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As of this writing I’ve completed close to 100 triathlons.  I’ve won a few, lost a few, and didn’t finish a few.  I’ve raced sprints, Xterras, Ironmans, and everything in between—including aquathlons, duathlons and quadrathlons.  I’ve been to world championships, and I’ve fallen on my face.   

But I still remember my first race.  Read on...

As of this writing I’ve completed close to 100 triathlons.  I’ve won a few, lost a few, and didn’t finish a few.  I’ve raced sprints, Xterras, Ironmans, and everything in between—including aquathlons, duathlons and quadrathlons.  I’ve been to world championships, and I’ve fallen on my face.   

But I still remember my first race.  It was a while ago, back when we wore Speedos and no one had come up with the (great) idea of tri bottoms and tri tops.  Back when if you didn’t wear day-glo green and yellow you weren’t cool.  Back when many of us still had toe clips on our pedals and we biked in our running shoes.  Back when, well, you get the idea.   

I hadn’t done a triathlon before, and I had signed up for my first.  Like any of you I had triathlete friends and I liked their lifestyle, their fitness level, their excitement for life.  I was a runner, but I wanted to be a triathlete.  A group of us traveled to Las Vegas for the Bud Light Triathlon Series race in Lake Mead.  I didn’t know what I was in for. 

It was an Olympic distance race; it didn’t matter that I could barely swim a few laps without dying, I was going to swim close to a mile in a huge lake of choppy, wind-swept water, full of big fish and other creatures in the dark blackness underneath, and, being Las Vegas, probably a few dead bodies with “concrete shoes.”  I set up my transition area and went to get body marked.  What kind of sport requires every extremity to be marked?  Was I expected to lose a few during the race?  I guess that way they could return it to me… 

Standing at the starting line I was more scared than I thought I could be.  I felt myself wishing I could go back and go through military basic training again if I could just get away from this water.  But something kept me there.  I was surrounded by the nicest people.  We chatted nervously, but chatted just the same.  Then the gun went off.  Those nice people at the line instantly morphed into demons.  I was no longer surrounded by courteous and nice triathletes.  I was kicked, hit, thrown around, and knocked senseless by arms and legs flailing, most I’m sure weren’t attached to anybody.  When I got into the water and swam like a fish, my arms churning the water in fury, my streamlined body slicing through effortlessly, and my kick small but effective.  I felt like Mark Spitz and I was sure I was going as fast.  Then I got up and walked until I was at least thigh-deep.  I was beat and I wasn’t even off the beach yet.  I knew then that I would be adding to the body count in that lake.   

Eventually, 50-something minutes later, I exited the water, kissed the ground, and vowed never to do this silly sport again (read paragraph #1 again).  During the course of the swim I was off-course so much I had my own personal kayak assigned to me.  I’m sure I swam double the course Length.  But that was behind me now and I was in, or rather on, my element.  I ran to the bike racks and easily picked out my bike.  There were only a couple of them there, so it was OK that I had completely forgotten where mine was racked.  I donned my helmet and shoes, grabbed my bike, contemplated this silly sport once again, and then headed out on the bike.  I quickly got comfortable on the bike.  I was moving up through the ranks quickly.  First, I passed the grandmother with the basket on the bike, then the overweight guy with one leg, then the 8 year old.  I was flying.  Then came the “hill.”  They said hill; I saw mountain.  It was long and straight with no end in sight.  The top was even covered in clouds.  I began the climb again dreaming of life back at school.  I was beginning to long for homework and pop quizzes.  I think I saw a mountain goat.  The 8 year old passed me back.  Finally I got to the top.  I rode the rest of the bike course and fell into T2.   

Now I was really in my element.  The run.  Easy.  Just a 10k.  No sweat.  So I ran.  And then fell over.  My legs wouldn’t work.  The once mundane tack of putting one foot in front of the other became a struggle I could barely win.  I began to go back to transition to look for my quads because I don’t think they were attached anymore.  I was a runner!  This was my turf!  I can run!  Or so I thought.  I had learned the first principle of triathlon: running off the bike is a bit different than running.  I limped into the finish line, in my slowest 10km ever.  In fact, it was my slowest 10 mile time.     

I finished my race.  I vowed then and there to never do this silly sport again.  Ever.  Why torture yourself with the disciplines of swimming, biking, and running (or walking, or hobbling) when you can just do one?  Why risk life and limb (literally I guess) to prove something?  (I don’t know what that something is but I think I proved it.)  So it was said.  I did my first and last triathlon.   

And then I signed up for the next one I could find. 

Do you have a first triathlon story you’d like to share?  Create a profile and post it on your blog.  Who knows, if we like it we may even send you some cool schwag! 

Brian

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