The Most Divine of All Arts: Chronicle of the 1st Edition of the Mayan X Tri in Punta Venado, Quintana Roo 2010

Out of all the elements, I've always identified with wind because of this innate compatibility I feel for it. That ever-changing element that surrounds you and breathes the coolest of breaths onto you and soothes on the hottest of days. The weekend of the first edition of the Mayan X Tri, however, brought winds that kicked up to a cool 38 kph (23 mph), making flying sand sting and feel as if your skin was freezing, without the chill.


The day before the competition, I was riding along the Hotel Zone and for the first time, I was scared for my life. The winds were so strong that as a 160 pound person on heavy mountain bike, I never thought I would feel that cold sweat as I did in those precarious moments. I felt the whole frame of my bike tilt too much for my taste and I was scared of being thrown into the way of a passing bus.

The pre-competition meeting was at the Canibal Royal in Playa del Carmen, just on the beach. Even as the sun set, we could still see the strength of the wind and the rocking waves crash violently on the sand. The most probable outcome was a duathlon: three kilometers trek, 20 kilometer mountain bike ride through the jungle and an 8 kilometer trekking route to the finish. Even when they brought out dancers from the local culture center, who performed a ceremony for good luck during the event, we all had a pretty good idea that the winds would not subside by morning.

As I lounged and mingled during the meeting and carb dinner, I was running into friends I hadn't seen in a year. People I used to ride with. People who I didn't realize that I had missed so much until seeing them again opened floodgates of good vibes.

Early that next morning, when we walked down to the race start, the ocean pounded wildly against the beach, making a duathlon an inevitable factor of the race. And as I had only sandals, my running the first three kilometers was out of the question.

But I wasn't satisfied. I felt the hunger within me.

I needed to swim.

Kicking off my shorts and sandals, I pulled on my cap and goggles and swam. My body rocked as the water under me was completely foggy. Every now and then, I saw large pieces of coral, the size of papayas, rocking freely in the water and rising before me as the waves pushed me down towards the sand. I remembered thinking that a year and a half ago, I would have been scared to death of this kind of water.

And now I welcomed it. Bring it on.

I got out of the water and waited with my team (Odin and his cousin, Monica) for the race start. Then, in a rush, they called the individual men up first, followed by the indie women and then the relays.

The whistle.

One by one, the heats sprinted off into the blazing sun. Odin went to wait in the transition tent while I waited by the start, on the watch for Monica.

It was when Monica came back that the race became that much more interesting. By this time, it was about 9:30 to 10 in the morning and the sun was barreling down on the jungle. When it was possible, the wind swept off the heat but it didn't happen often enough for those whose inner tubes had burst. Cyclists had to sweat it out, changing them maybe one, two or more times in the unforgiving heat.

I sat in the transition tent with Heriberto and Monica waiting for Odin and the other relays to arrive. As the minutes ticked away, we grew worried that something might have happened. Serrano, the competitor who would eventually come in first, came to the transition, doing the bike segment in less than one hour. If first place did it in that kind of time, how much longer would it take everyone else?

One by one, the indie men started running in.

Where were our relays?

Then, sporting a wide smile, Carlos Palazuelos (aka Tequilo and known personally by me as "Irapuato") comes running up, racks his bike and runs to the tent.

"A warm round of applause for the first relay to come in!" yelled one competitor in the tent.

We all clapped as the chip was taken off Irapuato's ankle. I hugged him, sweaty and tired, as hard as I could as he was doused with a spray of water. This man who did his first sprint triathlon in October and is going to do his first 70.3 Ironman this coming Sunday. The one who considers me his triathlon "godmother" for having inspired him to compete. The one who gave me back my faith in me as a triathlete.

I couldn't have been more proud.

They soon started coming in and the runners started leaving the tent. Odin was still nowhere to be seen.

One cyclist limped into the bike zone, his leg cramping on him completely. His face twisted in pain as some of those waiting with me shouted to the judges to help him. He labored with his bike as he lifted it onto the rack, every step causing him to wince. When he finally got into the transition zone and his runner finally got the chip off of him and ran, they laid him on the brush and massaged his leg. I ran to the box of ice cubes and pulled out handfuls. Prostrate and on the grass, it was hard to find where to stuff the cubes onto him so I tried to form a snowman out of the melting ice cubes, on his stomach.

I failed miserably, as the cubes slid easily off his stomach and onto the brush.

More relays started coming in and as the bikers sat in the shade, a glazed look started to appear over their faces. I pulled out bricks of ice and placed them on John's and Chitolo's necks. The ensuing "oh yeahs" started to erase the glaze from their eyes.

Then finally, a mustard yellow Pumas jersey came round the bend and rushed to the rack. I called Monica over and we pushed past the others so that she could put on the chip. She sprinted off into the jungle as I pulled Odin into the tent. As I filled my hands with ice cubes, he walked off and stood in the sun, a little apart from the tent, pacing and unsettled.

I went over to him and put the cubes on his neck. He turned and I felt the weight of the competition pour out of him. He had popped his back shifter, completely twisting it off with a passing branch as if it were a can of sardines, endangering his means to finish, while the sun had squeezed out every last ounce of his determination. He was exhausted and had been pushed to the limit. I held him as I told him it was okay, that he finished, that he was okay.

I went back and forth between the palapa and the finish line, all the while, meeting up with old friends and making new ones.

It was then that I saw Lety, fellow photographer, come into view over the hill and with beaming pride, I remembered how she told Maritza and I how we were her examples to follow. That because of us, she decided that she could do a triathlon too. And when she saw the finish line, her heels kicked up in a furious frenzy as she sped home.

I think her brother cried a little as he held her.

While I was back at my table, I looked over towards the beach and saw Marilupe sitting with a towel wrapped around her. She had just finished but her face held something behind her slightly knitting brows. Bety and Heriberto stood around her, talking animatedly.

I walked over and embraced her. I felt the still silence in her thin frame, compact and bottled. I knew that stillness. I've heard that silence before.

"I'm really proud of you," I whispered.

And so she unfolded: the frustration, the heat, the fatigue, the dehydration and then, to finally finish that torture with the sweetness of knowing that she did do what she set out to do. Contagious tears started pouring down her face and escaped from my own eyes as well.

"Why are you crying?" she asked with a sniff.

"Because Bety is standing on my foot. And it hurts. A lot."

The giggling brought on a group hug and Marilupe's sudden petition for a beer.

She was going to be okay.

You could choose to do anything you want: get mad, throw a fit, toss your bike into the nearest bush. But you didn't: you rode, you cried, you screamed into the wind, you damned the elements, only to get pelted in the face with sand, a bush, a low-hanging branch. And yet you chose to finish. You chose. And that is how the most divine of all arts, love, creates one of the most beautiful and most intimate of all sensations: personal triumph.

Welcome to my world.