It’s a movement.

What if it’s about showing up, falling, and finding the strength to keep going?

Inspired by Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus, Better is a new musical that explores the struggle for meaning through the lens of a triathlon in New York City. Athletes from all walks of life push their limits—not just against the race, but against themselves.

This is more than a competition. It’s a test of resilience, of belief, of how we keep moving forward when everything tells us to stop.

It’s about showing up again, and again, and again.

The athletes.

  • Victor Armstrong

    Victor doesn’t race with heart—he races with discipline. A former Navy SEAL turned Wall Street trader, he built his life around control, precision, and absolute execution. In war, in finance, and now in triathlon, emotions are liabilities—success belongs to those who stick to the plan. The body is a machine. The race is a system. The goal is efficiency.

    But endurance isn’t war, and markets don’t have finish lines. When the course throws him something he can’t control, Victor faces the one variable he never accounted for—himself.

  • Mary Amado

    Mary Amado wasn’t supposed to be here. She isn’t a pro, she isn’t sponsored, and she sure as hell isn’t a machine. She started running when she was sixteen and pregnant, when the world told her she had already fallen behind. Running was never about competition—it was about survival. But grief is a different kind of endurance race, one with no finish line. When she lost the love of her life, everything stopped.

    Now, she’s here for something bigger—for the daughter who still believes in her, for the part of herself that refuses to disappear. She doesn’t know it yet, but this race isn’t just about finishing. It’s about becoming.

  • Andrei "Clyde" Volkov

    Competing in the Clydesdale category, Clyde is here to prove that big boys can race, too—just maybe at a more civilized pace. By day, he’s a hospice nurse, bringing warmth and dignity to people in their final moments. By night, he’s knitting like a madman—and his triathlon kit proves it.

    Clyde is loud, proud, and fueled entirely by good vibes and mid-race snacks. He may not be the fastest, but he’s got the biggest heart on the course—and when the race gets tough, he’s the one reminding everyone to just keep moving forward. Preferably with style.

  • Athena Papadapoulos

    Athena was born big, loud, and impossible to ignore. The world told her to shrink, to soften, to take up less space. Instead, she did the opposite. Competing in the Athena category, she is unapologetically powerful—every step, every stroke, every revolution of the pedals a reminder that strength isn’t small, and endurance isn’t delicate.

    She is fierce, she is fast, and she is here to prove that the finish line doesn’t care about size—it cares about who has the guts to get there. And if you think she’s slowing down? Think again.

  • Diana Hai (海)

    Diana doesn’t need a race number. She is here for something deeper, quieter, harder to measure. At 64 years old, she set out to do the impossible—swimming from Taiwan to the Philippines. People called it reckless. She called it a promise to herself—to prove that endurance is not a number, it’s a decision.

    Now, she is a volunteer, a witness, a quiet force in the chaos. She is here to remind the hesitant: the ocean doesn’t care how old you are. Neither does this race.

  • Betty "The Kid" Kaplan

    Betty "The Kid" took up running at 75 years old and hasn’t stopped moving since. Now, at 80, she’s faster than your excuses. She doesn’t train by heart rate zones or power meters—she runs on vibes, rebellion, and the occasional hit of espresso and whiskey.

    She doesn’t race to prove anything—she just loves the damn feeling of moving forward. She’ll drop a joke mid-race, chat up every volunteer, and still pass you in the final mile. She is here for a good time, not a long time—but at this rate, she might outlive us all.

  • Mike O'Malley

    Mike isn’t just an announcer—he’s the heartbeat of the race. A fixture in endurance sports for decades, Mike has seen it all—the triumphs, the meltdowns, the athletes crawling to the finish line on sheer will alone. He knows every name, every bib number, and every story behind them. His job isn’t just to call the race—it’s to make every athlete feel like a legend.

    Whether you’re first across the line or the last one in before the cutoff, Mike O’Malley is there to say the words that never get old: You. Are. A SUPERNOVA.

  • Victoria Amado

    Victoria Amado lost her father before she ever got to know him. While her mother runs to survive, Victoria stands still, angry at a world that never gave her a choice. She doesn’t believe in neat endings or fair races—she sees the world exactly as it is.

    She is the only character who isn’t caught in the delusion of the race. She watches. She questions. She turns to the audience and demands they see what she sees. Because Better isn’t about winning—it’s about knowing the race is rigged and running anyway. And when it’s over, she’s the one who asks—did you get the message?

The music.

The music of Better moves like the race itself—tense, unpredictable, and relentless. It begins in quiet hesitation, in the fragile intimacy of Love is a Feeling, where Mary and Victor collide in a moment neither fully understands. It deepens into Silence, where Victor, broken and lost, finally faces the pain he spent a lifetime outrunning. And it rises into Better, Victoria’s battle cry, a challenge to the world to stop accepting what is and start fighting for what could be.

The course.

The race begins in Luna Park, where the neon lights of a faded amusement park flicker against the dark sky. Athletes plunge into the Atlantic at Brighton Beach, fighting the tide before emerging onto the boardwalk, shedding their past like a second skin.

From there, the bike course stretches across bridges, cemeteries, and storm-lashed highways, winding through the heart of the city to the shadow of the World Trade Center. From there, they run past the ghosts of history and the unrealized plans of a city that was never built, chasing something more than a finish line.

This is not just a test of speed. It’s a confrontation with the past, the body, and the will to keep moving forward.

Swim Course

The race begins in the cold, pre-dawn waters of the Atlantic. Athletes wade into the surf at Brighton Beach, the skyline of Luna Park glowing faintly behind them. The ocean is dark, restless, indifferent to their nerves. At the cannon shot, they plunge forward, their bodies breaking the surface, arms slicing through the waves. The tide pulls hard, threatening to drag them off course. Some fight it. Some surrender, letting the water carry them until they can no longer tell if they are moving forward or simply being moved. Buoy by buoy, they push ahead, swallowing salt, gasping for breath, searching for rhythm in the chaos. For many, this is the moment of doubt—the place where the mind whispers, Turn back. But the shore is behind them now. The only way out is through.

Bike Course

The ride out of Luna Park is fast, smooth, deceptively effortless—until they hit the Verrazano Bridge, its massive incline pulling at their legs as the morning wind cuts across the steel. From there, it’s a sprint through Staten Island’s industrial corridors, passing through Bloomfield Park before looping back toward the city. They surge through Brooklyn’s forgotten avenues, past the ghosts of abandoned projects, into the Cemetery Belt, where the skyline gives way to endless rows of the dead. The pavement fractures as they hit the Cross Bronx Expressway, potholes opening like wounds beneath their wheels. By the time they reach Van Cortlandt Park, they are riding on empty, pushing toward the West Side Highway, chasing the last stretch of daylight as they descend into the shadow of the World Trade Center.

Run Course

The body breaks first, then the mind. The marathon begins in the Financial District, where the streets are tight, the echoes of footfalls bouncing between glass towers. Runners thread their way north, through the grid of Union Square, where the crowds grow denser, the noise swelling, time slipping. By the time they reach Times Square, reality distorts. The neon billboards flicker, the city bends. Runners loop through the same stretch twice—once on the way up, once on the way back—as if trapped inside a world that refuses to move forward. But the clock does not stop. The finish line waits in Central Park, waiting to see who will cross it.