On Taking a Break: Chronicle on the 1st (All Terrain) Triathlon of Xel –Ha 2009

In the midst of the imminent arrival of Hurricane/Tropical Storm Ida, the torrential rains and the heavy doubt that the event would take place, the very first edition of the Xel-Ha Triathlon was held, as planned.

The one major difference of this triathlon as opposed to all the local ones that I've done before was that bike racking took place one day prior to the event. The rain fell during the ride from Cancun to Xel-Ha, falling with such force as that seemed to foretell what was to come that next day. I had brought with me, however, a sense of tranquility and perhaps a little worry. I've been on a break for about a week and a half due to fluid in my knee, a direct result of a training session that consisted of a 1.2 mile swim and a 68 mile bike ride, and an indirect result of having done the 70.3 Ironman.

Talk about a major training session....

With the climate and my knee, I felt the weight of my anxiety of not having trained.

But I'll do it. Whatever it takes.

The weather was surprisingly good on the day of the competition, considering. I left my bootleg CD booth (which poses, at times, as a triathlon transition) and went with Carlos to the swim start.

This has to be one of the coolest swim starts I've ever done. It was from the Floating Bridge at the mouth of the inlet into Xel-Ha. The bridge itself has to be a good 65 meters long and it sits right on the water. Its planks were connected in such a way that when the waves would crash on the rocks at the mouth of the inlet, the bridge slithered this way and that. The overcast sky lent a grey light to the water, which splashed rather violently on the rocks.

I almost crapped purple Twinkies. This was a little scary.

So now a peculiar problem had arisen: the swim start was definitely a dive start. How many times will I have to thank my crazy swim instructor? All those times when he would be falling to pieces from laughing so much, watching us make honest attempts at graceful dives and failing miserably. We looked like pancakes landing from a flip in the pan. We practiced and practiced so that we didn't look like Christmas turkeys in mid-dive.

The minutes passed and one by one, the heats started. There were several Christmas turkeys in the other heats and when my category was up, we walked down the bridge as if we had all hit every single bar on the Hotel Zone in Cancun the night before. Some sat on the bridge, not feeling up to diving.

I stayed on my feet.

I know how to do this.

The start.

I dove into the green waters and swam towards the cove. Aline, my diving instructor, would have been proud.

The moment I touched the water, however, I knew I was in trouble. My breathing was going too fast for this stage of the competition and my shoulders felt tired. I calmed myself down and reminded myself that I can do this, as I watched the fish and little jellyfish swim below me. Even when I got stuck in the first buoy (two other swimmers closed me off and I couldn't swim anywhere else), I was able to break free without breaking my stride nor panicking.

Leaving the water, it was some 300 meters to the transition. I took off my goggles and cap and fixed my hair into a pony tail, as I ran to T1.

The good thing about being a slow swimmer is that in the T1, you can find your bike really easily.

I flew on my bike and passed up tons of people. I even pressured a guy in a skeleton jersey, who kept racing me, keeping me on my toes.

After the 10 k mark, Boney dusted me.

Damn him...

I remembered my knees on the run. Particularly when I was running up what seemed to be a 30 degree incline up the bridge which crossed over the highway. My knees popped and tweeked as if I were a robot, springs and screws falling all over the place. On the other side of the highway, there was a dirt road and because it had rained the night before, there were mud puddles at various points of the track.

In that moment, several athletes were coming back from the loop. Among them was Ruben Grande.

Ruben is a local triathlete who has done triathlons all over the world. He did the 70.3 Ironman that I did and his next challenge is the Cozumel Ironman. Apart from all the amazing feats he has achieved (among them, various Ironmans under his belt), there is one thing that makes him even more special:

Ruben is missing part of his right leg, from the knee down.

As I ran, I thought about everything that he had to confront to get here. About everything people could have said and did to him.

I know this country. I've lived 13 damn good years here. I'm pretty much as Mexican as they come. And I also know this society and the people. I hear the voice of the woman saying to her daughter who wants to lose weight: "Why are you going to yoga classes if you aren't even going to keep it up?" I see my talented friend who rejects an offer to go on a musical tour through Germany because he doesn't want leave his girlfriend alone. The same girlfriend with whom he broke up with some time after. I hear the voices telling children not to jump/climb/play/touch because they can hurt themselves. Don't risk it, they say. You're safer if you just stay where you are.

"You see? You couldn't do it. How are you going to do anything with a leg missing?"

I see the uncomfortable stares of blatant curiosity at the leg that Ruben is missing.

Don't do anything. They are going to hurt you. You're going to hurt yourself.

What hurts are the jokes that they probably made about little Ruben when he was a boy, behind his back.

I detest the discrimination.

Despite all this, he's a triathlete.

He's an Ironman.

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A year ago, in the Cancun 70.3 Ironman, there was a man who had a sign that read:

"Today, No One Quits."
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There were people who suffered during the triathlon. But it was that pinch of tenacity that took those legs to the finish line. We all have battles. We all have problems. We all have someone who doesn't believe in us and believes in our premature failure. What they don't know is that we need to fail in order to be great. We need to fall to learn how not to fall again. We have to arrive in last place in order to savor and understand what bridging that gap to first place feels like. That it's all about the journey.

