The Honduran Champ in a Mud Hut
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The Honduran Champ
in a Mud Hut
The makings of a
winner
By David E.X.N.
Nghiem
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The author with
Melvin Betancourt and his family
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Inspiration comes in many
forms, but the easiest way to find inspiration is in the heart of a champion.
Some champions were born to win, but most are not. Lots of hard work, a good
attitude and a little luck are what make a winner. Melvin, the Honduran bicycle
champion, was molded from the mud of poverty and hard baked in the hot tropical
sun. When I met him, in the middle of nowhere, I came away with a deeper
appreciation of determination and heart.
I’d been riding through
the west coast of northern Nicaragua to get to El Salvador. My journey was a
continuation of a long sojourn through Latin America. I had spent six months
riding through Peru and Bolivia, and two months through Panama, Costa Rica and
Nicaragua.
I wanted to get to the
Mayan Empire, after having spent so much time exploring the enormous Incan
Empire. The journey had plenty of dangerous elements. Heavily armed ex-contras
roamed the eastern interior, so I chose to avoid them by taking the Pacific
route. Also, there were numerous left over soldiers from the Salvadorian
Honduran conflicts, so the locals constantly warned me,
“Peligroso es el interior. No queremos que vayas a morir.”
(The interior is
dangerous. We don’t want you to die.)
Despite following their
advice, I encountered M-16 toting Honduran troops upon entry. They didn’t bother
me, since I didn’t look like a typical tourist, but the experience alerted me to
the fact that I was traveling through recovering war zones.
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My journey was a
continuation of a long
sojourn
through Latin America. |
At the border station of
Nicaragua and Honduras, I met two Norwegian cyclists, Jans and Sven. They
started their journey at Tierra Del Fuego, in Chile and would finish at Prudhoe
Bay, Alaska, covering the ends of the planet by bicycle.
Driven to complete the
journey as quickly as possible, they were a little cold when I asked if I could
tag along. Fearful that I would slow them down, I reassured them that it was
just for the day.
After traveling alone for
so long, I hungered just to have a decent conversation. Although I didn't mind
going solo, the lonely nights were taking a toll, and I decided there was a
reason why people had social lives. After all, my partner in this affair was my
bicycle. Although I loved her, my bicycle wasn’t what I called an exemplary
conversationalist.
Sven, a tall red head with
a beard, and I biked the main road onto a dirt path, which lead into a town
called El Triunfo that didn’t even appear in our maps. Surprised it existed, yet
also hungry, we loaded up on gourmet items - spaghetti, ketchup, salt, and Top
Ramen. The other cyclist, Jans, went down the road to find fuel for our stoves,
while Sven and I got back to the main road. Night settled upon us, but Jans
failed to show up. Hours passed in silence. “Where was Jans?”
Suddenly, a light flashed
in the distance, and a short man in a bicycling jersey walked over to us. He
asked us if we were friends with a blonde haired cyclist. “He's in my house.
Please, come with me.”
It was at this point that
I learned about Central American hospitality. Despite their conditions, they
were surrounded by hospitality, warmness and friendliness. "Hey guys!" yelled
Jans, who stood behind a makeshift barbed wire fence. We followed the man into
his mud and adobe home. It was roofed in corrugated metal and enclosed with
plastic and canvas. The toilet was a hole in the ground, surrounded by 4 pieces
of wood. Water was received about two or three times a week, and they often
depended on rainfall.
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Melvin Betancourt
didn't have much, but he
dreamed
of competing in the Olympics.
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We entered the
garage/bedroom/dining room. In the dim light of a candle, we sat down on several
aluminum chairs on the bare dirt floor.
I looked around, and
sitting on a broken TV were several cycling trophies. “Campeon de Honduras,
2000,” said one trophy. On his jersey, in large letters, were the words, "El
Campeon" (The Champion).
“I'm also a cyclist,” our
host beamed, “and we're all brothers in the world. Therefore, I want to extend
my hands for brotherhood.”
No matter where I
traveled, bicyclists everywhere were united in a strange global family, due to
the perception that only mad people would choose to ride such contraptions to
travel. Thus, the bicycle gave us passage to enter the heart of his family and
home.
Curious, I observed him.
He was about 5 feet 2 inches (1.57m) tall, dark, thin, 21 years old, and with
well defined quadriceps dressed in cycling shorts. On the wall in a corner of
the room, were two bicycles, one of which was a Trek 5000, a US$ 2,000 bicycle.
My eyes widened with
allure. He then showed me his prize—two Italian racing bicycles made of carbon
fiber and specialized aluminum. Each bicycle was appraised at US$ 3,000. He used
one, and his younger brother used the other.
“You are the champion?” I
asked in surprise.
“Yes, of Honduras. My name
is Melvin. Melvin Betancourt.”
Later, his family joined
us. The mother, father and his brother, all lived, literally, under one roof and
in one room. His mother took the food we bought and cooked for all of us -
spaghetti with ketchup and fried plantains.
Being in Melvin’s presence
elicited a sense of admiration. How was it possible, in this poor home, that he
could maintain his training and diet? I thought about the pampered people that I
used to work out and train with in the gym.
I remembered them and how
they would complain about a lack of this or not having that. In the U.S., we had
everything at our disposal: science, nutrition, equipment and experts. Yet,
unlike us, he did not complain about his conditions.
“I was born here, and with
God, I do what I can,” he said simply and
I noted the strength in
his voice, as well as a sense of resignation.
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The author and Melvin
Betancourt |
It was inspirational to
meet Melvin. Despite his circumstances, he won through determination and hard
work. But how could he afford such expensive bicycles? The cost of just one of
those bikes would help lift his family out of poverty. Was he a professional
bicyclist?
Melvin laughed: “People
here do not consider bicycling as a sport to pay for. We are not like soccer
players or baseball players. We are a minority here. Everything I do comes out
of my pocket and with the support of my family.” And the expensive bikes were
donations of an association for poor athletes. And yes, he had thought about
selling them to help his family. “But no one can buy them,” he said with his
eyes looking at the floor. “It is too expensive for the people here.”
In the glow of the
candlelight, we told stories, swapped training tips and talked about ways to
exercise. He would get up at 5 a.m., eat a light breakfast and then bicycle
about 180 to 250 miles (300 to 400 km). When he got back home, he would eat
lunch, and help out his younger brother to sell food on the highway. They used a
wagon attached to a bicycle.
Although it was a rough
life, it trained him very well. I lived and breathed training science and diet,
and it baffled me when Melvin told me of his daily routines. Melvin subsisted on
a diet of honey, whole grain cereal and milk for breakfast. He also ate whatever
his mother threw at him. He had no access to vitamin pills, nutritional
information or diet experts.
His training equipment was
the Honduran roads, a keen sense of his body, tropical sun and rain, and enough
hills making the knees scream. He had always wanted to compete outside his home
country, but it was too difficult to get the money together. But Melvin did not
give up hope. “I dream of competing in the Olympics,” he said quietly.
The next morning, Melvin
decided to escort us for a portion of our journey. As he darted ahead of me, I
silently cheered him on. I swore that when I got home, I would try to help
Melvin finding a sponsor. Still, sponsor or no sponsor, I knew he would find the
determination to compete and win.
