This race almost didn't happen for me. After a morning of craziness, though, I finished with a smile on my face and another reminder of what really matters both in this sport and in life. Sometimes it takes utter chaos to find clarity or a kick in the ass to see the truth. Lately I've had a little bit of both.
For many of us on the TriGator team, the Clermont Challenge constituted our first race of the spring season, and I think most of us were very eager to dust the cobwebs off of our racing shoes. However, my excitement for this race was slightly dampened by a sore ankle I developed after Gasparilla and the realization that my training leading up to the race would be subpar because of my lack of bike training lately. As I packed my things to head home for spring break, I wasn't even sure I'd be racing. I hadn't run in almost a week because of my ankle pain and wasn't sure if it would hold up in a race. However, I was excited to see my family and have a little time to relax, so I made peace with the possibility that I might not race. As the race fell at the end of spring break, I decided to reassess my ankle's condition towards the end of the week and make a decision then about whether or not to race. When I ran that Friday it was a little stiff, but the majority of the pain was gone. I decided to go for it.
Kacy and I had come up with a plan before break for the best way to get ourselves and our bikes to the race (since we both would be coming from home). Because I don't have a bike rack and wanted to use my trunk space to bring my surfboard home, she agreed to bring my bike home with her and keep it at her house until the day before the race. I would then drive up to her house and stay the night, reducing the drive I'd have to make on race morning. This all proceeded according to plan, and we left her house this morning ready to roll. I made sure to follow her closely, because she has a smartphone with GPS and I'd never come into Clermont from the south before. Still, I had a rough idea of the route and was surprised when she exited I-4 earlier than I'd anticipated. Sleepy, I didn't react quickly enough and missed the exit. When I called her, she said the GPS had re-routed her. I was worried that we were separated, but the next exit wasn't close. I decided to stick with the original route and call a friend of mine I knew was in the area for specifics when I needed them. Kacy and I would both get there around the same time, I figured.
Except...we didn't. Lake Louisa State Park turned out to be right off the road I was already on, and it was easy enough for me to find. However, Kacy's GPS took her to the entire other side of the park. When I arrived, I only had about 15 minutes until transition was set to close. (We definitely underestimated the driving time.) I set up all of my gear and called Kacy to see if she was close to arriving at the park with our bikes. Unfortunately, she was still lost on dirt roads on the wrong side of the park. It began to look like racing wouldn't happen for either of us. However, I tried to keep my head and thought, This race has been a crapshoot from the beginning. Until they start the race, there's still a shot we can make it. I went up to the transition manager and explained the situation. Amazingly, she was completely understanding and let me hang out in transition even after it closed to wait for my bike. Finally, through detailed directions given to Kacy from our teammates, she was on the right track and close to arriving. My friend Danny, who was in town photographing both the previous day's ITU race and this race, started running out to the parking lot to help her with the bikes. I waited as long as I possibly could until I had to go to the swim start. "Rack my bike when it comes!" I yelled to Danny (this was possible because of a gap in the transition fence, and the awesomeness of the transition manager.) I sprinted to the swim start, wetsuit hanging over my shoulder, just in time for the playing of the national anthem. "Help me get in this!!" I yelled to my teammates, breaking up the peace of what was probably supposed to be a serious moment. Oops. Together, they yanked me into my wetsuit, and I put my goggles on just in time for the horn. She missed the start, I thought with a pang of worry as I dove into the water. As I exited the swim, toes numb, I thought, I wonder if my bike ever made it to transition. I ran into transition to see that my friends had come through for me and that my bike was racked and ready.
