Triathlon: What to do when the wheels come off. Literally.
Or a running diary of bad swimming, a worse phone call and imposter syndrome
I participated in my second sprint distance triathlon on Sunday (Rookies and Rock Stars in St. Peters, MO). It comprises a 400-meter swim, 13.5-mile bike ride and 5K run (in that order).
I wrote and re-wrote this piece several times trying to get the tone consistent. I finally decided to stop trying to make it consistent and just tell you what happened. Life isn’t consistent, so neither is this. You’ll know what I mean when a (hopefully) funny story turns serious.
Originally I left that serious part out. But I decided if I left that part out, and you found out, you’d think the rest of the story was a bunch of baloney.
This might give you whiplash. But so will life, right?
THIS IS AWESOME! I HAVE TO DO IT AGAIN.
I just need to swim a bunch to get ready!
May 5, 2024-March 25, 2025
I do not swim a bunch.
March 26, 2025
Imagine a brick. Throw it into a pool. Put blue shorts on it, and that’s me. I manage to “swim” 500 meters in a time best measured by a sun dial. I vow to swim once a week until the May 4 event. No, that’s not enough to make me a good swimmer, but it’s enough to get better.
April 2, 2025
I cancel swimming plans because my throat feels like someone took a cheese grater to it.
April 9, 2025
I cancel swimming plans because someone dumped hot sauce on my cheese-grated throat.
April 16, 23 and 28, 2025
Imagine that brick again. Throw it back in the pool, only this time, put very small fins that barely work on it, and that’s me. But at least now I can swim 400 meters and not be wrecked.
April 26, 2025
I own a gravel bike, not a triathlon bike. That’s not ideal. Neither is the fact the gravel bike has gravel tires on it.
I put a road tire on the front and feel like a master mechanic … until I can’t get the road tire on the back. I try swearing, I try angrily throwing my tools, I even try reading the instructions, but nothing works.
The best part is that while being unsuccessful in making the change, I beat my hands all to hell and bleed all over the garage. It feels like someone ran over my right hand with a dump truck.
I finally give up and put the gravel tire back on, leaving me with a road tire on the front, a gravel tire on the back and a shrugging emoji in my heart.
April 30, 2025
I take a final bike ride, which I see as crucial because I need to be sure I put the back wheel on properly. Considering I could not get the tire on, my doubts seem reasonable. I don’t know much, but I know I will need both wheels to finish.
The wheel stays on.
Success!
May 1, 2025
I’m ready and not ready. The bike and run will be fine, and the swim will be painfully slow.
But who cares?
I do.
Wait, no I don’t.
Wait, yes, I do (on into infinity).
If I worried about making a fool of myself, I couldn’t do what I do for a living. I like doubt. I thrive on fear. I can’t imagine writing a story without imposter syndrome—at least not a good one.
While it sucks at the time, this doubt, this fear, this imposter syndrome, is a good thing. It forces me to work hard to be ready as possible, to examine what might go wrong and prepare for it, and most important of all, to keep me humble.
You know who doesn’t doubt, who doesn’t fear, who doesn’t have imposter syndrome? Bloviating shouting heads on television. Social media blowhards. Self-righteous scolds who know exactly what’s wrong with me and the world and relish the chance to explain how to fix both.
If I don’t worry at least a little before an event/assignment, I’m either overconfident, the event/assignment is too easy, or I’ve stopped caring.
May 3, 2025, 9 p.m., 10 hours before the race starts
I load up the van – change of clothes, another change of clothes in case the weather is hotter than I expect, a third change of clothes in case the weather is colder than I expect, 47 pairs of socks, enough food to feed everyone in the event, enough hydration tablets to hydrate everyone in the event, enough water to fill the pool, etc.
Just kidding. I only pack one change of clothes.
Anyway, once I cram all that into the front seat, I open the back of my Kia Sedona, lift my bike to put it in …
And the back wheel comes off.
You can’t make this stuff up: I work hard to conquer my fear that the wheels will come off metaphorically, and instead they come off literally.
I curse the fool who improperly installed that wheel.
That fool, of course, is me.
May 3, 2025, 9:05 p.m.-9:15 p.m.
I put the wheel back on, which leaves my hands covered in grease. Like Lady Macbeth, I wash them, only instead of trying to get rid of guilt, I try to scrub away the doubt, the fear, the imposter syndrome.
Well, here’s an inconvenient truth: It’s not imposter syndrome if you really are incompetent.
So of course I assume I didn’t put the wheel on correctly this time either.
May 5, 2025, 6:15 a.m., 45 minutes before the race starts.
I say this all the time: Don’t be afraid to admit you need help and don’t be afraid to ask for it. So I practice what I preach. I roll my bike to the mechanic stand at the race and say, “I’m an incompetent mechanic, can you make sure I attached this correctly, please?”
I don’t want to brag, but this time, I properly installed the back wheel. Even the mechanic thought so!
He also points out that I have a broken spoke, which I didn’t know, and about which I can do nothing. One broken spoke always leads to more broken spokes. The wheel won’t come off, but it might break.
May 5, 2025, 7:35 a.m., 43 minutes before I get in pool
The race has started, and the fast swimmers are in the pool. There’s a long line before someone of my “skill” level starts, so I sit in the stands and watch.
My phone rings.
I look at the screen. It’s my brother.
A call at 7:35 a.m. on a Sunday—that can’t be good. I know it’s about our dad because that’s the only reason he would call at this time.
I don’t answer.
Whatever is happening, I can’t deal with it right now.
