Jay Brace Triathlete

Below is a song that was played many times throughout the week, at the race briefing and the ferry before I made the jump, play it on your own device while reading to gain an understanding of my emotions.

Race week

There’s no better feeling than race week.

A whole year of training. A whole year of getting your body to the start line in the best shape possible. A year of trying to stay healthy, stay injury-free and do everything you can to give yourself the best chance when that one day finally arrives.

And then, suddenly, you’re there.

The work is done. There’s nothing more you can do. It’s time to fuel, rest, take it all in and soak up the atmosphere.

Of course, you’re nervous, but there’s something beautiful about those nerves. They remind you that you’re alive. They remind you that you care. You’ve worked for this moment, and now it’s finally here.

🇳🇴  Norway

We landed in Norway and, honestly, I was completely taken aback.

What a beautiful country.

Everywhere you looked there were mountains, incredible scenery and roads that seemed almost too perfect to be real. I remember feeling incredibly grateful that I’d been given the opportunity to race in a place like this.

But we hadn’t come to Norway just to take in the scenery. We’d arrived a week early with a clear purpose: to learn the bike course.

My biggest focus was the descents. The course was brutally hilly, so I knew that if I could learn the descents, find the right lines and build enough confidence to let the bike run, this was one area where I could potentially gain some time.

Then, unfortunately, there was a problem.

I unpacked my bike the night we arrived, ready for a three-hour ride the following morning. I checked everything over, got it ready to go and then tried the gears.

Nothing.

They weren’t responding.

That horrible feeling immediately kicks in. Your mind starts racing and you begin thinking about everything that could go wrong. You’ve spent a whole year preparing for this race and suddenly, something completely outside your control could potentially threaten everything.

I tried not to think about the worst-case scenario.

It’s okay. You’ve got a week. There’s time to fix it.

Luckily, my dad stepped in and drove endlessly from place to place trying to get it sorted. In the meantime, we did what we could.

We controlled the controllable.

I got out onto the course and rode some of it in one gear. It certainly wasn’t ideal, but sitting around worrying wasn’t going to make the problem disappear. So we kept moving forward and made the most of the situation.

The whole bike needed stripping and rewiring, but luckily, day by day, the bike problem got closer to being solved.

Then, finally, I got it back. it was in better condition than it had been before.

That was a huge relief. I could finally stop worrying about the bike and start focusing completely on the race.

The mountains were waiting.

The start line was getting closer.

A year’s worth of training was about to come down to one day.

And now, there were no excuses.

Race morning

Everything had been prepared the night before. Kit ready, nutrition prepared, bike checked and rechecked. There was nothing left to do. No more preparations, no more things to worry about. After a year of training, all that was left was to wake up and race.

The alarm went off at  12:45am. I’d had less than an hour’s sleep, but honestly, I was happy with that. I really hadn’t expected to sleep at all. The familiar mixture of nerves and excitement was already there.

This is it.

This is what you’ve worked so hard for. A whole year of training, sacrifices and trying to get yourself into the best possible shape, all leading to this moment. I was only a few hours away from finding out whether I could turn those dreams I’d been having for the past year into reality.

I was finally about to find out what I had.

We made our way towards the start while the rest of the world was still asleep. It was pitch black and less than  2°C, and I sat in the car with my headphones in, looking out at all the other athlete cars making their way towards the start.

There was something about seeing all those cars that made it feel real. Everyone was heading to the same place, carrying their own hopes, nerves and expectations for what the day might bring.

The atmosphere was completely different from the days before. You could feel the nervous energy everywhere. Athletes moving quietly, bikes being rolled into position, nutrition bottles being checked for the final time. Everyone seemed to be lost in their own thoughts, going through their own routines and trying to stay calm.

Then I saw the ferry.

It was lit up against the darkness, and it was much bigger than I had expected. I remember feeling quite daunted by it. This was the ferry I had pictured so many times in my dreams — the ferry that was about to take me towards the start of something that felt bigger than me.

