This past weekend, I raced Battle of the Bridges down in Melbourne as the second race of our collegiate triathlon season. I was especially excited for this race because, in case you hadn't heard...I GOT A NEW BIKE! I already liked what I'd seen from my baby in the limited time I'd had him (yes...it's a he) and was pumped to see what results I'd see in a race from such a drastic change in equipment.
The swim was wavy and possibly a little long--I noticed slow times across the field when looking at the results last night. The bike was a complete turnaround for me. I added 1.5 mph to my previous best speed and hardly got passed at all, despite the fact that the bike leg was two miles longer than that of a typical Olympic distance race. I also realized how much it can hurt to really push on the bike. Somehow with the new bike, something clicked. I realize that before this, I wasn't actually ever "racing" the bike leg. I was defeated before I even took the first few pedal strokes. Yesterday, though, I found that even though it hurt, I wanted to push harder because it just felt so amazing to go fast for a change. On the run, however, I was reminded of the pain that goes with my favorite pastime. By the time I made it to the finish, I was overheated, dehydrated, and cramping like a...well, you get the picture. It was one of those finishes that made me ask, "Why do I do this again?"
While the positive energy of post-race socializing soon brought me back to the land of the living, later I found myself pondering that question again. Though I'd just completed one of the most painful races of my triathlon career, something in me couldn't wait to give it another shot. Where does that come from? I wondered. I went through the race again in my head and thought about the high and low points throughout. Eventually I found myself contemplating pain and its effect on training, racing, and life.
Pain is a powerful motivator. How we deal with it shapes the people we eventually become. I realized when I started thinking about this that I don't deal with pain very effectively sometimes. I shut down, run away, and pretend that what made me upset doesn't exist. This doesn't really work, though, and I know it. Part of the reason why I've grown to love triathlon so much is that it forces me to be a warrior. Alone on the course, I can't run away any more. At least figuratively. I have to look the pain straight in the face, accept it, and find the courage to do battle with my demons. Like in life, I don't always succeed. When I do, though, it is so sweet. Little by little, the fight makes me better. Thinking back on the race, I know I smiled and laughed in the face of agony on my bike, and it felt like such a victory. At the end of the run, though, the usually fiercely competitive side of me got demoralized and watched vainly as a rival went by. Pain got the best of me. But it's not over. I'll be back. Triathlon is hard--but so is life. Simply finding the strength to face what is hard and painful and agonizing not only makes you a better athlete, but it also makes you a better person. Every time I confront and fight the pain, it makes me stronger and helps me realize that I can take much more than I sometimes think I can. And that is a victory in and of itself.
All in all, I can't complain. Had the race been a standard Olympic distance, it would have almost certainly been a PR. I've got tweaks to make, but I've got a sweet new ride and we make a great team. Suncoast, I'm coming for you!
Monday, October 8, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
Pessimism is a waste of time
Few people will actually admit to being pessimistic. I suppose some do, wear it like a badge of honor and consider it their own special, superior way of looking at the world. I've known so many people, though, who disguise their pervasive pessimism as simply their way of viewing the world "realistically." "Well, it wasn't going to happen for me anyway," they'll say, or "I like to go into things thinking they won't work out so I won't be disappointed." I'll nod as if I understand, but secretly part of me is going crazy. I've never understood how some people consider this to be a productive mindset. If you truly believe things aren't going to work out for you, subconsciously you'll put less effort into them. When you put less effort into things, they don't turn out as well. Oh wait, isn't that called a self-fulfilling prophecy?
What kills me about the "I'm just being realistic" viewpoint is that I believe we create our own realities. Yet, so many people talk about "reality" as if it is some vague external thing over which they have no control. It makes their pessimism sound reasonable or even logical. However, I think what's hiding beneath the surface and beneath all the intelligent-sounding excuses people have to look on the dark side is one simple thing: fear. What are we afraid of? We are afraid of failure, of looking stupid, of being rejected, of having our hearts broken, of losing those we love, of not meeting our goals, of inconvenience, of hard work...the list goes on and on. Simply put, we are afraid that if we allow ourselves to hope, our hopes will be shattered and we will get hurt. This is understandable. Getting hurt sucks, and we all know it. The thing about having something not work out is this, though: is it really enough to destroy all of your remaining hope? Does one failed idea mean the end of your career? Does one bad race mean you're hanging up your shoes? Does one broken heart mean you've given up on being loved? I mean, that's a little dramatic, isn't it?
I'd much rather be optimistic and take the hit sometimes than go through life always expecting the worst. The way I see it, so much of life is learning how to take a hit. Granted, there are points in life where we end up feeling like we're professional boxers, but even then--is it really that bad? So one thing--maybe even a couple of things--fall through. I guarantee there is still something going right. There's still something that'll make you crack a smile. Something that will get you through. You had a bad day at work, but you had a great workout. You're so frustrated with school, but your roommate showed you this really hilarious video clip. You got turned down by somebody you like, but realized what wonderful friends you have. Life is about finding your "buts" sometimes. I'm all for realism, but don't use it as an excuse to forget about the good things in life. Maybe some people will say I'm simplistic, or easily pleased, or don't take life seriously enough. And that's just fine. Those who know me well enough know that I too have those things that mean so much to me and that I'm afraid to lose. But I'd rather take my gamble and live in the sun than spend my life in the shadows.
