館山わかしおトライアスロン2024 レースレポート：苦しい準備期間を越えてつかんだ自己ベスト

On May 26, 2024, I raced the 15th Tateyama Wakashio Triathlon, an Olympic-distance event held at Okinoshima Island in Chiba. This race is part of the National Championship Series and is known for two things in particular: strong competition and a unique setting. Athletes get to race on the grounds of the Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force Tateyama Air Base, and the swim takes place in famously clear water. It is easy to understand why the event has built such a strong reputation.  

The weeks before the race were anything but ideal. For around three months, my training had been interrupted by setback after setback. Two sprained ankles and a serious hip flexor issue made running impossible for a long stretch. On top of that, I dealt with a stubborn cold for three weeks. Then, just two days before race day, my eyes swelled up because of an allergic reaction. By that point, I had let go of any expectations of chasing a big result. My only real goal was to make it to the start line.  

Race morning could not have looked more different from the weeks before it. The weather was clear, sunny, and warm at around 26°C—close to perfect. We arrived early and were among the first on site. I kept myself relaxed by chatting with club members and even taking photos with Ai Ueda. As more and more of the roughly 800 expected competitors arrived, the energy of the event kept building. More than anything, I was just happy to be there and ready to enjoy the day.  

The swim used a rolling start, with 10 athletes going off every five seconds in a wave of about 200 people. During the warm-up, the water felt colder than expected even in a wetsuit. Standing several rows back from the front, I watched the athletes ahead of me move through the shallow water, walking or dolphin-diving until it became deep enough to swim. Then it was my turn. The race had started.  

The funny thing is how quickly the mindset changed. One moment I was telling myself to just have fun. A second later, that thought was gone and replaced by something much more competitive: get the athletes in front of you. My heart rate exploded almost instantly as I dolphin-dived through the shallows and into the real swim. Once I was properly in the water, everything narrowed. The waves were low, the water was incredibly clear, and for the first time in a race I could actually see the ground below me. For a few moments, I almost got distracted by how beautiful it was. Then the side chop hit me hard enough to bring me back to the task.  

The second lap became a real fight, much of it shoulder to shoulder with another competitor. It felt great. Coming out of the water, most athletes ahead of me walked through the shallow section back to shore, but I kept running hard, pushing through the water as high as my hips. Only then did I understand why others had chosen to walk—my glutes were burning and felt unbelievably heavy. It was a brutal way to end an otherwise excellent swim.  

Transitions had cost me too much time in previous races, so I had practiced them beforehand. Of course, practice and race day are never quite the same when your heart rate is maxed out and adrenaline is everywhere. But this time things came together. I stormed into transition, found my bike, ripped off the wetsuit, got the helmet on, and ran barefoot toward the mount line over gravel that was still painful even through the carpet. I realized my swim must have been strong because athletes who had started later were still standing in transition getting ready.  

The mount had been the part I feared most because it had gone badly in practice. But on race day, it worked. Right foot in, jump on, spin up the left shoe, and with a bit of luck I got both feet in cleanly. That small moment felt huge.  

The bike course consisted of nine laps inside the air base. When I got onto the course, it was almost empty. At one point I even had to avoid a huge snake, which was not something I had expected to add to the race report. The wind was strong in one direction, and although the course was not highly technical, the road surface had some rough sections. One bump in particular was bad enough to cost me my nutrition on lap three.  

Despite that, this was probably one of my best bike legs. I stayed as aero as possible and kept riding aggressively. As the laps went on, the course became more crowded, which made it harder to ride cleanly and avoid drafting while overtaking. That meant spending a lot of time on the right side working through traffic. By the end, I was exhausted—but also deeply satisfied with the ride I had produced.  

The dismount went well, but my legs felt so strange that I had to actually look down to make sure my feet were hitting the ground properly. Even so, this was another fast transition. I racked the bike, changed shoes, and got out onto the run course quickly—again the fastest I had managed in a race.  

I started the run at what felt like an insane pace for me. Just like on the bike, the course still seemed nearly empty, and before long I could see the official on the bike who marks the race leader. I could hardly believe how close I was to the front. That feeling did not last. My pace gradually slowed, I was gasping for air, and I could barely manage to drink at the aid stations. I was pushing at my absolute limit.  

After two of the four laps, motivation dropped hard. The thoughts got ugly: You’ve already had a great race. You could stop now. No one would blame you. But that was not how I wanted this race to end. I forced myself to keep moving, even if that meant stopping for a few seconds at the aid stations just to get some water down. Those pauses also helped with the hamstring cramps that were starting to creep in.  

In the final kilometer, I tried to squeeze out whatever was left. The pace hardly changed, but the intention was there. Then, with about 100 meters to go, I looked back and realized something remarkable: no one was there. The athletes behind me still had more laps to complete. The finish brought that strange mix only racing can create—relief, pain, exhaustion, and satisfaction all at once. After crossing the line, I had to sit down just to remove my ankle band and hand it to the staff. The support from the officials, volunteers, and spectators meant a lot in that moment. It helped carry me all the way to a new personal best.

The result

This race was never built on perfect preparation. It was built on adaptation, patience, and making the most of a body that had gone through a difficult few months. That is exactly why the result felt so satisfying.

I finished the 15th Tateyama Wakashio Triathlon in 2:19:00, placing 29th overall and 6th in the men’s 40–44 age group. My splits were 22:19 for the swim, 2:50 for T1, 1:07:09 for the bike, and 46:42 for the run. What started as a preparation race for Suwako turned into one of the strongest races of my season — and a new personal best.