Dear Daily Princetonian

Editor's Note: This is the second in a series of postcards that Daily Princetonian sports staff writers wrote about their experiences in the wide world of sports this summer. Keep reading throughout the next few weeks for more dispatches from across the country and around the world.

BRIGANTINE — There is one word to describe triathlons: hardcore. And that's why I did it — I wanted to prove I was hardcore.

Little did I realize how enjoyable training for three different sports would prove.

A member of the varsity swimming team, I had swum my entire life and was a decent runner from cross training. I quickly picked up biking and signed up for a sprint triathlon — quarter-mile swim, 11-mile bike, four-mile run.

After a summer of preparation, race day arrived in early August.

Men and women, young and old, fit and not quite so fit, wearing anything from Zoot tri bikinis to TYR wetsuits, gathered in groups on the Brigantine dock. This was the beauty of a triathlon — anyone ready for a challenge and willing to put some dedication into training could finish one.

"Don't you think you should warmup or something?" my dad asked me.

I shrugged. I didn't know how to warmup. Figuring I should do something, I made my way toward the bay while tugging on my gray cap designating women 25 and younger.

The water was virtually black — I couldn't see my hand outstretched in front of my forearm as I began a clumsy freestyle. The only solution would be to pick my head up while I was swimming to see the buoys. I silently chuckled — this was different than swimming up and down a pool's black line, but I was up for it.

I finished my warm-up, stretched, received some last-minute race instructions, and then prepared for the start. We would be the third group going out.

"Sandy, you better win the swim," my younger sister said before I waved goodbye to my family. "I mean — you may die on the bike and the run, but the swim is a pride factor."

Before the race began, I remembered what a Masters swimmer had told me: don't get caught in the middle of the group, or you'll never be able to get out. I positioned myself as the furthest competitor from the shore. By chance, I recognized the girl next to me as a former high school opponent.

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Right from the start, she didn't have a chance.

The swim was an obstacle course — thrashing arms and legs to avoid and bodies to maneuver around. I sprinted out clear of the chaos — the first gray cap to the buoy — and never looked back. My mom later told me that I smiled as I sprinted up the shore toward the transition area, the first woman out of the swim.

Biking is not my forte. Luckily, the quarter mile swim was too short to tire me and provided a warm-up for the bike course around the island. My legs pumped up and down, pistons propelling my red Specialized racing bike forward. Looking down at my bike computer, I realized I was maintaining a faster pace than I had during my training rides.

A woman whirred by me on my left. A 38-year-old who had swam with my age group, she would be the top female finisher. I was unfazed, though, prepared for people to pass me on the bike.

And, somehow, I was still passing some of the men that had started before me, as Brigantine residents cheered the competitors on with applause. I smiled as I saw kids holding posters looking down the road, waiting for Mom or Dad to round the bend.

When I reached the transition to the run, I was breathing hard, but I was still the first woman in my age group. Four miles to go — four miles to hold on. It was the longest first mile of my life. I had been warned that the bike-to-run transition was rough and had practiced it, but my body quickly drained of all remaining energy.

The run and bike routes crossed each other, and as I was running, I saw that some of the slower competitors were nearing the middle of the bike route. They cheered us on and we cheered them on. It was a great feeling — like we were all pushing each other to finish, to prove that we could do it.

Around the two-mile mark, the sun appeared with a burst of heat. Darn it, it was hot. My dry-fit shirt was soaked through, both from sweat and throwing cups of water on my head to cool off. But I steadily continued, making it to mile three.

I wheezed as I ran next to an older man in a red shirt. We offered each other encouragement with the end in site.

Just over one hour, 12 minutes after I began, I crossed the finish line, the first woman finisher in my age group. I was in pain as I finally allowed my muscles to unwind. But within moments, the pain was replaced by an emotional high. I had challenged my body and challenged my mental strength. And I had succeeded.

I can say it now: I am hardcore.