Filled with adrenaline from the morning's madness and warmth toward my friends and teammates for helping me so much, I powered through the bike leg and made it through the run without ankle pain. Honestly, it was the most fun I've had during a race in a long time. Somehow, being underprepared for this race ceased to concern me. No, I didn't have the most stellar run leg ever. But I still turned in a solid performance, coming in 5th overall in the women's race and finishing as the 2nd FCTC female. That isn't what really matters, though. If it weren't for the kindness and friendship of so many people, this race never would have happened for me. For the understanding transition manager, who allowed my bike to come into transition long after it closed. For Kacy, who did everything she could to bring my bike to me despite realizing she would miss the start herself. For Danny, who routed me to the race site and racked my bike for me. For my teammates, who tugged and pulled me into my wetsuit at the last minute and provided optimism in the face of my hurried efforts to get ready. Yes, triathlon can sometimes be a selfish sport. It's easy to think winning and performing well are the only things that matter. Today, though, I was again reminded of all the other reasons why I do this sport. For almost every race, situation, or person that has ever hurt me or disappointed me, there has also been an encouraging experience or someone to remind me I that will always have people in my corner. And those are the things that really matter.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Monday, February 25, 2013
Gasparilla
Yesterday I thought for the first time of giving it all up. Training, racing, running, triathlon--everything. How can one race prompt such a drastic reconsideration of a whole lifestyle? It wasn't just Gasparilla. Yesterday was just a reaffirmation of thoughts I've been having off-and-on for quite some time now. They aren't old thoughts, I've just managed to push them aside most of the time. However, they've never made me consider quitting before. I'm still here, though. So without any more beating around the bush, here's the story of yesterday.
I'm not sure exactly what motivated me to want to run the Gasparilla half. I guess I'd been wanting to crack my 1:38 half marathon PR for a while now, considering it's two years old. I got back into training pretty quickly after the hiatus I took during winter break and started to feel pretty fit. I decided that I could probably be ready to take a shot at my PR by the end of February, so I signed up for the race. Training went pretty well, and I definitely put in more long runs than when I trained for the Five Points of Life half marathon two years ago. I did get derailed for a week by a really nasty sickness, but managed to mostly get over it without losing all my fitness. Finally race week arrived and I really rested towards the end of the week. It worried me somewhat that I didn't sleep very well the night before the night before (if that makes any sense). I never sleep well the night before any race, so the day before that becomes especially crucial for me. I brushed it off, though, and we headed down to Tampa for packet pick-up and the expo. After picking up our packets and managing not to buy everything at the expo, we finally made it to my brother's house and crashed for the night. The wake-up call came way too soon, of course, and we ate and jogged our way to the starting line with about 20 minutes to spare. I found the 1:35 pace group and hung out with them, waiting for the horn to send us off. I could feel the humidity hanging in the air. In Gainesville, it's been fairly cold lately and many of my training runs had been in tights up until this point. Yesterday, I raced in shorts and a sports bra and was sweating at the starting line. Finally, the race began.
We went out quickly, splitting the first two miles in 14:20. In hindsight, I know I shouldn't have started with the 1:35 pace group. I do better when I start slower in longer races and settle into pace. Still, I was hanging on so I stuck beside the pacer. Suddenly, I heard the familiar sound of my laces hitting the pavement. I know those shoes come untied often; it's happened to me during many training runs. I had meant to triple-knot them before this race started, but nerves and adrenaline got the best of me and I forgot. Shit, shit, shit, I thought. I sprinted ahead and bent down to tie the shoe. The pace group passed, and they were about 15-20 meters ahead of me by the time I was done fixing it. I dashed ahead to catch up. I could feel that the effort to get ahead and then catch back up hadn't done me any favors, and my breathing started to spike. By mile 4 I could feel the humidity driving up my heart rate and was soaked in sweat; by mile 5 I could see the pace group slipping away. I looked down and saw that my other shoe had come untied. Screw it, I thought. I've already lost them. I bent down to tie the shoe and soldiered on. I started to feel progressively worse, and around miles 6-7, my left metatarsalphalangeal joint started to kill me (big toe joint for all the non-physiology majors). I do have chronic problems with it, but it usually doesn't hurt me when I race. That's when I knew it was going to be a long haul to the finish. I slugged it out the last 6 miles and finished in a disappointing 1:44:45.
Later, the negative thoughts started to cross my mind. Why do I put so much effort into this when I'm only getting out mediocre results? I can probably count on one hand the number of races I'm actually proud of. I'm not cut out for this. I've been chronically overestimating myself. I have no talent. I should just give this all up; my body doesn't even like that I do this. How many times am I gonna say, "It wasn't my day?" Maybe it's never going to be. I mulled this all over on the ride home and well into the evening.
