My Triathlon Adventure

I did a triathlon! Ok, ok, you can pick your jaw up off the floor now. It was really just a tri-a-tri. Now, before you say “Oh, come on, that is still impressive”, you should know that I agree and I am very proud of myself for this accomplishment. But I feel the need to clarify because – well, have you seen the distances some of these things are? The Ironman, for example? To put it into perspective, I did a 250m swim, a 15km bike and a 3km run. Yes, yes, very nice. At the same time, there were people (actual people – not robots or superheroes or anything) doing a 3.8km swim, a 180km bike and a 42.2km run! So just don’t go getting me confused with one of those guys. Hey, I hear you laughing – it could happen!

So how did this all come about? I can’t say for sure when the idea came to me. Only that at some point last spring, an idea formed in my brain that I should do a triathlon. After doing a wee bit of research, that idea morphed into the more realistic goal of doing a tri-a-tri. In January, I had started attending a spin class twice a week. In March, I had begun running with colleagues at work. We ran laps around the school yard at recess. Sometimes kids joined us, most of the time, they didn’t.  I can’t help but feel that at least we were setting a positive example. All that was left was the swimming, and having a competitive swimming background from my early years, I was fairly confident about that area. Just to be sure though, I joined a local Masters Swim Team.

As the summer was nearing its end, I realized that I actually had to sign up for one of these things. For one thing, I had told pretty much anyone with ears that I was going to do a triathlon...and no, I did not always distinguish that it was a tri-a-tri. And yes, I basked in their undeserved admiration. And no, I have no shame. And for another thing, I felt that I owed it to myself. To prove that age was my friend and that hard work and dedication would in fact pay off.

I registered for a Labour Day event put on in a neighbouring city. And after what seemed like an eternity of preparation and exhaustion of nerves, the big event came. I had two goals for the day.

1 – Finish the dang thing. First, last, anywhere in between. Just get across that finish line.

2 – Don’t fall off my bike! This was a real and true concern that was completely freaking me out. Allow me to explain. When it got close to the big day, I realized that aside from spin class, I actually needed to get on my bike and practice. I have seen the fancy roadbikes out there. I do not own one.  I am the proud owner of a CCM Mountain Bike. I have ridden it approximately three times. It was to be my ride. I seriously contemplated adding streamers to the handlebars. You know, for an extra zooming factor. I’m fairly certain that they would have at least given me the appearance of going faster. When I was relating this to my friend, an avid cyclist, he kindly offered to lend me his son’s bike. “He’s not using it” he said. “It’s an old bike” he said. “It has a flat tire” he said. He did NOT say that the bike had wings. Which I’m pretty sure it did. But I’ll get to that later. I expected an old, crappy bike, but still a step-up from ye olde CCM. What he lent me was an amazing bike that I could easily lift with one hand and had the thinnest tires I had ever seen. Enter the fear of falling off.

On the big day, my husband came along with me. Both to drive me and provide moral support and also to potentially catch on film the anticipated fall-off-my-bike moment. It was a beautiful day. There were loads of participants. 52 in my event alone. When I first got in the water, all I could think about was how a friend of mine had told me that the last time she had been for a swim in that particular body of water, she had spied a Hershey bar floating by. Only it wasn’t a Hershey bar, if you know what I’m sayin’. I strategized on how to swim with my mouth shut, but in the end, breathing and my love of air won out. I am happy to say, I did NOT spy any such treats during my swim. When we were given our start, I thought “This is it! Give it all you’ve got!” And I did. I swam my heart out. And you know what? I was the first person to reach the shore! It was an awesome feeling.

I ran to the transition area and started to put on my gear. I then realized that I had too much gear. Do you know how hard it is to get tight biking gloves onto your hands when they are wet? Very. Gloves got left behind. I was lucky to leave the T-zone with socks and shoes on. I also managed a shirt, but it was a near thing. In the time that I struggled with my gear, I noticed one of my competitors transition like the wind. Like maybe she had practiced. Hmm, maybe I should have practiced. Anyway, she got out onto the course before me. Blast! There went my lead! I resolved that I would do my best to keep up with her.

