Don’t mean to brag, but I am a triathlete of some repute. My #metoo moment happened on one of my first races as part of an Australian team, competing overseas in a Honolulu World Championship Olympic-distance race. Euphoria at wearing my country’s colours is now always overshadowed by a tightening in my chest, breath-robbing, heart thumping.
A great racecourse ran through parklands at one end of the famous Waikiki strip, passing a tourist aquarium where I had a chance to Nautilus, floating like an alien in a specially pressurised tank. We sampled gargantuan ice creams, fantastic pizza and screwed up our noses at Spam on breakfast menus. Sweltering in subtropical heat so unlike West Australian dryness, I was hopeful an early morning race start would alleviate feeling melted down at day’s end.
Buzzing to receive an Australian sticker for my helmet, I thought the worst thing to worry about were encounters with homeless who milled about on foreshores. One of my teammates remarked, “Suppose it’s easy to live on beaches in weather like this.” Free showers, shady palm trees, best surf beaches in the world — what’s not to like about Honolulu homelessness?
I was all race-set, fit, jumping out of my skin, happy with preparations, ready for a blinder. Only everything came crashing down. Don’t worry, not literally, but I encountered a bike issue. Right where the cycle course headed around one side of Diamond Head, looking out to sea at the rolling Pacific waves, something went twang. Gear cables, I think, but suddenly I couldn’t get out of big gear, each pedal push down felt like giant steps up a ladder, under pressure, on the spot. A bit like gym wind-trainer cycle sessions. I’m going nowhere fast, so I limped back to transition, knowing my race day was as good as finished. Even if I ran, my times did not include a full bike course, so officials probably wouldn’t let me continue.
Also milling about in the transition areas, a representative from Cervelo Bikes came up to look at my bike. Yep, he agreed, broken gear cable. We talked about my bike set up, and he seemed to know his stuff. Got to admit, I relished encounters with an Australian accent as we chatted about his working, managing Pacific Sales and Research, and life as an ex-pat.
“Would you like to catch up later? Maybe at the after-party or for a few drinks?”
“Grew up, northern suburbs of Sydney,” he tells me. Inevitable trading of west versus east coast snippets. Soon officials are giving us once-overs, because race leaders approach. So I told him I’d head back to our team hotel to clean up, wash away my D.N.F. [did not finish] feelings. Just as I bundled up my gear, the guy asks, “Would you like to catch up later? Maybe at the after-party or for a few drinks at a nearby café the Oz [Australian] team has adopted as home base?”
Seeing as I planned to head there anyway, I thought his suggestion safe, and let’s face it, an athlete should always be polite and enjoy company of people in support industries. Especially as Cervelo Bikes were currently infiltrating triathlon scenes, and bike expenses are a big-ticket number. A triathlete can get into major debt with bike products.
You never know, work my cards right, and it might be possible to score a sponsorship deal. How great to be able to access Cervelo wind tunnel-testing facilities or get innovative cycle technology and advice from experts? I’d be knocking on those doors very soon. Worth a try getting my foot into tiny openings early. Very least, I’d be a familiar face.
When we caught up later, I wore a race T shirt from Thailand, where a small proofreading error added to the wearer’s reputation in a big way – the decimal point absent from swim distances. Paul noticed. “Wow,” he says. “You did a tri with an 18k swim! You are a damn strong tri-chick.” His warm hand was on my upper arm, as if feeling for swimmer’s muscles. I shared his amusement but felt guilty and let him know about the T-shirt printing errors. I couldn’t really wear that kind of accolade. Still nice he noticed. Besides, I didn’t really think being called a tri-chick terribly complimentary.
Beer and pizza were handed out, gear-swaps were happening, no one else paid any attention to my obscure top, but more than one American asked about our green and gold Aussie tracksuits. The next most popular swap item was bright maple-leaved daubed Canadian rig-out. I’d purposely left my team clothing back in my room. I wanted to frame them, keep everything to show family, encourage my nephews and nieces. Paul stuck close; we shared a few Mai-Tais, jokes and laughs.