Today, no one quits. Today, no one takes a break.

Whatever It Takes: A Chronicle on the 2009 Ironman 70.3 Cancun, Mexico

I believe you don't know what you're capable of until you do it.

I've spent a year saying that in 2009, I'm going to do my first 70.3 Ironman. I've trained and practically lived in the pool, on the track, on the bike. I rested when the experts said I should and I ate and made culinary sacrifices that go against the haute cuisine nature of the foodie in me.

In the weeks prior to the event, the two people who I knew were going to do the Ironman were steadily growing nervous. The days previous were even worse.

I was just the opposite: I considered it a very long training session. I got nervous when we went to rack our bikes the day before. Fernando, from my swim club, and I went looking at the fantastic bikes that were being racked, like kids in a candy store.

And then we saw it: a completely customized Felt with carbon fiber everything in pink and green accents. The name on the frame said "Michellie Jones."

WhAt?!

World champion Kona Ironman elite Michellie Jones was in Cancun.

I almost crapped purple Twinkies.

That was when I started to become a little nervous. Not because I could be anywhere near to be considered competition but because up until then, all I had participated in was local sprint triathlons where the stars were just that: locals.

This was going to be a training session with the super elite on an international scale.

Oh boy....

The realization that other big names in the sport were also here didn't make things easier.

Race morning: at 5:15, Fernando and I had rolled in, watching athletes arrive and then we proceeded on to the bikes. I set up my transition as if I were selling bootleg CDs on the street: sun block, lubricant, warming gel, bike shoes, towel, cap, sunglasses, running shoes, socks, water bottle, Gatorade, bib number, helmet.

After triple checking everything, we proceeded down to the beach for the swim start. People were already there in the water, warming up with a quick swim. I was waist deep in the water when I turned to see the sun rise. It was a softer orange, like the color of sherbert, lining the bluer clouds of the waning twilight. The simple beauty of the scene jabbed me hard in the ribs, reminding me that my diabetic uncle just had his legs amputated, is going through kidney dialysis, has had brain hemorrhaging. It reminded me that a year ago, I was the spectator.

Now I'm a competitor and I'm damn lucky to be one.

That realization struck me so hard that I started getting choked up. Fer held me for a bit, not understanding what was going on in my head but imagining that I was nervous, telling me that this was my turf and that I know this route, the conditions, the weather. That I can do it.

One by one, the heats started. The nerves started to hit as I lined up for the swim start, waiting for the horn.

My heart rate jumped to 127.

The horn.

I kept sighting the buoy as I swam so that I wouldn't end up in Cuba and only veered off course twice: once when I was following another swimmer and the second time when, on sighting the last yellow buoy, I almost pass up the middle markers. I swam around them, keeping them to my left and headed home.

Mental note: Don't follow other swimmers. They're probably just as confused as you are.

Out of the water, it was a 250 meter run to T1. Once again, I was mentally bear hugging my swim instructor for his crazy training sessions of swimming 25 meters fast, pulling yourself out of the pool, running 25 meters back and doing it all over again for half an hour. I was able to pass up another competitor as I ran across the water park, back to T1.

My bike was easy to locate now that the bulk of the competitors were already on the road. I was feeling self conscious about wearing a bike jersey and not knowing how to get on nor get off the bike with my shoes clipped in but others who were already there were taking their time, putting on shirts, wiping themselves off with towels, eating.

I hopped on my bike and started my 90 k. When I got to where we had to do the two laps on the 30 k lap, I was just in time to see the elites about to finish their first lap on the course. In front of me, competitor 1024 rode, plugging along. I could tell he was just starting the bike segment as well.

1024.

10:24 is an hour. And I'm on a clock.

I pulled ahead of him.

As the elite caught up with me on their second lap, I heard the complete disk tires whirl past me. The sound was like a lion roaring. In my delirium and excitement of being in a competition with such incredible athletes, I thought that I would still be in absolute ecstasy even if I was tipped off my bike by one such athlete.

On the return from my second lap, there were only a handful of us still doing the bike. In the distance, I saw dark clouds approach the Hotel Zone.

We're in for some rain.

I rack my bike and change for the run. From the stands, I could hear them finishing the unofficial awards ceremony of the elite winners. On the course, there were still a lot of runners, some were walking. For the first time in my life, I felt great for the run. Upbeat and smiley, I ran along feeling honestly really a lot better than a lot of the others looked. Some walked a good portion of the run. Others sat on the side of the road. And still others looked like they had the extra batteries to go the full length. As a torrential downpour watered us down, I extended my arms and was so immensely glad it wasn't hot and humid.

I was happily distracted by tri-fit bodies running by. Was his bib number 280 or was that his price?

I could afford that.

By the second lap, there were fewer athletes, when I caught up with Jackie, who I had met on the bike (she had noticed I was wearing a Vancouver jersey and thought I was a fellow Vancouverite).

"Come on, Vancouver! Let's go!"

We pretty much ran at the same pace for the second lap and as we came up the hill to enter the Hotel Zone, she asked if it was far to the turn. I knew technically that it was far but she looked like she wanted really badly to throw in the towel. Everyone she met on the way, she had asked the same question, with everyone answering that it was really close.