I hopped on my bike and started pedaling. And wobbling. Crap, crap, crap! I looked around for my husband and his video camera but he was nowhere to be found. Excellent opportunity to fall off my bike. Except I didn’t. Miraculously, as I gained speed, I became steadier. Speed was the key. So, basically in an effort to avoid road rash, I biked as fast as I could down that road. I did not stop pedalling. Not once. I caught up to the girl. I passed the girl. I flew! I passed people with calf symbols indicating that they were in the midst of a gruelling Ironman. They congratulated me on my efforts, I commented on their lack of sanity. In an encouraging way, of course.

At one point, I passed a water station. These kind volunteers extending bottles of water to passing cyclists. As I approached them, I contemplated my situation. Were I to remove a hand from the death grip I possessed on my handlebars, my precarious balance was likely to shift. AND, I would probably have to slow down. Nope, water was not in the cards. I politely declined as I sailed by the water station with my desert mouth, wishing I was a camel or at the very least possessed some kind of camel pack.

So I passed that girl, and I pedalled. And I waited. I waited for the other competitors to come pass me. But they didn’t. I would occasionally look over my shoulder, expecting to see a pack of cyclists steadily gaining on me. At one point, as I looked around, I wondered (in my out loud voice no less) “Where the heck is everybody?” And then (egad!), “Am I going the right way??”  It turns out I was, and my super fast bike just happened to be propelling me forward at a speed that surpassed those of my competitors. First off the bike!

This was starting to feel rather surreal. My goal had been to finish, and here I was leading the pack. I was in a race with a bunch of athletes and I was in the running! Mind-blowing.

As I parked my bike and started my run out of the transition zone, I considered the fact that not once in my “training” had I practiced going directly from a bike to a run. No easy feat. I settled into my jog. ( To call it a run would be rather unfair to all the people who actually ran this segment.) “This is where it will happen”, I thought. “This is where everyone else will overtake me.” I made immediate peace with that thought and jogged happily along the trail.

Another drink station. YESSS! I can TOTALLY drink and run, right? Wrong. I grabbed a cup of orange Gatorade as I ambled by the drink station. I attempted a sip. Got maybe two drops. Such a tease. Aha! Lightbulb! My exercise-addled brain instructed me to toss the contents of the cup at my face, holding my mouth wide open. With such a large target, I was sure to get a good drink out of it. Well, I did it, and I walked around for the rest of the day wearing that Gatorade.

Not long after my thirst was quenched (not), my legs decided to act their age. Out of nowhere (ok, maybe due to the rigorous exercise and lack of hydration), every single muscle in both legs conspired to seize at precisely the same moment. This in turn caused my upper body to flop about in a queer dance-like fashion as I attempted to remain upright. Luckily, the intense feeling lasted for only a few moments. During which I DID NOT STOP. Had I stopped, it is very doubtful that I would have started up again. Knowing this, I determined to persevere.

It was around this time that a gazelle breezed past me. No wait, it wasn’t a gazelle, it was that girl! The one that I passed on the bike course. The one that had 22 marked on her calf as her age. She practically floated by me with enviable ease, as I flopped and gasped in my efforts to reach the finish line. Less than a kilometre to go, end in sight. I decided it wasn’t all bad. Not bad at all to be 33 years old and finish second to a girl a decade my junior. Nope, not too shabby. Then the second gazelle came along. As she gazelled by me, my inside voice may have exclaimed a few choice, unsportsmanlike words. I was in third. I could see the finish line. I could hear my joints, could barely see due to all the sweat pouring into my face, was in desperate need of water, was panting in a decidedly canine-like fashion, was only partially upright, and was only still “running” due to complete and sheer bull headed-ness. I decided to look back. I needed to know how many more gazelles were on their way. Was it an entire herd? I needed to know. I looked over my shoulder, and I saw...nobody! The gazelles and I were the only athletes in sight.

As I pounded out my last few steps toward the finish line, the announcer’s voice reached my ears. “And here comes Mamashunga... She looks pretty happy to be finished.” Apparently he had misinterpreted my grimace of pain as a smile. I crossed the line, and took a second to relish in my accomplishment. My legs were jell-o, but my adrenaline chose this moment to spike. When I found my husband, he practically shouted in wonderment (and a hint of confusion) “You were third!”. I was. And I have a medal to prove it.

For those aspiring triathletes out there, I plan to write a follow-up post soon with pointers and words of inspiration. Stay tuned...