The Nerves Are the Point

If you're racing Kona tomorrow and you're not nervous, you're either lying or you haven't understood what you've signed up for. The butterflies, the obsessive weather app checking, the mental replay of every possible scenario between Dig Me Beach and the finish line- that's not weakness. That's your body telling your mind that this matters. And it should.

By now, the mind games are in full swing. Lucy Charles-Barclay led the test swim, and nobody dared come too close- not at the start, not on the beach. That's championship presence. Kat Matthews is bouncing on trampolines, playing it cool while everyone else is wound tighter than their race belts. Laura Philipp is posting last-minute run sessions where she's crushing pace like it's a Tuesday morning jog. Taylor Knibb, the newest of the favourites to the full distance, is figuring out a game where experience matters as much as engine size. And of course the only other Kona champ, Chelsea Sodaro having had by her own description a bumpy road to get here but thrives on the big stage.

Lucy's and Chelsea are the only ones who've won this race. The others? They're desperate in their own ways, each with different time horizons. Laura's presumably at the peak of her career. Taylor's learning the Ironman distance on the biggest stage imaginable. Kat's still hunting her first major title. Four women, four different versions of the same hunger.

Here's what makes Kona different from every other world championship: it's been held in the same place for over forty years. Forty odd years of stories, suffering, and mystique building in those lava fields. Athletes have crawled across that finish line, and those images live in your head whether you want them to or not. That history changes how you race. It whispers to you in the energy lab when things get dark. It reminds you that legends were built- and broken- on this exact stretch of road.

In 2017, I went into Kona as one of the favourites, shooting for the stars. Instead I crashed headfirst into the moon, concussing myself while at it. I spent over four hours running, or rather walking with a slipped disc, committed to the "go big or bust" mentality rather than salvaging what I could. Sometimes Kona asks if you're willing to honour the spirit of the race by finishing, regardless of how badly it's going. Because it only goes well for a few people. The rest suffer through the day. Nobody should get a pass.

If you’re lucky enough to be on the island, go volunteer- handing out cups of ice on Palani or anywhere else. It’s as close as you can get to the race and I remember standing there for hours, locking eyes with athletes who were deep in their own private wars. Some moving well. Others not so much. They were too far gone into their own element. But in those brief moments, there was recognition. A "we've been there" exchange that needs no words. Ice is literally the only thing that helps the athletes out there, and even that's temporary.

I brought my son with me last year. This year I'm staying home for the same reason- family. But part of me will be on that island tomorrow, watching the weather obsession reach its fever pitch, knowing that by early afternoon someone's dream will be fulfilled while someone else's gets crushed. Sometimes both happen to the same person on the same day but that’s another story for another time.

Kona outside of race week feels like a retirement village. During race week, it's an anxiety fuelled Olympic village where every training session is a show-off opportunity and everyone's refreshing wind forecasts like they're checking lottery numbers. This is what you signed up for. This is what makes it Kona.

So if you're racing tomorrow- pro or age grouper, first-timer or veteran- know this: the nerves mean you're alive to the moment. The stomach rumble means you understand the magnitude. And that suffering you're about to experience? It's the entry fee for a story you'll tell for the rest of your life.

This might be your only shot at this race. This might be your last shot. Either way, it's your shot.

Leave nothing out there.

Go get it,

Jan