Forget Thrill of Victory--Finishing Is Name of the Game for Triathlete

As soon as the starter blew his horn, 50 swimmers equipped with wetsuits, goggles and brightly colored swim caps sprinted for the ocean. They dove and bobbed like dolphins, gracefully conquering the course.

As a first-time triathlete, I politely let them pass before daring to ease myself into the choppy morning water. My primary concern was not to win. It was merely to avoid drowning.

I’m a runner, not a swimmer. In fact, before that race I had never entered the ocean with the intent of working out. Collecting seashells, sure. Body surfing, occasionally--if the water was 80 degrees or warmer. But swimming? Never. Battling the waves, the current and the saltwater inhalation always seemed, well, just plain silly.

It seemed especially foolish as I choked and gagged, dog paddled and backstroked my way through the 500-meter event. The lifeguard who paddled on a surfboard beside me the whole way seemed amused by the spectacle.

“Um, you’re going the wrong way,” she managed to point out between fits of giggles.

When I finally dragged my sodden body to shore, I heard one of the officials mumble, “Another one? I thought all the swimmers came in a long time ago.” I thanked him profusely for his support and stumbled up the beach to grab my bike.

The triathlon is a strange event. It requires a certain level of proficiency in three strenuous sports. It had always been my opinion from the sidelines that anyone who is in fairly decent shape can complete one. But people don’t seem to do triathlons just to finish them. They do them to win.

As a runner, I have conquered the 5K, 10K, half-marathon and marathon. But to most runners, “to conquer” means simply “to complete.”

Runners consider the marathon to be a personal challenge, and sometimes personal punishment. It invariably ends up a bonding experience for all those who tackle the 26.2 miles.

There are thousands of us who aim to break four hours, and a few elites who chase a two-hour-and-something record-breaking performance. Even a six-hour finish is considered a respectable (if painful) achievement.

Such is not the case in the world of triathlons.

Until now, I doubt that there was ever a “casual triathlete.” I might have just invented the breed.

The muscular men and women who enter these events take them seriously. Their pre-race nervous chatter includes talk of personal trainers, high-tech add-ons for bike pumps and which style of wetsuit could improve their time by 3 seconds.

Looking with derision at my decade-old 10-speed, my racing companion advised me that a better bike could shave as much as a minute off every mile. (Not to mention shaving hundreds of dollars off my savings.)

As I struggled to keep up with him on the 11-mile course, I considered the idea. Am I really that competitive? Well, maybe.

I made it a goal to pass at least one person on the bike ride. Halfway through the course, I saw her. Cranking up my speed to near-exhaustion mode, I glided past my opponent, slowing momentarily to give her a shout of encouragement . . . and to take a good look at my conquest.

Mildly disappointed, I realized I had met her before the race. She was 16. This was her first triathlon. And she was riding a mountain bike, which requires 2 1/2 pedal rotations for my every one. But at least I had finally passed someone.

Having satiated my competitive fervor, I cruised through the rest of the ride, and then through the run. Thanks to adrenaline and momentum, the three-mile run was my fastest ever, though still moderate by triathlete standards.

In terms of participation, this was a small race. There were only four women in my division, and--unfortunately for me--there were only three trophies. But I did what I came to do, which was to finish.

My second triathlon is coming up in a couple of weeks, and I have decided to take a different approach: I’m competing as part of a team. Christy, who spends so much time in the water I suspect she has gills, will handle the swim. Eric, a teenage cycling whirlwind, will unleash his pedaling fury. And I will run.

Though Christy and I are self-proclaimed mid-packers, Eric has assured us he can make up the time. We might even win something if we really try.

But the important thing is that I see no more saltwater in my racing future.

Those serious triathletes can have the creepy crawly ocean things to themselves. From now on, I’m quite happy sticking to the road.