You look forward to something so much. You plan for it, you train for it. Nearly every day for months you spend time pushing yourself, preparing your body for this one big event. Almost everything else in your life has taken the backseat because you are so focused on being ready for this new and exciting experience. Your first triathlon. It’s an experience that you don’t want to screw up because if you do, it could mean blood or broken bones at best, or your life at worst. So, you wake up every morning with a drive to improve, to get better, faster, stronger, to go further. Some people think you’re crazy, some people cheer you on, and if you’re lucky, some people train alongside you. But no matter what people think, you surge forward because you have a goal to achieve, and every bit of progress makes you feel empowered.
Then that day is upon you, the big day you’ve been training for. The night before, you’re excitement and anxiety keep you tossing and turning in bed. There is no chance for the restful sleep you so badly need. Your eyes pop open before your alarm goes off and you groggily rise to action. By the time you’re out the door, adrenaline is already coursing through your veins. There is a flutter in your chest and an eagerness in your legs. Once you arrive at the event, you make all of the final preparations in your transition area, then line up with hundreds of others, others who have become your people. You are part of one enlivened body, a mass hardly able to contain the urge to surge forward. You’re all of one mind and one purpose—to finish.
The undulating ocean waves swell in large peaks then crash forcibly into the beach and into the people that have already begun their race. As you reach the starting line you take a deep breath, then another, then another, then…you run. You propel yourself through towering foaming waves, waves that are trying to push you away from your goal, but you won’t let them. You can’t let them. You are a machine and your only direction is forward. Your arms reach and pull. Your legs flutter and push. Your head is down, only popping up for sight and breath. You motor past and over other flailing limbs and heads, never stopping, only going. You navigate around bodies and buoys. Minutes or hours pass before you are on the shore again running through the thick sandy beach, singly focused on the procedure ahead. Glasses, helmet, belt, shoes, bike—GO. Your transition is quick, but not flawless. This is your first rodeo, after all.
Once on your bike, the thick, warm breeze rushes past your wet body encouraging you to pedal harder, faster. “Passing on your left! Passing on your left! Passing on your left!” You shout out as you zip past cyclist after cyclist after cyclist. But as you pass, you acknowledge that these people are your people. These people are just like you. This is more than just a competition. This is about personal achievement. So, you shout out words of encouragement as you pass them as well. “You’re doing great! You’ve got this! We can do hard things!”
As the miles tick by, you find your pace. You know you’re edge and you do your best to stay on it. You don’t want to burn out, but you don’t want to slow down either. You get in your rhythm. You’ve been there before because you’ve trained for this. This isn’t new to you, but the cheers of the people watching from the side of the road are an encouraging change, and they spur you on, giving you an extra burst of hope and energy. This is the leg of the race that is the longest. This is the leg where you can think. This is the leg when you can enjoy the ride.
The transition area comes back into your sites. You do a mental check of each step you’ll need to take to prepare for the final leg of your race. Rack your bike, remove your helmet, change your shoes—GO. This transition goes by quickly and you’re off and running before you know it. Your legs feel wobbly. Each step is awkward, like you’ve never run before in your life, but you push through, praying your feet won’t falter. Your breath becomes labored and mucus collects in your throat making your exhale more difficult. You’re nervous about spitting because there are so many people around and you wonder if hocking a loogie on someone will get you a time penalty, so you suffer through the discomfort. Other racers crowd the narrow path, impeding your pace. You bob and weave through the throngs, your lungs burning. You want to stop. Something inside you, something corporal is saying “Stop! Slow down! At least walk! You are dying!” But, you do a mental check. Your legs can keep going. Your lungs are getting enough air. Your body can hold out. You have trained. You can endure this. So, you keep going, trying to suppress the negative thoughts.
The sun is beating down on you now and your body feels like it’s on fire. As you pass the water station, you grab a cup and take a small sip between breaths, then pour the ice cold water over your sweaty head and red face. The balm of the cool water allays your discomfort enough to assuage the idea of walking, and your legs power you towards the distant finish line. It feels like it will never come, like it is as distant as a rainbow on the horizon. But then you see it, and with each thudding step the arch of the threshold becomes clearer and clearer, closer and closer. You try to speed up and power through your last few steps, but you’re already giving it all you can. You pass the finish line, heaving forward, taking in gasping breaths, trying to stop yourself from continuing to hurtle forward. As you regain your footing on the seemingly spinning ground beneath you, they hand you water and a cold rag, both are the most welcomed gifts you could ask for in that moment, that is, until they place the shining medal around your neck. A medal! A victor’s prize! An emblem of all your hard work. A tangible symbol of your goal being met. Proof that you can do hard things.
Though the rain clouds form overhead, your mood can’t be dampened. When the heavens open and torrents of rain fall from the sky, you still stand and wait. Wait and see if by some miracle your name is called for a greater prize. Though it is hard to hear over the deluge, you wait and wait as awards are announced. When 1st, 2nd, and 3rd places in your age group are pronounced and you are not amongst them, your shoulders droop a little. It was a lot to hope for, placing in your first triathlon, but it drove you to do your best and that means something.
As you stand there in the rain, a little colder, a little more deflated, you hear the announcer say “And last, but not least we will announce the overall winners. First, the Beginners category.” Your ears perk up. A name is announced for 1st place, it’s not yours. But then you hear it. Like bells on Christmas morning, your name rises above the crowd and pierces through the falling rain. 2nd Place! You came in 2nd place of all the female beginners! Your training has paid off in a way that you only dreamed it would! You won. You won. You won!
Under dripping water and with squeaky wet shoes, you collect your prizes: a hat and a drinking cup. You’re a little disappointed there isn’t another medal, but it doesn’t matter. You won! Tears of joy well in your eyes. You’ve worked so hard to get to this moment. You turn to embrace a friend or a family member, but remember there is no one there. Your family is hundreds of miles away. They were unable to make the trip. And your fellow triathlete friends are somewhere taking cover from the rain. Your tears momentarily change purpose, wishing you could share this moment with someone you love. But you buoy yourself up, because you did not do this for them. You did this for you. You don’t need witnesses to validate this win. They will love and support you when they hear of it later, and that will be icing on top of the cake.
It has now been two days since your first triathlon. You have worn your medal day and night, letting its weight remind you of your accomplishment. But now what? What will drive you now? What will you work towards? You wake up in the morning feeling a lack of purpose. How did you function before you started triathlon training? There is no longer a day looming in the future beckoning you to get up and get moving.
After wallowing in your aimlessness for a short while you realize, you might not know the day and time yet, but there is always something to train for, something to work towards. Hobbies, work, home, family, eternity. There are new goals to be set, new goals to be met. You’ll figure out what you need to do. There are lots of triathlons in life and you can train for all of them. And this isn’t the end of your athletic endeavors either. You’ll find another race and get back to work. In fact, a ride tonight sounds good.
