Fifteen months ago, my brother, Jed, and I stood on the shore of the local lake about to compete in our first triathlon. It was a sprint triathlon; we would have to swim 500 yards, then bike 15 miles, and then run three miles. At this point, we had been trying to lose weight and get in shape for about five months and we were nervous with anticipation.

A few minutes before we started the swim, the announcer came over the loud speaker and said that there were a few athletes competing in the triathlon that had also done a Half-Ironman the day before. We applauded politely for the back-to-backers, and I turned to Jed curiously.

“What are the distances for a Half-Ironman?”

At this point, I was very much clueless to the world of triathlons.

“One-point-two mile swim, 56 mile bike, and a half-marathon run,” he replied.

I was stunned.

“So… a full would be, like… two-point-four, one hundred twelve and then a full marathon?”

“Yep.”

“No thank you,” I replied.

He laughed, and then we jumped in.

Two nights ago, I lay awake staring at the hotel ceiling at 2:30 a.m., 30 minutes before my alarm would sound. April snored ever-so-gently next to me, and Pa, my dad, lay asleep in the next bed. I didn’t know it then, but the longest, proudest, and most exciting day of my life lay ahead of me. And when I say I didn’t know it then, I mean it. I questioned myself. I questioned my training. I questioned my mental toughness.

Did I run enough? Am I too slow? What if I cramp up on the bike section?
What if?
What if?
What if?

Eventually we got up, ate breakfast and met up with Jed. Before I knew it, we were standing in line with 3,000 other athletes, waiting to jump in the water.

Two point four, one hundred twelve, twenty six point two.

We had 140.6 miles to cover before midnight and as we stood around, talking and waiting, surprisingly, the hesitations and nervousness I felt in the hotel were gone.

The gates opened up around 6 a.m. letting the athletes enter the dock area. Soon after, a bugler played the national anthem, and Kentucky’s state song, and then the pro athletes (who start 10 minutes early) jumped in.

After watching the pros slash through the water at jaw-dropping speed, our own cannon blasted and it was official, we were jumping into an Ironman.

The swim section of a triathlon, particularly a race that has thousands of participants, doesn’t exactly lend itself to moments of reflection or introspect. The metaphor for Ironman swimming is a washing machine. Everywhere you turn, there are legs and arms slapping and swinging in every direction. You constantly are guarding against getting kicked in the goggles or slapped in the head so you can’t really stop and analyze or think about what you’re doing. It was this sensation of self-defense that I think started the day out perfectly for me. All I could do was tell myself to relax, just swim, and stay afloat.

After about 800 meters, I started to feel confident about what the day had in store for me. I knew that my relaxed swim stroke, while not the prettiest of forms, was conserving precious energy that I would need to get through the rest of the day.

We made our turn-around after about 1,300 meters and swam with the current downstream. It was cool to have a nice view of downtown Louisville after spending the first third of the swim in a dam between land and an island.

Eventually I could see the exit, but continued focusing my efforts on not getting excited or pushing too hard.

As I made my way to the dock, I glanced at my watch: 1 hour, 40 minutes. A new 2.4 mile record for me and I hadn’t over-exerted in the least; a huge boost of confidence. I was slightly dizzy making my way through the enormous, screaming crowd, but this is normal after trying to walk after being in water for 100 minutes. I made my way to the transition area forcing myself to walk rather than run with the rest of the athletes. Even though I didn’t run, I was sincerely surprised and encouraged by how great I felt. I ducked into the tent and grabbed my gear bag from a volunteer.

With the bonus 5-10 minutes I had accumulated on the swim section, I decided to take it easy and rest in the changing tent to cool down. The volunteers were really incredible about getting you anything you needed, a really nice way to chill out between sections. After putting on all my clothes, turning on all my GPS devices, and making sure I didn’t forget anything, I got slathered up in sunscreen by a volunteer and made my way to the bike. I fought the urge to steal one of the thousands of Tri-Bikes that cost more than my car, but eventually found my way to my used 500-dollar road bike with standard pedals and no aero bars, reminding myself it’s not about the ride, it’s about the rider.

While making my way to the transition exit, Sarah Catherine, Jed’s wife, yelled at me to let me know Jed was only three minutes behind me.

“Really?!” I yelled back, thinking I had misheard or she was confused.

