Illusion
By Alison Colavecchia
4.8.03 (www.slowtwitch.com)

I did not make it to my first scheduled race for this year. It was not a priority in the grand-scheme of things. My second race (running), the Around the Bay 30k in Hamilton, Ontario, on March 30th, was different though. In my mind's eye this race date was a beacon, a starting line of hope and a reason to keep heading out the door in my running shoes. I did my best to get the kids and myself to the starting line. Alas, my training had been neither voluminous nor consistent; my light at the end of the tunnel was looking a lot more like a train.

As race day approached, I really thought I was down for the count, that the miles I had in me simply weren’t enough. I compared my training volume of this year to last and knew I was exceedingly shy of where I thought I should be. I wasn’t so sure about my mental toughness either. Could I stay “on” for 30 kilometers? I accepted my fate for this first race of the year—a slow, painful and humiliating death spread out tortuously over 30km in front of thousands. I anticipated the "wall." Indeed I thought slamming into it was inevitable. "But maybe that was what I needed," I reasoned. Maybe doing so would be a testament to all the suffering and struggles of the last while. In a warped kind of way, I welcomed the race and the suffering as vindication—as the body of evidence that would show unequivocally that a year of racing was not in my cards; would demonstrate that I simply couldn’t on so many fronts.

I was wrong.

One of my favourite Emerson quotes comes from his essay entitled “Illusion." In it he says, "We do not know today whether we are busy or idle. In times when we thought ourselves indolent, we have afterwards discovered that much was accomplished and much was begun in us." I love this quote. For I know it to be true. I have at times thought myself to be slacking off only to find that during this "down" time a new idea was hatched that set other things into motion, set me into motion. On a slightly different version of the same principle, there have been times when I thought that this moment was the joy pinnacle; it was inconceivable that another moment could be any more exquisite. Then a better one came. So too have there been times when I thought I was truly suffering, that things couldn’t possibly get any worse, that I couldn’t cry any harder or struggle any more. Then whammo—it happens. What I understood to be suffering in one moment was properly and thoroughly eclipsed by the next. Indeed I could suffer more greatly, handle much more, and cry harder.

These lessons in illusion are equally true in my sporting life. Just when I have thought that I couldn’t possibly be any more tired I have been struck by a new wave of exhaustion that overshadows the last. I have gone to bed thinking my legs could not possibly be any more sore, only to awaken the next morning to legs that were screaming louder and were more reluctant to straighten let alone hit the floor. I have wished for the mere discomfort of the day before. A couple of times now I have found myself running quickly (for me) not doubting for a moment that I couldn’t go any harder or faster, only to find that somehow I do. Such was my experience at the Around the Bay.

I warned everyone that this race might not be pretty, that the miles were just not in my legs the way they should be for a race of this length. Having finished last year in 3:14, I estimated I would be done in three-and-a-half to four hours. Secretly though I wished that all the stars be properly aligned and that destiny take over. If this race thing was truly meant to be, I figured my legs would be there. Without telling anyone, I decided I would shoot for an improvement over last year.

I grossly underestimated the size of the crowd. I found myself too far in front and worked very hard to maintain my race pace as all those around me blazed out. Sucked up as though I had never learned this lesson, I went out too fast. I anticipated paying later. At the 15km mark I was a good 5 minutes up on my race plan. I was still steady. My legs were in "go mode." I was so incredibly grateful. I decided to go for it. What would it hurt to try for my 3-hour race goal? I had nothing to lose. I wasn’t really supposed to be running with this crowd anyway. I hit the hills and walked a little spot here and there. My legs started to tighten up. I repeated over and over, "Enjoy this moment, it’s only discomfort now, it could be worse." I graciously accepted a banana from a two-year-old and stuck to my tried and true Gatorade/water routine. I hadn’t had so much as a sip of Gatorade since the marathon in October. The taste was welcome and familiar.

Surviving all the hills and still steady, I was above all incredulous. I approached the finish line—the time flashing before me 2:59:26! Despite the fatigue, I motored. I now wanted that 3-hour finish more than anything. I had survived. That light at the end of the tunnel wasn’t a train after-all! I had evidence to suggest that I could carry on and not abandon the year's plan. The kids and my mom missed me as I ran through the chute; I was too far ahead of schedule. I found them. We were all delighted. "Mommy can talk," they squealed—the true evidence of a good race. My final chip time of 2:58 was a full 16 minutes faster than last year. Go figure.

So what did I learn (my perennial question)? Think you weren’t accomplishing anything during that "down" time? You were wrong. Think you can work this hard and no harder? Wrong again. Think you can do this much and no more? Don’t be fooled. The present moment is just an illusion; it will in the next be put into proper perspective. Just hang on long enough for the next moment to come and you might just be pleasantly surprised.

No longer fooled and still in the race.

Still Tri’n