Tri and Tri Again: How I Survived My First Triathlon
The Day I Stopped Running and Took the Plunge
I’ve been pounding the pavement for longer than my knees care to remember—close to 40 marathons deep, with a coveted Boston qualification checked off the bucket list. Running is comfortable territory; it’s my personal default setting. But for the longest time, triathlons remained a distant, intimidating frontier. My friends Nari and Anagha had been living that swim-bike-run life for a while, acting as equal parts inspiration and a constant reminder of my ultimate physical nemesis: open water.
While I can clock road miles in my sleep, swimming in anything deeper than my height has always induced a mild existential crisis. Nevertheless, last year my friend Arun and I shared a moment of reckless optimism: "Hey, we can churn out 20 to 30 laps in a 25-meter pool without drowning. Why not just plunge straight into an Olympic distance triathlon?"
Logic, as usual, was asked to take a back seat.
Treadmill, Chain Links, and Artificial Intelligence
With a 1.5k swim, 40k bike, and 10k run officially locked in, the prep began. While swimming was the obvious mental hurdle, cycling required actual effort. Thankfully, my friend Subba and the Sunday running group started organizing 40–50km weekend morning rides. Calling it a "training pace" would be a generous overstatement; we rolled along at a leisurely 15 km/h on heavy hybrid and mountain bikes, driven mostly by the promise of filter coffee and breakfast. Still, something was better than nothing.
To add a little spice to the chaos, I had also registered for the Ladakh Marathon scheduled just two weeks after the triathlon. The implicit, totally unverified assumption was that triathlon conditioning would magically carry over to high-altitude trail running. Naturally, the master strategy for both events was simple: no pushing for personal records. Purely "for the experience." (A classic line we tell ourselves to mask absolute panic).
As race day approached, Arun and I scaled up our pool sessions to continuous 1.5k stretches. In the calm, pristine, 4-foot deep waters of our local pool, we felt like absolute aquatic icons. Supporting me as my primary head coach throughout this journey was Gemini—my AI wingman. I peppered it with endless questions, uploaded Garmin workout metrics for analysis, and relied on it for regular pep talks. It gladly reassured me that I wasn’t entirely out of my mind.
The Math of Deep Waters
Of course, pool swimming and open-water swimming are two entirely different beasts. I calculated that I had two major variables to adapt to:
- Depth: In a 4-foot pool, if panic hits, you simply stand up, adjust your goggles, and look dignified. In a 20-foot deep lake, you just... sink.
- Visibility: In a pool, you follow the nice blue line on the floor. In a lake, it’s pitch black, requiring you to lift your head and sight constantly just to avoid swimming to a different pincode.
What I didn't calculate was Variable #3—which proved to be the absolute final boss.
The experts advised us to attempt at least one open-water practice swim and one session in an 8-foot, 50m pool. But the lake venue was a 2-to-3-hour drive from the city, and our procrastination won by a landslide. We did zero open-water practice.
To compensate for my lack of open-water experience, I spent ₹4,000 on an Aerodoc trisuit. My philosophy? Fake it till you make it. If you can’t swim like a triathlete, you can at least look like one in the transition area.
Race Morning: Panic on the Lake
The cutoff for the Olympic event was 4 hours and 40 minutes. I was confident about a 45-minute swim (assuming survival) and a sub-55-minute run, but the 40k bike leg on a non-race-friendly hybrid bike was the wild card.
Equipped with last-minute transition tips from Nari and Anagha, Arun and I loaded two bicycles into the back of our friend Vijay’s Innova and hit the road at 4:00 AM.
We arrived at the lake venue to a bustling, high-energy crowd. The wind was howling, and the water surface looked aggressively choppy. As we racked our bikes, the Sprint category kicked off at 6:45 AM. The first five finishers coming out of the water were young girls who absolutely annihilated the course—a humbling sight that set the stage for our 7:15 AM Olympic start.
Arun and I waded in and started wide to avoid the crowds. For the first 30 meters, however, the primary obstacle wasn't the lake or the chop—it was the two of us constantly bumping into each other like two stray bumper cars.
