I’ve never been what one would call a water person (unlike my dog Luey, pictured here). I was the type of kid who was afraid to take a bath after watching Jaws (yes, you may cackle openly at this fun fact, I don’t mind). Needless to say, then, triathlon just isn’t my thing, because you have to do that S word: swimming. But that hasn’t stopped me from trying some tris, and—because most adventures with me end in misadventure—getting in over my head. So if you’re not a swimming superstar, and you’re thinking of testing the waters with your first triathlon soon, learn from my mistakes before taking the plunge yourself.
DON’T stay in the pool. Training for my first triathlon in 1996, I dutifully dipped my toes into a lap pool several times a week. I trailed along behind a master’s swim team practice. I got form advice. I was dedicated. All of that training went out the window, though, when I first put my goggled face in the river water on race day. And discovered to my horror that I couldn’t see an inch in front of my face.
Lesson learned: Lap pools and murky brown rivers are very different creatures.
DO take your time. The starting gun went off, and I dashed into the water with all my fellow age-groupers. Which is really stupid, if you think about it. I mean, all that sprinting for 10 seconds did for me was make me out of breath—as soon as we started swimming, everyone promptly passed me anyway.
Lesson learned: Sprinting and then swimming is not a smart combo.
DON’T ignore the course. While desperately trying to a. catch my breath and b. not put my face in the water, I arrived at a brilliant solution: the backstroke! I flipped over, calm as a cuke, and started swimming on my back. I was in my own element when out of the corner of my eye I saw a kayak bobbing next to me. “You’re going the wrong way!” the race marshal pointed downstream at all my fellow yellow-capped swimmers, who were most definitely going a different direction than I was. (I was the lone swimmer who was attempting to cross the river rather than swim the length of it, you see.)
Lesson learned: The backstroke is an excellent cure for pesky problems such as breathing and seeing, but you still need to watch where you’re going.
As my fellow yellow cappers got further and further ahead of me, and pink caps from the wave behind us started coming in strong, I got a newfound determination. Operation Get Me the Hell Out of This Water. With a combination of doggie paddling and breast-stroking (both superior forms to see, catch your breath, and see where you’re going), I managed to finish the ½-mile swim.
I’d like to say that I learned from my mistakes and got smarter, faster, and braver in future triathlons, but I didn’t. In fact, I regressed. My next tri was held in Central Park (where the swim portion was in an outdoor pool that was so shallow, you could run the swim portion, much to my spectating sister’s amusement). My third, and last, was held indoors at my NYC gym. I hung up my goggles shortly thereafter, and haven’t set foot in a lap pool since. Sometimes, it’s best to stick with what you know—and for me, that means any sport where land is firmly underneath my feet.
