On My First Tri - Part I

*Originally written on 4.03.2011


Merry Christmas!

I rip open the bag, remove the packaging, and dig my hand deep into the gift bag.  Clutching the material, it feels like clothing.  But it feels different; somewhat meshy.  What could it be?  Gym shorts?  No.  That would be odd.  That would be an odd Christmas gift from my brother, with him knowing that I don't spend any time in the gym lifting weights anymore and all.  Is he trying to tell me something?  Do I need to be back in the gym, hitting the weights?  No.  He knows that for the past four months I've been working out harder than I ever have.  He knows I discovered swimming and have been hitting the pool twice a week.  He knows that I've been doing some sort of physical activity pretty much everyday of the week - running, mountain biking, road biking, yoga, even pilates.  So why the hell would John give me a pair of gym shorts?  

Okay. I've ruled out the gym shorts.  Well, what the hell is in this bag?  With the family watching, I pull out the piece of clothing.  

"This serves me right," I tell John, laughing.  "This is what I deserve for all the shit I gave you." 

I used to give my brother so much grief for his cycling outfits.  The skintight jerseys, the spandex, the spandex with suspenders ("the overall spandex"), the shaved legs, everything.  They provided me, a 215-pound ex-football player at the time, with endless ammunition.  

John and I were both living at home at the time.  He had discovered triathlons and was training incredibly hard.  I had discovered trail running.  I did some mountain biking a few times a week, but that was the extent of it.  I found great peace and joy in running and riding the trails by our house.  But there was no way you were getting me in anything skintight.  No spandex, no jerseys.  (If that were a bumper sticker, I would have had a few of them slapped on my car.)  I wanted nothing to do with it.  In fact, I was an active advocate for all things loose-fitting: sweatpants, sweatshirts, jumbo-tees.  I dressed for comfort, in sport and in life.  And loose-fitting clothes were comfortable.  Spandex and jerseys were not.   Due to the build that I developed through football - weighing 230 lbs as a senior on the football team - I felt and looked like a over-stuffed sack of potatoes whenever I wore anything remotely tight.  My shoulders were too wide and my legs were too big.  But now, I'm sitting there on Christmas morning some years later, a trim 190-pounder with football far in the rearview mirror, holding up my very own cycling jersey.  

Now, this might sound like it was some sort of cruel brotherly payback or gag gift.  But it wasn't.  This was a long time coming - about four months coming. 

I secretly longed for something like this to wear on my mountain bike rides.  But I didn't have the courage to buy the thing myself.  I knew, in the back of my mind, that John would have ruined me.  It was like a voice in the back of my head each time I made a step down this path.  When I made the switch, a few months back, from swimming in board-shorts, to swimming in speedos, I thought I had traded identities with someone from one of my nightmares.  There is no way I could tell John.  

Then I became paranoid.  When I'd change into the speedos and hit the pool, I had an ever-present, though hugely unfounded fear, that John might be there.  John might be there lurking on the opposite side of the pool, disapprovingly and self-satisfyingly shaking his head, telling himself in a snicker, "wow, what a loser."

"There's no way that could happen, dude," I would tell myself.  "John lives in DC, you live in San Francisco.  Just swim."  I would then feel confident enough to enter the pool area, dive in, and start swimming - with an occasional peak to see if John might be in the lane next to me.  But he wasn't.     

I kept swimming.  I kept running.  I kept mountain biking, doing yoga, doing Pilates.  I cut out the weights, feeling like swimming was a better replacement.  I ran a half marathon in October.  I was feeling good.  My clothes were no longer fitting.  My waist line went from a 36' to a 32'.  All my shirts were feeling baggy.  I was happy.  

But what was I doing this for?  Why was I working out so much?  I always felt pretty content with my body image.  I always worked out hard, but it was usually weight-room focused.  This always kept me looking somewhat inflated, like I just came off the line of scrimmage.  I was always pretty okay with that.  But why was I now doing all these different cardio workouts everyday?  Sure, the workouts relieved stress, gave me a sense of accomplishment, and made me feel more optimistic.  And sure, my girlfriend Tracy and I have great weekend outings on the mountain bike, which is a joy in itself.  But this didn't totally encapsulate why I was suddenly doing all this. 

I think it hit me during a swim.  

"I want to do a triathlon," I mumbled to myself, head still under water, bubbles coming up to the surface.  "Yepp. I want to push my body to its limits.  I'm only 24 and I'm only getting older.  I want to continue to challenge myself.  I want to complete this ultimate challenge.  I want to be a triathlete."

This idea didn't completely come out of nowhere - and I wasn't just high on chlorine.  After completing my first half marathon in October, I was energized.  I wanted more.  I loved the competition, the community, the accomplishment.  I wanted more.  

At the time, I was supplementing my law school reading with Jon Krakauer's book on Pat Tillman, "Where Men Win Glory."  I found Tillman's story endlessly inspiring.  He was never complacent.  He was always trying new things, always challenging himself in new ways.  Just for one small example, where mostly all NFL players take the off-season to regroup and lift some weights, Tillman ran a full 26.2 mile marathon.  In the following offseason, Tillman completed a full Ironman Triathlon.  Professional athletes just don't do this.  Tillman was unbelievable.  He jumped at every new challenge.  

Both consciously and subconsciously, Krakauer's book rubbed off on me.  But I didn't exactly vocalize my desire to do a triathlon to anyone outside of Tracy.  It was more of a secret goal.  It was more of a year-from-now type goal.  It was probably November of last year when I made this goal.  

So there I am on Christmas morning, sitting on the family couch, holding up this beautiful jersey.  Its mostly dark blue, with red sides, and "Anchor Steam Beer" written across the chest.  I love it.  This is the perfect jersey for me.  I hope it fits.  I put the jersey on my lap and flip it over front-side down, preparing to put it on.  As I do this, I realize that this is the first time I have seen the back.  It has the "Anchor Steam Beer" logo written across the back too and looks much the same as the front.  But there are these little pockets on the back of the jersey, and there is a folded piece of computer paper sticking out of it.  

I look up to John, thinking that this is the receipt of the jersey and I should give it back to him, in order to avoid the awkwardness of knowing how much he paid for it.  But when I look up, I see that everyone in my family is looking at me, kind of clenching their jaws with wry smiles.  My brow becomes furrowed as I look at John.  

"Uh, what is this?" I ask

"Open it up, dude."  John tells me. 

I unfold the computer paper.  I realize that it is some sort of email that John has printed out.  I read on. 

"Congratulations Douglas, you have successfully registered for the Real Xterra Mountain Biking Triathlon in Folsom Lake on March 27, 2011!!"  

My heart starts pounding.  I feel the blood quickly rise from my heart, to my neck, and straight to my face.  My hands become numb.  I look up and see my family.  Everyone's laughing, yelling.  They were all in on it.  They look like they are either preparing for the hugest mistake/disaster three months in advance, or are witnessing quite possibly the coolest thing ever.  As I sit there, looking at them, and back at the paper, looking at them, and back at the paper, I'm not sure which perception is more accurate.

"Holy shit, John," is all I can say feeling completely out of breath, excited, and most of all, terrified.

"Merry Christmas!"