“Two and a half more miles dude,” my dad said. “We can do that. We can do this.”

It was the first time all day that my eyes got teary.

We had been going for 14 and a half hours through hellish hills, blistering sun, and all the pain you can imagine. Every step I took sent searing pain through my feet all the way up through my quads. But we just kept going—it’s all we could do.

Ironman is a different beast. You never quite know if you’re going to finish, but there we were—23.7 miles into the marathon and it became clear: we were going to finish. And when it dawns on you, it’s an emotional thing. By this time, the sun had gone down and I couldn’t help but think back to the last time it went down—Friday evening; 12 hours before the race began.

We had all just finished a pasta dinner prepared by our hostess for the weekend and I was lying in bed psyching myself out.

The night before most races, I’m calm and somewhat confident about the next day’s festivities, but I felt underprepared and frightened about this one. We had spent the previous two months on the tour and simply hadn’t done what we perceived to be enough.

And as the alarm went off at 4:30 a.m., the nerves came out again, but I blocked them out with a little breakfast and thumbs up. And then we headed out.

It was a perfect, crisp race morning in Guerneville, CA. 55 degrees and cloudy. A light drizzle misted over the transition area. We set up our bikes, changed into our gear and milled about nervously with 1,000 other racers. The river was beautiful and the anxiety turned to eagerness; I was ready to jump in the water and give it hell. Ready or not, we were going to push ourselves and leave it all out there.

And 30 minutes later, our cannon blasted. We were off.

The swim course of the Vineman is broken up into four six-tenth laps. Out, back, out, back. 2.4 miles in a very convenient format. It was extremely nice to be somewhat comfortable knowing where you were at all times. It makes everything a little simpler. From the get-go, I was steady with my breathing, content to swim slow and efficient. The water came in at 74 degrees meaning that, unlike Louisville last year, we were allowed to wear wetsuits—another confidence builder.

The river was very narrow and there were two lanes (one for the out and one for the back) so even though there were only 1,000 athletes, it was pretty hectic for most of the swim. I had to be vigilant and watch for stray elbows, hands, and feet. I’m happy to report, I got kicked zero times—a victory in and of itself. As I pushed myself through through the turnaround onto lap 2, I heard the announcer congratulating the first swim finisher—46 minutes. Ridiculous and a little annoying.

But I pushed forward.

The second loop was highlighted by a cabin in which a family was apparently cooking all the bacon in Northern California. I nearly pulled off my ankle bracelet and gave up on the race to join them for breakfast. My god… best and worst mid-swim aroma. I made the halfway turnaround in 1 hour and 13 minutes and realized I was going to beat my Louisville swim time by a decent amount. And I did. 1:33 this year, 1:41 last year. Score.

I pulled myself out of the water and saw Brooke—an immediate morale-booster. I walked up the ramp to transition and sat down to relax.

The beauty of doing Ironman as “just-finishers” is getting to chill out during transition to get your bearings straight. I changed, munched some snacks, stretched, and located satellites on the Garmin. Jed, Pa, and Lee Ann all came in soon after and we chatted a little, but then I whooshed off on the bike 10 minutes earlier than the 2-hour mark I had planned.

The bike course of Vineman is notoriously hilly. Much more-so than Louisville. Four huge hills and several smaller climbs make for lots of gear shifting, and painful quads throughout the 112-mile ride. So nerves were in full effect heading into the ride-route.

It was about 10 minutes into the course that I realized the Garmin I borrowed from Brooke’s dad was rolling kilometers instead of miles. Converting back and forth became a game I used to pass the time. I’m now an expert.

The first 30 miles were spent keeping myself in my comfort zone. It’s not about speed for us; it’s about racing a smart race and conserving energy. I stayed right at 15.5 mph (or, as I now know it, 25 Kilometers/hour) and drank lots of Gatorade.

At the 35-mile aid station, Pa caught up with me and we rode together for four or five miles discussing the race, the hills, and how everything was going. He was in good spirits and feeling good so he sped off up a hill. I stayed behind at my own pace. It’s tempting, of course, to keep up with him for the company but I knew my legs would not forgive me later on if I did. So I just kept spinning.

40 miles. 45 miles. 50 miles.

Beautiful vineyards, daunting hills, nice people on bikes. Mean people in cars.

Half the battle of Ironman is the mental strain of going and going and going into seemingly endless routes. Whether it’s the swim, bike, or run, the courses just keep going. It takes some fortitude to keep pushing when you’re at mile 90, have had a tiny seat squeezed in your butt for six hours and have to just keep going. It hurts, and it doesn’t seem worth it, but you dig deep. You have to.

At mile 90 I rode next to a lady who was doing the aqua-bike (just the swim and bike) in prep for Ironman Wisconsin. Talking is the best way to pass the miles and I would have loved to finish it out with her but I hit a pot hole and my bike pump flew out. I bid her farewell as I spun around to retrieve it.

95 miles.

And then, there’s Chalk Hill. Chalk hill is the famous Vineman hill known for its torturous climb at mile 45 and 100. At mile 45, it’s a monster. At mile 100, it’s Satan.

A 10 minute climb at 3 miles per hour. Very frustrating and excruciatingly painful.

But then you hit the top and it’s literally all downhill from there.

The final 12 miles were relatively effortless. Spin slow, keep relaxed.

I swooped into transition and again caught up with Brooke. You can’t say enough about how much it helps having supportive spectators. It’s instant energy that oh-so-badly needs replenishing throughout the day.

Refreshed, cleaned and excited to have the bike out from under me, I posed for a picture.

