Triathlon for the Every Woman

1 MAKING THE DECISION TO BECOME A TRIATHLETE

MAKING A DECISION TO CHANGE IS ALWAYS THE FIRST STEP TO actually changing. As such, the first step in my long list of brilliant advice about becoming a triathlete is to:

First, you might want to know more about triathlon in order to make an informed decision about whether you want to join the sporty cult of spandex-covered weirdos. You might have a few questions before you put on a hideous wetsuit and jump into a cold lake on a Sunday morning with a bunch of neoprene-clad freakazoids. You might want to know exactly how difficult those early-morning wake-up calls actually are—especially on days that feel more suitable for brunch than bloody foot blisters.

Alas, I am telling you too much already! I should not scare you away at this early juncture!

So, I am asking that you trust me. Trust me and believe that triathlon is something you need in your life, much like a washing machine. However, triathlon is also something that you want in your life. Like a partner who actually knows how to use the washing machine.

HOW THE DECISION HAPPENED TO ME

I was tired of life as it was. I was tired of me. I also considered a certain someone’s comments about my ability to do a triathlon. This person looked me dead in the eyes and nonchalantly said:

So, in August 2010, I made a simple, one-sentence Decision: I have decided to become a triathlete.

Notice that I did not say: I have decided to do a triathlon. Deciding to become a triathlete is different than completing a triathlon.

Deciding to do a triathlon is making a goal to complete a single event, to succeed in a solitary moment. You cross the finish line and you are done, and you can head for the Waffle House to celebrate.

Deciding to become a triathlete is a new game entirely. My Decision to become a triathlete indicated several things:

So, I decided exactly this. Then, I wrote it on the very first post of a blog: I have decided to become a triathlete. Then, I held my breath. And I felt a little sick at first. But interestingly, once I made that incredibly crazy, yet simple Decision—things began to change.

The Fat Stranger

During this time of my life, each day was freaking Groundhog Day: wake up, get ready for work, tend to two babies, and talk to (or argue with) the spouse. Each day, I would walk to the bathroom and look in the mirror. And every single day, there she was.

The Fat Stranger.

Who was this woman staring back at me? I had kinda gotten to know the Fat Stranger over the recent years. I would sometimes look in the mirror and ask the Fat Stranger questions like How did this happen to you? Sometimes, I would ask, How did you let yourself get like this? The Fat Stranger would just stare back, blankly, with absolutely no answers. She was a snobby bitch, that Fat Stranger.

I did not like her.

I did not appreciate the Fat Stranger’s post-baby boobs or the jiggly butt that looked like it had been hit with Ping-Pong balls. I could find no beauty in the bags under the bloodshot green eyes. I saw no love in the flappy, bat-winged arms. I especially did not like the Fat Stranger’s droopy belly. That belly, a saggy-skin house that had cultivated two babies, fourteen months apart. Didn’t matter that she had actually grown people inside of her… I did not like any part of her.

The Fat Stranger was not a bad person. She was just someone I did not want to know (or see).

Then, I hated that I hated her. I wanted to love the Fat Stranger. I wanted to find self-love and accept her. I wanted to say, It’s okay that you feel like a shell of the person and athlete that you once were. I wanted to hug her and say, You’ll be okay. Things will get better. But the truth was, I didn’t know whether that was true. I didn’t like who she had become—inside or out.

So, instead of figuring out how to love her, I just hated her.

At the time of my Decision, I knew absolutely nothing about triathlon. I had no idea about swimming and biking and running. I was pretty sure that triathlon meant doing all three of those things in a row, but I was not sure in which order or how far.

I was very tender to the fact that I was completely out of shape, teetering on depressed and repulsive in my own eyes. Even when I told my parents about the blog and my Decision, they gave me a three-seconds-too-long pause before saying, “That’s great, honey!” Their “that’s great” did not have enough oomph behind it, and the pause? Well, it hurt. I looked for negativity from every place. When you look for it, you find it—it’s everywhere. I was overly sensitive. I knew that. But I also hurt—everywhere. My insides (and my knees) literally hurt from so many different angles.

But I had decided.

Something had to change.

And for once, I was going to stand by my Decision.

The Decision: The Turning Point

If you are anything like I was a few year ago, then you feel stressed, exhausted, and may have your own Fat Stranger staring you in the face. Or maybe she’s a Sad Stranger. Or a Mad Mom. Doesn’t matter who. But you may be staring back at someone you just don’t like. I understand that.

When I started triathlon, I could border on saying I hated myself. That’s gotten better over the years, but I still want to share these sentiments. And while reading about someone not liking herself can be a drag, I want to share the lows. I want to share the crazy inside my head, because I know that I am not alone—and I want you to know that, too (not that I am not alone. That you are not alone). I think it’s important to speak the struggle, the self-loathing, the addictions and the issues that plague us… because so often that is very well our starting point. I thought I was alone; I was not. You might feel alone; you are not.

Adding another “thing” to your life may seem impossible. And piling on a preposterous statement like “I will become a triathlete” to the hectic mix may feel irresponsible and comical. (Lord knows, as women we cannot be irresponsible!)

Yes, the words are scary. The execution might be even scarier. But I am also convinced that those few words were the turning point of my life. Maybe I should repeat that. Those few words were the turning point of my life.

The. Turning. Point. Of. My. Life.

