Why We Need to Suffer: The Key to Discovering Our True Potential

Pushing the limits and embracing suffering during the 2011 World Championship Time Trial in Copenhagen. Photo credit: CorVos

Much to my dismay it seems that one of my favorite pastimes, and the very thing that has helped me to grow so much as a person throughout my life, has become something that most people actively avoid, something they think of as “bad”. I’m referring to suffering, which has sadly become a dirty word these days. As a society, it seems we want to alleviate all pain and we are willing to go to great lengths to do so, and think nothing of numbing ourselves by any means possible so that we can spend our days feeling comfortable. I cannot emphasize this enough: comfort, not suffering, is the dirty word. Comfort might as well be a synonym for complacency, as ultimately they are both keeping you from fulfilling your full potential in life. Comfort is designed to prevent you from discovering what you are actually capable of instead of what you have allowed yourself to be conditioned to believe you are capable of, or what you tell yourself you are capable of.

In the movie “Without Limits” about the life of Steve Prefontaine, the late, great American distance runner, he says “I can beat anyone I’ve ever met because I can endure more pain than anyone you’ve ever met” (whether or not Pre actually said this during his life is unclear, but it captures his mentality perfectly). There is no denying he was a genetically gifted runner, but it was his ability to endure pain, to push his body to lengths that others weren’t willing to go to, that set him apart and made him a legend in the annals of American distance running. The secret that no one seems to want to tell you, or acknowledge, is this: we are all capable of tapping into that source that Pre did on a regular basis. We are all capable of so much more than we give ourselves credit for and I am of the firm belief that the key to unlocking our full potential as human beings, in all aspects of life, is best pursued through physical undertakings. In the rest of this post I’m going to tell you why, and how, I’ve come to this conclusion. I hope that by the end of reading it, if you haven’t already, you will rid yourself of the comfort you have told yourself you need and begin walking the path towards living a life that brings you much closer to experiencing the power of your full potential.

I’ll start by sharing my own story. My experience with suffering and discomfort in general, in both subtle and not so subtle forms, goes back a long way in life and in sport. I didn’t have a bad upbringing by any means, but my childhood seemed like a constant downward spiral as far as my family life went. We went from a big house on the water, to a smaller home, to my parents getting a messy divorce, to my dad declaring bankruptcy, to spending my high school days sharing meals eating on the ground with my mom and her boyfriend Boris because we didn’t have room for an actual dining table in our little apartment. I was a loved child, but there was a lot of discord in my home and I was always well aware that money was a constant source of stress. Despite having some good stretches, instability was always lurking in the background. 

School was more of the same. While I went to a great school as far as academics was concerned, outside of the classroom I was the loner, the odd man out most of the time. From about sixth grade onwards I was bullied, made fun of, you name it, I probably experienced it. I tried to “fit in” but I never really did and, as any adult can attest, those youthful years before we are truly confident in ourselves, before we become more secure in who we are, can be some of the most brutal from an emotional and mental standpoint. There are plenty of people who have dealt with genuine hardships, abuse, and other more tangible issues and, while I didn’t face those, my childhood was lived in a constant state of discomfort, a constant state of fight or flight and uncertainty, which ultimately led me to discover the other, far more positive, side of suffering as sports became my refuge.

In sport, I’ve suffered for as long as I can remember, and always by choice. I wasn’t the best swimmer in middle school, so every practice was a two hour ass beating morning and evening. I wasn’t the best runner, but I wanted to prove that I belonged on the team, so every workout I did felt like it was flat out, and I’d still struggle across the line well behind the top guys (and girls). I like to say cross country taught me how to really suffer in athletics, and then I was able to apply that to cycling. It would be fair to say that the majority of my life I have sought out suffering. When I was unhappy with my home environment, unhappy with my place in the social hierarchy of school, I poured myself into sport, into intentionally suffering because doing so alleviated the pain I felt in other areas of life. Writing this down it seems odd that inflicting pain on myself in one arena was actually what alleviated it in another, but the suffering of pushing my body beyond its physical limits was so complete that it never left room for any mundane thoughts about family or the convoluted social dynamics of high school. So, it was during my youth, through my experiences at home and in school and of course through swimming, running, and then cycling, that I built the foundation of what would become an intimate, lifelong relationship with suffering.

