Not A Triathlete
I am not a swimmer. Flip turns seem like black magic to me. It takes me over two minutes to drag myself through 100 meters. I’ve never swam on a team, and I only wear a swim cap when someone forces me. My goggles are a cheap pair from Academy Sports, and they fog up constantly. I swim less like a fish and more like a cat clinging for dear life in a bathtub. Somehow, despite all this floundering, I have swum 2.4 miles without drowning.
I am not a cyclist. My helmet is a bottom-shelf Walmart special, barely functional but good enough to keep me legal. My bike has aero bars, but I never use them—I’m too busy hanging on for dear life to worry about aerodynamics. I slow to a crawl for every curve, and I’ve been dropped from more group rides than I care to admit. Maintenance? Forget it. I change tubes when absolutely necessary and hope the rest holds together. I couldn’t tell you the manufacturer of any of the parts or what gear ratio I have, but I always grind in the hardest gear I can stand and ignore my heart rate entirely. Still, I’ve ridden 112 miles before and didn't die.
I am not a runner. Joining a running group would mean actually knowing what I’m doing, and I definitely don’t. I focus more on pace than heart rate, even if that means I’m one misstep away from total exhaustion. I can go weeks—or months—without even touching my running shoes, so consistency clearly isn’t my strong suit. My form is questionable at best, and my training plans usually consist of, “Let’s wing it and see what happens.” But somehow, through sheer stubbornness, I’ve managed to slog through 26.2 miles more than once.
I am not a triathlete. I’ve never had a coach and have gotten by with just spreadsheets. In 20 years, I’ve done maybe four triathlons. In each of those I just try to survive from one leg to the next, and in one of them, did not even make it out of the swim before getting tapped on the shoulder. But according to Mike Reilly, I am an Ironman.