Tri-Hard: My First Triathlon

Choking on water and gasping for air, I found myself clutching onto the nose of a life guard’s kayak in the first three minutes of my first triathlon. As I floated there panting, clutching onto my neon green lifeline, I glanced over at my Apple Watch to see that my heart rate had spiked to 200 BPM.  My breath was erratic. My mind was spinning. I was in full panic mode.

It was then that I made eye contact with the lifeguard and he asked, “You need me to pull you out?”. I contemplated the offer, which sounded more like a threat, and thought to myself, "What have I gotten myself into?". ​

Waitng for my start whistle, manically happy. Little did I know that that water would teach me some lessons.

Trying a Tri

The line item, “complete a triathlon” has been on my “bucket list” for seven years now. It made it on every vision board and it has come up in my dreamy conversations often. However, there it sat on the list, nagging me. Its untouched presence on that list left me feeling like I was “all hat, no cattle” or in layman's terms, “all talk, no action”. And that bothered me to my core. 

So, in the spirit of “putting my money where my mouth is”, I “gifted” myself a triathlon on my 33rd birthday. It conveniently left me with exactly twelve weeks to train.

Signing up for the triathlon, I knew the swim would be the biggest beast in the three round battle of the swim, bike, run. My swim anxiety was caused by a mix of things: the daunting distance, the dark depths of fresh wild water, and the mere fact that your girl has never swam in any competitive capacity. Frankly, I did not grow up swimming to win medals; instead, I grew up swimming to survive a midday buzz on a paddleboard. Therefore, upon registering, I intimately knew that these survival swimming skills were not going to be enough to get me through an open water swim of 820 yards. So, that is exactly where I began my training. 

On my first day of self-imposed swim practice, I snapped on my first swim cap and swim goggles and never felt more sexy (heavy sarcasm). I jumped in the swim lane of a pool for the first time in my life and found myself exhausted after ten laps in a 25 yard pool. For all you math fiends out there, that is only 250 yards. That is not even the distance to the first buoy in the official race. So, I knew I had work to do, and only twelve weeks to do it. ​

My first swim practice and my first swim cap. Practicality over vanity.

My rec center's pool. For weeks, I lived in here. Its beauty encouraged my faithful attendance.

The progress in the swim came slow as I was literally a fish out of water and without a coach. Three to four times a week, I was self-teaching myself through trial and error and on my off nights of swimming I was worshiping at the altar of youtube seeking divine guidance from the swim teachers on my screen. I quickly learned how complicated swimming is and how difficult it is to coordinate all parts of your body so as to propel your body through water in the most graceful and most efficient manner possible. And on top of all that, learning how to properly breath in water (I legitimately didn’t know you were supposed to breathe at a normal rhythm. I instead was breathing by the premise of, “hold your breath as long as humanly possible, then gasp for air). 

When I swam, I swam slowly, and I looked like I was fighting the water instead of gliding through it. How do I know that? Well, I merely had to look to the swimlanes on my right and on my left. I was the new kid in the water, and that was very humbling, but I was in the water. And I was making progress. And even though the progress was rough and tedious…I was doing it. And that is half the battle. Trying. There was so much to learn and seamlessly coordinate, but I embraced my role as a beginner and showed up to that damn pool three to four times a week…even when I absolutely didn’t want to.

While wrestling with the puzzle of the swim, I was also training for the bike and run. I felt comfortable in both these disciplines. I did not need to learn the very basics of form or technique, unlike swimming, so I knew that my main ground to cover in these disciples would be to build up my endurance and speed which would also benefit my swim. 

By the end of my twelve weeks of training I was running five miles without stopping at a 9 minute pace, biking the ten miles with relative ease, and I was swimming the 820 yards. I felt ready and enthusiastic for race day. ​

A week out from my race. I felt unstoppable and very sweaty.

Brick Workout: Running 3 miles and then immediately hopping on the bike for the ten mile ride.

Race Day

The nectarine sunrise crept over the Golden basalt flows as I set up my transition station. I hung my dad’s early 90s Cannondale bike on the rack, threw down my towel and tennis shoes and watched the other contestants pour in.

​The crowd was a mix of weekend warriors and seasoned triathletes. The age range was from early teenagers to spry 80 year olds. The crowd was predominantly male and predominantly anglo. And I, a novice 33 year old latina triathlete, was pumped to be in their company. All these athletes were at this race to challenge themself and test their limits, whether they were the veterans dawning their Ironman regalia or they were the 80 year olds smiling as they premeditatively rubbed on their Bengay. I felt honored to be their racemate and my nerves slipped away.