"Look Jackie! I can see the tent from here! That's the turn!" She put on the speed only to slow down when she realized that we weren't at the turn yet.

Frustration was hitting her square in the chest. She admitted that she was on the heavier side and that she hated that her weight slows her down. Huffing and puffing, her face looked pained.

A guy on a motor scooter came up and asked if we needed anything. Jackie kept her gaze ahead as she made a non-committed response. He commented in Spanish that Jackie seemed a bit serious. I told him it was because she wanted a finisher's medal and shirt.

"They stop giving those out at the eight-hour mark...in about 30 minutes." But I knew what bothered Jackie. It was more than just about a hunk of metal and a piece of cloth. It was about completion. It was about approval. It was like when you were in grade school and the teacher didn't count you as part of the class. You did all the homework but you get an F anyway. That was what this was all about.

"We're almost there, right?"

She looked at her watch nervously. The minutes were ticking away. She wanted to arrive before the close.

On the way back, lots of the triathletes were riding their bikes to their hotels. Most rooted us on to continue.

"You're almost there!" they would shout. Triathletes are such happy people.

Mental note: my next boyfriend must be a triathlete.

In the last two miles, Jackie's husband joined us and ran at our pace, bringing her water and encouraging her on.

The towers of the Wet 'n Wild Water Park loomed in the distance. We were almost there.

Daniel, a good friend from my swim club soon to compete in his first triathlon ever, the Cozumel Ironman, came up 600 meters from the finish.

"I told you I would be here and so here I am. Come on. We've got a couple of minutes before they turn off the clocks."

He ran with me while my friends, spectators and other athletes cheered us on. Jackie ran on ahead.

"You're an Ironman now!" shouted another athlete.

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When I was a little girl, other little girls wanted to be princesses and queens.

I wanted to be a superhero.

And now I'm an Ironman.

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Those words brought on a rush of emotion as a tear crept out of the corner of my eye.

"Come on, Jackie. We're almost there." I couldn't keep my voice even as I picked up speed and turned into the park.

And when I saw the finish line and the commentator announcing my arrival, my friends were there waiting for me. I had to cover my mouth to keep from bursting into tears.

My feet were blistered and I was sweaty and wet but my friends hugged me without a second thought as I bawled. My official time: 8:09:04.

Jackie was getting a massage when I came up to her.

"I couldn't have done it without you," she said as she looked me in the eye. I gripped her hand firmly because we both knew what this moment cost us.

The evening ended with a small group of us going to the awards ceremony. We arrived just as they had awarded the elite women. Michellie Jones was in first place. As the categories were announced, and one of the age category winners even danced on stage, I watched in awe at this world that I was just baptized into.

With the awards over, they began announcing the selection for slots to the Ironman World Championship 70.3 in Clearwater, Florida. Without any better reason than because we were not in the mood to get out of our chairs, our group stayed and watched the selection. One by one, competitors were called and accepted their slot. Others were not around to accept and their slots were given to others. As they were announcing the 35-39 female category, I heard the announcer say a name I wasn't expecting:

"Fumiko Nobukoa."

WhAt?!

That was probably the only word in my dictionary for the next 10 minutes.

The last name was all wrong but there couldn't be another Fumiko. Was that really my name they called? Getting a slot to Clearwater for me was like being invited to the Olympics or riding in Astana with Armstrong.

WhAt?!

And so the day ended. I did not accept my slot to Clearwater but I sure as hell will train for an honorable showing if I ever get a slot again.

The day played back in my head and as I dozed off into a deep sleep, I knew that you are only as strong as your weakest link. I understood that with each competition I do, my weakest link will be that much stronger. That even though the maximum distance that I've ever run was 10 miles, my will to run it was what carried me to the finish line.

That I really wanted it that badly. Whatever it takes.

On Bettering Yourself: Chronicle on the Solo Para Mujeres (Ladies Only) Triathlon on Isla Mujeres, Mexico 2009

One is never too old to live like they've never lived before.

After a cancelation due to a tropical storm and a gash to my right knee thanks to a distracted triathlete and her bike, the day finally came when the Solo Para Mujeres (For Women Only) Sprint Triathlon was held. Just like before, I had a pre-competition nightmare. The first time, I dreamt that I had arrived to T1 but for some reason, I was suddenly far away (and on top of that, in my hometown, San Francisco). I ran so that I didn't lose my 10 minute lead and watched as the other athletes zipped by me on their bikes. In a last ditch effort, I had finally decided to catch a bus to take me back to T1, almost urinating in my pants from the anxiety.

Two days before this second date, I dreamt that I couldn’t do the swim start because I couldn’t find my event swim cap.

At 4:30, I left my house to catch the ferry to Isla Mujeres, where the triathlon was to be held, and caught the 5 am. I sat on top deck and in the immense darkness of the slowly breaking dawn so that I could see the stars and the moon. I meditated, thinking about my tri while a crisp breeze swept over me and reminded that I am, and nothing more. Because I had never traveled to Isla at night, I saw for the first time how they turned on the electric blue lights on the sides of the boat so that other boats could see us. It was cool until I started getting dizzy from staring at the colors and the novelty quickly wore off. I felt as if I were watching a scene from Fantasia, stuffed with an industrial quantity of hallucinogens. The blue was so scandalously hard on the eyes that I nearly had pink elephants coming out of my ears.

