Henderson

Earlier, Slowtwitch columnist and neo pro Jeff Henderson set about exploding the myths associated with being a professional triathlete. Today, he tackles another one.

Myth No. 2: Professional Triathletes Don't Consort with the Common Folk
by Jeff Henderson 12.31.02
(www.slowtwitch.com)

There is an undercurrent of superiority in most sports with a professional division: I'll mingle with the amateurs if I have to, but please don't make me train with them. And good Lord, whatever you do, don't make me race with them and their over-eager novice wobbliness. I've noticed this tension at races and whenever I'm introduced as a professional, and it makes me uncomfortable. One day last summer, I tried to do something about it.

Our story begins on the first weekend of May. I was standing in transition on the morning of Wildflower, watching all of the other athletes make their way to their bike cubicles. Many of them, as well as the early-riser spectators, were in turn watching me. I was in the pro transition area, a small corral near the swim finish and bike start that provided nearly twice as much real estate per athlete as the regular transition area. We were separated from the amateurs by a metal fence.

It struck me that triathlon has subtly become stratified. Only the wealthy can compete; entry fees for California races commonly hit the three figures. Fast bikes are expensive bikes. Pros are kept separate from amateurs not only in transition but also by hours between start times.

This past summer Life Time Fitness tried to create a race in which female pros directly competed against male pros, using a time differential they called The Equalizer. I wondered if there was a way to create the ultimate equalizer—a race in which participants would have no barriers to entry and pros could compete side by side with amateurs. In short, everyone would start on equal footing.

On that day a new form of triathlon I dubbed "NBS" was born in my mind. Could I hold a triathlon for under $10? Could I dispense with entry fees, volunteers, officials, rules, registration, even the race course itself? Racers would pick their way through a city with the only specifications being the start, finish, and two transition points. The rest would be up to the individual—where to rack the bike, what to bring along, how to get home after the race was over.

My first challenge to the $10 barrier was advertising—how would I get the word out to the legions of potential NBSers? Any self-respecting event these days has to have a website, so I bought nbs-tri.org and created some web pages. A day later and $7.99 shorter, the informational component was complete.

To attract triathletes to the race, I advertised a bike jersey for the male and female winners. Now I had to come up with them. In today's parlance the word "classic" is slowly replacing the stodgier word "old," so I briefly considered offering a pair of my old jerseys and playing them off as classic awards for a classic race. But none of my shirts were small enough for a woman, so I had to get creative.

Instead of laying out my own money, I decided it was time to revisit that peculiar institution of allowing someone else to purchase things for you. It was time to get my race sponsored. I visited a local sporting goods store and found a pair of snappy jerseys that would work nicely—not too expensive should I have to pay for them myself if negotiations broke down, not too tacky that no one would actually wear them. I asked the salesclerk if I could talk with someone in the back about sponsoring a new, local race.

Strike 1: Everyone was in a meeting. The salesclerk gave me a business card for the sponsorship people and told me to call and make an appointment. That wouldn't work; the race was tomorrow. I decided to get some lunch and then try again.

After lunch, I hesitated about returning to the store unannounced. From a pay phone in front of the Mexican restaurant and over the roar of downtown San Francisco traffic, I dialed the number on the business card the salesclerk had given me. The conversation went something like this:

"Hi, is this Kristina Smith*?"

"Yes it is, can I help you?"

"I hope so. I was just in the store and hoping to speak with someone about sponsoring a new triathlon in the Bay Area." C'mon, lady, just give me some stuff and don't ask any questions.

"A new triathlon? What's the appeal for [our store]?"

"NBS Triathlon, as I call it, is meant to be different than other races. I am attempting to bring professionals and amateurs together under minimalistic conditions for a race—there are no entry fees, no officials, and no prescribed race course. We've even got a local pro slated to compete." I prayed she wouldn't ask me for a name.

"And who are you?"

"My name is Jeff Henderson. I'm the race director." And advertising department, and pro entrant, and only entrant, and probably going to jail in the morning.

"I like the idea but I'm going to need something official, like a race packet, to look through."

"I have a website for you that has all the logistics and background." It's amazing how much credibility you can manufacture for 8 bucks.

"Great, I'll take a look at it. How many participants are you expecting?"

Now I had to get creative again. I wasn't really expecting anyone to show... I was hoping, but not expecting. I decided to turn these two words into synonyms for Kristina's benefit.

"I'm expecting that around 40-50 people will come. I've been getting the word out, and feedback has been positive. Since there is no formal registration process, however, I can't give you an exact number until after the event." I started to feel slightly sleazy. I had to remind myself that I was doing it for the people.

Then Kristina asked the inevitable. Was I worried about getting sued? I didn't want to tell her that if I got sued, my event must have been successful because there was an actual participant. My wife, who didn't want to lose everything we own to this fantasy of mine, had made me track down some generic liability waivers and all participants would be required to sign them. I didn't tell Kristina I had only printed ten.

Silence on the line, and for a moment I thought I had successfully eluded all of her questions and there might be a glimmer of hope for full event sponsorship. She asked me what I had in mind, and I told her about the jerseys I had found.

"Well, I do like your idea," she replied, "but I need to do some homework on this. I need to make sure our interests are represented, so I'll have to get back to you."

Time to break it to her that the race was tomorrow morning.

"I'll tell you what," she countered, "I'll give you a call later today and let you know what we can do."

I may never completely understand why my sales pitch worked, but somehow Kristina agreed to provide two gift certificates for the inaugural running of NBS. I promised her exclusive rights to the book and movie deals and, with the help of the $30 certificates, I procured the jerseys from the sale rack for $64—that was four dollars out of my own pocket. The race was now all set to go for $11.99. Had I been a real race director, I would have known it was naive of me to expect a first-year event to come in under budget.

The race itself may fairly be called something of a disappointment. Under cloudless skies on a shimmering San Francisco Saturday morning in June, one other groundbreaking individual and I waged war from Aquatic Park to San Francisco State to Amoeba Records in the Haight. I didn't have the heart to make him sign a waiver and sadly none of the local media showed up, but as proof of concept we were wildly successful: neither of our bikes were stolen and I didn't get sued. Here we were, a professional and an amateur competing side by side on the same race course, at the same time, using the same transition areas, and having paid the same entry fee. It was beautiful to behold.

In the end, I had also discovered a winning formula to procuring sponsorships for years to come—hold a completely vague and unaccountable race in your hometown and give potential sponsors approximately three hours to think it over. I may never have to work another day in my life.

* Names have been changed because I don't remember what they really were.

JEFF HENDERSON