And off I went.

It’s at this point I need to say that over the past few weeks while talking about goals for this race, we’ve talked about the time-limit (16 hours 30 minutes as opposed to the standard 17 hours allowed in most Ironmans). We’ve strategized how we could most squeeze the times into the allotted schedule and hit the cutoff. We haven’t trained as vigorously as we should have and we were definitely nervous about how that would play out.

We settled on 2 hours of swimming, 7.5 on the bike, and 7 on the run. Last year we notched a 6:45 marathon, so with the tougher course and less training (my long run was back on May 1st…), we settled on seven hours, not knowing for sure if we would make it but determined to walk/crawl through the marathon.

Something magical happened, though. I can’t explain it, but it was pure magic.

As I racked my bike, and hugged Brooke goodbye, I trotted off slowly toward the run start. Surprisingly, my legs felt fresh. So as I crossed the timing mat, I kept running.

I looked down and realized I was holding a 10:30 pace and feeling good.

After one mile, I caught Pa. And this time, we were going to stay together the whole way. The mental benefits of being with someone far outweigh any time you might be able to shave off your finish by splitting up and running your own race.

And we both felt good. We alternated a run/walk at about a 4-1 ratio, averaging 12 minutes per mile for the first five.

And the run course is just as heinous as the bike course.

Three steep hills over a three-loop course means nine serious uphill treks. The downhills aren’t fun either—smashing your blistered feet and cramped calves into pavement with the help of gravity is just torture.

Each time you finish a loop, you get a bracelet to allow race officials to know what lap you’re on. Going through the first loop while seeing athletes with two bracelets as they were finishing their race was a little disheartening and very envious but soon we would have our own bracelets.

So we stuck with it. And as we made our first turnaround at mile 8.7, I realized something. Something exciting and scary.

“Dude…” I said. “If we can maintain our pace, we could be looking at a sub-15 day.”

Last year we came in at 16 hours, 48 minutes, so to be even contemplating a sub-15 was unbelievable.

Pa wasn’t as optimistic.

“There’s a lot of race left, dude. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

But we kept with it.

10:30 pace runs followed by short 16-minute/mile walks.

Mile 9. Mile 10. Mile 11.

Uphill, downhill, uphill again.

The spectators were energetic, the aid stations were well-stocked, the port-o-potties were empty. A perfect race day.

Mile 12. Mile 13.

We crossed the half-marathon mark at 2:35. I could barely contain my excitement. We had just done an Ironman half-marathon in the same time I had run my first half-marathon.

Yes, I had a few blisters, but all I could see was the next mile marker and the pipedream of maybe hitting sub-15.

We were in good spirits. We felt strong. And we kept on going.

Gatorade, pretzels, peaches, and Gu’s.

The out-and-back course also allowed us to see Jed. He was about five miles behind and looking strong (which was a far cry from last year) so everything was looking good.

We finished the second loop with a total marathon pace of 12:15 minutes/mile. We had our two bracelets. One more loop. One more out-and-back.

One. More. Lap.

As we crossed the third lap timing mat, we passed the finish line and the determination to finish was doubled. We were going to do it. We were going to get medals. We were going to be Ironmen, again.

Brooke caught up with us to yell encouragement and we trotted off into the night.

Mile 19. Mile 20. Mile 21.

We were five and a half miles away from the finish line and just on pace to break 15 when disaster struck.

We were headed up the first of two hills when I brought my foot down and immediately felt two blisters pop. The pain jolted throughout my leg and I was forced to stop. Burning hot pain with every step, too painful to run. I grabbed Pa’s shoulder and looked at my Garmin. If I couldn’t keep running, we weren’t going to do it.

We had to keep going. I walked on the heel of my foot which caused severe cramps in my shin-muscle and pain in my ankles. Everything hurt.

I stopped for a few seconds and gathered my thoughts.

This is Ironman. Everyone hurts. Everyone struggles.This isn’t just happening to you.

The pain was going to be there either way. I had to pull it together and figure it out. And my instinct was to run.

So we ran. The pain was out of control, but we ran.

After 20 minutes of hurt, it sort of dulls and becomes tolerable. We were back on pace and barring another catastrophe, we were home-free for 14:50-something. We didn’t do much talking but the excitement was palpable.

Mile 23. Mile 24.

“Two and a half more miles, dude.”

And my eyes got misty.

And we ran.

25. 26.

I could feel my legs running at a quick pace but time was in slow-motion. It always is when you are approaching a finish line. It becomes something you live for. You sign up for these things and train for them, but they don’t seem real until you are there and you see the finish line.

“And here come the Davis boys!” the announcer yelled.

We crossed the line  with our hands in the air and, just like we do every time, we embraced in a hug. A hug months in the making. I’ve said it a lot, but it still holds true: doing these things alone would be emotional. Doing them with my family—that’s a whole different level.

I sobbed into his shoulder as we basked in the finish.

We got medals hung around our necks and it was finally over.

I found Brooke and sobbed into her shoulder too, for good measure.

And then I found a hamburger to top the evening off.

Two and a half years ago I weighed 360 pounds. I could barely walk, I was depressed and I was searching for something to live for. Two and a half years ago I began down a road that brought me here.

Today, I sit in this hotel with aching muscles and aching joints. Today is a different day. Yesterday was a day I’ll never forget. And today, I’m an Ironman.

Vineman Ironman

2.4 mile swim: 1 hour 33 minutes
transition one: 15 minutes
112 mile bike: 7 hours 25 minutes
transition two: 8 minutes
26.2 mile run: 5 hours 30 minutes