Rising With the Tide: A Journey of Strength and Discovery

Golden Bay, one of Malta’s most iconic beaches, is a place of tranquillity at 6 am. The previous day’s bustling energy has disappeared, leaving only footprints in the sand and a lone garbage collector moving through the stillness. The air is crisp, the horizon tinted with the soft hues of dawn, and the rhythmic sound of waves provides a steady backdrop. In these quiet hours, time seems to slow, and the beach belongs to the early risers—swimmers, cyclists, and runners who cherish the solitude and promise of a new day. It’s a moment of calm before the grind, where the mind prepares alongside the body. It’s here, in this serene yet demanding environment, that I began preparing for my first XTERRA Triathlon, and a journey of self-discovery that would test my limits, reshape my perspective, and reveal the strength I never knew I had.

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For many, the idea of a triathlon—let alone a cross-triathlon—feels Herculean, a test reserved for superhumans. Running and cycling may seem approachable, even if most of us are only racing against a child on their bike. Swimming, too, is a skill many possess, albeit at a recreational level. But when you combine the three disciplines, each pushing your limits in different ways, the challenge becomes something far greater than the sum of its parts. Add the rugged terrain of XTERRA—rocky trails, steep climbs, and unpredictable waters—and it transforms into a test of physical endurance, mental fortitude, and an unshakable will to keep moving forward.

Yet, for all its daunting reputation, cross-triathlon has an undeniable allure. The challenge of conquering not just the natural elements of the terrain but also your own doubts draws thousands to take that first leap. For me, it was a chance to discover what my body and mind were truly capable of.

Beginning my XTERRA journey completely from scratch, I was amazed by the human body’s ability to adapt and evolve. Each training session was a revelation: learning to breathe efficiently while cutting through the water, finding balance on the unpredictable terrain of a mountain bike, and mastering the rhythms of trail running. At first, every effort felt overwhelming. My lungs burned with every stroke, my legs screamed with every climb, and my mind begged me to stop. But slowly, as days turned into weeks, the impossible began to feel within reach.

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Every morning at 5 am, as I pulled on my wetsuit or laced up my running shoes, the temptation to stay in bed was always there, whispering its seductive comforts. It was in these moments that Radhanath Swami’s words came to mind:

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"The bad dog represents our debased tendencies of envy, anger, lust, greed, arrogance, and illusion. The good dog, our divine nature, is represented by forgiveness, compassion, self-control, generosity, humility, and wisdom. Whichever dog we feed the most through the choices we make... will empower that dog to bark the loudest and conquer the other."

The bad dog growled, clinging to the warmth of the bed and the comfort of excuses. But the good dog, fueled by determination and the promise I had made to myself, always won. Each step, each stroke, and each pedal became a conscious choice—a vote for perseverance over complacency. With time, the results began to show. I could swim farther, ride steeper climbs, and run longer distances without the crushing exhaustion I had once felt. The true transformation, though, wasn’t just physical—it was mental. I learned to silence the voice that sought comfort and to embrace the strength that comes from persistence.

Training for XTERRA is not just about endurance; it’s also about connection—to nature and to oneself. 

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Golden Bay and its surrounding landscapes became my ultimate classroom, teaching patience, humility, and resilience. Here, every element of the natural world seemed to play a role in my training. The soft morning light illuminated paths that felt daunting the day before, the salty breeze carried the promise of renewal, and the rhythmic crash of waves provided a meditative backdrop.

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The Mediterranean Sea, vast and welcoming, offered lessons in rhythm and calm, its currents reminding me to flow with the challenges rather than resist them. The rugged trails, with their clay, rocks, scree, and steep climbs, tested not only my strength but also my adaptability. Every turn revealed new challenges and subtle beauty: the sway of pine trees, the whisper of the wind through the brush, and ancient stone shelters standing as quiet witnesses to countless efforts before mine.

"The trails didn’t judge how fast I moved or how many times I stumbled—they simply asked me to keep going."

In these moments, I began to feel a deep kinship with the landscape. It wasn’t just a backdrop to my training; it was a partner, shaping me with its unforgiving demands and inspiring me with its enduring beauty. The trails didn’t judge how fast I moved or how many times I stumbled—they simply asked me to keep going. This connection, this silent dialogue with nature, inspired me to push further, even when the path was steep and my energy was low.

The greatest lesson I’ve learned through this journey is the power of presence. Training for my first XTERRA taught me that growth doesn’t happen in leaps or bounds, but in the small, deliberate moments where effort meets intention. It’s in the rhythm of the breath, the feel of the trail beneath your feet, and the quiet triumph of pushing one step further than before. The Now is where the transformation takes place—not at the finish line, but in every decision to keep moving forward.

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Each sunrise at Golden Bay, each swim in the Mediterranean’s vast embrace, and each climb up the rugged trails has shaped me into someone more resilient and deeply connected to the world around me. The journey has shown me that persistence is not about grinding through discomfort but about discovering joy in the process. 

"Growth doesn’t happen in leaps or bounds, but in the small, deliberate moments where effort meets intention."

As Ralph Waldo Emerson reminded us, persistence doesn’t change the nature of the task—it changes us. And in this change, I’ve found something far greater than strength: a profound appreciation for the trail itself and the clarity that comes from moving through it.