After the Glory

What happens when you can no longer be the fastest kid on the block?

I’ve been pinning numbers on, in some form, for over 30 years. I ran my first race as I high school freshman just trying to get in shape for hockey season. At thirteen, I wasn’t even big enough to be labeled a pipsqueak, so I thought that a little speed and endurance would be my best chance at not getting pounded into the ice by the upper-class gorillas.

I got my ass handed to me in that first cross-country race. However, I did manage to finish in front of a few other kids, and something inside seemed to click. I was mesmerized by the atmosphere of the whole experience: the rhythmic sound of 200 feet pounding up a grass hill, the smell of the decaying leaves in the woods, the clickety-clack of metal spikes on the short stretches of pavement. Mostly, though, it was the solitary feeling of something very difficult being undertaken. Everyone had the same look just before the gun—that downward gaze, the furtive glances, the occasional nervous yawns. This was hard, and it wasn’t for everyone.

Every single competitive event since then has had that same feeling—the fear, the adrenaline, the second guessing—it’s always there. Look at the faces of anyone on the starting line of any race. You don’t see a lot of confident smiles, even in the athletes that are setting world records or winning gold medals. Everyone has their own demons, their own doubts and fears, and their own motivations for pinning that number on.

So, how does that motivation evolve?

It is a bit of a cliché to say that it is all about pushing one’s own limits or the boundaries of what’s possible. If that were really the only motivating factor, your local 5K wouldn’t be as popular as it is. People would simply go out and run three miles by themselves and look for boundaries: they’re always easy to find, whether you’ve pinned on a number or not.

But we love to compare everything. “Am I the fastest in the office? On my block? In town? In the world?”

I have been asked many times, why I put myself through the suffering of a multi-day adventure race or the all-day hurt of Ironman. Why do I do it?

Easy…I want to see how close I am to the fastest kid on the playground.

It’s as simple as that. No hidden agenda. No body-image issues. I’m just ridiculously competitive.

But what happens when you clearly can’t be the fastest kid on the block? How do you stay motivated then?

All this was going through my head during the last few crushing miles of the Shut-In Ridge Trail Run. I found myself tracing the arc of my athletic life. I had run this same race as a 17 year-old high school kid years ago. In the interim years, I had managed some significantly better times and places in this particular event. Now, 25 years later, I was kind of right back where I started.

What was the motivation now? It was exactly the same as always. I felt the same fear and nervousness at the start. I felt the same camaraderie and sense of community with the other runners as we all contemplated the difficulty of the day. It’s still a race across the playground.

What does the next stage bring? I feel that I am part of a first generation of Everyman Athlete that has aged out of overall competitiveness. Prior to the 80s, athletic life basically ended with college sports. You got a job, settled down, started a family and became sedentary America.

Then came the Running Boom. It became cool to go out and stay fit. Along with that came road races—huge ones—where everyone got a shirt and a whole bunch of folks got prizes.

As more sports became available and mainstream, the weekend warrior was born. Then the weekend warrior got really good. You now have doctors that crush triathlons on the weekends and sales reps that are national champions—not in their former athletic lives, but at the same time. They drive to ballet recitals, soccer games, and doctor’s appointments, but they are still very talented and hyper competitive on race day.

So, where do I fall in this new age of over-the-hill over-achievers? Who knows? Who cares? It’s pretty fun just to be here. I find myself racing just as hard for 20th place as I did for first.

I realize now that the friendships made along the way are a lot more important than the results. Training is not simply a means to an end, but a huge part of the experience—and many times, it is the experience. I find that my competitive fires are still there, but they are moderated with a healthy dose of realism. I play with the kids on rainy days rather than suffer through another soggy ride. I appreciate the days more when everything goes right, but I am much more forgiving when the opposite is more often the case.

The life of the aging Everyman Athlete was summed up by my eight year old at a triathlon this past summer. I had just had a pretty good day and managed the overall win against a group of much younger guys. As I staggered a bit in the finish area, feeling the effects of the day, my son ran up and asked, “Did you win?”

“Yep.”

“Cool, Dad…..can we go swimming now?”

You gotta love perspective. •