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

It was 2002. I remember because I was watching the World Cup in Japan and South Korea. Pride had taken the helm then and instead of calling my parents to help me because money was very short, I decided to suffer through it. I remember eating a bar of cooking chocolate because it was the only food I had and lying on my stomach to watch soccer because otherwise, I would be spending too much energy and I didn't have the food to keep me going.

They were hard years. So hard that I dipped into depression and I had asked God that if there wasn't a further purpose for my life, to take me. I had scarcely enough of the work I hated to make ends meet. I couldn't pay rent. I didn't have gas for the stove and hot water nor money for toilet paper and toothpaste. My credit card was maxed. My phone line was cut. The rent collectors banged on the door as I cowered in the corner. This existence was painful. I did not want to go on.

And nothing happened. It was as if there was an unspoken word that was said.

One word makes all the difference. It doesn't take much.

I took that as a sign to go on and continue.

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

DNF. Did Not Finish. That's what happens when a triathlete, for one reason or another, cannot finish. I've never had one before but this time, I was thinking I may have to.

Tuesday evening was the last time I ran before Sunday's triathlon. My knee has been off and on since the time trial in January and after therapy and two weeks of rest, had started to feel strange after a 30 minute run. The evolution during the week had gone from not doing the tri, to doing the swim and the bike to "let's see what happens".

"Just see how your knee feels after the swim and bike," Joseph had said.

Like I said, it only takes a couple of words.

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

Sunday morning rolls around and as we walked down to the swim start, I enjoyed the sun and the smooth feel of the water against my skin.

This is going to be a fast swim.

Minutes before the swim started, the event organizer announced that due to a conference on drug trafficking in Cancun, the bike leg will only have one lane open. Five meters of space for two-way bike traffic. Please let there not be stupid bikers today.....

The men started out the gate first as the women lined up on the beach. When I got in the water, a pelican flew low over us. It was one of those unique kinds of moments to which only you feel privy to, a kind of private salute from Mother Nature herself. I raised my hand, as if to say hi.

Waist deep in water, I got ready to start.

The horn.

I attacked the water and felt strong. My hands kept diving in between other swimmers who were in front of me as we raced to the first buoy. The water was calm and save for the occasional wave caused by the jet skis, it was smooth sailing.

Out of the water, I ran to T1. Running through a path marked by beach loungers, I made it to my bike and took the necessary time to remember everything I had to get on my person: bib number, sunglasses, helmet, bike.

I was out the gate.

I sped on and felt as if a bird of prey stood inside of me. It was slowly opening its wings and extending them as far outwards as it could. Enormous wings flapped downwards and pushed on the air.

My feet shoved themselves forward into my shoes as I passed someone. And then another. And then another.

But I wasn't sure if I could hold out. I haven't trained for this. The run. That blasted run. My knee had protested on Tuesday. Will it hold out?

I opted to slow my pace a bit as I slid into T2.

Hang bike. Take off helmet. Put on cap. Wash off feet. Slip on shoes.

I was out of the gate.

Before I realized it, I was running down the path. Wasn't I thinking to not do the run? No tweaks. No twinges. My knee feels okay. I can stop further along, if I need to.

After running across the dirt path, however, my knee started to feel a bit funny. I slowed to a walk and decided maybe I should just take it easy.

Lau from 3BT ran alongside.

"Come on, Fumiko! Let's run!"

"My knee..." I protested.

"Then we'll run together," she had said.

We'll run together.

It only takes a couple of words and I didn't stop running till I got to the finish line.

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

At the run turn, there were a group of teenagers who were passing out bottles of water. They held out their untopped bottles of waters when one of the girls said something that I wasn't expecting:

"Wasabi!" she said.

I looked at her hard.

It only takes a word. I could have blown up and did something regrettable.

But I didn't.

Instead, I took a bottle of water from a young man standing in front of the girl.

"Thank you," I had said.

The sudden cacophony of hoots and hollers surprised me. As I turned the corner, I realized what had happened: I was the first competitor to come through and say those two words to them.