“Yeah!” she yelled.

This is a very important situation because out of all the 2.4 mile swims Jed and I had done this summer, he had never even sniffed a sub-two-hour. To hear that he’d somehow notched a 1:43 either meant he had thrown pacing out the window or had caught some luck with a huge current. I reminded myself to worry about my own race and headed out onto the bike.

The first 10 miles of the bike course are flat, but then it gets heinous. So for the first 10, I forced myself to stay at 15.5-16 miles per hour and never let my heart rate get above 150. “Just spin,” I kept saying. “Don’t push.” The number of bikers passing me (including Jed at mile five) was a little disheartening, but all the pre-race advice I had read told me that I would be passing these people at mile 80 after their legs had given out from pushing too hard, too early.

Pa caught up with me at the 15-mile aid station and we rode together for pretty much the entire race, even managing to hold conversation when we could. And although it was good to have a riding buddy, our conversations were sparse due to the insane number of hills the bike course had to offer. We knew the bike was filled with rolling hills, but we didn’t expect it to be constant up and down. Observe and react was all we could do. Spin efficiently uphill and enjoy the speed of the downhills. We did it, and it worked.

The bike section of Ironman Louisville includes a 30-mile loop that circles through La Grange, a town that holds a spectator festival. Sarah Catherine and April set up shop there, so we got to see them twice, at miles 38 and 68, which was great.

We managed to catch up with Jed around mile 50 and got to assess how everything was going. He let us know that he was struggling a bit, but that he was confident he would be able to finish. We made our way through La Grange a second time, passing the girls again, this time as a team. They gave us a loud cheer and we continued on.

After the second pass through, I was a little skeptical on Jed’s confidence in finishing. His pace slowed dramatically, his eyes looked very weary and I began to worry. Without realizing it, Pa and I would get so far ahead that we would stop to make sure everything was okay. At mile 80, he told us he was sure he could complete the bike if he could just get through the next 15 miles to the downhills and flat sections of the course. It was heartbreaking to see him struggle so much, particularly because it could have just as easily been me; we all have good days and bad ones. The final 30 miles were as perfect as they could have been for me, and I entered the bike dismount area with extreme confidence, mentally and physically.

I sat back down in the changing tent and switched to my running gear. Pa came in after about 10 minutes. We recapped the ride and relaxed while waiting on Jed. The minutes ticked by slowly, but we had again beaten our expectations so we could afford some time. Finally, Jed came through the entrance, but he didn’t look good.

“We have to help him,” I told Pa.

He agreed.

“Jed, sit down; tell us what you need,” I said.

He relaxed and cooled down while we helped him with drinks and electrolyte tablets for his cramps.

“Take it easy,” I told him. “We have all day.” I was nervously glancing at my watch, though, knowing anything could go wrong in the 26.2 mile trek that lay ahead of us.

He gained his composure and we headed to the marathon start with seven hours and 40 minutes to get through. It was obvious that our run/walk strategy was going to be demoted to a walk-most-of-the-time-and-jog-when-you-feel-like-it situation. In the moment, it was slightly frustrating because I felt as good as I could have hoped and wanted very badly to run. But this was something we were doing as a team, something we were going to finish together, and it didn’t really matter if the time said 16:59 or 14:00, as long as we finished together.

The run course started with a two-mile, one-time-only out-and-back across the river, before settling into a 12-mile out-and-back that you do twice. After four miles of our walk/jogging, I realized I needed to take advantage of how good I felt and put some bonus minutes into the bank in case things got bad in the late miles and I had to slow down dramatically. Pa shared my sentiment, and after talking to Jed to make sure he was okay to do it alone, we pushed ahead at a nice 12-minute-per-mile pace. The good thing about the out-and-back nature of the course was that we could meet up with Jed every six miles on the turnaround to assess everything. Each time, he told us he was hurting, but that he thought he could make it.

Our half-marathon split was 3 hours and 3 minutes, a lot better than we had anticipated during our training, so we began to get a little more confident. It was mile 14, though, that brought the pick-me-up that we needed. The Louisville run course infamously takes runners who are halfway done within 200 yards of the finish line before starting the second loop. Close enough to see everything and hear the screams. Most of the course previews I read expressed frustration with this because it was a severe tease, which it was, but seeing the finish line and the huge raucous crowd of spectators and supporters bought tears to my eyes, because it was the first time it had hit me that we were actually going to finish. We passed Sarah and April before making the turnaround and we were off again. Only 12 more miles.

