This Sunday I will attempt to run 40 miles. I use
the word “attempt” because I’m not sure if I’m going to succeed. But I’m sure
as hell going to try. I mean, it’s really just one step in front of another for
an extended period of time. It’s technically a race, but I won’t be racing. I’m
just there to finish, to prove to myself that I can do it. Then why not just go run 40 miles, you might be thinking, why pay to enter a competition? I
suppose I could, but I really like the aid stations (I won’t have to carry my
own water or food); and the idea that if something does go wrong, somebody will
come looking for me. When you get into the big miles, that’s what you’re really
paying for. But why even do it in the first place? I mean, who in their right
mind would even consider running forty consecutive miles? I’ve been asking
myself that same question lately, and I suppose that’s why I’m writing this
essay to begin with: to find the answer.
I’ve
always been a competitive person. I’m pretty sure I was born that way.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s a curse. I truly envy people who are content with simply
engaging in an activity without caring about the outcome. Myself, I want to
win. And I want to win badly. I don’t know why. I’m not sure any competitive
person really does. It’s just something engrained in our psyche. And it can
certainly have its benefits. But unfortunately, for the vast majority of us, there
will always be much more heartbreak than triumph. As I grow older (and wiser?)
I’ve begun to think more about my life as a competitor and whether there is a
way to find comfort in a contest without the desire to win.
I
can’t really remember a time in my life when I haven’t felt the need to
compete. As a young child, I played baseball. In middle school and high school,
I was on the wrestling team. In college, and for a few years after, I played rugby.
I remember my last game—I said I was done competing for good. After twenty
years of organized sports, I had had enough. I bought a bicycle and rode it
from New York to Oregon, hoping that the journey would somehow destroy whatever
gene in my body that was causing this urge to compete. But it wasn’t long before
I was settled into Oregon that I started competing again. This time it was
bicycle racing, and “obsessed” would be a fair word to describe my approach to
the sport. But after several years of competing, I eventually realized that I was
nowhere near the head of the pack. And never would be. There’s nothing worse
for a competitor than to admit that you just don’t have what it takes to win.
I
slowly faded bicycle racing out of my life and returned to one of my earliest
loves—running. Which brings us to October of 2016. It was my birthday and I was
competing in a 10k. I wanted to win badly. I had never won a 10k before and
thought it would be a nice birthday present to myself. So I ran hard. Too hard.
I thought someone was nipping at my heels during the finish and ran the last
mile faster than I had ever run a mile before. I was the first across the
finish line, but I injured myself in the process. My back went out and I would
be out of commission for about a month afterwards. The first two weeks it was a
struggle just to move. And all I could think was: Why? Why did I need to win
that stupid race so badly? What was I trying to prove and to who? Nobody would have
cared if I took second, or third, or even if I came in last. What was the
point?
I
still don’t have a definitive answer. I’m sure it has something to do with evolution
and that whole “survival of the fittest” bullshit. But I do know that I need to
lose this ultracompetitive trait before I do something really stupid. Before I
injure myself beyond repair. And so, I’ve started running really long
distances. I still like the idea of competing, but I also like knowing that I
won’t ever win. At least not on the results page. At this point in my life,
winning is simply finishing. This weekend it’s forty miles. Later this summer,
I hope to make it fifty, and then sixty by the end of the year. I’m not
concerned with what place I finish, or my time, or my pace. I just want to run
further than I’ve ever run before. I suppose it’s really just a different way
of competing, but at least now I’m only competing with myself. I really like
the idea of that, because after all, it’s just one foot in front of the other for
an extended period of time.
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