Eventually Paul offered to walk me back to the team hotel, even though it’s only a few blocks away, citing vagrants looking for targets, touristy types to hassle for money, unable to differentiate between triathletes and vacationers. Whole time I am still thinking, don’t be offensive, and besides he’s cute, nice-mannered, and I thought I’d like to keep in contact when I get back home.
Along a tree-lined pathway, he reached out to hold my hand…
Along a tree-lined pathway, he reached out to hold my hand. Again, I am thinking nothing wrong here, we find each other attractive, and he’s fun company. Not that I ever thought triathlon as a sport where earning sponsorships via a casting-couch option even existed. Top triathletes, male and female are offered goods and expertise based on ability and skill, right?
Paul said, “There’s a shortcut through the parklands.” I can see wide, well-lit paths, so I am thinking, no problems, I am tired and it will be good to get back to the hotel quickly.
In a dark place, he grabbed me, pushed his face in, kissing me. When I tried to shove him away, Paul grabbed my hair and backed me towards a tree. Shoved, with bark scratching my butt, I could feel heat and his erection. My mind raced. Shit! Probably had about 30 seconds, so as he drags my head back, I look into his face, hurting. I said, “Hey, why here? Perfectly nice room back at hotel, if you want to come up.”
He let go of my hair.
My brain said, don’t run, keep walking, keep holding his hand. Get to the hotel. Every part of me wanted to beat shit out of him, scream. Made me so angry, but my inner street-wise kid knew right now, calmness brought power. I’m a tired triathlete, I’d put my heart and soul into this morning’s race, at least part of it I managed to complete, consumed a few drinks with fellow triathletes. I’m a 60kg [132 pound] woman. If I tried to run, he’d probably catch me before too long, and at least he hadn’t hit me. My head became a busy place while we walked between high-rise hotels. I hoped my sweaty palms wouldn’t ruin my cool, calm, in-control ruse.
Back in the foyer spaces, well-lit, peopled, with aura of safety, I dropped his hand. Shoved his gym pumped chest. “Get hell away from me, you son of a bitch, or I will scream. I’ll get police to hunt you down. If you come near our team hotel or me again, I will destroy you. You creep!”
As all this tumbles out, a couple of those big island dudes who work front reception desks crowd around, threatening Paul even though they are wearing Hawaiian print shirts.
At the time, I thought I should tell someone, but with no evidence, feeling foolish, stupid, and naïve —who’d believe me? No doubt, Cervelo management would wave me off, insist no one called Paul worked there. Easy thing to get a branded shirt from someone. For all I know, he might just be some random arse-hole, preying on hapless athletes. Yep, he wore a corporate shirt, but never even showed me a business card.
Even bringing up this incident again rehashes my embarrassment and being cut down by corporate string-pulling businessmen might end in a nasty way for me. Making such a claim might influence, in a bad way, any possible future sponsorship deals. My reputation tarnished, gossip spreads to taint opportunities. Even now, I’d love to kick in Paul’s nuts, dig my knees into his chest while down, just for good measure. He probably planned the whole thing, followed me around enough to figure out I was alone, probably had done similar before and will do so again.
I wound up using my big #metoo moment as a catalyst for increasing training distances, leading to my success at Ironman distances. I decided being alone all those long, long hours was not such a bad option. It made me strong, pushing into Perth’s easterly winds, up into local foothills, and then returning, pushing into a sea breeze. Head winds either way blew away my embarrassed tears. I even found a new dedication to running training.
The first time I qualified for the Kona World Ironman Championship race, I rejected the Cervelo T-shirts they were handing out. Images of Paul’s scowl kept popping onto my brain out there on oven-hot lava fields, made me sure I would finish strong.
Photo by Sandis Helvigs on Unsplash
