The age of accountability and triathlons

From the time I was a Sunbeam doing jazz hands and spouting "Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree" at top of my irreverent little lungs, I have been taught that the age of accountability is 8 years old.

By that time you have hopefully outgrown the worst of childhood mischief, like stuffing your underwear full of dinner mints while your father pays at the register of a restaurant.
You can still do stuff like that, but at 8 years old your "Get Out of Jail Free" card is gone.

I never questioned this doctrine until I had an experience last summer that made me wonder. I had this spiritual epiphany during a triathlon.

In case you haven't been bitten by the bug yet, you should know that triathlons are "The Rage of the Middle-aged." When people hit mid-life they used to do the normal things like bleach their hair, buy a sports car or staple their stomach. Those good ol' days are gone. Now, for some reason, you hit 30 or 40-something and have an uncontrollable urge to simultaneously master three sport venues and pay good money to over-exert yourself wearing sparse spandex.

Two years ago in a freakish fit of overconfidence I succumbed and did a couple of sprint-length triathlons. I was already an avid biker, my daughter coached me through some swim stroke basics, and though I loathe running, I figured I could put one foot in front of the other to complete the 5K. I didn't set any records and avoided drowning despite the violently thrashing swimmer in front of me, but with my age scrawled in permanent marker on my calf I crossed the finish line alive.

I admit, I was pretty proud of myself. I was also pretty sure I never wanted to train for a triathlon again. I resumed my usual exercise regime and let the leg marking fade into the sunset.

For two years now, I've been perfectly content with my low-end athleticism. Then, this spring a good friend of mine called and said he wouldn't be my friend any more if I didn't sign up for a triathlon with him. He knew I had "tried" before and he knows I don't have very many friends, so he used this information against me and coerced me into dusting off my tria-tard.

Who knew I was still so susceptible to peer pressure? As I registered online, I could hardly believe the wallet-gauging amount I was paying to engage in organized torture just to keep a friend I now hated more and more with every air-sucking lap. So, why did I decide to tri again? First of all, my friend had decided to go for the Olympic length and I wanted to see him get his padded shorts kicked. (We're really close friends.) Secondly, most of my days are filled with dishes, laundry, school principal meetings, etc., and every so often I feel a need to set down my mop and check my moxy levels.

My training regime was fairly loose: bike two days a week, swim two, run two, working up to full lengths. My friend emailed me a high-tech training spread sheet. Did I mention he is seriously over-achieverish? My goal: finish alive.

At 4:30 a.m. on the day of the triathlon my alarm went off and I immediately decided I could make it through life without friends. We pulled into the parking lot next to a sporty SUV that had the license plate "TRI CHICK" on it.

This triathlon differed from the others I had done in that the swim was open water in a reservoir. Luckily I had the smarts to practice an open water swim one time before the actual triathlon. It's a good thing I did because I discovered something important: I'm afraid of open water swimming. A week before the triathlon I found myself in the middle of a reservoir floating on my back trying mentally to find my happy place to stop the hyperventilating. I had no idea how disorienting it is to not be able to see the bottom. Without the pool lane lines to keep my brain occupied it started entertaining itself with images of giant catfish latching onto my face.

I tried to block out the trial run fiasco as I pulled on my rubber suffocation suit and stared out at the official buoy that seemed eons away. I joined the rest of my heat in the water and when the horn blew I dove in hoping the dead body in the water wouldn't be mine.

Halfway to the buoy I was praying for a giant catfish to come and swallow me whole. I somehow managed my way around the lake, breezed through the bike (it's my favorite), but about a mile into the run I hit the wall. In moments of great pain I become the most philosophical. Why am I doing this? Why are any of us doing this? What is it we are trying to prove?

Through blurry vision I looked at the ages marked on the calves of those ahead of me and those who passed me, which were many, and the revelation occurred: The age of accountability is not 8 years old. The age of accountability is 37, or 40, or 52, or whatever age it is that makes you have enough regret about life that makes you think that doing a triathlon will make it all better somehow.

As you swim mind-numbing laps you think about all the wasted brain space occupied with memorized sitcom dialogs. As your rickety knees pound the pavement you think of landfills full of the empty Hostess boxes you've contributed. When you squish into clothes tighter than someone your age should ever wear in public you think of the degree you never finished, the business venture that failed, thoughtless words you uttered, failed relationships, unvisited islands, wayward children, deprived childhoods, pesticide toxins, global warming, etc. etc!

And so we swim, bike and run and hope that across that finish line is a sense of accomplishment and empowerment to make peace with what we can't change in the past.

So, I crossed the finish line. On the other side of it was my family, some friends, a drink of water and a cookie.

No regrets.

Kari J. Rich is from Petersboro, Utah.