It Clicked

I woke up this morning ready to put my cycling shoes on for the first time in over a month.  The impracticality of bringing my bike home plus a nasty sickness I contracted at the end of break were the main causes of my extended hiatus, and although the rest was nice, I've been antsy to get back on my bike and start building a riding base.  Not only that, but I recently upgraded my rusted old mountain bike pedals to a set more appropriate to my fancy little Specialized Transition: Speed Play Light Action pedals.  I was excited to see if these pedals were really as nice as I'd heard.  However, as Kacy and I left our apartment this morning and headed to the meeting spot at our local bike shop, I discovered that I was having problems clipping in.

No big deal, I thought.  It's not going to be exactly the same, but it's just a fine adjustment to a movement you learned two years ago.  Turns out I couldn't quite nail that "fine adjustment."  I tried sliding the cleat in, growing more and more frustrated by the second.  I stomped down on my pedals, hoping the force would help the cleat lock into the pedal.  No luck.  Grumbling and swearing, I decided to just ride over to the bike shop not clipped in and see if anybody could help me once we arrived.   Though it was somewhat awkward-feeling, I made it.  There was a slight problem, though.  Nobody showed up to the planned ride.  Whether it was due to our lateness, poor turnout, or people participating in a local century ride, I'm not sure.  We spent a few minutes fiddling with my pedals and shoes, trying to figure out the best way to make it work.  Finally, frustrated and out of options, I decided to throw in the towel.  "I'll just ride home and take it back here when the shop opens and they can help me figure it out," I told Kacy.

I started back home, thoroughly disgusted with the unproductive nature of the morning.  I was getting ready to turn on the road leading to our apartment complex when I heard it.  CLICK! As I leaned into the turn, the slight pressure I subconsciously applied to my toe turned out to be just the right amount to get the cleat to lock into place.  I started to laugh.  Right at the moment when I was sure I couldn't figure it out, literally and figuratively it just "clicked."  It struck me that not just in cycling but also in life, inspiration can come from the strangest places.  I am very guilty sometimes of letting frustration turn me inside out.  In fact, most of the anger and sadness I've experienced in my life comes not directly from events themselves, but my inability to understand them.  I like things to make sense.  It's why my field of study is in the sciences and also why I like endurance sports, where most things can be measured and planned.  However, I (and many others, I'm sure) would do well to take a lesson from my bike pedals.  Sometimes life will be frustrating.  Often things won't make sense.  It might seem like a lot of effort is put in sometimes for small results.  The key, I'm learning, is to realize that you can't make things make sense.  You just have to keep on moving forward and putting the effort in.  When the time is right, and sometimes when you least expect it...things will just "click."  You know how it's supposed to feel and simply have to trust that it will happen.  It takes patience, it takes time, and it usually takes an insight you wouldn't have had if the going was easy.  So whether it's a physics problem, a new job, dating, or training for a challenging race, the thing to remember is not to let frustration beat you down.  Smile in the face of challenges, be open to thinking of problems in new ways, and enjoy the life that you have. Only then will you hear it--the sound of things falling into place.

And that bike ride? I soon figured out the right amount of pressure to apply at the toe and got the other foot in.  I decided that now that I had the cleats locked in, there was no reason not to ride.  I spent a few minutes making sure I could comfortably get in and out of my pedals, and headed to the bike trail to enjoy the morning.  It was a gorgeous morning, too.  The air was fresh and the birds were chirping and as I paused by the Paynes Prairie overlook on my way back, I thought, I might not understand everything, but life is good.

Goodbyes

I hate goodbyes.  I've never been particularly good at them.  Then again, I don't really know if anyone actually possesses that talent. I only know I always end up standing there, with no tears when tears would certainly be appropriate, feeling like my heart is splintering.  Yet they are a part of life.  Change, beginnings, and endings are often inevitable.  But when people start to become a main focus in your life, you often find that goodbye becomes hard to deal with.

Of course, there are many different types of goodbye.  There are the temporary goodbyes, the long-term goodbyes, the necessary goodbyes, and the unnecessary goodbyes.  There are those in which two people become separated by physical distance, and those in which somebody simply chooses to walk out of your life.  While some of these are certainly more frustrating than others, they all share a common thread: somebody who used to be a frequent visitor in your life now turns up less often.  In a way, goodbye can be a good thing.  It can show you who's willing to stick it out to remain a part of your life--and who's not.  Sometimes this isn't the most pleasant realization.  We all spend a finite period on this planet, and time is often a more valuable currency than dollars and change.  After all, you can earn back money, but you can't ever turn back the clock.  Spending time on someone who doesn't really think you matter is the biggest waste of all.

As I say "goodbye" to 2012, sometimes I'm not sure if I've learned anything at all.  Sometimes I think that all I can take away from it is that life is weird and unpredictable.  But then I remember that trying to make sense out of such a chaotic world can be nearly impossible.  There are a couple of things I do know.  I know that this year has changed me in some ways, but it has also shown me more of who I am.  I have a direction I want to go with my life, and though I'm far from perfect I'm okay with the person I'm becoming.

And the goodbyes I've had to say? I am stubborn and blindly loyal, and some part of me never truly believes in goodbye.  Some might call it stupid or naive, but there's not much that could ever shake my belief in love, loyalty, and friendship.  The Beatles put it this way: "You say goodbye, and I say hello." For better or for worse, I will always be the girl that says "hello."

Doing Battle

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.