It wasn't my intention to be malicious and I would never knowingly do so unless I was provoked. But my pride found control of my voice and said to the girl,

"We foreigners are just better that way."

She wasn't phased at all. Someone had said "thank you" and where I was from didn't matter at all.

It only takes a couple of words.

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

I started out the day expecting a DNF. Instead, I found a series of words that each in their own way lifted me up, as if they were that bird of prey that I have inside of me. And when I think back to those days when I had to choose between paying my bus fare and eating, and asking God what the purpose of my being alive was, I remember.

I remember that you are only as strong as the words you use. The words you feel. The words you know to be true.

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

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

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

--------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, his voice again:

“Ten.” Concentrate.

“Nine.” This is just a bike ride.

“Eight.” Clipped in.

“Seven.” Clipped foot up for more force.

“Six.” Where are you?

“Five.” Here.

“Four.” What time is it?

“Three.” Now.

“Two.” What are you?

“One.” This moment.

With a rebel cry, I was out the gate. 

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

Let’s see if I can last.

I heard Marilupe’s voice in my head:

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

Today, forever is 43.190 kilometers long.

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

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

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

Time to head back.

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

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

It begins now.

----------

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

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

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

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

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

My chain clicked into gear as I gunned it.

Time to bring it home.

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

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

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

She hugged me and congratulated me. 

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

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

First place in my category. Second place overall.

This turtle can fly.

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

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

It had rained and the streets were filled with puddles. By Las Americas Mall, there was a section that had gotten so much rain, it had covered an entire lane. A bus had just zipped up right before me and drove on the part where there was no water. I was right in front of the puddle and decided that instead of coming that close to the bus, I'd ride right through the puddle.

I never saw the pothole.

Needless to say, my bike made an interesting hat.

I sat in the puddle and the bus driver didn't even think of stopping. Another rushed on by, right after him and didn't care to stop.

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

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

"Look, this is your muscle," Dr. Wajid pointed out. The cursor of my leg's ultrasound rested on the half of the section of the screen where black cords ran horizontally across. "And this," moving the cursor over what looked to be grey scratches, above the cords, "is fat."

"Here is the bruise." The cursor floated above a black splotch that was surrounded by the grey scratches.

The bruise wasn't muscular, meaning it wouldn't affect the possibility of doing the Ironman.

For the first time in my life, I wasn't at all annoyed that a man should call me fat.

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



In the transition area, Danny and I went to set up our places. I was able to see lots of friends I didn't expect to see as well as my two favorite elites/heroes, Michellie Jones and Oscar Galindez, before I got into the water.



Then, the male swim heats began. I looked at my Garmin: my pulse was at 83.


Because so many women were competing this year, our start was in a single wave.

The horn.



I was always surrounded by people throughout the entire swim, something that is unusual for me since I was one of the last to leave the water last year. I ran to T1 and saw more bikes racked still than last year. A good sign.

I put on my jersey and all of my gels, Gatorade sacks and Gu electrolite chews fell out of my jersey pockets as if I had been caught shoplifting at the supermarket. I quickly stuffed my pockets again, not minding what went where. I lifted my pant leg to put on a bit of Body Glide FX Warming for the pain.

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



I grabbed my bike and ran.



The first 15 miles were absolutely wonderful. I was pedaling at a good pace, passing up people and it wasn't that hot.


When I was coming back from the first of two 25-mile laps was when things went slightly array. I was riding against strong winds that made my speed drop from 19 mph to 11 mph. The sun was still shining when I saw up ahead black clouds roll over the road, where the trees and asphalt marked the way into rainy shadows.

I was able to maintain my buoyant attitude when all of a sudden, something that I didn't want happening, happened.

Thump.

What was that?

Thump.

Was that the road?

Thump.

It's not the road.

I looked down and saw my back tire flattened under the rim.

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



I have no more inner tubes.



I removed my tire, took out the inner tube and found the culprit: a metal wire. Why didn't I check my tires before I put in a new tube? I took out the tube and raised it high at the passing competitors.

