My Daughter Is A Triathlete ~ Call 911

She did it!

So—my daughter—the one who is prone to having seizures on the treadmill, tells me that she is “training for a triathlon”. There is nothing like those four words to strike fear in the heart of a mother who has a daughter with a seizure disorder. It’s not the running or biking that scares me, it’s the swimming. Minor road rash isn’t likely to be fatal, but have a seizure in a lake and it isn’t going to be pretty. Needless to say, I was less than thrilled with this news.

     First off, I have never understood why people run. I mean, for no reason. I’m not stupid, I can see running if someone is chasing you…with a gun. But if no one is, then c’mon, seriously people, why would you run??? I’m not knocking it without having tried it. I did it once when no gun was even involved and I’m here to tell you that my knees and my boobs didn’t like it one little bit. The truth is I have no desire to break a sweat unless Macy’s is having a clearance sale. 

After the bike race

     So let’s talk about biking—the kind you pedal. I love biking—just not the kind you pedal. The Big Guy has a Harley, so I can honesty say that I have actual biking credentials, such as a helmet. The down side to my kind of biking? A bad hair day. The up side? No spandex shorts with a maxi pad sewn in the crotch. Nuff said?

     Swimming. Ahhh, yes, at last a sport that I can get into! I happen to have my very own personal flotation devices and am quite comfortable in the water. Especially if the cabana boy brings drinks around every hour or so.

     So, when Sierra told me that she WANTED to do a triathlon and there was no gun or blackmail involved, I could only assume that her last fall off the treadmill had caused a head injury.

     Before I went into panic mode, I decided to assess the situation and see what I could do to put the brakes on it. The short answer—not a damn thing. 1. she is too big to spank; 2. I can’t take away the keys to her car (something about the title being in her name); and 3. because she is 27, the statutes of limitations for grounding have run out. So I did what all desperate mothers do—I cried. Then I suggested shopping, cooking and wine tasting as a nice alternative to triathlons. I mean there is some running, lifting, and discipline involved. Still, she wasn’t having any of it. I got the memo…shut up mom, take a valium and just show up to cheer me on.

That's her, in the purple cap

IT'S THE BIG DAY! Sierra is ready, looking all fit and triathlonish. I discretely try to get the attention, by wolf whistling at one of the kayakers (aka spotters) in Lake Loveland, to let him know that he should keep an eye on my daughter; the one in the purple swim cap and unflattering black wet suit. In doing so, I just described approximately 100 other women in the third heat. Ruh-roh. I’ll just have to watch her myself, I decide. And I do, for about three strokes…then I lose sight of her. All those flapping purple headed women look a lot like ducks having grand-mal-seizures, so I just keep my thumb on the 911 speed dial for the next twenty minutes. My heart is racing and I want to throw up as I watch purple caps coming out of the lake…waiting…watching…praying that the next purple head will be Sierra’s. And finally there she is, looking like she wants to throw up too.                                             

Sierra, 2nd from left, no, 3rd
 from center, wait, 4th from
right, uhhh, in there somewhere... 

 She then has to run a ¼ mile to the transition area where she  put on the aforementioned maxi-pad shorts and some funny little shoes that hook into her bike pedals. I can’t imagine who the boy genius is who came up with that design, but talk about a face plant waiting to happen. (and see it happen I did-twice) Off she goes, looking like clamping your feet to your bike pedals and riding down the highway makes good sense. She knocks out 14 miles before I can finish doing the mental math to figure out if a bicycle can fit into an ambulance. I needn’t have worried—that girl can peddle her moneymaker with the best of them!

     Back to the transition area we go to change clothes and shoes again. (Come to think of it, this triathlon business is a lot like shopping—you change into several outfits, most of which you find unbecoming.) So, she shucks the uncool shoes, laces up the tennys and puts 4 miles behind her in less time then it takes me to decide what to fix for dinner.

     I am one proud, nervous, wreck when she crosses the finish line for the final time, completing the triathlon in 1 hour and 44 minutes, which is well under the 2 hour time limit that she had set for herself! No paramedics, no ambulance ride and no CAT scans were necessary! I’m happy to report that I made it through the entire race without needing any of that.

A few hours after the triathlon

     Now I’m just hoping that she has this triathlon nonsense out of her system because just thinking about her doing another one causes me to break out in a rash. So...I’m pulling out the big guns. I’m putting a bow on Mastering the Art of French Cooking, grabbing a nice bottle of wine and a hefty gift certificate to Macy's and then I am going to try my best to sell her on my idea of a triathlon. Girlfriends, arm yourselves with credit cards and stand by—I may need to call for back-up!

This is a recipe for a Tri-Color Pate. (get it? "tri") It's a fabby little appetizer to take to a dinner party or prepare for a crowd. This pate comes together fast, (no ducks were harmed in it's making) and it can be made ahead of time.  Any home cook worth her sea salt will have all the ingredients on hand. Go to the "Appetizers" tab at the top of this page to view it.