On Not Finishing: Chronicle of the 2nd “Por Siempre en Aguas Abiertas” (Forever in Open Water) 5 km Swim Meet of Club Albatros

There was a comedienne named Lotus Weinstock who once said, “Before, I wanted to change the world. Now, I just want to leave the room with a little bit of dignity.”

This 5k swim was my first open water competition. All week, I was preparing myself mentally for what was to come. There were intense moments as well as bits of tranquility. Myrna, who swims very well in the pool, commented on her fears of the ocean and mentioned how she feared sharks. That one word was enough to germinate a fear that had not previously existed. And like a grain of sand, it began to form a callus in my head. It didn’t help that at the pre-meet meeting, they gave us the event t-shirt, which featured a photo of a bull shark, the third most dangerous in that species in the world.

A week before, we went to swim the route so that we could see how it was going to be during the competition. The waves rocked me, at times slamming on top of me. But I was able to withstand the power of the ocean. What I couldn’t stand was the burning in my nose. The saltiness of the water made my nose burn so much that I wanted to go to the doctor who I was planning to ask to remove my stomach for the first triathlon, to remove my nose. The sensation is akin to when one has a rock in their shoe: insignificant in size but irritating nonetheless.

This was enough reason for me to think twice about my participation in this meet. My swim trainer recommended that I line my nostrils with Vaseline.

A cure. This changes things.

On the day of the competition, I arrived with my nostrils well smeared. They gave me my numbers for the meet: 66.

Six hundred more to the sign of the devil.

It could be that for that particular reason I was able to feel calm. Perhaps it gave me strength. I don’t know. I watched the ocean with silent deference. I can. I should be able to.

And then the announcement: due to time and security concerns, the course will be shortened and instead of swimming a triangle, we were going to swim parallel to the beach. Instead of 5k, we were going to do 4. In my mind, I was grateful that it was going to be shorter.

The start.

The whistle for the women’s start sounded after the men were passing the first buoy, which was an orange ball, double the size of a basketball.

In open water swim terms, this was very small, as I was about to see.

I breathe only one side, my right side and though I could see the shore the whole time I was swimming to the buoy, I angled out far too much. So much so that when I finally arrived to the buoy marking the start of my second kilometer, I came at it from open water, perpendicular to the shore, and not swimming towards it from along the coast. The waves rocked me and during the entire way, I could not see that yellow buoy. My reference point was an identical buoy that was placed on the beach, about the same distance away as the one in the water.

I never thought I would feel so happy to see that yellow buoy that looked like a triangle chunk of cheese, just like in the cartoons. I swam around it and started my journey back. I had no way of seeing the basketball buoy from the cheese buoy so I went back, going parallel to the beach and using the palapa that was level with the basketball buoy and the finish line. The current started to pick up and on several occasions, I was almost flipped over when the waves would catch me, right as I was turning to breathe.

I was starting my second lap when the problems started. I began to notice that the Vaseline in my nose was wearing off. At the 2k mark, I started to feel the burn. Upon rounding the basketball buoy, the burning incremented. By this time, the current was stronger and every now and then, when I would turn my head to breathe, I had a wave crashing in my face.

I felt how my legs dragged behind me.

I felt how I couldn’t lift my left arm out of the water without some conscious effort.

I felt how the salt water flooded my mouth and burned until my eardrum.

I repeated to myself that as long as I could breathe, everything was going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay.

But like everything, you can get to the point where you get worn out.

Breathe to the side through the mouth. Exhale through the nose. Swallow salt water that rushes through your nose. Breathe to the side through the mouth. Exhale through the nose. Wave that slaps you in the face and forces you to swallow more water.

I have never had to work so hard to breathe in my life.

I didn’t want to breathe anymore.

I wanted it to be over. I wanted to finish. And I didn’t know if I could hold out before the fatigue that was chasing me set in. Just a little while more, I said to myself, while my nasal passages kept burning. You’re going to be uncomfortable for just a little bit more.

