Saturday 8 AM. I pace the water’s edge, sweating through a skin-tight black wetsuit. I’m surrounded by 200 strangers, all in fluorescent yellow swim caps, all lean, muscular, and nearly naked, like sporty superheroes or supermodels. We’re in Kingston, about 100 miles north of New York City, ready to start the Hudson Valley Triathlon. I am both amped and anxious. Let’s go! Am I ready? What if I fail?
Why a triathlon? Literally, a triathlon is the synthesis of three obsessions. Fifteen years ago, I became obsessed with cycling. Ten years ago, I got obsessed with running. Recently, I got obsessed with swimming and last year swam across the Hudson River. In that context, the idea of swimming, running, and cycling in one event for a couple of hours feels both familiar and strange, exciting yet slightly crazy. And I’m not the only person who’s tri-curious. In 2024, more than 300,000 Americans completed triathlons, according to USA Triathlon, most like me opting for the “sprint” distance, an ostensibly beginner-friendly triathlon, not the infamous Ironman.
Why now? I’m forty-nine years old and acutely aware of my age and mortality. After abusing my body and neglecting my physical and mental health in my twenties and early thirties, I quit smoking, basically stopped drinking, and started a family. Now I want to live a long, healthy, and active life. And like any parent, I hope my son emulates my healthy choices and avoids my unhealthy choices.
Why the anxiety? I’ve never done a triathlon or swam in a wetsuit. And I am sick. All week, I was in bed with a sore throat, stuffy nose, and full-body aches, sleeping and binge-watching Snakes and Ladders, a satirical series about conniving factions competing for power and status at a fancy elementary school in Mexico.
When I told my son I might be too sick for the triathlon, he refused to accept my resignation. “You can’t back out now,” he said. “You made a commitment.”
Sickness aside, the past six weeks have been intense, exhausting, and overwhelming. While triathlon training before sunrise, I juggled finishing my first year as a Spanish teacher, and trying to be an attentive husband to Jess, father to our son, and caretaker of River, our adorable, anxious, and increasingly aggressive puppy.
Three weeks ago, our dog attacked our son, then attacked me. Traumatized, terrified, and heartbroken, Jess and I made the painful decision to let him go. The veterinarian recommended euthanasia; the rescue agency disagreed and took him to live on a farm with other dogs, which sounds like a euphemism, but is true. I rarely cry, but that week I cried tears of rage, tears of grief, followed by tears of guilt and tears of relief.
Swim (1/2 Mile)
Now, the men wade into the water. Mud squishes under my toes. The air-horn blows. We start to swim, a cavalcade of arms and legs, chaotic and claustrophobic. I stroke slowly and hang back to let the sprinters take the lead and give myself enough space to swim without jockeying for position or getting elbowed or kicked in the head.
As I swim, I can barely see. The water is murky. The clear lenses of my goggles fog. Every time I turn my head to breathe, the view is the same: Brown lake. Green woods. Grey sky. Unlike in the pool, with lanes and ropes and painted lines on the floor, I have no idea if I’m swimming straight. And without a wall to touch every 25 yards, I can’t reliable measure my progress or pace myself or know when to expect the finish.
The visibility also sucked last year when I swam across the Hudson River, but I had support. My stepfather paddled alongside me in a kayak, one of 100 official kayak escorts. He helped me swim straight and provided a mental safety net. In an emergency, or if I simply needed a break, I knew I could grab the bow of his boat. Also, I swam across the river with two friends; though we separated after the start and didn’t literally swim side-by-side, their presence in the water helped keep me calm.
Now in the lake, even among the other swimmers, I feel like I’m all alone.
Also, I am sweltering. After a brutal heat wave, the shallow lake is as balmy as a bath. Like any exercise, swimming elevates your body temperature, even if you don’t realize you’re sweating. And to make matters worse, the wetsuit traps the heat I’m exuding, by design. As I steam like a tamale, I steam with frustration. At the start line, most men were bare-chested; some wore sleeveless singlets, a.k.a triathlon suits, as did many of the women. Nobody else was wearing a wetsuit like the one I had borrowed from a friend, who did a triathlon last month, when the water was ten degrees colder.
Soon I’m gasping, heart palpitating, and mentally spiraling. Why am I so winded? Am I still sick? Am I dehydrated? Did I not train enough? And I’m so exhausted after a few minutes, how can I swim around the lake? And if I don’t finish the swim and disqualify myself from the triathlon, how crushed and disappointed will I feel?
Flustered, I switch from freestyle to breaststroke to catch my breath and calm down. There’s a safety patrol boat hovering nearby, but quitting now feels like a last resort. I am tired. But I am not drowning. I resume freestyle, but at a slower pace. It doesn’t matter how long it takes to finish the swim. All that matters is that I finish.
I swim and swim. My body gets hotter. At the first buoy, I pause again to catch my breath and calm down, then continue. I swim and swim, My body gets hotter. At the second buoy, I take another break, then keep going. By now, it feels like all the other swimmers have passed me and that I’m one of a few stragglers in the back of the pack. At last, I approach the shore and feel a burst of energy and confidence.
