Norseman is a race I dreamed about. From the moment it landed on my radar, I knew I would be there someday. I watched every video they put out multiple times and absorbed every incredible image they posted. I made it there this year, but life is full of curveballs. Dealing with the disappointment over how things went has been a struggle, but I've been working to detach myself from the outcome and focus on the incredible experiences that got me to and through the struggles that day.

Norseman is an Ironman distance triathlon, 2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike, and 26.2-mile run, but each leg goes to the extreme. The swim is in a fjord that can be as cold as 50°F. There is around 11,000 feet of climbing on the bike, 5,000 feet in the first 20 miles. You end up higher than you start, descending 3,000 feet less than you climb across the distance. The first 15 miles of the run are relatively flat, slightly rolling, but then you climb around 6,000 feet to the top of the highest peak in Northern Europe, with the last 3 miles on a rocky trail. The race is notorious for bad weather, where it is regularly rainy, and temperatures can plunge into the 30s. All those factors have led to its being considered the toughest triathlon in the world.

There is one twist, though. There are two different finishes. The first 160 people to reach the final 5k finish the trail section up to the mountain's highest point and receive a black finisher's shirt. After that, everyone finishes the final 5k on the road and gets a white finisher's shirt.

I wanted that black shirt.

Aside from my desire to tackle an epic challenge like Norseman, I have Norwegian ancestry and have always wanted to visit. The town my family came from when they migrated to the US happens to be 30 minutes from where the race starts, in a small village in a remote area in the middle of the country. My Mom, Grandmother, and Aunt had visited this town around 30 years ago, meeting some of our distant relatives. This connection made the opportunity even more meaningful.

It is not easy to get into, however. Only around 250 people get to race, likely because there are no aid stations, and everyone needs a support crew to follow them across the country in a car. There is a lottery, but around 10,000 people apply each year. In the lottery, they also cap the number of participants from different countries and ensure a good gender balance to ensure equal representation regardless of who applies and from where. Each consecutive year you apply, you get an additional entry. People have entered the lottery for over eight years before winning a spot.

Being relatively new to triathlon, even though I wasn't entirely ready for the challenge, I started applying last year, hoping to get in sometime in the next four to five years after more training. I applied for the second time this year and, to my shock and slight terror, got the email that I was in. I knew I had a lot of work to do.

Having done a 100-mile ultramarathon with over 14,000 feet of climbing on pretty rough trails last year, I wasn't overly concerned about the run. I was eagerly looking forward to the final trail portion, which is my favorite type of terrain to tackle. The finish up the mountain was the part I was most excited about because that was my strength.

I've also spent several years working on cold-water swimming, bumping up my efforts this year to the point where I regularly swim in water in the low 30s without a wetsuit. You must have a wetsuit and are allowed gloves, boots, and a neoprene cap. The water temperature was something I was more than ready to handle.

My biggest concern was the bike leg. Biking is by far my weakest discipline, and it's the thing I enjoy doing the least. I lucked out, though. I recently moved to Kingston, NY, where I met a community of triathletes in the perfect place to train for climbing.

I rode regularly with my neighbor Ian, a much stronger rider than I am. That adage that you get better by doing things with people who are better than you is very accurate. After several months, I felt like a different person, much stronger than I had been.

Doing events like the Cabin Challenge Full Monty and the most difficult 150 miles possible at the Ride For Mental Health instilled confidence. I also joined an annual trip to Lake Placid for a weekend of swimming, riding, and a little running, which kicked off with an 8-mile, 3,500-foot climb up Whiteface Mountain.

When I landed in Norway, I was ready. The black shirt was in my sight.

I got to Norway about a week ahead of time, planning to overcome the jet lag and do some sightseeing before the race. On Wednesday, three days before the race on Saturday, I spent the day at museums and found a beautiful restaurant overlooking the Oslofjord to have dinner. That is where everything went wrong.

