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.

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

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

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

Talk about a major training session....

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

But I'll do it. Whatever it takes.

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

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

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

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

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

I stayed on my feet.

I know how to do this.

The start.

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

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

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

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

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

After the 10 k mark, Boney dusted me.

Damn him...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I detest the discrimination.

Despite all this, he's a triathlete.

He's an Ironman.

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

"Today, No One Quits."
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There were people who suffered during the triathlon. But it was that pinch of tenacity that took those legs to the finish line. We all have battles. We all have problems. We all have someone who doesn't believe in us and believes in our premature failure. What they don't know is that we need to fail in order to be great. We need to fall to learn how not to fall again. We have to arrive in last place in order to savor and understand what bridging that gap to first place feels like. That it's all about the journey.

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

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

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.