Chapter 3 Laney
Chapter three
Laney
Swim. Bike. Run. Life.
"Dee it was terrible." I say into the phone as I let my head fall back behind me. "I didn't even come close to the podium. My bike was making a weird clicking sound in the derailleur as I moved from third to fourth gear and back so I think it was skipping or one of the gears is bent."
"But didn't you finish eighteenth?" Dee says with a hint of challenge in her tone.
"I need top ten in the real race. Eighteenth in a half distance is like, terrible. And I'm not going to get there on that piece of shit." I say giving my bicycle a sideways glance in the rearview mirror.
"Well, I think you know how to dance."
"What?"
"He doesn't know how to dance, so he says the courtyard is crooked? You've never heard that one? You spend so much time at the restaurant I forget you didn't actually grow up in Nani's house."
"I still don't get it." I say as I turn on her car and start the four hour drive home.
"It's the Indian version of the poor workman who blames his tools."
"I'm not doing that. I'm saying I'd be better if I had better equipment."
"Okay.” She says, appeasing me. Because she knows as well as I do I am blaming my bike for my shitty results. “You headed back?"
"Yep, ETA says either four hours or fourteen depending on what angle I look at it from."
Dee laughs. "Maybe prioritize a new phone over a new bike? I dunno, seems like a good investment to me."
"I'll get right on that, as soon as I pay rent."
"Do you need an extra shift? I can ask Pa if he has one."
"You know I'll always work. Ask him and let me know.
" An extra shift would be an extra hundred dollars. Dee’s father pays me more than what I would earn if I did deliveries with an app.
They're probably losing money on the deliveries I make.
But I disassociate from that reality just long enough to accept the help. To accept their charity.
Because that’s what I am at this point; a charity case.
"Okay, drive safe, I'll see you when you get back." Dee says and then she ends the call knowing I can't easily navigate the cracked screen to do it myself.
My lips vibrate as I push out a huff of air. I have four hours ahead of me to reflect on my race. On every moment leading up to it.
And thinking of the moments before I dove into the water only brings up memories of him.
With training and gig work taking up more than all my time, I haven’t dated in three years. The months before Dad died were too full of hospital vigils to date either.
Even though I have less than zero time for a boyfriend, I can still appreciate a spectacular male form.
Tall, lean, salt and pepper hair pulled back in a sleek man bun, olive skin, dark soulful eyes, and a hint of spicy cinnamon when he spoke.
He's every morally grey character I've ever read in the Little Free Library books I scout out while training, one in Roscoe Village is always stocked with romances.
His towering presence short circuited my already frazzled brain.
But he was grumpy. Not in a sexy way.
In a condescending way.
I saw him finish in the top ten as I ate my banana and walked to pick up my bike from the transition area.
The announcer called out his name and I nearly choked on my fruit.
Miguel Garcia is the TitaniumPerson athlete. You can't be in this sport and not know who he is. I’m surprised I didn’t recognize him right away.
I was probably too frazzled and embarrassed to process anything besides how to possibly fix the mess I got myself into.
Miguel’s career is one I can only hope to emulate.
He came out of nowhere and steadily rose to the top, season after season. He earned his pro card during his first season, then qualified for worlds the next. He didn’t win worlds for another couple of years but he’s the current reigning champion.
He’s sponsored by DGDP, a national athletic brand, plus he has several gear specific partnerships. I bet he doesn’t pay a dime for that several thousand dollar fitness watch I spotted on his wrist.
For being as standoffish as he was, I’ve only heard good things about him in race coverage. He isn’t on social media so all we get are what the reporters share after the race. He doesn’t give interviews either. But it’s clear he’s talented, dedicated, and respected.
Three words I’d love to have on my resume.
Granted, showing up mere seconds before the starting gun of my first TP event of the season wasn't the best move to garner respect and demonstrate my dedication. And finishing eighteenth in my age group hardly shows I’m talented.
I clearly have some work to do. And another three and a half hours of midwestern freeway driving to plan exactly how I'll save up enough for better gear while keeping my training up.
When I'm not dreaming about racing, I am dreaming about being the unknown beneficiary of cash. Of finding a duffel full of bills on the sidewalk. Or a multi-mega-millions winning lottery ticket falling into my lap.
Money, or the lack thereof, has been the theme of my entire life.
I gave up a vacation so you could run this race.
Why do you need a new bike? That one rolls.
If you’re going to do this, the least you could do is win and bring home some money instead of just wasting it.
My mother’s resentful words towards my father ring through my head.
He made me promise to “tri again” so here I am.
Borrowing my roommate’s car because I can’t afford my own.
Sleeping in it the night before a race because I can’t afford a hotel room.
Selfishly putting every single cent I find into racing.
But there is hope at the bottom of the piggy bank. All I have to do is get my pro card this season, secure a sponsor, and then I'm home free. I'll be racing for a living. I'll make good on my promise to my dad.
Win the race and I’ll be happy.
Earn the money and I’ll be free.
In the meantime, it all boils down to this: Swim. Bike. Run.
Life.