My transition station was equipped with everything I needed for all three disciplines. My 30 year old borrowed bike looked like a living fossil in comparison to some of the other professional triathelete's rigs.

Suiting up and fueling with my brother-in-law as we awaited start time. The energy was electric and the people watching was impeccable.

Start time was 7am. My transition station was prepped and my wetsuit was suctioned to my body. I was excited…elated, even. There was a pulse in the crowd as hundreds of us waited to be whistled into the water. I found my mom and dad amongst the crowd and they each gave me a kiss and signed a small cross on my forehead (something my parents have given to us each night as we went to bed…or other momentous occasions). I waved goodbye and joined the mass of fish out of water. I, in my pink swim cap, was the last to enter the water as I was a first time female athlete. And with being last to start, I got to watch everyone dive into that cold water…even those 80 year olds. I was so inspired and couldn’t wait to get in that water and chase after them.

He was nervous, I was pumped.

The map of the 820 yard swim in Soda Lake.

The final whistle was blown and I summeraged into the water. I was immediately hit with the shock of the cold as the water began to fill my wet suit. I took my first strokes and felt my heart rate skyrocket like I have never felt before. My breathing quickened and then took on the pace of hyperventilation. I felt frozen. Panicked. And dumbfounded by the other first-timers who took off without  hesitation…and most of them in just their swimsuits. The combination of my physical reaction to the cold and then my mental anguish at being dead last in the water left me paralyzed. I knew fresh water swimming panic was a common thing, so I tried to calm myself. I tried to slow my breathing. I tried to stroke and move forward, but then I got my first drink of lake water. I bobbed up and choked on what very well could have been geese shit, but I wasn’t phased, I was just happy to be above water.

I didn’t want to give up, but in that water I didn’t know how to calm myself down to swim the 800 yards ahead of me. The distance was daunting as I had never seen it laid out, but instead only tackled it in 25 yard chunks via my rec center pool. I surrendered to the water’s choppy waves and began to do a modified breaststroke so as to keep my head above water. But even with this modification, the wind was blowing big chops of water that I found myself drinking while I tried to regulate my breath. To put it shortly, it was terrifying, and I knew that this terror was all in my head. I remember thinking, “Come on, Brianna…clam the fuck down…You can swim this distance…Just calm down!”. But then also thinking, “Why did you think you could do this? You’ve never swam in a race. You can’t do this. Wave down the kayak and have him pull you out.” And those thoughts between my chokes of air must have subliminally alerted the man in the green kayak. He paddled over, a jolly and kind older man, and asked…”You need me to pull you out?”.

"No!”, I gasped, without hesitation. 

I shocked myself with my quick reply because emotionaly I was in the terrifying mental anguish of self-doubt. 

Chuckling he said, “That’s what I like to hear…grab the nose of my kayak and catch your breath. What is your name?”. We exchanged names. I looked at my watch to see my heart rate sitting above 200 bpm, but as we conversed for a couple minutes I saw it slowly start to fall down. I then lamented, “I want to do this…I want to finish…I’m going to finish”. He nodded his head and emphasized,, “Yeah, you’re going to have a big notch on your belt when you finish this thing. You’re a fighter. I’ll be right here if you need me.”. It was the pep-talk I needed, so I let go of the nose of the kayak and released into the cold depths of Soda Lake.

The swim felt like hours, but I emerged out of the water in twenty-seven minutes…which ironically was not too far off from my best time in the pool. However, those twenty-seven minutes were some of the longest of my life. The swim was a mental battle over a physical one. I was fighting such negative and self-critical thoughts. I had trained so hard, but the water punched me in the face and reminded me that I was in fact just a novice. But with each stroke, I felt myself casting out the negative thoughts and reminding myself of my training, reminding myself of all the other times I’ve fought through and conquered a seemingly impossible situation, and reminding myself that I had people that loved me waiting for me on the shore and that they would be proud of me whether I was pulled in by a kayak or by my own stubborn will. 

