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.
Showing posts with label punta nizuc. Show all posts
Showing posts with label punta nizuc. Show all posts
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
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.
-------------------------------------
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
A Leap of Faith: A Chronicle on the Triatlon del Pavo in Cancun, Mexico
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."
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."
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