For a great number of years, more than I care to count, I filled my down time with training. I was always training for some new grail: marathons, triathlons, adventure races, mud runs, and on. I wasn't a professional, so the hours couldn't always be justified and more than once led to a major-major-major fight with Callie. But training was my jam. I eventually gave up triathlon because it didn't really feel like my tribe. Adventure racing was a means to an end, launching my writing career and allowing me to learn what it felt like to succeed and fail on a very big endurance stage. Running is still with me, though my marathon days are happily over. I broke three hours, ran sub 3:02 several times, and even paced my brother-in-law to a 3:34 with just two days’ notice. But I was never happy running marathons. It was about achievement, not adventure, which is a hollow reason for undertaking any endeavor.
I can't remember the last time I trained for something. Maybe that midlife crisis long ago when I convinced myself I was capable of qualifying for the Olympic Trials. It got me very fit, but there was never a chance I was going to hit the qualifier even though I convinced myself that it would happen if I trained hard enough. It was a lie I told myself to find yet another reason to distract myself from connecting with the people I love — and who would be happy to love me if only I would hang around long enough to sit still and be with them.
But a friend asked recently if I was training for something. I tried to explain that I am happiest trying to be a better writer, and that my competitive demands are more than met by coaching young runners. He didn't get it. I felt like my explanation needed more explanation. It's hard to explain that I find enough accomplishment in the daily struggle to be kind to those around me. To not be judgmental. Or sarcastic. Or to wish ill upon those who have wronged me. Or pray for people I really don't like much at all. Or to just sit with my wife and talk, not allowing my subconscious the illicit thrill of being with her but not really listening to her, lost in a quiet mental distance brought on by scheming how many miles I can train the next morning. And how fast they will be. And the length of the rest interval.
Instead, after a couple weeks of thought, I came to the conclusion that I need to train for something.
WTF? Old habits, maybe. Training is an easy way to introduce discipline into a daily schedule. It's one thing to say I'm going to run every day, but it's quite another to literally need to run every day in order to achieve a goal.
I also think it's fear. The last year rocked me, and Covid added a kicker. I read a comment by a Benedictine nun the other day, something to the effect that there are some relationships we can't fix in life, but find their proper place in death. Made me think of my mom. She's growing on me, I'll tell you. A year after her death I honestly feel like I understand her for the first time ever.
I also find myself fighting that inner vulnerability battle with my wife, my kids, and my friends, trying to be transparent and real without the hiding place training provides. I am a solitary athlete, unwilling to run with others because I like the alone time. There is solace in those miles — and escape. But I'm starting to realize that escape means many things, and running away from people I love just because I am afraid of talking about the things that scare me or the still small needs that make me feel weak.
So am I training for something? I haven't figured it out yet. Went for a short run this morning. Just me and the trail. It was a good sweat. I was slow but did not judge myself. And when I was done, walking five minutes to flush before getting back into the car for the drive home, I wondered if there wasn't something I should be training for. Not Boston. Not New York. And I certainly wouldn't defile a trip to London or Berlin with the pre-marathon fidgets.
But something. What in the world is wrong with me?