Between the bike, the run, and the swim, I logged thousands of miles in Zone 2 heart-rate training. Most days, I was burning three to four thousand calories. I quickly dropped from 188 pounds to 172 pounds.

That was my ideal race weight, and the Ironman was still months away.

So I decided I could eat whatever I wanted. And mostly, that was Häagen-Dazs. I’d finish the days on the floor, next to my bike on the trainer, watching TV and working on one or two pints of Pineapple Coconut or Rocky Road ice cream.

The pounds came back almost as quickly as I lost them.

By the time the Ironman came around, New Zealand still had its borders closed. I took a deferral to next year’s race, and then deferred again when New Zealand remained the only country with its border still closed. I had told my kids I’d see them in a few months, it turned into a few years. And my race never happened.

When I saw them again, they were different. They were grown-up. Teenagers. I had watched it happen over FaceTime while playing Exploding Kittens on our iPads.

I was different too.

With thousands of miles and countless hours of serious training, I was now an endurance athlete. It was the first time I’d ever thought of myself that way.

I hated running. But I was a runner. I’d barely been able to swim. But now, I was a swimmer.

My perception of distance changed. A mile transformed from a 23-minute slog to an easy 9-minute jaunt.

When Chase told me we were hiking 3 to 4 miles to a glassing knob, I shrugged. It didn’t matter anymore. I had probably run 20 or more miles the week before.

Even the clothes I wore were different. I swapped boots for running shoes and Stone Glacier pants for 7-inch poly-blend workout shorts.

After the pints of ice cream I would head to bed with every muscle in my body exhausted from the day’s work and a sense of pride for having beaten the shit out of my body again. One of those nights, I drew my version of Blackbeard’s flag. A crowned skeleton holding an hourglass in one hand, and a spear through the heart in the other. I called it Pain Hunter.

That’s how an identity gets built. I didn’t have to run the race to become a triathlete. The race would have been the outward proof of the years-long effort — the body of work.

And when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t have to tell myself anything about who I was. Knowing came as a result of doing.