“So are these full triathlons?” my roommate asks.
“ALL triathlons are ‘full’ triathlons,” I respond. Yikes, I think. I sound like a dick.
I back up a step and try to reverse my jerkishness. “Well, there’re three main distances—sprint, Olympic, and Ironman. I’m just doing sprints.”
The sprint-distance triathlon is the most accessible; if you can swim, ride a bike, run, and change clothes, you can complete one. Officially, sprint-distance tris consist of a 750 meter swim, a 40 km bike ride, and a 5 km run; Olympic or “standard” races consist of a 1.5 km swim, 40 km ride, and a 10 km run. Ironman triathlons—the one which originated in Hawaii in 1978 and are featured on TV (occasionally with footage of a competitor shitting himself at the finish line)—consist of 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike and a marathon (26.2 mile) run. My neighbor and friend Tom Caldwell, who's completed two Ironmans (Ironmen?), says, "After the first one, I thought, 'that was kind of cool.' But, on the second one, I passed runners who were throwing up, and there were people pooping and peeing on the side of the road...can something that's an impressive accomplishment also be a waste of time, I wondered?"
I completed my first triathlon in 2003—the Danskin women’s race in Seattle—and then followed up with another 6-7 races in the next two summers before taking a 5-year hiatus to pursue a full-time wine-tasting gig. Also, I got divorced, moved to California and back for a job, lost one of my closest friends (to error, not death), watched my best friend fight cancer (successfully, thank god), built a house and moved 9 times during the 10 months of its construction. Oh, and my dog died. And did I mention the wine-tasting? In the process of all of this chaos, I managed to gain 25 pounds and forget how to get to the gym.
And then last summer, I hit bottom, and it wasn't rock. Photos of myself with puffy arms, a round face, and a noticeable, gelatinous growth around my waistline made me squinch up my eyes, kind of the way I had been when I scooted quickly past the mirror on my way into the shower every day. My horror had progressed: now I not only didn't want to see myself naked, I couldn't even look at myself fully clothed. I realized I had to quit fucking around. Somewhere inside that 161-pound woman there was a 130-pound triathlete—not a particularly fast or talented one, but one I’d spent a lifetime living inside. She’d been Supersized: buried beneath excuses and alcohol. Time to dig.
I chose to train for triathlons instead of other events, such as marathons or 10Ks, primarily because I’m not really passionate enough about running to drive around the country to do it. Running’s fine, but it’s the missionary position of recreational sports—same basic actions over and over again—whereas triathlon is the rec athlete’s orgy: more variety, more toys, neoprine, body lube, & full-body wetness. People write on you with magic marker, and there’s a change of clothing and the accompanying opportunity for glimpses of full-frontal nudity. Triathlons offer the opportunity to meet a variety of athletes and experience interesting venues and a chance to develop and challenge my body in a multitude of ways.
You don’t have to be Dara Torres or Amy Hastings or be a size 4 and sport 6-pack abs to compete in triathlons. There are athletes of various girths at the events I’ve been to, and many races have an Athena category for women 150 pounds+ who want to compete against like-sized athletes. I wasn’t as fixated on size when I started my training as much as I was on what my extra weight represented—a detour from my best self. The excess poundage symbolized five years of loss, pain, stress, anxiety, indulgence, and idiocy. In shedding that weight, I’ve escaped some of that baggage and am getting closer to being the me I’m meant to be.
"Regret nothing...not one of the wasted days," writes poet Dorianne Laux." You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake." Everything we've ever done adds up to one thing: who we are at this moment. For awhile, I was a puffy woman hiding inside over-sized hoodies and taking showers by braille so I could keep my eyes away from the damage I'd done. My back hurt from carrying all those mistakes, all those regrets and all that should I'd been hauling around from one wine bottle to the next. I've dropped the load and found that the aching in my back wasn't a permanent injury, after all. It was me, my muscles, those you can see and those inside my head, growing stronger.
