyond my mountain, and I will cherish that moment and hold it close. Inevitably, someone will tell me it is just a race, but not for me. For me, I will find another little piece of me coming back to life.
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