It seems pretty easy to me.
I can already see some people jumping up at the very idea: “What? A 1.9-km swim, a 90-km bike ride, and a half-marathon—easy?”
Maybe not, no. But my feeling throughout the six-hour race was that of a measured, balanced, fluid, and appropriate effort. That was the only goal I’d set for myself when, five months ago, I decided to do my first half Ironman—or 70.3 miles.
I’m new to triathlon—or almost. After much hesitation—too hard, too scared, too time-consuming, not strong enough, etc.—I signed up for Triathl’Aix last October, less than a year ago. I had only a very vague idea of the possible race formats or the type of effort required; I’d just started road cycling that summer and thought that riding 20 km was my limit.
Then, as the months went by and I put in hours of training, I gained confidence. I worked on my stride and began to appreciate the lightness and power of a foot that touches the ground with the ball, barely grazing it before bouncing off. The feeling of being full of potential, precise in my foot placement, and breathing smoothly.
I grew to love swimming more and more. The sound of exhaling underwater, the push of my hand, and the sensation of gliding that followed. The black line at the bottom, always in my sights, lap after lap.
I stuck close to my cycling friends—especially Elise. Sheltered behind her, for long kilometers, I followed her pace and soaked in the rugged, arid landscapes of our Provence. I also rode alone, through the fern-filled forests of Limousin, on deserted roads and through countryside that smelled like my childhood.
This summer, I also cycled along the coast of Brittany, ran through the dunes, and swam in the waves. Sometimes it hurt; I often found the long, hours-long efforts difficult, but I also loved the solitude and have always been curious about my relationship with my body and physical exertion.
I’ve worked with my body the same way I work with my mind through meditation. I’ve grown familiar with it; I’ve seen that nothing in my sensations is fixed or solid, that discomfort and discouragement pass, and that space can be cultivated even within tension and strength.
I think what interests me in long-duration efforts like marathons and long-distance triathlons is finding that right balance—that completely honest relationship with my body—which is neither complacency nor violence. Not letting my perception become fixed and define my experience. Feeling that a contracting muscle is a source of power and not necessarily pain. Feeling my breath quicken as a surge of energy rather than as shortness of breath. To stop struggling, even in the midst of the effort. To appreciate every moment, as a moment of life, with no goal other than to be present here and now.
I ran without a watch this Sunday for my first half Ironman, and I crossed the finish line without even thinking to check the time. My race was a success because I didn’t just endure it—I truly experienced it in that strange threshold where discomfort becomes space and constantly pushes the boundaries of what’s possible a little further.