It’s easy to say triathlete, to say “I’m a triathlete”… Because in the end you just need to know how to swim, you just need to know how to pedal and you just need to know how to run. And that’s it. But then when you find yourself on the seashore and you see the buoy that gets lost down there among the waves, the thing you think is always the same: “No, come on, imagine… It can’t be 700 meters up there, it will be at least double that. They’ll still have to fix it…” . And instead the buoy remains down there at the end, far, very far away, even a little disturbing that it seems impossible to go, go around it and return.
And that’s exactly the moment you realize that maybe you’re not “really a triathlete…”that you thought it too quickly, that perhaps (without perhaps) there is some difference between you and many of the others who stand next to you smeared with Vaseline, with their proud gaze towards the horizon of the sea, with their wetsuit already fastened, with ten, twenty even thirty years younger… There is triathlon and triathlon. And there is one who tells another story, a distant relative of that of real athletes and those who are serious, of the best trained…
It’s a triathlon that tries to shake off the wrinkles, that doesn’t want to give in to time, to a few ailments or a few extra pounds. Which challenges the judgments of those who say that “there is a season for all things” but which is perhaps just an alibi for not getting involved or, perhaps again, just a lack of courage or just envy… It’s a triathlon that chooses secluded lines so as not to end up in the “tuna trap”, that struggles to find the zipper strap as soon as you get out of the water, that doesn’t put your bare feet on top of your bike shoes to gain three seconds in the transition area, that doesn’t use elastic bands to keep your legs straight pedals. It’s not necessary anyway.
It is the triathlon of those who “T1” and “T1” serve to catch their breath, put their ideas back together, gather their strength. It’s the triathlon of those who run slowly at the beginning, because the bike makes the quadriceps sore, and then they run slowly anyway because at a certain age the effort is worth double. It is the triathlon of those who always and in any case use a wetsuit, even with water at 27 degrees, even with the July sun, even when, for the beautiful youth, even the bodysuit is a burden. It’s a behind-the-scenes triathlon with little glitter and little audience, with the voices of the speaker in the distance announcing the podium while there are those who are still running, with the barriers emptying, with the refreshment points almost empty.
It’s a triathlon where, as is customary in cycling, you struggle not to finish out of time, to reach the finish line, to take home the black jersey that belonged to Malabrocca but also to all those struggling at the back of the group. Over the years, with experience, say those who don’t want to burden you, you also appreciate the slow pace, which is not a disgrace. On the contrary. But that’s it. It’s the triathlon of compromises which in the end is an alibi to justify the fact of being scarce everywhere. It’s the triathlon of those who train haphazardly because they “keep” a job but above all “keep” their family and therefore don’t “keep” time.
So one day you swim, the other you run, when there’s a few more hours you go out on your bike in an absolutely random and confused order. It’s the triathlon of illusions because, as a proverb says, “the master’s eye fattens the horse” and then, in the solitude of training we all feel like heroes, we admire ourselves on our bikes in shop windows, but then when your son passes by you you understand that he is doing another sport and you would like to disappear. It’s the triathlon that mixes the cards. Which brings everyone together, which keeps children, wives, girlfriends, friends who share and (few) even those who don’t share and shake their heads together. And the triathlon of those who, despite everything, don’t give up and don’t care about trudging, about knowing how to swim just a little, about knowing how to pedal just a little and about always knowing how to run just a little. Then you look at it again and again at that very distant buoy at the bottom of the sea and in the end you decide that the time has come to deal with it and go and get it. It’s easy to say “triathlete” but then little by little you become serious about it. And it’s beautiful.