Triathlons in Cancun and Riviera Maya

A Delicious Finish: The 2011 Cozumel Ironman (27 November 2011)

2012-01-29T19:38:00.000-08:00

My movements werepretty mechanical, due to the grogginess. I ate, brushed my teeth, packed thelast couple of items I might need and was off.

What the hell am Idoing up at 4 o'clock in the morning?

At the bus station, Iwas able to catch the 6 a.m.to Playa del Carmen and was seated near two guys from

England

who had obviously beenpartying all night.

I saw the 7 a.m. ferry starting out as Iraced down to the ferry landing from the bus station and had to wait for the 8 a.m. to Cozumel.

And my day hadn't evenstarted yet.

---------------

About four years ago,I bought my first bike: a mountain bike. I found a biking group and my secondride was in a place called Punta Venado. I remember I sat eating the buffet'sbeef fajitas with a guy from Veracruz.

This was where I firstmet Carlos, who is now known by everyone as Tekilo.

He didn't come to thatmany rides but I remembered there was a ride we did all along the coast of theHotel Zone. I didn't have my Camelbak so I used a bag that I got on a worktrip. It had printed on it the words, "¡Que rico es Irapuato!" (How Delicious is Irapuato!). As I bikeddown the path, he suddenly zipped past me and shouted those words as he dustedme.

On the beach, I sawhim up ahead of me and with quite a bit of momentum, I was able to speed pasthim on the sand and I shouted back those same words.

And just like in themovies, I laughed arrogantly as I zipped past, turning my head, only to open myeyes wide in fear.

What I neglected tonotice was the wooden pier in front of me. I swerved and like a lonely littlecockroach, I fell over.

We both laughed sohard, the name stuck. He may be "Tekilo" for everyone else butbetween the two of us, we were always "Irapuato."

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And then one day, Irun into Irapuatoon the Hotel Zone. He explained with a bit of admiration to a friend that I haddone a 70.3. He had never done a triathlon but had read my chronicles.

He wanted to do one.

Since then, I'vebecome his "triathlon godmother" as he progressed through a number oftriathlons as well as running a half marathon everyday for a whole month.

And today, he wasgoing to do his first full Ironman.

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Sensei, Lola and Alma at the
Cozumel Ironman 2011

Lola, Sensei, Alma and I all took theferry over, our bikes stowed safely away. We arrived just when the pros werefinishing their first bike lap. Cheering everyone on in the shade of the palms,we decided to move out and get to one of the aid stations.

At the aid station, weran into Susana, who was refereeing in the penalty box. After an hour of collectingbottles out of the bushes and trees in the blazing sun, more just kept gettingthrown in. At one point, a triathlete who had just finished the water in hisbottle proceeded to throw it in the bushes.

It hit me square inthe thigh.

Another triathlete whowas right behind him shook his head.

"That was prettymessed up," he said.

It only made me laugh.

There were a slew oftriathletes yelling for gels, water, Gatorade. A female triathlete with adistinctly lilting Argentinean accent complained loudly, "A banana! Che, I need a banana!"

So do we all, darling.So do we all.

I fielded a couple ofbottles out of the middle of the street so that the competitors won't haveunnecessary accidents. As I came back, I saw a woman bike by.

My jaw dropped.

She only had one leg.That wasn't, as extraordinary as it was, the most extraordinary thing. Thething that most shocked me was that she did not have a prosthetic leg.

She had pedaled 111.85 miles with onlyone leg.

I am a lazy bastard.

-----------

We decided to go backso we said goodbye to Susana. Towards the beginning the aid station area, wemet Grace from Texas.Her boyfriend has lent her a tubular tire and she went through the spare. Shewas waiting to hear if someone had a spare but she knew she was out.

We rode off and wishedher luck. She grinned back and accepted that sometimes, that's how things are.

About two miles down,however, we stopped. Lola was still thinking about Grace.

She asked aloud if sheshould go back and lend her the mountain bike so that she could finish.

I turned my bikearound because I knew Lola wouldn't stop thinking about it. And as I followedher back, watching her sprint off, I knew that what Lola wanted was whateveryone who has ever competed in the race wants: to finish. Her honest andinnocent desire to give that woman every single chance to finish a monumentalfeat as the likes of an Ironman had me sprinting on her heels.

Because I wanted herto finish too.

We found out thatbecause every single competitor is photographed with their bike upon racking, abike replacement was not allowed.

"I reallyappreciate the thought," said Grace as we shook hands.

I do too, Grace. I dotoo.

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Fer Maraton at the Cozumel Ironman 2011

Back in town, the runfor the pros was well underway. We decided to park our bikes and get somethingto eat before everyone else came back. And from the large windows of thesupermarket cafe, we watched the torrential downpour force everyone to takecover as we ate.

After the rain, thethunderous roar of biplanes flying had everyone looking to the sky. The planesflew so close to the ground that had this been the States, the FAA would havebeen going absolutely bonkers.

We walked a littlefurther up the street to wait and staked out a spot on the center island. Iturned just in time as Fer Maraton came running up. I was shouting at him likea mad woman, excited to see him. He motioned urgently at his hand as he passeda bundle of cloth he had in his hand to me.

"I LOVE YOU,FER!" I shouted as he ran off. I was giddy with excitement.

That was, until Ilooked at what I was holding in my hand.

That sort of lookslike a ... chamois from a pair of ... BIKE SHORTS?!

I was holding Fer'ssweaty bike shorts, inside out, with my hand right on the chamois.

"I HATE YOU,FER!"

I promptly put theshorts in a stray plastic bag and looked for something to clean my contaminatedhand with.

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Ruben Grande at the
Cozumel Ironman 2011

Ruben Grande, awell-known local triathlete, ran by and I ran with him. My respect andadmiration for the man is something that I hold near and dear to my heart. Hewas smiling when he commented to me, "You've lost quite a bit ofweight."

I marveled. He wasdoing an Ironman, running the marathon portion where others were careening intobarriers because they were so depleted of energy and here he was, smiling andtalking to me as if it were a chat over two lattes.

I turned back with asmile on my face.

----------------

Hanging out with TeamTekilo, I found out that he had gotten a flat on the bike and was only just finishinghis first lap. When he appeared, I ran down with him to the bend and we ranback with Heriberto, the two of us urging him on.

I ran with him untilhe could run no more. The silence between us was filled with his determinationto finish and my words.

"You ran a halfmarathon every single day for a whole month. Don't tell me you can't do this. Iwon't accept this of you," I said. He walked and his gaze found somethinginteresting on the ground before him.

"You're myhero," I said softly.

"No," hereplied. "You're my hero."

Heriberto and Irapuato at the
Cozumel Ironman 2011

I bit my lip. I didn'tknow what to say. There was a gratitude so great that filled all those emptyspaces in the air between us. How do you thank someone who has read your words,heard your stories and wanted to feel what you felt and make it his own? How doyou thank someone who wants to emulate the passion you feel for something andhas far exceeded all expectations? It was the greatest compliment paid in thehumblest of all terms and shown with all the noblest intentions.

Irapuato started talking about how he now works on Cozumel and has been living there for a bit.

I was trying to notspeak so that he wouldn't notice how thick my voice had gotten.

He sent me back withhis half-finished bottle of electrolites.

"I'll see you atthe finish," he said and kept walking. I didn't have the heart to tell himI had to go. That I couldn't stay on the island. That the last ferry left at 9p.m. and it was 8 p.m. And I had to work the next day. I felt like a traitorand tried to explain it to Joice. She said that he'd understand and that heappreciates everyone being there for him.

And I thought aboutthe last two years, how Irapuatowas there with me in the final 500 meter stretch of the Cancun 70.3 Ironman.And I wasn't going to be there for him.

I felt like a douche.

--------------

Triathlete, who pedaled 180km on a regular bike
without a prosthetic leg, on the run

He was completelygaunt and looked like he lost a couple of pounds that day but at 12:04, FerMaraton finished his first Ironman.

And as we drank amojito, I thought about all the people who have ever read my chronicles and howthey start to believe that maybe, just maybe, the sky is the limit. How theywill never fall again because believing is contagious. And how powerful theyrealize that they always have been.

---------------------

Maybe you've neverdone more than just walk at work from your seat to the bathroom. Or maybe you're just starting to run. Ormaybe you're not willing to stop eating pizza to lose weight. Maybe there're alot of things that are stopping you.

But that didn't stopRuben Grande. That didn't stop the triathlete who pushed the one pedal of herbike for 180 km.And as much as they wanted to throw in the towel and stop the madness, itdidn't stop Fer nor Irapuatoeither. Because even though it started being just about you, it has becomeabout everyone. About all those people who told you you were crazy. All thosewho tried to convince you to drink well on into the night when you had get in acold swim early the next morning. All those who told you to get your ass on thebike when you couldn't even get out of bed. All those who stood through rainand broiling sun, waiting for you to pass by just so that you knew that someonewas waiting for you.

All those people whowanted to remind you that it became about them as well.

All those people whoonly want you to finish because they know how much it means to you.

All those people.

Like you.

Like me.

On Losing: Chronicle of the 70.3 Ironman Cancun 2011 (18 September 2011)

2011-09-22T10:42:00.000-07:00

In April, Joseph asked me, “When are you going to start training?”

“Eventually,” I had replied. He was referring to the 70.3 Ironman Cancun in September.

My knee still felt a little weird and I couldn’t run 30 minutes without this strange pain in my left patella.

I hit the gym. I worked on my quads. I started to run.

But I felt heavy.

I started calorie counting one day. And I didn’t realize that working out gives an extra bit of calories you can use, past your recommended daily amount. I knew that I was hitting the limit for the day when I went swimming. I ended up doing a two-hour session that particular day, including a half hour warm up (which didn’t count because I got out of the pool to chat with someone; training has to be continuous to count) and did a 1,000 meter warm-up to replace the warm up that didn’t count.

That night, I didn’t eat dinner. That next morning, I was so completely depleted, I couldn’t think straight.

I need help. Professional help.

