nervous, but making sure not to hyperventilate. I go over my mental checklist one more time, just to
be certain I haven’t forgotten anything. Computerized ankle bracelet—check. I’ve rubbed Vaseline all
over my body so when I finish swimming I can easily get my wetsuit off. I’ve carefully done my
stretching. I’ve drunk enough water. And used the toilet. Nothing left to do. I hope.
I’ve been in this race a few times, so I recognize a few of the other participants. As we wait for the
race to start, we shake hands and chat. I’m not the type who gets along easily with others, but for some
reason with other triathletes I have no problem. Those of us who participate in triathlons are unusual
people. Think about it for a minute. Most all the participants have jobs and families, and on top of
taking care of these, they swim and bike and run, training very hard, as part of their ordinary routine.
Naturally this takes a lot of time and effort. The world, with its commonsensical viewpoint, thinks
their lifestyle is peculiar. And it would be hard to argue with anyone who labeled them eccentrics and
oddballs. But there’s something we share, not something as exaggerated as solidarity, perhaps, but at
least a sort of warm emotion, like a vague, faintly colored mist over a late-spring peak. Of course,
competition is part of the mix—it’s a race, after all—but for most of the people participating in a
triathlon the competitive aspect is less important than the sense of a triathlon as a sort of ceremony by
which we can affirm this shared bond.
In this sense, the Murakami Triathlon is a convenient race. There aren’t so many competitors
(somewhere between three hundred and four hundred), and the race is run in a very low-key way. It’s a
small, local, homemade type of triathlon. The people in the town warmly support us. There’s nothing
gaudy or overdone about the race, and that quiet kind of atmosphere appeals to me. Apart from the
race itself, there are wonderful hot springs nearby, the food is great, and the local sake (especially
Shimehari Tsuru) is outstanding. Over the years that I’ve participated in the race, I’ve made some
acquaintances in the area. There are even people who come all the way from Tokyo to cheer me on.
At 9:56 the start siren goes off, and everyone immediately begins the crawl. This is it—the most
nerve-racking moment of all.
I plunge in and start kicking and plowing through the water with my arms. I try to clear my mind of
everything extraneous and concentrate not on inhaling, but on exhaling. My heart’s pounding, and I
can’t get the rhythm right. My body’s a bit stiff. And as you might expect, somebody kicks me in the
shoulder again. Somebody else is leaning over me, getting on top of my back, like one turtle getting
on top of another. I swallow some water, but not very much. Nothing to worry about, I tell myself.
Don’t panic. I breathe in and out at a steady rhythm, and that’s the most critical thing right now. As I
do, the tension drains away. Things are going to be okay. Just keep swimming like this. Once I get the
rhythm down, all I have to do is maintain it.
But then—and with triathlons you almost expect this—some unforeseen trouble leaps out at me. As
I’m doing the crawl I raise my head to check my direction and think What the...? My goggles are all
fogged up, and I can’t see a thing...It’s like the whole world is cloudy and opaque. I stop swimming,
tread water, and rub the goggles with my fingers to try to clear them up. But still I can’t see. What is
going on? The goggles are a pair I use all the time, and I’ve done a lot of training with them so I can