Down the years I’ve done my fair whack of races. Some have taken place in the evening, some at midday, some all bloody day and night for goodness’ sake. The vast majority however, have been early starts at the weekend. I have always assumed this is so there’s minimal disturbance to the infrastructure and population, and to guarantee maximum recovery time before the pubs close.
I don’t really suffer from pre-race nerves anymore but sometimes I get a brief moment before the start where I question what I’m doing there, and why I do any of this at all. Sometimes with this thinking comes a feeling that I can only draw similarities to a feeling I sometimes had at school when, ironically, I didn’t want to go because we had PE. It’s a kind of doubt-filled vulnerability that tries to persuade me to go back to the car and go home. Not an inner voice telling me I’m rubbish or anything like that, or a negative thread convincing me I won’t finish the race, it’s more a small part of my inner self encouraging me that being in my comfort zone would be better. More often than not, it’s when I know that what I’m about to do is going to hurt. It’s not just in this scenario that it appears. It pops up in other areas of my life too but we won’t delve into that at this moment in time.
One of the funny side effects of this feeling is seeing people milling about who aren’t taking part in the race. They’re supporting someone, or just watching, and they’re wearing a ridiculously comfortable-looking padded jacket, carrying a takeaway coffee, oozing every drop of I’m-in-my-comfort-zone-and-you’ve-got-to-run-a-half-marathon from their very pores. I’ve written at length about comfort zones and what they’re good – and not good – for, and wobbling about more comfortable than Baron Comfortable von Comforterhoffen of the Comfortable Comforters is not my style. But in that moment, with that feeling, with everything ahead of me – I feel jealous. Why don’t I give it all up and have lie-ins? Why don’t I just do one race a year? It was warm in bed. And so on and so forth.
The answer is simple and not surprising.
It’s who I am and it keeps me pushing myself. It’s vitally important. As I lurch forward in age and as, like everything else, I don’t seem to be getting any younger, I need to fight against the constant waves of comfort and keep doing what I’m doing. We all do. For me, it’s running and a few other things that make me slightly uncomfortable at times but are worth doing for the feelings they exude and the long-term benefits for only a brief few minutes of haggling with my other self. For others, it might be something completely different. For the bloke I saw standing in his front garden in his dressing gown holding a mug of tea on Sunday morning as I strode past with 2000 other half marathoners, being up and about at 9 am at the weekend might be his big victory over the chilly whisper of Lord Comfy. Who knows.
I don’t think I’ll end up regretting any of it. There’s not much in life that’s as satisfying as the feeling of achievement when you didn’t want to do it at all. Besides, mincing about holding a takeaway coffee isn’t my remit. No rant about that, I promise. That’ll be for another time, you lucky sods.
My Outdoor Living Room 