Ironman Cork Review: battling the wind and waves in Ireland

“Well shit,” I thought to myself, as an Ironman athlete ran past our car in the predawn darkness. He was running barefoot and wearing a full wetsuit.

Our car was idling in traffic and showed no signs of movement. “Should we suit up?” I asked my buddy Steve. He sat in the passenger seat next to his wife Vicki, watching the triathlete recede into the darkness.

“Yeah, we better,” he replied.

I pulled my wetsuit from my bag and stripped down to my boxers to start suiting up. As I did so, another athlete in a wetsuit jogged past my window. It wasn’t the start I’d anticipated.

Ten minutes later, Steve and I were walking barefoot alongside a line of stationary vehicles. You might wonder: Why are Ironman athletes sprinting shoeless in the predawn gloom? And why are we walking while they run?

The trouble started two days earlier when a storm hit Youghal, Ireland, flooding the bike course. This forced the postponement of the Half Ironman, initially slated for Saturday, to Sunday: the same day as the Full Ironman. The organizers planned for the 1,553 Half Ironman participants to start first, followed by the 640 Full Ironman competitors.

Unfortunately, this caused absolute chaos and made it impossible to drive to the athlete drop-off. With no alternative, we decided to trek to the drop-off where a bus waited. We were behind schedule, but not nearly as late as the Half Ironman participants.

Within fifteen minutes, we stood before the picturesque Youghal beachfront. Despite the early hour, the boardwalk brimmed with spectators. The ever-enthusiastic Irish supporters were out in full force, and from the looks of it, thousands had sacrificed sleep to catch the event's kickoff.

Swimming in Rough Seas

The start was delayed and then delayed again. We met up with my other buddy, Andrew. Then the announcer declared that due to rough sea conditions the Full Ironman swim was being reduced from 2.4 miles to 1.2 miles for the safety of participants.

Having completed the Ironman Copenhagen swim in 1 hour and 20 minutes the previous year, I had hoped to set a new personal record at Youghal. Like many, my heart sank. I had trained to go the full distance, and I felt robbed.

“Does it still count as a full Ironman?” I asked.

“Nope, it will always have an asterisk,” replied Steve with a touch of disappointment that we all felt. I had no idea how grateful I’d be that they’d shortened the distance. None of us would end up feeling robbed. None of us would feel like we didn’t earn our medal.

The Half Ironman started and immediately descended into absolute chaos. Athletes were getting pounded by enormous waves and struggling to get out past the surf. Those who made it into deeper water faced huge swells, whitecaps and a nasty current. They quickly scattered in every direction unable to see the navigation buoys or contend with the current.

The current was coming from our right (Southeast) and running to the left (Northwest). We were supposed to swim out away from the coast, then down to the right against the current to the second buoy. At that point, we could turn around and head down to the left with the current now at our backs.

At an Ironman event, they stagger the swim start. You have to wait your turn, which takes a while. After about half of the Half Ironman participants had started, the race directors decided to shorten the course yet again to make the swim safer. Instead of swimming against the current to the second buoy, we just had to swim out to the first buoy. This meant we’d never have to swim directly against the current. Just perpendicular to it. The announcer reminded us to aim well to the right of the buoy because the current was going to carry us far to the left.

"Is there any trick to getting out past the waves?" I asked my friends over the roar of the ocean. We were getting closer to the start.

"Yeah, dive under the waves," replied Andrew. Steve nodded in approval. They were both more experienced open water swimmers. That's not to say that I was a noob. I had completed two Ironman 70.3 races and one 140.6. I was a SCUBA instructor and had lived for 2.5 years on a Caribbean Island, doing plenty of open ocean swimming and breath-hold diving. But I had never swum in a storm. My pulse raced, as my body started dumping adrenalin.

Tackling the Ironman Swim

I hesitated at the start, watching the waves to time my entry. Seeing my chance, I charged forward, rushing past other athletes. I dove under the first wave, came back up and kept plowing forward. I dove under a second wave and started swimming.

Almost immediately things went wrong. I tried to breathe just as a swell buried my head, leading to an underwater coughing fit. I came up for air and discovered I couldn’t see the buoy amidst the towering waves.

So this is why everyone else scattered, I thought.

As I rose with the next swell, I caught sight of the buoy. I aimed far to the right and clawed forward with everything I had. I needed to get past the first buoy to get the current behind me as quickly as possible.