I think I’ll sit away from the edge instead.

I contemplated the night and the ocean breeze, seated near the aisle.

On Isla Mujeres, I saw familiar faces arrive one by one. We got our numbers marked and racked our bikes. And as if we were movie stars at Cannes, if a group of women got together for a photo, everyone else would join in and event photographers, families and friends would make up the 5 to 10 paparazzis, blinding us with flashes. There was even a long-haired tourist who looked like Axl Rose (15 pounds later) taking photos as well.

07:27 – We were being called to the starting line. What is not normally a strong point in the local custom, punctuality was being strictly followed due to the fact that 08:30 on the dot, the first cargo barges would be coming past the buoys that we were going to use for the swim course.

Women hugged each other, wishing each other luck. Anxiety could be heard in their voices, stretched to the point of being shrill.

07:30 – The starting horn. I mentally thanked my darling, masochistic swim instructor for all those modified crawl sessions, simulating open water starts, as I swam over the legs and bodies of the women in front of me. Those drills in the pool simulated to the “t” the start of the tri as I sped to the first buoy.

For the first time in my life, I passed up people. I saw a swimmer and as if I had a plan of attack, I sculled forward to pass her up.

After my two laps, I left the ocean behind. Friends shouted at me, joking that they were hungry, that I was treating and at what time was I going to take them all to breakfast.

This T1 was the fastest I’ve ever done in my life.

Wash my feet. Put on my lubricant, shoes, bib number, helmet and sunglasses.

I was on my bike in a hop, skip and a jump.

My bike reacted to my movements as if it were a Andalusian show jumping horse and as I took the first hill right before the Garrafon Dolphin Park, I heard the heavy respiration of someone behind me, changing gears. It was an elite triathlete named Nelly Becerra, who passed me up with relative ease.

I flew over the asphalt. When I passed Garrafon the second time, I gazed at the shores of Cancun, the Hotel Zone and the brilliant turquoise of the water between main land and the island and all I could think about was that I have to swim the 10 km in the Isla Mujeres Island Crossing next year. A swim I had not done this year because I felt that I was not ready.

Next year, I will be.

In T2, I was slower: rack my bike. Off with the shoes. Lubricant. Shoe one. Shoe two. Take off helmet. Put on cap.

Go.

My legs took a while to get used to the new movement. I was running to the sea wall when I saw a friend of mine coming back from the run of the promo mini triathlon distance.

“I’m almost there!” she said with a smile. She looked energetic and happy, regardless of the fact that a couple of months before, she had a hysterectomy.

And she looked as if she had just gone to the store to get a loaf of bread.

I want to be like her when I grow up.

One by one, women started to pass me up on the run. It didn’t matter: today, the swim and the bike are mine.

The sea was made of mercury, with puddles of silver sliding across the surface. The smell of tortillas toasting on the griddle mixed with the sea breeze and wafted around me.

Meanwhile, my heart rate was at 170.

I was coming around the corner in the last 150 meters of the run when I saw the finish line. I kicked up my heels to finish hard. At the 50 meter mark, I started to hear my name from the shouts of my friends, rooting me on.

I arrived.

The first person I found was my first mountain biking guru, Adrian. I hugged him and still panting, a ball of emotion that I could not contain sat on top of my chest.

I cried.

I realized later what that moment was worth and all it took was Fernando telling me my time: 1:34:18.

I had taken 15 minutes off of my personal best.

I knew.

Waking up early everyday to make my breakfast and lunch. Doing resistant band work after swim classes. Running when my body wanted to walk. Wanting to throw up during training but resisting the desire. Eliminating bread products from my diet. Eating more fruit and vegetables. Losing weight so that I won’t hurt my knees. Turning down invites to parties and social gatherings in order to train. Doing double sessions.

Everyone is master of their decisions and that fact hadn’t been as clear as it had been in that moment on Isla Mujeres, crying out happiness in the arms of my friends.

I am not a professional triathlete and I’m definitely not the fastest, by any stretch of the imagination. But I’ve got the same adversary that everyone else has: themselves. If I’m racing, I’m racing for me and against me. No one else.

I’ll see you in September 2009 for the 70.3 Ironman in Cancun.

On Not Finishing: Chronicle of the 2nd “Por Siempre en Aguas Abiertas” (Forever in Open Water) 5 km Swim Meet of Club Albatros

There was a comedienne named Lotus Weinstock who once said, “Before, I wanted to change the world. Now, I just want to leave the room with a little bit of dignity.”

This 5k swim was my first open water competition. All week, I was preparing myself mentally for what was to come. There were intense moments as well as bits of tranquility. Myrna, who swims very well in the pool, commented on her fears of the ocean and mentioned how she feared sharks. That one word was enough to germinate a fear that had not previously existed. And like a grain of sand, it began to form a callus in my head. It didn’t help that at the pre-meet meeting, they gave us the event t-shirt, which featured a photo of a bull shark, the third most dangerous in that species in the world.

