iamnor

I found myself diving headfirst into my first triathlon about five years ago, after two decades of, well, not moving much more than from the couch to the fridge. How I got roped into this madness is a story for another day, but let’s just say it all began with the simple notion, “Hey, maybe I could walk to the end of the block today.” That innocent thought ended with me crossing the finish line of my first (but not last) triathlon.

In between that first step and my many races, I met a whole bunch of people—old friends, new friends, coaches, and fellow athletes—who’ve impacted my life more than I can ever repay. This one’s for them. And now, for you, I’ve boiled down six key life lessons that triathlon has taught me, starting with my early days in the ocean.

Training for my first triathlon, I was already comfortable in the pool. I could swim laps for hours like a fish. But ocean swimming? That was a whole different beast. I vividly remember driving down the steep road to the beach, convincing myself, “I don’t have to swim today. I’ll just ride my bike and run. No one can make me swim.”

For weeks, I dreaded the ocean. I wasn’t scared of the swimming itself—it was the battle to get past the breakers, which seemed like they were there solely to pummel me into submission. And then came the day where the lifeguard, in what felt like an ominous movie moment, announced, “We’ve doubled the number of lifeguards today due to the hazardous conditions.” Oh, cool. No pressure.

As we stood on the beach waiting for the signal to run into the surf, I seriously considered quitting triathlon altogether. But as soon as the lifeguards yelled for us to get into the water before the next set of waves, I had no choice but to run. It was chaos—wave after wave, each one making me feel like I was getting nowhere. I felt like I was in a never-ending cycle of dive, grab some sand, push up and get a breath, swim hard, repeat. But eventually, I made it to the calm, rolling water beyond the breakers.  Once I was past the breakers, I looked around for my swim buddy, and she was not there.  I found a few others treading water and none of us could find our buddies.  Then I looked back toward the breakers and the beach beyond and there, the rest of my team stood.

Lesson One: Getting out past the breakers is hard and that is ok.  You can’t beat the waves; they are going to push you back towards the beach and that is ok.  Dive under when the wave comes and swim as hard as you can when it passes.

Swimming’s my jam, but I learned something critical in those early months of triathlon training: it’s not all about brute force. I used to thrash around in the water like an over-caffeinated octopus, thinking the more effort I put in, the faster I’d go. But then I started paying attention to the form of the swimmers around me. They were doing more strokes, kicking their legs, yet somehow, we were going almost the same speed. That’s when I realized that focusing on technique—arm position, core stabilization, the little flick of the wrist at the end of a stroke mattered. And lo and behold, I started keeping up with less effort.

Lesson Two: Form and control beat vigorous, splashy swimming and in the end, you will have more energy for the next part of the race.

Let’s talk about bikes. I love them. In fact, I got tricked into triathlon because I agreed to be the cyclist in a relay team. Little did I know that was just the gateway drug, and soon enough I’d be doing the whole thing.

During my first triathlon in Malibu, I encountered rolling hills along an 18-mile stretch of highway. I was in a love-hate relationship with those hills. As a Clydesdale (aka, not a light guy), I could fly like a rocket on the downhills thanks to gravity. But the uphills? Let’s just say they weren’t my favorite.

One thing my coach drilled into me was to make the most of that momentum on the way down. If you fly downhill, you can coast partway up the next hill without losing much steam. And I’ll never forget meeting a fellow triathlete during that race. She passed me effortlessly on an uphill, only to watch me fly by her like she was standing still, on the next downhill, all while shouting, “Gravity assist!”.

Lesson Three: The harder you power down the hill, the farther up the next hill you will get.

I started this journey on a recumbent trike because I was too heavy for a traditional bike. I trained for months, slowly but surely getting lighter and faster. Eventually, I had to upgrade to a proper road bike, and everyone gave me advice on how to shave ounces off my new ride. Carbon fiber water bottle holders and all!  Here’s the thing—I’d already dropped 50 pounds. The real gains came from shedding that extra baggage, not shaving ounces from my bike.

Lesson Four: Losing a pound gets you more than taking a pound off your bike.

The final leg of my first triathlon was a four-mile run. I’ll never forget how high-fives and cheers from fellow runners fueled me as we passed each other along the out-and-back course. And then, during those last 300 yards, as I sprinted to the finish line, I heard the announcer yell, “And here comes Ron from Simi Valley, clearly more popular than the celebrities racing today!”

I didn’t understand, I thought it was a joke, but then I turned the corner and entered the chute at the finish line and saw the crowd—friends, teammates, strangers—cheering and chanting my name. That rush of support carried me across the finish line.

Lesson Five: Clap and cheer loudly for everyone, your last mile will be powered by the clapping and cheers of others.

The week after that first race, I checked the results and saw that I was third from last in my age group. I felt a little deflated. But my coach gave me a hug and said, “You beat everyone who didn’t start.” Then she shouted, “Now quit slacking and give me four more laps!”

Lesson Six: Finishing last is still faster than everyone who did not start the race.

So, there you have it: six life lessons from a guy who went from couch potato to triathlete. Triathlon has given me so much more than medals and bibs—it’s given me I little bit of wisdom, friends, and the belief that, no matter how tough things get, I can get past the breakers. And so can you.