SOUTH OF FRANCE

Now that my marathon training is over, I can dedicate a few hours to writing down the corners of my memories before they gather dust. 

Let's begin the details of la chinga de mi vida. 

The week of the marathon began with a kind of mortuary care preparations at the barber's chair. The only proper way toward a metaphorical kamikaze is to have the crispiest fade for the farewell, eh? With the year closing out, the only worthy direction of the conversation was, "How was your Spotify wrapped?" The theme of endings is at the forefront this month. 

Before I could even begin thinking back on my Wrapped, she cut, eagerly, "Man, I've been waiting for you to come in so I can show you something. Look at my top songs." She leaned her phone close, and all I saw was Future. Future, Future, Future.

"God damn! 😂 You really are a Future fan!" I laughed. 

Now, since my middle school days, I’ve learned something important: the more trap music your barber listens to, the more seamless the mid fade becomes. And with the discussion of Future’s albums pumping hood ambition straight into the air, I could feel my barber dialing into her swagger. And there I was, sitting receiving the secondhand end of it all for Sunday. 

Friday found me trudging through the rain, phone hanging on by a thread with only 10% battery, my senses alive with the buzz of the expo crowd. I made my way to claim my race bib—thin, yet carrying the weight of my identity for the next few hours. This randomly generated number, 1711, would define my ambitions for a fleeting moment. 

After the expo, I had that sinking realization—the marathon was gonna unfold under less-than-ideal conditions. Forecasts weren’t cutting me any slack—8am, 57 degrees with 80% humidity, climbing up to a sweaty 67 by the time I thought I’d be crossing that finish line.  Historical data also shows that I tend to run several negative deviations from normal in similar forecasts. But one of the beautiful things about data is that, in some cases, the point is to steer off the trends. 

And the fact is, I was dead-set on embracing these imperfections: to be calm and die like a lunatic!

My alarm rang at 5AM. No hesitation. No weather check. I splashed my face with cold water, followed my usual morning routine: ate a bowl of oatmeal, chugged electrolytes, gathered my pre-packed things, and headed out the door. This was one of the first races in almost 10 years that I didn't feel weight from my own words. I realized I had finally conquered a haunting human experience I've written several times about on here. 

As I drove through a barely visible road, I played one song. Una Raya Mas al Tigre by Julion Alvarez. My people have the ability to paint perseverance, self-determination, resilience, and the realities of dealing with criticism so beautifully. Singing along, I let the words pour into my tiger spirit:

"Esto no me tumba y le doy pa adelante

No cualquier batalla dobla a los gigantes

Una raya más al tigre, qué más da

No le doy

Para atrás

Puro para enfrente, como los aviones

Si el barco se hunde, salimos a flote

Me caí ciento una vez al caminar

Y ciento dos veces me volví a parar

No voy a rendirme"

With extra time, I decided to hang out and stretch in an empty convention center. Observe the meditative space above . It straight up reminded me of an Arctic Monkeys TBHC era music video.

But when a big objective approaches time dissipates quickly. Around 7AM, I walked with my comrades to the bag check area and perform a few dynamic stretches before the gun went off.

The city air felt like we were invaded by a dense, suffocating cloud. 

"¡Necesitan que le bajen a la humedad, rápido!" Chaparro joked, twisting an imaginary stove knob.

“"Y sí," Guero replied, his eyes scanning the crowd. 

I could tell by the way my mates' eyes were wandering around that they were nervous. Not much comprehension between our dialogue was happening. I was trying to figure out where I could piss for the third time in the morning and figure out where I could locate a water as I felt my lips drying out from just standing there. 

We dropped off our bags, pissed, and walked to Corral A. 

And so, as I toed the line, I muttered to myself silently, "Sí puedo, sí puedo, sí puedo, sí puedo."

When the airhorn blasted, I eased into my pace, refusing to let the crowd sweep me along with them. Young Street opened up before me, and the views of the city were wrapped in a morning haze. We looped a mile around the edge of downtown before climbing up Oak Lawn for the first uphill section. The cheers were propelling. I found this section to be my most mindful and relaxing. The 3:15 group was around 15 seconds in front of me and I opposed to push the pace not knowing plot twists could rise up in the later miles. 

After the marathon and half marathon split, we descended down Gaston into the lake. The slope of the downhill was steeper than I expected and found myself creeping closer to the 3:15 pace group without trying. Around this point, I knew there were still four more small but steep hills waiting for me before the half marathon, so my plan was to continue to coast until then.

But surprise! 

As we ran up the first hill on W. Lawther Dr. I felt my cadence lower more than I anticipated. And then again after the next hill, then again, and then again. My legs in a matter of minutes felt like bricks. The fog over the lake was thick thick. As runners passed me and vanished into the lake's road, many more appeared after experiencing a similar feeling to what I had just felt. Among them was my comrade, El Guero, walking around mile 11. 

"¿Qué te pasó, Guero?!" I gasped as I ran past him, trying to keep my breathing.

"¡Agh! Me siento muy gacho. Me duele el pecho," he muttered, defeated, as I sluggishly ran past him.

By the time I got to mile 13, the pace decrease was unmistakable. 

 

Mile 16 held a significance all on it's own.  Family resides in the marrow of moments for me and in the 12 years I've been running, there has never been a race where I had several of my loved ones united for me. To see a mere 10-second fragment of my mom, sisters, and nephews' flailing their arms around and voices ringing through the fatiguing air for me was everything I needed. 

"¡Vamos, Erik!" "¡Go, Tío!"

Ah, the immensity of words from people you love.

And what perfect timing, because at this point, the physical was no longer enough; it was the mind that had to carry me forward. 

As we made our way out of the lake, and back to downtown, the devil of all hills awaited. The Gaston hill. The air, thick and humid, clung to me, and the world felt heavy. The eternal challenge was on. I pressed forward. Never looking down. 

As I was climbing up, I saw my comrade Alex holding out a water bottle for me. I unwrapped my salt pill from the aluminum paper, he ran next to me and was like, "¿Cómo te sientes?"

"Ya voy bien jodido." chugging down the salt pill. But as I passed the liquid down, I realized it had a carbonated sweet taste?

"¿Qué es?!" I gasped.

"¡Cafeína, para que le des más recio!" Alex replied as he took the water bottle back. 

"Ah chingao 😂"

"¡Dale! ¡Dale!" Alex screamed as he fainted back with the cheering crowds. 

As I reached the top of Gaston, a numbness settled in my quads. 

"I've been here before." I reassured myself. "You can go faster."

I grabbed two cups from the water station and poured them over my head, exhaling in relief. 

The last 10k -- downhill, but no less excruciating-- demanded the deepest perseverance. My legs no longer felt like the fluidity they had before, Each step felt like a monumental effort. I clung to the simplicity of mantras to detach from the physical feeling like a madman. 

The mind is the last to break, and so I told myself, again and again: 

"Mas, mas, mas, mas, mas, mas, mas, mas, mas. ¡Quiero más!" I demanded.

I distorted my reality, bending it into something I forced myself to accept:

"I'm not suffering. I'm not suffering. I'm not suffering," I thought, seeking safety in the repetition.

And then, the final verdict:
"I'm going to do it. I'm going to do it. I'm going to do it," I vowed to myself. 

And all I felt in that moment was the freedom that only comes from the tension between the self and the world being finally, mercifully resolved.

Posted on Reiger,  

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