The Beauty of the Participation Trophy
The bright orange lines are creeping across neighborhoods as I type. Their amoebic forms not fully realized until the last mad dash for the front door, the mailbox, or the water bottle. These lines are fueled by calories, water, and pre-workout mixtures of caffeine amino acids, and vitamins. Each one represents an effort. An attempt. A pursuit of greatness. These are the invisible lines of athletes on Strava casting off data behind them like a Tron lightcycle. Each activity added in permanent digital ink to Strava's ever-growing ledger of exertion. Every new orange line calling out to friends, teammates, relatives, and co-workers saying "Look at me! Look what I've done!" in the normal parlance of our social media-infused lives.
I'm guilty of this too; this grandstanding of burnt calories. I dutifully upload every bike ride, run, row, or hike to Strava in the hope that someone, somewhere, might give me a digital thumbs-up. But this recognition, really, is fleeting. A friend will surely run a longer course, bike a greater distance, or hike to the top of a higher mountain, and thus cast my effort down the page until it's forgotten altogether.
I've realized there are two types of Strava users, and, really, two types of middle-aged athletes. Those who want to win at all costs, and those who are just happy to still be able to run a mile without complete and total physical collapse. I put myself well into the latter category, but not without a strong appreciation for those who push themselves day in and day out, striving for the gold medal.
This laissez-faire attitude toward winning has dogged me ever since childhood. During my few years spent in youth soccer, my parents would call me Ferdinand after the children's book in which a namesake bull sits quietly in the field smelling the flowers rather than butt heads with the other bulls. I had little interest in playing the game, and much more interest in watching the wind dance through the marsh grass that lined one end of the field. It was only in college that my mentality shifted. Sure, I still had an almost apathetic stance toward physical exertion, but the thrill of winning while at the same time gaining the physical benefits of exercise enticed me to strive for something more. One of my rowing coaches, Joe "Okie" O'Connor, remarked that, despite my calm "lamb-like" demeanor, I could be a "ferocious lion" in the middle of the race when it was required.
But since my college days, my brief desire for first place has been tempered, and I'm much happier to simply enjoy the ride again. In fact, I haven't won a race since college. The closest I've come is a bronze medal at a regatta a few years back and third in my age group for a small local 5k run. Both were due more to the lack of overall participation in each race rather than my ability. But, again, my intent was never to win, just as 99.99% of the 50,000+ runners in the New York Marathon never truly believe they'll win that race. They do it to prove it to themselves.
It's why I started running in the first place. To see if I had what it takes in middle age to run a half marathon. Not for my few followers on Strava. Not for the glory that comes when one crosses a finish line. But simply, just to see if I could. I posed the question to my wife, a woman who had completed a few half marathons of her own, and was endowed with a healthy type-A personality and a tenacious drive to improve herself. (This rigid dichotomy between our personalities has made our marriage work well for the better part of a decade.) She was more than willing to cheer me on, join me on my runs, and, as is typical of her ability to do all things well, added a few more half marathons to her repertoire as we trained together.
The successful completion of one half marathon led to another. And another. Until I had more than 10 under my belt and used them as a goal post to get my ass in gear every spring. And having these "prove it to yourself" goals has allowed me to play an almost "connect the dots-like" scenario with my exercise. Complete one goal, then look for the next one, and eventually I'd have a string of physical accomplishments that have kept me healthy and motivated to look back on.
Recently, realizing the selfishness of my endeavors, I decided to change it up a bit and began cycling while raising donations to help fund cancer research at the Dana Farber Institute through the Pan-Mass Challenge. This time with not just the physical goal of riding 100 miles, but by raising a hefty amount of money that will help get rid of this nasty disease.
Tomorrow, I'll be out on the streets again. Working toward something. Giving out subtle waves and nods to runners, walkers, and cyclists in an understanding and acknowledgment that we're all trying to push ourselves forward, to make us better, to enjoy the journey as much as the destination.
The long and the short of it is this: find your biggest route, your steepest climb, or the one thing you want to prove to yourself. Go after it. Fight for it. And while you may not get a gold medal (or thumbs-up from Strava followers), you'll get the ultimate participation trophy: knowing you pushed yourself harder than you ever thought possible.