I woke up in the middle of the night with my stomach doing backflips. I spent the night and morning before I had to pick my brother up at the airport, puking and crapping my brains out. I picked up my brother and drove five and a half hours to Eidfjord, where the race started. I ate a couple of pastries, desperately trying not to throw up. The next day, the day before the race, was the same. I ate what little I could, praying it would stay in to give me some energy for the next day. Any idea of carb loading was out the window. I was desperately fighting to keep down a single carb.

We went to bed that night, hoping it would clear up by the time we had to get up at 2 a.m. to check in and reach the ferry, which takes you out into the fjord for the swim start. I fell asleep almost instantly, something that had never happened before a race. Then, not long after, our neighbors came in loudly, waking me up. I tried to fall back asleep, but my stomach felt terrible. I didn't want to puke up the few calories I'd eaten that day, but after several hours, I gave in and puked up everything inside of me. I had hoped for a better sign 6 hours before the race started.

Luckily, the weather was perfect: no wind, around 60°F, and a mostly cloudy sky. In my condition, that is what I needed. Some people were disappointed that the weather wouldn't be typical, adding to the challenge of the course, but I didn't need any more challenges than I was already facing.

Heading to the ferry, I was afraid. Given how the past two days had gone, I wasn't sure I should start the race. Everything was fine when I swam the day before and I felt physically and mentally capable, but I was worried about how my depleted body would react to the stress of swimming in a crowd of people for 2.4 miles. But I've had food poisoning before, and I knew I would turn the corner any time. I only felt nauseous and hoped it would break in time to fight for that top 160.

Getting on the ferry, I hoped luck was on my side. As everyone sat waiting, most staring blankly into space, a few chatting, and others nervously swinging their arms, I forced down a muffin, hoping it would give me some energy to start the day.

We jumped off the ferry into smooth, cold water and swam nearly 300 yards to the kyacks that marked the starting line. There, we waited, treading water in silence and the dim light of morning for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, the ferry blew its horn, and we were off.

Swimming is my favorite thing. I feel the most relaxed in the water, even surrounded by hundreds of other people flailing their arms and legs. But this day, I was anxious. I knew I hadn't eaten in two days. I knew I wasn't healthy. I had no idea how my body would react, and that's not a great headspace to be in while you're in an open body of water where it would be tough for anyone to tell if you were in trouble.

I just swam, though, and for a while, I felt good. I had started in the front, and very few people were passing me. Then the nausea hit.

Puking while swimming is surprisingly easy. Instead of breathing out, you just let the muffin you ate out. I puked twice along the way, and all my hopes of being on the other side vanished.

My energy was already waning. I knew this day would be a battle against attrition. I had to do everything I could to use as little energy as possible. I was already significantly depleted and would not be able to add anything throughout the day. I found someone's feet and coasted through the last 2000 yards. Surprisingly, I was 63rd out of the water, which is excellent given the circumstances.

Then, my brother helped me get going on my bike. My biggest challenge was coming up. 5,000 feet of nonstop climbing over the next 20 miles. This section would tell me exactly how my day would go and whether there was a chance of finishing, much less pushing for the finish I wanted.

I knew I was in trouble almost immediately. I gave it everything I had and looked down to see my power was at 120 watts, at least half what I expected. It was clear there was no gas in the tank, but I kept moving forward.

I tried drinking Tailwind, hoping it would make it through the barrier into my system, but it didn't. I puked that out, too.

After reaching the top of the climb, you go downhill for a while before spending time on a plateau. I suddenly couldn't keep my eyes open, going 30-40mph down these hills. I hadn't felt tired before then, but it fell on me like a ton of bricks.

I knew my only chance at continuing was to sleep. At the next stop, I told my brother to wake me up in ten minutes. I lay down on my back with my helmet on and everything behind a picnic table and fell asleep almost instantly. I woke up about seven minutes later. I didn't feel great, but I felt alive again.

Around that point, unable to keep anything else down, we switched the plan to water and electrolyte tablets, knowing that was the bare minimum to get through the day without becoming dangerously depleted.

I slowly pushed on, taking the course ten kilometers at a time, with every marker on the side of the road. The support from the other crews and locals who spent the day on the side of the road, cheering everyone on, was incredible.

