A Half Ironman? Are you completely mad?

Everyone Thought I'd Completely Lost the Plot

So, I announced I was signing up for a Half Ironman at 51, and the reactions were... well, let's just say they ranged from polite concern to "are you mad?"

My husband went noticeably quiet. He pulled that face he makes when he's trying to be supportive but secretly wondering who I thought I was deserting him and the boys and travelling off to the other side of the world. I knew it would be tough, particularly as we were going to a place that we had both fallen in love with over 25 years ago. The boys actually thought it was cool and thought the fact I would be leaving them in peace for a few weeks, even cooler! And my mum? Well, she was full of excitement and enthusiasm and thought the adventure would do us both good and that of course we would be brilliant.

The big question was how I was going to be able to fit the training in around work, family, and household chores. The answer was simple I would get up early and make use of my two half days and lunch hours. I could make it work so that it would have minimal impact on our lives.

Here's What Nobody Warns You About

Suddenly, you're the odd one out. The one with the "crazy" goal while everyone else is perfectly content with their comfortable routines. One of my friends asked "Why?" I said, "I need to do it for me." I had a burning passion to do something incredible, and this was it. I was buzzing. I felt alive. I had a challenge ahead of me and I was going to absolutely embrace it.

I'd mention my training sessions and watch people's faces change. That polite interest followed by the quick subject change. The way conversations moved on to safer topics like the weather or what was on Netflix. That’s when I learned to only tell people if they actually asked!

It felt like I was speaking a different language. When I was excited about riding my bike with cleats for the first time without falling off, they thought I had lost the plot. When I talked about brick sessions (that's bike-to-run training for the uninitiated), they looked at me like I was describing some medieval form of torture. Which, to be fair, isn't entirely inaccurate.

The hardest moments weren't during training—they were at family gatherings, or normal social situations where my new obsession made me feel like a complete alien. I started editing myself, toning down my enthusiasm, pretending it wasn't as important to me as it actually was. The truth of the matter is you realise that you are doing something quite niche, particularly for women, where triathlon is something predominantly done by men. So, it is hard to explain to someone who has no understanding of it. It actually makes it more exciting because you are doing something different. Its not easy because if it was everyone would be doing it and that is what made it exciting.

Then Something Funny Happened

Eventually, it became quite liberating. When everyone expects you to fail anyway, there's no pressure to be perfect. When they've already written you off as "going through a phase," every small victory becomes your own private celebration.

That scepticism? It lit a fire I didn't know I had. Every "are you sure about this?" became a reason to prove them wrong. Every concerned look became fuel for another training session.

I remember one particularly brutal swim session where I could barely complete the set. I was close to tears, every one else was stronger and faster than me, feeling like maybe they were right—maybe I was too old, too slow, too delusional. But then I thought about all those faces, all that doubt, and something stubborn inside me said, "Sod this. I'm not giving them the satisfaction."

The Beautiful Irony

The people who doubted me weren't wrong about one thing: I had lost my mind. I'd lost the mind that told me I was past it, too old for adventures, destined for a slow fade into irrelevance. I'd lost the mind that kept me small, safe, and predictable.

What I found instead was a mind that could push through 5am alarms, that could calculate training splits, that could visualise crossing finish lines. A mind that was interested in what I might be capable of rather than convinced of my limitations.

Your People Will Find You

Not everyone will understand your journey, and that's okay. But you'll be amazed at who emerges from the woodwork to support you. That colleague who mentions she used to run marathons. The neighbour who offers to lend you a bike pump. The friend who starts asking genuine questions about your training instead of polite ones about your sanity.

You'll also discover online communities, training groups, and fellow "crazy" people who get it. Who understand why you'd voluntarily get up at 5am to jump in a cold lake. Who celebrate when you manage your first open water swim or complete your longest bike ride.

What I Actually Learnt

Their concern came from love, even if it didn't always feel that way. They wanted to protect me from disappointment, failure, embarrassment. What they didn't understand was that I was already living with disappointment—the disappointment of potential unexplored, of dreams quietly shelved.

If You're Standing Where I Was

If you've got a goal that scares you and a chorus of voices questioning your sanity, here's what I want you to know: their doubt doesn't define your capability. Their fear doesn't dictate your future. Their inability to see your potential doesn't diminish it. It actually makes you more determined and sets your soul on fire.

Yes, you might be "too old" or "too slow" or starting "too late" by conventional standards. But conventional standards are written by people who've forgotten what it feels like to surprise themselves.

The moment you stop seeking permission from people who've never pushed their own boundaries is the moment you start writing your own story.

So let them think you've lost your mind. Let them worry about your "phase." Let them exchange concerned looks when you mention your training. One friend said, "I can’t wait until you’ve got this out of the way, and we can get back to normal." I didn’t think that I wanted to get back to routine and normality.

But never mind about that, I was busy proving to them that losing my mind might be the sanest thing I had ever done.

What "crazy" goal are you afraid to announce? What would you attempt if you knew you couldn't fail—or better yet, if you knew that even "failing" would teach you something amazing about yourself?

The people who matter will come around. The people who don't... well, they were never really part of your journey anyway.

Time to lose your mind in the best possible way.