Triathletes: To Shave or Not to Shave?

I am Canadian. At least, I was. I feel compelled to hand in my Team Canada badge next time I am at the embassy. Yes, I did the unthinkable. I am no longer deserving of that honorable label, I have shaved my legs, and my arms, and my chest, oh yeah, and my belly. I am no longer the kind, courteous, element-hardened Canadian I once was, I am now a slippery triathlete.

Two weeks ago, I entered the grocery store to pick up a 'couple of things'. I walked filling my cart with as many masculine items I could find, first man-item: beer. There were others, but everything between the beer and the tool of emasculation is a blur. As I approached the aisle of terror I strengthened my resolve and puffed up my chest. No big deal, walk up, pick one up, throw it in the cart and move on. Among the 9000 choices was a particularly feminine razor. Without too much hesitation, I reached up for the 55 blade chamomile and daisy razor made of lace in its baby blue package emblazoned with flowers and sunshine. This is the point of the story where you would expect a convoluted tale about someone approaching me while I was perusing the ladies razors, creating an embarrassing yet humorous anecdote. Well, no such luck friends. I dropped that razor into the cart and strutted all the way to the till.

The razor went two weeks without my use. This was not due to embarrassment, but due to the degree of the wooly-mammoth-ness of my limbs. This shaving session is no small undertaking. It takes ecumenical preparation, strategic planning and mental fortitude. So, after our fabulous evening at Stars on Ice, I decided it was time. Now, as I mentioned my legs and arms closely resemble the cast of Planet of the Apes, so using the sunshine & chamomile razor first was not an option. This virtual castration must begin with an electric razor trim. Bzzzz. Up one leg I go, and for the first time since my mid-teen knee surgeries, I can see my shin, in all its hairless glory. Even bare, it still personifies a man's youth, covered in misshapen scars chronicling personal mishaps. After the 40 minute session of trimming my leg hedge, it was time for a break. Now comes the difficult part, if you possess anything less than a cast-iron stomach, avert your eyes.

Into the shower I go, 2000 razor strokes later, I reappear. Hairless in South Florida. As I reached for the St. Ives with aloe, I realized something incredibly disheartening. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, more emasculating than propping your foot up on the edge of a bathtub and running your cream covered hands down the length of your scar covered slip and slide legs. I like myself a little less today.

Yes, I am embarrassed. Yes, I do feel silly. Yes, I also feel like a triathlete and yes, I will be keeping my legs, arms, chest and belly in a perpetual state of hairlessness until Ironman Canada. 6 months from now.

It has been documented that triathletes shave their arms and legs for several reasons; none of which actually cast a large enough shadow to hide the giant flashing sign that states clearly, without hesitation 'completely ego driven' 'completely ego driven' 'completely ego driven'. Regardless, there are some legitimate reasons. Allow me to name a few:

1. Makes the post cycling crash care a little less difficult. They say there are two types of triathletes; the ones that have crashed, and the ones that will crash. Hairlessness mitigates the risk of infection.
2. Aerodynamic in the water. Hair creates resistance. Swimmers shave. Triathletes swim. Seems logical.
3. Keeps you cooler. Not looking, but feeling.
4. Makes massage easier. Have you ever tried to massage a Brillow pad? I rest my case.

Lesson #43: If you feel fast, you are fast.