Not The Time For That.
When you're facing down a brutal headwind in the middle of a ride, getting pelted by cold rain and random debris, it's probably not the best time to make decisions about quitting the sport. Chances are you're going to opt for the couch and a life of glorious obesity 123.2% of the time.
And yet, there I was, making decisions. I decided that I wasn't going to race this year. Maybe ever again. Maybe I'd line up and mentor the lower groups, but I wasn't going to race anymore. I'd had enough. The injuries were too much. I was too fat. My fitness was nowhere it should have been. I don't trust certain riders in a pack setting, and I'm not fast enough to get away from them. I didn't have the mental focus required to train anymore. The list of reasons not to race was impressive, and the reasons to race paled in comparison.
Yeah, you could say my motivation was at a low ebb.
I started to mentally inventory my stockpile of race-specific gear and the best ways to dispose of it. Maybe I could keep that thing, in case I change my mind and besides, it's not worth much anyway these days. That other thing still has value, so off-loading it as soon as possible is the most prudent move. Imagine how much room I could make in the garage without race-specific gear taking up all of the available space. I had it all figured out. I was done.
Plenty of my contemporaries disappeared over the years, whittled down for various reasons. I can look at the list of guys I raced with ten years ago and maybe one or two of them are still active to any degree. Seriously, why can't I follow their example?
When I was done with the ride, I half-expected the idea to dissipate in the post-ride endorphin rush. Problem was, there was no rush, just a persistent ache that pleaded with me to stop this nonsense. The chill from the rain soaked in as my muscles cooled. I drove home with the heater on high, leaning into the vent.
When I got home, I showered and took my daughter to the Mighty Mites banquet. Basically this was a giant pizza party at a local theater, with over a hundred young children running around with their ski buddies while the adults look on and drink. Actually, it was a lot of fun. I sat in my corner booth and watched the kids interact with each other, chattering about everything under the sun. A few young girls took it upon themselves to torment me, returning the favor I had bestowed upon them all winter long. I handed out some awards and watched the video presentation of the season, and slowly the negative feelings from the ride drifted away. Maybe it was the beer.
I thought about it this way- what if I made similar decisions about skiing in the early parts of December, when the snow coverage is thin, the weather is often miserable, the world is dark, and I can't arc a clean turn to save my life? Maybe that boy over there would not have skied the North Face for the first time, then begged to do it again. Maybe I wouldn't have spent countless chairlift rides with that girl, trading silly, childish insults until I earned the nickname "Princess Diaper Baby." Yeah, I guess I'll take that one. I've been called far worse.
If I quit when everything was less than perfect, I wouldn't have seen the growth in confidence and ability in my young charges, and that's the best part of it all. As I tell their parents, we're a race program, but I'm not interested in making racers. I'm interested in building life-long skiers. The way to do that is to find the fun. Maybe it's in a race course. Maybe it's on some scary-steep slope. Maybe it's 20 feet from where you're standing at a given moment. Point is, you have to go out and find the fun, because it's out there somewhere on the mountain.
So, instead of selling all of my race gear, I have to find the fun. For me, that may mean I back off the racing a bit. Every ride doesn't have to push the Training Peaks squiggly lines upwards towards something. It can just be a ride. Maybe I skip a race I would have previously done. If I don't feel like it, maybe I shouldn't feel obligated to line up. Maybe I just go for a long ride instead, and not have that expectation weighing me down. Maybe I weld downtube shifters on all of my bikes, wrap the handlebars in leather bar tape, and lovingly admire the elegance that is a well-executed quill stem...
Yeah, that's taking it a bit too far. I'm still me, although maybe being a little less me would be a good change of pace.
So instead of selling all of the race gear and throwing myself fully into all that is Rivendell, I'll just kit up and go see if I can find some fun. I'm pretty sure it's out there.
I just have to look for it.
And yet, there I was, making decisions. I decided that I wasn't going to race this year. Maybe ever again. Maybe I'd line up and mentor the lower groups, but I wasn't going to race anymore. I'd had enough. The injuries were too much. I was too fat. My fitness was nowhere it should have been. I don't trust certain riders in a pack setting, and I'm not fast enough to get away from them. I didn't have the mental focus required to train anymore. The list of reasons not to race was impressive, and the reasons to race paled in comparison.
Yeah, you could say my motivation was at a low ebb.
I started to mentally inventory my stockpile of race-specific gear and the best ways to dispose of it. Maybe I could keep that thing, in case I change my mind and besides, it's not worth much anyway these days. That other thing still has value, so off-loading it as soon as possible is the most prudent move. Imagine how much room I could make in the garage without race-specific gear taking up all of the available space. I had it all figured out. I was done.
Plenty of my contemporaries disappeared over the years, whittled down for various reasons. I can look at the list of guys I raced with ten years ago and maybe one or two of them are still active to any degree. Seriously, why can't I follow their example?
When I was done with the ride, I half-expected the idea to dissipate in the post-ride endorphin rush. Problem was, there was no rush, just a persistent ache that pleaded with me to stop this nonsense. The chill from the rain soaked in as my muscles cooled. I drove home with the heater on high, leaning into the vent.
When I got home, I showered and took my daughter to the Mighty Mites banquet. Basically this was a giant pizza party at a local theater, with over a hundred young children running around with their ski buddies while the adults look on and drink. Actually, it was a lot of fun. I sat in my corner booth and watched the kids interact with each other, chattering about everything under the sun. A few young girls took it upon themselves to torment me, returning the favor I had bestowed upon them all winter long. I handed out some awards and watched the video presentation of the season, and slowly the negative feelings from the ride drifted away. Maybe it was the beer.
I thought about it this way- what if I made similar decisions about skiing in the early parts of December, when the snow coverage is thin, the weather is often miserable, the world is dark, and I can't arc a clean turn to save my life? Maybe that boy over there would not have skied the North Face for the first time, then begged to do it again. Maybe I wouldn't have spent countless chairlift rides with that girl, trading silly, childish insults until I earned the nickname "Princess Diaper Baby." Yeah, I guess I'll take that one. I've been called far worse.
If I quit when everything was less than perfect, I wouldn't have seen the growth in confidence and ability in my young charges, and that's the best part of it all. As I tell their parents, we're a race program, but I'm not interested in making racers. I'm interested in building life-long skiers. The way to do that is to find the fun. Maybe it's in a race course. Maybe it's on some scary-steep slope. Maybe it's 20 feet from where you're standing at a given moment. Point is, you have to go out and find the fun, because it's out there somewhere on the mountain.
So, instead of selling all of my race gear, I have to find the fun. For me, that may mean I back off the racing a bit. Every ride doesn't have to push the Training Peaks squiggly lines upwards towards something. It can just be a ride. Maybe I skip a race I would have previously done. If I don't feel like it, maybe I shouldn't feel obligated to line up. Maybe I just go for a long ride instead, and not have that expectation weighing me down. Maybe I weld downtube shifters on all of my bikes, wrap the handlebars in leather bar tape, and lovingly admire the elegance that is a well-executed quill stem...
Yeah, that's taking it a bit too far. I'm still me, although maybe being a little less me would be a good change of pace.
So instead of selling all of the race gear and throwing myself fully into all that is Rivendell, I'll just kit up and go see if I can find some fun. I'm pretty sure it's out there.
I just have to look for it.
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