Someone give me an inner tube. Please.

"Fumi!"

It was Fer Luna. He had come biking from the transition to collect stuff that people had dropped on the bike route. His haul was so good that he even had an inner tube someone had thrown out. An event mechanic came up in that moment and changed my tire. I knew someone was watching over me.

The rain fell in sheets but no one stopped.

On the second lap, with two flat tires and riding against the wind, I knew time was running out and there were hardly any competitors on the bike left. The road seemed so long and the return was weighing heavily upon me. I thought that if I could make it to KM 60, I would definitely be able to finish. And when I saw the last aid tent before T2, I knew I was close.

All the volunteers broke out into applause and cheers as I arrived and while I rode up the bridge back to the Hotel Zone, I almost started to cry.

In T2, Aline, event judge and friend, came up to me.

"Competitor 985, you have two minutes to leave transition. If not, you will not be allowed to run."

I threw on my shoes without washing off my feet: a fact I would well remember during the run; pieces of asphalt, dirt and rocks reminded me agilely at every step.

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



But I kept repeating in my mind that the first 10 I had run easy while the next five I have to up the pace and the last two I have to give with everything that I've got.



The rocks in my shoes bounced around but I didn't want to stop and shake them out.

I can hold out.

I have to hold out.

I felt the smile that I wore a while ago melting and sliding off my face. Looking at my watch, I knew I wasn't going to make it within the seven-hour mark.

"Easy Fu," the voice in my head was saying. "Or you're going to fuck yourself over."

"Good job! Stay loose!" said a passing competitor, as he biked back to his hotel.

I have to finish.

And if I walk it? And if I don't finish? And if I stop and get the rocks out? Why am I doing this?

But my body continued on. Every time I was bathed in ice water, I felt my body cool for only a second only to feel as if it never happened. My head burned even with the ice in my cap. I needed to finish.

I don't remember this road having so many turns. When is this going to all end?

And then I saw the sign: 900 m to the finish line.

I kicked up my heels like I've done in all those training sessions these past three weeks and tried going as fast as I could. At the 500 meter mark, my friend, Irapuato, and the triathletes of TriBlueTeam were hanging out in their tent. When they saw me, they began to shout, rooting me to go on.

And that was when Irapuato shouted:



"I LOVE YOU FUMI!"



It was then that I knew who I was doing this for: I'm doing this for them.

I'm doing this for me.

I completely lost it. A hiccuping sob started to escape as I ran to the finish. Everyone on the way was applauding me and I couldn't stop crying. I don't know what they said. I don't know who they were. But I knew that they had never left me.

And like a bullfighter, I crossed into the plaza. The sun shone on gold embroidery that was my sweat. I stood in the middle of the plaza and took off my hat, the black "montera", and pivoted on one foot, turning slowly, with hat in hand. I saluted the plaza, which was filled with my people: everyone who gave me money for my birthday so that I could register for the Ironman; Willy, who was driving next to the run course when he happened to see me, reversed and shouted with emotion at this wonderful craziness I was participating in; the bikers from MTB Cancun, who came out to root us on; my friends from the Red Cross, who were there at the finish, waiting for me; the 3BT Triathletes with their drum and songs; the Go Cycle crew; my event official friends who were witnesses to my tears and all those who I carried with me and who could not be there. But there were those who I did not know: the volunteers at the aid stations; the man who doused me with cold water and offered to bathe my legs; the officials who rooted me on; my fellow competitor who said I was kick ass; the other who told me it was one mile to the turn; those who told me "good job!" to urge me on when my voice had, by then, turned into a soft whisper.

I throw the montera and it falls to the ground, the top of which points to the sky. A sign of good luck. I had conquered a pre-competition bike injury, two flat tires, torrential winds, blazing heat, humidity and my own demons. Counting this Ironman, it was the seventh time this year that I had done a long ride.

Thank you for being there for me. This one's for you.

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

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

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

And I want to remember.

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

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

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

The horn.

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

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

And I felt embarrassed.

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

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

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

Why didn't you come in first?