Climbing out of the water with legs like jelly felt like passing over the finish line, even though I had two more events to do. I had finished the most difficult discipline for myself and I had conquered my self-doubt. I felt like a champion as I passed my family and began to pull off my wetsuit. ​

"You're a beast!", I heard my dad yelling as I hit shore. It made me smile to see all my family waiting for me as I conquered one of the most mentally taxing feats to date. I've always known I am physically strong, but that water reminded me how mentally strong I am as well. So, as I passed by them to move onto the bike, I already felt like I won the race...and yes...I am still a MF beast.

I was thankful to be on land and on my bike as I rode through Bear Creek Lake Park. I pedaled hard, but found my legs stiff from my excessive kicking in the water. I embraced the fact that my previously fast rides wouldn’t be happening in this race, but kept my head down and my spirit high as I passed those who had passed me in the swim. 

10 miles later, I was back at my transition station, and excited to tackle the three mile run. During the course of my triathlon training, I fell in love with running, which l never knew could be possible. I’ve always joked that I only like to run if I am chasing after a ball…but my twelve weeks of training changed that. Those three miles on the triathlon course were incredibly meditative as I worked through all the thoughts and doubts I was taxed by in the water. It was during this third leg of the race that all those doubts fell away and I was able to appreciate all of my growth, gumpton, and bravery. I’ve always prided myself on my spontaneity, my determination, my child-like love for life…and this little triathlon sprint proved that. 

I crossed the finish line an hour and forty-five mins later as the one who started last in the race, but was not the last to finish the race. However, placing didn’t matter to me. What mattered to me was that I crossed that finish line feeling proud of being a person who is resilient, bold, and persevering. Oh, and a bit crazy. ​

I think I smiled the whole bike ride...and here is the proof as I hit the transition station before the last leg of the three mile run.

The mighty end of the 820 yard swim, 10 mile bike ride, and 3.2 mile run.

Call to Action
 
Finishing my first triathlon allowed me the honor of striking a line through the 'bucket list" item of "finishing a triathlon".

Doing so felt fulfilling as I’ve never wanted to be a person who only “wishes” and “dreams”. I've never wanted to be a person who allows time to leave me with the regret of unmade attempts. No, instead, I want to be a person who recognizes my desires and moves on them without the excuses of inadequacy or daring to err on the side of too much caution. I want to be a person with her bucket list items scratched off and shining like a trophy and not a cobwebbed wish list. ​

Therefore, by completing my first triathlon, I was faithful to my life philosophy and faithful to my desire to live life with the wonder of a child who is not afraid to try new things or move into new horizons. The victory wasn't found in the race, but in my faithfulness to myself.

And for you, whoever you are reading this, I hope you feel inspired to do the same. I hope each one of you ponders the desires of your heart and has the nerve to strike out after them. I hope you pull out that "bucket list" and sharpen your pencils in preparation for the final strike-out. I hope you get caught up in your day-dreams and even have the nerve to pursue them. I encourage you to try, and to try hard.

To try hard in a world of quiet quitting is a revolutionary act. To try hard in world of lazy boy recliners and bottomless streaming tv is a revolutionary act. To try hard in a world of instant gratification that is fueled by the likes of GrubHub and internet shopping is a revolutionary act. Be a revolutionary, not a creature of comfort. 

And, your try, doesn't have to be a Tri. Your try is anything that has been living on your "bucket list' for far too long. Whether that be taking that pottery class, attending that dance lesson, or trying a new recipe off of pinterest. I think it is essential to try, as many opportunities allow, to get out of our comfort zone, because as that saying goes, "A comfort zone is a beautiful place, but nothing grows there". And it is once we are out of those comfort zones that we are able to conquer our  own self-imposed limiting beliefs. And this is essential as we are truly our own greatest enslavers by which we enslave ourselves with doubt and fear.

So break those chains, smash that box of comfort, and go do that thing that terrifies you. Because that's where growth lives. And if you do manage to embark on that new terrifying thing...I'd love to cheer you on and/or hear about it! 

P.S. Did you know that high schoolers use the phrase "try-hard" as an insult toward another student if they are showing any sort of passion/dedication/ambition toward something. I think this highlights a "sickness" we see in our society; a belief that something should not be pursued unless it is instant or easy. As a teacher, I am doing my best to show the beauty in the "try-hard" philosophy in a world of "comfortable creatures".

P.S.S If you do feel like doing a Tri with me. My next one will be in Northern Colorado mid June 2025. I am already registered and already nervous. But, my only goal in this triathlon is to conquer my "open water swim panic" and improve my mental wellbeing in the water on race day.