Within minutes, my lats started filling with lactic acid. I was redlining. I kept missing my breath, bumping into other swimmers and struggling to locate the buoy. It felt more like survival swimming than distance racing.

Suddenly, I slammed into a crowd of swimmers treading water. The buoy was right there, but everyone seemed frozen in place. I considered going around them, but spotted a gap in the crowd. I rushed forward and ran directly into the buoy’s anchor line. Because of the current, the anchor line was running almost sideways and blocking the way. I grabbed it, pulled myself around it and kept swimming.

The waves refused to let up, and now with the current behind me, they’d occasionally lift me so high that I’d belly flop back down onto the water. It was surreal. Eventually, I learned to time my breath and sight with the crest of the waves.

The swim took me 26 minutes and 49 seconds. Exiting the water, an official asked, “You ok?”

"Fine," I managed, despite feeling far more drained than expected.

As I approached the gang plank leading off the beach, I saw paramedics surrounding an athlete, a CPR device in use. A chilling thought crossed my mind: Had he drowned?

Another surge of anxiety hit as I searched for familiarity in the downed athlete’s features. Recognizing neither of my friends, I was filled with a mix of relief, sorrow and shock.

You’re alone with your thoughts for most of an Ironman, and it was hard to shake the image of the man receiving CPR. I made my way to my bike bag, stripped off my wetsuit and started putting on my cycling gear. As I bent over to put on my socks, water gushed out of my flooded sinuses. I felt like a drowned rat.

I walked to my bike and then walked my bike to the start of the bike course. No running yet. The swim had taken a bit of my fight out of me, and I still needed to face down Windmill hill. Twice.

Biking 56 miles (Lap 1)

Mounting the bike, the weight of the swim seemed to lift. Spectators lined the streets of Youghal cheering as we rode out of town. The route was largely flat and hugged a picturesque coast. It would have been a perfect ride but for a brutal 20-25 km headwind. On flats I would typically manage 18-20 mph, but I was fighting to hold 16 mph. It wasn’t the start I had envisioned.

About 40 km in, the course changed direction putting the wind to our back for the next 30 km. I cruised into the first aid station and discovered all the provisions were on the left. A volunteer handed me a Gatorade. Attempting to stow it with my left hand was a comedy of errors, nearly causing a topple and drawing amused looks. Adapting to my newly discovered disability, I slowed to a crawl and, using my right hand, collected a few energy bars across my bike. It was amateur hour.

None-the-less my spirits and energy surged, and I began passing Ironman 70.3 athletes. There were long climbs through the Emerald Isle’s lush rolling hills, followed by blistering 36 mph descents. The course was both thrilling and breathtakingly beautiful.

Climbing Windmill Hill

Nearing the end of my first lap and re-entering Youghal, the strain of 56 miles and approximately 2,700 feet of elevation was starting to add up. Yet, looming ahead was the infamous challenge of Windmill Hill.

Windmill Hill is a brutal climb with a steep 25% grade. Youtube is full of videos of drained athletes toppling over midway up, their momentum and energy sapped. Even the athlete guide diplomatically hints: there's no dishonor in walking your bike up this monster, particularly during the second lap.

The hill remained hidden from view as I neared, but I could hear the echoing din of the crowd and an announcer's enthusiastic voice. Rounding a final sharp turn, I faced the beast. Such a gradient feels almost vertical, a challenge even on foot. Ahead, numerous athletes walked their bikes uphill.

At the base of the hill I crossed a timing mat, which relayed my identity to the announcer. “Here's Chris Redig from the United States!” he announced as the crowd roared. Despite my early resolve to remain seated, I found myself standing on the pedals almost immediately.

The climb was a barrage of cheers, claps and shouts. The road, constricted and lined with spectators, left just enough space to pass athletes walking their bike. Someone paced alongside me, his shouts cutting through the cacophony. “Don’t stop!” he urged.

Each pedal stroke was a struggle, the bike threatening to topple from my reduced speed. “Keep going!” he yelled. I knew if I tried to rest or take a break, I’d fall over. My legs were flooding with lactic acid.

“Smile! Don’t let us see how much it hurts.” I dug deep, kept going, and found myself cresting the top.