What kills me about the "I'm just being realistic" viewpoint is that I believe we create our own realities. Yet, so many people talk about "reality" as if it is some vague external thing over which they have no control. It makes their pessimism sound reasonable or even logical. However, I think what's hiding beneath the surface and beneath all the intelligent-sounding excuses people have to look on the dark side is one simple thing: fear. What are we afraid of? We are afraid of failure, of looking stupid, of being rejected, of having our hearts broken, of losing those we love, of not meeting our goals, of inconvenience, of hard work...the list goes on and on. Simply put, we are afraid that if we allow ourselves to hope, our hopes will be shattered and we will get hurt. This is understandable. Getting hurt sucks, and we all know it. The thing about having something not work out is this, though: is it really enough to destroy all of your remaining hope? Does one failed idea mean the end of your career? Does one bad race mean you're hanging up your shoes? Does one broken heart mean you've given up on being loved? I mean, that's a little dramatic, isn't it?
I'd much rather be optimistic and take the hit sometimes than go through life always expecting the worst. The way I see it, so much of life is learning how to take a hit. Granted, there are points in life where we end up feeling like we're professional boxers, but even then--is it really that bad? So one thing--maybe even a couple of things--fall through. I guarantee there is still something going right. There's still something that'll make you crack a smile. Something that will get you through. You had a bad day at work, but you had a great workout. You're so frustrated with school, but your roommate showed you this really hilarious video clip. You got turned down by somebody you like, but realized what wonderful friends you have. Life is about finding your "buts" sometimes. I'm all for realism, but don't use it as an excuse to forget about the good things in life. Maybe some people will say I'm simplistic, or easily pleased, or don't take life seriously enough. And that's just fine. Those who know me well enough know that I too have those things that mean so much to me and that I'm afraid to lose. But I'd rather take my gamble and live in the sun than spend my life in the shadows.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
The Constants
I rolled out of bed this Tuesday more groggy than usual for one of my bi-weekly early morning track workouts. I glanced at the clock--6:09--and realized I'd overslept by more than a few minutes. I managed to pull myself together relatively quickly and hopped in my car to drive over to the track. Tired and impatient, I jabbed at the set stations in my car, hoping to find something upbeat to put me in the mood to be speedy. All the stations, however, were either playing songs I didn't really like or featured the co-anchors yammering loudly to each other. Frustrated, I hit eject on my CD player to see if I had anything in there worth listening to and found that it was an old CD I had made back in high school. "Tell me baby/ What's your story?" crooned Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I happily jammed along. I smiled to myself. My love for this song--actually, this band--hasn't really changed at all since high school, I thought. Oddly enough, this was reassuring in some strange way. It's probably easier to count the things that haven't changed in the years since I made that mix than the things that have. Don't get me wrong--I believe change is a good thing, and I consider myself a fairly adaptable person. The desire for something constant, though, is alive in everyone. Sometimes I think it's part of what drew me to running and later, triathlon.
I guess you could say that training and I have been in a relationship for 6 years now. It hasn't always been pretty. In fact, at times it's been downright ugly. The thing is, though, it's always been there. I am vulnerable out there on the track, on the course, and in the pool in ways that I would never allow myself to be in everyday life. I can put it all on the line in a workout or a race and perhaps fail miserably--but know that it will all still be there tomorrow. No matter what else is going on in my life, my workout will always be there. When it goes well, it can turn around my entire day. When it goes badly, I try to brush it off and remember that there is always tomorrow. The athletic setting, at least for me, creates an honesty and rawness that is hard to duplicate in day-to-day life. People are complicated, but training by comparison is simple. You either make the interval or you don't. You accomplish your goals in a workout or you don't. And if you don't, you assess, move on, and do better next time. I believe that some of the purest, strongest bonds are made between training partners. Sure, there is always going to be some competitiveness. But when it comes down to it, you've suffered together, and knowing someone else's pain as intimately as you know your own brings you close to them in a way that few others can understand. My closest friends--my "constants"--are without question the girls I've run, biked, and swam alongside these past few years.
I know that eventually I will leave here. The nature of the college life is that everything is continually changing. Classes change, living circumstances change, and try as I might to hang on to those who are important to me, people come and go as well. Now that I'm at the midpoint of my college career here, the reality of leaving seems closer with every day that passes. Things will change again in a very big way. However, I think we deal with change sometimes by having at least a few constants. Training will always be one of those for me, as will my family and hopefully the close friends I've made throughout the years. There are also some things about me that will never change, and that reassures me. I might have to grow up soon, but I will always have the intensity that pushes me to be an endurance athlete and helps me love with everything I've got. The cliff-jumping, adrenaline-filled, fun-loving little girl inside of me will always live on. Five or ten years from now, many things will certainly be different. But one thing I know for sure: I will still be that girl belting out "Tell Me Baby" in her car with the windows down.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Punctuation
I was never a big fan of English class. From diagramming sentences in elementary school to required essays about The Scarlet Letter in high school, it always seemed like a big snooze to me. Perhaps it was because it came easily for me, or perhaps it was because English class always seemed like a vehicle for putting my creativity into a box. Whatever the reason, it always seemed incomprehensible to me how--especially as my peers and I grew older--some people somehow failed to grasp the basic purpose of all these convoluted assignments: to learn how to convey oneself clearly and intelligently through writing. For me, it was (and is) simple: the flow of writing should mirror the flow of life. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end to most events. There are pauses, interjections, and conclusions. It was never very hard for me to take the commas, hyphens, and periods of life and translate them onto paper. Life is, after all, a story.
