Sunday, June 5, 2011

DNF (Did Not Finish): Chronicle of the Cancun State Triathlon at Punta Nizuc (3 April 2011)

It was 2002. I remember because I was watching the World Cup in Japan and South Korea. Pride had taken the helm then and instead of calling my parents to help me because money was very short, I decided to suffer through it. I remember eating a bar of cooking chocolate because it was the only food I had and lying on my stomach to watch soccer because otherwise, I would be spending too much energy and I didn't have the food to keep me going.

They were hard years. So hard that I dipped into depression and I had asked God that if there wasn't a further purpose for my life, to take me. I had scarcely enough of the work I hated to make ends meet. I couldn't pay rent. I didn't have gas for the stove and hot water nor money for toilet paper and toothpaste. My credit card was maxed. My phone line was cut. The rent collectors banged on the door as I cowered in the corner. This existence was painful. I did not want to go on.

And nothing happened. It was as if there was an unspoken word that was said.

One word makes all the difference. It doesn't take much.

I took that as a sign to go on and continue.

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DNF. Did Not Finish. That's what happens when a triathlete, for one reason or another, cannot finish. I've never had one before but this time, I was thinking I may have to.

Tuesday evening was the last time I ran before Sunday's triathlon. My knee has been off and on since the time trial in January and after therapy and two weeks of rest, had started to feel strange after a 30 minute run. The evolution during the week had gone from not doing the tri, to doing the swim and the bike to "let's see what happens".

"Just see how your knee feels after the swim and bike," Joseph had said.

Like I said, it only takes a couple of words.

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Sunday morning rolls around and as we walked down to the swim start, I enjoyed the sun and the smooth feel of the water against my skin.

This is going to be a fast swim.

Minutes before the swim started, the event organizer announced that due to a conference on drug trafficking in Cancun, the bike leg will only have one lane open. Five meters of space for two-way bike traffic. Please let there not be stupid bikers today.....

The men started out the gate first as the women lined up on the beach. When I got in the water, a pelican flew low over us. It was one of those unique kinds of moments to which only you feel privy to, a kind of private salute from Mother Nature herself. I raised my hand, as if to say hi.

Waist deep in water, I got ready to start.

The horn.

I attacked the water and felt strong. My hands kept diving in between other swimmers who were in front of me as we raced to the first buoy. The water was calm and save for the occasional wave caused by the jet skis, it was smooth sailing.

Out of the water, I ran to T1. Running through a path marked by beach loungers, I made it to my bike and took the necessary time to remember everything I had to get on my person: bib number, sunglasses, helmet, bike.

I was out the gate.

I sped on and felt as if a bird of prey stood inside of me. It was slowly opening its wings and extending them as far outwards as it could. Enormous wings flapped downwards and pushed on the air.

My feet shoved themselves forward into my shoes as I passed someone. And then another. And then another.

But I wasn't sure if I could hold out. I haven't trained for this. The run. That blasted run. My knee had protested on Tuesday. Will it hold out?

I opted to slow my pace a bit as I slid into T2.

Hang bike. Take off helmet. Put on cap. Wash off feet. Slip on shoes.

I was out of the gate.

Before I realized it, I was running down the path. Wasn't I thinking to not do the run? No tweaks. No twinges. My knee feels okay. I can stop further along, if I need to.

After running across the dirt path, however, my knee started to feel a bit funny. I slowed to a walk and decided maybe I should just take it easy.

Lau from 3BT ran alongside.

"Come on, Fumiko! Let's run!"

"My knee..." I protested.

"Then we'll run together," she had said.

We'll run together.

It only takes a couple of words and I didn't stop running till I got to the finish line.

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At the run turn, there were a group of teenagers who were passing out bottles of water. They held out their untopped bottles of waters when one of the girls said something that I wasn't expecting:

"Wasabi!" she said.

I looked at her hard.

It only takes a word. I could have blown up and did something regrettable.

But I didn't.

Instead, I took a bottle of water from a young man standing in front of the girl.

"Thank you," I had said.

The sudden cacophony of hoots and hollers surprised me. As I turned the corner, I realized what had happened: I was the first competitor to come through and say those two words to them.

It wasn't my intention to be malicious and I would never knowingly do so unless I was provoked. But my pride found control of my voice and said to the girl,

"We foreigners are just better that way."

She wasn't phased at all. Someone had said "thank you" and where I was from didn't matter at all.

It only takes a couple of words.

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I started out the day expecting a DNF. Instead, I found a series of words that each in their own way lifted me up, as if they were that bird of prey that I have inside of me. And when I think back to those days when I had to choose between paying my bus fare and eating, and asking God what the purpose of my being alive was, I remember.

I remember that you are only as strong as the words you use. The words you feel. The words you know to be true.

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