One group of young guys and girls leapfrogged me, blaring music from a Bluetooth speaker, dancing and cajoling me to the top of the climbs. I'm sure they were following someone behind me, but it felt like they were out there for me, cheering me on by name by the end.

With around 40 kilometers to go and not having puked in several hours, I decided to try some Cliff Bloks. I ate a few. Everything seemed okay for a while, so I tried some more and felt a ray of hope enter the day. So, greedily, I ate more and more, desperate for something in my stomach.

That is when things fell apart completely. Suddenly, with around 20 miles to go, virtually all downhill, my stomach revolted. I spent nearly 10 miles going downhill extremely fast, spewing purple Cliff Blok-infused water on and over my right shoulder. Fortunately, I was descending much faster than the few people I did see, as far back as I was at that point, so nobody was in danger of getting puke sprayed in their faces.

That was it. My day was over. I couldn't stop throwing up, and I was so far behind there was no way I could not finish before the cut-off.

Dejectedly, I reached the end of the bike ride, ready to head to the car.

That is when my brother pulled me out of my despair and reset my mindset. He explained that he had spoken with the race official. As long as I walk-ran the marathon, I would finish. I still had a chance, so I threw on my running shoes.

Before heading out, I went to the bathroom and had four firehose pukes that I didn't think happened in real life. It was straight out of an SNL skit where they have the hose behind their face. At that point, I felt much better—not good, but at least like I didn't need to puke.

I ran for a few miles before my stomach turned again. It was a constant battle for the whole marathon. When I was able to run, I could easily cruise at a 7:30-8:00 minute per mile pace, but then I would need to puke again and walk until my stomach settled back down.

Countless locals spectating, chanting "Heiya! Heiya! Heiya!" kept my legs moving forward.

My brother was able to join me for the last 10 kilometers. It was great to spend that time together after everything we'd gone through that day. Eventually, 18 hours and 5 minutes after starting, we made it to the finish line together. It wasn't the finish line I had hoped for, but I was lucky to make it there, given the circumstances.

The beauty of race is one of those things that words can't describe. The Norseman people post countless incredible pictures and videos and talk about it often, but nothing does it justice. You are riding along cliff edges, looking into deep ravines with rivers rushing by. You pass countless stunning waterfalls, crashing down endless cliffs. On the plateau, you are looking across a vast expanse of muted green, devoid of trees, dotted with massive, weathered boulders, interrupted by ample deep blue-green lakes begging you to jump in, surrounded by snowy peaks reflected across their surface. There is no way to do justice to what it felt like to be there.

The swim is one of the most incredible swims you will ever do, as long as you can get comfortable with the temperature. You can tell there is salt in the water, but the water is not salty. Words can't describe how perfect it was.

The bike course is challenging, but it is more consistent than hard. Nothing is exceptionally steep. The first 20 miles are relentless, and then there are three 700-1,000-foot climbs back to back at the end, which average around 7°. If you train right and challenge yourself in the mountains, you can be ready for what you'll face.

Given my position in the race, I missed the trail part and finished on the road instead. That still involved over 3,500 feet of climbing. It will prepare you if you go trail running. You could also spend hours on a stair climber, but that's less fun. You must be ready to go straight up for the last 11 miles of the day. It isn't easy, but it's something you can prepare for.

I have never been more ready for a race than I was coming into this one. I knew I could get that black shirt if nothing went seriously wrong. Unfortunately, something did.

It was such a huge disappointment, and I still feel sad for missing that opportunity, but coming home to such a great community has been incredible. Everyone has been so supportive, and they have helped me reframe my perspective from feeling like a defeat to one of a victory. I didn't end up with the day I wanted, but I gave it everything I had to offer, and that's the only thing you can do. Making it to the finish line in my condition was an achievement of its own.

Since then, I've looked at what this last year brought me. I've made so many new friends training for this race. I participated in several incredible events for the first time, preparing myself to face this challenge. In conversations about it, I learned so many cool things about different people in my life. The build-up for this has significantly impacted my life, far outweighing what happened that day.

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