What we don't realize sometimes is that though we can't always control the events, we can choose how they're told. We each hold our own pen, so to speak. Our own interpretation is the one that matters--and everyone has a different take. It's easy to think of some events as a period, the final condemning dot at the end of a long, seemingly well-thought-out sentence. It seems to scream "this is the end!" But is it? Much of the time, that's up to us. One person's realism may be another's pessimism, and one individual's optimism can seem like idealism to someone else. We are each telling our own story, and the multiple perspectives this can create is as amazing as it is frustrating. "Why," we wonder, "can't people see the truth?" What we fail to understand is that the "truth" we see is actually only our truth. Yes, you might see a period in the events unfolding in your life--but somebody else might see a comma, a pause, a "but wait, there's more." It drives some people--myself included--crazy sometimes to not know what's coming next. It's the "but what if" syndrome. The thing is, uncertainty can be a huge pain in the ass, but it can also be a saving grace. Uncertainty keeps us turning the pages. It helps us make decisions and take risks. It helps us live in the moment, and I honestly don't think there's anything more beautiful than that. I have moments that I return to often and fondly, many of which wouldn't have been possible without a certain degree of uncertainty.
I guess what I'm postulating is that if we can see our lives as stories--stories that are imperfect, subjective, and not finished until the back cover is closed--we can live more richly. If we can see life's "punctuation" as variable, love those "characters" in our story because and not in spite of their flaws, and realize that our "voice" isn't the only one that exists, then we will be able to not only accept the uncertainty of life but embrace it. Good stories make us laugh and cry, but don't we love them for both reasons? I know I do. I suppose it all comes back to that stubborn period. You read the sentence, your voice lilting with the words, rising and falling with the expression of good times and bad, finally coming to the conclusion. Your voice drops, signaling the end. The crazy thing, though, is this: no matter how firm and blatant that period seems to be, if you add two more dots the meaning changes instantly. What seemed like the end now seems like a "to be continued..."or a thought left hanging. Is it "The end." or "The end..."? Well now, I guess that's up to you.
What we don't realize sometimes is that though we can't always control the events, we can choose how they're told. We each hold our own pen, so to speak. Our own interpretation is the one that matters--and everyone has a different take. It's easy to think of some events as a period, the final condemning dot at the end of a long, seemingly well-thought-out sentence. It seems to scream "this is the end!" But is it? Much of the time, that's up to us. One person's realism may be another's pessimism, and one individual's optimism can seem like idealism to someone else. We are each telling our own story, and the multiple perspectives this can create is as amazing as it is frustrating. "Why," we wonder, "can't people see the truth?" What we fail to understand is that the "truth" we see is actually only our truth. Yes, you might see a period in the events unfolding in your life--but somebody else might see a comma, a pause, a "but wait, there's more." It drives some people--myself included--crazy sometimes to not know what's coming next. It's the "but what if" syndrome. The thing is, uncertainty can be a huge pain in the ass, but it can also be a saving grace. Uncertainty keeps us turning the pages. It helps us make decisions and take risks. It helps us live in the moment, and I honestly don't think there's anything more beautiful than that. I have moments that I return to often and fondly, many of which wouldn't have been possible without a certain degree of uncertainty.
I guess what I'm postulating is that if we can see our lives as stories--stories that are imperfect, subjective, and not finished until the back cover is closed--we can live more richly. If we can see life's "punctuation" as variable, love those "characters" in our story because and not in spite of their flaws, and realize that our "voice" isn't the only one that exists, then we will be able to not only accept the uncertainty of life but embrace it. Good stories make us laugh and cry, but don't we love them for both reasons? I know I do. I suppose it all comes back to that stubborn period. You read the sentence, your voice lilting with the words, rising and falling with the expression of good times and bad, finally coming to the conclusion. Your voice drops, signaling the end. The crazy thing, though, is this: no matter how firm and blatant that period seems to be, if you add two more dots the meaning changes instantly. What seemed like the end now seems like a "to be continued..."or a thought left hanging. Is it "The end." or "The end..."? Well now, I guess that's up to you.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Resilience
Sometimes in life and in training, things go wrong. Something that seemed so promising or well-planned can crash and burn unexpectedly, often leaving us stunned and confused in the wreckage. A bad race at a crucial time, a failed training plan, an injury...whatever it may be, it doesn't matter. The common denominator is the emotional investment and the feelings of disappointment and sadness following the ill-fated event. As endurance athletes, we tend to wrap ourselves up in our training and accomplishments, and sometimes when things go wrong it can feel like our whole world has come crashing down. Even after the initial sting has faded, we still find ourselves asking, "How did I get here?" and "Where do I go now?"
