I TRI

Every race offers unique experiences and my first triathlon was no exception.

To start, I participated in this event with my youngest son, Sean. A pretty big deal since it was our first triathlon AND this is the same child who ran my very first 5K race with me almost 3 years to the day earlier. This triathlon marks my continuing evolution as an everyday athlete and his discovering that there is competition after football.

I have to comment on my son's attitude about this race. He had trained for it, but had always been luke warm about the whole thing. He was especially not a fan of the road biking, but put in the training time because, well, while it didn't seem like a he-man sport worthy of his efforts, at his core, he's a competitor and wasn't showing up on race day unprepared. Little did he know.

This was a sprint distance triathlon that involved a 3.35 mile run, an 11.3 mile bike course, and a 350 yard swim. In that order. Which is the exact opposite of the traditional swim, bike, run. Frankly I loved the reverse order because you weren't trying to tug on socks and shoes while dripping wet in all your sopping cellulite and spandex glory. With this race you could cross the finish line and go don a t-shirt, baseball cap and flip-flops so you could languish in the sun and dry while you waited for final race results.

This race offered a pronounced dynamic I've never before witnessed in any race. Full age disclosure. In big black numbers down your left calf. While the age issue has always played a part in my motivation during a race to pass someone or the sense of satisfaction in doing so, I've always had to rely on outward appearance.

But this was different. We had race numbers written on our right arm and right calf. Numbers that are ignored by all with the exception of race officials. But now? Every participant suddenly had an all consuming obsession with the left calf of everyone in their vicinity. We couldn't help it. We just had to assess each and every participant by those two revealing numbers. And the race hadn't even started.

"Hmmm. 26? Really? That kid doesn't look 26. .......54? No way. She cannot be 54. She has no body fat and I can't even see a wrinkle. Plus all the musculature of her face seems to work so there's not even any botox in play here. So not fair." And your silent commentary goes on as you scan the crowd, ready your transition space, and make last minute checks on your gear.

As we gather at the start line, I'm having insight on how sharks that have just caught a whiff of fresh blood in the water must feel. Instead of calmly going inside our own pre-race mental space, cranking up our Ipods and focusing on our strategy, as is typical minutes before a race, we are like twitching wild horses, the whites of our eyes rolling into view as we are scanning the left calf of everyone in front of us.

By the time the gun went off, I don't think one person hadn't already spotted someone older ahead of them and made them a target of annihilation. All outward appearances were indicative of a friendly competition but the electric charge of a more base predatory instinct was unmistakable. We were all looking for the next prey to cut from the herd and leave in our dust. And all because of two numbers.

We were to soon learn that knowing the age of our competitors was both a blessing and a curse. While it was fabulous to pass the 36-year-old guy on my bike who had passed me earlier in the run, it was tough to never quite be able to catch that 58-year-old calf that was always looming ahead of me. Had I not been privy to the actual age of the guy I couldn't catch it wouldn't have had quite the impact to my ego. My race memories are made up of shoe and sock colors and the number written just above them.

Okay, enough about the age thing, but I just had to set the stage here.

The race was amazing. The run was a little tough because it was hotter than I prefer, but getting on that bike for only my second bike race ever was so thrilling. I still couldn't believe I was really doing a triathlon. Me. Who had only owned this bike for 5 months and couldn't swim across a pool 8 months ago.

But I have to say that running from the transition area after the bike drop off and into the pool with the roar of spectators watching the finish was surreal. As I dived into the water, (which felt incredible after the run and bike) I quickly realized that a) I was feeling strong and I in fact, was swimming in front of all these people and b) chances were good that I was not going to drown as they watched.

While I wasn't thrilled about coming out of that pool and running across the finish line in my present wet, chubby, goggled state, the fact remained that I had just finished a triathlon. And with a better finish time than I had hoped for. It was my typical mid-pack performace and I could not have been happier. (Although due to the participation of only 5 other women in my 45-49 age group I did manage to snag a 3rd place award.....and I accept swag any way I can get it.)

But nothing beats being greeted back in the transition area by Sean, my naysayer son, smirking as he admits "Okay"...."that was WAYYYYYY more fun than I though it was going to be."

Well, duh! Did I mention that Sean is not slight of build? To be clear, he has legs like tree trunks. Legs that allow him to run at a pretty good pace and maintain speeds on a bike that would make Lance Armstrong proud. (Which, by the way, got him 5th in his age group. A much tougher category than mine.) We both headed home that day grateful for a good race and someone we loved to share it with.

So if you happen to be following me in traffic one day, you'll see my new Bountiful Triathlon sticker in my back window proudly proclaiming "I TRI". It looks great above the skull of the Bairgutsman sticker.

Hey, grandmas need hobbies too.

Take care. And maybe it's your time to TRI?