This is an article on Velonews from elite cyclocrosser Barry Wicks about one of his motorpacing sessions. It helps shed some light on the mindset of an athlete dedicated to the pursuit of excellence, and it reminds me of a conversation I once had early in my triathlon career that inspired a very critical element of my training . It was the summer of 2006 and we were spending a few days at professional triathlete Matt Seeley's cabin in Washington. This was right in the middle of a summer-long campaign which saw friend and coach Elliot Bassett and I attack the triathlon scene in Canada and the Pacific Northwest, racing on almost every weekend for 2 months as we lived and traveled in a suburban with our camping and racing gear. For those people not familiar with Montana Triathlon lore, Matt Seeley was one of the original members of the infamous Team Stampede, which included the likes of olympic gold medalist backstroker David Berkoff, the ever eccentric Todd Struckman, John Hartpence, Ted Zderic, Chuck Dumke, and others. He's also known for some great Ironman races, particularly at Coeur d'Alene. Almost every year the group shoots for a reunion race and a few days of hanging out. Probably because I was a fairly green triathlete at the time, I was paying close attention to all the triathlon banter, and I will probably always remember John Hartpence's conclusion about his racing season, saying, "I need to remind myself to suffer more. I definitely avoided suffering too much this season. I've never been able to race fast if I don't 'teach' myself to suffer in workouts." Of course I don't really think I understood what he meant at the time, and for people not trying to make a living by training their body to undergo intense physical distress for hours at a time I'm sure this seems at least mildly counterintuitive, but it's really the path to success. Even Lance Armstrong said, "what makes a great endurance athlete is the ability to absorb potenial embarrassment, and to suffer without complaint. I was discovering that if it was a matter of gritting my teeth, not caring how it looked, and outlasting everybody else, I won. It didn't seem to matter what sport it was--in a straight-ahead, long-distance race, I could beat anybody. If it was a suffer-fest, I was good at it." So, the text in its entirety below:
Barry Wicks: Learning to Suffer
The wheel in front of me twitches and pulses with enormous energy as it tries desperately to pull away from my gasping breaths. My legs ache, the pain beginning deep, unbelievably deep, slowly creeping up through the layers of my consciousness, finally reaching the threshold where my struggle to ignore it is overcome and it comes gushing out in great spasms. I steel myself and try to absorb the agony, become one with the sensation, find the zen in it. The road begins to flatten out, the pace eases ever so imperceptibly, and the screaming in my muscles goes down half an octave, I inhale violently, grabbing an extra ounce of air, exhale the burned up gases from my lungs and relish in my victory. This is a suffering I bring on myself. The motivations lie somewhere in my ego and desires to prove myself. The time to question my motives is not now. The road begins its inevitable trip back towards the Cruz and I have to go deep inside once again to slay the dragon. The workout finishes and I sputter out a cool down, muscles throbbing and ticking like a hot jet engine after a long flight. Straining to gain back a feeling and function of familiarity as the waves of lactic acid and whatever else I unleashed on them begins to drain away. My brain begins the process of rationalizing what it just did to my muscles and after short complaints, the euphoria pours in, and my legs quickly forgive and forget. How easily they are fooled into complacency as the wash of endorphins flood down from my brain into my body. How quick to think that this cruel head will never again subject them to such a beating. Such blind faith is rewarded with another bout and another, over and over again, beating the memory into them, as they begin to accept what it is they must do. The pilot of my pain is a 110 pound woman astride a suped up motor scooter. Who knew such a beautiful creature could cause so much agony and find such glee in causing this suffering? Her carefree smile and the angelic note of her voice is betrayed by a devilish gleam in her eyes as I race up next to her and begin another effort. She has no sympathy for my plight, no thought of reducing my suffering, even though it is by her delicate throttle hand that I live or perish, suffer or recover, succeed or fail.
But, then again, I have brought this upon myself in my quest for greatness. This quest she understands and is just as committed to as I, executing my torture I have asked of her. Would it not be greater and nobler if not self-directed and orchestrated, reaching for a higher ground or purpose through suffering. I could have just as easily stayed in bed, warm and comfortable under the sheets as the blazing orange sun rose above the fog, happy and content to doze off in bliss while the day began. Instead, something drove me out of that cocoon of comfort, into my slippery cold bike clothes and out onto that road and into that pain. That driving force, the thing that gives me so much pain, so much pleasure, and for which all things are ultimately done, is none other than love. Love of my bike, love of my being, love of my life, it is all about the love.
And now I'm headed out for a ride.
1 comment:
My guess is that most people, myself included, have no real reference point for the type of suffering you're talking about -- it's cool to read about it though.
I have some friends who are trying to talk me into training for a half-marathon, so maybe I'll understand soon enough :)
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