"How did I get here?" can be a more complicated question than it first seems. As painful as it can be, retracing our steps to find the roots of the problems that caused the downward spiral can teach us much about what went wrong and how to avoid repeating the same mistakes in the future. Often we put so much of ourselves into our training that it's hard to step back and look at a situation analytically and logically. I in particular find it hard to escape the "all or nothing" philosophy. It's so easy to give and give and believe that the more you give, the more you're bound to get out. And while this can be true much of the time in endurance training, it's important to remember to reserve our "all or nothing" moments for when it truly matters and when this kind of intensity can benefit us rather than hurt us. If we can step back and take a more distant perspective after a disappointment, sometimes it can help us see things we wouldn't have seen when blinded by our own feelings, plans, and desires.
It's also easy to feel a little lost in the aftermath. Often we feel confused about what steps to take next, and at times when we look into the future all we can see is a big question mark. It is at this point that our most important characteristic must take center stage: resilience. It is the reason we are endurance athletes, the reason why we've come this far, and the reason we've accomplished everything we've ever been proud of. If I had to define it, I'd say that resilience is the ability to be stronger than the situations around us. Resilience is having confidence that even if things get turned upside down, we'll still be able to pick up the pieces and start again (and do even bigger and better things). It's not preparing for the worst all the time--that's pessimism. It's simply knowing that we can handle whatever life throws at us, and not living in fear. Sometimes events can change us. That's just the way of the world. The key is to change in a positive manner. Rather than shutting down and closing ourselves off, we need to remember to learn, grow, and mature. A wise friend once told me, "This isn't the first time, and it won't be the last." As long as we believe in our own resilience, life will go on, and soon what seemed like a crushing blow will only be a blip on the radar. Life may pack a punch sometimes, but the important thing to remember is...so do we.
"How did I get here?" can be a more complicated question than it first seems. As painful as it can be, retracing our steps to find the roots of the problems that caused the downward spiral can teach us much about what went wrong and how to avoid repeating the same mistakes in the future. Often we put so much of ourselves into our training that it's hard to step back and look at a situation analytically and logically. I in particular find it hard to escape the "all or nothing" philosophy. It's so easy to give and give and believe that the more you give, the more you're bound to get out. And while this can be true much of the time in endurance training, it's important to remember to reserve our "all or nothing" moments for when it truly matters and when this kind of intensity can benefit us rather than hurt us. If we can step back and take a more distant perspective after a disappointment, sometimes it can help us see things we wouldn't have seen when blinded by our own feelings, plans, and desires.
It's also easy to feel a little lost in the aftermath. Often we feel confused about what steps to take next, and at times when we look into the future all we can see is a big question mark. It is at this point that our most important characteristic must take center stage: resilience. It is the reason we are endurance athletes, the reason why we've come this far, and the reason we've accomplished everything we've ever been proud of. If I had to define it, I'd say that resilience is the ability to be stronger than the situations around us. Resilience is having confidence that even if things get turned upside down, we'll still be able to pick up the pieces and start again (and do even bigger and better things). It's not preparing for the worst all the time--that's pessimism. It's simply knowing that we can handle whatever life throws at us, and not living in fear. Sometimes events can change us. That's just the way of the world. The key is to change in a positive manner. Rather than shutting down and closing ourselves off, we need to remember to learn, grow, and mature. A wise friend once told me, "This isn't the first time, and it won't be the last." As long as we believe in our own resilience, life will go on, and soon what seemed like a crushing blow will only be a blip on the radar. Life may pack a punch sometimes, but the important thing to remember is...so do we.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Expectations
Expectations. We've all got 'em. Endurance athletes in particular are obsessive about their expectations. Good performances are wonderful, but most triathletes barely take the time to bask in the enjoyment of success before heading back to the drawing board to figure out what's next on the agenda. Structured schedules and meticulously planned split times and workouts are the norm for many endurance athletes. And when it comes to racing, many of us get worked up into such a fervor that we choke when we need to perform the most. It is my theory that it's all because of expectations. What, exactly, goes into forming an expectation? Most of us can remember the first time we raced a particular distance. Whether it was a first 5k, triathlon, half marathon, or half Ironman, odds are it was a pretty positive experience because of the lack of lofty performance expectations. However, the mental state of mind upon repeating the same event is very different for most endurance athletes. They reason, "I know I can do X, which means that next time I should be able to do Y." Here is where the problems begin.
At this point it might seem like I'm railing against having goals, but stay with me. Goals are great. They give us specific things to strive for in our training and provide us with purpose. Some people may not agree with me, but I think there is a distinct difference between having a goal and having an expectation. I would argue that a goal is a specific accomplishment to strive for whereas an expectation is an emotional self-evaluation tied to the attempt to meet the goal. It's the difference between waking up on race morning and saying, "I want to run a 3:20 marathon today and am going to give it my best shot," and thinking "If I don't run at least 3:20 today all my training will have been for nothing." Such harsh self-judgments are all too easy for endurance athletes to make, and having high expectations seems almost second nature.