The same feelings that I first discovered in the pool in middle school, of overwhelming presence and peace that I could attain through extreme physical effort, carried into my days as pro athlete. During my professional career I looked forward most to the moments when I knew everything would fade away, when the pain would become so great that my mind would go blank. Those moments were spiritual in a sense, a communing of my soul with the natural world around me, where my physical body felt like it would dissolve, where the limits disappeared and the harder I went and deeper I dug the better it felt, the clearer everything became. Suffering was, and still is, my path towards peace. The important part though wasn’t just the suffering, it was what I learned from it: that I was capable of far more than I was taught to believe, that I could do far more than others had told me I could.

It’s time for a story now, one that I think exemplifies how our preconceived limits are nonsense: I never raced a single time trial in my entire cycling career relying on a power meter or heart rate monitor. Yes, the power meter was on the bike recording the data, and occasionally I’d wear the heart rate monitor so my coach could look at the numbers later, but the only thing on my little computer screen on the bike during the race was speed and distance, not even time. I did this intentionally because of something I learned early on. While the numbers could be valuable to guide me in training, in a race they only served to slow me down, to set an artificial barrier that I could potentially use as an excuse as to why I couldn’t go harder or to set a performance ceiling for myself that was far too low.

One of my early time trials as a professional solidified this belief. It was probably the first time I had done a time trial with a power meter on my bike and I decided I wouldn’t look at it, because I never had one before and the results had been pretty good. The venue was Tour de Romandie in Switzerland and I came in sixth place, right behind Tony Martin who would go on to become time trial world champion later that season. It was an unexpectedly good performance, or more accurately unexpected to those around me. It didn’t surprise me quite as much. That first year I had learned something very valuable in regards to time trialing. Everyone was always looking for a way to go faster, a better position, a faster wheel, but I had learned that in the end there was no secret, only suffering, and that was something I excelled at.

Every time trial that year, and throughout my entire career for that matter, followed a similar pattern. I would be dying within the first five minutes, sure that I had completely screwed up my race, that I was going to have to pull over to the side of the road to catch my breath, but then every time I got to that point a strange thing happened: I kept going. Each time I thought I couldn’t suffer any more, I found another place to go, a deeper internal reserve that I hadn’t known existed. It surprised me, in a pleasant way, and I came to cherish the times that I got to tap into it. It was also a source of constant frustration, because I wondered what I might be able to do if I could tap into that place more often. Eventually I was able to access that space more frequently but it was an art that took years to master. It was also a source of fear, because I knew that the only way to get to that transcendent state, to access my full capabilities on the bike, was to endure a great deal of pain. I knew how badly it was going to hurt until that switch flipped, until my body felt like it disappeared and then pain became pleasure. 

It was only once a time trial was done that I would allow myself to take a glance at the numbers, and I was always shocked. In my first year as a pro, I was a good trainer, I put the work in, but I was never one of the people who posted race winning numbers in training. My strength as a cyclist lay in the fact that there was another gear that I could tap into in races that I consciously prevented myself from going to in training. The numbers showed this. Without fail, if in training you told me to go out and do the power I could do in a race scenario in a time trial or uphill finish, I really struggled to do so. I came to realize that I could trust my body to deliver, that all the hard work in training would yield something special come race day, and that I could trust that it would be there. Some guys were always testing themselves in training, always pushing, trying to reassure themselves that their form was there, but I developed a sense of faith that allowed me to avoid doing that. Faith that was of course based on a foundation of hard work.

The key takeaway was a big one: once I learned that this other gear was something I could access in races, it put a whole new perspective on training. It allowed me to work incredibly hard, but always have that last one percent in the tank for race day, never fully tapping into my reserves. By discovering just what I was capable of in races, how much pain I could endure, it allowed me to take my training to another level in the years that followed. One where from the outside people often thought I was training too hard, or giving too much of myself, but where internally I knew there was always more, and I could choose how and when to unleash it. 

Another way to think of it is like this: If you can run a marathon in three hours then a three and a half hour marathon feels pretty controlled. If you then break through and run a two hour and forty five minute marathon, all of the sudden that three hour one that you used to think was everything you had feels relatively tame. When you raise your barometer of what you are capable of, more specifically of how much suffering you can endure, you raise your ability to succeed in all aspects of life, not just athletically. I didn’t fully grasp that during my cycling career, the broad reaching impact that expanding your athletic limits could have on life as a whole, but I certainly do now.

