Hey, its the wife’s turn to tell a story. Settle in for a brief tale of how it all started.
So it was a day in October, and Alex (not yet my husband then) came home all shining like a nickel: “I am going to be a triathlete!” he said, and then added “I just need to learn how to swim”.
“Tri-what?!” was my first reaction, but then I thought “what the hell” it had an “athlete” in it. Could not be too bad. Oh, so little I knew.
I think it is fair to say, that Alex was a triathlete, before it became cool. But he embraced this strange sport anyways. In less than a year time he learned how to swim, and we were in Milton on chilly morning of May 31.
Packed in a rented nineteen wetsuit, he looked like a slightly less famous member of the Disney’s Incredible family. He was repeating “I can do it. I can do it” madly and going over his transition routine for the tenth time.
When the time came to get out of the water, we did not see him in his wave. Nor we saw him in the next one, or in any after that one. At one point I thought we missed him and I ran to check on his bike. Then I thought something bad happened. But there he was, slowly splashing in freezing water right next to the last lifeguard’s boat.
He got out of the water last, and was on his way to “catch some fishies” as he called it. Surprisingly he caught few, and finished in a not that bad position, but more importantly, he got “hooked” by the sport.
Two weeks later we were doing a “revenge-race” in Guelph, and a month later we were shopping for a his own wetsuit. At one point we were travelling to a race every other weekend, and that is when I started questioning if everything that end by an “athlete” is good for you.