At fifty years old I thought, "Why not?"
A triathlon—short, and a sensible shot.
A swim, bike and run? How hard could it be?
The answer arrived about fifty metres in at sea.

The lake looked pleasant, the wetsuit looked right,
I'd trained and prepared with admirable might.
But confidence, sadly, can sometimes misjudge
How much water it takes to humble a grudge.

That swim was a teacher with very wet plans,
And panic came sprinting while I waved with my hands.
The suit squeezed my neck like an overkeen tie,
While my legs floated upward attempting to fly.

I clawed at the water with questionable grace,
Hyperventilation was clearly winning the race.
A kayak appeared and I borrowed some calm,
Clinging to plastic with desperate charm.

A scratch on a boat became all that I knew,
One breath, then another, then finally two.
The shore never moved quite as fast as I'd hoped,
But somehow I finished by stubbornly coped.

Back up the hill in a wetsuit-born feud,
With swearing and wobbling and questionable mood.
Then onto the bike where the joy reappeared—
I hunted down cyclists exactly as feared.

The run was a slog on exhausted old pins,
But medals are forged where discomfort begins.
Because minds grow stronger when life isn't fair:
We stretch when things challenge us, not when they're rare.

Ease builds nice mornings; hard days build the soul.
The struggle's not pleasant—but that's half the goal.
For somewhere past panic and doubt and despair,
We find we're far tougher than we knew was there.