That fact was driven home to me one day by a close friend just a few months back, almost one year to the day after leaving professional sport. We were hanging out, talking about what might be next for me, and I must have been complaining about something because he stopped me and said, verbatim, “You know Andrew, you are the toughest motherfucker I have ever seen in sport. You’ll do whatever it takes no matter how much you have to hurt, how much you have to suffer, and you’ll keep coming back for more. But when it comes to life, you can be a pussy sometimes. You need to learn to be that tough motherfucker in all aspects of your life”. I was taken aback. Not because I was angry, but because he was right. 

I did consider myself a “tough motherfucker” in sports. I took great pride in believing, and I would venture knowing, that I could endure more pain than the majority of my competitors. If there was a clearcut way to measure who could suffer the most, go the deepest, I’m sure I would come out near the top. But what my friend said was true. While there was no obstacle that could stop me when it came to putting in the work on the bike during my cycling career, in life I was prone to letting every obstacle frustrate me. There was no bad race or training ride that ever shook my belief in myself and what I could do on two wheels. But after my friend calling me out, my view of myself as a “tough motherfucker” was shaken. I realized that I had naturally, and incorrectly, assumed that since I was tough as an athlete that meant I was a tough person, one who could persevere and overcome any obstacle I was met with. The reality was different: I was tough when it came to training, to sports, to coping with physical pain, but where was that approach to my life as a whole? 

I’ll admit, even up until a few months ago I was the kind of person who would get frustrated about a traffic jam, angry about missing a flight, stressed when my kid decided to throw a tantrum at what I viewed as the worst possible time. I’d come up with excuse after excuse for not doing something, for not taking action to move in the direction I wanted to go. I’d allow myself to get derailed by everyday bullshit. I was a savage competitor in sport, but in life I was like a domesticated kitten, waiting for things to magically change, hoping that they would, blaming others for when they didn’t. That all changed when my friend told me the truth. That wasn’t the end of the conversation. He went on to explain to me that I needed to take that tenacity, that ability to endure anything, that I had honed in sport and apply it to life. He told me I had already learned how to persevere, and if I wanted to go do something different in my life, another athletic pursuit, an intellectual one, or anything in between, to “get off my fucking ass” and do it. I left that conversation feeling ashamed but also grateful that I had finally been given the wake up call I needed to get on with life. The tough exterior that I had taken so much pride in cultivating was just a shell, albeit a good one that very few could see through, and it had been cracked wide open. I finally realized what good was it to be able to endure anything if I couldn’t apply it to all aspects of my life? I knew there was another gear I could tap into into as an athlete so why hadn’t I been able to see that I could also tap into it while pursing my goals after my professional career had ended? Why hadn’t I realized that I was short changing myself by not allowing myself to reach my full potential in my non athletic pursuits?

What I did realize after looking closely at my life after this conversation was that sport had shown me that I was capable of far more than I could have imagined, that my body could endure things beyond what I had thought possible, and that my mind was the tool that helped me to do it. It was my mind that had allowed me to go to extremely deep places while racing, to endure any obstacle that was thrown my way: illness, crashes, poor race results, family issues. While I certainly suffered through all of those, I always bent, I never broke, because I had cultivated an unshakeable belief in myself where I trusted that no matter how difficult a situation was, or how bad it felt in the moment, it would pass. I fully believed that the struggle was temporary and that good would always somehow come from it. To be fair, I wasn’t always sure exactly when it would come, but it always came eventually. 

In my life away from sport I was the complete opposite. As long as I was racing a bike it was not a stretch to say that my life was sport, so the two often blurred together. It was easy to allow myself to believe that my mental strength cultivated through cycling would carry over to my day to day, and while at times it did, most often it didn’t. My greatest mistake back then was that I never made the effort to look at myself as a person or a complete human being. I was a professional cyclist, I suffered for a living and did so willingly, so that also meant that I was mainly surrounded by people who reinforced my view of myself as someone who was not dismayed by obstacles, but who embraced them as a challenge. 

