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Racing for Morgo

With the sun rising over the crystal-clear volcanic lake, it was time to go. I had a great swim and quickly got into the lead in my age group on the bike. After forty kilometres I heard a loud crack from underneath me, and then I felt my seat sliding away. I nearly fell. I stopped to check the damage and saw that my seat had snapped off the seat post. There was nothing I could do. No repair possible. I needed a new seat post. I tucked my seat into my tri suit and decided to finish the last fifty kilometres of the lap without a seat. I had to go back into town to support my crew anyway and the pick-up wagon was probably miles away. The more I was riding, the more my legs were screaming, but the more I was also hearing Morgo’s voice. ’But you will be racing for me. You will be racing for me’. I could not pull out anymore, so I passed my seat to Zoe who was spectating that day.

I had to honour him, his pain, and our friendship. Riding 140 kilometres without a seat was agonising, hell on earth but every time the pain threatened to overwhelm me I thought about him and how much more pain he had been through because of me. I felt an unbearable sadness and a mountain of guilt as he was now in a wheelchair because of my coaching, because I had prescribed a bike ride in his program that day. My hands, feet and lower back had never been this sore. My back was seizing up, my hands were blistering, and my toes were bleeding from hitting the front of my bike shoes.

I finished the bike ride in tears, begging the volunteers to give me Nurofen or Panadol in the change tent. But they refused. It would be considered outside assistance, which meant automatic disqualification. I sat there in transition, slowly putting my shoes on, thinking about Morgo while trying to convince myself that I could now run a marathon. I doubted it. My legs were shacking and I felt like I had been stabbed several times into my lower back. At that precise moment, Robbo ran past me and yelled, ‘Come on! Racing for Morgo.’ She was right, it was time to get out of my pity party. He had suffered 30 factures. Who was I to complain about my sore body. ‘Don’t be a soft cock!’ I yelled at myself.

Ocean of mercy

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We organised a beautiful ceremony for her on her favourite beach, Point Addis. A friend of mine, Carol, performed the ceremony. Janey, a long-term friend, and my partner were there as well. I was grateful to be able to share this amazing moment with the people I loved. Of course, Jake and Emma were also present. The ceremony was charged with so much love, emotion and spirituality because of its location. Point Addis is my favourite beach too, because it is where the forest meets the ocean. The beach spreads towards the never-ending horizon, and the coastline looks as if it had been created by the footprint of a giant. The cliffs mark the imaginary line between the seven seas and the flora, where the ocean gently embraces the sand of an ever-changing coastline.

When the beach meets the ocean, the sand explodes into whirlpools of tiny particles, white caps and crystal-clear water. Coastlines here are among the most beautiful and inspiring landscapes in the world. Coming here had always recharged my batteries and Mum had felt a similar effect. I hugged the ceramic heart containing her ashes. I felt happy and relieved to be here with her and thought about her:

I will be able to spread your ashes in your favourite spot, so they mix with the sand and ocean that you loved so much, and you will forever be bathing in the sunshine that you adored, Mouch. The sun on your skin always made you so happy. You will be the light from above when I look at the horizon. The wind and the rain will mix your ashes in an ocean as blue as your Australian granddaughter’s eyes. You will always be part of my dreams, Mum, my beautiful soul, slave to temptations. I will finally be relieved that you are where you belong.

I remembered she would let her body cook on the beach until her skin was toast because each ray of sunshine was bringing her the energy she needed to lift the darkness that had taken hold of her.

We read a poem, said goodbye and floated sunflowers in the water. Then we tilted the large white ceramic heart and the wind carried her ashes into the sea. A sunflower means goodness, truth and timelessness, and this is why Lolo and I picked this flower to celebrate my mum’s life. I wanted to picture her life as a sunflower; a powerful, strong and stable stem holding a beaming sun shining on her life. Standing in the shallow water, we also sprinkled yellow petals into the waves and called them ‘the petals of life’. They represent spirituality. It suited her. The four grandkids, my sister and I touched the large white ceramic heart one more time and all of a sudden, we let her go. She was free again, free to go wherever she wanted and mixed up with nature, which she loved so much. She was free to do whatever she wanted without anyone or anything ever holding her back now. She had always been a free spirit, and free she was again.