Hours crept by and the sun made its way down. Our bodies hurt, but the blisters on our feet and the soreness deep in our legs were trumped by the satisfaction of each passing mile marker and every spectator that yelled out encouragement. Each pat on the back from a friendly volunteer relieved the pain that seared through our ankles. And the backaches? They had nothing compared to the inspiration that hits when the 73-year-old man you’re running next to grimaces in pain with each torturous step but continues on with unbelievable resolve.

Mile 22… mile 23… mile 24…

By this time, most of the casual supporters in the neighborhoods and in their yards had gone to bed. The aid stations were under-stocked and only needed four or five people to man them. We knew what lay ahead, though: a finish line with people we loved and thousands of crazy spectators waiting to cheer us on.

We made it to mile 25 and nailed down our plan. We would get to the final aid station and wait on Jed, who, at this point, was about 1.5 miles behind.

When we arrived, the volunteers encouraged us and asked us why we were stopping when we were so close. We explained the situation and they let us know they were there to help if we needed anything. We thanked them and began the wait, at which point I looked down and remembered I was wearing white. A very unfortunate color for big guys in finish line photos.

“Dude, switch me shirts,” I said. Pa was wearing a nice, slimming, black shirt.

“What? Why?” he replied.

“I look terrible in this thing. I only wore it so I wouldn’t get too hot.”

“I’ve always hated you,” he asserted as he pulled off his shirt.

We exchanged them and that’s when it hit me. The dizziness and the nausea. If I kept standing still, I would pass out, the volunteers would be forced to help me and I would be disqualified.

“Dude, we have to go. I’m about to faint. We can still wait for Jed, but I have to keep moving.”

We walked it up the next few blocks to the last turn before the finish line and continued to wait on Jed. 11:25 turned to 11:30 and then 11:40. We had 20 minutes until the cutoff.

The nervousness built and we started talking about what we would do if he didn’t make it. How long would we wait?

We kept our gaze fixed onto the corner where he would make his turn if he had been able to make it.

“Is that him?” Pa asked. He has notoriously bad eyes.

“No,” I answered, regretfully.

11:45…

11:46…

11:47…

And then, there he was.

His walk had deteriorated to a zombie-like shuffle, but there he was, indeed. I had never been so happy to see him. We rushed to meet him and make sure he was okay, and the excitement began to rise. Seeing him walk through pain I can’t imagine brought me to tears for the second time. A group of spectators on the sidewalk yelled encouragingly as we made our turn onto Fourth Street, the finish line in all its glory just 500 yards away.

“Let’s jog it!” Jed yelled.

I was shocked, but obliged.

And we did. Pa in the middle, me to the left, and Jed on his right.

The chute was completely empty for us to make our finish. Each step happened in slow motion as the crowd roared. Children held out their hands for high-fives and athletes who finished hours before us lined the streets to cheer us on. Mike Reilly, the voice of Ironman brought us home.

“Here is a family of three!! John Davis and his two sons!!”

We approached the line and he yelled out the words we’d been training for six months to hear:

“JOHN, JED, BEN!!! YOU!! ARE!! IRONMEN!!”

We crossed the lines with our hands in the air and immediately found each other for the most meaningful hug I’ve ever given them.

Volunteers hung medals on our necks and it was official. We were done.

Jed found the closest chair, Pa sat next to him, making sure he was okay, and I stood in the middle of the finishers’ area staring into the crowd, in awe.

I was more proud of Jed in that moment than I had ever been before. His body was beaten so badly in the bike and the first half of the marathon that had the roles been reversed (and they easily could have been) I’m almost certain I wouldn’t have made it. He drew some awful luck with a bad day and still finished the most brutal of races imaginable.

To give you an idea, he finished a race that saw 500 people quit (and another 400 not even start). The number of people we saw laid out on the road and the unbelievable number of ambulances that soared past us on the bike section shows just how much he went through to get to that line. That damn line. He spent the night in the hospital and today he’s limping around like the 73-year-old man we passed during the marathon, but he did it.

And now? Now we’re Ironmen.