Downtown in My Speedo

I hadn’t been much of an athlete as a teenager. But in my thirties Taekwondo caught me in its grip. Three nights a week at the dojang, dawn stretches before the city woke, greens instead of fries, water instead of wine. Fifty pounds fell away and breath came back. When Master Raymond Mourad tied a black belt around my waist, I felt like a warrior—until the night my new sparring shoes gave me more power than my body could safely carry. One high kick, one collapsing knee, and I was on a stretcher.

The belt slid into a drawer. The pride with it.

And without the rhythm of a martial art, my spirit slid too.

To keep from drowning, I joined the McGill Triathlon Club. Swimming, cycling, sometimes even running on the fragile knee. A year later, I crossed finish lines with my children leaping fences to run at my side. It wasn’t about medals—it was about breath, rhythm, motion, and the relief of forward momentum.

Then came November. Mid-swim, the alarm shrieked, and the Sports Centre emptied onto Pine Avenue: judokas in kimonos, sprinters in spikes, and us triathletes barefoot, shivering, downtown in our speedo bathing suits. At first, it was comedy. Then time stretched. No smoke, no updates, just hunger, cold, and the ache of uncertainty.

By midnight I couldn’t wait any longer. I left the group and walked alone through the dark campus, rehearsing the pitch I’d need to borrow a stranger’s phone: Yes, I know I look ridiculous. Please don’t run. I just need to call my wife. Three refusals before a yes. Line busy. A taxi finally stopped. Another phone. Still busy.

At home I banged on doors, climbed fire escapes, and startled Kathleen at the window. She screamed, then laughed, then we both collapsed into the kind of laughter that only comes when a long-held tension finally breaks.

That story became my favorite icebreaker. Audiences laughed, executives leaned in, and I carried it like proof of resourcefulness, resilience, grit. But one evening in a facilitator’s circle, Samantha—the elder among us—listened and pierced through:

“When things turn uncertain, Dominique, you leave the group. You don’t know how to ask for help.”

Her words landed like a stone in still water, rippling out through years of blind spots. I realized then: cleverness can flag a taxi, but it cannot weave a net. Speed can deliver you downtown in a speedo, but without trust, you’ll always be running alone.

Later, around a bonfire in the Laurentians, a clown dressed as a white dragon told us: We cannot help unless you call us. Ask, and we come. I thought of Samantha, of the triathletes waiting in the cafeteria, of all the times I rehearsed my pitch rather than opening my palms.

I had spent years chasing top lines and bottom lines, sprinting from one finish to the next. But trust—trust is not a race. It is a circle you choose to stay in, even when the night grows cold.

And so the question lingers, as questions do:

Where in your life are you still downtown in a speedo—exposed, determined to prove you can do it alone?

And what might happen if, just once, you stayed with the group, opened your hands, and asked?

Because even cardboard wings hold better when mended together. And sometimes, the real speed is found in the slow courage of trust.

Next: The Speed of Joy

© 2025 Dominique Bel. Cardboard Wings: A Constellation of Becoming. All rights reserved.