Drowned Rat to Triathlete by Elora Canne
Introduction
In my childhood at primary school, I always came third in running races and was happy with that. I never needed to win, I just loved to run.
As for other sports, I was always keen to give anything a go, once. Softball, netball, tennis, gymnastics, squash. Swimming, however, was my nemesis. I was the kid who came last at swimming events. Spluttering and half-drowning, pleading to be rescued, the Sports Educator would walk alongside me, urging me on. I despised swimming. And yet, I married a husband who loved water sports, go figure.
That said, I have run an ultra-marathon of 90km. I ran multiple marathons and half-marathons to prepare, following a running program to the T. And, as the title suggests, I have completed a triathlon.
Chapter One
The Swim
In my mid-fifties, we retired to a home on the water, with a boat, a little tinny called White Lightning. I loved that boat and our bumpy rides onto the lake. Occasionally, I’d swim in the lake when our children and grandchildren visited.
One lazy afternoon, I was reading the story of a woman who had swum the English Channel in her seventies. I glanced out the window to contemplate her tenacity. You live on the water and you’re not even using it. I thought back to my contempt towards swimming and contradictory desire for a water-sport-loving husband.
I slammed the book down on my side table causing ripples in my coffee, yanked on my swimmers - which were judgingly too tight - and was into the water in a matter of minutes. I could not resolve to love swimming in that moment. But I did resolve to practice. I splashed, kicked, spluttered and swam the length of the canal outside my house knowing that the neighbours could watch my struggle. I didn’t care.
That first swim gave me confidence. I found workouts to improve my style, and I even started splashing about in the waves on the beach. Justifiably; buffeted by waves and current showed me the extent of work I needed to increase my strength in the water. I started to love swimming. I was nowhere near being a strong swimmer, but I looked forward to each practice. As I researched advice on technique, I delighted in discovering the term ‘wild swimming.’ This appealed to my sense of adventure tremendously!
By now, I felt like I could take on the best of the best. Hah! I dived into the canal that I called my backyard, and swam—tried to swim—the length of it without stopping. Two houses along and I was reduced to doggy paddle, interspersed with floating on my back to catch my breath. Add to this the fear of encountering sharks, I was out of my depth in more ways than one. Dolphins, not so much fear but certainly trepidation of encountering one on my swim, and them, we had seen in the canal; such was my new-found bravado.
I decided that tackling the length of the canal was ambitious so planned to swim the breadth instead. Of course, this meant actually inviting neighbours to gawk at me as I swam between houses. Alas, the two houses I decided to swim between resulted in a man coming out to his backyard to take a phone call. His side of the canal was covered in long tendrils of seaweed. I let out a yelp and splashed a mightily as I hurried to get out of the seaweed.
That was the last time I swam the breadth of our canal.
On the advice of neighbours, I took to swimming in the local wave pool. This was an inconvenient five-kilometre drive away. I know, five kilometres is nothing, but when you can walk out your back door and jump into the canal, five kilometres is something. But this was a solution for my swimming practice. I could swim fifty metres with rest breaks in between and not have to worry about sharks or neighbours. There were other swimmers around me, but that hardly mattered. Plus, I didn’t have to contend with seaweed, although the odd bit did creep in with the tide.
I managed to build up to two hundred metres of swimming, still with that annoying rest break, nonetheless, crowing delightedly to family and friends. Immediately, James, my husband, offered to swim back in the canal with me to test my mettle (my words, not his.) I readily agreed because, of course, any would-be sharks would choose him over me, right?
Still the doggy paddle and back-floating breather. Sigh. But we persisted until holiday season arrived and I had no pool in which to continue training. I held onto the belief that I could sustain my two hundred metre swim endurance with only aerobic exercise. It does not work like that. Who knew huh?
Chapter Two
The Bike Ride
As a child, my greatest feat on a bike was cycling to and from school. Traffic was never a problem, however, helmets were never a problem either because they were non-existent! With the wind in my ponytails, I cycled like a ferret on a hamster wheel, loving the self-propelled power.
My love of cycling downhill might be explained in the way that I was taught to ride a bike. A family friend was visiting, and the topic of my new birthday-bicycle came up. “No fairy wheels?” He asked. “No problem,” he concluded.
As we lived in an apartment block at the time, our backyard was, once again, viewed by many curious onlookers.
In the backyard was a tiny mound - it could perhaps pass as a hillock - from the shared wash lines to a beautifully landscaped tree area.
So, between the potential hanging hazard from the wash line—depending on whether residents had washed sheets or jeans—or the risk of crashing into a tree down the hillock, this family friend decided it would be a great idea to push me down the hill sans safety wheels, I mean, what could possibly go wrong?
