It had rained and the streets were filled with puddles. By Las Americas Mall, there was a section that had gotten so much rain, it had covered an entire lane. A bus had just zipped up right before me and drove on the part where there was no water. I was right in front of the puddle and decided that instead of coming that close to the bus, I'd ride right through the puddle.
I never saw the pothole.
Needless to say, my bike made an interesting hat.
I sat in the puddle and the bus driver didn't even think of stopping. Another rushed on by, right after him and didn't care to stop.
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"Look, this is your muscle," Dr. Wajid pointed out. The cursor of my leg's ultrasound rested on the half of the section of the screen where black cords ran horizontally across. "And this," moving the cursor over what looked to be grey scratches, above the cords, "is fat."
"Here is the bruise." The cursor floated above a black splotch that was surrounded by the grey scratches.
The bruise wasn't muscular, meaning it wouldn't affect the possibility of doing the Ironman.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't at all annoyed that a man should call me fat.
In the transition area, Danny and I went to set up our places. I was able to see lots of friends I didn't expect to see as well as my two favorite elites/heroes, Michellie Jones and Oscar Galindez, before I got into the water.
Then, the male swim heats began. I looked at my Garmin: my pulse was at 83.
Because so many women were competing this year, our start was in a single wave.
The horn.
I was always surrounded by people throughout the entire swim, something that is unusual for me since I was one of the last to leave the water last year. I ran to T1 and saw more bikes racked still than last year. A good sign.
I put on my jersey and all of my gels, Gatorade sacks and Gu electrolite chews fell out of my jersey pockets as if I had been caught shoplifting at the supermarket. I quickly stuffed my pockets again, not minding what went where. I lifted my pant leg to put on a bit of Body Glide FX Warming for the pain.
I grabbed my bike and ran.
The first 15 miles were absolutely wonderful. I was pedaling at a good pace, passing up people and it wasn't that hot.
When I was coming back from the first of two 25-mile laps was when things went slightly array. I was riding against strong winds that made my speed drop from 19 mph to 11 mph. The sun was still shining when I saw up ahead black clouds roll over the road, where the trees and asphalt marked the way into rainy shadows.
I was able to maintain my buoyant attitude when all of a sudden, something that I didn't want happening, happened.
Thump.
What was that?
Thump.
Was that the road?
Thump.
It's not the road.
I looked down and saw my back tire flattened under the rim.
I have no more inner tubes.
I removed my tire, took out the inner tube and found the culprit: a metal wire. Why didn't I check my tires before I put in a new tube? I took out the tube and raised it high at the passing competitors.
Someone give me an inner tube. Please.
"Fumi!"
It was Fer Luna. He had come biking from the transition to collect stuff that people had dropped on the bike route. His haul was so good that he even had an inner tube someone had thrown out. An event mechanic came up in that moment and changed my tire. I knew someone was watching over me.
The rain fell in sheets but no one stopped.
On the second lap, with two flat tires and riding against the wind, I knew time was running out and there were hardly any competitors on the bike left. The road seemed so long and the return was weighing heavily upon me. I thought that if I could make it to KM 60, I would definitely be able to finish. And when I saw the last aid tent before T2, I knew I was close.
All the volunteers broke out into applause and cheers as I arrived and while I rode up the bridge back to the Hotel Zone, I almost started to cry.
In T2, Aline, event judge and friend, came up to me.
"Competitor 985, you have two minutes to leave transition. If not, you will not be allowed to run."
I threw on my shoes without washing off my feet: a fact I would well remember during the run; pieces of asphalt, dirt and rocks reminded me agilely at every step.
But I kept repeating in my mind that the first 10 I had run easy while the next five I have to up the pace and the last two I have to give with everything that I've got.
The rocks in my shoes bounced around but I didn't want to stop and shake them out.
I can hold out.
I have to hold out.
I felt the smile that I wore a while ago melting and sliding off my face. Looking at my watch, I knew I wasn't going to make it within the seven-hour mark.
"Easy Fu," the voice in my head was saying. "Or you're going to fuck yourself over."
"Good job! Stay loose!" said a passing competitor, as he biked back to his hotel.
I have to finish.
And if I walk it? And if I don't finish? And if I stop and get the rocks out? Why am I doing this?
But my body continued on. Every time I was bathed in ice water, I felt my body cool for only a second only to feel as if it never happened. My head burned even with the ice in my cap. I needed to finish.
I don't remember this road having so many turns. When is this going to all end?
And then I saw the sign: 900 m to the finish line.
I kicked up my heels like I've done in all those training sessions these past three weeks and tried going as fast as I could. At the 500 meter mark, my friend, Irapuato, and the triathletes of TriBlueTeam were hanging out in their tent. When they saw me, they began to shout, rooting me to go on.
And that was when Irapuato shouted:
"I LOVE YOU FUMI!"
It was then that I knew who I was doing this for: I'm doing this for them.
I'm doing this for me.
I completely lost it. A hiccuping sob started to escape as I ran to the finish. Everyone on the way was applauding me and I couldn't stop crying. I don't know what they said. I don't know who they were. But I knew that they had never left me.
And like a bullfighter, I crossed into the plaza. The sun shone on gold embroidery that was my sweat. I stood in the middle of the plaza and took off my hat, the black "montera", and pivoted on one foot, turning slowly, with hat in hand. I saluted the plaza, which was filled with my people: everyone who gave me money for my birthday so that I could register for the Ironman; Willy, who was driving next to the run course when he happened to see me, reversed and shouted with emotion at this wonderful craziness I was participating in; the bikers from MTB Cancun, who came out to root us on; my friends from the Red Cross, who were there at the finish, waiting for me; the 3BT Triathletes with their drum and songs; the Go Cycle crew; my event official friends who were witnesses to my tears and all those who I carried with me and who could not be there. But there were those who I did not know: the volunteers at the aid stations; the man who doused me with cold water and offered to bathe my legs; the officials who rooted me on; my fellow competitor who said I was kick ass; the other who told me it was one mile to the turn; those who told me "good job!" to urge me on when my voice had, by then, turned into a soft whisper.
I throw the montera and it falls to the ground, the top of which points to the sky. A sign of good luck. I had conquered a pre-competition bike injury, two flat tires, torrential winds, blazing heat, humidity and my own demons. Counting this Ironman, it was the seventh time this year that I had done a long ride.
Thank you for being there for me. This one's for you.
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