“ALL triathlons are ‘full’ triathlons,” I respond. Yikes, I think. I sound like a dick.
I back up a step and try to reverse my jerkishness. “Well, there’re three main distances—sprint, Olympic, and Ironman. I’m just doing sprints.”
The sprint-distance triathlon is the most accessible; if you can swim, ride a bike, run, and change clothes, you can complete one. Officially, sprint-distance tris consist of a 750 meter swim, a 40 km bike ride, and a 5 km run; Olympic or “standard” races consist of a 1.5 km swim, 40 km ride, and a 10 km run. Ironman triathlons—the one which originated in Hawaii in 1978 and are featured on TV (occasionally with footage of a competitor shitting himself at the finish line)—consist of 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike and a marathon (26.2 mile) run. My neighbor and friend Tom Caldwell, who's completed two Ironmans (Ironmen?), says, "After the first one, I thought, 'that was kind of cool.' But, on the second one, I passed runners who were throwing up, and there were people pooping and peeing on the side of the road...can something that's an impressive accomplishment also be a waste of time, I wondered?"
I completed my first triathlon in 2003—the Danskin women’s race in Seattle—and then followed up with another 6-7 races in the next two summers before taking a 5-year hiatus to pursue a full-time wine-tasting gig. Also, I got divorced, moved to California and back for a job, lost one of my closest friends (to error, not death), watched my best friend fight cancer (successfully, thank god), built a house and moved 9 times during the 10 months of its construction. Oh, and my dog died. And did I mention the wine-tasting? In the process of all of this chaos, I managed to gain 25 pounds and forget how to get to the gym.
And then last summer, I hit bottom, and it wasn't rock. Photos of myself with puffy arms, a round face, and a noticeable, gelatinous growth around my waistline made me squinch up my eyes, kind of the way I had been when I scooted quickly past the mirror on my way into the shower every day. My horror had progressed: now I not only didn't want to see myself naked, I couldn't even look at myself fully clothed. I realized I had to quit fucking around. Somewhere inside that 161-pound woman there was a 130-pound triathlete—not a particularly fast or talented one, but one I’d spent a lifetime living inside. She’d been Supersized: buried beneath excuses and alcohol. Time to dig.
I chose to train for triathlons instead of other events, such as marathons or 10Ks, primarily because I’m not really passionate enough about running to drive around the country to do it. Running’s fine, but it’s the missionary position of recreational sports—same basic actions over and over again—whereas triathlon is the rec athlete’s orgy: more variety, more toys, neoprine, body lube, & full-body wetness. People write on you with magic marker, and there’s a change of clothing and the accompanying opportunity for glimpses of full-frontal nudity. Triathlons offer the opportunity to meet a variety of athletes and experience interesting venues and a chance to develop and challenge my body in a multitude of ways.
You don’t have to be Dara Torres or Amy Hastings or be a size 4 and sport 6-pack abs to compete in triathlons. There are athletes of various girths at the events I’ve been to, and many races have an Athena category for women 150 pounds+ who want to compete against like-sized athletes. I wasn’t as fixated on size when I started my training as much as I was on what my extra weight represented—a detour from my best self. The excess poundage symbolized five years of loss, pain, stress, anxiety, indulgence, and idiocy. In shedding that weight, I’ve escaped some of that baggage and am getting closer to being the me I’m meant to be.
"Regret nothing...not one of the wasted days," writes poet Dorianne Laux." You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake." Everything we've ever done adds up to one thing: who we are at this moment. For awhile, I was a puffy woman hiding inside over-sized hoodies and taking showers by braille so I could keep my eyes away from the damage I'd done. My back hurt from carrying all those mistakes, all those regrets and all that should I'd been hauling around from one wine bottle to the next. I've dropped the load and found that the aching in my back wasn't a permanent injury, after all. It was me, my muscles, those you can see and those inside my head, growing stronger.
A detour from one's best self - nicely said.
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