“The only absolute knowledge attainable by man is that life is meaningless.”

― Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace.

As a swimmer in high school, I prided myself on a number of things. One was having white hair that could break combs. Another was having “the hardest” practices.  The actual practice was not that fun. No, the joy came in being able to tell other people how hard the practice was. There’s a technique to it. You can’t just outright tell them “Guess what I did tonight, 8x1000s, followed by 4×500, all out. Yup it’s pretty ridiculous. Normally it wouldn’t be so bad except for the monster set we had during our morning practice. Have I told you about that?”

No, that’s too obvious that we want to be recognized for suffering. The technique is to first be as lethargic as possible in everything I did (pretty easy since I really was tired). Then when somebody asks what’s up, you tell them, “Oh, practice was pretty brutal tonight.”

Now the proper response from the person questioning me is “Really, what did you do?” Then I would describe the workout in more length than they care for so they could truly understand how difficult each part was. If they correctly got the hint that I wanted praise for my suffering, they would say “Wow, that’s incredible!” Yes, I’m incredible.

I do remember one particular person who did not obey this format and through me quite off balance. Her response was “Why do you do that? It just seems so stupid.” I should have known better because this particular person was my girlfriend at the time, and had this innate ability to find things I did as being stupid. This point blank question of reason really short circuited my brain. So I did the best thing my malfunctioning brain could do – flippantly repeat the question “Why do I swim?!” as if she was the dumb one for bringing it up.

The truth was that my identity was tied to being a swimmer. If I wasn’t a swimmer then I really didn’t know what I was. I wasn’t prepared to handle the fact that I was just me and that swimming was something that I did. I couldn’t explain that I had to swim in order to continue being Mike the swimmer. If I stopped swimming, then Mike the swimmer would die and then what? Would it be Mike the LARP (live action role playing, of course) guy?

Burying my head through a 20,000 yard day of practice was easier than approaching this question of why. However, that is what becoming consciousness is. It is no longer accepting our preconceived notions of what is all important. It is accepting the possibility that we have been all wrong. It is also being ok that we may have been wrong before, may be wrong now, and may be wrong in the future.

People that actively question why they do anything sometimes are perceived as lazy or crazy. Lacking the understanding of why they try so hard at something, they may just quit and decide to chill instead. Or they may go deep into spiritual readings, prayer, meditation, and animal sacrifices (usually stepping on bugs during a long hike) to find an answer. Either way, if they take their heads out of the ground, they’re not likely to put them back in anytime soon.

We can spend our whole lives avoiding the question of why we do what we do. For an athlete, we often choose to focus on how to get faster instead of understanding why we want to in the first place. It is painful to accept the possibility that what we train so hard for may not have any greater purpose than enjoyment of the activity itself.

On the UCSB swim team it was common to have teammates quit so that they could go surf more. Back then I perceived quitting the team to be giving up. Now I understand that they were actually just waking up.

“Happiness is the meaning and purpose of life, the whole aim and end of human existence.”

-Aristotle, Nichomachean Ethics

In any racing type sport that I can think of, there is a plethora of information on how to get stronger, faster, and better. This information overflows in the form of books, magazine articles, websites, and spews forth from just about everyone involved in that sport. Sometimes they know what they’re talking about and sometimes they don’t, but they always are sure that they’re right. My problem is that I’m a sucker for new information, and gullible to confident sounding people. So after hearing this information, I try to incorporate everything they mention into everything I’m already doing in my training routine. After all, their program is supposed to be simple right? I just happen to forget that when I combine a lot of simple programs together, it makes one big not so simple program. So eventually I discard the stuff that I read about on the back of the Wheaties box, and feel “not good enough” because I must not be reaching my potential.

How does this happen? My performances are much better now than I was when I did my first triathlon, but the enjoyment has dissolved into this anxiety about having to be the absolute best.

These sports can be sort of like hard core drugs. The first hit is the best thing ever. The experience is so unique that we wonder why we never did it earlier. After the race we get a case of saying “Woww, man” a whole lot and laughing a lot at what anyone said, even if they might have been serious (“Dude I think I ruptured my Achilles…” “Ha Ha, yeah wasn’t that race awesome?!”).

Here is the dangerous part. We get this idea in our heads that if this first hit was so much fun, what about if we actually train for the race next time (granted, being reasonably in shape for a race is more fun than cramping part way through). What about if we get all the specialized equipment like Joe “the motor”? What if I start regularly reading blogs written by other obsessive compulsive  athletes (like this one)? In short we become greedy for more!

In our society this idea of more is better is pushed on us from a lot of angles. If you make more money, you’ll be happier. If you move up in the company, you’ll be happier. If you are a better athlete, you’ll be happier. Specifically, I don’t think sports themselves are the drug like I mentioned earlier. The highs we experience really are a lot of fun. It’s the idea that we’ll have more fun upon such and such condition (more money, faster car, better placing…) that’s really the killer.

Research in happiness economics has suggested that after we make a certain amount of income that our day to day happiness remains about constant. I posit that there is a similar condition with racing. Yes it is fun to be able to finish a race and still be “racing” at the end instead of performing an involuntary “Humpty Dance” due to muscle failure. However, after we reach a certain point, our fun diminishes. We make a mental shift from enjoying the experience to becoming obsessed with times and placement.

In that light, the purpose of this work is to investigate what makes racing truly great. In short, I am focusing on how to create the best experience possible instead of worrying so much about how fast we are (however, I believe that by focusing on the experience, we will perform very well as a side effect). We will address questions like:

What is the minimum number of age-group wins I need to optimize my happiness?

Can I still race fast with this hippy attitude of being happy?

I have a wife, five kids, and work 70 hour weeks, should I sign up for an Ironman?

Can I get along with that cocky guy that rubs it in my face every time he beats me?

What social situations are appropriate for spandex?

If you only want to become faster and already think this is sissy talk, I don’t blame you. I used to think the same way. I also used to beat my head against the wall with over-training, poor technique, relatively poor performances, injuries and anger management issues that weren’t super popular with the ladies.

If you’re willing to see new ways to approach the racing experience from the eyes of a reformed ego-driven triathlete (well in the process of being reformed anyway), then read on, and comment! I’m certainly not perfect and am open to learning as well.

Thanks for reading my first post!