Trial training | Triathlon self-experiment: Everything is possible

Oh, no, hey! This can't be true. Please! I've been training for four months for today. Five, six, seven times a week, my trainer has sent me cycling, running, or swimming – preparation for my triathlon attempt, which I've been sharing with nd readers from the very beginning . Today is the premiere of the Fehmarn Triathlon. The starting signal for the Olympic distance has sounded, and I ran with 250 other people from the southern beach at Burgtiefe into the choppy water. But now I'm standing in the 16-degree cold Baltic Sea. And I'm not swimming. Instead, I'm gasping for air.

The waves slap against my chest as I watch the competition swim away in white swirls. I wade slowly further into the surf, trying to calm my rapid breathing. A terrible tightness fills my chest, my heart pounding. Swimming the crawl is out of the question. This has to be a joke? After all that effort! Why me? Why now? I could cry.

I check my heart rate on my sports watch: 140 beats per minute, perfectly normal under stress. Is the new neoprene perhaps too tight? Did I tighten the chest strap that measures my heart rate too much? Or am I just too excited? Adrenaline is already surging through my blood. Stage fright from a 1.5 km swim, 43 km bike ride, and 10 km run? Come on!

Calm down! Catch your breath! Stay cool! I try to concentrate. I slide into the water once more and try to submerge my head for a freestyle stroke. Gasping, I lift it again. No chance. My heart is racing. And I feel a little uneasy: Is this a mild heart attack or something?

I remember what my coach drilled into me: Anything is possible, you have to have an answer for every imponderable, ideally you've already thought through your reaction! Well, I'm not prepared for a sudden respiratory arrest, but I'll try to keep my cool. Keep calm! I'll just swim breaststroke for now, period!

I keep my head above water like a seahorse test candidate. Because of the lack of air, even that's difficult. I roll onto my back and look around for the lifeguards. They're following us in a boat. I'm unlikely to drown. To my surprise, I realize there are actually four or five people still following me. "Jellyfish!" someone to my left shouts, frantically swerving.

Better to abort, right?

Although slowly, I'm swimming breaststroke. From the left, salt water splashes into my face; to the right, I see the pier full of spectators. My wife and son are standing somewhere over there. I promised them I wouldn't overdo it. Wouldn't it be easier if I stopped? Swimming is actually my best discipline; it's hardly conceivable that I'd catch up with my competitors from the back of the field. Yes, seriously, it's better to drop out than to be one of the last to finish here! Right?

Onward, onward! Eventually I reach the third buoy, and now it's time to head back to the beach. Because the water is shallow, I can wade for most of it. On land, I run about 50 meters and then start the second lap of the 750-meter course. Finally, I reach the shore. It's the perfect time to get out. I just have to decide: Do I stop? Wouldn't that be best? I don't want to embarrassingly cross the finish line as one of the last ones, do I?

I jog to the pier, where my wife is standing there cheering me on, looking worried: "What's going on?" I tell her about my shortness of breath, and she says it's perfectly fine to stop if necessary: ​​I'll just get it right next time! She hugs me. The seconds tick by, and I'm almost about to get out of the wetsuit when I have an idea. Out of my brand-new wetsuit! Maybe it's too tight after all! I peel off the rubber and run into the water instead, wearing the short-sleeved black one-piece I'm wearing underneath. I undress.

Moving out is the solution

And lo and behold: It works. It's even a lifesaver. Suddenly I can swim front crawl, suddenly oxygen fills my chest. The water is suddenly no longer an enemy. I calmly place my strokes. Keep my arm nice and long! Always keep my elbow at the highest point! And at the end, I push off with my hand beside my body. I swim front crawl without haste under a gray-blue sky, slowly recovering. Rejuvenated by swimming: I'm back!

With a smile on my face, I get out of the water the second time and run into the transition zone. It looks pretty empty here; almost everyone has already set off on their racing bikes. But I'm the picture of calm. What's up? Two or three minutes more or less doesn't make any difference now. I'm over the worst, hopefully.

