Takin' away some takeaways

I have done my last race for 2017.  So, what wisdom has been gained?  What lessons have we learned here at My Training Blog by Elmore?

To begin to answer that question, I'll share an experience from a previous life.  I had been a decent high school distance runner, but not a great one, and now, as a college sophomore, I'd been training hard hoping to achieve mere respectability among Division I competition.  I was at the Mason Dixon Games, an annual indoor meet in Louisville's Broadbent Arena.  I was entered in the 3000-meter run, for which there would be two heats: a "fast" heat and a "slow" heat.  My previous PR was just barely fast enough for me to be put in the "fast" heat.  I was scared.  I didn't think I was going to beat anybody.  My heart pounded as I warmed up and timidly stepped up to the starting line alongside maybe twenty other guys.  As we embarked on 15 laps of a 200-meter track I hung near the back of the pack, cautiously gauging my body's response to the quick pace.  After about four laps it was finally sinking in that I felt pretty good, and when I heard my coach shout "Go by him, Elmore!" I surged past the guy in front of me.  After collecting myself for a few moments I realized I was still feeling good, and I surged past another guy.  My confidence growing, I began to overtake more guys on each straight while tucking to the inside of each curve.  The race went on, and I kept passing people, and then it was over before I'd even realized it.  I had no idea what place I'd finished because the field had strung out all around the 200-meter track, but then I saw my coach (actually a graduate assistant who'd been working closely with me) walking toward me in a state of utter giddiness.  He told me I'd finished sixth, and showed me his watch.  My time was 8 minutes, 52 seconds--more than 40 seconds faster than I'd ever run a 3000 before.

For the next couple of weeks I basked in the glow of my achievement.  There was buzz all around the team about how I'd "taken it to the next level."  I wouldn't say I let it go to my head--I knew I had to keep working hard if I wanted to keep performing so well--but I was feeling pretty special just the same.  But I'd get sort of a harsh reality check at my next race, an indoor 2-mile up at Cincinnati.  I had none of the "pep" I'd had in Louisville, and felt flat from start to finish.  My time was 10:02.  Two miles is about 3219 meters, and so my equivalent 3000-meter time would have been 9:25 or thereabouts.

I was bummed out, but my coach reminded me that bad races happen to everybody and that I'd bounce back soon enough.  And he was right.  Unfortunately, neither one of us could foresee what was to come: a week or two later I was doing a set of 400-meter intervals and felt an awful surge of pain in my upper left leg.  It turned out I had a severe case of iliotibial band syndrome, a fairly common overuse injury for runners.  The intensity of training I'd been doing was more than my body was ready for, and this was the price.  I was unable to run at all for the next three or four months, and when I finally did start running again I couldn't build any kind of base because the injury kept threatening to return.  I'd end up spending the next half-dozen years dealing with one nagging ailment or another, and trying and failing to regain the form of that evening in Louisville.  Eventually I shelved my running career and redirected my energy into canoe and kayak racing.

The main point I'm trying to make in sharing this story is that moments of glory are fleeting.  You spend all these hours training.  You're careful to make sure you're getting enough rest and eating good food.  You pay close attention to your technique and your mechanics to maximize your quality of performance and minimize your chances of injury.  Then, finally, you go out and accomplish something truly special.  And then it's over, and unless you're in a sport with millions of fans and lots of media attention, nobody will even remember it but you.  And there's no guarantee you'll ever do something as impressive again.

So why does anybody even bother?  Well, I suppose everybody who participates in any sport has his own reason.  But I believe that the people who achieve sustained success--and by "success" I mean not only winning major medals or titles but also simply sticking with it for decades like I've done as a paddler--derive deep fulfillment from the process.  They enjoy the everyday routine: the workouts, the technique, the intellectual challenges, the solitude, the camaraderie with other athletes.

While sparing you the whole sob story, I'll just say that this past year or so hasn't been the easiest in my out-of-the-boat life.  There have been some things going on that have brought me more than my share of stress and grief.  I think that's helped me appreciate the ritual of going down to the river more than ever.  Rarely this year have I not felt better after paddling than I'd felt before.  I've enjoyed working on my mechanics, trying to make each stroke a little better than the previous one.  I've enjoyed paddling hard pieces and getting my heart rate up.  I've enjoyed cruising along and watching the turtles and the birds and the fish and the beavers.  I've enjoyed the beautiful calm sunny days and the days of not-so-ideal weather.  I've enjoyed communing with the mighty Mississippi River in all its many moods over its broad range of water levels.

And I've enjoyed mostly good health this year.  There were certainly aches and pains here and there, but not once did I have to miss a training session because of a physical ailment.

It all added up to my best competitive season in at least several years.  I even had a race reminiscent of that 3000-meter race in Louisville all those years ago: at our race here at Memphis in June, everything just seemed to fall into place and I felt fantastic even as I was paddling as hard as I could. Good performances continued for the rest of the summer.

And that brings me back to the main point.  Competitive success is fleeting.  Peak form can last only so long.  I want to believe I'll achieve it again next year, and the next year, and the next, but there's no guarantee of that.  And so, I continue to savor the process.  Every time I am physically able to get in a boat and paddle it is a precious gift, and I've got to remember that.

Right now I'm enjoying another nice gift: a bit of time off.  Believe it or not there are some positive things in my out-of-the-boat life too, and I'm looking forward to spending a bit more time with those.

Thanks for reading all this, and thanks to everybody who's said nice things about this blog.  Nothing makes me happier than knowing that other people might be getting some benefit from this stuff I scribble out on my computer keyboard.