The Comma

Last weekend my nephew graduated from the University of Oregon.  As a part of our family celebration, my sister invited me to enter a triathlon near Portland, along with her, my nephew the graduate, and his girlfriend.  She invited me about five weeks ago.  And although I did start to think about getting in shape for such an adventure, even on short notice, eventually I declined.  

Then my sister hurt her knee.  And so, since the entry fee was already paid, and since I would “compete” (I use that term ironically) in the same group she would have, last Saturday I found myself standing waist deep in Blue Lake, with about forty other 55+ year-olds.  We were all wearing the white swim caps of our group and waiting for the start of the one-half mile swim that would mark the beginning of our sprint distance triathlon.  The fact that this was a sprint distance, the shortest triathlon out there, is what tempted me to even think about going ahead with this.  I had been swimming a couple of times a week for the last month.  I can still easily ride twelve miles on my bike.  And after all, I do chores every day on my farm.  I can walk three miles if I have to.  

The crowd on the shore counted down the last ten seconds and then we were off.  I quickly moved to the back of the pack and began gasping for air.  Turns out swimming in a pool where I can grab the side every 25 yards and get out when I get tired is very different from swimming in a lake where the water is choppy and there is no place to rest.  Anticipating that, the race coordinators had arranged for boats to follow us around to provide support, or rescue if necessary.   So as I approached the first turn, one of the boats came over to me and began circling, kind of like a shark, but a friendly one who would let me grab its dorsal fin when I needed to.  A boy scout of about fifteen was in the boat.  

“You’re doing great” he squeaked to me.  Hmmm.  

“Can you swim?” I asked between wheezes.

 “Sure” he said, “I’ve done this distance before.  A couple of times.  You can do it too!” 

 So how helpful is it for a young healthy child sitting in a boat to call out encouragement to a fifty-seven year old trying not to sink?  Pretty helpful, as it turns out.  Because while a part of me wanted to flip his boat over and see how well he actually did swimming out there in the lake, another part of me was very grateful for his presence, child-optimism and all.  He stayed with me as I kept swimming, at times calling out encouragement, at times looking obviously bored.  I held on to the side of his boat when I needed to, and even though every time I looked up, the buoy marking the turn seemed no closer that before, eventually I looked up and it was right there.  And then I was heading toward the shore.  I was the second to the last one out of the water.  And as I stumbled up on to the beach, there was my sister, waiting patiently to hand me a towel and cheer me on. 

 Into the transition area I went, putting on my cycling gear and jumping on my bike.  As I headed out of the transition area, my brother-in-law showed up, and when I rode by him he encouraged me too.  “At least you didn’t drown,” he said, which might not sound that inspiring, but if you knew my brother-in-law, you would know that it was.  The bike ride was, as I anticipated, a place to recover.  I even passed five other riders, which really surprised me, since I was so far behind when I came out of the water.  They smiled and waved as I rode past.  Turns out, by the way, that those riders were all over seventy and all in their first triathlons.  Never mind.  My competitive heart was cheered.

I came back into the transition area and changed into my running shoes.  As I headed out again, this time onto the run route, wave after wave of folks were coming back in.  My nephew and his girlfriend, who were long finished with their races, stood by the path as I came jogging slowly by, and called out to encourage me.  “Yeah, Aunt Catherine!”  I kept “running” until I was out of their sight, and then started walking.  I was back to gasping for breath, but now I was on my feet instead of treading water, so I knew I would be ok.  The run (and walk and run and walk- whatever I could do to keep moving) was an “out and back” route, so I kept passing folks who had turned around and were headed home.  Every one of them called out their own encouragement to me, whether I was walking or running, and I answered back.  “Way to go!” 

The last half mile went back out by the lake and as I looked across, there were boats out there hauling in the buoys that had marked our swim route.  Standing on the shore, it did look like a long way to swim.  Then I heard the crowd at the finish line, and they were starting to cheer.  For just an instant I imagined they were cheering for me.  I came around the bend and realized that the little kids’ splash, peddle, and dash race had started and the cheering, of course, was for them.  Little kids were on the running path now, and coming up behind me.  In the last one hundred yards a little seven-year-old darted past me, and then another, even smaller child was coming up on my right.  I slowed up (ha!) to let her cross the finish line ahead of me.  I knew someone would be taking pictures at the line, and I wanted to be alone in the picture.  Then, just as I crossed, another child came up on my left, and we crossed together as the camera flashed.  I started laughing.  They handed every child coming across the line a finisher’s medal.  They handed me a bottle of water. 

In the end, I placed 406^th out of 412 participants.   I was surprised to discover how different “farm fit” is from “triathlon fit.”  Riding a motorcycle, even riding it fifty miles a day, does not really prepare one for riding a bicycle twelve miles in a race.  And of course, there’s the swimming pool, and then there’s the lake.  But also, in the end, I felt good about my tri.   As I stood around with my family after it was all over, my nephew asked me, “Is this one of those stories that you’re going to put in a sermon?” 

“Well, not a sermon,” I said, “but for sure I will blog about it.”   Because this is our “comma” blog, where we think about how God is still speaking.  And without even looking too deeply I can see at least five different ways my experience in those few short hours mirrors my experience as a person of faith, in a community of faith.  Like those “find the hidden pictures in this picture” pages in the Highlights magazine I  used to enjoy as a child, I invite you to find those parallels, in my story or in your own.  And I will cheer you on.