When I left sport, it quickly became clear that I was not as tough as I had once thought. The year after I left professional Ironman was spent trying to distract myself, to keep up the image of myself I had worked so hard to create in my own mind, all the while failing to actually take any action in my life or do anything to change it, or to move forward in it. It took me nearly a year after leaving professional sport to commit to writing again, to commit to the process, to commit to practicing and honing a new craft. It wasn’t that I didn't want to do it sooner, in fact writing was the first thing I wanted to do when I left sport, but I was afraid. I was afraid of the obstacles I would face. I was afraid of starting something from the very beginning. I was afraid that others might not find value in what I was writing and therefore I wouldn’t feel valuable myself. I was afraid of many things and for far too long I allowed that to discourage me from doing something I truly loved. I used all of that as an excuse to not pursue something I love doing.

When my friend shook me out of my passivity with that one brief conversation, it became clear to me that I needed to piece apart the approach I took to sport, find the good parts of it, and apply them to life as a whole. I realized that just as I had done in physical training, I needed to cultivate an unshakeable sense of self belief in anything that I chose to pursue, one that would make it irrelevant what others think, one that would allow me to do something simply because it is what I knew I needed to be doing and to treat everything along the way as a necessary part of the journey, just as I did as an athlete. Much of the person I was in cycling I could leave behind, but there was also a lot of good to be carried forward, lessons learned that could serve me well as I embarked on a new challenge. 

Sport can teach us and help us discover so many positive things in our lives: dedication, perseverance, and of course the ability to suffer and endure both mentally and physically. That suffering isn’t pointless though, it is for a very clear purpose. You know the phrase “nothing worth doing is easy”? Well, that just about sums it up. The dedication we show to sport, the suffering we willingly engage in to better our bodies and our minds, is what makes race day so special no matter what the results sheet says. But the real reward isn’t lining up on race day, it is what happens before it. It is realizing that by pushing yourself as an athlete, by challenging yourself day in and day out to endure more than you thought you could, by creating an unbreakable belief in yourself, an unbreakable mind, you are actually making yourself a better human being. One who is far more resilient and far more likely to live the life you have dreamed of rather than settle for one full of complacency, comfort, and distraction. When you realize that your mental strength honed through the undertaking of transforming your physical body can transfer to life as a whole you will clearly see that sports, exercise, and adventure aren’t optional. They aren’t choices or luxuries. They are something that you have to do, that you must engage in, in order to live life to your full potential rather than staying stuck beneath the glass ceiling you had been content to reside under before.

What this all leads to is embracing the realization that actively pursuing a life of discomfort is a necessity. I know it might sound strange, but when you consider the alternative, a life spent in pursuit of comfort, I think it’s an easy choice to make. The best way I can describe my view of comfort is that it is like a poison that we don’t know we are drinking, one that will eat away at us until we are a shell of who we could be, one that will not stop until it erodes every last bit of self will and self belief that we once had. Living a life of comfort isn’t something that should be aspired to, it is something that should be avoided at all costs. I would go as far as to say there is nothing more dangerous or stunting to personal growth than a comfortable life.

On a personal note, athletically, there are new goals I have set for myself that I will share over the coming months, a form of putting my money where my mouth is you could say. If I’m going to talk about suffering, about living a life in pursuit of it in order to better oneself, I want you to know that I am right there with you in the journey, not just watching from the sidelines. Writing this piece I can easily see how someone reading it might think “well, sure you pushed yourself when you were a pro, but how are you challenging yourself now?”. It’s a valid question, and one that will be answered in due time. The desire to keep challenging myself, to keep myself uncomfortable, is alive and well and I believe I have found some new and creative ways to do so.

Away from sport, the process of beginning to rediscover myself as a writer has been one of the most educational and emotional of my life, one that I will continue to share with you here on my blog and ultimately in another form as well. It has required me to dig deeper than I have before to gain a better understanding of myself, my relationship with those around me as well as the natural world that I love so dearly, and to confront things that were buried long ago. For a time during this process, I tried to convince myself that I could leave the extreme athletic pursuits behind, that I could content myself with just moving my body a little bit each day, sitting down to write, and focusing on being a good husband and father. I told myself, “you’ve suffered enough, you don’t need to do this anymore.” A life like that sounded appealing, it sounded comfortable. After all, that’s what most people do, they seem to live, or aspire to live, a happy and comfortable life, so I figured why couldn’t I be content with that too? It seems so foolish looking back on it now. Through this process of introspection it became clear to me that I would be going against my true nature, shutting myself off to wonderful possibilities, if I didn't acknowledge the need for incredible physical challenges and adventures in my own life. The often extreme athletic challenges that I set for myself not only make me feel good but they help me to continue discovering my full potential across all the important areas of my life. They help fuel my writing, they bring me peace, they connect me to the natural world, they make me a better father, husband, and certainly a more pleasant person to be around. They help me to be the best version of myself. 

