Our first family triathlon did not end in disaster or divorce
Photos by Dave Borszich
On a sunny Saturday morning, my 10-year-old was sprawled on the couch zombied to his device. I felt a wave of shame wash over me: I had failed as a parent. In disgust and resignation, I slumped down on the couch with him. Then a TikTok video flashed through his feed showing a weary triathlete stumbling across the finish line.
“Do you want to do one of those?” I asked him.
“Sure,” he said.
Before he could change his mind, I registered him—and our entire family—for a triathlon.
We were complete newbs. My kids had never ridden a road bike, and the only swimming they’d done was at the pool. We had a lot to learn, and the learning curve—and price tag—were steep.
Lesson one: Triathlons can be expensive: the equipment for three sports adds up quickly. This would be a low-budget triathlon for us. I bought used road bikes from Craigslist and repaired them myself.
My wife wasn’t sure that a family triathlon was a good idea. “Our kids better not end up getting killed,” she warned me.
She had reason for concern. My kids didn’t exactly train. They did a couple of short bike rides and called it good. On those rides, Finn kept veering all over the road as cars zoomed past. I did my best to box him in.
We signed up for a triathlon at Lake Anna State Park in central Virginia. My wife Emily and our teenage son River would tackle the Olympic distance triathlon (1-mile swim, 25-mile bike, and 10K run), while my younger son Finn and I would try to complete the sprint triathlon (1/4-mile swim, 15-mile bike, 5K run).
On race morning, things did not get off to a good start. We were already late because I had to take my morning shit. Now, my younger son Finn had to poop too. So we stopped at a gas station, where we noticed that one of the bikes had a flat tire. We quickly scrambled to fix it.
We rolled up to the triathlon looking like the cheap amateurs we were. All of the other vehicles in the parking lot had fancy racks and equipment lockers adorned with stickers from previous triathlons. We arrived pulling a farm trailer stacked with used bikes and an old duffel bag crammed with gear. We hustled down to the lake, where the swim was about to start.
The sprint triathlon began first. Finn and I dashed out into the cold lake with about 100 other swimmers. Finn had not trained at all for the swim, and my wife was especially nervous about him being in the open water. “You have one job today: make sure Finn doesn’t die,” she reminded me.
The frigid water sent a shock of adrenaline through Finn. He thrashed wildly in something resembling freestyle. I swam next to him and encouraged him to find a comfortable, steady pace. Then his goggles fogged up and he began meandering way off course, so I swam on his outside and boxed him in. Every few minutes, we took a break to swim backstroke and catch our breath. When we rounded the final buoy, Finn unleashed a vicious kick.
“Fuck this water!” my 10-year-old shouted, slapping harder with each stroke.
We crawled ashore, alive, and not in last place.
Meanwhile, Emily and River were just starting their swim. Emily had trained more than all of us: she had bought a membership at a local pool and reserved swimming lanes three days a week, where she glided through her workouts.
But open water swimming was a different beast. The crowds, choppy waves, and cold water sent her into a panic. She couldn’t catch her breath, which made the panic worse. She collided with a nearby swimmer and was kicked underwater by another. She thought about dropping out and spotted a rescue boat nearby. Then somehow, amid the flailing arms and legs of other swimmers around her, she was able to calm her breathing and find her stroke.
Finn and I started our ride. On the bikes, I rode closest to the cars and kept Finn contained near the shoulder of the road. The hardest part of the ride was battling the boredom. I tried to distract Finn from the monotony by asking him questions about his favorite soccer players. He asked me questions, too—mostly versions of “Are we there yet?”
But Finn had a lot more left in his tank. After the bike ride, Finn flew through the 5K, passing dozens of runners. He scorched across the finish line, winning the youth age group. Moments after finishing, he wanted to go back out to cheer on his mom and brother.
They had just finished the bike and were starting their run. Like Finn, they blazed through their miles. The swim and bike portions had given other triathletes a head start, but River and Emily closed the gap on the run. They both finished near the top of their age groups and way ahead of their personal goals.
Earlier that morning, repairing bikes and taking massive shits moments before the race, I didn’t think there was any way that all four of us would finish. Certainly, a bike malfunction or another flat tire or an unexpected cramp or injury would take down a few of us. Somehow, our entire rookie crew made it across the finish line.
On the drive home, the boys were already back on their screens, but Finn looked up for a moment and said, “Let’s do one of those again.”