Well, to his credit, it worked. Years later as a fully grown adult with teenage sons, I thought it would be a great idea to get bikes for my husband and I. The one and only bike ride I did on that particular bike, ended up with said bike and me ensnared in a large shrub. Fast forward two decades – my husband and I are now in our fifties and sixties. It’s a good idea to get new bikes again, isn’t it? This time, with helmets, and, bonus, we live in a suburb as flat as a pancake.
My bike training for the imminent triathlon was going splendidly. The route of the bike ride was within easy reach. I practiced the loop with sprints and twice around, the magic being that I didn’t even need to figure out the gear changing mechanics because there was no need on the flat road. I might mention here that the triathlon loop was four times around the circuit, but I know from running that you never train the full distance of your long runs, so the same rule applies surely?
Regardless, I trundled along in my one gear happily pushing through sprint cycles but equally happily watching the world go by as I merrily pedalled through the neighbourhood. I’ve got this in the bag I croon to myself. Irrelevant that I don’t have a water bottle holder, won’t need that.
Hardwired with stubbornness as I am, or perhaps determination, I get on that unforgiving saddle and keep going. Not always on the training loop, sometimes to the shops, sometimes to the beach and occasionally up that terrifying hill that requires gear changing miracles. I count myself lucky that I never got swooped by those death hunting magpies that relish a good bicycle chase. I noticed several cyclists looking crazed with their helmets spiked with zip ties in the hopes of dissuading their territorial antics.
Not so the danger of dogs on the loose! I have a neighbour who lets their dogs out on the road, leash-free regularly. Never mind that we have a dog park with leash free areas for his canine companions. Before you think I’m just being a wimp, let me give you a visual. These are a thundering big, strong-as-an-ox Rottweiler and Bull Mastiff pair. The owner insists they’re friendly. Even the friendliest dog in the world has the potential to bite me if it doesn’t like me. I once delayed my bike ride for half an hour because these two dogs were having a casual saunter on the road while the owner sipped his coffee and smoked his cigarette without a care.
So, besides the hazards of gear-changing, saddle-harassment, bird-swooping and dog-scares, I absolutely loved riding my bike. The freedom of propelling myself forwards. On a bike, the cog is the driving force and I loved that acronym for “Carry On Going.” When I ran the aforementioned ultramarathon, I flew overseas from Australia to South Africa to take part in the event.
When I went through customs, I had my bag searched. The customs official looked at me with widened eyes. “What’s this?” he demanded. In his hand was a bicycle cog. I wasn’t going to be cycling in this ultramarathon, it was a purely human-powered event. This cog was one that I had picked up while crossing at a set of traffic lights on a gruelling long distance training run. I picked it up because it felt like a message from the Universe to just ‘carry on going.’ I explained this to the customs official and he let me keep my cog. And yes, I ran with it for the whole 90 kilometres.
Chapter 3
The Run
A Little Reminisce
I watch from the other side of the bed as he pulls on running clothes and glances in my direction, “I’ll be back in half an hour.” And he is gone. James, my husband. My fun-loving, running, energetic husband.
I am still lolling about in bed when he returns, puffing and panting, sweat pouring from his forehead yet with a grin a mile long. “You have to come with me next time, it’s absolutely glorious outside. No cars, no people, just the birds waking up and sun beginning to glow on the horizon. It’s spectacular.”
I groan as he drags me from bed the following morning. Writhing into my too-tight running gear, hair a shambles as I stumble out the door with him. “Isn’t it amazing? So silent and fresh.” He is so chirpy I want to stuff my socks into his mouth. Eyes down, I lug my tired frame onto the road. Plodding is my pace. I am satisfied that at least I am moving. Because we run in the darkness of pre-dawn, we dare not run on the sidewalks for fear of becoming entangled in spider webs and their sinister owners. There is no traffic in the suburbs before dawn, indeed why would there be!? Only crazy people are up at that hour.
Nevertheless, there we were jogging along the road when we came across a giant speed bump. I hated jogging uphill so much that I squeezed myself through the gap between road and sidewalk where the speed bump ends so as not to hinder my plodding pace and jogging momentum. Such was my dislike for running uphill at that stage.
Every morning, for the first week, it was the same. I’d grumble and groan my way onto the road and every morning when we got back home, I would flop down to bemoan my misfortune of being dragged out for a run. Until one fateful morning I found that infamous bicycle cog. At least I think it was a bicycle cog. It reminded me to ‘carry on going’. I picked it up and buried it in my pocket.
