I-Tri

Last weekend I told a lady she had beautiful toe nails. She really did. They were neon pink and matched her swimsuit, lipstick and, from memory, finger nails.

Her feet, like mine, were standing on a beach in Springs, NY. Around us were 70 others – in swimsuits, tri-suits and wet suits. Our thumping hearts clattered and nervous chatter and laughter hummed against the early evening sun as we prepared to plunge into the cool waters of the bay.

This was the ‘Turbo Tri’ – a charity fundraiser comprising a 300 yard swim, 7 mile bike and 1.5 mile run. I’d phoned up the event organiser who’d assured me it was a very casual affair so I’d figured this would be a no-pressure way to prepare for the Big Day next month - a chance to see how it really feels to swim in open water, to get a grasp of the transitions, to experience what it’s like to switch from using swimming legs, to biking and then to running ones.

Alongside the lady with pink toenails was a teenage girl in an electric pink ‘Turbo Tri’ t-shirt. They were arm in arm, smiling and talking quietly to each other. I assumed it was her daughter. My own kids couldn’t be there, neither could my husband. I felt a pang.

I lost sight of the pink lady after that. I clocked only the line of buoys bobbing gently on the water marking the stretch of our swim like a string of pearls. It seemed so long a string. The race started. I tasted salt, saw only grimy green through my goggles. My arms thundered through the choppy, cold water. Fatigue rippled through my legs.

Lifeguards on paddle boards dotted the route along the bay, keeping us on course. Without the clear black lines of a swimming pool underneath, it was hard to swim in a straight line. ‘Niiiice strokes,’ a life guard called. At me. My heart pumped. I attacked the swim again, felt lighter as I passed swimmers in front of me.

Next I felt sand and pebbles under my feet. A small but vocal crowd had gathered as I emerged from the water, heard a ripple of claps and cheers. My friend whooped. I was the first girl out of the water.

Next the bike, sticking socks onto wet feet, the bike clanking hard against my ankles as I awkwardly yanked on a helmet, my wet butt skidded onto the seat. Off....

Gears cranked, wheels clicked, bugs invaded my face. The route was through a residential neighbourhood. Volunteers stood in front yards directing me this way and that. I didn’t dare look behind me, too afraid I’d fall off my bike. My hands throbbed from gripping the handlebars so tight. I still tasted salt. So, so thirsty.

I spent 365 days in the transition from bike to run. Or so it seemed. Spectators may have thought I was doing a puppet show with my bike. I couldn’t work out how to put the bloody thing back on the rack. ‘Other way,’ someone shouted. And someone else. Finally I hooked it. Time to run – away from the shame of transition if nothing else.

Lead legs. A wrong turn. Girls still doing the bike told me to run the other way. One girl gave me a whoop. I overtook a man in a blue bandanna, mumbled ‘hi’ through spit and sweat. He probably thought I was just cussing. A volunteer had pieced together a broken sign saying ‘This Way’ along a dirt path. Nearing the end, strength returned to my legs as I saw the humble crowd, felt the glow of neon pink. ‘First female,’ I heard, crossing the finish line. My dear friend cried, ‘You won, you won,’.

Water never tasted so good. My friend brought beer and the bubbles lightened my head. My head danced. A light film of salt caked my skin and hair. I had done this thing, dang it.

The event made the papers and it was only then, a few days later, that I learnt more about the lady with the neon pink toenails who like me, had also just competed in her first triathlon. She’d been a victim of domestic abuse. The young girl standing beside her on the beach was her daughter and had been in their home when her mother was attacked three years ago.

Her daughter was now a member of i-Tri – http://itrigirls.org/ - the charity behind my first tri which teaches vulnerable teenage girls how to build self-esteem through the sport of triathlon. The mother had been so inspired by her daughter’s transformation through the program that she’d learnt to swim to compete in this event.

I felt humbled. We’d stood toe to toe and had a momentary passing exchange. Yet, there was all that going on behind that pink swimsuit, the pink lipstick and those beautiful pink toenails.

I’m so delighted by what I achieved last Saturday. I came home in 43:41:52, have a better idea of what to expect for the Big Day, can rely on my tri-suit not to split up the backside and will learn to hook my bike on the rack properly, damn it.

But the lady in pink’s achievement is on a different plain. She is a wife who survived, a mother who protected, a woman who couldn’t swim but learnt. And now, a tri-athlete - with beautiful pink toenails.

*Read press coverage here - http://www.easthamptonstar.com/Sports/2013619/Late-Comer-Wins-Turbo-Triathlon




Run

 




Arsing about in transition