My First Triathlon: Passion Stomps Ego

As a former fat bastard, pack a day plus smoker and party animal extraordinaire, my initial foray into the world of competitive athletics was inauspicious, to say the least.

My athletic background consisted of … wait, I have no athletic background. Growing up on a farm with hours of chores every day negated any opportunities to participate in after school athletics – there were cattle to be fed and dung to be disposed; in one end and out the other. While these were physically demanding chores, by no stretch of the imagination did I ever consider them to be athletic activities. They don’t give out medals for shit shoveling.

I entered my first triathlon without knowing how to swim, although I knew how to ride a bike and was a sporadic jogger. Fortunately I had quit smoking the previous year but was carrying an extra 30 or so pounds. On the morning of the sprint distance race (750 metre swim, 20 km bike, 5 km run) I stood on the beach, waiting for my age group to start, munching on a power bar, thinking I would need this energy for the next few hours. Eating before swimming, as our mothers told us, is not a good idea, as I would later be reminded.

Prior to the start I had placed my bike in the transition zone with several hundred others and wondered how I would be able to find mine in this sea of bikes. I decided that I would drape a towel  - bright pink no less - over my bike so that I could spot it easily among the masses. As I left the transition zone to walk toward the swim start I turned back to have a look: my pink towel stood out and my bike would be a cinch to find. I was proud of my ingenuity and pitied those fools that would be searching franticly for their own in the sea of bikes.

Since I had never really been involved in competitive sporting activities, my thoughts were unencumbered by negative chatter and self-doubt. Instead, I distinctly remember that in the moments before the horn blasted to start the race, I took a look around at the other men, and had thoughts to the effect of: ‘None of these guys, these super jocks, know who I am. Boy, are they going to be surprised when I kick their ass. They will definitely know who I am after the race’. Holy runaway ego, Batman!

The horn sounded and we ran into the water and started swimming. Seared in my memory is the first 30 seconds: I was knocked around, punched and swam over, and quickly I was in last place, gasping for air, as the pack swam away from me. For some, obviously self-delusional reason, I had thought swimming was like breathing: it would come naturally. Not so much. I flailed around, sinking in and then swallowing the water – I think the technical term is drowning - before abandoning my so-called freestyle swim stroke in favour of living. Flipping over onto my back so I could float and catch my breath, I very - very - slowly made progress around the swim course.

About a quarter of the way I started to feel sick from the over exertion and started puking that power bar. Treading water as the remnants floated away, I could see the next group of athletes swimming toward me. Then I heard a voice – to this day I do not know if it was the race announcer’s voice echoing across the lake or my guardian angel – but he said that I should get out of the path of those swimmers. Suddenly I realized that this pack of 100 or so men did not care that I was in their path, they were going to swim right over me and I was going to die. I used all the energy I had to dog paddle perpendicular to their path and barely got out of their way before upchucking the rest of the power bar. Lifeguards in a boat stopped and asked if I wanted a ride back to shore. I’m not sure why, but I declined, and continued flailing – on my back so I could breathe - toward the swim exit. Many, many scores of people swam past me and I was dead last out of the water. But not dead.

I made my way from the swim exit to the transition zone to find all the bikes gone except for one lonely bike: the one with the bright pink towel. My ego, already bruised from my swim fiasco, took another hard hit. My ass had been kicked – thoroughly, and by everyone. Even the sixty something grandmothers. Nevertheless, I hopped on my old, rusty, steel-framed bike and started to chase the competitors in front of me, none of whom I could see.

Eventually, toward the end of the bike section, I caught two cyclists - a father keeping pace with his 14 year old daughter. She was riding an ancient bike with a banana seat and frilly things extending out of the handle bar ends. I passed them and realized – much to my ego’s relief – that I wasn’t going to finish last overall.

I finished the bike, weakly pulled on my jogging shoes, and started the 5 km run portion. Holy mother of god! My legs felt like tree trunks in quick sand. I quickly discovered that running after cycling was pure, unadulterated torture and struggled to get one foot in front of the other. Time slowed as I battled to find reasons to keep running as my body screamed at me to stop, or at least walk.

Then I saw I was catching a guy in my age group. I was in a new and unfamiliar world of pain and, to be honest, it was an emotional rush to be immersed in it and still want to hunt down a guy in my age group. For some reason, those contradictory forces appealed to something inherent in me; slow down for physical relief vs keep pushing for emotional rush, give up vs never give up.

I made it to the finish line; sore, exhausted and nauseous. My ego had been crushed, my innards turned inside out, and my body abused. I loved it. I had found a passion. That taught me humility, resiliency and self-efficacy. And I was instantly addicted: the next day I signed up for the rest of the triathlons in the season.

Discover your passions. Life’s too freakin’ short not to.