A week before, we went to swim the route so that we could see how it was going to be during the competition. The waves rocked me, at times slamming on top of me. But I was able to withstand the power of the ocean. What I couldn’t stand was the burning in my nose. The saltiness of the water made my nose burn so much that I wanted to go to the doctor who I was planning to ask to remove my stomach for the first triathlon, to remove my nose. The sensation is akin to when one has a rock in their shoe: insignificant in size but irritating nonetheless.

This was enough reason for me to think twice about my participation in this meet. My swim trainer recommended that I line my nostrils with Vaseline.

A cure. This changes things.

On the day of the competition, I arrived with my nostrils well smeared. They gave me my numbers for the meet: 66.

Six hundred more to the sign of the devil.

It could be that for that particular reason I was able to feel calm. Perhaps it gave me strength. I don’t know. I watched the ocean with silent deference. I can. I should be able to.

And then the announcement: due to time and security concerns, the course will be shortened and instead of swimming a triangle, we were going to swim parallel to the beach. Instead of 5k, we were going to do 4. In my mind, I was grateful that it was going to be shorter.

The start.

The whistle for the women’s start sounded after the men were passing the first buoy, which was an orange ball, double the size of a basketball.

In open water swim terms, this was very small, as I was about to see.

I breathe only one side, my right side and though I could see the shore the whole time I was swimming to the buoy, I angled out far too much. So much so that when I finally arrived to the buoy marking the start of my second kilometer, I came at it from open water, perpendicular to the shore, and not swimming towards it from along the coast. The waves rocked me and during the entire way, I could not see that yellow buoy. My reference point was an identical buoy that was placed on the beach, about the same distance away as the one in the water.

I never thought I would feel so happy to see that yellow buoy that looked like a triangle chunk of cheese, just like in the cartoons. I swam around it and started my journey back. I had no way of seeing the basketball buoy from the cheese buoy so I went back, going parallel to the beach and using the palapa that was level with the basketball buoy and the finish line. The current started to pick up and on several occasions, I was almost flipped over when the waves would catch me, right as I was turning to breathe.

I was starting my second lap when the problems started. I began to notice that the Vaseline in my nose was wearing off. At the 2k mark, I started to feel the burn. Upon rounding the basketball buoy, the burning incremented. By this time, the current was stronger and every now and then, when I would turn my head to breathe, I had a wave crashing in my face.

I felt how my legs dragged behind me.

I felt how I couldn’t lift my left arm out of the water without some conscious effort.

I felt how the salt water flooded my mouth and burned until my eardrum.

I repeated to myself that as long as I could breathe, everything was going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay.

But like everything, you can get to the point where you get worn out.

Breathe to the side through the mouth. Exhale through the nose. Swallow salt water that rushes through your nose. Breathe to the side through the mouth. Exhale through the nose. Wave that slaps you in the face and forces you to swallow more water.

I have never had to work so hard to breathe in my life.

I didn’t want to breathe anymore.

I wanted it to be over. I wanted to finish. And I didn’t know if I could hold out before the fatigue that was chasing me set in. Just a little while more, I said to myself, while my nasal passages kept burning. You’re going to be uncomfortable for just a little bit more.

A lifeguard in a kayak was shouting at me. Indicating in gestures, he motioned towards where I should go. Each time I tried to go where he was telling me to, he shouted at me some more. I realized that I was swimming off course and tried again. I thought he was following me in his kayak but after a while, after I didn’t see him anymore, it struck me. In the five minutes he was shouting at me, it was not because he was following me but because I couldn’t swim out of that spot: I was swimming but the current held me in one place.

My strength was slowly waning.

I was upset and felt my tears of anger and frustration fill my goggles. My legs strayed everywhere. The current broke my form into a thousand different formations that had nothing to do with the word “straight.” I fought a losing battle against the waves. Come on. You have to hold on.

Further on, there was another kayak. The lifeguard was motioning for me to leave the water. There was also a man on the beach, making me the same sign. By this time, I felt like an invertebrate. My body folded every which way because of the fatigue and the waves. I was trying to push myself forward with little success. My tongue felt raw, burnt by the acidity of the sargasso.

I left the water and even though I was conversing calmly and even buoyantly with the man from the beach, an invisible sheet covered me. I didn’t know what it was at the time but I sunk into a silence that had nothing to do with the fatigue.

I was disillusioned with myself.

The only ending of the story that I hadn’t contemplated was happening and as I got to the finish line flags walking, and not swimming, a finisher’s medal that I felt that I did not deserve was hung around my neck. I did not know how to explain it to myself. All I knew was that this moment was mine. The anger that I felt belonged only to me and to no one else.

I waited till I got home to cry.

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A co-worker, who was quoting a famous director, told me that one should do film to cure oneself.

I think writing fulfills the same function.

Today I did my first open water swim. I reproached myself for my weakness as I had walked back to the finish line, without even knowing that that was what I was doing. I realize now, however, that not everything can be achieved on the first try. And like Weinstock, I, too, want to leave the room with a little bit of my dignity intact. In confessing these very words, I feel that my dignity is salvageable in knowing that sooner or later, I will be in open waters again, competing.

To Arrive: The Regional Triathlon 2009, Cancun

This is triathlon #3.

I’ve been running more, putting in more speed work, going out to run at night.