As if by magic, my love of running began to resurface as that cog spurred me on to run my first half marathon; never mind that I became dehydrated and vomited my heart out after the race – I had my medal and that was the beginning. I just kept going and before I knew it, I was running that ultramarathon. The Comrades Marathon. I was running far greater uphills than a mere speed bump. My mom, stepdad and husband were at the bottom of that ominous hill and that thought, along with my trusty cog – yes it was in my pocket – kept pushing me towards the goal. They handed me much needed sustenance and prayer and I was off again for the next half of the gruelling 90km race.
I found my inner dragon in that race.
An enormous group of people called ‘the 12-hour bus,’ was behind me. 12 Hours is the time limit of the race and if you don’t reach the finish line within that time, you don’t get your hard-earned medal. After all those months of runs; blazing heat, freezing cold and pouring rain, I was not about to be denied my medal. And yet that ‘bus’ of 12-hour runners was slowly approaching me. I knew that if they caught up to me then I would not finish the race in time.
I pushed my figurative hand down my chest and pulled out a roaring dragon. I pushed myself up yet another dreaded hill. Pushed myself for bigger strides. Still, that ‘bus’ was behind me. At least I wasn’t being swallowed up by their masse anymore.
Finally, my superpower, a downhill. Downhill running is my strength. I can feel my wings lift as I literally fly down the hill, passing all who trudged past me uphill. I was jubilant. I dared a furtive glance behind me for that omnipresent bus, it wasn’t visible. I cheered as I sailed on down the hill into the valley until another imposing God damn hill came into view. With my adequate advance on that looming ‘bus’ of runners, I awarded myself a one-minute walking reprieve. Resting my heart rate, reviving my quadricep muscles for the next onslaught of incline.
Behind me I heard a voice saying, “I want to quit.” I knew if I turned around and saw the fear in the face of the voice’s owner, I too, would want to quit. I gazed resolutely ahead, unseeing, just focused inward. A lifetime later, the would-be quitter’s partner replied gruffly, “Keep going.” The three of us ran in a triangle of unity for a few kilometres more.
I felt the vibration from the stadium before I heard or saw it. Like a swarm of angry bumblebees, the guttural humming reached my bones. Dogged and buoyed at the same time as the stadium came into view. Then I heard the roaring, cheering crowd, the thrashing of hands on railings and boards as they willed us runners on to the finish line. I heard my name being called but imagined it was impossible – it was my mum – she had caught a glimpse of me – she and my husband had hugged in celebration of my success – theirs as well, in their support and encouragement of me.
I crossed that finish line. The silence was eerie. Had I missed something? Had I finished in time? I swivelled around to the timekeeping clock – I had finished with 9 minutes and 12 seconds to spare. Silent onlookers guided me through the sweaty wide-eyed runners to have my medal placed around my neck. When that outward recognition of achievement was on me, only then did I let out an almighty roar of everything inside me – elation, fear, celebration, and exhaustion. I hugged everyone in sight, it mattered not what creed or gender, sweat, blood or tears, we were united in our accomplishment of testing ourselves to the limit and succeeding.
I love running but haven’t run long distance again since that ultra marathon.
It took everything I had.
Did someone say sprint?
A mere three kilometres for the sprint triathlon shouldn’t be a problem. I’m an ultramarathoner after all. To be fair, my beach runs were still happening haphazardly, but I was training on-road so I truly did have the run segment sorted. Or so I thought.
I figured training on beach sand would be enough for the uneven turf of the triathlon, but I also did short segments on the grass track just to be prepared. However, in my wisdom of training for a triathlon – did I mention there are three different exercise disciplines? – I never once trained with the disciplines in sequence. Rookie error I was to learn.
Chapter 4
The Triathlon
The day of the event loomed, and I was unsure if I was doing the right thing – was my training adequate? The organisers assured me that it was a fun, stress-free event for all capabilities. Ha! The previous year’s longest time was 1h08m and I don’t think they knew what they were in for if I took part.
In the late afternoon the day before the event, as sunset glimmered on the lake, I visited the site to ask questions. My most embarrassing question was how to rack a bike. Turns out you don’t need to; you can just stand it on its own bike stand. I sussed out the run route and swim route and declared myself capable!
