I did it. The triathlon I had been promising to do for years, for which I had even purchased an expensive road bike and registered more than once, was checked off the list Sunday. Maybe not the bucket list, but at least the list of things I had reluctantly been saying I was going to do. Charcy and Leslye were coming to town for the big event, and bullied me into the clearly-committed response of, "well, I haven't been swimming very far, or ridden my bike in about a year, but what the hell? Seth will be out of town anyway, and I don't have plans, so let's do it." It was only after I registered that they informed me that the 1500m swim was in the Potomac River. I wondered what I had gotten myself into.
I was certain I was in over my head when they started to talk logistics. The prepwork required for this thing made the tax code look like an easy read. There was the expo, the course brief, the bike drop-off, the 4 different kinds of body markings, the "transition area" with all of its rules and timelines, the complicated course maps, the multi-wave start with its color-coded swim caps, the gear I had never heard of, the passing etiquette, and the requirement to change your own flat tires. Not to mention all the spandex. The crazy coordination and gear checks and re-checks consumed the bulk of the weekend, although we did- predictably- find time to drink a few beers. Still, my head was spinning by the time we made it to the last-minute gear check in the transition area predawn, and I gazed at rows and rows of racked bikes, wondering how on earth I would ever find mine.
And it all eventually worked out. I did not drown in the river or, presumably, become poisoned by it. I did not get a flat tire or road rash or wrecked or even hungry or tired or hopelessly deficit in whatever the supplement du jour was supposed to prevent. What I did get was annoyed. Very annoyed. I discovered during the course of the 50k event that this was not my bag, nor were triathletes my people. Tense and aggressive and gear-obsessed, they grabbed and clawed at me in the water, scoffed at my not-top-of-the line bike and additive-free water, and shouted angrily throughout. I had run a fun 5k the night before, during which a fellow runner's shoe had come off because of a broken lace. No fewer than three other runners stopped to see if he needed a hand, and one helped him replace it with her hair elastic. These triathletes, on the other hand, would have drowned one another with no compunction, and yelled at people with broken bikes to get them out of the way. My nerves were literally shot by the end of the 25 mile ride, which took place on a scenic course that I was prevented from enjoying because of the constant, frantic screams of "on your left! on your right! passing! Passing! PASSING!" from all around me. I was on pins and needles anyway, terrified the entire time that I would hit one of the plastic water bottles that littered the course, or get a flat, or miss a hairpin turn and lose most of the surface of my skin to the menacing concrete and metal freeway joists. I found the chaos profoundly stressful, and quickly developed a hatred of my fellow cyclists with giant disc brakes, crouched over aero bars and sporting ridiculous looking helmets like this one:
By the time the run portion rolled around and I got to experience the much-talked-about "dead leg jog," I had determined once and for all that my Serious Triathlete friends, who were convinced I would fall in love with their sport and immediately register for another, were definitely wrong. Since we had started late, it was blazing hot by then, and my rebellion against the tri-isms of gels and goos and Endurox had been to sip a little water and only eat one of my Mom's "triathlon brownies," which were really just low fat peanut butter bars. (Delicious, but I probably could have used the calories.) I was fading fast, and could have used a bit of the runner's high I usually get from pounding the pavement with my fellow runners, only these weren't runners. These were triathletes. I have competed at some of the top levels of what I had come to think of as a much friendlier sport, and even when running sub-six minute miles have found the time for a "good job" as I passed people at turnarounds. Because that's what is expected. We all do it, and I have never finished a run at any distance or competition level that I haven't felt a sense of kindred with and admiration for my fellow competitors. Here, runners shoved one another out of the way for water and glared at the people who passed them. I have to admit, it gave me a little extra "juice" when I needed it, and I picked up my rapidly-slowing pace to show these people that I could outrun them with a smile and a cheery "nice job!"
I eventually crossed the finish line and was thrilled to be done, for a number of reasons. It was a long event, and an incredibly tough one. I was glad I had checked it off, and couldn't wait to collect up all my gear and go find a cold beer somewhere.
I was also glad to discover that this intense, humorless slice of humanity had found itself an outlet. If the multimillion dollar triathlete industry were unable to satisfy it with ten thousand dollar bikes and heart rate monitors that spit out computer data analysis and aerodynamic swimsuits and talking watches, God only knows what would-- but I would be very afraid. It was bizarre. Some of the most cheerful, encouraging people I know have been world-class triathletes, and they don't seem like serial killers at all. Then again, I've never personally witnessed them on road bikes.
Still, my one and only triathlon was a success. Thanks to the not drowning, and all.
Well, that and the post-race beers.
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