Crap! Three months of training down the drain. It’s Thursday, the race is Saturday. I have rested all week and I’m enjoying lunch with friends. I get up from the table to wash the dishes and then owwwwwww. Something goes wrong deep inside my hip. Crap and double crap. What am I supposed to do now?
Here’s the thing: this race is important to me because I’m planning, upon arrival at the finish line, on slaying the Dragon of Time and Performance. Him and me. That’s right! I’m tired of obsessing about my race times. Tired of asking myself to be a gazelle when it’s obvious I’m just a fine moose. Racing has lately become an exercise in disappointment and embarrassment. Enough. I’d love to be able to afford the caviar of sportsmanship and camaraderie all the time but I must mostly live off the steak and potatoes of improvement. Training is hard. There are rainy days, cold days, miserable runs, ecstatic ones but overall it requires effort, discipline and time that could be equally well spent painting toenails and drinking cappuccinos with buddies.
Friday morning comes. No great improvement in my hip. Crap and triple crap.
To race or not to race… The next race is in three months. Risking deeper injury consciously is unequivocally regarded as stupid but see, here’s the thing: last week I asked the Universe to help me have a fun race. I really wanted to stop all that time nonsense and celebrate again, in a race, my inability to quit anything. I also wanted to be surrounded by people who share the same frightening tenacity. This is the answer I get: an inflamed hip…
Of course I’m sorely tempted to call God’s Department of Complaints, Incomprehensible Signs and Strangely Answered requests. The line is busy. Figures.
It’s Friday night. The hip still hurts. Fine, let’s get the drugs.
Advil please, Two will do for now thank you.
Saturday. Race day. I wake up early. I’m excited enough to have a hard time eating my breakfast. Well, well, well. Whaddiyaknow. There’s still a spark of life in that corpse. I’m thinking about my elf and reindeer team who will join me at the race. It’s the Santa Shuffle you see. Hundreds of people around the world will be racing today for the Salvation Army wearing, you guessed it, Santa costumes.
Red pants. Check. Santa hat. Check. Health insurance card if things go very wrong. Check. Advil after I return from the race… Check. I gingerly limp out of the house and get to the race site. There’s two inches of pure ice everywhere. We’re given the choice to run a smaller loop that is considered ‘safer’. I choose to loop once and finish in 16:13. The hip feels fine. I decide not to push it. I use the last loop to wait for my teammates and take pictures of everyone finishing with beautiful red Santa cheeks.
People start finishing the two loops. I still feel my gut twist when I see them finish their 4.4K in 20 minutes… on 2 inches of ice. I still yearn so bad to be one of them. Still think deeeep in my heart that I have what it takes to do it and yet… It’s not just about training diligently. If it were, I’d be running 4 minute miles. There’s a little thing involved called talent and …dare I say it, age. And so I’ll keep running in my gentle moose way, enjoying the company and the scenery. After all, I still have a triathlon to prepare for. Never mind if I end up with the police car in my back. Getting to the starting line is always a victory in itself.
Here’s the thing: this race is important to me because I’m planning, upon arrival at the finish line, on slaying the Dragon of Time and Performance. Him and me. That’s right! I’m tired of obsessing about my race times. Tired of asking myself to be a gazelle when it’s obvious I’m just a fine moose. Racing has lately become an exercise in disappointment and embarrassment. Enough. I’d love to be able to afford the caviar of sportsmanship and camaraderie all the time but I must mostly live off the steak and potatoes of improvement. Training is hard. There are rainy days, cold days, miserable runs, ecstatic ones but overall it requires effort, discipline and time that could be equally well spent painting toenails and drinking cappuccinos with buddies.
Friday morning comes. No great improvement in my hip. Crap and triple crap.
To race or not to race… The next race is in three months. Risking deeper injury consciously is unequivocally regarded as stupid but see, here’s the thing: last week I asked the Universe to help me have a fun race. I really wanted to stop all that time nonsense and celebrate again, in a race, my inability to quit anything. I also wanted to be surrounded by people who share the same frightening tenacity. This is the answer I get: an inflamed hip…
Of course I’m sorely tempted to call God’s Department of Complaints, Incomprehensible Signs and Strangely Answered requests. The line is busy. Figures.
It’s Friday night. The hip still hurts. Fine, let’s get the drugs.
Advil please, Two will do for now thank you.
Saturday. Race day. I wake up early. I’m excited enough to have a hard time eating my breakfast. Well, well, well. Whaddiyaknow. There’s still a spark of life in that corpse. I’m thinking about my elf and reindeer team who will join me at the race. It’s the Santa Shuffle you see. Hundreds of people around the world will be racing today for the Salvation Army wearing, you guessed it, Santa costumes.
Red pants. Check. Santa hat. Check. Health insurance card if things go very wrong. Check. Advil after I return from the race… Check. I gingerly limp out of the house and get to the race site. There’s two inches of pure ice everywhere. We’re given the choice to run a smaller loop that is considered ‘safer’. I choose to loop once and finish in 16:13. The hip feels fine. I decide not to push it. I use the last loop to wait for my teammates and take pictures of everyone finishing with beautiful red Santa cheeks.
People start finishing the two loops. I still feel my gut twist when I see them finish their 4.4K in 20 minutes… on 2 inches of ice. I still yearn so bad to be one of them. Still think deeeep in my heart that I have what it takes to do it and yet… It’s not just about training diligently. If it were, I’d be running 4 minute miles. There’s a little thing involved called talent and …dare I say it, age. And so I’ll keep running in my gentle moose way, enjoying the company and the scenery. After all, I still have a triathlon to prepare for. Never mind if I end up with the police car in my back. Getting to the starting line is always a victory in itself.
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