Not my finest moment, admittedly.
After two seconds I realize there’s no way I can do this race wondering what that call was about.
I call back but can’t get through.
Great.
May 5, 2025, 7:37 a.m., 41 minutes before I get in pool
My brother calls my wife's phone—again, not good.
He tells me our dad has to be taken to the hospital. Details are sketchy. It doesn’t sound life threatening, but our dad is 86, and at some point at that age, everything is life threatening.
He’s in Michigan and I’m in St. Louis, so there’s nothing I can do even if I wanted to.
I consider skipping the race but dismiss that idea pretty quickly. If I leave, I’ll think of nothing else. If I stay and do the race, at least not drowning, not losing a wheel and balancing on mismatched tires will distract me.
May 5, 2025, 8:14 a.m., 4 minutes before I get in pool
I talk nervously with the other swimmers.
We all brag about how slow we will be. No, wait, that is just me.
My reach goal for the whole event is to beat last year’s time by six minutes—two minutes each in the swim, first transition and bike ride.
I recognize this is unrealistic, and that if I am six minutes up heading into the run, I’ll give some of that time back. I set a secondary goal of simply beating last year’s time.
May 5, 2025, 8:18-10:01 a.m.
I try not to think about my dad, and I also try not to try not to think about my dad, if that makes sense. I don’t want to be in denial, and I don’t want to be overwhelmed.
I wouldn’t do triathlons if it wasn’t for him, though his only endurance sports experience was raising four boys in the 70s and 80s. I love the outdoors because he does. I love sports because he does. I’m active because he was active.
Is active. He IS active.
I’m grateful that he modeled presence. He was home every night for dinner. He played catch with all four of his sons whenever we asked. The only reason he ever missed one of my games was because he was at one of my brother’s games.
If he lived here, he would have been here for the triathlon (well, when he was younger, at least, a thought I can’t unthink.)
I know he’s proud of me because he tells me and also because I just know. He shows me and tells me. I’m grateful for that most of all.
Also, he has hands like catcher’s mitts, and they wouldn’t hurt from working on a bike.
May 5, 2025, 8:18-8:30 a.m.
They have lifeguards, right?
My friend Jeff (that’s him in the picture above) and I bet lunch on the race. He starts right before me. I wait 10 seconds then jump in. We trained together, and I was always faster in the pool. I expect to pass him.
It’s eight laps of 50 meters each. At lap 6, I pass a teen-age girl who is wondering what she got herself into. I hear her coach encouraging her. I tell the girl my own endurance mantra, modified for swimming: “One more stroke. You can always take one more stroke. Eventually those strokes will add up to a lap.”
I knew I couldn’t freestyle the whole way, but I manage to do more than I thought I could. My hope for my next event is to be able to freestyle the whole way, which would cut my swim time (13:42) by several minutes. I beat last year by 1:30, which I’m happy about.
But Jeff dusts me, which I’m not.
May 5, 2025, 8:35-9:30 a.m.
THIS IS AWESOME! I HAVE TO DO IT AGAIN!
The bike ride feels like freedom. The wind, the cadence, the speed, all of it. I pedal through flat farmland so green leprechauns think it’s fake. The bike feels great. The wheels stay on. If I didn’t already know, I would have no clue that I have mismatched tires.
I love the snippets of conversation as I pass people.
Me: “Keep pushing!”
Woman, in mock exasperation: “Next year, I’m volunteering, not racing!”
Me: Laughs.
Woman: “Therapy would have been easier.”
Me: Laughs again.
I beat last year’s time by 3:19.
But I never see Jeff.
May 5, 2025, 9:30 a.m.-10:01 a.m.
The run is an out and back. I study the faces on their way to the finish line. I look for Jeff. I see his 13-year-old daughter, Heidi. This is her first triathlon, and she told me beforehand she was nervous. Now she’s running alongside her grandfather, and she’s crushing it.
I LOVE IT that she’s smiling so big I can see her tonsils. She’s a delightful smart aleck who takes great joy in pestering me. Please nobody tell he she beat me by 5 minutes.
I feel OK except that my feet seem to be experiencing gravity at double the usual rate.
I finally see Jeff, not terribly far from the turnaround. My brain thinks I have a chance to catch him. My heart says let’s go get him. My legs laugh hysterically at the idea.
Jeff beats me by 2:17. But he’s 13 years younger than me, his tires match, he probably cheated, etc. Also he’s faster and a better athlete, the jerk.
Let’s be real: I knew he would beat me, and the only reason I bet him is so we could share a meal and talk about the day.
My time: 1 hour, 42 minutes, 57 seconds. That’s 120th out of 227 overall and 3 minutes, 19 seconds faster than last year.
More important, the wheels stayed on.
May 5, 2025, 10:03 a.m.
I make plans to swim more.
May 5, 2025-now
My dad is still in the hospital. That’s a long time, I know, and every call from my brother brings more issues. None of them is terrible, but collectively I don’t like what they add up to.
I do endurance events because I believe the strength I need to complete them helps me to endure tough times in life. I would rather not have to tap into that. But we don’t get to choose what challenges we face or when we face them. We just have to face them when they arrive, and we’re better prepared if we’ve done other hard things.
May 6, 2025,
I run a 10K with my daughter. We’re doing a half marathon together in the fall.
This is great! Thanks for sharing your real-life experience, not the highlight reel. I too experienced some highs and lows in a series of Sprint Tri's that were only 3 weeks apart, from a flat tire right before the race to cramping during my swim to bike transition. Appreciate getting it out there, and prayers for your dad!