I take a deep breath and set off on my bike. We rode the route yesterday with our team, so I know the turnaround points and the road conditions. By the time I arrive at the eight-kilometer circuit between Meeschendorf and Vitzdorf, there's already a lot of back-and-forth. I join the line and get into my rhythm: my speedometer reads 150, an average of 28 km/h. It's drizzling, but I feel good. There you go.

Tribalistas galore

On the asphalt, I gradually meet everyone from our small team, which we've dubbed the Tribalistas. We wave to each other: Philipp, who, as I later learn, swam the fastest in the 1500 meters. Steffen races past in the yellow Ukraine jersey: He won't tell me until after the race that he lost his goggles while swimming shortly before the start and had to swim the entire race with his eyes closed. He's running in a relay with his daughter Enna (16), and they finish second in the relay rankings.

I also call out to Hartmut: He's 64 and a member of the nd cooperative, a seasoned triathlete who flies around the course on a Trek carbon time trial bike, a collector's item from 1998 on which Austrian national team riders once competed for personal bests. He must have beaten me by ten minutes on the bike at the finish.

Or Jens from Neustadt in Holstein, our fastest, a real bruiser. When he overtakes me, tunnel vision, I cheer him on: "Pull, boy!" I see my teammates Kai from Schönkirchen and the always cheerful Steven from Berlin the most often: Until now, the two only knew each other from the WhatsApp group. At the end of the race, they'll cross the finish line together, five and a half minutes ahead of me. How sweet! A super team!

Honestly, if I ever set myself a goal, it was to avoid finishing last among the tribalistas. But here on the bike course, that doesn't matter to me at all. Instead, I'm enjoying the stage: At the turnaround point in Vitzdorf, two elderly ladies are sitting and calling out words of encouragement to me every time I return. I wave back every time, happy to be there. My panic during the swim seems almost unreal.

Run into elation

The sun peeks out from behind the clouds as I finally arrive at the transition zone for the second time. I slip into my jogging shoes and then head out onto the promenade. Four laps along the water, four times past the three ugly high-rises designed by a Danish star architect, which were all the rage in the 70s. Four times past the finish line, where the music blares and the announcer is already welcoming the first finishers on the blue carpet under palm trees. The air smells of waffles, fish sandwiches, and the sea.

My thighs are a little sore, but my stride is relaxed, and I can't wipe the smile off my face today. The 10 kilometers of running had previously been the most frightening part of my day. But now I'm teeing off with a spring in my step with my teammates. High fives on the riverside path: We all know we're almost there! The path is lined with people cheering me on. My wife is cheering me on, too. My 15-year-old son, in his high spirits, simply runs the penultimate lap with me. He keeps his phone pointed at me the whole time. Live video for the family at home.

I'm alone on the final lap. My heartbeat is pounding in my ears, sweat is running into my eyes, but I'm running – straight into elation! I was about to give up, but now the thing is almost over. Is there anything better? As I turn onto the home stretch, all the tribalistas are standing on the blue carpet, ready to high-five me. I've reached the finish line!

The announcer mentions my ranking and babbles something about 25th to last, but I don't hear it at all. I'm just so happy: about our crazy idea to tackle the triathlon. About our inexperience, which meant we had to make our debut here in the cold Baltic Sea in late summer! And also about my chutzpah in laying all this out in an nd column—as my very own personal story. My story ends here, just like this: When I cross the finish line after 3:27:05 hours, I fall into my wife's arms. I bury my head in her shoulder and let the tears flow freely: Three years ago, I had cancer. Today, I completed my first Olympic triathlon. Anything is possible. You just have to try.

All trial training columns: Part 1 : How does triathlon work? Part 2 : Standing in the rain Part 3 : The little darlings Part 4 : Naked and happy (54) Part 5 : The man with the plan Part 6 : In a bar frenzy Part 7 : Holiday in top form Part 8 : Waves and miracle glasses Part 9 : The ranks are thinning Part 10: Early morning flow Part 11: Fehmarn, here we come!