----------------

The nutritionist, Lorena, pulled out the tape measure and the calipers and started measuring my quads, my calves, my arms, pulling at my skin and took down the measurements. She typed everything into the computer.

I was diagnosed with class 1 obesity. A healthy woman carries between 18.5% to 24% of body fat.

I had 33%.

I was 33 lbs overweight.

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Even after I had gone for my run and well on into the night, I was still thinking about it.

And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

How did I let myself go? How did I stop caring about myself?

I felt ugly. I felt like I couldn’t be attractive. I hated this shell I was living in.

I asked myself how could a man ever want to touch me ever again?

I felt fat.

In my mind, I saw the door. That door that would let in all the hate that I could ever want to own. I would let it consume me and I could feel hidden and safe in the pain of humiliation. I stretched my hand towards the knob and gripped.

Then, a stronger and more lucid version of me appeared in front of me. Lucid-Fumiko took me by the shoulders, shook me and let a back-hand slap fly.

She bitch-slapped me. Hard.

You’re better than that.

Just give the diet two weeks.

-----------------------

The first week was pure torture.

I ate exactly what Lorena told me to eat and when. I would eye the food on my desk and turn away quickly, patiently waiting out the rumblings in my stomach.

I would hold myself at my desk, totally not concentrated on work, willing away the hunger pangs, filling myself with tea to hold me over.

---------------------

Two weeks later, I was on the scale again with Lorena.

“Oops…” she said a little nervously. “I think I overdid it.”

In two weeks, I had lost nearly nine pounds.

She proceeded immediately to adjust my diet.

---------------------

Two months later, three days before the 70.3, my diet changed into what Lorena called “the dream diet of all my weight-loss patients”. I was eating mashed potatoes, white bread and tons of pasta. I needed to build up my energy reserve so that I can go the distance without completely crashing.

I felt pretty ill afterwards. I can't believe I used to eat like that.

When I started with Lorena, I was clocking in at 169 lbs. Before my three-day carb-loading session, I had gotten down to 145.

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On the morning of the competition, Clau, Fer and I arrived to find a very good parking spot at 4:30 in the morning.

At 5:30, the transition area was opened and I set up camp. Soon, the area was buzzing with people.

"You've got ten minutes to get to the swim start before we close the transition area!" said the woman on the sound system.

Someone had lent my pump to another person and Claudia went to get it. I was on my way to the car to leave my backpack and when I turned around, there was no one behind me.

Come on, people! WE need to get out of here now!

I run into Damian by the entrance, stretching calmly.

"Hey, do you have some Vaseline you could lend me?"

We have eight minutes before transition closes and you are asking me this now?

We hurried to the car, back to transition and down to the beach.

At the beach, I hydrate and get a swim in. The sun rose and I stood waiting for my heat to be called. As each group went forward, I started getting more and more nervous. This wasn't the first time I was doing this but with the weight loss and the training, I felt like a different person.

I stood there with Ana and an overwhelming sense of emotion filled me.

I was here again, doing this which most think they cannot do. And I felt lucky.

My eyes got watery and I rested my head on Ana's shoulder. Another athlete patted me on the shoulder and he looked me straight in the eye, as if he were saying to me, "You can do this."

Call my group forward already. I'm about ready to lose it.

"Pink caps please come forward!" I hugged Ana quickly and went with my group.

I watched the previous heat swim past the first buoy.

The horn.

Hop, skip and a jump, I dove into the water and started.

Someone swam past me and when she lifted her arm out of the water, she elbowed my goggles off. There was water in the goggle sockets and I couldn't see. I rearranged them and continued on.

I passed up one buoy. And then, another.

By the time I got to buoy 5, I thought to myself, where the hell is the turn?

At the turn, someone else elbowed me in the eye, causing my goggles to stick right on my face.

Since when did swimming become a contact sport?

As I came back in the home stretch, for the first time in the water during a swim, my bladder just opened up.

I mentally said sorry to the person who was behind me.

As I neared the timing mat at T1, I ran out of the water, pulled off my cap and goggles and smiled for the camera as I ran past.

I got to my bike, slapped my race belt on, threw my glasses on my face, snapped my helmet onto my head and ran out of Transition with my bike. I got on and sped out of the park.

For some reason, however, my stomach wouldn't settle and for the rest of the ride, I burped. Water poured out of my nose (a side effect from swimming) and I was a leaking, gassy mess for the whole ride.

On the highway to Merida, I was racing another girl, as we had a cat-and-mouse chase. I would pass her up for a bit and then she'd pass me up.

She dusted me in the last 18 miles.

And even as I was coming back from my last bike lap, I was amazed that there were still a good number of people behind me.

I ran into T2 and felt how the asphalt burned the balls of my feet. Julio Cesar was taking photos of me with my nose dripping (I still had water from the swim in my system) and wincing in pain as I ran to my rack.

I was definitely NOT in my most fashion-forward moment.

Someone had removed my bright orange scarf, marking where my station was, and it took me a minute to find my stuff.

I took off the bike stuff and put on my cap and flew.

On the run, I felt the ease of running off the bike after weeks of brick training. But the burping started up again. And the balls of my feet felt burnt.

Ice and cold water. I threw ice into my suit and sprayed my face with cold water, remembering that I still hadn't erected a monument to these two amazing creations of nature. There are few things in life better than the sensation of cold water on your face and ice in your lady garden on a very hot day.

Ruben Grande in his own swim start

I saw Ruben Grande. A very loved and respected triathlete of our community, his prosthetic leg was causing him problems. His face winced as he moved to the side of the road.

"Let's go Ruben!" I cried. "I love you!"

On my way down the last three miles, a heavier set man ran towards the turn I had just left behind.

And I remembered: that was me last year.

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Up ahead, there was a guy in a yellow bike jersey with the DHL logo on the back who was walking.

"Come on, DHL! Let's go!" I shouted at him.

He started running but would resume walking after 20 yards.

"How much further is it to the finish line?" he asked.

"I think it's another two miles," I replied.

He was silent. The heat was beating him up.

With a mile left, I shouted at him, "Come on, DHL! Express delivery's for today! Not tomorrow!"

At 500 meters from the finish, Irapuato was still there, like he was the year before.

A familiar face. Oh God, a familiar face.

I started to lose it.

I grabbed his hand as we sprinted to the finish.

"Two years in a row," he had said. All his other words were getting lost in my sobs.

I forgot about everything I just did and ran as hard as I could.

--------------

At the finish, I wandered through the maze of hydration booths, pizza tables and the massage area, picked up my medal and t-shirt and walked out to the Elite Cyclery booth where my friends congratulated me.

But I was dazed; something was missing.

Just then, Fer Luna (who finished in 6:01) spotted me and I started to lose it.

A familiar face, oh God. A familiar face.

Even as he hugged me, he joked "Are you going to start bawling again?"

And there, in the midst of bike shoes and saddles, I wore every single emotion I had, on my sleeve and on his. I sobbed silently into his shoulder.

I had poured my heart and all of my soul into this competition. Perhaps, at times, I suffered. Perhaps, at times, I wondered what the hell I was doing. And perhaps, at times, I felt rejected, unloved and ugly. But I knew in that moment that regardless of how badly I could be beaten, this emotion within me, this strength that lead me to the finish line and this belief that I will not be broken are all things I must be faithful to. That I am a triathlete. That I'm sick in the head, a bit twisted and my idea of fun in my spare time is torturous for most.

But this is what reminds me that I am alive. That I have something worth fighting for. That this heart that beats in my chest cannot love anything less worthy.

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In 1918, American labor leader Eugene V. Deb was sentenced to ten years in prison for making unpatriotic speeches against the Wilson administration. Having had to defend himself, the most memorable statement he made during the trial was as follows:

"Your Honor, years ago I recognized my kinship with all living beings, and I made up my mind that I was not one bit better than the meanest on earth. I said then, and I say now, that while there is a lower class, I am in it, and while there is a criminal element, I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free."

I am a triathlete and I remember that I have lost. That I have lost weight I don't need. That I have lost minutes off last year's time. And I recognize my kinship with, and am humbled by, people like Ruben Grande and the 300-pound man who crossed the finish line and who, despite the odds, finished because they had the one thing that united all of us who have ever finished no small feat like that which is a 70.3: the simple yet powerful belief that we can.

70.3 Ironman Cancun 2009

70.3 Ironman Cancun 2011
(Photo: Adrian Malaguti a.k.a. Bardem-Downey Jr)

Undaunted and Ironclad: Chronicle of the VI Open Water 5 km Swim Bacalar 2011 (26 June 2011)

2011-06-28T20:40:00.000-07:00

It’s funny when indecision strikes. I wasn’t planning on doing this swim but now that I’ve done it, I don’t really remember why I didn’t want to. I suppose I felt I wasn’t ready. I suppose the Isla Mujeres-Cancun swim put me off.

I suppose a lot of things.

The Friday afternoon before the event, I paid for the competition and Saturday after work, I hopped on the first bus down to the swim. I cringed when I realized that once again, I got on the same bus that I had gotten on last year: the one that had stopped and picked up every single person on the highway for the 190 miles that was the length of the trip.

With resolve, I got on the bus, opened my power meter book and buckled myself in for a very long trip.

It was nighttime when the bus rolled into Bacalar. I had gotten myself a cabana about two blocks away from the event and against the suggestion of the lady giving me directions, I went walking the eight blocks by myself through the dark, lonely streets of town.

“You’d better take a taxi,” she had said.

She was talking to the person who used to go running at 11 o’clock at night through the streets of the Historic Center of Mexico City only because it was easier to run without all the people and the traffic of the streets. The person who used to go to an area called Neza, outside of Mexico City, where even the residents of the area would be scared to wander by themselves. The person who would walk home late at night, all the while thinking of easiest ways the Wüsthof kitchen knife in her bag could be wielded to cut and disarm quickly.

There were very few people in the streets, everyone glued to the tv and watching the US-Mexico game. And as I listened to the excited cries of “goooool”, I looked up and saw a sky full of stars and the distant clouds, marking a long broad stroke across the horizon.

I felt very small before the grandeur of nature.

