Triathlon=hardcore

This weekend, my sister, Katie, attained a new level of hardcore. Sure, she’s cried with my mom and me at the Tour de Pain. Sure, she’s competed in cross-country races and finished a marathon (26.2 miles). But this weekend, she tackled another beast entirely: a triathlon.

On the eve of the much-anticipated race, I helped my sister prepare. We carefully packed an extensive checklist of provisions: goggles, towel, running shoes, biking shoes, bike, race number, spare tire, helmet, etc. Even two helium balloons made the cut. Once everything was accounted for, we unpacked and checked again. Then we made a triple check just to be safe. A few more checks ensued, although how many is hard to tell.

At one point, my sister paused from her OCD to try on her swimming cap and goggles. The swimming caps were color-coded by race start time, and my sister was in the hot pink group. She was thrilled. She looked like a hot pink-headed, goggle-wearing zombie, and I couldn’t help but laugh. However, there’s something about a swim cap that screams intense, thus—hardcore factor No. 1.

By 8 a.m. on Saturday, those of us without circulation-constricting caps were in the minority. My sister waded in the choppy, smelly river water with hundreds of other triathletes (including several UF Tri-Gators) and prepared for a quarter-mile swim. This swim was no lap in the pool. This was a swim-for-survival against 50-mile-per-hour winds. This was a fight to stay afloat despite the occasional foot in the face of another swimmer close by. Drowning, I realized, was a real possibility—hardcore factor No.2.

My sister emerged from the water looking relieved but still with two legs of her sprint triathlon to go. Leg two—a 16-mile bike ride over two causeways. Factor in windshield and spontaneous rainstorm for another potentially life-threatening situation. Leg three—a 5k (3.1 miles) over and back over the still gusty causeway. Needless to say, here we have hardcore factors No. 3 and 4.

After just under two hours of non-stop movement over land and sea, my sister crossed the finish line slightly wind-blown but victorious. She wore a red finisher’s medal and a somewhat delirious smile. Finishing alive—hardcore factor No. 5.

My role in this whole operation—photographer. I took pictures from the sidelines (not super hardcore, although out-of-control bikers did pose imminent threat to spectators). Perhaps one day I’ll join my sister’s danger-laden sport, but for now, I’m content experiencing the thrill of triathlons vicariously. Truth be told, I was exhausted pretending.