As I said in an earlier post, I was never much of an athlete.  Then in my early 30s, I started running, both to lose some weight and to get stronger and healthier.  Then my husband (Lee) started telling me about a guy in his office who did triathlons (James).  This was the most insane thing I had ever heard of.  Lee, of course, decided he needed to try one.  With the approval of his cardiologist, he signed up for a sprint.  Then another.  Then an Olympic-distance race.  My daughter’s toddler-hood was punctuated by early mornings in the stroller, watching Daddy come sloshing out of the water, then head out on his bike, then back to deposit the bike in transition, then plodding out on the run, then, finally, running across the finish line.  My son was old enough by then (five, then six, then seven) to think this was cool, and he did started doing some races held just for children.  I, on the other hand, still thought it was insane.  I was slimmer, and stronger, but all that in one day?

Besides, I don’t swim.  I might get wet.  Or sink.  So my husband, always eager to help, signed us both up for a weekend swim clinic (check out totalimmersion.net–it really works!), and I learned, all over again, how to swim.  He got me a hand-me-down bike.  There were no excuses left.  So when my daughter started preschool in September of 2001, I started training for a pool sprint later that fall.  Lee promised he’d stick with me, and he was as good as his word.  He waited for me to get out of the pool.  He waited when my bike chain fell off.  I waited when he stopped to put his helmet on right way around.  Then, in the last mile of the trail run, I left him.  Not very nice of me, I know.  But that was it–I was hooked.  I was slow and plodding and way, WAY at the back of the pack, but I was officially a triathlete.

So for Christmas Mr. Helpful signed me up for a week of camp at multisports.com.  The word Ironman reared its ugly head . . .