Taking It Less Seriously.
The other night, as I waxed my daughter's skis for a Mighty Mite race, I reflected on how at one time this simple act was an obsessive ordeal. I used to take the tuning of skis very, very seriously. I dumped a lot of money into waxes, irons, files, guides, and all sorts of stuff nobody outside of the World Cup really needs. I spent hours upon hours honing edges until they were mirrors and would cut glass from across the street. At one time, my usual edge prep required the progressive use of eight different files and stones. Then came waxing, with all sorts of space age waxes and overlays designed to make them glide effortlessly. All of this was necessary, I told myself, to make myself as fast as possible on race day.
You know what? After all of that, I still sucked. A dog dragging its butt across the carpet was faster than I was in the gates, and that dog probably spent less time prepping than I did.
Eventually, I stopped caring. Waxing was something I did to protect the skis, not something I did to make myself go fast. As long as they glided reasonably well, I didn't sweat it. As long as the edges still bit into the ice relatively cleanly, I didn't care if I could see my reflection in one while shaving with the other.
I was probably just as fast with a basic wax job as I ever was with all of the crap I was doing. The problem wasn't the equipment, it was the operator. Eventually I took enough courses and clinics and all of that stuff to where my technique was pretty good, but the space between my ears was holding me back. Unlike Ricky Bobby in Talladega Nights (still can't believe the Academy overlooked it and I still can't help but watch it every time it comes on basic cable even though I have the DVD), I didn't want to go fast. I wanted complete control, and at a certain point control kills fast. Unfortunately, as Eleanor Roosevelt so eloquently put it, "America is all about speed, hot nasty bad-ass speed", and I was driving around with one foot on the brake and the steering wheel in a death grip.
So, I just let it go. Instead of seeing how fast I could go, I decided to see how much fun I could have. I still like going faster than the average skier, but I don't have to win. I don't even have to compete anymore. As long as I'm having fun, that's good enough. As long as my skis aren't holding me back from having fun, that's good enough. The latest/greatest/slickest/sharpest/whateverest skis aren't going to raise the fun quotient for me, but they are going to require more investment in time and money than I have to spare.
I'm slowly getting there with cycling as well. I know where I fit in the food chain, and no amount of integrated this or Kamm-tail that will bump me up any higher. Putting down the fork and training with dedication I don't possess might kick me up a notch or two, but eventually my love of pork fat and simple carbs will take that all away. Buying speed is becoming less and less interesting to me because, as with all sports, after a point the bang for your buck ratio just doesn't work anymore.
Am I having fun? Good enough.
You know what? After all of that, I still sucked. A dog dragging its butt across the carpet was faster than I was in the gates, and that dog probably spent less time prepping than I did.
Eventually, I stopped caring. Waxing was something I did to protect the skis, not something I did to make myself go fast. As long as they glided reasonably well, I didn't sweat it. As long as the edges still bit into the ice relatively cleanly, I didn't care if I could see my reflection in one while shaving with the other.
I was probably just as fast with a basic wax job as I ever was with all of the crap I was doing. The problem wasn't the equipment, it was the operator. Eventually I took enough courses and clinics and all of that stuff to where my technique was pretty good, but the space between my ears was holding me back. Unlike Ricky Bobby in Talladega Nights (still can't believe the Academy overlooked it and I still can't help but watch it every time it comes on basic cable even though I have the DVD), I didn't want to go fast. I wanted complete control, and at a certain point control kills fast. Unfortunately, as Eleanor Roosevelt so eloquently put it, "America is all about speed, hot nasty bad-ass speed", and I was driving around with one foot on the brake and the steering wheel in a death grip.
So, I just let it go. Instead of seeing how fast I could go, I decided to see how much fun I could have. I still like going faster than the average skier, but I don't have to win. I don't even have to compete anymore. As long as I'm having fun, that's good enough. As long as my skis aren't holding me back from having fun, that's good enough. The latest/greatest/slickest/sharpest/whateverest skis aren't going to raise the fun quotient for me, but they are going to require more investment in time and money than I have to spare.
I'm slowly getting there with cycling as well. I know where I fit in the food chain, and no amount of integrated this or Kamm-tail that will bump me up any higher. Putting down the fork and training with dedication I don't possess might kick me up a notch or two, but eventually my love of pork fat and simple carbs will take that all away. Buying speed is becoming less and less interesting to me because, as with all sports, after a point the bang for your buck ratio just doesn't work anymore.
Am I having fun? Good enough.
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