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.