That is a lot of racing.
What a year 2013 has been. I’ve checked a lot of boxes this year, for times and distances and weights. I got under my time goals for my 5k and half marathon, completed 6 hour races on both my road bike and my mountain bike, hit my PR goals for overhead press and deadlift, completed a road century and a dirt metric century, and dropped my bodyweight to the lowest it’s been since 2005. I raced and competed in a half dozen different disciplines, including some that were new for me this season, and have recently jumped into two new sports.
In the grind of an individual race, in the singular focus of 100% effort, it’s easy to lose sight of the big picture. For me as a racer, I can get so tunneled in on how a certain race went, or even how a certain portion went, that I forget how far I’ve come, and all I’ve accomplished so far. I’m a competitor. I always want to get better, and so I spend most of my time working on the areas that I need to improve. But it’s important to have perspective as well, and that’s why I hold on to all this stuff.
All the bibs and medals I accumulate through the year might not mean much for a lot of racers. Many of them will toss this stuff as soon as the race is over, unless it’s something really special. But I keep every one. I like to be able to look at them and remember each event, the trials they represented, the training that led up to them, and the triumph of bringing them to the finish. Sure, bibs only mean participation, and most of my medals are just for finishing, although there are a few podiums in there.
But it’s more than a pile of cheap ribbon, wrinkled paper and imitation metals, to me. It’s the physical representation of the thousands of miles of training. The gallons of sweat. The searing legs and heaving chest. The stinging trickle of blood. The hope, the despair, the rage, the pain, and the euphoria. It isn’t just the things I’ve done, it’s what those things have done to me, and for me. The bright flash of memories so vivid that I can still taste the salt and hear my heart pounding in my ears. It is the exhibit of what I’ve worked to become. It is the detritus of my newfound identity.
All of this will hang on the wall with the relics of other seasons past. I’ll pass by it most days without pause, but it will never fail to serve as a reminder of what I’ve done, and a catalyst to go out, work hard, and get more.