I have been on the receiving end of a number of probing questions and insightful comments following my recent participation in the Ecomaratona delle Madonie:
"Why do you participate in races or marathons?"
"I guess there is a little bit more which is pushing you forward."
"Now I'm able to understand (at least) emotionally why you are so passionate about competing with yourself. Rationally I'm still struggling to imagine it. It's all about discovering your own limitations and than overbearing them, isn't it?"
In life, there often is a plethora of reasons behind decisions made or actions taken so I guess a fixation on endurance events is no exception. Some time spent on private brainstorming resulted in a number of ideas being scribbled on the whiteboard of my mind. Here follows the transcription.
Potato fighting. My quarrel is with a vegetable. Not the cucumbers, tomatoes or bean sprouts that caused such misery in Germany because of the E. Coli scare but the couch potato I could so easily become. It would be an effortless endeavour for me to just laze and snooze in the sun all day and when that goes down, to spend hours reading or watching movies or eating cake while people watching in a cafe. The battle against this potential mutation is long and hard and sportive flagellation is the best weapon I can wield.
Dad at Rome Olympics 1960
Dad's legacy. Over half a century ago, when Malta was still under British rule and the members of their armed forces stationed here offered stiff competition to the locals in the sporting field, my dad was one of the leading cyclists on the island. The culmination of his career was when he represented Malta in the Rome Olympics of 1960. Such was his dedication that although marrying a few weeks before the event, he convinced my mum to delay the honeymoon until after the Games. Credit to him for his focus and kudos to her for accepting. I grew up in the shadow of his achievements and the expectations that I was to follow in his wheels.....cadence.....slipstream were inevitably high. This seemed to hold true when in my first official racing season in the "schoolboy" category (as it was known then), I always placed in the top three - excepting the occasion when I had a humiliating encounter with a tree after miscalculating the sharpness of a bend at the bottom of a hill along the panoramic Zurrieq road. However, when I was around 17, the tedium of daily training dampened my enthusiasm and I found myself drifting into other sports and activities. Cycling had become an ex-love but the reach of my dad's successes never receded. Possibly I'm still in search of an activity where I can say I'm the best local athlete in that event. Truth be told, time is not on my side but, quiet please, my brain is trying to keep that fact hidden from my body.
An affinity for hills. And if it means negotiating a mountain, all the better. With my dad I used to love watching the major tours which, in those days, could only be watched on Italian television: Giro d'Italia and Tour de France. As I still do today, for that matter. However, the real draw was always the mountain stages. I dreamed of being there, even if not necessarily in the peloton as a pro cyclist. Inevitably my heart rate would rise which each switchback and a shiver would run down my spine when the parting waves of supporters indicated that the cyclists' efforts were reaching the final kilometres of the climb. I was fortunate to live this experience with Lifecycle in 2008 as we travelled from Lourdes to Casablanca. I won't say that I didn't suffer, especially on that first day when I tasted the pain a real mountain can inflict on someone inexperienced in tackling kilometre after kilometre of incline. However, the satisfaction of traversing the col and the exhilaration of not succumbing to the mountain was not only rewarding, but addictive. Every mountain stage became personal - who will dominate whom - and I had no intention of kowtowing to a mass of rock. This challenge has now carried on into running. The Madonie race was a necessary reminder of how relatively tame this island's hills are in comparison and, as a consequence, how much harder I have to work if I want to achieve some respectable results in future.
Slow-twitch. School sports days weren't particularly pleasant for me because the emphasis was on short athletic events, which is fair enough considering we were only kids. I dreaded the sprints though, as I did if the finish of a cycling race had to be decided in the final metres. My legs just couldn't carry me fast enough. The learning curve of experience eventually led me to realise that what I lacked in basic speed was made up for in stamina. I need time to settle into a decent pace so basically, the longer the session, the more relaxed I feel. Of course I'm no Forrest Gump and there's always a threshold where an element of physical discomfort and mental weakness start to set in.
The threshold. For some, it's how fast. For me, it's how far or how long. I'm curious to see what this body can do, I'm thrilled by what it has done. Until a few weeks before I actually succeeded, I had never imagined I could manage a 260km bike ride in one day. Until I passed under the finish gantry of the Madonie race, I had never spent so many hours on my feet to conclude an athletic event. Until now, I have no inkling of how much further I can go for but I'm endeavouring to find out. At the end of the day, we really ever cross the threshold of our abilities the moment we give up trying.
