From JER:

By now, most of the competitors have left for the run/shoot combined event venue.  My navigator has taken my program with her and I have no directions to the venue.  I run back in to the barn to see if anyone has a program or knows how to get to the golf course where the event is taking place.  No luck.  I go to my navigation unit to see if the golf course is listed.  It is.  Victory!  I drive off, following the instructions on the screen. 

Navigation systems are funny things.  They tell you ‘go this way’ and sometimes the joke’s on you.  This is one of those times.  I’m so far out of bounds, I’m not sure if I’m still in Alberta.  I’m speeding down seasonal dirt and gravel roads, not a soul around, only occasional signage that doesn’t match what’s on my screen.  I drive for a long time on rutted tracks that look like they don’t see any traffic ever.   I suspect my fellow competitors are taking another route, probably a saner one.  I consider calling someone but there’s no cell service and I don’t have any phone numbers because I don’t have my program.  So I do what most people would do in this situation: I drive faster, as if getting lost at speed is somehow the better choice. 

But there it is.  Golf course ahoy!  I pull in to the parking lot and see that it’s almost time for the awards dinner, which I assume is being postponed pending the conclusion of the competition, which was supposed to have finished hours ago.  And I’m really hungry now.  So are the mosquitoes of Alberta.  They’re out in force, battalions of them, stouter and more aggressive than the flimsy West Nile vectors we have at home.  Ow!  Slap.  Slapslapslap.   I can feel a bite swelling on the side of my face. 

The ‘combined event’, as it’s called, involves rounds of shooting at five targets interspersed with laps of a 1000m running course.  Able-bodied competitors shoot three rounds and run 3000m; old folks like me shoot twice and run 2000m.  You have 70 seconds to hit all your targets (top athletes do it in 20 seconds) and if you don’t succeed, you ‘time out’ and go running.  This is good for me because I haven’t had much practice with the pistol and my shots rarely go where I want them to.  The running part doesn’t faze me at all, although in the weeks leading up to this competition, my runs at home have been increasingly directed by the local bear population.  I’ve tried different routes and varied times of day but Mama Bear and her two adorable cubs always seem to be crossing the road up ahead of me.   The number of about-faces and sudden direction changes I make must have my neighbors thinking I’m starring in my own personal Buster Keaton movie.   

I change out of my riding clothes at the starting area of the run/shoot.  At this point, I’m way too tired to care about modesty.  I set up my pistol at the assigned station, carefully lining up my pellets so I can load them quickly when I come in from running.  Then I take some practice shots.  I haven’t fired the gun in well over a month but I occasionally hit one of my five drop-down (actually they close up but that’s what they call them) targets.  There’s one that I just can’t seem to hit no matter what I do.  Frustrated, I look to my right to watch the self-described Alberta farm boy at the position next to me nail his targets in rapid succession.  Over and over again.  “Do you practice a lot?” I ask.  “Nope.  Just gophers on the farm.” He asks where I’m from and I tell him.  His next question is “Are you staying at the Russian hotel?” I like this kid a lot.  An Alberta farm boy with a sense of history and an eye for Stalinist style.  And an eye for pistol shooting.  My god, he’s good at this.   

I take a final shot at that one pesky target.  I can feel my shot is good, then the target makes a croaking sound and reluctantly starts to rise.  Woo-hoo!  But it loses enthusiasm at half-mast, stuck in the purgatory between open and closed.  Such is my fate.  The target is broken.  I tell the shooting guy and he says “You have to change stations.  Quick, you’re about to start.” So much for careful preparation.  I sweep up my pellets, plonk my gun down at the new spot, pin a different number on and hurry to the starting line.   

My first shooting round starts better than expected.  I hit my first two targets with my first two shots.  Unbelievable.  Then I time out when I fail to locate the remaining three.  I put my gun down on the table and scamper off along the track, hoping I don’t get lost.  (I’d asked for a course map to carry with me but only got laughed at, with everyone saying how ‘obvious’ it was.  Those people don’t know me well.)  I run up and down hills, into and out of the woods, and 1000m turns out to be a lot shorter than I expected.  

Back at the dreaded shooting station, I’m fumbling with my weapon when I hear my timer saying something to me.  I turn around with the gun in my hand.  “What?” I quickly turn back, remembering that it’s never a good idea to point a gun at someone.  She says something about the gun and the table but I’m not sure what.  There’s too much shooting going on around me.  Once again, I hit my first two targets quickly.  Then a third.  But that’s all. 

As I set out on my final lap of the run, I realize I’m almost done with this pentathlon thing.  After twelve hours of changing clothes, driving all over Red Deer, waiting around and not eating, all that stands between me and my goal is 1000m of running.  And you know what?  It’s been a great day, despite the broken weapons and malfunctioning targets and malevolent goggles.  I feel like I’ve accomplished something.  Sure, it’s been a bit disorganized and it’s gone overtime but there’s such a good spirit here among the volunteers, the officials, the athletes and their supporters.  People are so nice, like that guy over there.  He’s standing out on the running course at this late hour holding up my number to cheer me on.  As I get closer, he raises up my number above his head and calls out my name and I don’t even know him.  This is so special.  I love this sport!  What’s he saying to me?    

“Number 8!  Please step into the penalty box.”  

The penalty box?  Moi?  

The penalty box is taped off with yellow tape like a crime scene.  I’m its sole occupant.  “What did I do?”  ”I’ll find out.”  He asks over the radio, so everyone can hear it.  It’s now public knowledge that I’m in the penalty box.  Fortunately for me, my parents are thousands of miles away in another country and have never heard of modern pentathlon.  “You loaded your gun off the table.” Oh, that.  It must be another one of those damn rules.  So that’s what gets you sent to the penalty box.   

I serve my brief sentence, then dash off to complete the course.  When I cross the finish line, all I can think about is food but that’s normal for me.  It’s just not normal that I haven’t eaten all day. 

Our comrades back at the Great Hall of the People graciously stay hours late to serve us at our awards dinner.  By the time we’re seated and eating, it’s close to midnight.  The staff must think pentathletes are the ultimate late-night party people.  I get a medal and a plaque that says I’m masters women national champion.  I’m reminded of that brilliant moment in the Robert Redford movie Downhill Racer when Redford’s dad mutters “Champions – world’s full of ‘em” but then I hear the line in my head in a different way and it’s a good thing.  Tonight, I’m happy to count myself among them.  I came a long way on my own to do something I’d never done before and I enjoyed myself immensely. 

But there’s no time to rest on my laurels.  Less than six hours, actually.  We’re due back in the fencing hall for tomorrow’s relay competition at 7 am.   

Next year, I’m aiming for competence.  And I’m hoping for competition.  There have to be some other over-30 consummate warriors out there who want to test their ‘moral qualities’ against the likes of, well, me.   Anyone for pentathlon?