“Sprint Triathlon”. Sounds like an oxymoron, like “jumbo shrimp”. Ironman distance is seen as a gold standard, a day long endurance event. Longer, and it’s “ultra”, like ultra marathon. Shorter, and the race seems to be over almost before it begins.
The distances, for the uninitiated, Sprint/Ironman: 750 meters/3800m swim; 20 kilometer/180K bike; 5K/42K run.
My very first triathlon was a sprint. Waiting for a cashier in Performance Bike one day in July, 1998, I saw a brochure for the Fort Lewis Triple Threat Triathlon series: a sprint in June, another in July, followed by an Olympic distance (twice as long) in August. It was too late for me to consider that year – I was not, nor had I ever been, a runner. But I tucked the brochure into my pocket, to consider along with other “events”, mostly biking, which I was starting to collect and do. Names like the STP, the RAMROD, the Courage Classic, the Daffodil Classic, the Peninsula Metric. Just another bike ride, with a swim to warm up, and a run tacked on at the end.
That fall, as my professional life took a relaxing turn away from management and governance, I gradually warmed to the idea of a new challenge, specifically, finally doing “a” triathlon. I’d apparently retained a mythic sense of the sport ever since 1980, when I read a Sports Illustrated article about the second running of the Hawaiian Ironman, filled with goofy characters who enjoyed abusing their bodies, and thought nothing of going out all day for a ride around Oahu, followed by a jog through Honolulu (the race would not move to the Big Island for another year or two.) I’d always resisted the thought, knowing I hated running, hated how it made you breath hard, sweat profusely, and seemed to be associated with chronic back and knee pains, performed by thin asthenic men whom I dismissively thought of as “Mr. Aerobic”, with little scrawny arms, hollow chests, and cavernous cheeks.
I had much more respect for “anaerobic” sports: weight lifting, downhill skiing, and mountain biking were my thing then. Swimming qualified, as the races were short, and required heavy lifting from the upper appendages. Cycling, running, cross-country skiing all seemed repetitive, exhausting, and filled with geeks who had really odd clothing choices, like tight-fitting lycra, woolen hats with ear flaps, or short-shorts with slits on the side.
But I remembered the grit and outre lifestyles of those Ironmen – surfers, lifeguards, hermit like mountain dwellers. Seemed like a type of character I might want to be. So on January 1st that year, I ran 3/4 of a mile, and built towards that first triathlon, on June 26th, 1999.
I never, ever, gave a thought to (a) the fact that this was a race, not just an event or (b) that I might actually want to do more than one of these. Cheryl and I arrived on Ft. Lewis, and followed the signs to the shoreline park on American Lake, where the usual triathlon pre-race activities were underway. Body-marking, pre-race talks detailing the course, setting up my bike and other items needed for the second and third legs were all new to me. I just watched those around me, fascinated by the people who had a tub of water, presumably for washing off their feet after running up the sand.
I put on my new sleeveless wet suit, and went bare-headed, disdaining the mandatory swim cap as something that only a women would wear in the water. The gun went off, and so did I. As a life-long mediocre swimmer, I quickly discovered that I could go about a minute or two before I needed to switch to breaststroke for 15-20 seconds to recover my breath. Pacing, measuring or dosing our my effort, was a foreign concept. This was a “Sprint”, after all.
As I got out of the water, I was shocked to see that all those around me were RUNNING up the little hill to the bike racks. These people were Serious – they all wanted to go Fast and beat each other, it seemed. I was trying to fit in, and so I instinctively adopted the competitive ethos. Smiling and joking with Cheryl who was taking pictures to document the whole thing, I got on my bike, and followed the crowd.
I actually started to pass a few people, which only fueled my fires. I had a little better handle on pacing the bike, and the totally flat course helped keep me out of the red zone. The run was a different story. It featured all the things I had hated for 40 years about running: hard work, panting, sweating, other people going faster than me, gasping for breath, feeling like I wanted to quit.
But I kept on running as hard as I cold, for as long as I could, 22 minutes, probably. I was exhausted, and vowed never to do such a thing again, but I stayed around for the door prizes (I didn’t get one), and the awards. I was SECOND in my age group. That weighty silver medal seemed a fitting reward, and it signaled not the end, but rather, the beginning of my triathlon career. Once I realised this was a race, and one could get rewarded for finishing in front of other people, I was totally hooked. In addition to coming back for the next event in July, I scoured the Internet for other races in the area, and entered as many as I could find, hoping to could get another medal. I even entered a sprint down in San Diego, using the excuse that I needed to see my mother and sister who lived there (I got third in that race.)
That first triathlon, for me, became the standard against which I judged all others. Were they bigger, or smaller? Better, or more poorly organized? Friendlier, or more staid?
The informality of the Triple Threat is part of its big appeal to me. First of all, this race is put on by folks on an Army Base. No “volunteers” are needed; an officer orders a platoon to provide set up service, another to take things down, a third to patrol the roads – these guys know how to smoothly put on an event, and don’t have to worry about permits or traffic or even funding. So the price is the lowest in town, $50 a race (it was about $35 when I started). The course is always the same, as are the medals and the T shirts. It’s a very comforting race.
For the first five years I did them, I had some very tough competition in my AG, and would see-saw back and forth with several other competitors, both a year or two younger than me. It made for great fun, and honed my skills at race execution, and provided fire to improve.
The year I turned 55, and thus was free of those competitors for once, I decided to enter all three, and made a goal to win each one. When I easily accomplished that, I stopped worrying about my AG placement there. Now, I enter the race knowing that’s not an issue, and just try to race the race, not the other people. I’m at the “pointy end” of the field there, finishing usually between 10 and 20 out of 1-200 competitors. And, amazingly, my times have remained the same over the past five years – I have not yet started to slow down (or maybe I’m still improving – it’s hard to know at my age.)
I was back at the Triple Threat last Saturday. Coming three weeks after Ironman Coeur d’Alene, the difference in racing style is a joy. In an IM, much of the day is spent reining in my effort, trying not to go too fast, like sipping a gin and tonic on a hot day, trying to make it last all afternoon. A sprint in like a shot of tequila, or, more properly, three shots, each drunk in one gulp, then slammed on the table for a quick refill.
The opportunity to work as hard as I can, especially on the bike and during the last half of the run, is a grand release after the inhibition of an Ironman. It’s so fun to finish, exhausted, unable to run another step, and then 5 minutes later, be ready to do it all again. Many of my workouts leading to an IM are longer and harder than a sprint triathlon. It’s a guilty little pleasure, and I’ll never give it up. Besides, the Army provides such heavy, solid medals.