A DAD'S LIFE:Competitive buzz is even better the second time around
THE REVOLUTION has come and it is lycra clad. Sport is a big deal for me, it always has been. Being able to take part in many sports, and perform well, while growing up gave me great pleasure. It provided just as much pain though, because being able to do something quite well often only serves to bring into focus just how well the best do the same things.
Hitting a decent forehand on a tennis court from the age of 10 didn’t provide a whole lot of pleasure. It highlighted, in my head, the inadequacy of my weak-assed backhand. Because that backhand remained weak, I watched Boris Becker win Wimbledon aged 17 in 1985 and resented him. For being only four years older than me and having a backhand that would knock the fillings out of your head, and for making me realise early on I would never be really good.
At 13, a life of playing competitive club matches stretched out, competing at a level where nobody but the pensioners walking their dogs around the courts cared. That wasn’t enough, so I jacked it in. The same happened in the swimming pool a year earlier where everybody I trained with seemed to be speeding up while I trod water. Quit. Rugby went a similar way a few years later, and once the cradle of underage games was replaced by senior thirds matches in the mud, I headed for the bar.
And there I stayed for a long time until I hit a mid-30s physical meltdown. I had to do something, so I ran, and ran and ran. Always slowly but for increasingly lengthy periods until a number of marathons had been completed. This satisfies me greatly but marathon training is arduous and mentally draining so, in recent times, I realised I needed something to maintain my sporting interest.
I signed up for a few triathlons. Me and everyone else. You cannot swing a squalling cat on Irish country roads this summer without hitting a triathlete running or cycling on his way to or from the nearest lake, river or inlet. You dip a toe in this pool and soon your every waking moment is consumed with wetsuit flexibility, carbon fibre or aluminium bike and shoe weight.
But what grabbed me from the outset was the fact that this isn’t just running against yourself, as marathons have to be for the sake of your sanity, this is about competing. We may be over the hill and none too talented, but we’re eyeing the competition and plotting its downfall.
Last weekend took me to Schull for the Eurospar Fastnet Triathlon, to give it its mouthful name. The sun god shone and 300 punters of varying shapes, ages and ability took to the Atlantic for the first leg. They battered each other to get as close to the head of the field over a 750m course, before hopping on their bikes for 20km and then finishing with a 5km run. Most of us had no ambition to win, but we all shared a desire to wipe out the man, woman or child who happened to be alongside – in the fairest, most tasteful way of course.
As this sense of competition returns for the first time in 20 years, I am thankful for my only slightly better than average sporting youth. There is at this stage no hope for world sporting domination, so being able to hold my own after years of physical disintegration can only be put down to a well-spent youth. If in your teens you could realise the buzz your sporting ability provides in later life, nobody would ever stop training because . . . y’know . . . shrug shoulders . . . I just wanna hang out with me mates.
In Schull, family members roared me on, with massive cheeky grins on their faces. They’re laughing because they know I’m pretending not to take the whole thing seriously, the whole time hoping I’ll discover some hidden gene that grants explosive pace as you approach 40.
The elder child told me afterwards that she preferred triathlons to marathons – more exciting, she said. In the following days, she and her sister insisted they needed new runners. They have taken to training in the garden, short sprint bursts before hopping on their bikes down the drive. At night they practise holding breaths underwater in the bath to strengthen their lungs. I discourage any overemphasis on competition (nearly managing to keep a straight face) and remind them to do what they’re doing as well as they can.
Still, I can’t help but notice they’re both quick . . .
abrophy@irishtimes.com