The Swim
Our local Wallis Lake was the swimming venue. I had only ever trained in swim shoes, so I walked to the starting point in my swim shoes. While the countdown for splash-off was on I could feel my shoes sinking into the mud – the very reason for the shoes – and just knew that they would get stuck as I tried to push-off and swim. I yelled out, “I’ve changed my mind.” In that moment of panic, I failed to mention that I was talking about my shoes as I simultaneously splosh-walked to the foreshore. I managed to glug my shoes out of the mud and off my feet. “I can’t swim with these,” I added to which a relieved marshal agreed, “No don’t swim with shoes on, just throw them over here.” He pointed beside a large tree marking the entry and exit to the swimming zone. Throw them I did, and then forgot them there in post-race exhaustion.
Countdown continued, and we were off.
Twenty metres into the swim and I realised I’d made a huge mistake. I was out of my depth as I watched, horrified, while the rest of the swimmers zoomed away in front of me. It became apparent from the outset that I was going to come last.
But, true to my personality, I dug deep and knew that I would finish no matter what. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my family cheering me on. It warmed my heart and filled me with resolve to make my family, and myself, proud. I would not give up.
I regaled my breaststroke knowing I could keep my head above water and breathe all the air I needed. My chest felt tight and constricted. I just could not get enough air into my lungs to swim efficiently. I learned afterwards that it was nerves constricting my muscles, preventing me from the correct breathing technique to stay afloat.
I remembered my so-called ‘training’ and flipped over onto my back. I moved my arms in snow-angel fashion to at least pretend I was trying to keep moving forwards, in accordance with the swimming rules for the triathlon. In this position I could take in great gulps of air. Alas, I started veering off into the depths of the lake. Just as my PE Instructor walked alongside the pool watching me half-drown, so too, did the triathlon lifesaver. But he was on his paddleboard, next to me in the water. Clearly, he too thought I was near drowning. Nevertheless, he was ever so kind and gently called out to me to straighten course.
Once again, I tried to be a ‘real’ swimmer and flipped to freestyle. Could not breathe. Several times Lifesaver Guy asked if I was okay, and I have no recollection whether I answered him. I could see the finish buoy! I was elated. Keeping my eye on that bright orange beacon kept my head out of water so I could finally get some decent air in.
I made my way out of the water trying valiantly to lift my lame legs out of the mud and scramble onto the grass. I had to force my legs to keep moving, despite their wobbling jelly feeling. Gasping for air. People clapping. All of this on the way to the bike transition. How on earth am I going to use these jelly-legs to cycle? It’s okay, cycling is your strength, you’ve trained for this with sprints and hills even!
You’ve got this.
The Cycle
I entered the bike transition area, located my bike and realised I hadn’t set up for my transition as well as I’d imagined. I tipped the contents of my backpack out onto the grass. No one was prepping around me, they were all long gone. I placed my emptied-out backpack on the grass next to the front wheel of my bike and flopped, or rather crashed, down onto it. Without any muscle control in my legs there was no doing this gracefully and I wanted somewhere to sit that my bottom wouldn’t get covered in grass too. I needed my towel to dry off and hadn’t envisaged needing to sit.
Rookie error number two.
Unfortunately, I knocked my bike over but was saved by the ever-present Lifesaver Guy. He held my bike upright for me while I tugged my socks apart and dried my feet as best I could. Grass was everywhere. Between my toes which I hated. That was part of the reason I had wanted to swim with my wet shoes, to avoid such a disaster. Eventually I managed to stretch my socks onto my sticky feet, slip my runners on and gather my bike.
Damn! I’d forgotten the Number One rule of the cycle leg.
Helmet first else you will be disqualified. Touch nothing before your helmet is on your head. I looked at Lifesaver Guy with big imploring eyes. He smiled kindly and handed me my helmet.
Resolute. Stubborn. Determined. Even if I was disqualified, I would not quit.
The bike ride course is as flat as a pancake, I was so certain I’d easily catch up to the other cyclists. But those jelly-legs just could not recover. I cycled the first lap as fast as I could, and did I mention that my trusty old road bike has no clip to keep a water bottle? Did I also mention that I’d forgotten to drink any water at transition? Enter, nausea. On my return from the first cycle leg I called out to one of the organisers, “Am I allowed to stop for my water on the next round?” I couldn’t hear a distinct answer but I thought I saw a thumbs-up and took heart.
The course is a figure eight, so each loop passes the central hub twice but on either side of the road. There stood Lifesaver Guy Number Two holding a blue drink bottle for me. I hollered out, “But it’s not mine!” To this day, I don’t know why I’m like that. Who cares if it’s not mine? It’s being offered to me, I am dehydrated and nauseous but, no, I decline a lifeline. Jogging alongside my bike, because let’s face it, he could have easily walked comfortably and still kept up, he called out in response, “but it will be yours when you’ve finished the race.” My frazzled brain could not figure what he meant but I grabbed the bottle and drank while staying up right. A win in itself!
