Chapter 2 Miguel
Chapter two
Miguel
Blonde Banshee
“What is it called when someone loves pain?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. “Masochism?”
Fingers snap in the background of the phone call. “That’s it.”
“J, I’m not a masochist.” I explain to my mentor, sponsor, friend, Jeff.
“Well then I don’t know what else to call you.”
“An athlete?” I suggest as I walk into the T1 area to check my gear for the transition between the swim and bike legs of the race.
“Yes, you are that too. But, I still don’t understand why you would put yourself through one TitaniumPerson race let alone ten in a row!”
“It’s the next thing.” I shrug.
“Okay, well, I guess you still have time to think about it. The race isn’t until March next year.”
“Yep, and I actually need to go run a measly half TP race today.” I mutter.
“Okay, well good luck.”
“Thanks.” I reply and end the call. My headphones mute the world for a moment before I hit play on my pre-race playlist.
I remember my first half-marathon. The nerves. The excitement. The adrenaline which fueled a portion of my effort.
Then when the half-marathon distance became easy, I tried a full.
I finished my first full marathon in the top ten, and I started training for triathlons. And when those distances were no longer a challenge I leveled up again to TitaniumPerson races.
The problem with having addictive tendencies is eventually the rush wears off. What used to give me the high isn’t enough anymore. I need more. Crave more.
So, what’s more than being an elite TP athlete?
Being a Deca TP racer and running ten full length TitaniumPerson races in as many days.
I have to keep pushing myself forward. If I stop striving, I’ll slip.
And I refuse to go back.
My watch beeps, alerting me to my race starting in an hour.
Time to do all the final checks and get ready to start. I’m already in the T1 swim to bike transition area checking on my bike and equipment box. Elite athletes, the top contenders in the race, get racked up first and I have the best position available. Last slot in the first row.
The least amount of time I spend trying to run my bike to the start line the better.
It’s the opposite at the second transition when I can leave my bike with a volunteer as soon as I cross the dismount line.
The T2 transition is when you drop your bike as fast as you can and switch into your running shoes.
My gear is set up at the start of the T2 area so I can get my shoes on quickly and then dodge the other contenders coming in and jog out to start the marathon.
Being the reigning world champion affords me the first pick of position.
Today’s half TP is essentially a training day for me. Real-time practice. Especially the transitions. They’re the fourth discipline of triathlons and an art form.
I’ll still push myself with the Deca ahead of me next year. But, with that as my new target, I'm not trying to prove myself with a small race win today.
I snap my cinnamon gum and survey my station. My sunglasses are attached to the handlebar with a rubberband, my bike computer is on and paused, and a caffeine chew is taped to the cross bar.
I finish my prep by balancing my helmet on the saddle to avoid having to bend over during this switch when a blonde in a tri suit comes crashing into the staging area behind me.
The elite women have already come through T1 so she must be in the final heat of general, age group, athletes starting in a few minutes.
Damn, she’s cutting it close.
Even from here I can feel the chaos coming off her. Maybe it’s the wisps of hair that have come loose from the braid of gold down her back. The wild swinging of her swim goggles from the crook of her elbow. Or the puffs of breath she exhales erratically as she struggles to rack the bike.
"Excuse me, do you need a hand?" I hear myself ask as I pull out an earbud and the playlist pauses halfway through The Greatest by Sia with Kendrick Lamar.
As a loner who sticks to himself, especially when I’m in my pre-race ritual, I couldn't tell you why I asked her but she gives off "help me" vibes.
"Me?" She stands and turns towards me quickly.
I watch her body shift and the athletic curves of her toned muscles dance in the tri suit that hides nothing.
She reaches up to brush the strands of pure sunshine out of her face as she continues to pivot but the quick movement throws her off balance and she bumps a hip into her bike.
She reaches out to catch it but misses, and together we watch the dominos fall.
The entire rack teeters before falling to the side with a clunk and bikes crash against each other.
"Oh no, no-no. Fuck. That's like a million dollars worth of equipment." She cries as she dives forward to pull up her bike that is tangled in her lithe limbs.
I note the duct tape on the frame. And the scuffs that don't look like they came from normal training wear and tear.
More like the kind you find on a kid's bike after a summer spent tossing it on the ground when they reach their destination.
Before they learn how to take care of their things properly.
"At least." I observe out loud, trying to bite back my judgmentalness, as I watch her try to right the rack. Some bikes cost upwards of $10k.
Mine did.
"Yeah, I’m aware." She sasses back and then the air horn sounds signalling the imminent start of the next heat. "Shit. That's me."
"Really?"
"Yep and my heat starts in," she pulls a cracked phone out of the top of her suit. "Fuck, four minutes."
I watch as this tornado of a woman slides her phone into her plastic race bag and hangs it off her handlebars. She stands tall then assesses the number of bikes she needs to pick up versus the distance between here and the shore where she needs to start her swim.
"Can you umm…" she looks up at me and the blue in her eyes shocks me like a dip in an ice bath.
When I don't respond because I'm stunned by her wild beauty, she jumps over the stack of bikes and grabs my shoulders.
Before I know what's happening she's placing a kiss on my cheek, leaving it sizzling with heat, chirping a "thank you!" and taking off in a full, barefoot sprint.
I shake my head to clear the cobwebs. What the hell just happened? I feel like I am stepping off a roller coaster.
Picking up the bikes she knocked over is not my pre-race ritual. Not even close.
I glance around for TP officials or volunteers to help. A few guys in vests are standing at the far end of the area. She was able to get the rack standing upright at least.
Shaking my head I start to rerack the bikes.
“Oh damn, what happened man?” A volunteer asks as he comes over and helps pick up bikes.
“Someone knocked it over.” I say.
“Someone.” He repeats like he doesn’t believe me.
“Yeah, some blonde. I didn’t see her bib.” Something stops me from pointing out her bike which has her number tagged on the crossbar. She’d definitely be penalized, if not disqualified, for messing with people’s equipment.
It takes a certain type of ego to run TitaniumPerson races. But the race will put that ego in check if you don't respect it.
My blonde banshee clearly doesn't respect the race if she's late, scrambling, and careless with her gear.
And other's. I think as I help to stand up the last two bikes.
Experience is the toughest teacher. The test comes first, the lesson later. And I’ve been tested. I’ve learned.
She clearly needs to learn some lessons.
Still, I can't help myself from walking over to the shore and hoping to catch a glimpse of her again.