Martín The Iron Man

He opened his eyes five seconds before the alarm rang. He waited for it, a bit disappointed that he was robbed of five more seconds of sleep. 4:30 AM. Martín wished he was anywhere else in the world. Amsterdam. Berlin. Cairo. Dubai. Ebetsu. That would mean it was not 4:30 in the morning, that he did not have to get out of bed, that he did not have to train, again.

He closed his eyes, pretending that he was meditating, preparing himself mentally for the day that awaits him. The truth is that he was trying to fall back asleep. His eyes were heavy and he expected quick results.

You made it this far. You really shouldn’t give up now.
Of course you can! It’s not like anything is going to change.
You’re going to cross something huge off your bucket-list.
Bucket-list. F*ck-it list. Who cares?
It’s too early for you to be talking like that.

He let the little voices in his head do the thinking on his behalf. He was too tired.

You could be sleeping for the next 5 hours. How great would it be to wake up at least at 9:00 AM… for once!

Tempting.

You’ve always wanted to do it. You’re so close. Get up.

Martín remembered all the times he watched the Iron Man triathlon, hoping that one day, he will be amongst those athletes crossing the finish line.

The Iron Man 70.3 race consists of a 1.9 km swim.
And a 90 km bike ride.
And a 21.1 km run.
No breaks allowed.

Not during the race. Not now.
Martín got out of bed.

Medellín was still sleeping at 5:00 AM. It was dark, quiet, empty.
You’re the city’s only early-riser.
You’re an Iron Man!

“There you are!”
His trainer was expecting him.
“Time to go for a warm-up run.”

And so, he ran.
In Medellín, Colombia at 5:00 AM.
Two months later, he was in Calella, a small town near Barcelona, Spain. He was still running. This time, he wasn’t alone. He was running alongside men and women. Iron men. Iron women.

The swimming race has left him exhausted. There were a lot of people in the water, thrashing, making their way to the next stage of the competition. Some had panic attacks and had to give up. He had to stay focused. The biking raced has set fire to his legs.

Finish line. Finish line. Finish line.

He felt his body give up on him during the race. His legs were marshmallows. Almost refusing to take an order from him.

That’s a sign, man. Take a seat.
Are you kidding? He’s so close to that finish line.
He proved to himself that he can get this far. What’s the point of going further?

He waited for the other voice to answer as he tried to push himself a couple of steps further. Martín took a deep breath and looked up.

He really made it this far.
“Now I need to prove to myself that I can go as far as I want.”

He pushed. Ran.
Crossed the finish line.

Told you!

Martín was always made of iron.
Now, he has a medal that agrees.

“It was mainly to prove my limits and show myself that I was able to accomplish anything I set my mind into. And that it’s applicable in any field; personally or professionally.” — Martin

— Written by Lama —