As I mounted my bike to head out on the Triathlon course for the second leg of the race, it occurred to me that I was like George Plimpton. Plimpton, highly respected writer and world-class amateur athlete, attempted very difficult sports activities. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t do very well whatever the challenge was, it only mattered that he tried and survived. Of course, he wrote about these great adventures becoming rich and famous. My goal was less grand. I simply wanted to finish.
This quest to try and be an athlete really began last summer when I was covering the annual Lions Club Triathlon for The Wanderer.
I watched as individuals and relay teams swam, biked, and ran. Participants of all ages were smiling and laughing. The excitement was palpable and with the music pouring out from loud speakers, there was a party atmosphere.
Giving voice to my desire to be a triathlon participant in early April, I’d say things like, “…if I could only find someone to do the swimming…” and “…if I could only find someone to do the biking.” The silence at that point was deafening. Not a lot of takers at the councils on aging where I hang out. Go figure.
But somewhere along the way, my aerobics instructor Ellie Mae Higgins heard me and responded, “How far is the swim?” Her fate was sealed in that moment.
Ellie is an amazing woman who teaches ladies of a certain age how to move, how to exercise, how to prevent falls, how to stay strong. After decades of sitting on my butt in what I like to call “corporate hell,” once retired I joined one of her classes. After nearly three years of squats, twists, and power lifting 3-pound weights, I believed I could ride a bike 10 miles followed by speed walking 3 miles.
There was one hitch – I hadn’t been on my bike in nearly 17 years. Once upon a time, I’d ride to Onset or New Bedford with confidence. But bone spurs in my neck and a career that found me traveling more frequently, coupled with domestic demands of caring for an elderly father and infant granddaughter, didn’t leave much time to ride a bike. Now, at the age of 65 with time to train, I would take on this challenge.
I got the bike tuned-up and modified and began the arduous process of training. First 3 miles, then 8 miles, then 12 miles. I was getting stronger.
In the meantime, Ellie was doing some training at the gym. She felt confidant that she could complete the quarter-mile swim, saying, “I won’t be fast, but I’ll finish.” I was saying the same thing.
Unlike Mr. Plimpton, I wasn’t challenging myself so I could get a story and make a load of cash by writing a book about the experience. Nah, that would be too easy. I was going to do this because I wanted to. I was, after all, channeling my inner athlete, Plimpton style. “Not bad,” I thought.
Besides the goal of simply finishing what Ellie and I started, I didn’t want to fall. Grade school science class came to mind, specifically Newton’s first law of motion: a body in motion stays in motion unless an external force is applied. Yes, please let me stay vertical and not break a hip!
The moment of truth had arrived.
Ellie was in and out of the water in eight minutes flat. What a machine! It took us 1 minute and 40 seconds to transition, and then I was off and riding.
Having done the course over the previous weeks, I knew what they meant when they talked about the uplands of the Mattapoisett River Valley. From Water Street to Wolf Island Road, the topography of the land rises. Not in an Everest-like manner, but up nonetheless.
I pumped with every fiber of my being. I looked forward to coasting back into the village but got swept up in the illusion that I really was an athlete and kept on pumping. I flew around corners like a bat out of hell. My thighs were pistons. I was no longer 65, I was 15. The 10 miles took me 54 minutes and 46 seconds. All right, I am 65.
I dismounted back at the beach, transitioning to the road race in 1 minute 35 seconds. I hit my stride at the intersection of Ned’s Point and Marion Road. The sound of the ambulance that followed me the entire way accompanied the cadence in my head. I was over the finish line in 47 minutes 16 seconds. We’d done it in under two hours!
Our supportive crew of ladies from the COA exercise classes was there to congratulate us. Their beaming faces meant everything in that moment. I thanked them as my loving husband’s strong arms held me up. The ‘Yes We Can Duo’ came in dead last, but we finished. It was the thrill of victory, not the agony of defeat. Plimpton would understand. Now, for next year “…if I could only find a runner.”
By Marilou Newell