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

Son of a bitch. Fucking son of a bitch.

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

And then it hit me.

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

And that is how I came to my choice.

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

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

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

"Hard," I had said.

"Why?" Memo asked.

That answer was also lost on me.

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

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

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

Happy Father's Day.

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

Out of all the elements, I've always identified with wind because of this innate compatibility I feel for it. That ever-changing element that surrounds you and breathes the coolest of breaths onto you and soothes on the hottest of days. The weekend of the first edition of the Mayan X Tri, however, brought winds that kicked up to a cool 38 kph (23 mph), making flying sand sting and feel as if your skin was freezing, without the chill.


The day before the competition, I was riding along the Hotel Zone and for the first time, I was scared for my life. The winds were so strong that as a 160 pound person on heavy mountain bike, I never thought I would feel that cold sweat as I did in those precarious moments. I felt the whole frame of my bike tilt too much for my taste and I was scared of being thrown into the way of a passing bus.

The pre-competition meeting was at the Canibal Royal in Playa del Carmen, just on the beach. Even as the sun set, we could still see the strength of the wind and the rocking waves crash violently on the sand. The most probable outcome was a duathlon: three kilometers trek, 20 kilometer mountain bike ride through the jungle and an 8 kilometer trekking route to the finish. Even when they brought out dancers from the local culture center, who performed a ceremony for good luck during the event, we all had a pretty good idea that the winds would not subside by morning.

As I lounged and mingled during the meeting and carb dinner, I was running into friends I hadn't seen in a year. People I used to ride with. People who I didn't realize that I had missed so much until seeing them again opened floodgates of good vibes.

Early that next morning, when we walked down to the race start, the ocean pounded wildly against the beach, making a duathlon an inevitable factor of the race. And as I had only sandals, my running the first three kilometers was out of the question.

But I wasn't satisfied. I felt the hunger within me.

I needed to swim.

Kicking off my shorts and sandals, I pulled on my cap and goggles and swam. My body rocked as the water under me was completely foggy. Every now and then, I saw large pieces of coral, the size of papayas, rocking freely in the water and rising before me as the waves pushed me down towards the sand. I remembered thinking that a year and a half ago, I would have been scared to death of this kind of water.

And now I welcomed it. Bring it on.

I got out of the water and waited with my team (Odin and his cousin, Monica) for the race start. Then, in a rush, they called the individual men up first, followed by the indie women and then the relays.

The whistle.

One by one, the heats sprinted off into the blazing sun. Odin went to wait in the transition tent while I waited by the start, on the watch for Monica.

It was when Monica came back that the race became that much more interesting. By this time, it was about 9:30 to 10 in the morning and the sun was barreling down on the jungle. When it was possible, the wind swept off the heat but it didn't happen often enough for those whose inner tubes had burst. Cyclists had to sweat it out, changing them maybe one, two or more times in the unforgiving heat.

I sat in the transition tent with Heriberto and Monica waiting for Odin and the other relays to arrive. As the minutes ticked away, we grew worried that something might have happened. Serrano, the competitor who would eventually come in first, came to the transition, doing the bike segment in less than one hour. If first place did it in that kind of time, how much longer would it take everyone else?

One by one, the indie men started running in.

Where were our relays?

Then, sporting a wide smile, Carlos Palazuelos (aka Tequilo and known personally by me as "Irapuato") comes running up, racks his bike and runs to the tent.

"A warm round of applause for the first relay to come in!" yelled one competitor in the tent.

We all clapped as the chip was taken off Irapuato's ankle. I hugged him, sweaty and tired, as hard as I could as he was doused with a spray of water. This man who did his first sprint triathlon in October and is going to do his first 70.3 Ironman this coming Sunday. The one who considers me his triathlon "godmother" for having inspired him to compete. The one who gave me back my faith in me as a triathlete.

I couldn't have been more proud.

They soon started coming in and the runners started leaving the tent. Odin was still nowhere to be seen.