I passed a dog that growled and barked at me. But I kept my pace steady and didn’t even turn.

I’m the Alfa. Back off and step down.

---------------

Early that next morning, I was at the event, getting ready. I strapped on my chip, got marked and basted myself with sun block, waiting for the start. Aline lead a small group of swimmers in a stretching session.

When I put my hands on my neck and pulled my head gently forward, I made a startling discovery:

I forgot to shave.

How inconvenient.

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It was Janine’s first competition and as we stood on the pier, waiting for our heat, fear darted through her eyes as she asked several times what the route was.

The men started first and were out the gate. The women jumped in next and I gripped Janine’s hand and told her this was just the pool and all she had to do was swim.

I held her hand until the horn sounded.

“Go!” I cried.

I kept at an easy pace and sighted the buoy.

Relax your hand. Hit the water at mid-length. Once in the water, extend your stroke. Chin on your chest. Look straight down into the water.

I went through all the corrections in my head as I swam, when I realized that my stroke was the product of all the different people who have helped me become a better swimmer.

I am the product of all the different people who have made me a better athlete.

And I thought about people like Michael Phelps, Alberto Contador and Samuel Bolt and know that I will probably never swim, bike or run like these athletes. I can't butterfly to save my life. I bike okay. My run is progressively getting better after a knee injury. But perhaps that is what makes one extraordinary. That simple notion that we do it because we can. Because we do not fear the task at hand. Maybe we are not the fastest but we do not just sit on our laurels, talking about it.

And we are all extraordinary, not because we are the fastest but because we try to be faster than we presently are.

And I am a better athlete because I have had people who cared enough to tell me what I was doing wrong.

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Four laps. Why do they put us through this torture?

Montblanc Etoile

On Lap 2, I started thinking about crocodiles and what I would do if one came out of the deep to bite me. I thought about how I would wrestle it, get behind it and keep its snout shut.

Montblanc Meisterstück Carbon and Steel

On Lap 3, I thought about how to calculate the percentage of wattage drop between fatigue profiling test results, data which you can get using a power meter on a bike, and about coefficient drag. And then I proceeded to think about what would look better in my hand: the Montblanc Etoile or the Meisterstück Carbon and Steel.

DSquared Women's Fall-Winter 2011 Show

On Lap 4, I thought about Emmanuel Kant (German idealist), Immanuel Wallerstein (world systems social scientist) and Henry Kissinger (ex-US Secretary of State) and wondered why oh why do I have to read them? My thoughts then wandered onto what Elie Saab dress would I pair with what Cesare Paciotti shoe. I imagined myself wearing something from DSquared's new collection (their Lauren Bacall/urban cowgirl look) walking down the street of a gritty cosmopolitan city as the smell of gasoline from the boats that were watching over us on the swim wove in and out of my thoughts.

The last buoy.

I was in the home stretch. And in a moment of clarity (tinted with what most would call masochism), I thought to myself that had I my Cannondale, I would have the strength to bike 100 km immediately after this.

I knew that I was a decent swim sprinter but that once I hit the 35 meter mark, I start to cave. I waited till I got close enough to let it rip when I saw the two red buoys: the ones I had to swim between and that I totally overshot.

Shit.

I had to swim back and in between the buoys. And then on to the finish line.

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Sometimes when people ask what I did during the weekend and I answer that I had a competition, they ask, "Did you win?"

Did I "win."

I won another day to swim when I used to be frightened out of my wits of the deep. I won another day on my bike, when I didn't have one before. I won another day to run because I didn't always take care of my knees.

I won another day to be healthy and in one piece. And that's what it all boils down to.

And so when I got out of the shower, foregoing the awards ceremony, and looked at the text from Esteban saying that I had won third place in my category, I didn't know what to think.

Even when I held the plaque in my hands, I wondered to whom I should quietly return it to because it wasn't mine.

Was it?
----------------------
Undaunted and Ironclad. Those are the words on my Road ID. I've given up on being scared of life a long time ago.

I want to live it.

Maybe my times were crap. Maybe I'm not the Crawl Queen but I know that with every stroke during that swim, I carried the words that defined me. I wear the skin of an Ironman and our weapons are our mental and physical strength and our desire to better ourselves, all the while, having enough energy to get to the finish line with our heads held sky-high.

"I've got to be strong
To climb the next hill
I've got to be strong
My fate to fulfill
And from a strength
Stronger than my will
With imagination
I'll get there."

From the song, "With Imagination (I'll Get There)" by Harry Connick Jr.

On Drugs and Rollercoasters: The “Por La Libre” Isla Mujeres-Cancun 10 Km Swim 2011 (4 June 2011)

2011-06-05T12:26:00.000-07:00

There is a delicate nature to human emotion. There is something beautiful and mean and powerful all at once that makes it a wonder to behold.

It can make you or break you.

I once had someone tell me that it is tough to live life but it is even tougher to take it. This was coming from someone who, with a loaded gun in his hand, stuck the barrel in his mouth, with every intention of pulling the trigger.

He did not.

And it is that choice that you carry with you, knowing you have beaten off the demons, if only for a little while. But when you find that something, that spark that casts off shadows and reveals your given path, you start to understand that the answer is always there, deep inside of you.

My own demons also wandered freely. A rollercoaster ride of heartbreak, sadness, fear, frustration and a bit of anger had haunted me over the past few weeks. It also did not help that one week before, I went for a swim at a local beach and could only do three laps of our circuit; I was planning on doing 15. I was so nauseous I had to sit out for a while, something that had never happened to me. When I felt better, I got back into the water and when I was only up to my hips in water, just the rocking of the ocean made me feel queasy all over again.

I was a tight ball of emotion on the evening before the competition. And given the previous week’s mishap, I took some Dramamine. Just in case.

I kept waking up that evening. My mouth felt salty and I woke thinking I was going to be in the water five hours with that same sensation. I drank water but to no avail. I was between my bed, the fridge and the bathroom for the next couple of hours. When it was time, I got dressed, ate and hopped on my bike.

At 5:00 a.m., a group of us from the Red Cross met up and went to the ferry landing. As soon as we got there, we stripped down, put on sunblock, lubricant, packed our bags and got in line for the ferry.

On board, we grabbed an area downstairs and enjoyed the trip to Isla.

But I was not calm. Things stirred within me. I thought of all the things that happened to me in the last couple of weeks. All the feelings that consumed me. All the things I could not confront with happiness. I looked out at the dawning horizon and at the sun peering through the clouds.

Something happened. Shifted ever so slightly within me.

I invited those feelings in. I let the heartbreak, the sadness, the fear, the frustration, and the anger fill me.

Take me, goddammit. If you want me, take me. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

I felt all those feelings fill me and I willed every cell in my body to tighten, until all that was left was a thin thread, as thin as a hair.

I will not be broken.

On Isla, we waited for the start. And we waited. And waited.

At nearly 8 in the morning, nearly half an hour after we were supposed to have started, my heat was suddenly called to the pier landing to get into the water. My nerves were all over the place but if I was going to do it, I was going out with style.

We were out the gate.

I got into my sweet spot from the get-go, wanting to keep at my pace, knowing that I had the possibility of getting nauseous again and the current was strong. I had to control my body and be very kind to it so I let people pass me by and swam. The ocean rolled and bucked but I concentrated on the sand on the ocean floor and observed how, even with the current moving, it always formed the same pattern.

Underwater Sculpture Museum
Isla Mujeres, Mexico

It was in this observation that I let that thread of unwanted feelings go. I bid it goodbye.

Then I passed the underwater sculpture museum, an exhibit consisting of 400 life-size figures, anchored 9 meters underwater. It was eerie to see them there and that made me swim a little faster. I felt that one would swim up and grab me by the leg.

I concentrated on the sand and the ocean floor below me, while sighting the buoys above. It was then that I began to think about an interview I had seen of the actor Willem Dafoe on his experience in the movie “The Last Temptation of Christ.” He had said in jest that he would like to one day have a property on a hill with a beautiful view and set up a large cross there. When people would feel like their problems were too much, he would charge them to be tied to the cross. This was said because when he filmed that iconic scene where he was on the cross, he remarked that he was so uncomfortable, cold and naked to the elements (literally) but was privy to the most amazing view of the valley before him, it made him realize how insignificant his problems really are.

And just like that, I realized that all my problems and hang ups and frustrations were really oh-so menial. What has been done was done. There is no way back.

I knew that I had a sore on my inner arm from the contact with my skinsuit. I knew that my nostrils burned from the salt water. I knew that the cord from my earplugs rubbed my neck raw. I knew my gums felt sore from the constant contact with the salt water. I knew I was going slower than I ever have. I knew all this. But it seemed so unimportant all of a sudden.

All that was important in that moment was that I was extremely gassy. I could feel the bubbles form and lift the suit off my ass. When I would turn and breathe, I wondered what the fuck did I eat that made me smell so rank?

I was not tired and so I thought about culprit foods and kept on my merry way.

How long had I been swimming? I was using my Garmin to guide me back to the finish line and didn’t want to see my time.

I came upon a second orange buoy and had by this time, accepted the fact that I was the last one swimming. When I came closer, I actually saw more swimmers heading towards that buoy and one person already there, hanging on: it was Rodrigo from the pool. I grabbed onto a knot of the rope-clad buoy and ate a gel quickly. The current was stronger than I thought and I realized that unless I wanted to feel really nauseous really quickly, I had to stay in motion. I ate and left.

About 15 minutes later, I was approached by a boat.

“We’re pulling you out! This race is over!” I could have kept going but was a little curious and climbed up the ladder. Rodrigo was already on board.

I found out that I wasn’t even at the 3 km relay mark yet and I had been in the water for about 2 hours and 20 minutes. The race cut-off time was 4:30.

I was in shock. That is a horrible swim time.

It sucks being the last one.

But I looked around and saw that there were quite a few people still in the water and in the area where I was picked up. That’s strange. Everyone can’t be that slow.

There was a man in my boat who had done other local swim competitions. He prepared for this one by swimming in the pool six days a week, doing five kilometers every single day.

He was picked up before I was.