It suddenly hit me.

I was here. It was actually happening.

I hugged my family and said my final goodbyes. There’s something very strange about saying goodbye to the people who have supported you throughout the whole journey, knowing that when you next see them, you’ll have already gone through something you’ve spent a year preparing for.

I then got onto the ferry and looked around at the other athletes, and it was such a unique experience. Grown adults were crying, some were laughing nervously, while others sat completely still, staring into the darkness.

For a moment, I felt incredibly alone.

But at the same time, I knew we were all in it together. Everyone there had their own story, their own reasons for being there and their own doubts about what the next few hours would bring. We were all about to step into the unknown together.

So I put my head down and tried to warm my freezing body up.

There was nothing left to do now. Somewhere in the darkness ahead, the start line was waiting.

A year’s worth of work was about to come down to one day.

One race.

One chance to find out what I was capable of.

It was almost time.

The swim

The race marshals started shouting, “It’s time to jump!”

I looked down at my watch. 4:40am.  Twenty minutes until the horn.

There was a bit of gamesmanship going on. Nobody wanted to be the first one in. The longer you stayed out of the water, the warmer you stayed, and once you jumped, you were committed to sitting in freezing water until the  start. I looked over towards the start line, roughly 600 metres away, and knew I didn’t want to be rushing to get there at the last minute. Equally, I didn’t want to arrive too early and spend t wenty minutes treading water before we were even racing.

So I made the decision to jump.

I was one of the first ten athletes into the water.

The jump was higher than I expected and gave me that horrible feeling where your stomach turns upside down. I surfaced, took a breath and started swimming slowly towards the kayaks in the distance. Their torches were glowing through the darkness, and they were pretty much the only things I could see.

I looked back and saw a line of athletes behind me, quietly drafting off my feet and conserving their energy. I reached the kayaks as one of the first athletes there, and when I looked back, some people hadn’t even made the jump yet. In that moment, I knew I’d made the right decision.

Then came the wait.

As we held position at the start, I noticed the kayaks were fighting hard to stay where they were. So were we. The tide was going out against us, and the current was far stronger than I had expected. For a moment, that could easily have planted a seed of doubt, but I tried not to let it. We were all facing exactly the same conditions. There was nothing I could do about the current, so I simply accepted that the swim might be slower than planned and focused on what I could control.

Then the horn went.

Some athletes still hadn’t even made it to the start line. My decision to jump early had been the right one.

All the waiting was over.

The nerves were gone.

There was no more fear.

I was now racing the Norseman.

I had a plan, and I just needed to trust it.

Find feet.

It was pitch black. There was nothing to sight and no obvious reference point to follow. All I could see were the occasional lights from the kayaks in the distance. I had no choice but to trust the people around me and believe that we were all heading in the right direction.

My watch was set to buzz every 500 metres, so I started counting them down in my head, trying to work out where I was and how much further I had to go.

The swim gave me plenty of time to think.

As I settled into the rhythm, my mind started going back through the year. The early mornings. The hard sessions. The days when I didn’t want to train but did it anyway. The sacrifices, the setbacks and all the moments when the finish line felt so far away.

And now I was actually here.

Floating in the darkness, surrounded by people I didn’t know, I reminded myself why I had come.

You’re here, mate.

People are rooting for you.

Give it everything you have.

Eventually, through the darkness, I finally caught sight of the buoy.

The swim was almost over.

I looked back and could see more than half the field still behind me. I looked down at my watch.

1:24.

Given the strength of the current and the tide, it was quicker than I had expected.

I remember thinking, well done, kid.

One part of th e Norseman was done.

And now, finally, it was time for my favourite part.

The bike

I had my dad help me change in T1. I was too cold to do it alone.

Normally, transitions are about being as quick as possible. Every second counts. But this race was different. It wasn’t about saving a few seconds; it was about calming everything down, making sure everything was where it needed to be, and making sure the plan was firmly stuck in my head.

In a race like this, missing one thing can be the difference between making it and not.

