A race week is special — every moment of it. We prepare checklists, pack our bikes, and gather the ten-thousand tiny things — from tubes to salt caps to rubber bands. And, as always, we pack a few things we don’t need: nervousness, fear, imposter syndrome — call them what you will.
As the week unravels, it becomes about unpacking and discarding those unnecessary things, though some are stubborn. Our BnB host had strict rules on garbage disposal; I still don’t know whether the nervousness went into the dry or wet waste. But it was definitely discarded — with help from family, friends, and plenty of Poi (the local Goan bread that became our staple).
My roommate and training partner, Gautam (Pondi), is the definition of meticulous, and his preparation helped calm my nerves. A few open-water sessions settled my swim anxiety, and the bike recces helped me conclude I needed a different place to stash my gels. We even rehearsed packing gels into tri-suits — a small but critical ritual for smooth transitions.
By now, I know I won’t sleep well the night before a race, so I ensure I sleep well two nights before. This time was no different — barely three hours of sleep. Still, I woke up unusually calm, filled with gratitude for being able to start a race like this and satisfaction from knowing I’d prepared my best. I wasn’t anxious about the results; I just wanted to race and have fun.
I walked out a bit later than planned. The only real anxiety came from the mandatory “Port-a-potty” visit at the start line. Our swim coaches talk about focusing on breathing — ironic when you begin the day by holding your breath through that ordeal.
Pondi showed up at the bike racks with his pump, and we laughed about the heavy dew before heading to the start. Familiar faces, familiar nerves. With the low tide at 7:16 a.m. and our wave starting shortly before, the timing was perfect — calm waters, long walk, quick finish.
I started a few slots behind Pondi. He walked briskly into the water, and I mirrored him. The swim cap felt unusually thick; I wear my goggles under the cap for safety, but that combo can cause a headache. Thankfully, I’d tested it the day before. Still, moments after diving in, the left side of goggle leaked. I stood up, fixed it — losing nearly a minute — but it was worth it. Once settled, I found a rhythm.
I stayed slightly right of the main pack to avoid chaos, trading elbows and kicks for the occasional risk of jellyfish. A solid head-hit mid-swim forced another quick adjustment, but I stayed composed. I remembered my Navy friend Ramesh’s advice: don’t over-sight — breathe, trust, and flow. It worked.
By the final stretch, I felt good. When I hit the beach and saw ~41 minutes, I was happy. Phase 1 done.
Then came T1 — heart-rate clip, gels, cap, helmet, socks, shoes… and a missed step: starting my cyclocomputer. I realized only as I began rolling. No drama — switched it on, waved to Suresh and Sucheth, and pushed on.
The first lap was steady and controlled. Pondi had suggested attacking early while the weather was cool, so I did. The second lap was tougher; I compensated with extra gels. At one point, my friend Nikhil from Crankmeister rode past on a scooter providing tech support.
I yelled, “Got a spare motor?”
He replied, “Aid station ahead!” then doubled back to hand me a bottle of water, shouting, “The angels are here!”
He’d misheard “motor” as “water.” If only he’d heard right — I might’ve saved a few more minutes!
The cold water helped; I drank some, poured some on my head, and tucked the bottle into my tri-suit. Legs started fading with 25 km to go, but a mini-revival after the Bambolim climb helped me finish strong. Slight thigh cramps — noted: two salt caps at T2.
Transition 2 was smooth — no helmet fiascos this year. But my stomach felt bloated and unsettled. The first few run steps told me it would be a grind. The nausea meant I couldn’t take in more energy. I tried slowing down, even forcing a vomit to reset the system — no luck.
It was going to be a long run. So I broke it down into 2-km segments, aid-station to aid-station. The heat was punishing; even strong runners looked half their usual selves.
My run ended 30 minutes slower than planned, 10 minutes slower than last year. But the gains from swim and bike meant I still finished 18 minutes faster overall. No huge victory in the head or heart — but quiet pride.
I had trained hard and smart. Heat sessions on the trainer without a fan, lung-burning pool sprints breathing every five strokes, mad track workouts with Pondi — once even skipping the recovery interval between 2, 16 min sets to make my swim. Every session, every struggle was part of the process.
Maybe it still wasn’t enough. But that’s okay. The search for “enough” is the fun part — especially with training partners like Pondi. The Flow Rope (made famous by Taylor Knibb) is next on the agenda. Onward.
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Looking back, the journey from “afraid of success” to “embracing every moment” has been more profound than any physical training block. Ironman 70.3 Goa wasn’t about chasing a perfect race — it was about learning to stay calm in chaos, to laugh through mishaps, and to find joy even when plans fell apart. Somewhere between the leaky goggles, bloated run, and a strong finish, I realized success isn’t a destination or a medal. It’s the quiet confidence that comes from showing up with gratitude, giving your all, and accepting whatever the day brings. The clock may stop, but the growth doesn’t — and that, to me, is the real victory.