More and more people were being picked up in the area. An older lady who was already on board another boat, vomited viciously into the sea. Another woman that was picked up after I was had thrown up several times during the course of the swim and looked as green as her suit.

I love you Dramamine.

We were all taken to a bigger boat where everyone on board looked like a damn sorry mess. More than one looked like yesterday’s dinner was going to be front page news.

I inadvertently overheard others who do swim races on a regular basis, saying that this was the first time they were pulled out of one.

Then the shocker: I saw Fer Maraton, a fabulous swimmer and triathlete, on the back of a jet ski, looking a bit miserable.

What is going on?

Back on land, the whole boatful of people I came with crossed to one side of the finish line so as not to activate our chips. Claudia, Mari, Andres and Roberto were waiting for me. Even as they cheered, I glumly told them that I hadn’t finished. It didn’t matter: they hugged me anyway. And then, the shocker of them all: most of the strongest swimmers from the Red Cross weren’t back yet.

It was past the four-hour mark.

At 4:25:29, Dami came back in. His eyes were deeply marked by his goggles. They had started to press onto his face so tightly that they started to suction his eyeballs off his face. He had finished out of sheer pride and swore that he would never do this race again.

He was sixth in his category. 55^th overall. This is the same person who did the same race last year (but from Cancun to Isla) in 2:11.

Joaquin came in a bit later.

They were the only two that I knew who had finished this race. No one else that I knew of did.

----------------------

Getting off the boats, I watched my friends arrive, one by one, dead on their feet, a little dejected and more than a little disappointed.

Salt Water and Ear Plug Cord Burns

And then I saw a swimmer, one of a very few who actually finished and who was carried in and placed on the timing mat: he was a double amputee with only 6 inches of each leg. As we all applauded this phenomenal man, I knew that if I didn’t appreciate what I have, I’d be a damn cynic.

And it all comes back to the choices we make. What we decide to do with our time. Who and what we care about. What is important.

I could have stayed on that rollercoaster of emotions and have let myself be governed by the sadness. I could have anchored myself to the bottom of my emotional abyss. My friend could have pulled the trigger. That double amputee could have stayed in a wheelchair. I could have opted to not do this race, bail out and choose what was comfortable.

But I did not. And they did not.

I am a triathlete. But I am a human being and a woman before that. And I remember the essence that makes us whole. Those elements that remind us of our failings and our strengths. That happiness cannot exist if there is no sadness. That these elements are important to have but they serve their purpose in the moment they present themselves.

That we have the power of choice. And I choose to get off this rollercoaster.

Thank God for Dramamine.

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

2011-06-05T12:23:00.000-07:00

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.

--------------

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.

---------------

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.

--------------------

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.

---------------

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.

On Turtles and A Pair of Wings: Chronicle Fumikense of the 2nd 43.190 Km. Time Trial Competition on the Route of the Cenotes, Quintana Roo (January 30, 2011)

2011-02-06T22:00:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, my dad always used to criticize me for being indecisive. I couldn't make a decision without taking a good 10 or 15 minutes. He yelled at me all the time for taking so much time at everything.

He used to call me "turtle" for being so slow. Always.

--------

Saturday night, 10 hours before the 2^nd 43 Km Time Trial, I've just arrived from Playa del Carmen with a bit of uncertainty of how to arrive to the competition and whether I was going to do it or not. I was already feeling a little put out: I can't find a ride there, I haven't trained, I haven't slept much.

9:50 p.m.: my cell phone starts ringing.

9:51 p.m.: a text has just chimed in.

9:52 p.m.: my cell phone is ringing again.

9:53 p.m.: another text chimes in.

I checked my cell phone: all of the above was from Genaro.

9:56 p.m.: I called Mr. Tortero (aka Genaro) who answered with a pleasant word or two (why the fuck aren't you picking up your phone?).

By 10 p.m., I had a ride.

But I was still plagued by uncertainty. I thought that if I didn't get up in time, I wouldn't go. That's it. Destiny, however, had a different plan in mind and at 3:45 a.m., I woke to someone singing "La Historia Entre Tus Dedos" (The Story Between Your Fingers) by Gianluca Grignani. Around the corner, the neighbors decided to have a concert at full blast and the party had woken me up.

The meeting time was at 5:00 a.m. at the Oxxo Convenience Store and while we waited for Erica, we watched people leaving a party. There was even a couple with a man (who got out of the car to buy some beer) scarcely dressed in some precariously clinging jeans and a pair of flip flops, who had clearly come (quite literally) from a party of sorts with the driver of the car. By 5:30 a.m., I had my bike taken apart and loaded in Erica's truck, on the road to the competition.

Getting out of the car at the Route of the Cenotes, however, felt like a very bad idea. The cold air wrapped windy arms around us, leaving us to hate the unprotective lycra that we all wore.

Tents were put together. Bikes were adjusted. Competitors were checking each other out with a critical eye.

One by one, the competitors started off. According to the list, I was going to start first in my category.

At 7:30, I was called. The six women in my category lined up, one after the other, waiting the five minutes between our category and the men’s road tire-mountain bike category.

On the minute, Memo kept announcing the time left for my start. The countdown was making me nervous. I promised Martha and the others that I would try my best not to crap a purple Twinkie in the road.

‘I am so lying,’ I thought. ‘I’m going to leave a cake THIS BIG, I am so frickin’ nervous.’

“You’ve got 30 seconds,” Memo said. I took a sip of water. My throat became dry all of a sudden.

And then, his voice again:

“Ten.” Concentrate.

“Nine.” This is just a bike ride.

“Eight.” Clipped in.

“Seven.” Clipped foot up for more force.

“Six.” Where are you?

“Five.” Here.

“Four.” What time is it?

“Three.” Now.

“Two.” What are you?

“One.” This moment.

With a rebel cry, I was out the gate.

The first half, I’ll do at a comfortable pace. The third fourth, I’m going to kick it up a notch. The last bit, I’m going to give it all I’ve got.

Let’s see if I can last.

I heard Marilupe’s voice in my head:

“Don’t get frustrated,” sang her voice in her Pueblan accent, “but when I did this ride in the car, it seemed to take forever.”

Today, forever is 43.190 kilometers long.

A few clicks from Leona Vicario, I saw the first mountain bikers returning. I saw how they fought against the wind and I mentally prepared myself to not tire myself out too soon. I have to distribute my energy intelligently.

I was passing a massive hole dug out of the ground, the perfect place to find a dead body in full state of decomposition, when I went past the curve. Up ahead, I saw the bridge into Leona.

I observed the bridge and saw how it rose above the green of the jungle and I could only think of four-letter words, in particular, one that started with “f” and ended horizontally. I rode up and arrived to Leona, the people doing a very good job of indicating where we should go.

Time to head back.

On top of the bridge again, a tremendously beautiful panoramic view opened up before me and the road curved like in those landscapes where a long road disappears between hills, going towards some unknown destination. Call it home, the finish line or the place where you want to be and towards which each action of every day takes you one step closer.

I have a destination and there isn’t a force strong enough to throw me off.

It begins now.

----------

Martha was the second to leave behind me and I didn’t want to turn around to see if she was coming. I have to focus on me and continue. I felt my legs push me forward.

Some five kilometers from the finish line, I felt the wind push back, especially in the curves before the finish. I hit the first curve, thinking that I was close.

No. There is a straight leg and another curve. I got to the end of the leg and turned, thinking this has to be the one.

That wasn’t it either. Shit. Where is the finish line?

After the fourth curve, I saw the tent and the finish line.

My chain clicked into gear as I gunned it.

Time to bring it home.

------------

And even when Alberto, who never took his eyes off his laptop, smiled when he announced that I, the poster girl of the competition, was now the winner of her category, something even more profound happened minutes later.

Someone tapped my shoulder: it was local pro triathlete Alejandra Gutierrez, the overall winner of the competition, first place in women’s tri bikes.

She hugged me and congratulated me.

We’ve never been introduced. I don’t really know her but I confess that I have been following her progress for a long time. I’ve seen her in the triathlons I’ve done and I’ve always admired her speed. And I had always wanted to congratulate her for the fantastic job she’s done and for setting an example for the rest of us.

And I’d have to say that her congratulation was nicest part of winning.

First place in my category. Second place overall.

This turtle can fly.

A New Hat: Chronicle of the 5th (and Last) Edition of the Cancun Ironman 70.3, 2010

2010-09-21T14:48:00.000-07:00

The Thursday before the competition: I had just finished two laps swimming in the ocean and a 4x1000 meter run, when I was biking back home.

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.

Total damage: several bruises that started from below the left knee all the way up to the pelvis; bruise and scratch on the right knee; bruise in the crotch; left arm and hand scratched up and a lump on my right temple, from when the bike handle turned in and hit me on the side.

------------------------------

"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.

The morning of the Ironman, however, I had a shiner that was lit brighter than anything this side of Christmas: the colors went from vibrant purples to cornflour yellow. In the middle of it all, there was a section as big as my hand that rose up like a small hill, clearly marking where I had been hit the hardest.

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 heard someone gasp. I guess my bruise looks pretty bad.

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 got off my bike and changed the tire. Some 20 minutes after I was on the road again, however, I felt my tire go flat again. And a hard fact slapped me in the face:

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.

I took the first 10.5 kilometers with a slow and easy stride. I felt good and saw how many were walking their lap. It was when the sun was shining as if there was no tomorrow, with intense humidity. I knew I had to run light so that I could make it to the second lap. When that lap came, however, something changed within me. My body needed something else. Ice-cold water wasn't cooling me off anymore. The hydration I was consuming wasn't provoking anything within me. I didn't want to eat. I felt parts of me go numb.

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.

On Father's Day: V Open Water Marathon in Bacalar, Quintana Roo 2010

2010-06-21T18:04:00.001-07:00

Writing keeps me honest because you can say whatever you want to a person but when I reflect on what is happening to me, my written words are always faithful witnesses of my wanderings. The words I say are ink on the wind, something that I cannot hold in my hands.

The Spanish word for "remember" is "recordar", which comes from the Latin recordis, which means "to pass by the heart again".