I bought a road bike, one that rides like it can cut butter: smooth, effortless gear shifting and responds to my legs. I bought it one week before this tri which meant me doing this as cold turkey as it gets. A roadie friend of mine told me that it takes a while to get used to a road bike.

I had one week to find out.

I convinced myself that it wasn’t that bad. A friend registered for a tri in Valle de Bravo but was training on a mountain bike up until then. The Tuesday before the event, he bought his road bike. Wednesday, he took it out for all of ten minutes to ride. Thursday, it was packed and ready to go. Saturday, he did the tri.

It was enough to say that the bike was his worst event and suffered wholeheartedly.

I was praying that a couple of hours of experience would give me an advantage.

The day of the triathlon: the organizers has told us to arrive later to give a chance to the younger athletes to start first. Kids from Tabasco, Chiapas, Yucatan and Quintana Roo were all there, competing when I arrived. And as the sun fell like lead, some who were waiting pulled out markers and marked their arms and legs with their bib numbers.

My pesky nerves were attacking me all week, especially when I considered the swim. I convinced myself that it was a training session, nothing more. For others, however, it wasn’t that simple. The Friday before the event, Claudia told me that she still had to find a bike. She’s an excellent swimmer but I contemplated her words. It meant maintaining your cadence in the blazing sun for 20 kilometers (about 12 miles) on a bike that was not hers, after swimming nearly half a mile, to go and run about 3 miles. I didn’t know how to break it to her so I just kept quiet. Fernando, however, had already done a triathlon (the Turkey Triathlon) but hadn’t trained too much and was a bit nervous. A marathoner and an excellent swimmer, I knew that he would pull through.

Standing in front of the ocean, the sun produced diamonds of light on the surface of the water. The men got together first and were the first heat to start. As I watched them leave, the women started to gather at the starting line. I took a deep breath and knew that today, the sea is mine.

The whistle.

I was still running through the water when others were already facedown in the water, swimming. I allowed them to get a little further away before I started swimming as well.

For the first time in the swim, I was swimming neck and neck with two other women for the first 200 meters. I, who swore that no one could be slower, found two others who were just as slow. I didn’t know them but it could have been their first time doing an ocean swim.

In the first buoy, I turned and lost them completely. The modified crawl became my favorite stroke. That’s because every now and so often, I would lift my head out of the water to see where I was. The murkiness of the water set my mind at ease and helped me concentrate.

I got to the beach and Aline, a judge and a friend, called out “34:20.” The time it took me to swim the half mile. Slower than hell. As I ran to T1, I turned to see that there were two people still in the water behind me.

Now for the moment of truth. I mounted my new baby. My Cannondale. It was so wonderfully sweet and giving that I was able to pass up five people. This being that I had a Camelbak on, due to the fact that I didn’t have bottle cages. I even raced a man ahead of me, trying to sprint as if we were Armstrong and Indurain.

I said “as if.”

Then came the problem: in the transition, I couldn’t find my things underneath the bike rack. I walk up and down for a couple of minutes, trying to find them. I spot them under someone else’s bike, who just so happened to park on top of my goggles and towel. I shoved the bike aside and I started to change. Meanwhile, the guy I raced at the end of the bike is already heading out towards the run.

I start to run.

Five minutes later, I’m praying to the high heavens to have them end the run segment.

Now would be nice.

My body felt heavy and I imagine that the little sprint wasn’t without its consequences. My heels didn’t want to kick up anymore and I knew it was going to be an agonizing while that followed.
And like last time, people started to pass me up. I didn’t care anymore. All I wanted was to finish. Nothing on my body was Harting but I felt I was now a sack of rocks.

But I continued.

About half a mile to the finish line, I saw a group of kids on their bikes. They were the same ones who were competing in the morning and now that they were finished, they were riding home in the other direction. They passed me up, rooting me on, telling me that I was close to finishing. I saw their youthful faces, fresh and smiling, filled with hope, and happy to have finished and competed.

That amazed me.

And like last time, people started to pass me up. But I didn’t care anymore. I wanted it all to end. Nothing in my body was in pain but I just felt like a sack of rocks.

And I kept at it.

A little less than a mile from the finish line, I saw a group of kids (who looked like they were in high school) riding towards me. They were the same kids who I had seen in the morning. They passed me up, rooting me on, telling me that I was close. I saw their youthful faces, fresh and smiley, filled with hope, happy to have finished and to have competed. And that struck me.

Maybe one day, one of these kids will grow up to be an Olympic hopeful, representing Mexico. Maybe they’ll become such a great athlete that they’ll win the Panamerican Games. The World Cup. The Olympics. And have the hopes of an entire nation behind them, wanting to be like them. Like Olympic silver medal sprinter Ana Guevara. Like a PWGA women’s champion, Lorena Ochoa.

Or maybe they’ll become scientists that discover the cure for cancer. Or a Nobel Prize writer.

And they were rooting me on.

I just saw the future of a nation ride by me on two wheels.

Maybe I was endorphin overloading but I was so moved that I almost burst into tears. Seeing the finish line up ahead cut me off short and I dried my face.

I can’t run with my nose clogged.

