The fear of failing is real. It’s a silent threat, not heard but only felt like a storm you quietly but intensely sense. Many of us shy away when faced with fears. Fear of failure is malicious and can take over your dreams. The slackers are usually quick to sneer and judge. They note the failing strenght of man and welcome it with mockery, but there is something deep inside that scoffers fail to see. They don’t recognise the clever deed the failure tries to accomplish. They will never know the grim dangers the bold adventurer meets. They never seek a better way or chase a perilous plan. They never risk a breakdown to advance as athletes or even as humans. They stand where all is safe and certain, so they never face a challenge head on. I don’t mind being stamped with the failure’s brand. I would rather be a failure than the man who’s never tried. I would rather seek the mountian-top than always stand aside. Winning isn’t everything, but wanting to win is.
Failure is a great teacher. It is not fatal, but it can wound self-esteem and ego deeply. For me, the fear of failing came with a pressure that helped me train, perform better and reach perfection. My perfection. The anxiety linked to failure has always been the element that pushed me to put in more effort and focus. I studied and trialled many new avenues to get the advantage on my competition over the years. The issue is that it can become a problem when your search for that perfect race becomes an obsession and you cannot stop thinking about it. It is hard to be in the moment and enjoy a race when you always look ahead to find what you can do next to improve to find the winning edge.
Winning at all cost
Hitting big at any cost. Does anyone ever remember who came second? Always better to win than being first loser. I pursued a gold medal as if it were real gold. It meant more than anything to me to stand on that top step, not because I wanted to be rich, but because I had learned from my dad that whatever we do, it is about winning.
To me, winning makes all the sacrifice worth it. The path to success is gruelling and mean, so there’s always a price to pay. You have to compromise if you want gold to hang from your neck. Bigger goal tag means a higher price to pay. There aren’t any shortcuts to winning. The terms and conditions are simple and must be met: you have to work harder than anyone else.
Tyche demands honesty, not guile. She sees it all, won’t allow fools and cheaters. She knows that to achieve, you need the burning desire that winners will accept at any cost. If compromised, your pride is lost because results will never come. If bargained with, the contract is nullified, and a colossal mountain of guilt will haunt you for rest of your life. Success will be born from your own creation but watch the path you take as there’s a lot at stake. Walk the less travelled path to success, be different, take risks and trial the impossible. Push the limits, but most importantly, give it your very best on a daily basis. That is the straightforward formula to join the winners’ club.
My style of racing feels like meditation in motion and often releases a multitude of orchestral sounds like my pounding steps, snot rockets and heavy breathing. An elevated cadence driven by a dangerously raised heartbeat, lungs screaming, legs burning, head spinning, lactic acid brewing in the stomach, taste of blood in the mouth, teeth grinding, mind playing tricks and trying to slow the body down. I love it all. I never let my body tell me what to do. My mind is always boss. ‘Mind over body’ has always been my motto while racing. When I race hard, I go into a state of trance and become numb to the pain.
Racing hard is not for the faint-hearted. The effort has sometimes been so violent that my mouth filled with a sticky bile that resembled the energy gel I had just choked on. Sometimes my mouth was so dry and my jaw so locked up from pain that it stopped me from saying even one word. You also don’t take toilet stops when you want to win; you just release in your tri suit.
The pain in races sounds like a booming rhythmic drum to me, but the spectators only hear wet foot slaps and grunts. Racing hard means dealing with cramps so pronounced that they seize your entire body. Muscles so stiff that they feel torn. A back almost paralysed by the stabbing pain. Blisters so severe that the skin falls off your feet. When I get close to passing out, my cadence no longer matches my breathing rhythm and the technique drops as well. This makes me look like a malfunctioning marionette, and it is all but the harmonised concert you witness when the pros perform.