Trying a Tri

Almost to the finish line.

Last weekend I drove down to the coastal town of Lincoln City, OR, to compete in my very first solo triathlon.  For those of you unfamiliar with Latin, the word triathlon is comprised of the prefix tri-, meaning “three,” and the root -athlon, meaning “way harder than you think,” roughly translating as “you should have trained three times as much.”  A truth I discovered in Lincoln City.

OK, that’s a tad hyperbolic.  (What else are blogs for?)  The tri wasn’t that bad.  Especially considering it was a sprint triathlon—literally half the distance of the Olympic-length event, and only a fraction of Iron Man length.  It consisted of a 750m (0.5 mile) swim, 15k (9.2 mile) bike ride, and 5k (3.1 mile) run.  Easy, right?  Nope.  At least, not the first part.  Because here’s the thing about open water swimming no one told me:  it is nothing like any other kind of swimming you’ve ever done before.  My pool workouts prepared me, hmm, about 0% for swimming across a lake, around a buoy, and back.  Oh, and did I mention the lake is called Devil’s Lake?  DEVIL’S LAKE.  For realsies.

So here I am at the start of the race, feeling pretty good, pretty fit.  I’m looking around at the other women getting into the water, some in wetsuits, some just braving the chill in their bikinis.  There’s a lot of gray hair, wrinkles, cellulite, and other indicators of age that lead me to believe:  I’ve got this. But then the gun goes off and I find myself suddenly left behind in a flurry of legs and arms and swim-capped heads.  I start to swim, but can’t find a rhythm.  My goggles fog up.  I can’t bring myself to put my head under the dark water. And I realize that I am absolutely freaking TERRIFIED of swimming in this lake.  The water is cold, I can’t see, I’m falling behind, the wake from rescue jetskis keeps sloshing over my head, I feel like I’m drowning, I’m close to a full-fledged panic attack…and then, 33 minutes later, I’m back on shore—not the last person out of the water, but the second-to-last.  Literally.  There was one guy behind me.  One.  Uno.  And I’m pretty sure he rode a jetski home and forfeited.

As I stumbled out of the lake, the crowd of spectators cheered for me.  Jim Gaffigan has a joke about being bad at bowling and everyone treating you like you’ve got cancer:  You can do it!  We’re praying for you! Which is what I felt like coming out of the water.  Definitely not the same cheer you get when you’re in first place.  But I toweled off a bit, jumped on my bike, and did my best to close the gap between me and the old ladies who beat me in the swim.  On the last hill of the run, I passed a seriously old guy jogging and he said he was 85 years old.  Four times my age.  I am literally 25% of his age.  And I only beat him just barely.

As I finished the race, to the same cancer-cheers as when I finished the first leg, I was more emotional than tired.  I’m not the most athletic person, but I expected to at least be middle-of-the-pack in every event—certainly not second-to-dead-last.  Michael was sweet and comforted me, reassuring me that I did very well for my first triathlon, especially since I don’t bike or swim.  I guess if anything, the tri was one of life’s lovely little lessons in humility.  Because sometimes you’re not as baller as you think you are.  And sometimes chubby older ladies and 85-year-olds are pretty dang good at swimming.  And sometimes the most important part of a race is just crossing the finish line, no matter how long it takes you to get there.  How’s that for a metaphor?

 

Me and Michael's family and neighbors after the tri.

 

 

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