There is a specific kind of nervous energy that only race morning delivers. I have felt it before at park runs back in England, at the odd CrossFit competition, even before a decent gym session if the numbers are high enough. But standing on a beach at six in the morning with a swim cap cutting into my forehead and the Coral Sea stretching out in front of me — that was a new level entirely.
I signed up for the Raby Bay Sprint Triathlon about eight weeks before race day. A 750-metre ocean swim, a 20-kilometre bike, and a 5-kilometre run. Short enough to not require months of base building. Long enough to expose every weakness in my fitness.
The Swim
I am a competent swimmer. Not fast, not graceful, but I can hold a rhythm and sight without panicking. What I was not prepared for was the washing-machine effect of 200 people entering the water at once. Within the first hundred metres I had been kicked, elbowed, and swum directly over by someone who clearly could not see me. I lost my goggles once and my composure twice.
Once the field spread out, though, the swim became genuinely enjoyable. The water was warm, the visibility surprisingly good, and there is something meditative about the repetition of stroke, breathe, sight, stroke, breathe, sight. I came out of the water feeling strong, which was more than I expected.
Transition Lessons
T1 was a disaster. I had laid my gear out neatly the night before but in the adrenaline of race morning I forgot where my rack was. I spent what felt like a full minute jogging up and down rows of bikes in bare feet on hot tarmac. By the time I found my spot, clipped my helmet on, and got moving, a good thirty people had passed me. Lesson learned: mark your rack position with something obvious.
The Bike
The bike leg was flat, fast, and hot. Queensland heat at eight in the morning is no joke when you are pushing tempo on a road bike. I averaged about 33 kilometres per hour, which I was happy with given my limited cycling background. The real challenge was nutrition — I had a gel taped to my top tube and managed to consume it without crashing, which felt like its own small victory.
The Run
Five kilometres does not sound far until you have just swum and cycled. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else for the first kilometre. The trick, I have been told, is to start slow and let your body recalibrate. I ignored that advice entirely, went out too fast, and paid for it at kilometre three when my calves started screaming.
I crossed the finish line in one hour and twenty-two minutes. Not setting any records, but crossing that line with a finisher's band on my wrist and the sun on my face felt like the beginning of something. Triathlon in Australia is a different game. The heat, the outdoor swimming, the community — it demands respect. And I am here for it.
The finish line is not the goal. The start line is. Everything after that is just holding on.
Next race: Noosa Triathlon in March. Time to get serious about transitions.
