On February 11 Hart House hosted its 13th annual indoor triathlon. Everybody knows that participating in a triathlon is a grueling test of athletic ability and endurance. What many don’t realize, however, is how humbling an experience participating in these races can be.
I didn’t participate in this one, but I have done triathlons before, so I know what difficulties they involve.
My story begins on a brisk July morning. With the dew still wet on the grass and the sun peeking its head slowly above the horizon, I arrived at the battleground ready to embark on this most colossal of endeavours.
As I lined up to register, I noticed not all the participants fit the prototypical triathlete mold. There were men and women of all different shapes and sizes. Some people had six packs which you could bounce a dime off of, while others looked as if they had spent their last dime on a six pack.
The age range of the participants also baffled me. There were kids registering who had to be dropped off by their parents because they couldn’t drive, and others who sported WWII veteran licence plates on their SUVs.
After much anticipation, the race finally began and I embarked on the initial leg, a half-mile swim. The herd of cattle which had previously occupied the registration area quickly became a stampede of Pamplonian proportion.
In a matter of seconds my goals of winning the triathlon had been traded in for the simple wish of surviving the next five minutes of my life. It was the elbows, knees, and dunkings being freely offered by my fellow competitors which made the swim so exhausting, not the swim itself.
No amount of laps in a pool can prepare you for the downward stroke of a large 43-year-old accountant who, according to the tattoo on his chest, was more than willing to offer you his firearm if you “pried it from his cold dead fingers.”
Different age groups and sexes started five minutes apart so that the 300 contestants wouldn’t all be in the water at the same time. Besides opening the swimming lanes for me to doggy paddle in a sorry effort to catch my breath, this also provided me with my next bit of embarrassment. People who were much older and less fit than me were passing me with ease.
How did I know the ages of these participants, you ask? In an effort to keep all age groups organized prior to the race, everyone’s age was written on their calf large enough for judges (and trailing participants) to see.
I suggested to the coordinators that next year they put how many children the women had on one of the calves so as to remind me of another inadequacy that may have slipped past my radar.
After exiting the water, I progressed to the bike stage of the triathlon where I was confident I could make up some ground. I did no such thing.
One extremely nice 51-year-old grandmother encouraged me with “you’re doing great, keep it up!” as she easily passed by me during a hill stage. In the spirit of her good sportsmanship (and also because I couldn’t have caught her if I tried) I elected not to throw a stick into her spokes.
A positive aspect to the triathlon was that my family came out in full support of my efforts and was there to witness my sprint across the finish line. What they didn’t know was that the only reason I was sprinting was due to the fact that a senior citizen coming around the last turn had so courteously asked if that was all I got?
At the end of the day the oldest person I lost to was a 58-year-old investment banker with seven grandchildren and mean breakaway speed.
Ass-kicking grannies, teenage robots, and obese Lance Armstrong protégés aside, triathlons are a great way to find out how far you can push yourself. Unfortunately, it’s also a good way to figure out how much further others can push themselves.
Whether it’s to take home the gold or just to put another check on the things-to-do-before-you-die list, why not come out and try a triathlon? I guarantee it will be nothing short of a life-changing experience.
