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

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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)

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

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.

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When I was a little girl, other little girls wanted to be princesses and queens.

I wanted to be a superhero.

And now I'm an Ironman.

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Those words brought on a rush of emotion as a tear crept out of the corner of my eye.

"Come on, Jackie. We're almost there." I couldn't keep my voice even as I picked up speed and turned into the park.

And when I saw the finish line and the commentator announcing my arrival, my friends were there waiting for me. I had to cover my mouth to keep from bursting into tears.

My feet were blistered and I was sweaty and wet but my friends hugged me without a second thought as I bawled. My official time: 8:09:04.

Jackie was getting a massage when I came up to her.

"I couldn't have done it without you," she said as she looked me in the eye. I gripped her hand firmly because we both knew what this moment cost us.

The evening ended with a small group of us going to the awards ceremony. We arrived just as they had awarded the elite women. Michellie Jones was in first place. As the categories were announced, and one of the age category winners even danced on stage, I watched in awe at this world that I was just baptized into.

With the awards over, they began announcing the selection for slots to the Ironman World Championship 70.3 in Clearwater, Florida. Without any better reason than because we were not in the mood to get out of our chairs, our group stayed and watched the selection. One by one, competitors were called and accepted their slot. Others were not around to accept and their slots were given to others. As they were announcing the 35-39 female category, I heard the announcer say a name I wasn't expecting:

"Fumiko Nobukoa."

WhAt?!

That was probably the only word in my dictionary for the next 10 minutes.

The last name was all wrong but there couldn't be another Fumiko. Was that really my name they called? Getting a slot to Clearwater for me was like being invited to the Olympics or riding in Astana with Armstrong.

WhAt?!

And so the day ended. I did not accept my slot to Clearwater but I sure as hell will train for an honorable showing if I ever get a slot again.

The day played back in my head and as I dozed off into a deep sleep, I knew that you are only as strong as your weakest link. I understood that with each competition I do, my weakest link will be that much stronger. That even though the maximum distance that I've ever run was 10 miles, my will to run it was what carried me to the finish line.

That I really wanted it that badly. Whatever it takes.