AURORA, Colo. – Those buoys cannot possibly be in the right place. There is no way that’s the distance I have to swim – it never seemed that far in the lap pool.
The sun is just starting to rise over the Aurora Reservoir and thousands of women with numbers scrawled on their legs and arms in black marker are staring out at the water. Heads shake in disbelief.
Last year it was almost a whim. A triathlon? Sure. Why not? My sister was competing, so I signed up, too. I’m a young athlete. It didn’t sound that hard: A half-mile swim, 12 miles on a bicycle and a three-mile run. I sent in my $75 registration fee two months before the Danskin series race.
I know exactly how much training I did for that race. I hit the pool all of six times – just to know I could physically swim the distance (breaststroke the whole way).
I biked three times. Once I even did a “brick” (that’s tri-speak for doing two of the events back to back, like a swim and a bike or a bike and a run).
This year was different. It was no whim; it was an obsession. Five days a week I was either on a bike, in a pool or on a trail – or doing something that would help me when I was on a bike, in a pool or on a trail. It’s amazing how a three-event race can make you so single-minded.
Now, standing with hundreds of women in matching swim caps, just minutes before my turn to jump in, doubt starts creeping into my head and butterflies begin to replace the peanut butter and banana sandwich I ate before the sun came up.
Triathlons have replaced the team sports I played in high school and college.
The training is solo, but there is camaraderie at the event itself. It’s motivating to hang out with women of all ages willing to challenge themselves with such a demanding race.
This year, I also paid for a little additional motivation: a personal trainer.
Right now, I’m doing my best just to float. Blue, yellow and purple swim caps bob in the water. Swimming is my weak link. I hit the pool hard this year, swimming too many laps to count. Tap the wall and swim back. Over and over.
My goal was to swim the half mile mostly freestyle, but a couple of mouthfuls of reservoir later I revert to a head-above-the-water breaststroke. When I hit land 27 minutes later, I have a barefoot sprint on asphalt to my bike.
Last year, I really thought it would be fairly easy. As easy as riding a bike, right?
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I didn’t figure out how hard a triathlon is until I was smack in the middle of it. If there was a place to quit along the bike route, I probably would have.
The euphoria of passing the finish line was enough to convince me that I wanted to be a triathlete. I think part of my motivation is that word: triathlete. Workouts take on a higher purpose. I’m not just running. I’m training.
Still wet from the swim, I jump on my bike, and with the first pedal strokes I know all those miserable hours in the gym have paid off. I start passing people right away; last year, I was always the passee. I cruise through the first couple of miles.
But as I bike to the top of the race’s most brutal hill, my quadriceps screaming in protest, I figure out why my motivation had started to wane two weeks earlier: This is a miserable way to spend a Sunday.
“Almost halfway!” race volunteers cheer during the bike ride.
Yeah. Thanks.
A few pedal strokes later and I’m reaping the rewards of that beautiful, beautiful hill. I let my feet coast on the pedals for a while and that’s all I need to kick it up a notch. My ego takes over for my quads, and I’m rocking on the remaining hills. My sister, already done with her race (the older folks get to go first), is there to greet me after I get off my bike.
A quick high five, a switch of helmet for hat, and I’m off on the run. My calves are burning almost from the start and there’s a weird ache in my right Achilles tendon, but determination overrides the pain.
The sun is hot by this time. I’m out of water, but it doesn’t matter: Something clicks on that last leg of the race. Whether it’s knowing I’m almost done or my brain just taking over for my body, the run seems like the easiest part. I cross the finish line, exhausted but euphoric.
And I know that it’s three weeks until I do it all again.
AP-ES-07-26-05 1258EDT
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