The Asterisk

I raced my second triathlon at the weekend, except it wasn't one. The Outlaw Sprint in Nottingham had the swim cancelled because of algae in the lake, which is just one of the joys of outdoor swimming, so the day became a duathlon instead. A 1.6km run, a 20km bike and a 5km run.

Standing in my wave before the start I spotted a few people that looked around my age and decided they were my target. Not because I thought I would come anywhere, but pacing myself against people in their mid twenties is pointless and would probably get me in trouble, so I wanted a rough idea of where I could finish against people whose knees are the same age as mine.

It worked better than I had any right to expect. I came off the first run around them, and I knew I was in front after the bike. Then about 1.5km into the second run I was passed, and had to dig deep to run him down and get back past. I had a really great chat with Kris afterwards and it turns out we both enjoyed being pushed. Having someone to chase dragged a new 5km PB out of me, a little over 21 minutes, and I was absolutely delighted with that run. If the day had ended there I would have gone home happy.

Then I read the results and found out I had won the 40-44 category, and instead of enjoying it I started looking for excuses. It was a reduced field. The swim was cancelled, and I suck at swimming, so of course I placed better without it. It helps that I am old, and maybe nobody fast turned up in my bracket. On and on, one excuse after another, all inside about thirty seconds of reading my own name.

I did this last month too. After Dambuster I wrote about wanting to put an asterisk next to the result, and I assumed the feeling would settle down once the novelty wore off. It hasn't. If anything it's louder, because this time I can't lean on beginner's luck as the explanation. I am seemingly incapable of accepting that I put in the effort and deserved it. The excuses come far easier than the credit does.

Apparently this is common enough to have a name and a pile of research behind it. Imposter syndrome is rife among athletes, and reading about it is a strange experience because every line sounds like something I have said to myself in the last few days. Knowing what it's called hasn't switched it off though. The voice doesn't much care what the literature says.

The honest truth is I won't be winning anything at the middle distance races, and certainly not at the Ironman waiting further down the road, so days like Saturday are not going to come around very often. The sensible thing is to suck it up and enjoy this one while it's here. My mind won't let me yet. Kris pushed me to a PB, the clock says what it says, and I'm still out here trying to hand my win over to the algae.