However, lately I've realized that sometimes the best things in life are those that you have no expectations for. Yesterday I woke up to go for a run, but was hacking up a lung the entire morning. It was one of those mornings where just making it out the door was a victory. I didn't know how far I was going to make it and certainly didn't expect it to be fast. I ended up running for an hour and feeling great. At one point towards the end of my run, I could feel all my biomechanics lining up for once and actually felt efficient and on top of my stride, things that are difficult for me to accomplish even on a good day! The point is, it's so much healthier for us as athletes to let go of the expectations and simply do the best we can on any given day, whether it's a training day, racing day, or recovery day. Goals are awesome guides, but we should never turn a goal into an expectation or something to "live up" to. Do your ultimate best to meet today's goal, but at the end of the day find peace in the fact you gave your best rather than stressing over the results. Triathlon is a huge part of what makes us who we are, but should never completely define who we are. We get many chances to race, but only one life. Don't spend yours worrying about what will be or might have been.
At this point it might seem like I'm railing against having goals, but stay with me. Goals are great. They give us specific things to strive for in our training and provide us with purpose. Some people may not agree with me, but I think there is a distinct difference between having a goal and having an expectation. I would argue that a goal is a specific accomplishment to strive for whereas an expectation is an emotional self-evaluation tied to the attempt to meet the goal. It's the difference between waking up on race morning and saying, "I want to run a 3:20 marathon today and am going to give it my best shot," and thinking "If I don't run at least 3:20 today all my training will have been for nothing." Such harsh self-judgments are all too easy for endurance athletes to make, and having high expectations seems almost second nature.
However, lately I've realized that sometimes the best things in life are those that you have no expectations for. Yesterday I woke up to go for a run, but was hacking up a lung the entire morning. It was one of those mornings where just making it out the door was a victory. I didn't know how far I was going to make it and certainly didn't expect it to be fast. I ended up running for an hour and feeling great. At one point towards the end of my run, I could feel all my biomechanics lining up for once and actually felt efficient and on top of my stride, things that are difficult for me to accomplish even on a good day! The point is, it's so much healthier for us as athletes to let go of the expectations and simply do the best we can on any given day, whether it's a training day, racing day, or recovery day. Goals are awesome guides, but we should never turn a goal into an expectation or something to "live up" to. Do your ultimate best to meet today's goal, but at the end of the day find peace in the fact you gave your best rather than stressing over the results. Triathlon is a huge part of what makes us who we are, but should never completely define who we are. We get many chances to race, but only one life. Don't spend yours worrying about what will be or might have been.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Club Med sprint race update
It's that time of year again. Time to feel the adrenaline (or, as my exercise physiology coursework has informed me, epinephrine) surging through my veins in anticipation of race season. I kicked off what will hopefully be another great spring season of triathlon racing with my awesome Tri-Gator teammates this morning in Port St. Lucie in the Club Med sprint triathlon. I didn't know quite what to expect out of this race, because the last time I raced was all the way back in October and because let's face it, my biking has been less than stellar lately. But I digress.
The positives: I powered through the swim, nailed the flying dismount at the end of the bike leg, and possibly had one of my better run splits. I have wonderful teammates, one of whom absolutely schooled everyone else who tried to keep up with her, (I'm so proud!) and my parents came to watch me.
The negatives: The swim wasn't that long (less of a lead for me out of the water), it was a very windy and U-turn infested bike course, and I felt pretty sluggish (as usual) through mile 1 of the run. Plus there's that lingering feeling that I'm still not quite racing up to my potential.
The facts: First or second (not actually sure which) girl out of the water, 1:06 finish time, 7th collegiate girl out of around 30. Splits, undetermined as of yet.
The thing is, with triathlon racing, you get out what you put in (like many things in life). And in my case, I know I haven't been putting in as much cycling and brick work as I need to be. Knowing what you need to work on doesn't make it any easier, but it does give you somewhere to start from. Right now the bulls-eye for me is on March 25, our conference championship in Clermont. No two races--even at the same location--are ever the same, but I'm gunning for both a good finish and an Olympic distance PR. And maybe one of those FCTC point standing plaques, if all goes well. It's all about trusting your body to do its thing when you know you've put the time in. Guess I'd better get on it...
The positives: I powered through the swim, nailed the flying dismount at the end of the bike leg, and possibly had one of my better run splits. I have wonderful teammates, one of whom absolutely schooled everyone else who tried to keep up with her, (I'm so proud!) and my parents came to watch me.
The negatives: The swim wasn't that long (less of a lead for me out of the water), it was a very windy and U-turn infested bike course, and I felt pretty sluggish (as usual) through mile 1 of the run. Plus there's that lingering feeling that I'm still not quite racing up to my potential.
The facts: First or second (not actually sure which) girl out of the water, 1:06 finish time, 7th collegiate girl out of around 30. Splits, undetermined as of yet.
