A Decade of Distance, a Battle with the Baltic, and a Finish Line Worth Every Mile
By Tricia Strelioff
The Long Road to Kalmar
The story of IRONMAN Sweden 2026 didn’t begin in Kalmar. It began four years earlier, riding the post-race high of IRONMAN Austria. That’s when Rory Brennan and I mapped out the next chapter of our IRONMAN journey, a chapter that would culminate in our 10th full-distance finish before Rory stepped back from the sport.
After conquering Lanzarote in May 2025, we set our sights on Sweden. Kalmar is tiny, expensive, and swamped with 3,000 athletes on race week, so accommodation is gold dust. I found a perfect little cottage and booked it 15 months in advance, much to the Airbnb host’s disbelief.
But the build was anything but smooth.
Injury, Doubt, and the Elliptical of Doom
A soleus injury during a Lanzarote training camp derailed my season. The T100 Athy entry was handed away. Running stopped. The focus shifted to simply making the start line for 70.3 Westfriesland.
Modified run and elliptical sessions became my life. Rehab replaced mileage. Galway roasted in a heatwave while I sweated through intervals on the dreaded elliptical. Somehow, I made it to Westfriesland and had a near run PB.
But the leg flared again. Another two-week break. More rehab. More elliptical. More mental gymnastics. By August 1st, I could run 8 km continuously. Not ideal, but enough.
Arrival in Sweden
On August 12th, we began a 15-hour travel day: taxi, Citylink, SAS, train, then our hobbit-sized cottage. Small, quirky, perfect. Close to everything.
Rice diet engaged. Race nerves simmering. Apple TV plugged in. European Athletics, swimming and Netflix. The holy trinity of taper entertainment.
Race Morning
Sleep was minimal. Up before the 4:15 a.m. alarm. Transition. Back to the cottage. Wetsuits on. March to bag drop.
The sun rose. The wind rose faster. The anthem played. Paul Kaye delivered one of those emotional speeches that tightens the chest.
Time to go.
Swim: 3.8 km
A Baltic Sea Brawl
Kalmar’s harbour is usually closed to swimmers, but not today. I seeded myself in the 1:10 corral, hoping to catch faster feet. This rolling start was unlike anything I’d
seen: no lanes, no pauses, just a continuous mass of athletes sprinting off a pontoon, 10-plus wide. Chaos.
The first kilometre was pure combat: kicks, swings and boxing matches at every buoy. My timing chip came loose, but stopping meant getting trampled. So I kept shwimming.
The final stretch through the harbour was electric. Crowds lined the bridges. The pinch points funnelled us like a circus act. At the exit pontoon, I threw my arms up and yelled, “Pull!” A volunteer hauled me upright like a rag doll.
Chip still attached. Barely.
T1: Efficiency Over Elegance
Low race number meant a quick arrival to my blue bag. Wetsuit off. Helmet and socks on. Snacks shoved down the front of my suit, where there was plenty of extra space 😅. Bike waiting in the nearest row to exit.
Shoes clipped in. Feet slipped in like slippers. Tailwind to the bridge. Bliss, for about 30 seconds.
Bike: 180 km
The Bridge, the Gusts, and the Boob Snacks
Kalmar’s iconic 10 km bridge is only open to bikes on race day, and the crosswinds were feral. The moment I hit the exposed section, a gust grabbed my Zipp 404 front wheel. Knuckles white. Gusts rising. Descending in crosswinds? Even worse.
Then I spotted a familiar arse: Rory, smiling in his aero bars. “Big girl pants, Trish. Trust the bike.”
Öland Loop: 100 km
The first 50 km were a block headwind scented with fresh silage. Crowds everywhere: music, bacon, coffee, parties. Even tiny houses had two supporters offering smiles and “Heja! Heja! Heja!”
Drafting trains streamed past. The motor marshal kept them somewhat honest. Several ended up in the penalty tent. Aid stations every 25 to 30 km felt like rolling buffet bars. I had carb bottles and “boob snacks”, so I grabbed cold water for entertainment.
The next 20 km flew by. Low watts, high speed. Then another turn into side and headwind. Cyclists fighting gusts. My meteorological brain worried about the return bridge, with winds now much stronger.
Return Bridge
The winds had escalated into a brutal mix of Connemara-strength force and Lanzarote-style gusts, the kind that hit from every angle and make your grip a little tighter. Up ahead, a cyclist had been blown into a traffic cone but was already being helped, so I kept my focus forward. I needed every ounce of concentration.
The descent off the bridge was lethal in those conditions, but this was where Lanzarote confidence kicked in. Trust the bike. Take a deep breath. Flat roads ahead.
Final Loop: 60 km
Technical, twisty, rolling, sheltered. My favourite part. Soon we turned for home. Carb bottles empty. Boob snacks gone. Bento box cleared. 510 g of CHO consumed. 181.8 km completed.
Feet hit the ground like stones. Note to self: more brick runs.
Run: 42.2 km
Crowds, Cobblestones, and the Long Unknown
Heat rising. Suncream on. Mouthwash to clear the sweet taste. Runners on. Minimal run prep meant this was uncharted territory.
The town centre loop was electric. Cobblestones demanded concentration. Crowds roared. Then onto the bike path beside our cottage: familiar and blessed with tailwind.
This section was a sensory overload: discos, parties, flashing lights, kids with signs, endless high-fives. Energy everywhere. We turned at 8.5 km, after peaceful forest paths gave way to AC/DC and DJ sets.
Back into town: headwind and what felt like all uphill. Into the track stadium for loop band number one. Out again through a partying park before we hit the town again. Restaurant revellers cheered while necking cold drinks. The smell of garlic nearly made me wretch.
Lap 2
Longest run since Westfriesland was 14 km. Now passed. Muscular fatigue rising. Heart rate steady. Soleus silent. A miracle. Dang, trust the physio 🤣
Tailwind and heat. Salt tablets, gels, caffeine, isotonic drinks. Aid stations every 2.5 to 3 km. Bliss.
By lap two, I was walking through aid stations. Quads screaming. Muscular fatigue very real. A loud whisper to self: back to a shuffle.
Final Lap
Last loop band collected. Cobblestones now monstrous. Road camber increasing. Old roads and old legs. Poor combination.
Watch ticked 42 km. I could hear the finish, but nothing was in sight. Stride lifted. Red carpet spotted. Magic legs arrived.
42.8 km. Finish time: 11:01.
Paul Kaye greeted me with a Galway welcome. Sweaty hug. Tear.
What Sweden Taught Me
IRONMAN is hard, but not impossible. There is no single route to the start line. Adapt. Modify. Accept.
Surround yourself with a good tribe of people you trust, and people who support your vibe. Nail your nutrition. It can make or break your day.
Use mental tricks: snacks, cold water, caffeine, a supporter’s cheer. Believe in yourself. Have mantras. Suffering is a privilege.
And when you can, grab a bell, a horn, a crazy hat, and support others the way they support you ❤️