Satiated and back to reality, I noticed Lifesaver Guy Number Two was still jogging merrily alongside me. Oh gosh! He’s waiting for the drink bottle back. I stick my arm out into the air and the bottle is snatched from my grasp.
Around the next loop and back to the hub, I see my dear husband holding said bottle out for me on the opposite side of the road. He offers words of encouragement and I grab and drink on the go. Just ahead is LGNT ready to retrieve the blue bottle that was soon-to-be mine.
The camaraderie of this event was phenomenal. I was clearly coming last and yet I was treated as how I would expect a winner to be treated. It added so much joy to my experience to be embraced as someone as significant as the rest of the competitors.
At this stage I lost track of how many loops I had done and was certain I was going to be disqualified for not making the cut-off. Although I had been assured that there was no cut-off time, I’m pretty sure they didn’t take my slow pace into consideration. I hollered out to anyone who looked official that if they needed to disqualify me for not making cut-off to just go ahead. And yet, I was reassured to keep going.
From then on, I decided I was already coming last, certainly was not going to pass anyone so I may as well enjoy myself. I tried to maintain a decent pace, I wasn’t there to abuse everyone’s time, but I smiled like a Cheshire cat and enjoyed the atmosphere and scenery around me.
I’m doing it!
I’m actually doing a triathlon.
The Run
With my ultra run muscle memory in my legs, I was sure I’d do relatively well in the run segment. Again, I was wrong. Wobbly legs now doubled. As I wove my way towards the start area, the lady I had spoken to the previous evening with all my beginner questions, came out from around the water table she was volunteering at, to offer me a cup of water. She smiled so encouragingly at me, I felt embraced by this community.
Lifesaver Guy number One or Two was right behind me, encouraging me all the way. My brain was somewhat fried at this stage, but he said something along the lines of, “I can’t believe you’re still out here, you’ve got such endurance.” And so, between puffs and gasps for air, I explained my history of long-distance running and all, or some of the training that entailed.
I asked how many triathlons he had done. Not that I can remember his answer much, it was more a tactical question to get him talking so I could focus on not expiring. He humbly noted that he had done ‘plenty,’ I assume that means he is an elite athlete, yet here he was, running with me. ME! But the kindest thing he said to me throughout the event was that whenever he entered the water for the swim segment, he joked about winning last finisher for that leg as part of the Rock-tied-to-my-legs Squad.
I’d caught enough breath by then to tell him about my NERP style of running – No Effort Run Pace. He loved that and took it onboard for his training, adding that he could see I had some long-distance experience. I was grateful for the boost. We reached the turnaround point for the first leg – had to do it three times – and would you believe, another competitor joined us! Lifesaver Guy transitioned out as Competitor Gal joined in. She had already completed the event and was prepared to do the run with me. Competitor Gal stuck with me through the second turnaround point chatting all the way. This was her second time at this particular event, and she remembered all too well how she felt at her first and so wanted to accompany me. We took walk breaks together and she suggested we walk in the shade of a stand of trees.
This was a stark reminder for me. I’d forgotten, in my exhausted state, to take in the beauty around me. I was aware of the human kindness around me, but the trees have long-been my tribe. We walked; Competitor Girl talked. I gazed at the trees. I took in their majestic stance, absorbing my presence, the heat, the people stamping and vibrating on their roots. They took it all in. And so did I. I dug deep and pushed on towards the finish line.
Lifesaver Guy had seen our walking break and trotted over to join us. The two chatted amiably. They were just making conversation to pass the time. And pass the time it did. I heard cheering and clapping, and my two comrades shuffled me towards the finisher tunnel. I didn’t see my family at that point, I only focussed on that finisher tunnel. My guardian angels parted each to a side and I truly felt like I was floating through the crowd. It was a similar feeling at the end of my ultra marathon; floating, seeing everything from a distance.
The buzz behind that finisher arch was thrilling. I tingled from top to toe knowing that I had done it! My medal was placed around my neck and I beamed proudly. Proud even, of the fact that I had come last and not given up. So thirsty. I headed towards the snack table and bless their hearts, they had saved some juicy slices of watermelon for me. It’s not even my favourite fruit but wow did it taste like heaven. My family caught up with me then and I glowed with satisfaction, okay maybe with exertion, at the words, “Well done, we’re so proud of you.”
I don’t tell this story from the perspective of vain pride; I tell it from the perspective of a fifty-something frump with a dream to achieve and a goal to attain. And I did that. And you can too.
Perhaps with just a little more training than me.
