Remembering my first (and only so far) Triathlon

It was the summer before my senior year in high school, 1985. The triathlon was enjoying huge popularity. I was a a budding biking geek, extremely proud of my Trek 560. I was working the 3-11 and night shifts at the Steer Truck stop and logging about 100 miles per day on the bike. I was riding all over the countryside, learning every back road, every farm in the area. I did a lot of my riding at night, after the swing shift was over. I'd ride from 11 PM to 2 or 3 AM. I learned to enjoy the muggy heat of Southern Minnesota nights. On those rides, I rode, stupidly in hindsight, with no lights. I rode by moonlight and starlight. There was no sound but the whirring of my chain, the clicking of gear changes, tires on the pavement, corn stalks stirring in the breeze. There were ripe smells rising from the ditches and the heat of the residual heat from the day coming off of the black top. I was in good riding shape. At 17, I felt invincible on that bike. I did no other training that summer but ride my bike.

Then, at the end of August, I entered a local triathlon. This was before Triathlons, other than the Ironman, had formal lengths. This one started with a mile or so in the water, about 46 miles on the bike, and a 10k at the end. I was a little nervous about the swimming since I'd never been a strong swimmer, and mildly worried about the fun but I knew I could gut it out. So, I showed up at the race and put my bike among the hundreds on the beach of a lake in Faribault, MN. The gun went off and we started swimming. The first thing I noticed is that it is extremely difficult to swim in a straight line across a lake. They don't, for example, paint lines on the bottom and, the water is too murky to see the bottom anyway. I would swim for a while and then look up to find out that I was swimming in the wrong direction. I would correct but again almost immediately be going the wrong direction again. I was soon all alone. It was an out and back around a floating marker, and I was the last person in the water save for an extremely old man competing in a life jacket. A canoe with course officials and a medic began tailing me, asking if I was OK. I coughed up some lakewater and managed to squeak out that I was OK, although I wasn't too sure myself. I kept reaching down with my toe to see if I could feel the bottom. Each time my hopes would rise as I stretched my toe as far as I could, only to be disappointed. I would look at the shore in the distance and consider quitting and grabbing onto the side of the hovering canoe. Finally, I reached the beach and there was my bike, all alone in the middle of the beach. I staggered and coughed out of the water, and began the bike.

Wow! I was on fire. The course was entirely north to south, and there was a slight tailwind. It was the sort of day that you dream about. I was bunny hopping double railroad tracks in a single bound. I was blowing by other riders like they were standing still. Eventually, I hooked up with another rider of similar ability and we began, against the rules, to pull for each other. With my running shoes strapped into the toe clips, and my t-shirt billowing in the wind, and my old school 80's helmet, I could not have been more happy. I reached Todd Park in Austin, MN somewhere near the front of the pack and met my friend who was there. I got off the bike and crumpled to the grass, my legs spent and unable to hold my weight. I'd taken them to complete muscle failure.

After a few minutes, I was able to stand unsteadily, and eventually walk, with my jello like legs on the verge of giving out. I wobbled and hobbled through the 10k start line and eventually managed to make a very slow jog for some periods, but was unable to ever sustain it the entire distance. Now, those that had I had passed on the bike were passing me. I eventually made it to the finish, but somewhere in the bottom third.

I don't know if I'll ever do a triathlon again. I may stick to strictly biking. If I do, I'll practice swimming in open water!