My First Triathlon

My first triathlon

All kitsgals are fit. Whether they worked for it or paid for it, they always look like they just came from the gym. In my world, I like to workout. I also like to sit. That is where the two sides of my personality conflict. Here is the story of my greatest fitness test to date.

I am stubborn. Really stubborn. I am stupid stubborn. I never back down from a challenge. One day, a friend of mine, Tim, announced that he was going to do a triathlon.

“I’d like to do a triathlon too. Maybe, I will do it with you,” I piped in.

To that, Tim laughed and laughed and laughed. “You? Do a triathlon?? I don’t think so.” Ha ha ha…

The laughter continued for quite some time all the while my inner Viking became increasingly riled. You never want to rile my inner Viking. “I could so do it. Count me in.” I replied.

Tim laughed and said, “We’ll see.” Hahahahaha.

The triathlon was in three months. No problem. Plenty of time to train. For those of you who don’t know, triathlons are a combination of a run, a swim and a bike ride. They were thought up by some overachiever who thought this would be fun. I suspect he was drunk at the time.

Following the challenge, time passed. A lot of things happened. Training wasn’t one of them. Tim kept after me to forfeit my registration fee, but I stubbornly refused. Besides, really? How hard can it be? This particular triathlon was a mini one so it only entailed a 5K run, a swim across a lake and a 20K bike ride. Piece of cake. Yum. A piece of cake would go down good right about now

The day of the drive to Harrison, the location of the race, my friend Tim’s wife Becky said that she hadn’t been able to get the hotel reservations she wanted. Everything in the area was all booked up due to the Ironman triathlon happening that same weekend (an even longer and sillier race) so we were staying outside of Harrison. We arrived at our hotel and I was relieved to see a big sign declaring the place was Under New Management. This was good, because based on the bullet holes in the siding, things didn’t go so well for the old management.

We went to check in and met “Steve” the front desk clerk. I assume he was the front desk clerk because he was sitting behind the front desk. He was clad in the traditional concierge outfit of a wife beater mesh tank, a full set of human body fur and a collection of do it yourself home-style prison tattoos. Most of his front teeth were gone and he reeked of stale booze, but aside from that he was very pleasant – he offered to watch our valuables, sell us pot at a good rate and give us a wake up call.

Steve directed us to our rooms. Mine was the single suite at the end of the hall. I opened the door. The room had three huge saggy king sized beds inside. I went next door to visit Tim and Becky and asked how many beds they had. They had five. Neat! All this for $45 per night. I wonder if Trip Advisor knows about this place. Suddenly Steve’s question about which inmate we were here to visit made sense. Apparently, given the hotel’s close proximity to the maximum security prison, it provided a good place to stay for the prison wives who were up visiting their men for their yearly conjugal visit. Ewwww.

During the night, I tried to sleep but found myself wondering if maybe I should have trained for this event. “You’ll do okay,” I thought to myself as the forth train of the night rumbled by my head. Did I mention that the CN rail line ran right next to my window? It did.

True to his word, Steve woke us up at 5am. He did this not by phone but by yelling down the hall. “HEY! #@%$ -ING JOCK BUDDIES. GET THE #@$% UP!” I am sure we were a big hit on our floor.

We arrived at our race site early. Or at least what I thought was early. The race was set to start at 7:30 am. I mean, who else arrives ready to do serious exercise at 6am? Well, triathlon people do. Everybody was there. We were almost considered late. I stored my gear in the various transition zones and got ready for the race. Tim kept goading me to back out and help him change in the transition zones instead. I was tired and I must tell you, I was tempted. But that “I know you can’t do it” look in his eye caught me. I was going to do this thing even if it killed me.

The first part was the swim. We had to swim across a section of Harrison Lake. A friend of mine, who had done a ton of triathlons before, suggested I wear a wetsuit as it would give me added buoyancy. This means you don’t really have to swim as hard – it is like wearing water wings over your entire body. It is not really cheating, but kind of.

Only a few other people were wearing wetsuits. Most other folks were clad in an assortment of Speedos, bikinis and other spandex race wear that showed off the fact that, based on their physique, they had been training. In my wetsuit, I must say I looked nothing like Emma Peel on the Avengers - I looked more like an over stuffed sausage on a breakfast plate at Denny’s.

Everyone piled up at the shoreline. There were hundreds of competitors. Then, at exactly 7:30am, the starting gun went off. Swimmers raced into the water. Unfortunately, the lake wasn’t exactly the lovely sparkling fresh water experience that the triathlon organizers had promised us. No. This lake was a fresh sparkling glacier fed pool of skin numbing water. The cold water took my breath away, even with the protection of a wetsuit. Suddenly, I felt like I was in the middle of a re-enactment of the Titanic. The bikini clad swimmers, who looked great on the beach, all of a sudden were struggling to breathe and move in the frigid water. Participants were splashing about, struggling to stay afloat. Rescue boats pulled people out of the water left, right and centre. I dog paddled on.

I saw Tim reach the other side and pull himself out of the water. I was a few minutes behind when I ran into the transition zone to get my bike. I pulled the zipper on my wetsuit, but it was stuck. What?!! I looked down - a huge piece of seaweed had clogged the zipper. Ahhh! I struggled with it to no avail. “Okay….I will have to cycle in a wetsuit.” I thought to myself. I grabbed Fil, my bike - I always name my bikes - doesn’t everyone? Okay, before we begin that debate, let’s get back to the race…

I found myself pedalling madly, looking frantically for signs that indicated which direction we were suppose to go. My seaweed/ zipper fiasco had made me horribly behind. I sailed a long for quite some time.

“This is fun”, I thought. I became distracted by the scenery and my frustrated attempts at getting the seaweed out of my zipper. Pretty soon, I began to see fewer and fewer people as I got farther and farther from town.

“Am I so far behind that I am last? No. Can’t be. Keep going.”

I kept pedalling…and pedalling…and pedalling. Soon, a horrible thought came to my mind. “Where am I?”

And then the crushing realization. I had missed a marker. I was lost. And I mean really lost. I can’t believe it. I pedalled on. I was sweaty. My legs cramped, My wetsuit didn’t breathe air. I was thirsty. Ugh.

After what seemed like an eternity, I arrived at the best marker around – the maximum security prison gate where all the frisky wives go when they are not sleeping en mass in my hotel room. I asked a guard where I was. He laughed and gave me directions. He said I must have inadvertently followed one of the Ironman markers which was set to happen on this route tomorrow. I was happy he didn’t mention the giant piece of seaweed dangling from my wetsuit….I am also glad he didn’t mention the wetsuit.

Pedalling like mad, I found my bearings and ended up back at the transition zone for the final leg of the race…the run. I was tired, cranky and sweaty. I parked Fil and grabbed a pair of scissors from my backpack. I cut the silly wetsuit off – there was no way I was going to parade around town any longer looking like Aquaman. I threw my shorts and shirt on and was good to go. I began the run paying careful attention to the markers. Every time I passed a race official, I grilled them intensely…”Are you sure I am going the right way?”

I figured I was about dead last by now but I was determined to finish. I passed a few stragglers on my way to the finish line – these were mostly elderly people in walkers but I didn’t care. I passed them! Soon, the finish line was in sight. The Chariots of Fire theme song was in my head. People clapped and cheered…not really for me but for the 104 year old using a walker who was coming up behind me. I didn’t care. The cheers ran in my ears.

So, I finished. And I have a medal to prove it. I wore my triathlon medal for a full month after I completed the race. My friend Tim laughed at my race time but he couldn’t fault my inner Viking for determination. Yes. I am stupid stubborn.