#5. Natalie Portman's Amazing Thor Arms and Body Image in Triathlon

Even the pros hate their race photos, as it turns out. A digression from the chronological tale of my training to wade in the shallows of vanity. Yep, we're going there.

Oh, how we love women’s strong arms—and have things to say about them. My mental model for Hollywood-style muscly arms used to be that of Linda Hamilton from the second Terminator movie, when she evolved from everyday mama to warrior on the run.

But now, we have Natalie Portman. And I have to say, after seeing Thor: Love and Thunder, that she really does look both “swole” and spectacular. Some fans suspect CGI as the trick giving her big biceps and shoulders, but the movie folks say Portman’s muscles are real. I appreciate that her look isn’t just thin and stringy with new carved muscles on top. Instead, she actually looks solid and strong—unapologetically bigger—as one would have to be in order to keep throwing a gigantic magic hammer around.

Granted that Hollywood stars have personal trainers and financial resources that help them reshape their bodies in ways most normal folks can’t. Granted, also, that admiring a woman who looks great is still focusing on her outward appearance, which is not a feminist position, some have said.

I differ slightly on the latter point, because Portman’s character doesn’t just look strong, she is strong. We see her body not just as a visually pleasing outline but as a player in the story (and it is a story, of course): taking up space, doing work, challenging not only villains, but gods!

Which brings me to triathlon and body image, even where celestial superheroes aren’t involved.

I’ve been happiest with my own body at those times in my life when I was forced to focus on what my body could do, not how it looked.

My longest-lasting experience with this was during pregnancy. Except for extreme nausea at the beginning and achy pelvic discomfort at the end, I loved being pregnant. Eating became focused on getting enough nutrients, not about restriction. I tracked my protein; I followed my cravings. My weight was expected to go up. That old desire to see any magic number on the scale vanished. I was growing something. My body was changing all the time. It had to be.

Oh, to retain that fleeting wisdom! But for me, remembering to value what a healthy body does, not what a body looks like, is difficult. The epiphanies come, and like a fading runner’s high, the epiphanies go.

I’ll be honest. When I started training for my half-Ironman, I assumed I’d shed weight and, within six months, have the most carved body of my life. How could I not? I estimate I burned an extra 88,000 calories over seven months. If I’d eaten my normal amount, I should have lost twenty-five pounds!

It didn’t happen. Instead, I gained a few pounds over the first three months before leveling out. Yes, I reminded myself it had to be muscle. But the immature voice in my head kept thinking, Can’t I have the muscle and be thinner as well?

Nope. If I were only running, I’d slim down just a touch, as happens temporarily when I focus exclusively on that sport. But add the cycling, and I bulk up quickly. It’s as if flesh drops from my arms and torso and deposits directly on my thighs and calves. My jeans feel tighter. I can feel the new places where flesh rubs. I have to overcome my cultural training in order to remind myself, Those are muscles. The same ones you are going to need to get up the hills. Sure, there’s some extra padding on top of them, but you’re a woman, for goodness sake. Keep at it, baby!

But I should have known as much. Plenty of non-pro triathletes aren’t super-slender.

Check out the photo of author Meredith Atwood on the cover of Triathlon for the Everywoman. She isn’t skinny. But she’s a four-time Ironman finisher.

Look at serious runners’ bodies, and you see mostly thin people. Look at triathletes’ bodies and you see more bulk. The longer the distance, the heavier the average athlete will be. You’ll also see more variety, because each of the three sports (swimming, biking, running) favors a different shape. That variety, which you can see at any event—all kinds of bodies, defying expectations, able to do amazing things—is one of the many things I love.

So yes, I admire diverse body types in others. But how do I feel when I see myself in photos? Like I’m back in my adolescent brain, having learned nothing.

If only I’d read Atwood’s brief blogpost on this topic, in which she writes, “Since the dawn of my triathlon journey I have learned to take race photos for what they are—frozen images that hate me and want to make me hate myself.”

Or this surprising article about pro athletes—yes, those elites who are both buff and thin—in which an anonymous Kona participant admitted, “I raced a national championship over the middle distance, but the two-piece I was wearing wasn’t very flattering. That picture was on the cover of our national triathlon magazine. Once I got it in the mail I was so embarrassed! I looked horrible–not like a toned athlete at all.”

Alas, I had not read that quote when I received my race photos after my first 70.3. I wasn’t pleased. I had felt so strong on the inside. But in many of the photos, I look both tired and chunky. Coming out of the swim, I had goggle marks around my eyes and an exhausted expression on my droopy face. My wetsuit-clad body looked round, not chiseled.

“Remember Ed Asner in that old TV show, Lou Grant?” I asked my sisters via text. “I look like him.”

They didn’t get that reference.

I sent them other bad wetsuit photos from pre-race, when I was standing in the starter’s chute, wearing my thick wimple—I mean, neoprene hood. “And here I look like a cross between a seal and a nun.”

They didn’t seem to understand. How could I be worrying about something so trivial?

To be fair, I think I was already having post-event blues, which is a different issue than mere post-race vanity. But the glumness manifested as body insecurity—or could we simply call it surprise?

And yet, I shouldn’t be surprised.

I’m five-foot-two. I will never stop being short. I am in my early fifties. I have cankles, saddlebags (and I don’t mean on my bike), and cellulite. Gravity has done its work, from top to bottom. At this moment, I am the fittest I’ve ever been in my life, which feels great, but I will never look like a model or even like a serious athlete.

These thoughts nagged at me briefly when I was looking at my photos. But let me tell you when they didn’t: when I was actually doing the race.

When I was swimming, I would have liked even more fat on my frame, to help with insulation. That water was cold!

When I was biking the hilly course, I thanked every part of my chunky legs for their power, especially when we reached a hill so long and steep that a few participants had to get off their bikes and walk. I clicked into my lowest gear and breathed so hard I felt woozy, but I never walked.

When I was running, I didn’t mind that my short stature kept me closer to the ground, conserving energy with each hopeful stride. All I wanted as I headed into the final two hours of that race was to keep going. I didn’t give a crap how I looked.

Seeing Thor brought these moments of gratitude, wonder and acceptance all back to me. Because even if Natalie Portman is gorgeous and does look great from the outside, we as movie viewers can choose to imagine how her character might feel from the inside. Not faint from starvation. Not weak and holding in her gut. Just strong, and ready to take on the universe—or maybe, even, a full Ironman.