Mister Belgium

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With sex appeal he strutted his stuff, modelling outfits given to him last minute off the cuff. So natural he made a statement of the essence of manliness when he came out with his cattleman’s hat and his beaming smile.

We worshipped him. He must have been in every woman’s dreams, I thought. ‘Wow,’ jumped out of my mouth when I saw him wearing underwear that was not much more than seams.

It was time for the next contestant. He was so scrawny. I did not envy his figure but I envied his elegance. He was only made of skin and bones. I felt like buying him a snickers bar and a coke. ‘You need to eat. Please eat!’ I wanted to shout.

This can be a dangerous world, where starvation is beauty and being beautiful is not fun. While I could not judge him, having an eating disorder myself, I felt terribly sad for him and some of the models. I felt empathy even if I really disliked him. He was unpleasant and arrogant. I knew from experience that food trouble could make you a miserable and unkind person but he seemed to love every inch of himself and he looked down on us as if we were ugly ducklings, while he glided past in grace and beauty like a swan. His lips always glittered and his hair sparkled and reflected the light. His freshly moisturised smooth skin shone and his hips rocked with divine elegance from side to side.

Changing outfits with speed and agility can be a sultry exercise. Some of us got stressed by this and others just smiled as if this was second nature. The next contestant had make-up covering an already perfect face, sparkling eyes and a perfectly shaped body that followed the stage with grace. I was envious of his perfect symmetry. His body was sculpted like that of a Greek God. He was a real head turner. Lolo confirmed this later when she announced him as her favourite and as her crush. He was a top favourite in our books too.

Fear of failing

My Blog, Sport

The fear of failing is real. It’s a silent threat, not heard but only felt like a storm you quietly but intensely sense. Many of us shy away when faced with fears. Fear of failure is malicious and can take over your dreams. The slackers are usually quick to sneer and judge. They note the failing strenght of man and welcome it with mockery, but there is something deep inside that scoffers fail to see. They don’t recognise the clever deed the failure tries to accomplish. They will never know the grim dangers the bold adventurer meets. They never seek a better way or chase a perilous plan. They never risk a breakdown to advance as athletes or even as humans. They stand where all is safe and certain, so they never face a challenge head on. I don’t mind being stamped with the failure’s brand. I would rather be a failure than the man who’s never tried. I would rather seek the mountian-top than always stand aside. Winning isn’t everything, but wanting to win is.

Failure is a great teacher. It is not fatal, but it can wound self-esteem and ego deeply. For me, the fear of failing came with a pressure that helped me train, perform better and reach perfection. My perfection. The anxiety linked to failure has always been the element that pushed me to put in more effort and focus. I studied and trialled many new avenues to get the advantage on my competition over the years. The issue is that it can become a problem when your search for that perfect race becomes an obsession and you cannot stop thinking about it. It is hard to be in the moment and enjoy a race when you always look ahead to find what you can do next to improve to find the winning edge.

The Hold up

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When the time came for the driver to arrive, I did not have the heart to leave. I stayed hidden behind the two large middle doors that separated the corridor from the factory. I saw the driver get into the office through the blurry glass windows and I prayed with all of my heart for this to go smoothly. The summer breeze sneaked into the factory, a nice relief for my damp hands and my flushed face. I had been suffocating, I felt like a vampire in the sun.

I heard Angie and the driver chat and about five minutes later I saw my dad with his black ski hood enter the office. He yelled, ‘This is a hold up, do not move or I shoot you dead! Lie down on the floor and it will all be OK!’

It all happened so fast, and two minutes later I saw him run like Michael Johnson at the start of his 400 metres, disguised as a thief.