And I want to remember.

The trip to Bacalar was baptized by Dami as "six hours with Fumi in a bus to go for a swim". Imagine a bus that picks up fare at every corner but instead of every corner, imagine it traveling 80 miles down the highway and you've got a pretty good picture of our ride: stopping on the highway in the middle of nowhere to pick up fare; stopping at every house in every little town; weaving in and out of streets off the highway. We arrived dead tired, about ready to eat even the pot of the pasta that Sonia had prepared for us.

Early that next day, we got marked and got ready. A couple of minutes before the start, I was growing nervous. I grabbed Yadira's hand before we jumped into the water.

I have to do this. I have to do this.

The horn.

I felt the water and concentrated on my rhythm. Sighting the second buoy was difficult as I fought against a slight current. When I arrived, where there were a ton of people a while ago, now there was only a man swimming with me. My clavicles felt weird, a slight pressure that I had never felt before. It was like a soothing massage at first which later turned into a dull pain.

When I finally arrived to the finish line to do my second lap, there were people who were just finishing lap 2.

And I felt embarrassed.

The people who were taking note of the competitor numbers written on the arms of the swimmers saw that, instead of going towards the finishers mat, I went onto Lap 2.

"Look, she's going onto her second lap," I imagined them saying. And as I passed the people who had come to root us on, I remembered something.

When I had told my father that I had done a 70.3 Ironman, the first words out of his mouth were, "And what didn't you do to come in first?" I had just swam 1.2 miles, biked 55 and ran a half marathon.

Why didn't you come in first?

As if finishing wasn't enough. I had to win. As if I wasn't good enough. As if all the training, the sacrifice and the suffering wasn't worth it simply because I didn't come in first place.

Son of a bitch. Fucking son of a bitch.

I repeated that phrase in my head like a mantra as a tear threatened to escape. And as I swam to the first buoy, I knew that I had to show him that I could do it. And more importantly, I had to show myself what I was capable of. I thought about all the hurtful things that my father had ever said to me. I remembered the humiliating punishments during my childhood and adolescence, when it came to me that it was Father's Day, the day we celebrate those men who give us their love and, sometimes, their blood.

And then it hit me.

Like that woman who did an Ironman six months after having fought off and conquered cancer, I remembered that I am not my circumstances. I am not my sickness. I am not my father. The Republic of Fumiko is a democracy of one and I decide when enough is enough.

And that is how I came to my choice.

Deep down, I believe that my father is good person who can be mean, for all the callus things he has said, but I understand that through that, he has given me the elements to be the person that I am. To fight for me and value what I am. That I can decide what to do with all his negativity. That he loves me and I, him. That I call the shots as to how far I want his perception to affect me and to accept that I can never change him. That there is nothing to forgive because at the end of the day, if there is no offense, there is no need for an apology.

My shoulders have been hurting for a while now and I knew that I would swim until my arms fell off my body. And when a kayaker asked me if I was alright, I just lifted my fist out of the water and pointed my thumb to the sky.

I didn't know how to find the words when Dami asked me, upon arriving to the finish line, how it went. An avalanche of emotions was let loose inside of me when I answered.

"Hard," I had said.

"Why?" Memo asked.

That answer was also lost on me.

--------------------------------

Sunday, July 20, 2010: Today I did my first competition of the year. Perhaps I didn't get the result I was originally hoping for.

Instead, what I do know is that I got a lot more.

Happy Father's Day.

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

2010-05-15T10:01:00.000-07:00

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.

On Fallen Stars and Shooting Stars: Chronicle of the First Edition of the 140.6 Cozumel Ironman, 2009

2010-04-30T12:16:00.000-07:00

I was walking along the highway, where the bike leg of the first 140.6 Cozumel Ironman was taking place. There was no one around except for the triathletes who were biking by. I was sitting on the side of the road, snapping off photos, when a competitor saw me. He zipped close by and said on passing, "For you." His event water bottle rolled towards me as he sped off.

Last year, at the 70.3 Cancun Ironman, I was applauding one of the athletes who also rolled his bottle towards me. A year later, I did my first 70.3, that same event that I sat out and which had been the first triathlon I had ever seen in my life.

Like it or not, I took the deja vu aspect of this coincidence as a sign: this is an event I definitely have to do. Next year.
------------------------------
The ferry ride out to the island of Cozumel (which means the Island of the Sparrows) was a bit turbulent. People who boarded joyful were a lighter shade of pale green when we arrived to port.

We got to the hotel, installed ourselves and proceeded to search for our friends who were to compete.

First stop: Daniel.

Daniel could be considered something short of brain dead. The road to becoming a triathlete can vary from person to person. In Daniel's case, a rush of inspiration from watching a video of the father-son team of Dick and Rick Hoyt (an inspirational pair of a father who tows his paraplegic son in a raft, bikes his son in a special two-person bike and wheels him to the finish in a wheelchair), added to the latent desire to do an Ironman "one day," clicked his trigger finger right over the confirmation box on his online Cozumel Ironman registration.

This was to be his first triathlon ever.

He was nervous and didn't look like he wanted to go to sleep. He wanted to stall and make the day, which was already night, longer.

We left him to make his various attempts to sleep.

Next stop: Bernardino (aka Bon Bon).

A short taxi ride at a ridiculously expensive price took us to Berna's hotel. He was calm as we took over his bed to talk shop and about the event. Empty water bottles stood like meercats on top of the mini fridge, leaving very little space for the cans of tuna, which stood in a neat stack on one corner. We took photos. We posed in his well/shower/tub. We made fun of his swim jammers which had a strange combination of autumn colored swirlies on brown, referring to them as his “go go” shorts.

We left Berna in high spirits, excited that the event had finally arrived.

The next morning, I rode out to Chankanaab Reef where the swim start was to take place. Triathletes, family, friends, press and a whole slew of people milled around the entrance. I found out later that the athletes weren't allowed to wear sun block due to the damage it could cause to the reefs and the dolphins.

Yes, dolphins.

Other events have fireworks: Cozumel had dolphins. Chankanaab is a dolphin park and the trainers were out early that morning with their flippered friends, almost as if they were trying to teach the competitors how to really swim. They performed their acrobatics with ease and received applause from those waiting on the pier, ready to start.

The elite start was to take place at 6:45 a.m. while the rest of the pack was to have a massive swim start at 7 a.m. One by one, the competitors jumped into the water, hanging on to the posts of the pier, awaiting the moment when the first edition of the Cozumel Ironman would officially start.

The horn.

The elites were already passing the masses when the horn blew. It took those select few about 15 minutes to swim the 1.4 km from the pier to the buoy and back.

It looked like a scene from the end of the world. Hundreds of people swimming and the water was dotted with pink and blue caps.

I reunited with my friends and while they walked, I biked to the nearest aid station on the bike route. I felt such a love in the air and such sportsmanship that a smile couldn't help shine from within. I looked each athlete that zipped by in the eye and smiled.

This was a show of an amazing group of people.

At the aid stations, my friends and I took over one tent and started giving out food and water.

The competitors would come shouting into the station, asking for "agua," gels, PowerBars and Gatorade.

"Sunblock!" shouted one woman. Claudia is a woman who can carry a bag that seems too small for all the things she has. Despite this, she had a number of things that the competitors asked for. Sunscreen and lip balm were two of those things. The competitor was from Dallas and as she happily smoothed sunscreen onto her arms and lip balm on to burning lips, she remarked how much it meant to her that the locals had come out to cheer them all on.

"Towel!" shouted another, whose sunglasses were complete drenched with sweat and needed wiping.

"Vaseline!" said yet another.

I ran over.

This was one I had.

I produced from my bike jersey pocket a bar of Body Glide, a necessity for swim burns and running blisters from shoes and wet socks. He looked at the bar rather quizzically. I explained.

"You can glide it on, like a deodorant," I said.

"I'd be a little embarrassed," he replied.

Oh...

A thick scraping of Body Glide was duly applied while my head was turned.

We got another "Vaseline!" who went straight for the small tub that Claudia had. One quick dip into the tub and the next minute, his hand was down his pants.

The five women who were their standing there (me included) looked after him in silence as he rode off. And as if she had been proposed to by Brad Pitt and then promptly rejected him, we all turned on her and scolded her, saying that she should have applied the said Vaseline herself.

We cheered on the competitors, even calling them by their numbers, promising the most fattening dishes in the most decadently gorgeous culinary spread known to man, with the tankards of cold frosty beers perspiring icy coldness would be waiting at the finish line. We even took names of those we didn’t know and cheered them on.

“What about me?” asked a tall athlete, with a smile.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Peter.”

A cacophony of sounds, screeches and whoops that sounded vaguely like “Peter” filled the air as Peter’s smile grew broader. He glided away, perhaps with a lighter heart.

It was time to move: Berna and Daniel had been through a second time and we wanted to be at the transition from the bike to the run.

I rode ahead into town and ended up taking a wrong turn, away from the transition. I mention this because had it not been for this detour, I would never have been able to catch up with a lone competitor who just happened to be walking back his bike as I made a turn back onto the main street.

“Do you need help?”

“Another stomach, maybe?”

It turned out that Chris started wretching his guts out at Mile 20 on the bike. By Mile 70, he couldn’t take it anymore and his stomach was fully on strike.

Had he finished, this would have been his fifth Ironman.

“I think I’ll stick to short courses from now on,” he had said.

I told him of my plans to do my first Ironman. About my first half Ironman experience. About nearly falling over when I found out Michellie Jones was in Cancun. About wanting to go to Kona and be in the same Ironman with Lance Armstrong.

“Are you a Lance fan?” he asked.

From the quietness of his tone, I knew he had something negative to say.

I hid my bubbling enthusiasm for the seven-time Tour de France winner.

“Sort of.”

And then it came out, as I suppose I expected it to one day: Lance Armstrong is a competitive diva. The story of a bike race in Colorado where Lance, holding onto first place, was barreling down an incline, screaming at people to get out of his way, most of whom were first timers in a competition. Then another. Then another. Story after story painted the moral integrity of this man that I had admired in a very unaesthetic light.