At the water’s edge, I trudge through the mud. The swim wasn’t pretty, but it’s done. While other swimmers jog to hop on their bikes, I walk, breathing deeply, mentally resetting, and bracing myself for the next two legs.
Bike (12 miles)
I locate my bike in a fleet of bikes parked in makeshift plywood stalls. I shuck off the wetsuit and change to a red shirt, blue socks and sneakers, and a grey helmet. I guzzle a water bottle. Then I hop on the saddle and pedal to the next phase of the race.
The first bit of the route is uphill, so I downshift to a lower gear and climb the steep ascent. In the water, I felt disoriented and flustered, but biking on dry land I feel calm and comfortable, neither dawdling nor sprinting, but trying to maintain a steady pace and not burn out prematurely, erring on the side of caution after the swim debacle.
The scenery is green and lush, stretches of farmland with corn and soybeans, and rolling hills though residential neighborhoods. Some houses fly rainbow flags for Pride month and lawn signs calling for an Israeli ceasefire in Gaza. One massive homemade sign reads: Pro-Gun. Pro-God. Pro-Life. Pro-Trump.
As I pedal, cyclists whiz past me, hunched over the drop handlebars of fancy racing bikes that likely cost thousands of dollars. Meanwhile, I ride upright on a recreational bike that costs a few hundred dollars, on loan from my dad, who rides infrequently and casually. I get passed by men and women, younger and older.
On one hill, a woman topples off her bike. I slow down and ask if she needs help. “I’m fine,” she says, laughing with embarrassment. “I knew that would happen.”
On another hill a woman with rainbow-striped socks passes me, but by the crest of the hill, she’s slowed and I overtake her. “Passed you too soon,” she says, laughing.
For most of the ride, I ride with a woman with a crop top and a tattoo on her lower back. We take turns passing each other, but neither one of us can break away. We don’t exchange a word or even make eye contact, but we’re clearly pushing each other to ride faster than we might otherwise, friendly competition that reminds me of the indoor cycling classes I took this spring, riding a stationary bike and watching music videos on a projector screen while an instructor at the front of the room shouts instructions and encouragement.
After nearly an hour in the saddle, I reach the finish line where Jess and our son are waiting and waving, smiling. My heart hums. I smile and stop to pose for a few photos, then wheel my bike to the dock, where I ditch the helmet and guzzle another water bottle before the home stretch.
Run (5K)
I run past the lake and into the woods onto a shaded crushed gravel trail. At first, my legs wobble and my feet feel sore. But soon I hit my stride. I am tired, but now have a second wind, buoyed by finishing the second leg and seeing my family.
I pass one runner, then another, then another—a pacing strategy I learned from my friend Caitlin, who taught me how to run long distances a decade ago, and has since finished 10 marathons. In the water and on the bike, my goal was simply to finish. Now I want to finish strong.
I keep passing runners: Men and women, young and old. At the fluid station, I slow down to chug a Gatorade, then resume running. Near the end, I approach a young guy who chatted with me before the swim and passed me on the bike ride. We eye each other, silently asking the same question: Do you have a kick? I don’t have enough energy to sprint past him to the finish. But I have enough to speed up and pass him. He smiles, we wave, and I keep going.
In the home stretch, I spot Jess and our son. With my last bit energy, I raise my arms as I cross the finish line, then wobble off to the side to guzzle water and collect my participation medal.
If the swim was hell, the bike was purgatory, and the run was heaven.
Object Lessons
The triathlon was a lesson in humility, especially the swim section. To be sure, I’m still proud of how much I’ve grown as a swimmer in recent years. A few summers ago I could barely swim two laps. Last summer, I joined an adult swim camp at a local pool, swam one mile across the Hudson River, and swam laps in an Olympic pool in Medellín, Colombia. This spring, I swam in Cuba. And just now, I swam around a lake. Still, the triathlon swim reminded me I’m still a beginner, at least in open water, which feels less comfortable and less safe than a pool.
The triathlon was also a lesson in persistence. To train, I exercised six days per week for six weeks, during the week waking up at 4:30 AM to swim, bike, or run before commuting to work. Many mornings I was too tired to train, but trained anyway. Many nights, I was so tired from the combination of training and work that I fell asleep at 8:00 PM. Sometimes it felt like I was training too much. Other times it felt like I was not training enough. And during the triathlon swim in the lake, I was tempted to quit, but ultimately didn’t succumb to the temptation.
In the 10 days since the triathlon, I haven’t wanted to run or bike. But I’ve swam almost every day. Hours after the triathlon, Jess and I swam with our son in a hotel pool. The next day I swam laps at the gym and chatted with the pool director about the triathlon. The following day, I swam low-key laps with my friend Julie, who shares my love for water, writing, and tacos.
And on July 4, I swam at the town pool with Jess, our son, my two brothers, sister-in-law, niece, and new nephew. When I held the baby boy in the shallow end, he churned his feet, eggbeater-style, as if he were treading water, or riding a bike, or running.