Why Do I Do This To Myself?

A thing I've been puzzled about for many years is what motivates us to to do things that make us uncomfortable. Make ME uncomfortable. I've been at it for a long time now.

At the dawn of the 70s running boom, I was drawn to the notion of covering long distances rapidly on foot. The image of the gaunt yet elegant Frank Shorter blasting through the streets of Montreal against Valdemar Cierpinski in the Olympic marathon was burned into my memory banks. I wanted that, somehow, and began to explore the limits of my own capabilities.

Injuries after 5 or 6 years of running long distances on a big frame (6'2" and 170 at my lightest- bone thin at my size but still not the 5'9"/135 of the best runners) forced me into triathlon (an event I loathed) and from there into bike racing. I was a licensed bike racer for much of the middle 80s, but then had to back out with the growth of my family and my practice.

I found swimming, the sport of my youth, and was fortunate to be coached for many years by the great Jerry Heidenreich, Mark Spitz' most fearsome competitor. Jerry's main focus for ALL his Master's swimmers was competition, no matter the age, fitness or skill level. He organized all workouts, and the entire year around swim meets. By the time I found Jerry,in the last days of the 80s, I had been involved in competition at my highest attainable levels for many years, and so I embraced this philosophy without thinking.

Going to swim meets again, willingly, as an adult was one of the most invigorating, or should I say, re-invigorating experiences I'd had in some time, as I'd been out of competition of any kind for several years.

I had always noticed that the period approaching an event was marked with a certain kind of anxious anticipation that was quite unpleasant. And yet, once the event, whatever it was, began, the anxiety would dissolve. Each time I would enter some new event, I experienced the anxiety all over again. I can truly say that I hate that feeling, and yet I do it to myself again and again.

Here is the crux: Why?

I swam competitively for nearly 21 years. In my best events, I was nearly always in place 1, 2, or 3, and nationally at the bottom of the top third, occasionally scraping near a Top 10 time without actually getting there. Before every meet, I would be almost unbearably anxious. And yet I signed up for every meet I could get to, rarely missing a one. I went to Regional championships every year from 1990 through 2010, and went to Nationals three times. I would often think that I would be much more comfortable just swimming for fitness and recreation, and letting the meets go. But each time I gave that serious thought, I would recognize the loss of something bigger. It just seemed that something crucial would go out of life, something I had to have, no matter how uncomfortable it made me.

In April of last year, I went to my 21rst Regionals in a row. At that meet, I phoned in every race, thought about nothing but driving home, and could not wait to leave. Burnout had arrived in full force. It had been coming in varying doses for years, ever since the death of Jerry Heidenreich in April 2002. Now it was on me full force, not to be denied.

I have not been in a pool since then. I have been riding a bike, farther and faster every week and every month since last April. I have that renewed sense of vigor and anticipation of starting over at the beginning of something. I have been reconfiguring my body, losing almost 30 pounds in the last 6 months. To top it off, I've taken out my first bike racing license since, I think, 1987. My racing age for this year will be 60. Yes, I really did write that number.

And yet it seems like the best thing I could possibly do with the arrival of that year. My first race will be Saturday, January 22nd, in Central Texas, a 55 mile road race. I will be in the lowest category of rider, Cat 5b, which is fine with me. My goal will be to finish upright. As I type this, my heart accelerates and my toes tingle. Why do I do this to myself?

For me, I think it is because of what I have just written. To commit to what causes those feelings, to go into that unknown place and find out what's there, and to return to tell about it. I don't think I write any new insight here in saying that in the Race, I find life boiled down to its basic elements and I engage in them fully, discomfort and all. I push back against that in me that would quit, that would sit comfortably on the couch and be an observer of life rather than a participant.

I readily admit there is nothing new being said here, and yet I feel compelled to say it. I go into the Race in order to be in a dark place that only I can find my way out of, and when that job is done for the day, I can rest, knowing that for that day, I did not back down.