I reflected on what I heard and turned it over like a ball in a juggler’s hand. The ball stopped as I came to my decision: I’m not doing an Ironman for Lance. The only one I’m doing it for is me.

My mind’s made up: I’m shooting for Kona, with or without Lance.

We finally got back to the transition and I wished Chris and that separate entity which is his stomach good luck.

I hung around, now finding more and more athletes barreling into the T2.

“And I have to run a marathon now?” asked one woman incredulously, as her bike was rolled off by volunteers to the bike park.

By this time, Bernardino had run through already and Daniel had just entered the changing tent (a lot of completely no-nonsense, strip-it-all-off affair was going on inside) and ran off on his 26-mile “sprint around the park”.

As it were.

On the run, people of all walks of life lined the streets. There was such a festive air as I have only seen on Independence Day in Mexico City, people singing, dancing, high-fiving passing athletes.

At the turn, I saw Daniel run by and was ready for him as he came back. Jogging with him, I told him how absolutely proud I was of him.

“You don’t know how that makes me feel,” he had said. “I’m about ready to cry.”

Trying to hold back my own tears, I urged him on, telling him he is so close. And that we’ll be waiting for him.

I stared after him as he ran down the street, in innocent love and admiration, as I wiped my cheek dry.

I proceeded to the finish line to watch the first athlete to clock in to the sound of mariachi guitars. It is probably a bit cynical on my part but as these men and women legged it in, I watched how they were bending over at the waist, feeling the fatigue of having done over eight hours of physical activity, and later, some wobbling in what looked like a drunken stupor and that was really an uncommon mixture of dehydration and elation, and felt relieved. Relieved that those super humans were also mortals. That they did suffer pain. That muscles did hurt, even in them.

That maybe I do have a chance at finishing and with my head held real high.

So I watched human endurance in its maximum expression. One by one, they ran in: sweaty, aching and happy.

A nurse I had met at the bike aid station was there and she came up to talk for a bit. She told me of a competitor who had finished, one who was celebrating that day her six months of being cancer-free, with the Cozumel Ironman.

I wished I had asked what her name was. What the name of that brave woman was who had probably done chemotherapy, lost her hair, vomited on a daily basis the entire content of her stomach and decided that she was going to show the world how alive she really was by doing an Ironman.

I felt the light of her star shine all around us as the nurse and I bit back our tears. How I wish I could be as courageous as she is.

That evening ended with Bernardino coming in at the 13-hour mark and Daniel at the 15. Midnight, when I was biking back to the hotel, people were still running and people were still on the street, rooting those last athletes on.

I realized then that the human spirit is that much stronger if there is a destination. That Lance's star, though strong, great and had made a comeback after cancer, had waxed opaquely and fallen, next to that woman whose name I did not know and who had beaten her cancer in the elegant silence that media hype could never provide. That when stars soar around us, we must applaud.

My hands are black and blue from clapping.

On Taking a Break: Chronicle on the 1st (All Terrain) Triathlon of Xel –Ha 2009

2009-11-20T07:23:00.001-08:00

In the midst of the imminent arrival of Hurricane/Tropical Storm Ida, the torrential rains and the heavy doubt that the event would take place, the very first edition of the Xel-Ha Triathlon was held, as planned.

The one major difference of this triathlon as opposed to all the local ones that I've done before was that bike racking took place one day prior to the event. The rain fell during the ride from Cancun to Xel-Ha, falling with such force as that seemed to foretell what was to come that next day. I had brought with me, however, a sense of tranquility and perhaps a little worry. I've been on a break for about a week and a half due to fluid in my knee, a direct result of a training session that consisted of a 1.2 mile swim and a 68 mile bike ride, and an indirect result of having done the 70.3 Ironman.

Talk about a major training session....

With the climate and my knee, I felt the weight of my anxiety of not having trained.

But I'll do it. Whatever it takes.

The weather was surprisingly good on the day of the competition, considering. I left my bootleg CD booth (which poses, at times, as a triathlon transition) and went with Carlos to the swim start.

This has to be one of the coolest swim starts I've ever done. It was from the Floating Bridge at the mouth of the inlet into Xel-Ha. The bridge itself has to be a good 65 meters long and it sits right on the water. Its planks were connected in such a way that when the waves would crash on the rocks at the mouth of the inlet, the bridge slithered this way and that. The overcast sky lent a grey light to the water, which splashed rather violently on the rocks.

I almost crapped purple Twinkies. This was a little scary.

So now a peculiar problem had arisen: the swim start was definitely a dive start. How many times will I have to thank my crazy swim instructor? All those times when he would be falling to pieces from laughing so much, watching us make honest attempts at graceful dives and failing miserably. We looked like pancakes landing from a flip in the pan. We practiced and practiced so that we didn't look like Christmas turkeys in mid-dive.

The minutes passed and one by one, the heats started. There were several Christmas turkeys in the other heats and when my category was up, we walked down the bridge as if we had all hit every single bar on the Hotel Zone in Cancun the night before. Some sat on the bridge, not feeling up to diving.

I stayed on my feet.

I know how to do this.

The start.

I dove into the green waters and swam towards the cove. Aline, my diving instructor, would have been proud.

The moment I touched the water, however, I knew I was in trouble. My breathing was going too fast for this stage of the competition and my shoulders felt tired. I calmed myself down and reminded myself that I can do this, as I watched the fish and little jellyfish swim below me. Even when I got stuck in the first buoy (two other swimmers closed me off and I couldn't swim anywhere else), I was able to break free without breaking my stride nor panicking.

Leaving the water, it was some 300 meters to the transition. I took off my goggles and cap and fixed my hair into a pony tail, as I ran to T1.

The good thing about being a slow swimmer is that in the T1, you can find your bike really easily.

I flew on my bike and passed up tons of people. I even pressured a guy in a skeleton jersey, who kept racing me, keeping me on my toes.

After the 10 k mark, Boney dusted me.

Damn him...

I remembered my knees on the run. Particularly when I was running up what seemed to be a 30 degree incline up the bridge which crossed over the highway. My knees popped and tweeked as if I were a robot, springs and screws falling all over the place. On the other side of the highway, there was a dirt road and because it had rained the night before, there were mud puddles at various points of the track.

In that moment, several athletes were coming back from the loop. Among them was Ruben Grande.

Ruben is a local triathlete who has done triathlons all over the world. He did the 70.3 Ironman that I did and his next challenge is the Cozumel Ironman. Apart from all the amazing feats he has achieved (among them, various Ironmans under his belt), there is one thing that makes him even more special:

Ruben is missing part of his right leg, from the knee down.

As I ran, I thought about everything that he had to confront to get here. About everything people could have said and did to him.

I know this country. I've lived 13 damn good years here. I'm pretty much as Mexican as they come. And I also know this society and the people. I hear the voice of the woman saying to her daughter who wants to lose weight: "Why are you going to yoga classes if you aren't even going to keep it up?" I see my talented friend who rejects an offer to go on a musical tour through Germany because he doesn't want leave his girlfriend alone. The same girlfriend with whom he broke up with some time after. I hear the voices telling children not to jump/climb/play/touch because they can hurt themselves. Don't risk it, they say. You're safer if you just stay where you are.

"You see? You couldn't do it. How are you going to do anything with a leg missing?"

I see the uncomfortable stares of blatant curiosity at the leg that Ruben is missing.

Don't do anything. They are going to hurt you. You're going to hurt yourself.

What hurts are the jokes that they probably made about little Ruben when he was a boy, behind his back.

I detest the discrimination.

Despite all this, he's a triathlete.

He's an Ironman.

-----------------------------------
A year ago, in the Cancun 70.3 Ironman, there was a man who had a sign that read:

"Today, No One Quits."
-----------------------------------

There were people who suffered during the triathlon. But it was that pinch of tenacity that took those legs to the finish line. We all have battles. We all have problems. We all have someone who doesn't believe in us and believes in our premature failure. What they don't know is that we need to fail in order to be great. We need to fall to learn how not to fall again. We have to arrive in last place in order to savor and understand what bridging that gap to first place feels like. That it's all about the journey.

Today, no one quits. Today, no one takes a break.

Whatever It Takes: A Chronicle on the 2009 Ironman 70.3 Cancun, Mexico

2009-09-22T06:59:00.000-07:00

I believe you don't know what you're capable of until you do it.

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.

-------------------------------------

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.

------------------------------------

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.

On Bettering Yourself: Chronicle on the Solo Para Mujeres (Ladies Only) Triathlon on Isla Mujeres, Mexico 2009

2009-09-01T22:58:00.000-07:00

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.

On Not Finishing: Chronicle of the 2nd “Por Siempre en Aguas Abiertas” (Forever in Open Water) 5 km Swim Meet of Club Albatros

2009-08-18T19:50:00.000-07:00

There was a comedienne named Lotus Weinstock who once said, “Before, I wanted to change the world. Now, I just want to leave the room with a little bit of dignity.”

This 5k swim was my first open water competition. All week, I was preparing myself mentally for what was to come. There were intense moments as well as bits of tranquility. Myrna, who swims very well in the pool, commented on her fears of the ocean and mentioned how she feared sharks. That one word was enough to germinate a fear that had not previously existed. And like a grain of sand, it began to form a callus in my head. It didn’t help that at the pre-meet meeting, they gave us the event t-shirt, which featured a photo of a bull shark, the third most dangerous in that species in the world.

A week before, we went to swim the route so that we could see how it was going to be during the competition. The waves rocked me, at times slamming on top of me. But I was able to withstand the power of the ocean. What I couldn’t stand was the burning in my nose. The saltiness of the water made my nose burn so much that I wanted to go to the doctor who I was planning to ask to remove my stomach for the first triathlon, to remove my nose. The sensation is akin to when one has a rock in their shoe: insignificant in size but irritating nonetheless.

This was enough reason for me to think twice about my participation in this meet. My swim trainer recommended that I line my nostrils with Vaseline.

A cure. This changes things.

On the day of the competition, I arrived with my nostrils well smeared. They gave me my numbers for the meet: 66.