By the 100-meter mark, solid panic set in.
The choppy waves slapped my face every time I tried to breathe, rendering sighting almost impossible. My brain immediately hit the emergency broadcast system: "This is impossible. We are going down. Locate a rescue boat immediately."
I looked around for a safety kayak, but the nearest one was another 150 meters out. With no immediate rescue in sight, I was forced to resort to Plan B: calm down. I drastically slowed my stroke rate, focused on breathing, and eased into a gentle rhythm.
Slowly, the wave of panic receded. I rounded the buoy for the 375m loop, headed back to the shore to complete lap one, and was stunned to see Arun landing at the exact same moment. Any lingering temptation to quit vanished on the spot. If he was going back out there, so was I.
The second lap was a battle against the elements and my own steering, as the heavy wind kept veering me off course. But after 46 minutes of getting tossed around by the choppy waters, my hands touched dry land. Phase One: Survival—Accomplished.
The Gear Reality Check (Bike Leg)
A quick transition later, Arun and I rolled out onto the rolling bike course. He took off at a rapid clip, and I pushed hard to keep my speed above 20 km/h.
The weather played a relentless game of hide-and-seek; one stretch would be shaded by cool clouds, and the next would subject us to blistering heat. But the real eye-opener was the equipment gap. While Arun and I were grinding away on our humble hybrid bikes, everyone else was gliding past us on sleek, aerodynamic road and TT bikes.
Everyone and their grandparents overtook us. I don't think I passed a single cyclist the entire 40km—except for a brief moment when I managed to creep past Arun, only for him to promptly drop me again a few minutes later. It became abundantly clear that triathlons are heavily tilted toward those who are willing to make significant financial investments in carbon fiber and aero bars. Without the advantage of a race-ready bike or formal cycling training, I was simply outclassed. The official splits at the end of this post really tell the whole story: I finished a proud 72nd out of 83 on the bike leg!
Bringing It Home
Exiting Transition 2, we started the 10k run. Of the three disciplines, running is undeniably my sanctuary. I locked into a comfortable sub-5:00/km pace early on, but the combination of the bike leg and the brutal 32°C direct sunlight caught up quickly.
With zero cloud cover, the course turned into a furnace. My quads started tightening up on the inclines, and my heart rate spiked. Remembering the golden rule for the day—experience-only, don't break the engine before Ladakh—I consciously backed off, eased the pace on the uphills, and kept a steady, sensible rhythm.
Crossing that finish line at 3 hours and 38 minutes was a feeling like no other.
Immediately after stopping, my entire body declared a full-scale revolt. Moving even a single step felt like a monumental effort. I hobbled over to the physio tent and begged them to work a massage gun on my screaming quads, which brought my legs back to life just enough to stand upright. By this time, Arun—who wisely chose a much more sensible, easy pace for the run—finished strong in 3:52, about 15 minutes later.
As we limped toward the transition area to pack up our gear, the organizers began announcing the winners across various categories. Suddenly, through the loudspeaker, my name was called out as the runner-up in the Master’s category!
For a second, I was convinced I was hallucinating from heat exhaustion and dehydration. I hesitantly walked up to the dais and asked the organizers twice if they had actually gotten the name right. Once they confirmed, I thought, well, what the heck—if they’re giving out a trophy, who am I to refuse? I accepted the award with a grin and headed back.
The official results later confirmed that I finished 2nd among men and 5th overall in the Master’s category—the top three spots were swept by women, proving once again that women power truly shone in this event! Interestingly, the winner in the men’s category was less than two minutes faster overall. Had I known, I probably could have closed that tiny gap on the run, but I certainly wasn't complaining. Walking away with a podium finish on my triathlon debut was an unexpected bonus, and I’m deeply grateful for it.
So, the day turned out to have even more twists, turns, and choppy surprises than I ever anticipated. All in all, a pretty good day at the office! Now... time to pack for Ladakh.
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