Why I'm Not a Sports Person, Except That One Time

I recently started getting up early to take walks around my neighborhood. On a good day, I set my alarm and roll out of bed at 5am while the sky is still dark. I love sleeping in, but I’ve also learned that first thing in the morning is when it’s easiest to talk myself into a little exercise. The sun hasn’t risen and cooked the air yet, the movement helps me wake up, and I get to see Winston, the cat who lives down the block. Am I this much of a morning person? Absolutely not. But apparently neither are my neighbors, because I can enjoy walking in peace and solitude.

One morning, two weeks into my new routine where I had yet to meet a single soul except my buddy Winston, I funky-stepped off a curb and sprained my ankle while some guy across the street was rolling out his garbage cans.

In the course of a normal day, being seen by other people is not a concern of mine. I’m easy to spot. I’m tall and fat, I wear brightly colored prints, and I laugh like a doofus several times a day. The weekend after taking my spill, I wrapped hot pink duct tape around my crutches and went to the movies as Sports Injury Barbie. I’m not trying to attract attention; I’ve just come to understand that the people around me have too much on their plates to bother with what’s on mine, so I have no good reason not to groove as I see fit. This hasn’t always been the case, and frankly it’s a relief to not care as much anymore. Unfortunately, one exception remains: I do not like to exercise where other people can see me.

I’ll do it if I have to. Like the neighborhood, the gym is also emptiest before sunrise, and I know everybody else working out is too busy to pay attention to me. I know it! But even when I think I get close, I haven’t cracked the code of feeling dignified when I’m huffing and puffing to do a fraction of what the next person can do. I don’t like broadcasting to the world that I struggle with things other people don’t. (Ironic for a blog post.) I have known other fat people who are strong, graceful, coordinated; we do not have this in common.

Two years ago, after many years of thinking I was not suited for it, I discovered that I enjoy running. I was so excited about this discovery that I told my mother that I wanted to sign up for the Spa Girl Tri. The Spa Girl Tri is basically baby’s first triathlon; the swimming leg of the race is done in a lazy river, and after a short bike ride and grassy run, racers enjoy brunch with mimosas. Most importantly, it’s noncompetitive and open to athletes of widely varying levels of skill. My mother and aunt had already done the SGT a handful of times, which is how I knew about it. They’d talked about how much fun it had been in years past, how there were always racers of different body types celebrating each other and cheering each other on. Delighted to have me join, my mom bought my ticket.

This made getting cold feet a little tricky.

What on earth does a person even wear during a triathlon? A swimsuit? Bike shorts? Do wet clothes make bike riding more uncomfortable? Will a chamois get soggy in a pool? Do you change in the middle of the race? God forbid you change in the middle of the race! I’ve never even run a 5k anywhere but on a treadmill, and that still took me most of an hour. What was I thinking signing up for this?

One day, about two months before the race, a box arrived in the mail from my aunt. Inside was a leotard-looking situation and a note explaining that it was one of her old tri suits. It was mostly blue and white, with a poppy pink-and-orange stripe running down the sides. When I tried it on, it wore like a one-piece bathing suit with shorts that covered most of my thighs. The neckline made my shoulders pop; they looked broad and powerful. And the fact was, it fit comfortably. This was a garment made specifically to do sports in, and it was also made for a person like me to wear it.

On race day, it paired well with the temporary tattoo on my upper arm: #707.

Visibility was not an issue for most of my fellows. During the cycling portion of the race, I was overtaken by two women in poofy tulle skirts with fascinators taped to their helmets to celebrate the Kentucky Derby that weekend. To prevent accidents, cyclists were not allowed to wear headphones; while I rode downhill, another racer heading the opposite direction blasted punk rock from a speaker attached to her handlebars, thrashing her head to the music and pumping her legs like pistons. Teams of sisters and best friends wore matching spangly T-shirts like they were hitting Vegas for a bachelorette party.

Although the race was noncompetitive, timing equipment was still posted at the stations where we were to transition from swimming to cycling, cycling to running. I expected to be at the back of the pack; especially during the cycling portion, other racers whizzed past me while I heaved myself up what the SGT’s website calls “gently rolling hills”. Future me would compete with past me; I certainly wasn’t competing with anybody else. (But if I had been, nobody could prove that I’d lost - after the race was over, the hosts announced that someone had tampered with the timing equipment!)

I wish I could say that after this inspiring experience that I have shed all self-consciousness when it comes to exercise. It seems that I’m as slow a learner as I am a runner or cyclist. If you see me exercising in public, no you didn’t. But I’ll get over it - I have to, if I want to wear a silly outfit on race day.