Six hundred more to the sign of the devil.

It could be that for that particular reason I was able to feel calm. Perhaps it gave me strength. I don’t know. I watched the ocean with silent deference. I can. I should be able to.

And then the announcement: due to time and security concerns, the course will be shortened and instead of swimming a triangle, we were going to swim parallel to the beach. Instead of 5k, we were going to do 4. In my mind, I was grateful that it was going to be shorter.

The start.

The whistle for the women’s start sounded after the men were passing the first buoy, which was an orange ball, double the size of a basketball.

In open water swim terms, this was very small, as I was about to see.

I breathe only one side, my right side and though I could see the shore the whole time I was swimming to the buoy, I angled out far too much. So much so that when I finally arrived to the buoy marking the start of my second kilometer, I came at it from open water, perpendicular to the shore, and not swimming towards it from along the coast. The waves rocked me and during the entire way, I could not see that yellow buoy. My reference point was an identical buoy that was placed on the beach, about the same distance away as the one in the water.

I never thought I would feel so happy to see that yellow buoy that looked like a triangle chunk of cheese, just like in the cartoons. I swam around it and started my journey back. I had no way of seeing the basketball buoy from the cheese buoy so I went back, going parallel to the beach and using the palapa that was level with the basketball buoy and the finish line. The current started to pick up and on several occasions, I was almost flipped over when the waves would catch me, right as I was turning to breathe.

I was starting my second lap when the problems started. I began to notice that the Vaseline in my nose was wearing off. At the 2k mark, I started to feel the burn. Upon rounding the basketball buoy, the burning incremented. By this time, the current was stronger and every now and then, when I would turn my head to breathe, I had a wave crashing in my face.

I felt how my legs dragged behind me.

I felt how I couldn’t lift my left arm out of the water without some conscious effort.

I felt how the salt water flooded my mouth and burned until my eardrum.

I repeated to myself that as long as I could breathe, everything was going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay.

But like everything, you can get to the point where you get worn out.

Breathe to the side through the mouth. Exhale through the nose. Swallow salt water that rushes through your nose. Breathe to the side through the mouth. Exhale through the nose. Wave that slaps you in the face and forces you to swallow more water.

I have never had to work so hard to breathe in my life.

I didn’t want to breathe anymore.

I wanted it to be over. I wanted to finish. And I didn’t know if I could hold out before the fatigue that was chasing me set in. Just a little while more, I said to myself, while my nasal passages kept burning. You’re going to be uncomfortable for just a little bit more.

A lifeguard in a kayak was shouting at me. Indicating in gestures, he motioned towards where I should go. Each time I tried to go where he was telling me to, he shouted at me some more. I realized that I was swimming off course and tried again. I thought he was following me in his kayak but after a while, after I didn’t see him anymore, it struck me. In the five minutes he was shouting at me, it was not because he was following me but because I couldn’t swim out of that spot: I was swimming but the current held me in one place.

My strength was slowly waning.

I was upset and felt my tears of anger and frustration fill my goggles. My legs strayed everywhere. The current broke my form into a thousand different formations that had nothing to do with the word “straight.” I fought a losing battle against the waves. Come on. You have to hold on.

Further on, there was another kayak. The lifeguard was motioning for me to leave the water. There was also a man on the beach, making me the same sign. By this time, I felt like an invertebrate. My body folded every which way because of the fatigue and the waves. I was trying to push myself forward with little success. My tongue felt raw, burnt by the acidity of the sargasso.

I left the water and even though I was conversing calmly and even buoyantly with the man from the beach, an invisible sheet covered me. I didn’t know what it was at the time but I sunk into a silence that had nothing to do with the fatigue.

I was disillusioned with myself.

The only ending of the story that I hadn’t contemplated was happening and as I got to the finish line flags walking, and not swimming, a finisher’s medal that I felt that I did not deserve was hung around my neck. I did not know how to explain it to myself. All I knew was that this moment was mine. The anger that I felt belonged only to me and to no one else.

I waited till I got home to cry.

--------------------------------

A co-worker, who was quoting a famous director, told me that one should do film to cure oneself.

I think writing fulfills the same function.

Today I did my first open water swim. I reproached myself for my weakness as I had walked back to the finish line, without even knowing that that was what I was doing. I realize now, however, that not everything can be achieved on the first try. And like Weinstock, I, too, want to leave the room with a little bit of my dignity intact. In confessing these very words, I feel that my dignity is salvageable in knowing that sooner or later, I will be in open waters again, competing.

To Arrive: The Regional Triathlon 2009, Cancun

2009-08-16T19:44:00.000-07:00

This is triathlon #3.

I’ve been running more, putting in more speed work, going out to run at night.

I bought a road bike, one that rides like it can cut butter: smooth, effortless gear shifting and responds to my legs. I bought it one week before this tri which meant me doing this as cold turkey as it gets. A roadie friend of mine told me that it takes a while to get used to a road bike.

I had one week to find out.

I convinced myself that it wasn’t that bad. A friend registered for a tri in Valle de Bravo but was training on a mountain bike up until then. The Tuesday before the event, he bought his road bike. Wednesday, he took it out for all of ten minutes to ride. Thursday, it was packed and ready to go. Saturday, he did the tri.

It was enough to say that the bike was his worst event and suffered wholeheartedly.

I was praying that a couple of hours of experience would give me an advantage.

The day of the triathlon: the organizers has told us to arrive later to give a chance to the younger athletes to start first. Kids from Tabasco, Chiapas, Yucatan and Quintana Roo were all there, competing when I arrived. And as the sun fell like lead, some who were waiting pulled out markers and marked their arms and legs with their bib numbers.

My pesky nerves were attacking me all week, especially when I considered the swim. I convinced myself that it was a training session, nothing more. For others, however, it wasn’t that simple. The Friday before the event, Claudia told me that she still had to find a bike. She’s an excellent swimmer but I contemplated her words. It meant maintaining your cadence in the blazing sun for 20 kilometers (about 12 miles) on a bike that was not hers, after swimming nearly half a mile, to go and run about 3 miles. I didn’t know how to break it to her so I just kept quiet. Fernando, however, had already done a triathlon (the Turkey Triathlon) but hadn’t trained too much and was a bit nervous. A marathoner and an excellent swimmer, I knew that he would pull through.

Standing in front of the ocean, the sun produced diamonds of light on the surface of the water. The men got together first and were the first heat to start. As I watched them leave, the women started to gather at the starting line. I took a deep breath and knew that today, the sea is mine.

The whistle.

I was still running through the water when others were already facedown in the water, swimming. I allowed them to get a little further away before I started swimming as well.

For the first time in the swim, I was swimming neck and neck with two other women for the first 200 meters. I, who swore that no one could be slower, found two others who were just as slow. I didn’t know them but it could have been their first time doing an ocean swim.

In the first buoy, I turned and lost them completely. The modified crawl became my favorite stroke. That’s because every now and so often, I would lift my head out of the water to see where I was. The murkiness of the water set my mind at ease and helped me concentrate.

I got to the beach and Aline, a judge and a friend, called out “34:20.” The time it took me to swim the half mile. Slower than hell. As I ran to T1, I turned to see that there were two people still in the water behind me.

Now for the moment of truth. I mounted my new baby. My Cannondale. It was so wonderfully sweet and giving that I was able to pass up five people. This being that I had a Camelbak on, due to the fact that I didn’t have bottle cages. I even raced a man ahead of me, trying to sprint as if we were Armstrong and Indurain.

I said “as if.”

Then came the problem: in the transition, I couldn’t find my things underneath the bike rack. I walk up and down for a couple of minutes, trying to find them. I spot them under someone else’s bike, who just so happened to park on top of my goggles and towel. I shoved the bike aside and I started to change. Meanwhile, the guy I raced at the end of the bike is already heading out towards the run.

I start to run.

Five minutes later, I’m praying to the high heavens to have them end the run segment.

Now would be nice.

My body felt heavy and I imagine that the little sprint wasn’t without its consequences. My heels didn’t want to kick up anymore and I knew it was going to be an agonizing while that followed.
And like last time, people started to pass me up. I didn’t care anymore. All I wanted was to finish. Nothing on my body was Harting but I felt I was now a sack of rocks.

But I continued.

About half a mile to the finish line, I saw a group of kids on their bikes. They were the same ones who were competing in the morning and now that they were finished, they were riding home in the other direction. They passed me up, rooting me on, telling me that I was close to finishing. I saw their youthful faces, fresh and smiling, filled with hope, and happy to have finished and competed.

That amazed me.

And like last time, people started to pass me up. But I didn’t care anymore. I wanted it all to end. Nothing in my body was in pain but I just felt like a sack of rocks.

And I kept at it.

A little less than a mile from the finish line, I saw a group of kids (who looked like they were in high school) riding towards me. They were the same kids who I had seen in the morning. They passed me up, rooting me on, telling me that I was close. I saw their youthful faces, fresh and smiley, filled with hope, happy to have finished and to have competed. And that struck me.

Maybe one day, one of these kids will grow up to be an Olympic hopeful, representing Mexico. Maybe they’ll become such a great athlete that they’ll win the Panamerican Games. The World Cup. The Olympics. And have the hopes of an entire nation behind them, wanting to be like them. Like Olympic silver medal sprinter Ana Guevara. Like a PWGA women’s champion, Lorena Ochoa.

Or maybe they’ll become scientists that discover the cure for cancer. Or a Nobel Prize writer.

And they were rooting me on.

I just saw the future of a nation ride by me on two wheels.

Maybe I was endorphin overloading but I was so moved that I almost burst into tears. Seeing the finish line up ahead cut me off short and I dried my face.

I can’t run with my nose clogged.

This time, there was no awards ceremony. This time, there were a lot of mad people who were ticked off that the registration fees didn’t cover, even remotely, the same perks as in the previous triathlon. There wasn’t a lot of proper organization and there was a whole mess of angry words. And as the finishing times were put down in pen and paper instead of digitally with a chip and a modem, I watch as a pelican soared over the sea and the light of the setting sun cast shades of pink and red. I remembered the faces of those young triathletes and decided that regardless of everything that happened, today, there is nothing more beautiful than a triathlon.