One cyclist limped into the bike zone, his leg cramping on him completely. His face twisted in pain as some of those waiting with me shouted to the judges to help him. He labored with his bike as he lifted it onto the rack, every step causing him to wince. When he finally got into the transition zone and his runner finally got the chip off of him and ran, they laid him on the brush and massaged his leg. I ran to the box of ice cubes and pulled out handfuls. Prostrate and on the grass, it was hard to find where to stuff the cubes onto him so I tried to form a snowman out of the melting ice cubes, on his stomach.

I failed miserably, as the cubes slid easily off his stomach and onto the brush.

More relays started coming in and as the bikers sat in the shade, a glazed look started to appear over their faces. I pulled out bricks of ice and placed them on John's and Chitolo's necks. The ensuing "oh yeahs" started to erase the glaze from their eyes.

Then finally, a mustard yellow Pumas jersey came round the bend and rushed to the rack. I called Monica over and we pushed past the others so that she could put on the chip. She sprinted off into the jungle as I pulled Odin into the tent. As I filled my hands with ice cubes, he walked off and stood in the sun, a little apart from the tent, pacing and unsettled.

I went over to him and put the cubes on his neck. He turned and I felt the weight of the competition pour out of him. He had popped his back shifter, completely twisting it off with a passing branch as if it were a can of sardines, endangering his means to finish, while the sun had squeezed out every last ounce of his determination. He was exhausted and had been pushed to the limit. I held him as I told him it was okay, that he finished, that he was okay.

I went back and forth between the palapa and the finish line, all the while, meeting up with old friends and making new ones.

It was then that I saw Lety, fellow photographer, come into view over the hill and with beaming pride, I remembered how she told Maritza and I how we were her examples to follow. That because of us, she decided that she could do a triathlon too. And when she saw the finish line, her heels kicked up in a furious frenzy as she sped home.

I think her brother cried a little as he held her.

While I was back at my table, I looked over towards the beach and saw Marilupe sitting with a towel wrapped around her. She had just finished but her face held something behind her slightly knitting brows. Bety and Heriberto stood around her, talking animatedly.

I walked over and embraced her. I felt the still silence in her thin frame, compact and bottled. I knew that stillness. I've heard that silence before.

"I'm really proud of you," I whispered.

And so she unfolded: the frustration, the heat, the fatigue, the dehydration and then, to finally finish that torture with the sweetness of knowing that she did do what she set out to do. Contagious tears started pouring down her face and escaped from my own eyes as well.

"Why are you crying?" she asked with a sniff.

"Because Bety is standing on my foot. And it hurts. A lot."

The giggling brought on a group hug and Marilupe's sudden petition for a beer.

She was going to be okay.

You could choose to do anything you want: get mad, throw a fit, toss your bike into the nearest bush. But you didn't: you rode, you cried, you screamed into the wind, you damned the elements, only to get pelted in the face with sand, a bush, a low-hanging branch. And yet you chose to finish. You chose. And that is how the most divine of all arts, love, creates one of the most beautiful and most intimate of all sensations: personal triumph.

Welcome to my world.

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

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

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

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

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

First stop: Daniel.

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

This was to be his first triathlon ever.

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

We left him to make his various attempts to sleep.

Next stop: Bernardino (aka Bon Bon).

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

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

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

Yes, dolphins.

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

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

The horn.

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

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

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

This was a show of an amazing group of people.

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

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

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

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

"Vaseline!" said yet another.

I ran over.

This was one I had.

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

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

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

Oh...

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Peter.”

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

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

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

“Do you need help?”

“Another stomach, maybe?”

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

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

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

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

“Are you a Lance fan?” he asked.

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

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

“Sort of.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As it were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My hands are black and blue from clapping.

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

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

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

Talk about a major training session....

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

But I'll do it. Whatever it takes.

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

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

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

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

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

I stayed on my feet.

I know how to do this.

The start.

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

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

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

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

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

After the 10 k mark, Boney dusted me.

Damn him...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I detest the discrimination.

Despite all this, he's a triathlete.

He's an Ironman.

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

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

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

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