Published August 15, 2025 06:00AM
What It’s Like to Train for an Ironman in Antarctica
No gym, no pool, not even a patch of grass - triathlete Sarah Olson shares her experience living and training in one of the most remote and extreme places on Earth.
Sarah Olson shares her experience training for a triathlon in Antartica. (Photo: Courtesy of Sarah Olson)
At 5 a.m., the sun was exactly where it had been at midnight, and exactly where and how it would stay at 2 p.m. – bright, motionless, and absolutely useless for warmth. The wind chill knifed across the abandoned airstrip as I started my intervals, jogging laps between fuel drums and old tire ruts. It was the only stretch of snow-free ground for miles, wedged between the 30-mile-long Wilson Piedmont Glacier and the Ross Sea. By my second lap, my eyelashes had frozen together. That’s when I started to question all my life choices, but mainly, the one where I decided to train for an Ironman in the middle of Antarctica.
Before I ended up at Marble Point, a two-woman outpost that fuels helicopters for National Science Foundation research, I was a collegiate Nordic skier, a wildland firefighter, and someone who apparently doesn’t know when to say no to a ridiculous endurance challenge. I figured if I was going to spend five months living in one of the most remote and extreme places on Earth, I might as well see what it’s like to train for a full Ironman without a gym, a pool, or a single patch of grass.
Given that you’re reading Triathlete, I’ll assume you know a triathlon has three parts: the swim, the bike, and the run. Each essential. Naturally, you might be wondering: “Sarah, how do you swim when the only water is a frozen ocean?” Or: “Does she know that an Ironman includes 112 miles of biking?” And most likely: “What does her mother say about all this?”
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Questionable decisions in the middle of nowhere
Why did I click the “register” button in the first place? Chalk it up to boredom. I was at a remote camp in the middle of Antarctica with only one other woman, for five months. There’s a lot of alone time. You’ve got to find ways to occupy yourself before the days roll over you. It’s too easy to let isolation blur time into a long stretch of nothingness. But I had this rare gift of seemingly unlimited time, and I didn’t want to waste it.
Training became one thing I could control. If I wanted to throw in the towel and go home, I couldn’t. If I wanted to take a sick day, I couldn’t. If a storm rolled in, I still had to melt snow so we could drink water.
In an environment constantly working against the simple act of being human, training was something that belonged to me. It didn’t depend on weather, helicopter logistics, or morale. It was mine, and that mattered. It carved out a daily pocket of clarity, away from the monotony of our tiny shack.
No swim, no bike, no problem
Let’s start with the swim. There was, in fact, no swimming, unless you count splashing cold water on my face and screaming. The Ross Sea was entirely frozen, and if I’d tried to carve out a lane, this would’ve turned into a Titanic re-enactment—me as Jack, whispering “don’t let go” before promptly becoming an ice cube.
As for the bike: there was one, but it was ancient, and there were no real roads. If I managed ten pedal strokes before the chain seized up and fell off, it was a good day. (Ordering a bike, or even a stationary trainer, would have been futile – shipping materials to Antarctica is basically rocket science, but with worse weather.)
So, that left me with one option: run. A lot of running.
There wasn’t a treadmill or trainer within 50 square miles. If I wanted to get a workout in, I had to run outside, no matter the conditions. Often, it took longer to put on my gear than the actual workout. (Kind of kidding, but also kind of not.)
Strength training snuck its way in. In Antarctica, creativity is a survival skill, and that applies to workouts too. I started doing pistol squats in the fuel shack while watching pilots land. Bicep curls? Five-gallon diesel jerry cans. Core workouts happened on the wooden floor of the workshop, a space that doubled as both gym and repair station. One day I’d be tightening bolts; the next I’d be doing Russian twists between oil drums. The whole place smelled like jet fuel and determination.
It wasn’t fancy, but it worked. Strength found its way into the daily rhythm, woven into labor, waiting, and the wildness of the place. Who needs a gym when you’ve got a helicopter schedule and a polar toolkit?
About the gear
What does someone even wear for triathlon training in Antarctica? My go-to ensemble was quite the get-up, starting with two pairs of thick wool socks inside my Salomon trail runners. Depending on the day, I’d squeeze two or three pairs of long johns under windbreaker pants and stuff them all into my socks like some kind of puffy cartoon character. Up top, I wore layered merino wool, tucked and bundled into mittens. I cut a hole in my neck gaiter to thread my ponytail through (high fashion), wore a cheek protector that made me look like a bird, and topped it off with my favorite flowered Skida headband. Who was I dressing for? Absolutely no one. There was only one other person at Marble Point, and she already knew I was a lunatic.
As glamorous as I looked, running was more like high-stepping across a boulder field than cruising along a road. With no flat terrain beyond the rocky old runway, I hopped from rock to rock, praying I didn’t twist an ankle. The training shifted from physical to mental. I wasn’t mimicking the race exactly, but I was building the endurance that matters most: the kind that’s rooted in stubbornness rather than VO₂ max.
An unexpected benefit
I soon found my training gains went beyond the physical. The movement, the repetition, the act of enduring – that’s what lit a creative spark in me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the rhythms of endurance were feeding my imagination. As my body moved through that frozen world, my mind came alive. I’d head out on a run surrounded by silence and ice, and suddenly I’d be flooded with story ideas, characters, paintings—odd little thoughts that turned into bigger things. It got to the point where I had to start running with a notepad just to keep up.
The act of pushing myself physically became a catalyst for creative fire. Training gave me rhythm. Routine. And within that rhythm, both the movement and the stillness, I found space to create.
I dove into art while I was down there. I painted, sketched, and wrote. I created characters, imagined worlds, and tried to process the weird wonder of where I was. Twelve-year-old me would’ve been stoked. In the middle of Antarctica, with a body pushed to keep going and a mind crackling with new ideas, I started to really understand how closely creativity and endurance are tied.
The luxury (and downfall) of “normal” triathlon training
Returning home, the logistics of training got easier. I had access to a pool, a bike, and smooth roads (what a concept!). I felt fast, even bouncy, once I could run on flat ground again. All of this should’ve made training easier. Ironically, it became harder.
At Marble Point, I was free of distraction, free of social obligations, and entirely self-dependent. Back in the real world, suddenly there were variables I hadn’t needed to account for. Every day obligations—driving, errands, chatting with neighbors – stacked up quickly. Time to train became something I had to protect.
That said, I’m still training. I’m folding it into the busier rhythm of life here. My body is adapting; workouts that used to knock me out now feel almost easy. On days I don’t want to get out of bed, I bring myself back to those long, quiet hours at Marble Point. I remind myself I’ve done harder things. A simple workout- one I can even shower after! – feels like a luxury. The Ironman is in September, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited.
Being home now and reflecting, I realize just how lucky I was to have spent time at Marble Point, and how grateful I am that I could train the way I did. It didn’t just pass the time; it gave shape to my days. I looked forward to it every morning. The real surprise was how deeply it fed my creativity. Stuck in a rut? Go for a run. Don’t know what to paint? Easy! Skip around outside for a while. The motion always loosened something in my brain.
If I were back at Marble Point, I’d sign up for another Ironman in a heartbeat. Out there, it wasn’t just about the race. It wasn’t even about finishing. It was about the role training played in my life each day. It gave me structure and belonging in a place where the rest of the world felt very far away.