triathlon

Achieving a goal involves a strange mixture of elation and questioning. For nine months, I trained toward completing a triathlon. On Sunday, the day of reckoning arrived, and the race proceeded almost as I'd imagined it in my dreams: I didn't drown in the lake; I didn't have to change a flat tire by the side of the road; and my legs (and mind) held up during the run.

Yesterday, I wasn't Carrie — I was number 1463. It was inked on my arm in black. Yesterday, I competed in my first ever triathlon. Put it all together: 1500 metre swim, 40 km bike ride, and 10 km run. Let's just say there were a lot of buff bodies at the race site.

Don't talk to me. It's the countdown to race day, and I'm a ball of nerves — prickly, anxious, snappish, and guilty. Sorry, kids! Sorry, husband! What was I thinking when I signed myself up to compete in a triathlon? Someone remind me, please.

The triathlon, my first ever, is in less than a week. Realistically, there isn't much left for me to do, in terms of training. Either I can swim 1500 metres, cycle 40 kilometres, and run 10 more, or I can't. One more week of training will make next to no difference. And yet I'm utterly consumed by this project. I can't seem to turn off the push toward the finish line. I was afraid of this.

Nine months ago, I decided I would like to train and compete in a triathlon. And in a couple weeks, I will stand trembling at the start of my first triathlon: ready to swim 1500 metres, cycle forty kilometres, and end with a ten kilometre run to the finish line. If you've been following my journey so far, you'll know that I am a) an amateur b) the mother of four young children and c) have never attempted anything like this in my entire life. So maybe you're wondering: Why a triathlon?