Climbing Windmill Hill rates as one of my all-time best fitness experiences. It was incredible, but costly. As I struggled to catch my breath, I knew my legs were destroyed, and then the realization hit: another lap awaited, complete with 56 more miles, another ascent up Windmill Hill, and a marathon to follow.

Biking Another 56 miles

Having conquered Windmill Hill, I found myself 3.5 hours into the ride at the halfway point. I started back alongside the coast, only to be met with an even fiercer wind gusting at about 30-35 kph.

Suddenly, a fellow athlete caught up to me. "Did you hear the news?" he inquired.

I shook my head, "No, what?"

"Two competitors didn't make it during the swim." My heart sank. After the race, there would be a lot of second guessing about holding a swim under such treacherous conditions. While tragic incidents do happen during Ironman swims, losing two athletes was exceedingly rare.

To provide some context: a standard Ironman usually sees a Did Not Finish (DNF) rate of around 5%. Meaning, those who invest the money, dedicate the hours to training, and make it to the starting line have a 95% chance of finishing.

However, nobody trains to swim in the aftermath of a storm. Out of the 640 entrants in the Full Ironman, 58 didn't cross the finish line — a DNF rate of nearly 10%. In the Half Ironman, with 1,553 entrants, a staggering 316 failed to finish, marking a 20% DNF rate.

While I don’t know exactly when these athletes dropped out, I’d wager the swim played a decisive role.

The second lap was excruciating. There was a brief respite when I turned Northeast and had the wind at my back. Alas, this was short-lived. By the time my route steered me Southeast, the treacherous wind had shifted southward, forcing me to battle against it during the final leg of the lap.

Facing Windmill Hill again, I heeded the Athlete Guide's wisdom. Instead of mounting another attempt, I dismounted and walked my bike up the steep incline. By the time I finished, 7.5 hours had elapsed since the start of my biking journey. The second lap had cost me an additional 30 minutes compared to the first, and overall, I was an hour behind my time at Ironman Copenhagen.

Running the Marathon

Stepping off the bike after 7.5 grueling hours was a profound relief. In Transition 2, I donned my running attire and downed a couple of salt tablets, ready to confront the marathon ahead. Certainty fueled me now: I would finish this race. With ample time before the final cutoff, all that remained was to keep going.

Describing the marathon at the end of an Ironman isn’t straightforward. Exercise science offers a theory called the Central Governor Model, which suggests that fatigue is the brain's safeguard, a way to avoid injuries and preserve energy for emergencies. As endurance athletes, we confront this internal adversary, negotiating with our subconscious as it factors in energy levels, waste accumulation, past experiences, muscle integrity, motivation, and even body heat. It's an intricate, if flawed, calculus designed to slow us down, to conserve. Our mission is to defy it. Thus, within our own mind a battle rages between our conscious and unconscious selves.

Amidst this inner conflict, a running partner can be a life saver. For a time, I ran with Andrew during his final lap and my second. I also ran for long stretches with some of the local Irish legends.

I kept a good pace for the first 13 miles, but by the final lap, I was walking a lot more than I had hoped. Yet, the spectators were a force unto themselves, driving every competitor forward. You simply couldn’t walk through downtown amid all their cheers and encouragement.

In one memorable instance, a spectator materialized beside me during a quieter downtown stretch. “What lap are you on?” he asked, as he started walking alongside me.

“Last one,” I replied, with a hint of pride.

“Almost there, and still looking good! The turn around is just a short way up ahead. I’m going to wait right here. I want you to run the whole way. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

I smiled and broke into a very uncomfortable trot. True to his word, 10 minutes later he was waiting for me. “That was fast!” he yelled with a smile.

Finally, 5.5 hours from the marathon start and 14 hours from the initial swim, the finish line loomed. It was night; yet, the finish chute was alive with spectators. I surged forward as the joy of finishing washed over all the aches, pains and cramps.

I’ve never been what you’d call a 'natural athlete'. My journey to health and fitness began earnestly only in my thirties. At 38, I ran my first marathon; triathlons didn't enter the picture until my forties. This narrative isn’t just mine — it could be yours.

I juggle family, business, and a general passion for fitness. I’m not chasing podiums; I race for the profound sense of discovery — every event peels back layers, revealing strengths I never knew I had. The adventure, the triumph over both the elements and the self, it’s priceless.

Thank you for following my journey.

If this story has ignited your interest, check out my other writings on ultra-endurance events.