I got roped into it innocently enough. I was out for lunch with a couple of my girlfriends when the conversation shifted to a triathlon they were training for. It was several months off, but they were already in the middle of a serious training schedule.  “That sounds like a lot of fun!” I enthusiastically said. “Was I interested in doing it, too?” my hip friends asked. I was interested in doing it. It had always been a dream of mine to complete a triathlon, someday. I just didn’t actually think I would do it. You see, I don’t really swim. I know how to swim, but it’s more in a way of survival than in any kind of competitive form.

 

After a little bullying from my well-intentioned friends, I found myself registering for a triathlon that I was pretty sure I would cop out of at the last minute. Still, I went shopping for some hip goggles and a swim cap to complement my swimsuit, fully aware of the fact that I had never worn either one in my life and had no idea what I was doing (how in the world does one make a swim cap look hip?!). 

 

A couple nights later my friends called and invited me to the pool to practice for the triathlon. I agreed it was probably a good idea to get a couple laps under my belt before the tri in eight weeks. I hadn’t actually swum a lap since I was in college, but I’m pretty fit and determined and figured I could wing it. So, after spending five minutes trying to figure out how to put on the swim cap and how to adjust the goggles, I gingerly toed the water, and jumped in.

 

The good news is that I didn’t drown. The bad news is that I spent a full two minutes clinging to the edge of the pool catching my breath, after one lap. I was going to have to take this swimming a little more seriously if I was going to survive the race.

 

For the next seven weeks I trained like I was in the army. I ran and biked one day. Ran and swam one day. Swam, biked, and ran. I worked harder than I have for many years, all the while trying to ignore the little voice in my head that was insisting that I was going to drown on race day.

 

“Well, if I’m going to die, I’m at least going to be hip about it,” I declared to my husband as I pulled out my racing bra and racing pants. It was the night before the race, and secretly, we were both really proud of my pursuing this dream. “Might as well give it the old college try.”

 

And I did not cop out. I did not drown. I did not die. I set a difficult goal, and I accomplished it. And this hip mom has had an extra spring in her step ever since crossing that finish line.