A lifeguard in a kayak was shouting at me. Indicating in gestures, he motioned towards where I should go. Each time I tried to go where he was telling me to, he shouted at me some more. I realized that I was swimming off course and tried again. I thought he was following me in his kayak but after a while, after I didn’t see him anymore, it struck me. In the five minutes he was shouting at me, it was not because he was following me but because I couldn’t swim out of that spot: I was swimming but the current held me in one place.

My strength was slowly waning.

I was upset and felt my tears of anger and frustration fill my goggles. My legs strayed everywhere. The current broke my form into a thousand different formations that had nothing to do with the word “straight.” I fought a losing battle against the waves. Come on. You have to hold on.

Further on, there was another kayak. The lifeguard was motioning for me to leave the water. There was also a man on the beach, making me the same sign. By this time, I felt like an invertebrate. My body folded every which way because of the fatigue and the waves. I was trying to push myself forward with little success. My tongue felt raw, burnt by the acidity of the sargasso.

I left the water and even though I was conversing calmly and even buoyantly with the man from the beach, an invisible sheet covered me. I didn’t know what it was at the time but I sunk into a silence that had nothing to do with the fatigue.

I was disillusioned with myself.

The only ending of the story that I hadn’t contemplated was happening and as I got to the finish line flags walking, and not swimming, a finisher’s medal that I felt that I did not deserve was hung around my neck. I did not know how to explain it to myself. All I knew was that this moment was mine. The anger that I felt belonged only to me and to no one else.

I waited till I got home to cry.

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A co-worker, who was quoting a famous director, told me that one should do film to cure oneself.

I think writing fulfills the same function.

Today I did my first open water swim. I reproached myself for my weakness as I had walked back to the finish line, without even knowing that that was what I was doing. I realize now, however, that not everything can be achieved on the first try. And like Weinstock, I, too, want to leave the room with a little bit of my dignity intact. In confessing these very words, I feel that my dignity is salvageable in knowing that sooner or later, I will be in open waters again, competing.

To Arrive: The Regional Triathlon 2009, Cancun

This is triathlon #3.

I’ve been running more, putting in more speed work, going out to run at night.

I bought a road bike, one that rides like it can cut butter: smooth, effortless gear shifting and responds to my legs. I bought it one week before this tri which meant me doing this as cold turkey as it gets. A roadie friend of mine told me that it takes a while to get used to a road bike.

I had one week to find out.

I convinced myself that it wasn’t that bad. A friend registered for a tri in Valle de Bravo but was training on a mountain bike up until then. The Tuesday before the event, he bought his road bike. Wednesday, he took it out for all of ten minutes to ride. Thursday, it was packed and ready to go. Saturday, he did the tri.

It was enough to say that the bike was his worst event and suffered wholeheartedly.

I was praying that a couple of hours of experience would give me an advantage.

The day of the triathlon: the organizers has told us to arrive later to give a chance to the younger athletes to start first. Kids from Tabasco, Chiapas, Yucatan and Quintana Roo were all there, competing when I arrived. And as the sun fell like lead, some who were waiting pulled out markers and marked their arms and legs with their bib numbers.

My pesky nerves were attacking me all week, especially when I considered the swim. I convinced myself that it was a training session, nothing more. For others, however, it wasn’t that simple. The Friday before the event, Claudia told me that she still had to find a bike. She’s an excellent swimmer but I contemplated her words. It meant maintaining your cadence in the blazing sun for 20 kilometers (about 12 miles) on a bike that was not hers, after swimming nearly half a mile, to go and run about 3 miles. I didn’t know how to break it to her so I just kept quiet. Fernando, however, had already done a triathlon (the Turkey Triathlon) but hadn’t trained too much and was a bit nervous. A marathoner and an excellent swimmer, I knew that he would pull through.

Standing in front of the ocean, the sun produced diamonds of light on the surface of the water. The men got together first and were the first heat to start. As I watched them leave, the women started to gather at the starting line. I took a deep breath and knew that today, the sea is mine.

The whistle.

I was still running through the water when others were already facedown in the water, swimming. I allowed them to get a little further away before I started swimming as well.

For the first time in the swim, I was swimming neck and neck with two other women for the first 200 meters. I, who swore that no one could be slower, found two others who were just as slow. I didn’t know them but it could have been their first time doing an ocean swim.