Eight minutes later, I was away.

As I clipped in, I saw my family and managed to have a quick chat with them. I didn’t know it at the time, but that would be the last time I’d have the energy to speak to them for the rest of the race.

The first 40km was all uphill, and I knew this was going to be one of the most important parts of the day.

For the past two years, I’d struggled with a niggling back injury. The combination of freezing temperatures and an instant effort on the climb was exactly the situation I wanted to avoid.

So I backed off.

I watched athlete after athlete pass me, and I hated it. Every instinct was telling me to go with them, but I knew I had to trust the plan and play the long game.

The scenery made it slightly easier to forget about the race. Waterfalls dropped down the mountains, tunnels disappeared into the clouds and the road seemed to wind endlessly upwards. I’d seen this place in photographs, but now I was actually riding through it.

It felt like I was in a movie.

Eventually, I made it to the top in decent time and saw my support crew waiting on the plateau for the first nutrition stop.

My back had held.

I knew I’d made the right decision.

From there, it was time to start racing.

I began putting the power down and slowly started bringing back the athletes who had passed me on the climb.

By Geilo, around 60 miles in, I started seeing familiar faces again.

We hit another climb, but this time my back was warm and I could finally push. One by one, I started overtaking people. Then more. And more.

The further the climb went, the more positions I gained.

Supporters drove past shouting that they thought I was around 135th, and I knew there were still plenty of places to make up.

I kept pushing and eventually descended the other side completely alone.

There was just one more major climb left.

Mount Imingfjell — the Norwegian Alpe d’Huez. 

About halfway up, my back gave way. The pain was instant. 

I knew I was in trouble.

There was still a lot of climbing left, but there was nothing I could do except keep moving. I just had to get to the top.

I knew my supporters would be there.

And from there, it was downhill.

So I kept going.

I reached the summit with my back and legs screaming, only to be hit by one of the strongest headwinds I’d faced all day.

And I was completely alone.

With nobody around to work with, I had to get as aero as possible just to make any progress. Every time I tucked down, my back screamed at me.

Eventually, I reached the descent.

This was the section I had practised over and over again. I knew how fast it could be if you could stay aero and commit to it.

But my back wouldn’t let me.

While others flew past, I was forced to crawl down the mountain, watching more and more positions disappear.

It felt like all the training I’d done for that descent had been wasted.

For the first time that day, I felt like I had nothing left.

I started thinking about the people waiting for me in T2.

I started wondering how I was going to tell them that my body had finally beaten me.

But I couldn’t tell them the full story.

Not yet.

Time: 7 hours 16 minutes

The run

I arrived in T2 and was met by my dad and sister, but I got off my bike and lay on the floor. My back was in pieces. I told them how bad it was, but underneath it all there was a thought I couldn’t bring myself to say out loud: how am I supposed to run another 13 miles and then climb a mountain when I can barely sit up? In that moment, I genuinely thought it might be over.

But I didn’t say it. I couldn’t. I still wanted to run until I blew up, to give everything I had and, whatever happened, be able to look back knowing I had left nothing behind. My dad and sister got me dressed, I stretched, and within five minutes I was back out on the course. It was time to find out what was left.

For the first time, I saw my official position: 123rd. I was happy with that, but I also knew the athletes behind me wouldn’t be far away. If I wanted to hold it, I was going to have to put in a shift — and I wasn’t convinced my body had one left.

The run started in pure agony. My back was screaming and my legs felt like lead. I’ve done enough races now to know the difference between normal fatigue and real pain. This was real pain. I spotted a lad ahead running at a pace I knew I should be capable of holding, so I made the decision to catch him. If we could talk, I thought, maybe I could take my mind off it. We spoke about the race, how it had gone so far, what we were aiming for. I was genuinely happy to see him hold pace. 

But I couldn’t.

Eventually I pulled over. A tear ran down my face as I asked myself: why is this happening to me, why now? I looked behind and saw a wave of athletes coming, ready to take my place. Maybe it was their day. Maybe it wasn’t mine.

