Returning to triathlons in midlife helped me return to myself

On a perfect fall day, 72 degrees and sunny, I find myself among a throng of 150 athletes at Nickerson State Park on Cape Cod. A harmony of green leaves sparkle in the sunlight and fallen pine needles cushion my sage-green trail-running shoes. No one else looks like me. They are white; I am brown. Their muscles are taut; I am soft in the middle. They are mostly young; my youth is creasing into wrinkles around my eyes. What we have in common is this: We are gathered for the Gut Check Adventure Triathlon — in the words of the race organizers, ‘the hardest sprint triathlon in the U.S.’

Its website, which states “Warning! There are steep hills and cliff drops! Intermediate+ athletes only!“, nearly dissuaded me from signing up — multiple times. I half-listen to the instructions being given by Kathleen, the race director, though having watched the “Athletes’ Instructions” video three times over, her words are, by now, familiar: Participants, racing solo or in teams, are given nine checkpoints a mere 10 minutes before the race begins. They have to swim, cycle and trail-run between checkpoints, collecting a different colored wristband at each, before racing to the finish line. If you get irrevocably lost, Kathleen reminds us, blow your whistle. In the 10 years that they have been holding this event, no one has ever blown their whistle. I know deep down that there is a high chance that I will be the first. The first time I attempted a trail run was two weeks ago, and I last used a compass in my teens.

The race officials hand out laminated maps right on cue, at 8:50 a.m. I have been researching these trails online for weeks now, but suddenly my mind is racing so fast I cannot focus. A team of British guys let me join their huddle, and I look at the line they have drawn, trace it along my map. I give one last kiss to my 9-year-old daughter, my 2-year-old son and my husband, who grins and whispers, “What if you win it?!”

“Don’t joke!” I scold him, before the whistle blows, and we’re off. As I run, I repeat my list of priorities like a mantra: 1. don't get injured 2. enjoy the race 3. don't get lost in the woods 4. complete the triathlon. These are my priorities, I remind myself, in this exact order.

I started doing triathlons in my 20s. I was younger then, and fitter, in that casual way that 20-year-olds can be fit without really trying. As a South Asian woman, I was not the standard demographic (white, male), but I did not let that stop me. When I first met my husband, he was impressed, having never contemplated one himself. We did an Olympic distance triathlon together and a few more after we got married. But then mid-life got in the way. We had two children. I was perpetually exhausted, and I put everyone else’s needs before my own. A chance encounter during a lecture in my mid-career master’s degree — sitting next to a student in her early 20s — changed things. She told me she had recently signed up for a triathlon, her first, and it nudged awake something inside me.

I thought about how, before I was a wife and a mother, I was a human with hopes, desires and dreams of my own. Why was it so easy to lose myself in the quotidian of being a wife and mother? I signed up to do the London Triathlon during our summer vacation in July, and then the Boston Triathlon in August. Next thing I knew, I was exercising daily and bought a Lycra tri-suit.

I mull over this journey as I run towards Checkpoint 1, and before I even get there, I’ve decided: You know what, I've already won. I've seen this challenge and risen to it. Whatever happens from here is just a bonus.

There is a good chance it is the endorphins, but I run along telling anyone who will listen how magically beautiful this is.

The water on the two lake swims feels like slipping into cool silk bedsheets. Conquering the steep hills of the bike ride makes me feel invincible. But it’s the trail running that is truly liberating. Yes, the majority of participants are so far ahead of me I can no longer see them, but this just means the woods are more peaceful. I'm simultaneously running, checking the map to make sure I'm going the right way, looking at my feet to make sure I'm not about to trip on tree roots or rocks underfoot, and marveling at the beauty around me. Fragrant evergreens stand proudly, like benevolent giants, amongst fireworks of red and orange leaves. Caramel colored pine needles caress my shoes. The sky is luminescent. There is a good chance it is the endorphins, but I run along telling anyone who will listen how magically beautiful this is. I get lost, but not too lost. I fall over right before Checkpoint 9, but apart from a cut on my left elbow, I escape injury-free.  

As I approach the finish line, almost three hours after I started, I can see my family gathered. My daughter is jumping up and down, jubilantly cheering, “Amma! Amma! Amma!” She gives me a high five as I pass the finish line. I am elated, relieved to simply have finished. As I join the throng of athletes listening to the awards ceremony, which is already well underway, a woman taps me on my shoulder and says, “I think they're calling your name.”

“Why?!” I ask, in utter confusion. I'm thinking, I went to all the checkpoints, how can they disqualify me? But she says, “You’ve won an award.”

In a blur, I'm whisked up to the podium and handed a certificate that says, ‘1st Place Winner.’ They even take an official photograph. “How on earth have I won an award?” I keep asking in bewilderment, as everyone cheers. I am told I won first place in my age category – Solo Women over 40.

I think back to one of the many women I met that summer– a blind runner in her 80s, at a London parkrun event. She was exquisitely wrinkled, and faster than me. “Keep doing this long enough and you'll start winning awards,” she said with a wink. “Not many older people exercise, so you win awards in your age category.”

As we enter middle age, and in a culture that esteems youth, so many of us prioritize our families or our demanding jobs, and we stop taking care of ourselves, despite knowing that we should. Continuing to exercise not only preserves our health and boosts our happiness, it gives us energy and patience for loved ones and — if we’re lucky — an age-category award now and then.

A week later, I am still wearing my rainbow of nine colorful wristbands to remind myself it really happened. Having successfully navigated my way to the finish line, and back to myself, my compass now points eagerly towards new adventures.

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