$470 to start. I spent $7,197.

The gear I bought to swim, bike, and run costs more than the car I drive to the pool.

The car is a 2009 Honda Fit. I paid $4,200 for it. No A/C, no cruise control. I drive it on purpose.

The gear is not a Honda Fit. And here's the part I have to say out loud before anything else: you don't need the expensive version. Not to start.

I'm training for Ironman Barcelona. I've been riding seriously for a couple of months, which means I bought most of my gear before I'd proven I'd stick with any of it. Classic beginner move. I'd know. I made it.

So when someone asks what it costs to get into triathlon, I give two answers. The honest one, and mine.

I'm not a financial advisor. I'm a guy who spent toward the expensive end and is now honest about which parts were worth it. Take this as a field report from someone a season ahead of you, not a buying guide.

Here's the honest entry list. Not the aspirational one. The one that gets you to the start line of your first sprint or Olympic tri.

That's it. A used road bike off Marketplace, a helmet that meets the safety standard, goggles, one tri kit, and the shoes on your feet. You can finish a sprint triathlon on that. People do, every weekend.

The bike is where beginners panic. You do not need carbon. You need something that rolls, shifts, and fits. Borrowed counts. Your old hybrid counts. The bike you already own counts.

Notice what's not on the list. No wetsuit. Your first sprint is probably a pool swim, and most pools don't allow them. No bike computer, no watch, no power meter. Your phone tracks the run, and the clock on the pool wall times the swim. You are not missing a single thing that would make you faster on race day.

Now mine. I'm pointed at a full Ironman, not a first sprint. That's the far end of the same sport, and it is not ten times the entry kit. It's about fifteen.

I always called this my five-grand setup. I'd never actually added it up. So I did, for this newsletter: $7,196.76. And two of the biggest lines, the $1,699.99 watch and the Saucony shoes, I bought years ago, before I'd ever signed up for a triathlon. Even the number I tell myself is wrong.

Look at that list again. A watch, a bike computer, and a chest strap. Three devices, all measuring some version of the same thing. A beginner needs zero of them. I have all three because I like data more than is strictly healthy, and because I write about this stuff now. Neither of those is a reason for you to buy them.

I think about gear the way I think about my car. You don't count the full sticker price every time you use it. You count cost per use. A $4,200 car driven for years is cheap. A trainer ridden once is not.

That's the honest one in my kit. I bought the Tacx Flux 2 on sale, months before I need it. It's a winter tool, for when the roads are dark and iced over. So far I've used it exactly once. Cost per use, it's sitting at $979.99. It'll earn its place in January. It hasn't yet.

Meanwhile, the bike I actually ride most is at camp — one of three Tacx Neos bolted to the floor of the gym up there. I work a rotating shift in northern Alberta: a week of days, a week off, a week of nights, a week off. On shift, I train on those Neos. I didn't pay a cent for them. The training tool I use most costs me nothing.

Everything else, I'd like to think earned its place. But "earned its place" and "you need it" are different sentences. There's a cheaper version of almost everything on that list, and not one item is the reason I finish a workout.

The two pairs of running shoes are a good example. I rotate them so each pair dries out and lasts longer. Solid habit. Worth exactly one pair when you're starting.

Here's what I wish someone had told me: the expensive stuff doesn't make you a triathlete. Showing up does.

Buy the cheap kit. Do the sport for a season. Ride the garage bike through one summer of early mornings. If you're still at it when it's cold and dark and nobody's watching, then upgrade, as a reward for the consistency, not a substitute for it.

I did it backwards. I bought the reward first and then had to go earn it. It worked out, but only because I got stubborn about it, not because the carbon made me stick.

The money mistake isn't spending too much. It's spending in the wrong order — buying the gear to feel committed, instead of letting the commitment earn the gear.

The gear was never the hard part. Consistency is. But that's a different newsletter.

Coming up: the one piece of gear I'll never go cheap on.

Reply and tell me what you started with — the garage-sale bike, the borrowed wetsuit, the shoes you already owned. I want to hear it.

— Kiegan