And the thing I realized in the process of analyzing this on a personal level, and which I debated sharing for a while due to the pushback I anticipated receiving, was that all people need these challenges, all people need to physically learn what it means to suffer, by choice, although perhaps not to the extreme that I do. The fact is, whether you want to acknowledge it or not, you need it. You need to embark on physical challenges in your life that will test you to the core of your soul. Not because you have to be an elite athlete, but because you owe it yourself to maximize your potential as a human being. Throughout my life I have both witnessed and experienced no better way to do that than through sports. I have seen sport change peoples lives, save them from a life of addiction, pull them out of depression, save them from a life of obesity that would surely end in heart disease, and perhaps most importantly save them from a life of comfort. For those who have not yet experienced it, the odd thing you will soon realize is that discomfort is strangely addictive in its own way. I am willing to venture that once you start down the path towards it, you won’t want to stop. The comfort that you thought you craved, that filled your life before, will quickly become a distant memory.

I’ll leave you with an anecdote from one of the most powerful experiences sport has provided me with to date. One that I think is quite relatable as I didn’t finish this event with a win, or even a podium. Instead, I was rewarded, once again, with the realization that I could endure far more than I ever could have imagined.

I’ll never forget my first Ironman in Whistler, Canada. It was the middle of a heat wave in mid July in 2018 and I was almost six hours into it, hoping I could get to the end of the bike leg simply so I could get to the medical tent in the transition area. The lights had gone out an hour prior and I had tunnel vision. It required everything I had not to lose focus and run into the age group athletes I was still passing. Delirious, dizzy, and dehydrated, I was so happy to get off that bike, but when I did something odd happened. Instead of falling over after dismounting, I walked into that changing tent after grabbing my run gear bag out of habit and I started to put on my shoes. I can’t tell you why I did that, it made no sense to me even as I did it. I clearly needed to head to the medical tent, not get ready to run a marathon. I was stumbling and struggling to see straight as I walked towards one of the seats inside the tent. Every chair looked like two chairs in my distorted vision so I had to physically grab onto one before I could sit down. On went the number belt, my hat and sunglasses. I threw a handful of gels into my pockets and out of that tent I ran.

Once I was on my feet I decided I would just get through a mile or two as the course looped back on itself, that way when I quit, as I was sure I would shortly, I could say that at least I had tried, that I wanted to complete my first Ironman but my body simply wouldn’t allow me to. It crossed my mind, almost hopefully, that maybe I would pass out on the course and that would provide me with a perfectly justifiable reason to stop. I had the fleeting thought that running even just a few miles would allow me to look both my wife and my good friend and sponsor Gary Erickson of Clif Bar (who was also competing) in the eyes at the end of the day and tell them I had given my best. But then those first miles passed and I kept going. Little by little, the logic, the reasons in my mind of why I should keep going, or stop, faded away, replaced instead by the overwhelming pain I was in. Everything filtered down to one thought: keep moving. One step, then another. When I ran by one of the many beautiful, ice cold lakes on the course I wanted to lie down in it, to put an end to the pain I was in. “Are your legs broken?” I asked myself, “are you actually physically incapable of taking another step?” “No!” was the resounding answer. I wasn’t hurt, I wasn’t incapacitated, it was only in my mind that I thought I needed to stop. 

Despite the pain, despite the misery of the moment, I recall a brief second where I smiled, although every photo I’ve seen from the day looks like I’m about to keel over, so maybe I just thought that I smiled. I smiled because it hit me that I had found what I was looking for, without knowing that I had been looking for it. I had gotten my body to that place where I knew I was going to have to learn, going to have to dive deep inside myself if I was to make it through. All the external goals, the ego, none of it mattered anymore. My sole motivation for continuing was to spend as much time as possible in that place where nothing existed but the present. To see just how far I could take my body and my mind. To expand my limits beyond what I had imagined possible. I had gotten to this space briefly on several occasions during cycling, but never for this length of time. Thinking back on it now, from running out of that changing tent, to crossing the finish line 26.2 miles later, I still don’t understand how it happened. It was probably the most I have ever asked of my body to this day and I came away from that experience knowing that I had mental and physical reserves beyond what I had ever imagined. I thought that I had already broken through my own glass ceiling, that I had discovered my true potential through cycling, but I was wrong. It has led me to believe that even that day in Whistler will be something I look back on in the future as just another glass ceiling, though I’m not sure exactly when or where I will break through it. It was a special day in my life in that it was the ultimate proof that we can truly do anything when we allow ourselves to. 

