Post Race Blues

If you have followed me for a while, or know me in real life, then you will already know that I love doing hard things. There is nothing I like more than pushing my boundaries and taking on something a bit crazy, and it gets even better if there is a long training programme attached, with months of turning up and doing the work before I get anywhere near the start line.

Unfortunately for me, this always ends up with me trying to break my body, or my mind, or both. That is the version of hard I find most attractive. I give myself stupid targets and then relish the pain and discomfort they bring with them. Relishing in the time I can disappear into myself and keep going through pain, tiredness and pretty much anything else that gets thrown at me. I love the pain cave, and I will stay in it long past the point I probably should stop, repeating my mantra over and over to myself. “I love this, this is me, what a privilege it is to be able to do this to myself, you paid for this, this is when it counts, you're on the finish line”. It goes on like that for hours.

Thoughts of my family fill my mind while I am in there, Determined to get back to them waiting at the finish. Memories of Lucie crying her eyes out but still pushing her body to simply stand up. James shaking with fear but still walking into an MMA gym full of savages, as that was what he had decided he wanted to do. My wife, just keeping going, looking after all of us and caring about everybody around her. None of them get a choice in what they take on, whereas I choose to do this stupid thing. My part is easy.

A couple of weeks ago I completed my first 70.3, sometimes called a half Ironman, and ever since I have been filled with post-race blues. I get this to some extent after every event, but this time more so because I didn't really struggle. It was no harder than I anticipated, I knew I was going to finish, barring a mechanical failure of my bike or myself, and I was more than likely going to come in inside my season closing aim of under 6 hours. I did, 5:35 for the win.

Don't get me wrong, it was hard work. Exercising for more than five hours is hard any way you look at it, and my body is still really tired even now, but it didn't push me anywhere near as hard as I thought it would. You could argue that I should have pushed harder and gone faster, but I honestly don't think that is the point, and I don't think I could have found much more anyway. A few minutes at most, as my limiting factor was muscular endurance, having only recently taken up triathlon, and no amount of wanting it changes that. The disappointment comes from a different place. I wasn't pushed to my limit, so I still don't know where it is, and I still haven't found the point where I can't carry on. So it's on to racing a full season of 70.3’s next year (6 of them), 12 to 14 hour training weeks all the way through the winter, and we will see where that gets me.

Don’t get me wrong, I am immensely proud of myself, I couldn't even really swim in May this year, but I am dreading what's coming too. Trying to find the edge of me is proving harder than I though.