Then my support car appeared.

They pulled over, refilled my bottles, rubbed ibuprofen gel into my back, and asked how I was. I still didn’t have the heart to tell them the truth. They drove off, and  then something shifted.

I had a flashback of my sister running beside me for hours on a treadmill, uphill, preparing for Zombie Hill. I thought of my dad getting up early, putting himself through the same brutal sessions. I thought of the hugs before the ferry, the training, the sacrifices, the people who had given their time and belief to get me to that start line.

Was I really going to let all of that be for nothing?

Absolutely not.

There comes a point in endurance racing where the body says it’s done. But when the body quits, you can ask the mind to take over. So I set off again. Slower. Easier. But forward. And I didn’t stop again until Zombie Hill.

The pain never left. But while my body was breaking down, my mind was building something else entirely.

Every time I saw the support car, I knew I was one step closer to Zombie Hill. And strangely, I started to look forward to it. Because getting there meant I could walk. It meant I would have my sister beside me. It meant I wouldn’t have to do it alone.

Then I saw it — the mountain. Right there in front of me. The road stretched endlessly towards it, but I knew I wasn’t far away. Just keep moving forward. 

I arrived at Zombie Hill, and my sister was there waiting, ready to take on the next ten miles uphill with me.

I was told I was now in 140th position.

My first instinct was to turn around and check how many were behind me. Did we still have a chance at the black T-shirt?

There was nobody.

For the first time all day, I felt a wave of relief. I turned back towards the mountain and could see athletes in the distance ahead. I took some painkillers, flipped a gear, and went after them.

We walked the first straight, then started running.

And somehow, as the gradient got steeper, we got stronger. We began running more often, and at a better pace. One athlete became two, then another. We started picking them off one by one.

And my sister was unbelievable.

Without her, I honestly think the race would have been over. She kept me moving when everything in me was screaming to stop. 

Eventually, after a brutal ascent, we reached the black T-shirt cut-off.

Somehow, I had clawed my way back to around 127th.

Black T-shirt earned.

I remember looking up at the mountain and thinking, thank you.

I don’t even know exactly who I was saying it to. Maybe something bigger than me. Maybe just gratitude for still being there in that moment.

Thank you to my support crew — not just the two beside me, but my whole family who had been part of this journey.

Thank you to everyone back home who sent messages, followed along, and believed in me when I wasn’t sure I believed in myself.

And thank you to Norseman, for one of the most beautiful, brutal and unforgettable days of my life.

My dad was waiting at the cut-off.

Together, the three of us would take on the final three miles to the summit.

I had pictured this moment so many times — walking together, taking in the view, laughing, feeling relief as the finish came into sight.

It was nothing like that.

Every step onto another boulder drained what little energy I had left. The altitude hit. I started seeing things twice. The weather turned, hail began to fall, and the summit seemed to move further away with every step.

But we kept going, and then, finally, we were close.

I remember getting emotional. Looking back at everything it had taken to get there — the training, the sacrifices, the pain, the doubt, It had all led to this exact step. And then the Norseman finish. With a black T-shirt coming home to Tenby.

I crossed the line in 14 hours and 47 minutes.

123rd position.

Black T-shirt earned.

Norseman took everything I had, but provided me with memories I’ll never forget.

Thank-you

Finally, a few shoutouts to give out:

Thank you to my support crew, we made a plan but we were stepping into the unknown, you two were awesome. You didn’t miss a thing and I wouldn’t have done it without you

Thank you to my family, especially my mum, you trained with and supported me all year, definitely making any tough session that bit easier 

Thank you to my Girlfriend, Emma, your patience is something else, and your support is never ending. 

Thank you to my coach, you put just as much sweat as I did into this race, which also wouldn’t have been possible without you. 

Thank you to everyone who donated, you put your money and trust into me and I am forever grateful for all of you. 

Thank you to every single person who sent a message of support, it really does go far.

No one can do it for you, but there’s a team behind the result. 

Unseen photos