My challenge to you now, by writing this piece, is to start walking down this path yourself, to begin this process towards a life spent in pursuit of discomfort! And I want to make this clear, this post isn’t intended just for athletes. In fact, most athletes probably know or have experienced at least some of what I have written about and are already enjoying their uncomfortable lives. For those of you who already consider yourselves athletes remember this: there is more in you. There are other levels you can take your mind and body to, and I encourage you to pick your challenge and pursue it wholeheartedly to discover what you are capable of. And for the person who has hardly moved their body a day in their life, this challenge is also for you. For anyone who considers themselves content, comfortable, who thinks they don’t “need” an athletic challenge in their life. I promise you, you do. I don’t doubt that you’ll get through life just fine if you choose not to embrace this challenge but you are short changing yourself, missing out on just how incredible life can feel when you live it a bit closer to your full potential. 

For many who choose to take on this challenge, or are already in the midst of it, you will quickly discover that the point of an athletic pursuit isn’t just the pursuit itself. Rather, it is the commitment to the process of becoming the person who can accomplish it that shows you how strong you are, how capable you are. It is the process that shows you that you, yes YOU, who might consider yourself to be as quiet and timid as a house cat are indeed a “tough motherfucker” when you need to be! And you certainly don’t need to be every moment of every day. But knowing that that person is inside you, knowing that you can endure when things become the most difficult, that you can bring that side of yourself out at will, is a skillset that will serve you well in every aspect of your life. 

While I can only speak from my own experience, I have found that life can at times feel like a never ending obstacle course, but by choosing and dedicating yourself to an athletic pursuit you can change the way you handle all of it. The inner strength you will discover through sport will give you a newfound self confidence and a well deserved sense of pride in who you are and who you are allowing yourself to become, and that will allow you to overcome any obstacle you are met with. I hope that reading these words here today can be the catalyst for you to begin your own athletic journey and to embark on a personal process of self discovery of your full potential through sport. 

What are you Afraid of?

What are you afraid of? Five words that change my life every time I stop and get to the bottom of them. I’m afraid of spiders, I have been since I was a kid, ever since I got bit while sleeping and had my left calf swell up to the size of a nice large Maui papaya. I’m mildly afraid of being bit by a shark, completely irrational I know, but something I wrestle with almost every time I paddle out into the water. It’s not a crippling fear, more one that lies dormant in the back of my mind, only playing up if it’s a particularly murky day in the ocean or if I’m out there alone. I harbor a slight fear of being attacked by a mountain lion while trail running or hiking. I have a whole host of fears like those above, topical fears you could call them. They aren’t life or death in the immediate sense, they’re just fears that I have created in my own mind for one reason or another, and held onto. Overall though, they fall into the category of smaller, rather mundane fears. While those are good to address, the type of fear I’m going to talk about in this post runs deeper. I am talking about life altering fear. What are you AFRAID of? What keeps you awake at night? What makes you question everything? What fears are you allowing to govern your life, to influence the choices you make every day, to unknowingly guide you in a direction that you may not have intended?

One of the best methods I have found for confronting fears is to expose them. To push them out of the shadows and into the light and watch them wither like a vampire in the sun, rather than keeping them locked up and hidden away. Sometimes even the act of speaking them aloud can help us let go of them, or at least release their hold over us. So, in that vein, I’ll share one of my greatest fears with you: I’m afraid of a life without meaning, of a life not fully lived, of a life governed by the expectations of others, a life spent existing rather than living. I am afraid of leaving this world with regrets. By acknowledging that, and by making peace with it, coming to understand it, I have been able to move through it. Now, I am confident that even in my most doubtful moments, there is indeed great meaning in my own life. Before I dive into the present, and how I arrived here, I’ll rewind a little bit. 