In the first buoy, I turned and lost them completely. The modified crawl became my favorite stroke. That’s because every now and so often, I would lift my head out of the water to see where I was. The murkiness of the water set my mind at ease and helped me concentrate.

I got to the beach and Aline, a judge and a friend, called out “34:20.” The time it took me to swim the half mile. Slower than hell. As I ran to T1, I turned to see that there were two people still in the water behind me.

Now for the moment of truth. I mounted my new baby. My Cannondale. It was so wonderfully sweet and giving that I was able to pass up five people. This being that I had a Camelbak on, due to the fact that I didn’t have bottle cages. I even raced a man ahead of me, trying to sprint as if we were Armstrong and Indurain.

I said “as if.”

Then came the problem: in the transition, I couldn’t find my things underneath the bike rack. I walk up and down for a couple of minutes, trying to find them. I spot them under someone else’s bike, who just so happened to park on top of my goggles and towel. I shoved the bike aside and I started to change. Meanwhile, the guy I raced at the end of the bike is already heading out towards the run.

I start to run.

Five minutes later, I’m praying to the high heavens to have them end the run segment.

Now would be nice.

My body felt heavy and I imagine that the little sprint wasn’t without its consequences. My heels didn’t want to kick up anymore and I knew it was going to be an agonizing while that followed.
And like last time, people started to pass me up. I didn’t care anymore. All I wanted was to finish. Nothing on my body was Harting but I felt I was now a sack of rocks.

But I continued.

About half a mile to the finish line, I saw a group of kids on their bikes. They were the same ones who were competing in the morning and now that they were finished, they were riding home in the other direction. They passed me up, rooting me on, telling me that I was close to finishing. I saw their youthful faces, fresh and smiling, filled with hope, and happy to have finished and competed.

That amazed me.

And like last time, people started to pass me up. But I didn’t care anymore. I wanted it all to end. Nothing in my body was in pain but I just felt like a sack of rocks.

And I kept at it.

A little less than a mile from the finish line, I saw a group of kids (who looked like they were in high school) riding towards me. They were the same kids who I had seen in the morning. They passed me up, rooting me on, telling me that I was close. I saw their youthful faces, fresh and smiley, filled with hope, happy to have finished and to have competed. And that struck me.

Maybe one day, one of these kids will grow up to be an Olympic hopeful, representing Mexico. Maybe they’ll become such a great athlete that they’ll win the Panamerican Games. The World Cup. The Olympics. And have the hopes of an entire nation behind them, wanting to be like them. Like Olympic silver medal sprinter Ana Guevara. Like a PWGA women’s champion, Lorena Ochoa.

Or maybe they’ll become scientists that discover the cure for cancer. Or a Nobel Prize writer.

And they were rooting me on.

I just saw the future of a nation ride by me on two wheels.

Maybe I was endorphin overloading but I was so moved that I almost burst into tears. Seeing the finish line up ahead cut me off short and I dried my face.

I can’t run with my nose clogged.

This time, there was no awards ceremony. This time, there were a lot of mad people who were ticked off that the registration fees didn’t cover, even remotely, the same perks as in the previous triathlon. There wasn’t a lot of proper organization and there was a whole mess of angry words. And as the finishing times were put down in pen and paper instead of digitally with a chip and a modem, I watch as a pelican soared over the sea and the light of the setting sun cast shades of pink and red. I remembered the faces of those young triathletes and decided that regardless of everything that happened, today, there is nothing more beautiful than a triathlon.

Calluses: The Quintana Roo Statewide Triathlon 2009

In a sudden decision, I was considered to compete in the Statewide Triathlon in Cancun with only a week’s worth of notice. This time, I was not besieged with sensations of nausea, dizziness, lack of appetite. This time, I was not pregnant, about ready to give birth to a triathlon. This time, I did not even feel the need to think if some benevolent doctor would do me the favor of removing my digestive system before the competition.

I arrived to Puerto Cancun (a fancy complex on the beach but still under construction) early to rack my bike. Yuri, who looked as if she had spent the night in the bulldozer shovel, had dark circles under her eyes and was talking to several some of the swimmers from the Red Cross, trying to calm herself. About to participate in her first triathlon, she kept her cool with a ton of class.