The thing is, with triathlon racing, you get out what you put in (like many things in life). And in my case, I know I haven't been putting in as much cycling and brick work as I need to be. Knowing what you need to work on doesn't make it any easier, but it does give you somewhere to start from. Right now the bulls-eye for me is on March 25, our conference championship in Clermont. No two races--even at the same location--are ever the same, but I'm gunning for both a good finish and an Olympic distance PR. And maybe one of those FCTC point standing plaques, if all goes well. It's all about trusting your body to do its thing when you know you've put the time in. Guess I'd better get on it...
Monday, January 23, 2012
#Triathleteproblems
One thing I really don't understand is hashtagging on Facebook. Isn't that a Twitter thing, supposedly? Not that I would know...I don't have a Twitter. One life-consuming social network is enough, thanks. I have to say, though, that I've been guilty of the very thing I don't quite get, and I suppose my motivation must have been the same as it was for everyone else: it looked cool. Very 6th grade of me, I know. I've noticed there are many hashtags about various sorts of unique "problems" that people seem to be having: #firstworldproblems, #whitegirlproblems, #collegestudentproblems...before the hashtag craze, I had no idea that people had so many problems. At any rate, I figured why not add my own problems to the ever-growing pile? Ever heard of #triathleteproblems? Now you have.
1. Try on size small jacket. Examine self in mirror. Try to take off jacket. Fail miserably. Have to get pulled out of said jacket by friend because your arms have become too muscular from swimming and are no longer proportional to your body.
2. The jean dilemma. Waist fit=perfect. Ass fit=bustin' outa there. Ass fit=perfect. Waist fit=enough room for a party.
3. The internal debate: am I hardcore enough to have my name on the backside of my uniform?
4. Almost EVERYBODY who isn't a triathlete thinks you only do the Ironman.
5. The inevitable "Why are you always eating?" Or if you're with a guy, "I think you just ate more than me."
6. Bursting into a wildly inappropriate rap song in public because it's the one that got stuck in your head while running. "Left cheek right cheek..."
7. Race shirts: do I LOOK like a large?
8. The perfect snot rocket. Nail it, and you're awesome. Mess it up, and you're absolutely disgusting.
9. The person you're drafting behind on a ride is too skinny to block any wind.
10. That deflating feeling when you get passed by a lady with "50" written on her calf.
I'm realizing that many of these are quite gender-specific...maybe I should have called it #triathletegirlproblems. Oh well. This is only the tip of the iceberg. More to follow...
1. Try on size small jacket. Examine self in mirror. Try to take off jacket. Fail miserably. Have to get pulled out of said jacket by friend because your arms have become too muscular from swimming and are no longer proportional to your body.
2. The jean dilemma. Waist fit=perfect. Ass fit=bustin' outa there. Ass fit=perfect. Waist fit=enough room for a party.
3. The internal debate: am I hardcore enough to have my name on the backside of my uniform?
4. Almost EVERYBODY who isn't a triathlete thinks you only do the Ironman.
5. The inevitable "Why are you always eating?" Or if you're with a guy, "I think you just ate more than me."
6. Bursting into a wildly inappropriate rap song in public because it's the one that got stuck in your head while running. "Left cheek right cheek..."
7. Race shirts: do I LOOK like a large?
8. The perfect snot rocket. Nail it, and you're awesome. Mess it up, and you're absolutely disgusting.
9. The person you're drafting behind on a ride is too skinny to block any wind.
10. That deflating feeling when you get passed by a lady with "50" written on her calf.
I'm realizing that many of these are quite gender-specific...maybe I should have called it #triathletegirlproblems. Oh well. This is only the tip of the iceberg. More to follow...
Monday, January 16, 2012
Fearless
Much ado is made over being fearless. Many great athletes, adventurers, and innovators are often described using this adjective, their achievements towering over their equally larger-than-life personas. What exactly, though, does it mean to be fearless? Why do people want to assume that great accomplishments come only through a lack of one of the most basic human instincts?
Fear is often one of the first emotions we remember having. As children, we are afraid of the dark, of our nightmares, or of losing sight of our parents in a crowded room. Perhaps these basic early fears reveal the real reason for the existence of the emotion: survival. As we mature we develop more complex fears--fear of losing those close to us, fear of failure, fear of being alone--but the reasoning remains the same. We fear these things because of our strong desire for both physical and emotional security. I believe it is impossible--perhaps with the exception of sociopathic individuals--for someone to go through a lifetime without having feelings of fear in some context. How, then, can anyone truly be called "fearless"?
It is not a lack of fear that aids the world's greatest individuals in their successes. Rather, being "fearless" is simply finding the ability to override every hesitant impulse, nagging doubt, and feeling of outright terror in order to complete the task at hand. Fearlessness is looking down the face of the steepest wave you've ever seen, feeling your stomach twist in a knot, and deciding to make the drop anyways. It's finding the courage to run your first marathon in spite of the fact that your training went nothing as planned. It's taking the risk of becoming a laughingstock and a failure in order to push a bold new technology. It's not a lack of self-doubt--it's an ability to toss those feelings aside. The moments in life with the potential for greatness are often some of the most terrifying. And through the fear, you're faced with a decision. "Am I going to do this--or not?" Sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind. Yes, you could land smack on your ass. But you could also have a moment that changes your life. That's what being fearless is all about.
