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

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

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

At the bus station, I was able to catch the 6 a.m. to Playa del Carmen and was seated near two guys from England who had obviously been partying all night.

I saw the 7 a.m. ferry starting out as I raced 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 even started yet.

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

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

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

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

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

What I neglected to notice was the wooden pier in front of me. I swerved and like a lonely little cockroach, I fell over.

We both laughed so hard, the name stuck. He may be "Tekilo" for everyone else but between the two of us, we were always "Irapuato."

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

He wanted to do one.

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

And today, he was going 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 the ferry over, our bikes stowed safely away. We arrived just when the pros were finishing 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, we ran into Susana, who was refereeing in the penalty box. After an hour of collecting bottles out of the bushes and trees in the blazing sun, more just kept getting thrown in. At one point, a triathlete who had just finished the water in his bottle proceeded to throw it in the bushes.

It hit me square in the thigh.

Another triathlete who was right behind him shook his head.

"That was pretty messed up," he said.

It only made me laugh.

There were a slew of triathletes yelling for gels, water, Gatorade. A female triathlete with a distinctly 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 of bottles out of the middle of the street so that the competitors won't have unnecessary 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. The thing that most shocked me was that she did not have a prosthetic leg.

She had pedaled 111.85 miles with only one leg.

I am a lazy bastard.

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

We rode off and wished her 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 she should go back and lend her the mountain bike so that she could finish.

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

Because I wanted her to finish too.

We found out that because every single competitor is photographed with their bike upon racking, a bike replacement was not allowed. 

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

I do too, Grace. I do too.

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Fer Maraton at the Cozumel Ironman 2011

Back in town, the run for the pros was well underway. We decided to park our bikes and get something to eat before everyone else came back. And from the large windows of the supermarket cafe, we watched the torrential downpour force everyone to take cover as we ate.

After the rain, the thunderous roar of biplanes flying had everyone looking to the sky. The planes flew so close to the ground that had this been the States, the FAA would have been going absolutely bonkers. 

We walked a little further up the street to wait and staked out a spot on the center island. I turned just in time as Fer Maraton came running up. I was shouting at him like a mad woman, excited to see him. He motioned urgently at his hand as he passed a 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 I looked at what I was holding in my hand.

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

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

"I HATE YOU, FER!"

I promptly put the shorts in a stray plastic bag and looked for something to clean my contaminated hand with.

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Ruben Grande at the
Cozumel Ironman 2011

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

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

I turned back with a smile on my face.

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

I ran with him until he could run no more. The silence between us was filled with his determination to finish and my words.

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

"You're my hero," I said softly.

"No," he replied. "You're my hero."

Heriberto and Irapuato at the
Cozumel Ironman 2011

I bit my lip. I didn't know what to say. There was a gratitude so great that filled all those empty spaces 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 do you thank someone who wants to emulate the passion you feel for something and has far exceeded all expectations? It was the greatest compliment paid in the humblest 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 not speak so that he wouldn't notice how thick my voice had gotten.

He sent me back with his half-finished bottle of electrolites.

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

And I thought about the last two years, how Irapuato was 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.

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

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

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

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Maybe you've never done more than just walk at work from your seat to the bathroom.  Or maybe you're just starting to run. Or maybe you're not willing to stop eating pizza to lose weight. Maybe there're a lot of things that are stopping you.

But that didn't stop Ruben Grande. That didn't stop the triathlete who pushed the one pedal of her bike for 180 km. And as much as they wanted to throw in the towel and stop the madness, it didn't stop Fer nor Irapuato either. Because even though it started being just about you, it has become about everyone. About all those people who told you you were crazy. All those who tried to convince you to drink well on into the night when you had get in a cold swim early the next morning. All those who told you to get your ass on the bike when you couldn't even get out of bed. All those who stood through rain and broiling sun, waiting for you to pass by just so that you knew that someone was waiting for you.

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

All those people who only 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)

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)

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

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.
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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.