I am an Ironmom: my first Ironman Race Report

Once upon a time, on the chilly coast of Norway, I embarked on a journey that would test my limits in every possible way. I had left the heat of the Middle East, swapped sand dunes for fjords, and traded the comfort of family routines for the chaos of a solo adventure to my first Ironman. I was about to take on the Ironman Norway, or Cold Kona as they called it —a race known for its unpredictable weather, epic landscapes, and leg-crushing hills. From couch-bound mom to Ironman finisher, I battled storms, self-doubt, and SI joint pain to reclaim my fire. Here’s how I did it.

Arrival in the Land of Thunder and Ice

I stepped off the plane, coming from a blazing 40°C desert, into the chilly hug of a Norwegian summer. My body shivered in the 10°C air, while my mind tried to prepare for the brutal contrast. I had my bike box, my germ-fighting arsenal (mask, scarf, disinfectant), and an SI joint that had decided to lock up just days before. Perfect timing, right? I was a walking, creaking bundle of nerves and muscle spasms, already second-guessing my decision to sign up for this race.

A Family Surprise (or Not)

I had planned to surprise my parents with my Ironman debut. I imagined crossing the finish line and calling my dad, who would probably choke on his coffee when I said, “Oh, by the way, I just did an Ironman.” But my husband, the eternal voice of reason, convinced me to tell them ahead of time. Turns out, my dad was all in. He packed up his camper and drove 1,800 km from northern Finland to Norway, just to see me race. If that’s not a show of dad-level commitment, I don’t know what is.

The Swim: When Thor is Your Swim Buddy

Race morning hit like a slap in the face. I crawled out of bed at 3:45 a.m., choked down a pre-race breakfast, and shivered my way to the start line. The Norwegian national anthem played, tears streamed down my face, and I felt this overwhelming sense of purpose. This was my day.

Calm before the storm.

Then, like something straight out of Viking mythology, Thor decided to join the party. Lightning cracked across the sky as 500 of us waded into the chilly lake. I could almost hear the gods laughing. My first 200 meters felt like drowning. I gasped for air, my wetsuit felt like a straitjacket, and my heart pounded in my ears. I thought, “Am I seriously about to DNF at 200 meters?”

But I remembered why I was there. I thought of all the people tracking me on their Ironman apps, of my dad who had driven halfway across Norden, and of the years I’d spent dragging myself out of mom fog. I pulled it together, found my rhythm, and swam my way out of the storm, hitting the shore at 62 minutes—three minutes faster than my goal. I stumbled out of the water, buzzing with adrenaline.

The Bike: Hills, Thunder, and a Little Existential Crisis

I took my sweet time in transition, and forgot my heart rate belt. After a quick strip-down to fix that mistake, I hit the bike course, determined to stick to my race plan—75% of my functional threshold power. But here’s the thing about Norwegian weather: it doesn’t care about your power numbers. It threw rain, wind, and thunder at me like I had personally offended it. It was clear I had a long way to go before I could call myself an Ironmom.

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At one point, lightning struck so close I felt the hair on my arms stand up. I was deafened for a second, alone on a misty hill, wondering if this was the part where the race organizers would pull the plug. But they didn’t, and neither did I. I pushed on, grinding my way up and over those hills, my mind flicking between “You’ve got this” and “What the hell are you doing out here?”

Rain, wind and thunder with me.

The Run: When You’re Too Tired to Be Tired

I rolled into transition two with legs that felt like jelly and a groin that was practically screaming for mercy. But here’s the funny thing about Ironman races—you can hit rock bottom and still find a second wind. My mind flicked into survival mode, and I started picking off the cyclists who had blown past me earlier. I thought of my kids, my husband, my dad cheering me on, and I dug in.

About 15 km into the run, I hit the wall. I felt empty, drained, completely over it. My watch died at 35 km, and I was left with just my grit and a mental countdown to the finish line. I crossed that line nine minutes slower than my marathon PR, convinced I had barely scraped by, only to find out I had taken third in my age group. I had missed the Kona slot by an hour, but I had crossed the line, beaten the weather, and proven to myself that I could do hard things.

Nothing compares to the finish line feels

The Aftermath: Why Ironmoms Keep Coming Back

You’d think after all that I’d swear off Ironman races forever, but nope. I was hooked. There’s something addictive about pushing yourself to the edge, to that place where your mind screams “Quit!” and you scream back, “Not today.”

I’m stronger for it, more resilient, and more determined than ever to chase those big, scary goals.

So if you’re reading this and wondering if you can do it, if you’ve got what it takes to push through the fog and find your fire, let me be the first to tell you—you do. It’s already in you. You just have to go find it.

With fire and grit, Marjaana, aka Ironmom

📸 Follow me on Instagram @tiredmomruns

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My first Ironman in my favourite country in the world.