Fear is often one of the first emotions we remember having. As children, we are afraid of the dark, of our nightmares, or of losing sight of our parents in a crowded room. Perhaps these basic early fears reveal the real reason for the existence of the emotion: survival. As we mature we develop more complex fears--fear of losing those close to us, fear of failure, fear of being alone--but the reasoning remains the same. We fear these things because of our strong desire for both physical and emotional security. I believe it is impossible--perhaps with the exception of sociopathic individuals--for someone to go through a lifetime without having feelings of fear in some context. How, then, can anyone truly be called "fearless"?
It is not a lack of fear that aids the world's greatest individuals in their successes. Rather, being "fearless" is simply finding the ability to override every hesitant impulse, nagging doubt, and feeling of outright terror in order to complete the task at hand. Fearlessness is looking down the face of the steepest wave you've ever seen, feeling your stomach twist in a knot, and deciding to make the drop anyways. It's finding the courage to run your first marathon in spite of the fact that your training went nothing as planned. It's taking the risk of becoming a laughingstock and a failure in order to push a bold new technology. It's not a lack of self-doubt--it's an ability to toss those feelings aside. The moments in life with the potential for greatness are often some of the most terrifying. And through the fear, you're faced with a decision. "Am I going to do this--or not?" Sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind. Yes, you could land smack on your ass. But you could also have a moment that changes your life. That's what being fearless is all about.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Snapshot from the past
I remember my first 5-mile run so clearly. I was 14 and training for my first year of cross country. I had only recently finished my first 5K race, and was eager to get good enough to make the varsity squad. My father, I remember, followed my progress with a quiet enthusiasm. We had always been rather alike in our mannerisms and personalities, he and I, so when I made my first foray into distance running he began to tell me how far he used to run before his knee surgery. It was fascinating and fun for me to imagine that perhaps heredity had ingrained in me the mysterious love of running far and fast. Sometimes he mentioned to me that he thought he might be able to run again, as long as he took it easy. Still, it took me by surprise when upon declaring my intention to run 5 miles, he said he'd come with me.
We decided to run from our house to the lighthouse at the end of the 7-mile long barrier island where we lived. The distance, my dad told me assuredly, was almost exactly 5 miles. We enlisted the help of my mother to pick us up at the end of our run and thus began our trek to the end of the island. Strangely enough, we were a well-matched pair--he with his caution about his knee and I with my slight anxiety at running a distance I'd never attempted before. It was early evening and still light out when we started. The pace was slow and relaxed, and I concentrated on listening to the rhythm of my dad's footsteps to keep myself from getting carried away with a pace I couldn't sustain. We talked and laughed, and the first few miles flew by with an ease I didn't think was possible. I remember the sound of our combined footsteps--his a little heavier and controlled, mine light and unsure. I remember coming to the 4th mile just as the night was falling and the first stars began to appear. I remember the sudden burst of energy flowing through my veins near the end as enthusiasm got the best of me and I sped ahead. Most of all, though, I remember the connection we established. My relationship with my mother had always been straightforward. She never minced words and loved us with an unmistakable fervor. My dad, however, had always been subtler. Sharing a moment with him had always been harder, his emotions hidden beneath an impenetrable calm. That night, though, the simple act of running brought us together. There were no barriers, just a father and a daughter victorious in their shared quest.
Sometimes it's not the actual runs, rides, and swims we remember, but the people we share them with. Endurance training can be monotonous and unmemorable, but in the black-and-white of our memories some moments stand out like a Technicolor dream. These moments are what make training--and living--worthwhile. I can't speak for everyone, but a single vivid memory can stay with me for a very long time. A stellar race, a hilarious workout with a large group, a moment--even if it's fleeting--shared with someone who means something to you. So much can get lost in the repetitiveness of distance running and triathlon training, and undoubtedly there are many things we'd like to forget as both athletes and individuals. Life is just a collection of big and small moments, an album of snapshots that can be lost or recalled. What will you remember?
We decided to run from our house to the lighthouse at the end of the 7-mile long barrier island where we lived. The distance, my dad told me assuredly, was almost exactly 5 miles. We enlisted the help of my mother to pick us up at the end of our run and thus began our trek to the end of the island. Strangely enough, we were a well-matched pair--he with his caution about his knee and I with my slight anxiety at running a distance I'd never attempted before. It was early evening and still light out when we started. The pace was slow and relaxed, and I concentrated on listening to the rhythm of my dad's footsteps to keep myself from getting carried away with a pace I couldn't sustain. We talked and laughed, and the first few miles flew by with an ease I didn't think was possible. I remember the sound of our combined footsteps--his a little heavier and controlled, mine light and unsure. I remember coming to the 4th mile just as the night was falling and the first stars began to appear. I remember the sudden burst of energy flowing through my veins near the end as enthusiasm got the best of me and I sped ahead. Most of all, though, I remember the connection we established. My relationship with my mother had always been straightforward. She never minced words and loved us with an unmistakable fervor. My dad, however, had always been subtler. Sharing a moment with him had always been harder, his emotions hidden beneath an impenetrable calm. That night, though, the simple act of running brought us together. There were no barriers, just a father and a daughter victorious in their shared quest.
