On September 21st, nearly a month ago, I swam a quarter mile in the Atlantic Ocean, then stripped off my wetsuit and rode a bike for 10 miles, and then chased it all with 3 miles of running on the beach. The entire process took one hour, twenty-two minutes and nineteen seconds.
Thank goodness it didn't take me as long to finish my first triathlon as it did to actually find time to write about it.
Part of the gap was because I've been busy, between work, buying a new house and now trying to sell my old house during the worst economic crisis since Herbert Hoover was in office. But the other reason I wasn't immediately ready to put fingers to keyboard about the triathlon is because I suspected it was a life-changing experience for me, but I wanted to take a little time and see if it really did change my life.
As I wrote when I first decided to train for a triathlon, this process was as much about me testing my internal limits as it was about testing my body's limits. I mean, realistically I knew that my lungs, muscles and tendons had the ability to be active and exercising for 90 minutes in a row. I also had faith that training would make it my body more and more proficient to that end. But to choose to swim and bike and run every day for two months, when I have spent all of my adult life believing myself incapable of doing those things, let alone wanting to do those things… that was the challenge.
I had several hiccups along the way, ranging from bicycle pedals that fell off in the middle of a training ride to an abiding loathing of running to a near-drowning incident when I foolishly swam alone into the middle of a lake on a windy day. This last speed bump almost ended my mission in more than one way. For weeks, I was quietly terrified that the waves would keep me from making it to the far buoy or that I'd panic and have to pulled out by the lifeguards, never even getting a chance to bike or run. I worried, worst of all, that I'd quit, or not even get in the water.
I lay in bed plenty of nights unable to sleep, practicing my breathing, trying to convince myself that I could make it feel like second nature. Imagine if Sara had ever woken up to find me lying on my back, taking one short breath and then exhaling over a count of three over and over again while turning my head to the opposite sides. I'd be writing this from a rubber room.
But the evening before the race, something came over me. I have no idea what did it or how it happened, but when Sara, the kids and I drove into Hull and I looked out the window at the water rolling up onto Nantasket Beach, I wasn't afraid.
I was excited.
I wasn't thinking I might finish. I knew...
I slept the night before with the help of half an Ambien,
but there was no tossing or turning. In the morning, I rode my bike with my
father to the race, a mere two miles, just to loosen up. I met up with my best
friend and training partner, Jon, and we got pumped up as we saw the glassy
early-morning water. I got my transition area set up with my bike, helmet and
gear, as well as towels, Gatorade, bike pump and sweatbands. And then, a
half-hour before the race started, I put on my wetsuit and walked down into the
water.
It was cold. Not arctic, mind you, but much colder than the lake I'd trained in and chillier than any of the days I did test swims in the ocean in the month prior. But as soon as I got in and let the water creep into the wetsuit through my ankles, wrists and neck, the shock subsided, and so I pushed off and stroked out towards the first buoy at the slowest, most comfortable pace I could find. This wasn't a true "warm up." It was more of an acclimation, and I wasn't alone. Dozens of experienced racers, including members of the elite wave, were doing it too. By the time I'd swum about 50 yards out and then back, I was ready.
The hard part then was waiting until my wave of the race began. I'd opted to swim with the "nervous and novice" swimmers in the final group to leave the beach. But as soon as the air horn blew and I entered the water with my fellow aquaphobes, I realized that I was not in the same "boat" as everyone else. I watched most of the racers in my wave tentatively begin breast-stroking or side-stroking out past the tiny breakers, and once I saw a clear path, I put my face down and started freestyling for the horizon. Next thing I knew, I had caught the group that had left 90 second before us, a flotilla of women over 45 wearing yellow swim caps. Feeling confident and strong, a weaved through them and arrived at the far buoy, taking the turn and then passing a good portion of the next wave in the process.
In fact, by the time I emerged from the water about 12
minutes later, my entire cheering section was giving me the silent treatment.
It turns out I'd passed my Uncle Marshall, who had left three minutes before I
did, and all of our friends and family were waiting for him to come out, so
none of them noticed me until I'd almost run by them on the beach. However,
when they did finally see me, they cheered themselves hoarse, and I headed for
the transition area.
The bicycle portion was tremendous, partially because I'd
already finished the one event I was worried about, and partially because I'd
left with the final wave, meaning I spent most of the cycling section passing
people. Sara and the kids came out onto the course and cheered me on at the
nine-mile mark, urging me on to sprint to the finish. I ended up finishing the
course two minutes faster than I had in any of my training rides.
Finally, I transitioned to the run, and even though I was
gassed and ran 30 seconds per mile slower than I'd hoped, I finished the race
and shouted at the top of my lungs like I'd won the damn thing. I was tired,
but five minutes and one large bottle of water later, I was fine. Not
exhausted. Not utterly spent. Not sore. In fact, I rode the bike two miles home
an hour later after watching my father earn his second-consecutive second-place
medal for his age group, and I couldn't help thinking "Next year, I can do
better."
And that's where the "life changing" element of this experience starts.
I'm not addicted to triathlons, but I know I'll try and do next year's, which means that training for it is now an annual thing, and to avoid starting from scratch each year, I'll have to stay in some shape and… heaven help me… run every now and again. In fact, I ran 4 miles yesterday, despite the fact that there's no race on the horizon and there were no Mongol hordes chasing me. I still don't like running, but I now like the feeling when I'm done, and that's a big step.
But the other, and more significant shift for me, was the fact that finished my training and the race, despite some adversity, and found a way to get past the fear and negativity… and enjoy it. In fact, I'd argue that the life-changing experience started the day before the race when I stopped worrying about the triathlon and instead, found a way to alter my perspective and emotions to the point that I couldn't wait for it. Since that day, I've tried to use that approach in other venues, including work, parenting, marriage and the effort to sell our house. I now know that there is very little that's "impossible." There's just stuff that will take a lot of hard work, resilience and patience to achieve, and if I can focus on how good it will feel when I finally get there, I might actually enjoy myself along the way.
Maybe that all feels like some Tony Robbins, "I'm okay, you're okay" crap, and to be fair… it is to some degree. It doesn't work for me every day and in every situation. But now, during the times when it doesn't work, I'm able to think of it as just a bad day of "training" and refocus my eyes on the finish line… or at least the next "transition area."