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Sports manufacturers and retailers got on the wagon at the outset, of course. All it took to jog was a good pair of shoes. Triathlons require racing bikes, cycling shoes, crash helmets, running shoes, a swimming pool or an ocean and all manner of attire. In Chicago, a hotel ballroom was jammed with expensive wares, from high-powered energy drinks to "tri-suits," one-piece jobs that can be worn in all three events. The professional athletes make their money endorsing these items (first place in Chicago paid $2,000; the total purse was $15,000), holding training camps and giving the odd talk.
There are about 100 professional triathletes. Two of the top rated, Scott Molina and Joanne Ernst, answered questions from sincerely curious amateurs the day before the Chicago race.
Scott: "I like anything with caffeine and sugar; Mountain Dew, Coke, coffee."
Joanne: "I don't use a Walkman when I'm training, but my husband does."
Scott: "If I eat anything after 5 o'clock the day before, chances are real good that during the run I'll have to stop. I don't want to stop, so I don't eat."
In Chicago, the course put the contestants in nine-tenths of a mile of Lake Michigan, and had them biking 24.8 miles and running 6.2. The race was to start at 7:30 a.m., but the tick-tick-tick of the ten-speeds had already started in the dark two hours before angry black clouds roiled over the city's big shoulder, releasing heavy rains twice.
The rain stopped, the sun showed, a pistol spat and Lake Michigan fairly boiled with sleek, flashing bodies, the women in green caps, the men in orange. Out of the water and onto the bikes, they hurled themselves through encouraging throngs: "Lookin' good! Keep it up!" One biker wore a helmet that looked like a silver tear cut in half, something Mercury himself might have favored. Off the bikes, pulling on running shoes, they shattered records in tying laces. Then they tore off on foot, the sound of their hearts pounding in their ears. Scott Molina was first to finish for the men, at 1:50:59. Gaylene Clews was the first for the women at 2:03:08. And they could still talk. Not breathlessly. Normally.
"It's definitely a sport of the '80s and '90s," Clews said. "Because of the cross training, you have a lot fewer injury problems, a lot less wear and tear on the muscles and joints."
After the pros came the amateurs, for hours and hours. "I can't explain the high," said one. "It's almost religious."
By noon there were just a few stragglers still out. Some looked beyond endurance, but none were quitting. One woman of some years, going from a walk back into a painful run, spanked her own fanny, as children in her day did when they wanted to hurry up their stick horses.