POMONA, NEW YORK — Back in 2012, I decided to get my life together. For me to do that, I had to start with my body. I have always believed that with any purpose-driven endeavor, a proper foundation must be created. With a healthy body and a proper mind frame, the rest should follow suit.
Sadly, I had allowed myself to deteriorate to the point where my Body Mass Index was fluctuating in and out of obesity. In short, I was fat. Not only was I fat, I was a smoker, an alcohol drinker, and a serious video gaming addict.
Coincidentally, I met new friends who were getting back into shape with triathlon. Apparently, the sport had been gaining momentum in the Philippines as well, and everybody seemed to want to be part of the insanity. I thought to myself, “Why not? It can’t be that hard, right?”
First thing’s first, I had to get a bike. I decided to purchase a used bike because I was being cheap, and knew nothing about bikes. I met a local guy selling a used road bike, and quickly jumped on the opportunity. We had the transaction done at a questionable location in the bowels of Brooklyn. It felt like a clandestine meeting of sorts, and after I left with the bike, I was pretty sure I had just bought a stolen bike. I was never comfortable with that bike, and felt like it was cursed on account of it being stolen. 
Two weeks later, I was able to come across another bike — from a reputable source. This one was triathlon-specific, and it made me look cooler, and more like a real triathlete. I’ve never felt more pogi while on that bike. It was around that time when my bike addiction started, and became a problem that I continue to face to this day.
Swimming is the toughest part of triathlon training for me. I read once that when people die during a triathlon, it most likely occurred during the swim leg. A lot of reasons fall behind a death during a race, and while these unfortunate events happen occasionally, I feared that I would be part of that 1 percent. My first time in a pool, I swam 25 yards, and got heavily-winded. I was wearing board shorts, and a $3 pair of goggles, thinking none the wiser. I floundered around for 20 minutes, then I decided to call it a day and go home. It was a miserable experience.
Biking was a whole lot easier because it felt great. I liked it more so I spent more time riding my bike around the hills of my neighborhood here.
Running, well, that’s just one foot in front of another. I try to think of running as fast walking. With a solid four months of training and triathlon-geeking, I though I was ready for my first race. Well, as ready as I could ever be. To be honest, I spent more time window-shopping more expensive bikes than training. My confidence stemmed from the fact that I was able to cover the distance required on the swim portion. That to me was liquid gold. I thought to myself, “If I can survive the water, I’ll be fine on land.”
Race day finally came, and I lined up with the rest of my age group of 30-34 years old, as the race was done in waves. When the gun went off, I dove head first into the water, looking like a pro athlete. I splish’d and splashed like my life depended on it, and barely got any momentum. I had ordered a tri-suit a week before but it never reached my hands. I was a little upset that I would not look like a legitimate triathlete. I ended up using my running tights for the race, close enough I guess, right? Wrong.
Since my running tights were a bit loose, it kept coming losing while I was swimming. Every now and then, I would have to adjust my shorts in the water because my butt would come exposed. I swam like a pro, as I could thinking to myself that I looked awesome, when in reality, a breast-stroking 46-50 years old age grouper was going faster than me. I finished the swim second to the last person in my age group.
I ran as fast as I could to transition, put on my cleats, and off I went on my favorite segment, the bike. Head down, pedal to the floor, and making it hurt was the game plan on the bike. My butt hurt like hell because my shorts had zero protection, but I passed people, and mocked their futile effort. I laughed and sneered at these slow people. I finally felt like legitimate triathlete. As the bike portion ended, we made a turn back into transition, and a race photographer was there so I sucked my gut in, and looked as cool as I could while he took a blurred picture of me. It was indicative of how fast I was going, or so I thought.
When I arrived at T2, a small elementary school aged child also came in. He was doing the same race, and his father was right behind him giving him some good advice. He kept saying, “Good job, son, I’m proud of you. Keep up the good work.”
I thought to myself, “Where is my cheering section?” Oh, I forgot. I came to the race by myself. I was jealous of that kid, so he had to bite my dust on the run. I wanted to show him that his parents’ love would not save him from my wrath on two legs. I left transition 2 as soon as he did, and I bolted for the 5k run through trails and pavement. That boy was only a few meters away from me, and in my mind, I thought “Haha! Here comes to boom! You milk-drinking toddler, feel my wrath!”
Eventually, his lead kept getting further and further, and as soon as I thought I was going to catch up with him, he sprinted, and was never seen again.
I came to find out that the boy won in his age group of Under 15 years. I eventually finished the run and the race mostly walking when nobody was looking, and running like a pro when people were present along the route.
At the end of the race, I realized how pathetic I was. I had not taken the sport seriously, and I fell into the category of those Tri-Hards with selfish ambitions. I looked at my pathetic race results, and found that I lost to some acquaintances whom I thought I could beat. I was overzealous, under-trained, and more obsessed about looking the part than being the part.
I felt like the worst person at that race, but it was also then that I realized my passion for the sport. I realized that to accomplish greater things, one must aspire to be more than who they are. In short, to achieve great things, you must become great yourself. This is how my journey began. (Karl Jansen Tubo)