Becoming a triathlete required an epic shift in me, and the shift wasn’t easy. And only a few months into training, I realized that I wanted many more things—not just in triathlon—but also in my life.

Becoming a triathlete is an amazing way to change your life and find your power. The Every Woman triathlon transformation is about more than simply looking better. Triathlon has the capability to transform your entire life. From your relationships to your job and your dreams. Will you look better? Maybe. A friendly side effect of triathlon is perhaps a better-looking body. But we are not talking about “30 Days to a Rocking Bikini Body.”

Triathlon is not a gimmick that will take you to weight-loss nirvana. Triathlon is a bona fide sport. It’s taken me over seven years to beat the “triathlon training to look better” ideal out of my subconscious. I do not think there is anything wrong with wanting to look better. But to talk, er, think, trash about my body, when it can swim, bike, and run for miles and miles? That is not only unhealthy—it’s absurd.

Triathlon is a sport that works for working women with kids and significant others. It works for single women. It works for older women, smart women, funny women, silly women. It works for women. Triathlon works for women because there is so much spirit, love, and scheduling involved in swimming, biking, and running.

How? How will I find the time?

You will. And you will be surprised how triathlon becomes a part of your life. Just make your Decision to become a triathlete. The Decision does not have to be well informed. We women tend to make calculated, responsible, and well-informed decisions all the time. The Decision is not about making a well-thought-out-super-smart decision. Seriously. Just make a completely blind leap with me. Decide to become a triathlete. The rest will follow. One step at a time, you will find a way. Cross my little heart.

WHO AM I TO TELL YOU… ANYTHING?

So, I made the Decision and I was instantly a triathlete! Ha. Okay. No. After making the Decision, I was a complete flounder, flopping all over the place, completely lost. I had made a bold statement, but I had no idea what to do next.

I ran a little. I flailed in the pool for a bit. I went to some indoor cycling classes. But after a few weeks, I was nowhere close to triathlon-ready. Really, I was just plain confused.

A Meredith History Lesson

1979

I was born a healthy baby, tipping the scales at a nice 8 pounds. My mom popped me out 100 percent naturally and drug-free, acting like it was no big deal.

1980–1987

I was a semifat kid. But I was one of those husky, strong specimens. “Give the bat to Meredith; she’ll hit a home run,” my dad would tell the softball coach. I would put down my doughnut on the bench and proceed to bat.

“She’s strong!” everyone would say. But rarely did I hit the ball. However, I could punch the catcher in the face and then hit McDonald’s for a tasty Filet-O-Fish if the situation called for it.

The truth of the matter: I really was strong. I was big and strong and I hated it. I picked on other kids because I felt like crap about myself. I was miserable and that misery caused me to eat more. I was lonely, so I ate. Then, I was fat and miserable, so I was mean. Food was my friend, my enemy.

1989

At age ten I started the Weight Watchers plan. Back in the late 1980s, no one knew that kids did not belong on a diet. My parents were faced with a portly kid, so they did the best they knew to do.

I entered the world of carrot sticks, cottage cheese, and water for lunch—also known as early-onset metabolic destruction. When I got home from school in the afternoon, I followed up lunch with secret handfuls of butter crackers. I stuffed those delicious round crackers in my cheeks so tight and so fast that my mouth would burst open and I would “poof” crumbs everywhere. I was just so hungry. My parents would go to sleep and I would creep to the kitchen for chips and cookies. My ten-year-old self would eat, eat, eat and then cry, cry, cry.

1990

I lost 10 pounds. I entered middle school weighing 125 pounds.

1991

By the time Aunt Flow arrived, I had shot up to 5 foot 7 and 155 pounds. Looking at pictures from that era, I was not obese. I played sports and was pretty healthy. But I believed I was fat, because I had always been fat. I was told I was fat. Fat was what I knew.

1997

I was a healthy teenager. I had a teenager pot belly, but overall I was fit and I worked hard at my sport of the time, Olympic weightlifting—competing at national and international levels.

(“She’s strong!” Ugh.)

But no matter how hard I worked, like many a seventeen-year-old girl, I spent entirely too much energy and time bemoaning my body, when hindsight shows me that I was actually kind of cute. Wasted cuteness. Wasted years and years of absolutely perfectly good cuteness.

In my wasted cuteness, I was still strong. I could hoist 220 pounds over my head and squat 300 pounds for sets. But really, all I could think about was my pot belly.

1998

I wore a pretty white dress to high school graduation. At the time, I thought I looked gross wearing it. Looking back, I was a babe.

New Year’s Eve 1998

I began dating the Expert. Our first date was at Denny’s—a 24-hour breakfast restaurant chain. A cup of coffee and romance at its finest.

Who is the Expert? That would be my husband, James. I lovingly refer to him as “the Expert” because simply put, the Expert knows everything, about everything. And if he doesn’t, he will pretend he does. He’s just a smarty-pants. He’s also a good friend and an exceptional father. We’ve been together half of my life—so, life without him would be weird and empty. To the kids, there is no smarter man in the universe, so all is as it should be.

1999

I hung up the Olympic weightlifting belt and shoes.

Then, I started my second year of college in pursuit of the ever-useful English degree.

College was like college should be. I ate three pizzas a week, drank too much beer, and had more fun than you could shake a stick at. I also learned Latin, so I consider the college years a bloody smashing success.

2001

I graduated with a bachelor’s degree from a Top 25 university. Time to make millions!