Ironman Afghan

This is the afghan I worked on while I was on my trip to Hawaii for the 2022 Ironman. A brief explanation of how I ended up being able to do a dream/bucket list item: it was not because I was fast enough to qualify for the World Championships. I’m a dedicated triathlete and train every day, but I’m not talented. I started late, and I’m uncoordinated and I’m, well, mostly pretty ordinary except in my obsessive refusal to quit.

I ended up getting a chance to go to this iconic race as compensation for not being allowed to finish the 2021 Ironman that had been moved from Hawaii to St. George in May of 2022 because of Covid. Yes, Utah was like—we don’t care about Covid. Bring the international race and all the athletes and family here. We don’t need vaccines, either! And so the St. George Ironman that had been just a local race anyone could sign up for became the World Championships and I was THRILLED that I had a chance to do that race, even if it wasn’t in Hawaii.

But it was also the most difficult course in the world. (I am not exaggerating about this—I’ve heard multiple international pro athletes say it, and the statistics on the DNF rate here confirm that no other races loses that many athletes). It was not only extremely hot (around 95), but the last twelve miles of the bike were the most difficult of all the climbs. When I started up Snow Canyon, sixty miles after finishing the Veyo Wall), I shortly found myself the only athlete still on their bike. All over the sides of the road were racers off their bikes, waiting for an ambulance because of heat exhaustion, or trying to walk their bikes up the brutal mountain. I was slow, but I managed to get all the way up. I was triumphant and thought that even if I walked the run, I would be fine.

In this case, a course official pulled me off the course just after eleven pm, despite the race guide saying that the cut off time was later, despite us insisting that we were the last people in the water and that she was just taking off all the racers over age 50. She took off our chips, made us get into a sag vehicle to the finish line, where we didn’t get to cross and we had to go home without a medal or race T-shirt, or being told “You are an Ironman.” I was heartbroken. Two weeks later, the head of Ironman called me personally and offered me the chance to do Kona four months later as compensation. (She also sent me the race medal and other swag, and corrected the finisher list so that I was on it).

It was the most wonderful week of my life (not counting children’s births). I ran a GoFundMe and my friends donated almost the entire cost of the trip (Ironman only covered the race fee). A friend and one of my sisters came to support me. I had so much fun and yes, I also kept working on this crochet project. I’d started it on the plane flight over, where one of the women sitting next to me noticed the strawberry tattoo on my left wrist and asked me if it was for a child I’d lost. I don’t know how she knew, but she got to hear the whole story of Mercy’s stillbirth and me signing up for my first Ironman nine days later, so I could think about the future before me instead of the past I’d lost every day for the next year. I explained that I had been given a gift from the universe to do this race and I was enjoying every minute of it.

I walked almost every step of the run. Sometimes people would urge me to run, but I wasn’t interested in making my race go any faster, since I knew this would be the only time I would get to walk down Kali’I drive. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled as hard as I did in the photo of me holding my arms above my head for that race. And the next day, I started working on the circles for my new afghan, all sunshiney colors. Beach colors. Hawaii colors.

I don’t have this afghan in my home now. I very, very rarely give away my pieces to anyone outside of family (and even then not very often). If you know anyone who creates this kind of handworked art, they have probably told you that you can’t pay them enough for it. The materials cost hundreds of dollars, but it’s really about the time and the skill that go into it. Sometimes when I give a piece to a family member, I remind them that they are not allowed to send it to a thrift shop or to throw it away. They have to give it back to me if they no longer want it. Because in some way, these pieces are always mine.

But I had a friend who was struggling with her belief in her worthiness to remain alive. And she loved this piece. So I packaged it up and drove it to her house for Christmas that year. Because of family problems, she spent that Christmas almost entirely alone. She sent me a photo of its place in her house and I love knowing that it is there, a visible, physical reminder that she is loved enough to be gifted something that I spent hours working over, during some of the best days of my life.

It was tricky, putting all of the big and little circles together. I was using a photo of an afghan I saw online, but of course in my own way, changing almost everything about it. I used a fading color pattern from one end to the other. But to me, this piece is all about the best parts coming to you when you least expect them, and perhaps, least deserve them.