Cartagena, a city of iron.
There was a long way to go from saying to doing. From the day you swipe your credit card until you cross the red carpet, many things happen. Much more than 70.3 miles. Becoming a half Ironman is the result of additions and subtractions that run through our legs, our heads, our hearts, our lives. Here is a summary, as brief as possible, of this experience.
To get to Cartagena, in my case, I traveled 228 thousand meters of swimming, 6 thousand kilometers on the bike and 1229 kilometers of athletics this year alone. Among those numbers, the alarm goes off many times when it is still night, liters of chlorinated water are swallowed, tears of frustration are shed, medals are claimed, wounds of the body and soul are healed, beer is drunk, pizza is eaten, diets are made, you want to continue, you want to stop, debts increase, social media photos become monothematic, we miss social events, new friends appear, only sportswear is worn, pandemics appear, we learn to stop, we get flat tires, our lives change.
Before you know it, two people are missing from a line to jump off a barge to face that chosen destiny. And what seemed very far away two years before is now just a hop away. All the numbers fade away and become strokes in the salt water of a sea that illuminated a beautiful dawn and preceded the sound of a cannon. Because the war against those 70.3 miles has begun.
So Cartagena was already a reality. And all the dancing was used for the main gala, which was attended by all of us who persevered while real life continued its course. Because those of us who were there had to work, be sons, brothers, boyfriends, friends, godfathers, uncles and colleagues while we were triathletes.
And then Cartagena, after the solitude of the water, was already a party on the asphalt. Just a few metres from leaving the sea, the hubbub of thousands of spectators could be sensed, filling the streets with shouts of those of us competing in the race. There were 90 km of cycling and 21 km of athletics left to receive the precious medal on our necks.
Once on land, images appeared that made sense of everything, like a piece that fits into a puzzle. With a little attention, one could imagine everyone's stories: the one who was going with only one leg, or with only one arm, the one who was risking his life for a kiss from his loved one at the end of the day, the one who went to prove that a few extra kilos on the body were nothing more than an anecdote on the scale, the one who brings his children as motivation and the ones who once thought that this was not for us. It was the meeting of the crazy ones, the stubborn ones, of those who continue on despite what it cost to get there. The bicycle, too, a little lonely, was the prelude to the final round in the walled city.
That was when Cartagena was a carnival. In my case, the day was getting too short for so much joy. There were the walls guarding people with ice, water, whistles, shouts, bombs, costumes and love for those of us who were already at the 21 thousand meters that were missing from the story. There we could already see the crying, the gagging, the sweating, the heat, the cramps, those who were strong, the familiar faces and the hands that became friends along some stretches of the road.
Suddenly the movie was coming to an end, like this story. All the numbers and sacrifices made sense and the fist was clenched with joy, or the eyes filled with tears looking at the sky. Because Cartagena was the stage to be made of iron and smile because a race, which seemed like something as simple as paying an entry fee and declaring that it was going to take place, changed our lives.
Cristian Marín - Alternating Current