This time, there was no awards ceremony. This time, there were a lot of mad people who were ticked off that the registration fees didn’t cover, even remotely, the same perks as in the previous triathlon. There wasn’t a lot of proper organization and there was a whole mess of angry words. And as the finishing times were put down in pen and paper instead of digitally with a chip and a modem, I watch as a pelican soared over the sea and the light of the setting sun cast shades of pink and red. I remembered the faces of those young triathletes and decided that regardless of everything that happened, today, there is nothing more beautiful than a triathlon.

Calluses: The Quintana Roo Statewide Triathlon 2009

In a sudden decision, I was considered to compete in the Statewide Triathlon in Cancun with only a week’s worth of notice. This time, I was not besieged with sensations of nausea, dizziness, lack of appetite. This time, I was not pregnant, about ready to give birth to a triathlon. This time, I did not even feel the need to think if some benevolent doctor would do me the favor of removing my digestive system before the competition.

I arrived to Puerto Cancun (a fancy complex on the beach but still under construction) early to rack my bike. Yuri, who looked as if she had spent the night in the bulldozer shovel, had dark circles under her eyes and was talking to several some of the swimmers from the Red Cross, trying to calm herself. About to participate in her first triathlon, she kept her cool with a ton of class.

Little by little, they started to arrive: the experienced, those who were looking to qualify, the newbies.

In the marking, my arms were elegantly painted with my numbers: 28. These became a sort of tattoo afterwards. Since I didn’t put on any sunscreen beforehand, I was basically branded, the number in a lighter tone, causing a bit of surprise to those who notice.

The tri start was late in coming. We stood in the wet sand, waiting anxiously for the whistle and when it finally did blow, all I could think was, “And if I don’t do it?” Everyone was splashing about and the inertia pulled me into the water. It was murky and I couldn’t see the bottom. I imagined it being deep when I noticed that the base of the sea wall I was swimming next to was hard to see.

Today I had my hair up in a bun, as a suggestion from my swim instructor. “So that you can go faster,” he told me. Even with this vague advantage, I still was nowhere near feeling like Michael Phelps as I was being left behind. Upon rounding the first sea wall, I felt my swim cap slide back. My goggles will hold it on, I thought.

“Modified crawl every ten strokes,” my lifeguard friend had told me. I lifted my head out of the water every now and so often to see where I was. We had to swim an “M” around two sea walls and upon round the wall, the buoy was a lot farther off than I thought and I lost sight of it frequently.

At least I don’t have to worry about swimming to Cuba this time.

When I finally got to the end of the swim, I heard people shouting my name. I fell in the sargasso, betrayed by the wet sand that had turned into a thick goop underneath the plants. I took off my goggles to find that I had lost my cap.

With wet hair dripping over my face, falling and, apparently, having the largest group of people cheering me on, I wasn’t exactly the spitting image of grace. I looked more like a wet St. Bernard.

“Here comes the last two athletes!” I heard the announcer shout into the microphone as I ran up to my bike. Cool. I wasn’t the last one out of the water.

I arrive to T1 was a little bit more practice. A water bottle to wash the sand off my sandy feet. A towel to dry them. First shoe. Second shoe. Jersey with pinned-on bib number. Helmet. Sunglasses. Unrack bike.

This was one of those moments when I thanked my mountain biking experience. The terrain was gravelly in certain sections due to the construction. I took it all in stride. There was a woman who was on a road bike and whose face was as red as her suit. She had her helmet on at an angle, sitting further back on her head as if it were a baseball cap, her hair askew and pasted to her face.

If suffering had a representative image, this woman would win hands down.

Upon finishing my second lap, the leaders were already returning to the racks to pick up their bikes. By this time, I was able to pass up two people (one of them being Suffering Woman) on the bike but those same two passed me up in the run. I ran calmly, knowing that there was no hurry. I wasn’t going to break any records; I had no sponsors on my back. The only record I beat was my own: I arrived second to last, one place better than last time.

But something got my hide:

Suffering passed me up.

There is a marvelous movie called “The World’s Fastest Indian” with Sir Anthony Hopkins. It’s the true story of Burt Munro, a New Zealander who, at his 60 some-odd years of age, went to make his dream come true in running his streamline, sub-1000 cc motorcycle on the salt flats of Bonneville, Utah. At the beginning of the movie, there is a shot of a shelf filled with pistons, pieces that he himself had made and, for one reason or another, didn’t work. Witnesses to his hundreds of intents at being better.

It was a part of his offering to the God of Speed, on his search for the piece that will make him faster.

I also search for the piece that will make me faster.

If there is an element that I identify with, I would say it was the wind.

If there was an animal that I loved, I would say it would be a bird of prey, like a hawk.

And just like that, I found my totem.

In my solitary wanderings (what I call my training sessions), I sometimes see a hawk far away, drawing circles in the air. In my mind, it lands on a tree that is on top of a hill, which I see only as a tiny dot on the horizon. And it waits for me. Sometimes, it seems so far away that I’m not even sure that I’m moving towards it but I trust that if my feet are moving, the distance between the hawk and I is closing.

I want to be fast. Make me fast.

If I make it to that tree where that hawk is, I’ll know I am.

A Leap of Faith: A Chronicle on the Triatlon del Pavo in Cancun, Mexico

I believe that there are certain points in life that you have to pass by to find out, not so much how good you are at something and not even how much so, but only to see, live and breathe.

