Sink or Swim

Last year on June 24, 2007, my 56th birthday, I was floating in murky harbor water with my fellow age-groupers waiting for the start of a triathlon, my first. I was excited and nervous about my initiation into the fraternity. Just 9 months prior I was floating in the recovery room after surgery for a torn meniscus. Six months prior I hadn’t swam a stroke in almost forty years. These facts were locked away in my subconscious as I surveyed the 500 meter course. In the pool, in 25m bites, a 500 hardly seemed daunting, even for a beginner. Now, however, as I looked at the string of buoys laid out in the protected harbor, it looked like more than a trivial pursuit.

I had always cycled a bit, and at age 51 I started running again. I was just one leg short of a tri. My training partner and good friend, Marianne, had taken up triathlon and I was intrigued. The competitive weasel in me perked up his ears, but I still fancied myself as a runner, harking back to my days in high school track and cross country. A severed Achilles tendon had set me back in my rebirth as a runner. Then eighteen months later a torn meniscus threatened my running career again. Something had to be done. If the knee didn’t heal right, I would now be two legs short of a tri. Cross training was the answer. Less running, more cross. I started cycling again and decided to give swimming a go. It’s like riding a bicycle, right? Just dive in and the muscle memory will take over. So I joined a gym with a pool, bought the paraphernalia, and slid in the water for my first swim. I barely made it one length of the pool, splashing and thrashing like a salmon out of water. After several weeks of this futile routine, I sought professional help. Six months of lessons and Master’s classes later, I felt confident enough to tackle my first triathlon.

The air horn blasted and my heart jumped into my throat as I took off like Michael Phelps. The surging pod of groupers swept me along, until all of sudden I couldn’t breath. I stopped to get a gulp of air, but that didn’t help. Meanwhile I could see the pod moving steadily away. Don’t panic, try again. Nope, I just couldn’t exhale in the water. I though about quitting, but continued on swimming on my back, dog paddling, and a heads up breast. After what seemed an eternity I finally got to the far buoy and turned for home. My arms were dead. My breathing was heavy. My mind was numb. But I was going to make it. I trudged out of the water totally dispirited, but determined to go on. T1 came and went. Out on the bike, I started to feel better. Now this feels normal. I climbed up the incline passing quite a few people as my damaged ego recovered a bit. When I came into T2, I saw my twin boys and my wife with big birthday signs. The announcer picked up on this and yelled out a happy birthday. This gave me a big surge as I quickly transition into my strength, the run. Somehow someone had tied a ball and chain to both of my legs and they wouldn’t move correctly. I staggered through the transition area in slow motion. As the family cheers grew fainter I crossed the timing mat and out into the course. After a few minutes, the feeling returned to the legs and I followed the winding run course. When I passed people, or they passed me, I checked out their age group on their calf. I didn’t see any in my age group; I thought they had already finished or were far ahead. Finally I spied someone in my age group within a half mile of the finish. At least I’ll finish ahead of one person, I thought, as I sped by. I finished, and although completely unsatisfied with my swim, I was a triathlete. I enjoyed the festivities and slowly made my way back to the car with my training, and now tri-partner.

A few days later I saw the results in the paper. I browsed down through the age groups until I stopped at mine. I blinked, looked again, than grew a half-smile, half-smirk, and laughed out loud. There in the paper, in third place, was my name, Steve Edwards. Somehow I had passed 10 people, medaled, and got my name in the paper. The trial by water was worth it. No way I could give up swimming and go back to being a one- or two-legged stool. After another year of snorting air, counting laps, and smelling like chlorine, I’m still no Michael Phelps. But I’m just crazy enough to try my first Olympic triathlon and swim three times as far, whether it’s on my back, side, or front. In fact, I’m looking forward to this new stroke called the kelp crawl used at the Pacific Grove triathlon; now that sounds my speed.