Sometimes it's not the actual runs, rides, and swims we remember, but the people we share them with. Endurance training can be monotonous and unmemorable, but in the black-and-white of our memories some moments stand out like a Technicolor dream. These moments are what make training--and living--worthwhile. I can't speak for everyone, but a single vivid memory can stay with me for a very long time. A stellar race, a hilarious workout with a large group, a moment--even if it's fleeting--shared with someone who means something to you. So much can get lost in the repetitiveness of distance running and triathlon training, and undoubtedly there are many things we'd like to forget as both athletes and individuals. Life is just a collection of big and small moments, an album of snapshots that can be lost or recalled. What will you remember?
Monday, January 2, 2012
Resolved
I've been very silent as of late, partially owing to the end-of-the-year madness that has pervaded my life in many different forms. But I've realized lately that I've missed sharing my thoughts with the kind few who enjoy hearing them.
With a new year comes the inevitable slew of New Year's resolutions, which got me thinking. The majority of New Year's resolutions involve health and personal happiness. Eating better, exercising, and generally living in a healthier manner are on many people's to-do list at the start of a new year. And even though as endurance athletes many of these things are already ingrained in our lives, there are certainly things we can do better. We can train harder, refine our diets, or chase a new PR. More broadly, we can adjust our attitudes and vow to become happier, more positive, and more flexible. But what, exactly, does making an "official" resolution accomplish? For many people, having a set goal to work towards at the beginning of a new year is helpful and motivating. I, however, believe that we shouldn't need a New Year's resolution to live our lives in the best manner possible. Instead of making New Year's resolutions, we should make a promise every day to be the best we can be--whether it's athletically, professionally, or personally. After all, excellence isn't just a once-a-year pursuit...it's a daily attitude, a choice. Many people "chase" happiness or satisfaction and believe that if they were to just accomplish a certain goal, they would achieve peace and self-fulfillment. In my opinion, this is part of the appeal of New Year's resolutions: they provide a starting point for such a chase. However, I believe that happiness is not something to pursue, but a decision we make every day. Will we constantly be looking for something to fill the void within us, or will we do the best we can with what we've been given? The choice is ultimately ours.
Over the course of a year, many things can happen. As I look back on 2011, I personally remember a year of cementing strong friendships, making amazing memories, learning some hard lessons, pushing through difficulties, establishing new relationships, and saying goodbye. Some of these things have been bitter, others sweet. Overall, though, there's not a thing I would change. We're never really done finding out who we are. All of life is a journey of self-discovery, and I'm entering 2012 determined to continue experiencing life to the fullest without any regrets. Fear is irrelevant. The big wave surfer Laird Hamilton once said, "I don't want to not live because of my fear of what could happen," and it's become a mantra I try to live by. So, my lovely followers, as we enter the new year I urge you to step outside the box. Live life without fear, and love with reckless abandon. We only get one shot at this...let's make it worthwhile. Happy 2012!
~Abbs
With a new year comes the inevitable slew of New Year's resolutions, which got me thinking. The majority of New Year's resolutions involve health and personal happiness. Eating better, exercising, and generally living in a healthier manner are on many people's to-do list at the start of a new year. And even though as endurance athletes many of these things are already ingrained in our lives, there are certainly things we can do better. We can train harder, refine our diets, or chase a new PR. More broadly, we can adjust our attitudes and vow to become happier, more positive, and more flexible. But what, exactly, does making an "official" resolution accomplish? For many people, having a set goal to work towards at the beginning of a new year is helpful and motivating. I, however, believe that we shouldn't need a New Year's resolution to live our lives in the best manner possible. Instead of making New Year's resolutions, we should make a promise every day to be the best we can be--whether it's athletically, professionally, or personally. After all, excellence isn't just a once-a-year pursuit...it's a daily attitude, a choice. Many people "chase" happiness or satisfaction and believe that if they were to just accomplish a certain goal, they would achieve peace and self-fulfillment. In my opinion, this is part of the appeal of New Year's resolutions: they provide a starting point for such a chase. However, I believe that happiness is not something to pursue, but a decision we make every day. Will we constantly be looking for something to fill the void within us, or will we do the best we can with what we've been given? The choice is ultimately ours.
Over the course of a year, many things can happen. As I look back on 2011, I personally remember a year of cementing strong friendships, making amazing memories, learning some hard lessons, pushing through difficulties, establishing new relationships, and saying goodbye. Some of these things have been bitter, others sweet. Overall, though, there's not a thing I would change. We're never really done finding out who we are. All of life is a journey of self-discovery, and I'm entering 2012 determined to continue experiencing life to the fullest without any regrets. Fear is irrelevant. The big wave surfer Laird Hamilton once said, "I don't want to not live because of my fear of what could happen," and it's become a mantra I try to live by. So, my lovely followers, as we enter the new year I urge you to step outside the box. Live life without fear, and love with reckless abandon. We only get one shot at this...let's make it worthwhile. Happy 2012!
~Abbs
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)