I did my first triathlon ever. A great feat that carries with it the hardest of battles with one of the most assiduous enemies of my life: fear. And after nearly two years of hurting myself from falling off my bike, twisting my ankle, cramps in my calves that could have well been syndromes that required amputation, among other events, I arrived to that finish line.

This is how it went.

We arrived early with the wind blowing and the sun peeking between long strips of clouds. My friends and I were sitting on the sand, watching how beautiful the sunrise was. The ocean, like rumpled silk, tempted and taunted between whispers of the wind as the sun made its presence known before hiding behind clouds again. And after watching all the other categories start, it was finally our turn.

The squeal of the starting whistle.

Everyone ran to the ocean, splashing each other, dolphining, swimming, running. I slipped into the water and was rocked by the waves. My respiration started to peak and drop wildly. Panic slapped me in the face, making me stand on the sargasso. In the distance, I saw how the waves elevated all the other swimmers.

I froze.

It was in that brief moment that an ounce of doubt seeped in and said, "And if I tell my trainer that I'm not going to do this?"

"What's wrong? Are you okay?"

I turned and saw one of the lifeguards who was watching over the swimmers. His question erased everything on my slate and before I knew it, I put my face back into the water.

At the first buoy, I was panicking again and I grabbed a lifeguard's floater. Another swimmer was already there, on another floater.

"I'm going to throw up," he said.

And it was only the first 100 meters.

And as the lifeguard towed the swimmer back, the one who had my floater asked me if I was going to continue. I looked towards the second buoy and saw how far away it looked. A wave passed by gently as if the sea was trying to claim me as its own.

I am, and nothing more.

When I was finishing my first lap, the last couple of swimmers were finishing their second lap. When I stepped into the ocean again for my second lap, I was alone. Swimming 200 meters extra didn't help the situation either. I was practically on my way to Cuba when lifeguards caught up with me and pulled at my leg on four separate occasions.

"You're on your way back to Cancun," said one. In my last 200 meters, he corralled me so that I wouldn't swim so far off track again. And as I swam and saw how far I was from the course and from the buoy I was supposed to be swimming to, I vowed that if I ever got back to land, I would kiss the first person I see.

The only person who was on shore waiting was a friend I had no intention of ever kissing. He had waited for me.

Mental kisses, then.

The bike was the easiest part except for the first two kilometers. I saw something that wouldn't easily erase from my mind: an athlete (who I clearly remembered seeing on the beach before the whistle) was lying on the middle of the road with a dark puddle under her head. Two road bikes were leaning on separate trees and the race organizers were indicating that the competitors continue the race.

I didn't see a helmet anywhere.

As I passed her, I felt a numbness in the back of my head. In the following laps, I was repeating to myself a sort of prayer, hoping she wouldn't die on me. In the second lap, the dark puddle seeped across the road in a thick path, crossing in front of me. I saw the wet spot on my tire as I race across.

Please don't die on me. Please don't die on me.

By the time I was on my third lap, she was sitting on the side of the road, her head bandaged.

In the fourth lap, the only ones who were still on the bike was a teenager who looked like he was suffering from cramps and a guy on an old skool double suspension Mongoose with a rack for school books on the back. The only thing he had there was a bottle of Gatorade strapped firmly onto its grill.

Getting off the bike, the balls of my feet felt hollow, as if they had holes from where I had been pressing against the pedals. And as blisters formed on my feet from the grains of sand that were still stuck to my skin from the swim, my face contorted and formed a smile. Even though I knew that at that point, I was the only one doing the triathlon (most everyone had left and the roads were opened to traffic again), I kept going.

In the last 20 meters, I saw the finish line loom before me. Karla, Hector, Genaro, Odin, Vega and Rosana (friends from my mountain bike group) were shouting at me, urging me across. My heels kicked high and I sprinted, wondering if I was going to cry.

Crossing the finish line, I leapt as if I were in a tampon commercial.

I'm free.

Rosana grabbed me and hugged me hard (her specialty). And as I panted from that last sprint, I realized that I had just finished my first triathlon. An incredible wave of emotion came over me with a strength and elegance that only this grand moment could have given me:

I sobbed as I had never done in my whole entire life.

When I arrived to Cancun, the first time I went to swim in open waters was with Genaro. I remembered the fear that came over me as I held on for dear life to the line of buoys. He dragged me along for the little bit that I could manage to swim and was a real trooper that day, showing incredible patience for this scaredy cat. And when I saw him at the finish line with his big brother smile, I saw how that circle closed right in front of me.

On the way, I carried my dead with me: Donna, the mother of one of my dearest friends, died of cancer. Her daughter and my friend, Gen, dedicated her first triathlon to her mother and that, later, became my reason for starting this journey as well. Esperanza, a very good friend who used to accompany her boyfriend in his marathons, passed away earlier this year. Neither had ever seen me in a competition.

Now they have.

And as I saw the word "FINISH" rise in front of me, I heard the shouts of the only people waiting there, waiting for me, come from friends. I realized then that the one thing that pushes us on when we compete in a race, regardless of what place we come in, was reduced to the following words:

"Close up shop. I'm here and I'm done."