Triathlon is Not About Winning Triathlons

Or at least you aren't going to top many podiums if that's all you're in for.

I finished my first triathlon in March of 2015. Consisting of a 300 meter swim, 9 mile bike, and 5k run, The Azalea Triathlon is referred to as a super-sprint, a distance that now would constitute a fraction of a long training day. But in 2015, it was a looming potential achievement, demanding preparation of Olympic proportion.

I trained like a maniac, executing a full run through of the entire race a month out, jogging in a sopping-wet, brand-new trisuit from the indoor pool to the spin bike. I slapped down cash for a pair of swanky runners. I eased off of training for a full taper week. I followed my workout plan down to the singular Excel block. So by race day, as I frantically attempted to safety pin my bib number to my suit, I was ready. Diving into the swim, eager to crush my one goal: run the 5k in under 30 minutes, I knew exactly what I was in for (the same can't be said for the two International Distance races I slogged through after that). Left uncertain, was what I could be capable of.

The night before Azalea, sitting at my laptop, scrolling through 2014's finishing times, that optimistic uncertainty first sprang into action.

Eyes on the Novice Women category, I said to my computer screen, "I could podium."

Yes, judging by my goofy, indoor trial run, I could scrape my way onto the podium if I tossed together a great performance in all three disciplines. 'Run the 5k sub 30 minutes' is what I said, 'win the whole damn category is what I heard.' So I did it. I strung together my fastest ever swim, bike, and run, and sprint finished my way into... 4th. Totally thrilled by the entire experience (best community in the world, man), I nonetheless lost the podium on my sap-in-January transitions. Yes, I sat down to put my shoes on. Bite me.

But that potential... I could fix transitions. I could train harder. I could swim more times a week. I could be an Olympian yet. I was hooked by that margin of error.

Fast forward noise.

My second attempt at Azalea approaches. After returning from my swim/bike/run hiatus during Study Abroad, I reentered the wonderful world of triathlon over the 2016 summer season, and plunged (headfirst, cue the injuries) into the sport at the beginning of the current semester. Throwing a considerable wrench in all my finish line daydreams, since the beginning of 2017, I have:

sprained my ankle (thanks to tripping in a yard)

partially torn a tendon in my left foot (stress injury thanks to the sprain)

been unable to put weight on said tendon for five days (thanks to the tendon)

taken nearly a month off of running (thanks again to the tendon)

contracted a mild case of golfer's elbow (thanks to over swimming/biking during the run hiatus)

and dealt with the chronic lower back pain I've come to know and love on the bike (thanks to God knows what).

Moreover, I've learned some things.

My goal appetite persists. If anything, its's grown more voracious. But I have learned to appreciate how ridiculously hard achieving them will prove. Triathlon isn't about being faster than other people. Well, it is, but that's the last thing I should be worrying about. Before beating other people comes getting to the start line. I had one incredible first race where nothing went wrong in prep. But in 2015 I was training at a considerably lower volume than I am now. And I had been training for less time. It was beginner's health and optimism (not luck) at its finest. But now, 2 years into the sport, I know getting to race day means battling over training, injury, sickness, and failure to achieve set goals. These, more than winning, constitute an athlete's diet. Management and balance, not podiums, are what make a triathlete.

For the top tier athletes who cross the line in first, the fulfillment doesn't come from glancing over their shoulder and seeing competitors behind them, it comes from looking over their shoulder and seeing the tendon injury and that cold during race-week and the chronic back thing that wouldn't go away, and realizing they reached place all of those things tried to bar them from. Winning is recognition of time managed. And if I'm going to get to my place, I'm going to have to put in the time.

So, as I sit here, sick and unable to work out, worrying about how last week's track practice in new shoes left me limping (seriously, wtf is wrong with my feet), and grateful my cold gives me a reason to stay off of the rebel foot, I realize this is how I know I'm in love (or at least highly infatuated, sadistic?). I am not deterred by the difficulty of chasing the PRs in my dreams. In fact, I want to chase them more. Apparently I'm even competitive in my dreams.

I've got a goal for Azalea. It's ambitious, but doable (if the foot cooperates). I'll probably be hard on myself if I don't finish under my goal time, but I'm working on that. This time I'm not looking at last year's results, instead focusing on what I can do to get stronger, on what will advance my career as a whole, on how best to put in the time.