Olympic gold seems the brightest where it’s rarest
It was 6:26 a.m. on a recent Saturday, when my phone buzzed with a WhatsApp message from my oldest sister back home in South America. “Ecuador wins gold!” I was barely awake and for a moment, I was confused by what I was reading. How could it be?
My dear Ecuador, a tiny nation that straddles the equator, has plenty of riches, from glacier-wrapped volcanoes to lush Amazon jungle, but what we don’t have much of is one of the world’s greatest treasures: Olympic gold.
Ecuador had won only one gold medal in its entire history. As I soon realized it was true, I didn’t smile, shout or dance. I crumbled into tears and could hardly speak. It was such a special moment for Ecuadorans, those back home and those who have immigrated to places all over the globe, including Houston where I have lived for nearly 20 years.
For me, the moment was especially sweet.
As a child, I didn’t dream of being a doctor or lawyer, but of being a champion for my country and bringing home its first ever Olympic medal. More than dreaming, I trained for years in track and field events, running, jumping hurdles and throwing the javelin over and over again. I shared these dreams with my friend, Jefferson Perez, who also trained with me for years.
Although I competed in many places and held Ecuador’s women’s record for javelin throw and have a box of old news clippings about me from the sports pages, my Olympic dreams were ultimately shattered when my father was killed in a bus crash and I threw myself into getting a job and being able to support myself.
But Jefferson kept at it. At times, he could barely afford to train and help his blind mother,
but he would not quit. Jefferson went on to win Ecuador’s first Olympic gold medal ever in 1996 in the speed walking event. I watched the television to see him win, and when he did, I wrapped an Ecuadoran flag around myself and took to the streets. I sobbed with joy for him, for our nation and for the young girl I once was.
When cyclist Richard Carapaz qualified for the 145-mile men’s cycling event in Tokyo, he was a serious contender but had an outsider’s chance to win gold. He was, after all, from our small country with lots of poverty and few resources, let alone much of a tradition of being internationally competitive.
Carapaz had placed third in the Tour de France a week before the Olympics and sent his fellow cyclists, his countrymen and the world a message that he was ready. “The Locomotive,” as he is nicknamed in Ecuador, was coming.
With just under 4 miles left in the 145-mile men’s cycling race that experts said was one of the toughest ever due to the hills and heat, Carapaz dug deep into the conditioning that began years earlier as a teenager pedaling and up and down the steep ascents of the Andes mountains.
He made his move, darted far ahead of the pack and smacked his handlebars twice as he crossed the finish line at Fuji International Speedway.
Across the nation, Ecuadorans took to the streets to celebrate the anointing of a national hero. There was shouting. There was dancing. There was crying. There will most certainly be a mural of him in the nation’s capital, as there is of Jefferson and other national heroes. It may be hard for some people to understand the true meaning of an Olympic gold medal for a small country such as Ecuador. We can count on Team USA being at or near the top of the medal count at every Olympics, but consider tiny Bermuda, which won its first gold ever in Tokyo when Flora Duffy triumphed in the women’s triathlon. For Ecuadorians, a gold medal brings a huge boost to our national identity, a confirmation to the world of the positive aspects of what we believe to be our true character. We are resilient, ambitious, accomplished and able to be as good as anyone when we are on the world stage. And so, as I took in the news that Carapaz was taking home the gold, I gasped, sobbed and scrolled through my phone to study the reactions of so many, the feeling of something immense and great happening to our tiny country.
He won. We all won.