I have been writing here some time now. And to regress on occasion is healthy for the soul. That being said, I don’t participate in the aforementioned activity with much frequency. Perhaps one, or two times per year. That is all.
But when someone literally addresses you, straightly and without chance for response or reason, it bears a heavy weight. When one chooses to recollect over one’s past accomplishments, the means within which they were achieved, and the ideals that shaped those events, it almost mandates that one take a retrospective approach.
I am acutely aware, that the Kant’s, Augustine’s, and Hegel’s of the endurance world, detest training without goals, absent of direction, and void of specificity. They proclaim that every athlete should have a goal, a plan, and a perceived level of exertion.
They maintain that each runner should know his marathon pace, and it should be exhibited on the even days of a ten day cycle, and that following said exhibition, one ought to consume none other than a four – to – one carbohydrate to protein ratio recovery product, composed of a largely unknown vendor, to the like of Cytomax, Accelerade, or PowerBar. Joe Public doesn’t know of these corporations.
I know of them. I received their samples, I try their product, I get enticing coupons. And frankly, I prefer chocolate milk.
A few years back, I had the opportunity based on the results of a local race to be sponsored by the company than manufactures my bicycle. I would have to place within the top ten of my age group at least 3 times per year, and race five times. They provided me with local discounts, on services in chiropractic, active release, dietary analysis, V02 max and caloric expenditure graphs. I would have to wear their clothing, drink from their bottle, and ride their bicycle. I declined.
There always is the question before me, why do I train. Is it something personal. Is there something I am targeting specifically. It is it some dark secret that I myself don’t know. I know of the satisfaction I receive from meeting other people who share my passion. I know of the imprudence I’ve displayed, and God knows I’ve gone through hell and back to mitigate it.
Additionally, I’ve noticed something in the last week: I don’t know any triathletes, (personally), whom are my age. My Tri-club is largely based out of people whom are 35 and above. I know several runners, marathoners, and the like. But I know of no triathletes, whom I would even call an aquaintance.
When I go to races, I see people my age. When I see my fellows at transition area, 2 hours before the cannon goes off, I see something which transcends me. To label these individuals as hardcore is a gross understatement. They are the most time managed, organized, thought out, and particular athletes of the modern world.
Those around me, outside of multi-sport, view me as addictive. Antiquated. Stubborn. Concrete sequential. To a large extent, these are truisms. They have composed of empirical data, which the validity therein I do not contest.
But I also have a side which is utterly chaotic. It has no purpose, no direction. The spontaneity of this side is like an antelope running down a muddy slope to an unknown end. The animal just goes. It doesn’t reason, it moves through space because it was bred to do this. It isn’t concerned with its hydration, with its last meal, the oxygen quality, or even whether its running on concrete or soft trails. It moves because it can, and because it was engineered to do so.
I’ve long believed, that training, absent of races, goals or time numbers, is the purest and most certain channel to manifest happiness. I’ve raced, I’ve time trialed, I’ve PR’d, and I’ve failed.
I’ve been set back, pushed forward, declined to change, and done things which were utterly imprudent.
I’ve given up Saturday nights, Mexican foods, caffeinated beverages, and late nights looking at this machine. I have given up more than I can aptly characterize here. None of which, was a sacrifice.
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