It is a trial by fire, water, earth and air for the multi-sport athlete. These weekend warriors train almost Spartan-like, before the crack of dawn, for a battle that may not emerge. It is coincidental that we enjoy films that include hard physical training scenes and heart-thumping, OST, instrumental music.
What’s that? Multi-sport sounds like a ‘Jack of all trades, but master of none!’ cry the naysayers, whose favourite pastime may be ripping off the metallic foil top of an artificially inflated bag of potato crisps, loaded with everything nutritional except natural nutrition. The same goes for the triathlete – the athletic ménage a trois of three disciplines – who own watches that can tell almost everything except the time of day.
We speak kind of funny; our conversations sound coded, like the secret handshakes of freemasons. We can tell each other apart from the maddening crowd, when we detect the blood-red button on sports-watches, the oval icon on our sunshades, the iconoclastic M-Dot logo, silicon wrist-bands, Race-ID bracelet, and quick-laces on running shoes. Our partners know how to distance themselves from us when we meet our own kind and synchronously indulge in psychobabble. Yet, we are fortunate that our Iron-mates don’t fully abandon us, only our conversations when this plunge into the nadir of boredom, as we immerse in bike-porn, numerology of heart-rate zones, running shoes (we may harbour in secret Imelda’s lust for shoes, albeit the lightest and relatively, unsupported ones), tastiest energy-gels, and vulgar aerodynamic reverse-beaks. And to top it all, the most fashion-challenged tastes like the near archaic, racing halter-top; and the what-were-you-drinking-when-you-designed-this, compression, knee-high, harajuku, clinical white compression socks. Think of a Glico Porky-snapping, schoolgirl fantasy, on a guy’s muscular hot-bod – it’s like Freddy Kruegger invaded our dreamscape on Fifth Avenue!
When we tell people what we do for sport, they seemed stunned. When we tell them how far and how long we train, they seem horrified. When we tell them we earn only a t-shirt and a medal, and no prize money, they look stupefied. They do not get it that we can be as happy as mudlarks in the pursuit of happiness, or is that happiness of pursuit? Nevertheless, we continue in our relentless, myopic, Type-A Personality way, and hunt down our next race online. We can actually sit, purposefully, at the screen for four exciting hours just to earn (and pay) for a slot in Ironman Western Australia 2011. It is akin to winning the lottery. Well, the Kona Lottery for the Big Dance in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii is as good as winning the lottery or sweepstakes. And, yes, the lottery means winning a slot among the 1,800 or more participants in the Ford Ironman World Championships – and you have to pay for your slot, accommodations, airfare and expenses – just to enjoy the prestige of competing alongside similar self-possessed (okay, focused) triathletes and getting that silver decal on your bike, the finisher-tee and medal. Signing for this expensive lottery is a sign that widespread optimism prevails; although not necessarily, collective intelligence! Opinions are like colons – everybody has got one. And I got a slot at IM Lanzarote and IM Canada this year. Nananana-nah!
Despite all these foibles and idiosyncrasies of endurance, multi-sport, athletes, I love this sport. You can’t fault us for attempting the impossible. Just ask adidas: Impossible is nothing.
1 comment:
Nice write up mate!
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