Little by little, they started to arrive: the experienced, those who were looking to qualify, the newbies.

In the marking, my arms were elegantly painted with my numbers: 28. These became a sort of tattoo afterwards. Since I didn’t put on any sunscreen beforehand, I was basically branded, the number in a lighter tone, causing a bit of surprise to those who notice.

The tri start was late in coming. We stood in the wet sand, waiting anxiously for the whistle and when it finally did blow, all I could think was, “And if I don’t do it?” Everyone was splashing about and the inertia pulled me into the water. It was murky and I couldn’t see the bottom. I imagined it being deep when I noticed that the base of the sea wall I was swimming next to was hard to see.

Today I had my hair up in a bun, as a suggestion from my swim instructor. “So that you can go faster,” he told me. Even with this vague advantage, I still was nowhere near feeling like Michael Phelps as I was being left behind. Upon rounding the first sea wall, I felt my swim cap slide back. My goggles will hold it on, I thought.

“Modified crawl every ten strokes,” my lifeguard friend had told me. I lifted my head out of the water every now and so often to see where I was. We had to swim an “M” around two sea walls and upon round the wall, the buoy was a lot farther off than I thought and I lost sight of it frequently.

At least I don’t have to worry about swimming to Cuba this time.

When I finally got to the end of the swim, I heard people shouting my name. I fell in the sargasso, betrayed by the wet sand that had turned into a thick goop underneath the plants. I took off my goggles to find that I had lost my cap.

With wet hair dripping over my face, falling and, apparently, having the largest group of people cheering me on, I wasn’t exactly the spitting image of grace. I looked more like a wet St. Bernard.

“Here comes the last two athletes!” I heard the announcer shout into the microphone as I ran up to my bike. Cool. I wasn’t the last one out of the water.

I arrive to T1 was a little bit more practice. A water bottle to wash the sand off my sandy feet. A towel to dry them. First shoe. Second shoe. Jersey with pinned-on bib number. Helmet. Sunglasses. Unrack bike.

This was one of those moments when I thanked my mountain biking experience. The terrain was gravelly in certain sections due to the construction. I took it all in stride. There was a woman who was on a road bike and whose face was as red as her suit. She had her helmet on at an angle, sitting further back on her head as if it were a baseball cap, her hair askew and pasted to her face.

If suffering had a representative image, this woman would win hands down.

Upon finishing my second lap, the leaders were already returning to the racks to pick up their bikes. By this time, I was able to pass up two people (one of them being Suffering Woman) on the bike but those same two passed me up in the run. I ran calmly, knowing that there was no hurry. I wasn’t going to break any records; I had no sponsors on my back. The only record I beat was my own: I arrived second to last, one place better than last time.

But something got my hide:

Suffering passed me up.

There is a marvelous movie called “The World’s Fastest Indian” with Sir Anthony Hopkins. It’s the true story of Burt Munro, a New Zealander who, at his 60 some-odd years of age, went to make his dream come true in running his streamline, sub-1000 cc motorcycle on the salt flats of Bonneville, Utah. At the beginning of the movie, there is a shot of a shelf filled with pistons, pieces that he himself had made and, for one reason or another, didn’t work. Witnesses to his hundreds of intents at being better.

It was a part of his offering to the God of Speed, on his search for the piece that will make him faster.

I also search for the piece that will make me faster.

If there is an element that I identify with, I would say it was the wind.

If there was an animal that I loved, I would say it would be a bird of prey, like a hawk.

And just like that, I found my totem.

In my solitary wanderings (what I call my training sessions), I sometimes see a hawk far away, drawing circles in the air. In my mind, it lands on a tree that is on top of a hill, which I see only as a tiny dot on the horizon. And it waits for me. Sometimes, it seems so far away that I’m not even sure that I’m moving towards it but I trust that if my feet are moving, the distance between the hawk and I is closing.

I want to be fast. Make me fast.

If I make it to that tree where that hawk is, I’ll know I am.

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."