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.
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