Dad had nailed it so quickly and without any issues. I was shocked and proud at the same time, but aware of the potential consequences of his actions. We were not out of the woods yet, I thought.

The driver and Angie both called the police and they arrived quickly at the factory. I stayed hidden for a couple of minutes then decided to sneak out to catch the bus home. I ran up to the bus stop and sat down. I felt so wrecked and empty that I did not have the energy to run home. I wanted no more part of this and I did not want to get interviewed by the police. They never did speak to me. But both Dad and Angie were called into the police station of Ixelles. The driver was interviewed too. The man Dad had bought the paper machine from smelled a rat. He must have known people in high places, because special agents took over the case. Dad was released when they checked his alibi, and the client confirmed he was there the entire time. Angie was not so lucky. She spent the entire night there and they grilled her FBI style. She could not sleep and did not get fed. She just received a couple of coffees and cigarettes. No torture instruments here, just the bright desk light in her face while being asked relentless questions. They treated her poorly and accused her of being my dad’s accomplice.

They asked her what she was going to do with the money, told her she was a slut sleeping with a much older man for his money and his nice villa. They told her they would both go to jail for a long time and that a holdup was a serious offence. They laughed and told her that the accomplice would get the same jail time as the main perpetrator. They came at her repeatedly, hoping that sleep deprivation and fear might make her thoughts blurry and make her finally confess. They only got a few tears out of her and the speech she had practised a few times in anticipation of being interrogated.

Winning at all cost

My Blog, Sport, Winning

Hitting big at any cost. Does anyone ever remember who came second? Always better to win than being first loser. I pursued a gold medal as if it were real gold. It meant more than anything to me to stand on that top step, not because I wanted to be rich, but because I had learned from my dad that whatever we do, it is about winning.

To me, winning makes all the sacrifice worth it. The path to success is gruelling and mean, so there’s always a price to pay. You have to compromise if you want gold to hang from your neck. Bigger goal tag means a higher price to pay. There aren’t any shortcuts to winning. The terms and conditions are simple and must be met: you have to work harder than anyone else.

Tyche demands honesty, not guile. She sees it all, won’t allow fools and cheaters. She knows that to achieve, you need the burning desire that winners will accept at any cost. If compromised, your pride is lost because results will never come. If bargained with, the contract is nullified, and a colossal mountain of guilt will haunt you for rest of your life. Success will be born from your own creation but watch the path you take as there’s a lot at stake. Walk the less travelled path to success, be different, take risks and trial the impossible. Push the limits, but most importantly, give it your very best on a daily basis. That is the straightforward formula to join the winners’ club.

My style of racing feels like meditation in motion and often releases a multitude of orchestral sounds like my pounding steps, snot rockets and heavy breathing. An elevated cadence driven by a dangerously raised heartbeat, lungs screaming, legs burning, head spinning, lactic acid brewing in the stomach, taste of blood in the mouth, teeth grinding, mind playing tricks and trying to slow the body down. I love it all. I never let my body tell me what to do. My mind is always boss. ‘Mind over body’ has always been my motto while racing. When I race hard, I go into a state of trance and become numb to the pain.

Racing hard is not for the faint-hearted. The effort has sometimes been so violent that my mouth filled with a sticky bile that resembled the energy gel I had just choked on. Sometimes my mouth was so dry and my jaw so locked up from pain that it stopped me from saying even one word. You also don’t take toilet stops when you want to win; you just release in your tri suit.

The pain in races sounds like a booming rhythmic drum to me, but the spectators only hear wet foot slaps and grunts. Racing hard means dealing with cramps so pronounced that they seize your entire body. Muscles so stiff that they feel torn. A back almost paralysed by the stabbing pain. Blisters so severe that the skin falls off your feet. When I get close to passing out, my cadence no longer matches my breathing rhythm and the technique drops as well. This makes me look like a malfunctioning marionette, and it is all but the harmonised concert you witness when the pros perform.