What I came up with is that I probably couldn't leave this, even if I tried. Competing is ingrained in me, but beyond that, I've always felt that endurance training itself makes me better. It teaches me to be tough, to work hard, to plan, and to execute. It has been the source of my best friendships and fondest memories. By giving it up I wouldn't just lose everyone I care about, I'd also lose part of myself. I'll admit that I'm still feeling some of the negativity. I'm still doubting myself. And maybe that's the problem. I'm always at my worst when I hesitate. Perhaps many things would go better for me if I just went for them and didn't think about them so much. Maybe Gasparilla would have gone better if I ditched the pace group and marched to the beat of my own drummer. I don't know for sure. All I know is long after the soreness fades from my legs, the sting will linger. And maybe, just maybe, it'll be the kick in the ass I need.
I'm not sure exactly what motivated me to want to run the Gasparilla half. I guess I'd been wanting to crack my 1:38 half marathon PR for a while now, considering it's two years old. I got back into training pretty quickly after the hiatus I took during winter break and started to feel pretty fit. I decided that I could probably be ready to take a shot at my PR by the end of February, so I signed up for the race. Training went pretty well, and I definitely put in more long runs than when I trained for the Five Points of Life half marathon two years ago. I did get derailed for a week by a really nasty sickness, but managed to mostly get over it without losing all my fitness. Finally race week arrived and I really rested towards the end of the week. It worried me somewhat that I didn't sleep very well the night before the night before (if that makes any sense). I never sleep well the night before any race, so the day before that becomes especially crucial for me. I brushed it off, though, and we headed down to Tampa for packet pick-up and the expo. After picking up our packets and managing not to buy everything at the expo, we finally made it to my brother's house and crashed for the night. The wake-up call came way too soon, of course, and we ate and jogged our way to the starting line with about 20 minutes to spare. I found the 1:35 pace group and hung out with them, waiting for the horn to send us off. I could feel the humidity hanging in the air. In Gainesville, it's been fairly cold lately and many of my training runs had been in tights up until this point. Yesterday, I raced in shorts and a sports bra and was sweating at the starting line. Finally, the race began.
We went out quickly, splitting the first two miles in 14:20. In hindsight, I know I shouldn't have started with the 1:35 pace group. I do better when I start slower in longer races and settle into pace. Still, I was hanging on so I stuck beside the pacer. Suddenly, I heard the familiar sound of my laces hitting the pavement. I know those shoes come untied often; it's happened to me during many training runs. I had meant to triple-knot them before this race started, but nerves and adrenaline got the best of me and I forgot. Shit, shit, shit, I thought. I sprinted ahead and bent down to tie the shoe. The pace group passed, and they were about 15-20 meters ahead of me by the time I was done fixing it. I dashed ahead to catch up. I could feel that the effort to get ahead and then catch back up hadn't done me any favors, and my breathing started to spike. By mile 4 I could feel the humidity driving up my heart rate and was soaked in sweat; by mile 5 I could see the pace group slipping away. I looked down and saw that my other shoe had come untied. Screw it, I thought. I've already lost them. I bent down to tie the shoe and soldiered on. I started to feel progressively worse, and around miles 6-7, my left metatarsalphalangeal joint started to kill me (big toe joint for all the non-physiology majors). I do have chronic problems with it, but it usually doesn't hurt me when I race. That's when I knew it was going to be a long haul to the finish. I slugged it out the last 6 miles and finished in a disappointing 1:44:45.
Later, the negative thoughts started to cross my mind. Why do I put so much effort into this when I'm only getting out mediocre results? I can probably count on one hand the number of races I'm actually proud of. I'm not cut out for this. I've been chronically overestimating myself. I have no talent. I should just give this all up; my body doesn't even like that I do this. How many times am I gonna say, "It wasn't my day?" Maybe it's never going to be. I mulled this all over on the ride home and well into the evening.
What I came up with is that I probably couldn't leave this, even if I tried. Competing is ingrained in me, but beyond that, I've always felt that endurance training itself makes me better. It teaches me to be tough, to work hard, to plan, and to execute. It has been the source of my best friendships and fondest memories. By giving it up I wouldn't just lose everyone I care about, I'd also lose part of myself. I'll admit that I'm still feeling some of the negativity. I'm still doubting myself. And maybe that's the problem. I'm always at my worst when I hesitate. Perhaps many things would go better for me if I just went for them and didn't think about them so much. Maybe Gasparilla would have gone better if I ditched the pace group and marched to the beat of my own drummer. I don't know for sure. All I know is long after the soreness fades from my legs, the sting will linger. And maybe, just maybe, it'll be the kick in the ass I need.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
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."
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."
Monday, October 8, 2012
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!
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, 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.
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