Stories

On Sunday, June 27th, at the ripe old age of 52 and with approximately 3 months worth of informal training, my business partner, Jennifer, and I participated in our first Triathlon Sprint.

Before the big race

Now, before anyone gets excited, let me just clarify, that the word “sprint” indicates that these mini, mini, mini triathlons are designed to help serious triathletes prepare for big, hard, rigorous races.  These elite athletes use these “sprints” as training venues.

Not so for Jen and I, and as it turns out DOZENS of other triathlon enthusiasts.

Initially, we thought we would be surrounded by a bunch of hard bodied, serious, elite athletes, and there were plenty of those folks to be found.  But as we looked around,  we realized that we were also surrounded by average, every day people of every age and fitness level who looked as equally excited and nervous as we did.

Suddenly, I realized that each and every one of these participants had a story.  After all, we did.  We didn’t end up at Lake Dunmore at 6:30 am dressed in our new tri-suits, looking like sausages for lack of anything better to do on Sunday morning.  No – we had a story.  And the story was more than the 5:30 am training swims and learning everything I could about a technique called Total Immersion Swimming, or the hours learning the difference between big gears and small gears and how they would impact my ride, or learning a technique called Chi Running to help me enjoy the entire process of running a bit more than I do.

The real story is this -  two women who were aging, who were more sedentary in their jobs then ever before and needed a real kick in the ass goal to get them back into gear.  More importantly for us though was this -

“Do not ask your kids to do something,

that you yourself are not willing to do!”

In this case, the something was going out of our comfort zone.  Taking a risk.  Pushing ourselves past our threshold.

Looking across the park at the people, Jen and I were reminded that each of our lives are made up of a series of stories.  Stories that help define who we are, inspire us to go further, warn us of impending danger, communicate what is most important to us.

On one overcast Sunday morning, standing on the grass with 200 other competitors, Jen and I were reminded that we are all connected through our stories.  And as we made our way to the water, we shared snippets of stories with some of our fellow competitors.  We heard about a mother-daughter team that was mending after years of turmoil; about a woman who raced the year before 90 lbs heavier; about a cancer survivor who needed to feel fear in a completely different way; about the loss of a spouse and the emptiness that could only be filled by competing.

As we  listened to the stories, our own personal trepidation washed away and was replaced with a deep sense of being truly present in the moment – of being connected to everyone on the beach waiting for the bell to ring.

Jen and I entered the water as lone racers.  We finished our runs as lone racers.  But we were never alone.  We were connected through our individual stories and a part of a collective story about competing in a triathlon sprint.

We came back to the house to celebrate our success.  We barbecued at 11:00 am and drank cold beer and spritzers and then – we did what our fellow competitors were probably doing – we relived each and every glorious and painful moment of our race.  The story continues.

As I continue to reflect today, I am reminded of the deep respect I have for stories.  I promised myself I would be more mindful in my daily life of honoring stories told and untold.  Of looking past first impressions and pausing for just a moment to honor the story that resides inside the unique human being I am communicating with.

Jen and I will be back next year to race again.  Our story will be different.  So will everyone elses.  I’m counting the days.