Last month we traveled to Central America and slept with the chihuahuas in a no-holds-barred expose of the lives of professional triathletes. Today we'll continue where we left off and dissect a pair of economic and social myths of the sport.

Myth No. 1: Professional Triathletes Come Complete with Full Sponsorship

As I'm a pro, I must not have to pay for anything, right? My bike must be a top-of-the-line Italian import, frame constructed of zirconium plutonium alloy and components by Lamborghini, with a couple in reserve in case a carbon hydride spoke snaps.

This is perhaps the most popular myth in the triathlon world. Inevitably, the first thing someone asks when they find out I'm a professional is, "So you must have all kinds of sponsorships, right?" They say it in a way that doesn't really require an answer, in the manner of rhetorical disdain normally reserved for DMV employees.

Believe me, I've tried to land sponsorships. As a beginning pro, I felt it was somehow expected that if I didn't grovel for free Fuel Belts I was somehow missing My Fair Share. So last year around this time, I started my search for companies to hit up. The first thing I discovered was that I was already too late to even ask. Way too late. Just about every company finalizes their budgets for the following year before Thanksgiving, and applications had been due in late October or early November. Great.

I did learn that Clif Bar was still accepting applications, and conveniently I enjoy using their products. I even had a trump card up my sleeve--an occasional riding partner of mine was Clif Bar's director of sponsorship. I prepared myself for an avalanche of energy bars.

I teamed up with a friend who was also beginning to look for sponsorships and we threw everything we had into the application. One of the questions asked for a creative explanation of what we could offer Clif as a sponsored athlete, so we concocted an outlandish proposition of traveling the countryside in the name of Clif, a sort of modern-day traveling circus to tout their product and extol their name: "...and by the time the train pulled into the station carrying its assortment of absurdity and enclave of entertainers, the gentle townsfolk would have been roiled into a frenzy of anticipation."

We assuaged potential fears: "To put your worries aside, we have no plans of luring unsuspecting children into houses of mirrors or equating the wholesome Clif Bar with some second-rate candy peanut..."

And we meant it: "When the Clifmobile pulls into town, people will know it, and our exploits will bring authenticity and personality to the world of energy bar marketing."

Sounds enticing, doesn't it? Admit it, you were subconsciously reaching for your wallet. Apparently, this was not the schtick Clif was looking for, though, and we didn't get the gig. We didn't even get a letter turning us down--I had to write an email to my contact a month later and ask him if they had made any decisions. I have to request my own letters of rejection.

Looking back, this whole idea seems rather absurd. Devote a summer journeying around the country, proselytizing for some silly lump of semi-organic carbohydrate? Though it may appear ridiculous now, a year ago I actually hoped Clif would take us up on the offer.

My views on sponsorships have changed over the course of this year. Like many people who aren't particularly successful at a given pursuit, I've tried rationalizing my failure to land free product. I didn't try very hard. My application was too late. I wasn't talking to the right people. At the end of the day, however, I had to face the most probable reason for the lack of free running shoes in the mailbox--I'm just plain not good enough. Companies want their product to appear on winners, people who climb the podium and wave to the TV cameras and get invited onto "The Today Show." Execs aren't interested in conveying the message, "Drink Gatorade and you too can get 28th place!"

I tried a couple more companies besides Clif Bar hoping in vain to convince someone I shouldn't have to pay for their gizmos. Through it all, my heart simply wasn't in it. I felt sleazy asking someone to give me something in return for advertising space. Personally, I think there's enough advertising in this country as it is it reminds me of the disturbing trend of "product placement," whereby a company cleverly places its wares in innocuous places like movie scenes. ET sure did enjoy the M&M's.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think all sponsorships are questionable. I just didn't feel particularly deserving enough to warrant any of my own. As it happens, companies agreed with me.