Calluses: The Quintana Roo Statewide Triathlon 2009

2009-07-26T20:01:00.000-07:00

In a sudden decision, I was considered to compete in the Statewide Triathlon in Cancun with only a week’s worth of notice. This time, I was not besieged with sensations of nausea, dizziness, lack of appetite. This time, I was not pregnant, about ready to give birth to a triathlon. This time, I did not even feel the need to think if some benevolent doctor would do me the favor of removing my digestive system before the competition.

I arrived to Puerto Cancun (a fancy complex on the beach but still under construction) early to rack my bike. Yuri, who looked as if she had spent the night in the bulldozer shovel, had dark circles under her eyes and was talking to several some of the swimmers from the Red Cross, trying to calm herself. About to participate in her first triathlon, she kept her cool with a ton of class.

Little by little, they started to arrive: the experienced, those who were looking to qualify, the newbies.

In the marking, my arms were elegantly painted with my numbers: 28. These became a sort of tattoo afterwards. Since I didn’t put on any sunscreen beforehand, I was basically branded, the number in a lighter tone, causing a bit of surprise to those who notice.

The tri start was late in coming. We stood in the wet sand, waiting anxiously for the whistle and when it finally did blow, all I could think was, “And if I don’t do it?” Everyone was splashing about and the inertia pulled me into the water. It was murky and I couldn’t see the bottom. I imagined it being deep when I noticed that the base of the sea wall I was swimming next to was hard to see.

Today I had my hair up in a bun, as a suggestion from my swim instructor. “So that you can go faster,” he told me. Even with this vague advantage, I still was nowhere near feeling like Michael Phelps as I was being left behind. Upon rounding the first sea wall, I felt my swim cap slide back. My goggles will hold it on, I thought.

“Modified crawl every ten strokes,” my lifeguard friend had told me. I lifted my head out of the water every now and so often to see where I was. We had to swim an “M” around two sea walls and upon round the wall, the buoy was a lot farther off than I thought and I lost sight of it frequently.

At least I don’t have to worry about swimming to Cuba this time.

When I finally got to the end of the swim, I heard people shouting my name. I fell in the sargasso, betrayed by the wet sand that had turned into a thick goop underneath the plants. I took off my goggles to find that I had lost my cap.

With wet hair dripping over my face, falling and, apparently, having the largest group of people cheering me on, I wasn’t exactly the spitting image of grace. I looked more like a wet St. Bernard.

“Here comes the last two athletes!” I heard the announcer shout into the microphone as I ran up to my bike. Cool. I wasn’t the last one out of the water.

I arrive to T1 was a little bit more practice. A water bottle to wash the sand off my sandy feet. A towel to dry them. First shoe. Second shoe. Jersey with pinned-on bib number. Helmet. Sunglasses. Unrack bike.

This was one of those moments when I thanked my mountain biking experience. The terrain was gravelly in certain sections due to the construction. I took it all in stride. There was a woman who was on a road bike and whose face was as red as her suit. She had her helmet on at an angle, sitting further back on her head as if it were a baseball cap, her hair askew and pasted to her face.

If suffering had a representative image, this woman would win hands down.

Upon finishing my second lap, the leaders were already returning to the racks to pick up their bikes. By this time, I was able to pass up two people (one of them being Suffering Woman) on the bike but those same two passed me up in the run. I ran calmly, knowing that there was no hurry. I wasn’t going to break any records; I had no sponsors on my back. The only record I beat was my own: I arrived second to last, one place better than last time.

But something got my hide:

Suffering passed me up.

There is a marvelous movie called “The World’s Fastest Indian” with Sir Anthony Hopkins. It’s the true story of Burt Munro, a New Zealander who, at his 60 some-odd years of age, went to make his dream come true in running his streamline, sub-1000 cc motorcycle on the salt flats of Bonneville, Utah. At the beginning of the movie, there is a shot of a shelf filled with pistons, pieces that he himself had made and, for one reason or another, didn’t work. Witnesses to his hundreds of intents at being better.

It was a part of his offering to the God of Speed, on his search for the piece that will make him faster.

I also search for the piece that will make me faster.

If there is an element that I identify with, I would say it was the wind.

If there was an animal that I loved, I would say it would be a bird of prey, like a hawk.

And just like that, I found my totem.

In my solitary wanderings (what I call my training sessions), I sometimes see a hawk far away, drawing circles in the air. In my mind, it lands on a tree that is on top of a hill, which I see only as a tiny dot on the horizon. And it waits for me. Sometimes, it seems so far away that I’m not even sure that I’m moving towards it but I trust that if my feet are moving, the distance between the hawk and I is closing.

I want to be fast. Make me fast.

If I make it to that tree where that hawk is, I’ll know I am.

A Leap of Faith: A Chronicle on the Triatlon del Pavo in Cancun, Mexico

2009-06-23T21:00:00.000-07:00

I believe that there are certain points in life that you have to pass by to find out, not so much how good you are at something and not even how much so, but only to see, live and breathe.

I did my first triathlon ever. A great feat that carries with it the hardest of battles with one of the most assiduous enemies of my life: fear. And after nearly two years of hurting myself from falling off my bike, twisting my ankle, cramps in my calves that could have well been syndromes that required amputation, among other events, I arrived to that finish line.

This is how it went.

We arrived early with the wind blowing and the sun peeking between long strips of clouds. My friends and I were sitting on the sand, watching how beautiful the sunrise was. The ocean, like rumpled silk, tempted and taunted between whispers of the wind as the sun made its presence known before hiding behind clouds again. And after watching all the other categories start, it was finally our turn.

The squeal of the starting whistle.

Everyone ran to the ocean, splashing each other, dolphining, swimming, running. I slipped into the water and was rocked by the waves. My respiration started to peak and drop wildly. Panic slapped me in the face, making me stand on the sargasso. In the distance, I saw how the waves elevated all the other swimmers.

I froze.

It was in that brief moment that an ounce of doubt seeped in and said, "And if I tell my trainer that I'm not going to do this?"

"What's wrong? Are you okay?"

I turned and saw one of the lifeguards who was watching over the swimmers. His question erased everything on my slate and before I knew it, I put my face back into the water.

At the first buoy, I was panicking again and I grabbed a lifeguard's floater. Another swimmer was already there, on another floater.

"I'm going to throw up," he said.

And it was only the first 100 meters.

And as the lifeguard towed the swimmer back, the one who had my floater asked me if I was going to continue. I looked towards the second buoy and saw how far away it looked. A wave passed by gently as if the sea was trying to claim me as its own.

I am, and nothing more.

When I was finishing my first lap, the last couple of swimmers were finishing their second lap. When I stepped into the ocean again for my second lap, I was alone. Swimming 200 meters extra didn't help the situation either. I was practically on my way to Cuba when lifeguards caught up with me and pulled at my leg on four separate occasions.

"You're on your way back to Cancun," said one. In my last 200 meters, he corralled me so that I wouldn't swim so far off track again. And as I swam and saw how far I was from the course and from the buoy I was supposed to be swimming to, I vowed that if I ever got back to land, I would kiss the first person I see.

The only person who was on shore waiting was a friend I had no intention of ever kissing. He had waited for me.

Mental kisses, then.

The bike was the easiest part except for the first two kilometers. I saw something that wouldn't easily erase from my mind: an athlete (who I clearly remembered seeing on the beach before the whistle) was lying on the middle of the road with a dark puddle under her head. Two road bikes were leaning on separate trees and the race organizers were indicating that the competitors continue the race.

I didn't see a helmet anywhere.

As I passed her, I felt a numbness in the back of my head. In the following laps, I was repeating to myself a sort of prayer, hoping she wouldn't die on me. In the second lap, the dark puddle seeped across the road in a thick path, crossing in front of me. I saw the wet spot on my tire as I race across.

Please don't die on me. Please don't die on me.

By the time I was on my third lap, she was sitting on the side of the road, her head bandaged.

In the fourth lap, the only ones who were still on the bike was a teenager who looked like he was suffering from cramps and a guy on an old skool double suspension Mongoose with a rack for school books on the back. The only thing he had there was a bottle of Gatorade strapped firmly onto its grill.

Getting off the bike, the balls of my feet felt hollow, as if they had holes from where I had been pressing against the pedals. And as blisters formed on my feet from the grains of sand that were still stuck to my skin from the swim, my face contorted and formed a smile. Even though I knew that at that point, I was the only one doing the triathlon (most everyone had left and the roads were opened to traffic again), I kept going.

In the last 20 meters, I saw the finish line loom before me. Karla, Hector, Genaro, Odin, Vega and Rosana (friends from my mountain bike group) were shouting at me, urging me across. My heels kicked high and I sprinted, wondering if I was going to cry.

Crossing the finish line, I leapt as if I were in a tampon commercial.

I'm free.

Rosana grabbed me and hugged me hard (her specialty). And as I panted from that last sprint, I realized that I had just finished my first triathlon. An incredible wave of emotion came over me with a strength and elegance that only this grand moment could have given me:

I sobbed as I had never done in my whole entire life.

When I arrived to Cancun, the first time I went to swim in open waters was with Genaro. I remembered the fear that came over me as I held on for dear life to the line of buoys. He dragged me along for the little bit that I could manage to swim and was a real trooper that day, showing incredible patience for this scaredy cat. And when I saw him at the finish line with his big brother smile, I saw how that circle closed right in front of me.

On the way, I carried my dead with me: Donna, the mother of one of my dearest friends, died of cancer. Her daughter and my friend, Gen, dedicated her first triathlon to her mother and that, later, became my reason for starting this journey as well. Esperanza, a very good friend who used to accompany her boyfriend in his marathons, passed away earlier this year. Neither had ever seen me in a competition.

Now they have.

And as I saw the word "FINISH" rise in front of me, I heard the shouts of the only people waiting there, waiting for me, come from friends. I realized then that the one thing that pushes us on when we compete in a race, regardless of what place we come in, was reduced to the following words:

"Close up shop. I'm here and I'm done."