The question of a life with meaning goes back to my childhood. It might sound strange for a teenage boy to be thinking about that, but I always have. It’s probably why I struggled so much with the concept traditional schooling as I was constantly questioning what purpose things served in my own life. While my grades would lead you to believe that I was a typical thriving student, what was going on internally was never quite aligned with the external. I was always asking, “why”, much to the chagrin of most of my teachers. Why am I taking these classes when they have nothing to do with what I want to do in life? Why can’t I spend this time and energy focusing on the few subjects that do greatly interest me? Why do I even have to show up here if I aced the SAT’s and now have a college acceptance letter in hand? What, I wondered, was the point of this charade we were tall taking part in? Was it really in the best interest of young, easily swayed adolescents to spend our days jumping through hoops? Judging from the prevalent substance abuse issues at my affluent prep school, by my senior year, I concluded that the path we were all being led down had very little to do with helping us become thriving human beings and was instead focused on getting us to do what we were “supposed” to.

That line of questioning followed me into my brief one year of college, where I was met with more of the same. More “prerequisite” classes that are required for no apparent reason other than to generate income for colleges, using up the majority of one’s first year of higher education on things that were already taught in high school. College is often sold to high school students as the place they can begin to finally pursue their dreams, but the reality is they are met with a whole host of arbitrary requirements, with no logic behind them, other than the tired justification of molding a “well rounded individual”. 

As I left college to pursue cycling, I continued asking why once again, usually to the displeasure of team directors and managers. I was like the incessant four or five year old, questioning everything. I was always looking for a better way to do things, a way that made more sense, a way that allowed us as riders to perform to the best of our abilities. I guess it was only a matter of time, only natural, for the question of “why” to take on a broader meaning. And so it did, as it moved onto the sport as a whole. What purpose was all this racing I was doing serving? Was there meaning in it? For a long time, the answer had been “yes", but eventually, it became a clear “no”. Towards the end of my cycling career, and well into my triathlon career, I was often kept awake at night questioning the purpose of what I was doing, trying to justify all of it to myself. 

Not the purpose in the sense of trying to win races, but the actual purpose in life. I was living in an alternate reality, one governed by social media posts, race performances, team politics, and the like. One that prioritized and valued toeing the party line, not being who you really are. I was always well aware that I was in a bubble and throughout my career I had to actively try and keep that bubble from popping in order to do my job as a professional athlete. Still, I was bothered by the knowledge that there was so much happening outside of my insulated world. I couldn’t help but think that while I was so focused on trying to win a race, fretting about my next training session, or what exactly to eat for my next meal, that so many people at that very moment were dealing with real life or death issues. So many people were without a home. So many kids were suffering. Throughout my career, the fact that you could turn on the news on any given day and see photos from somewhere in the world I had never been, people sorting through the bits and rubble of what used to be their home before a bomb went off, or a war ravaged their city, at times made me feel completely disconnected from the life I was living. 

It may sound like it should have been easy for me to dismiss all of that as “not my problem”, since it didn’t directly affect my life as a pro athlete. After all, life isn’t fair in any way, and if you don’t block out some of it and carry on with your day to day the effect of trying to understand all the cruelty in the world could be crippling. The fact was, constantly considering the reality outside of my bubble did deeply affect my life as a human being, in fact it had since I was a kid, which I will get to in a moment. Right or wrong, it seems that many (not all) athletes with long careers have the ability to completely block out the so called “noise”, to prioritize what they need to do and keep the blinders on to avoid seeing whatever else may be going on in the world as a whole. This was something I struggled with on and off throughout my racing days, at times finding myself able to do it, but then always questioning whether I wanted to turn into someone who could do it.

My inability to block out the “noise”, at least in an enduring way, comes from an experience when I was younger that has stuck with me ever since. Throughout middle and high school we had to contribute a certain amount of community service hours each quarter. More often than not, I would volunteer at the homeless shelters around Miami, usually helping to prepare meals and, over time, those experiences came to be some of my fondest childhood memories. I remember the first time I did it, feeling so entirely out of place. Here I was, a prep school kid, preparing and serving meals to people of all ethnicities, all backgrounds, who were enduring a difficult patch of life. Even at fourteen years old I worried about what they would think of me, of how I could show them that I wasn’t doing this out of pity. The first time I went, I did so to fulfill the community service requirement. The next time, and each one thereafter, I went because I wanted to connect, to feel, to try and understand the lives of these people I was helping to prepare meals for. 

Each time, after we prepared the meal, we got to serve it to all the people staying at the shelter. They came in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Young and old, black, brown and white, poverty and falling on hard times doesn’t discriminate. There were children there with their parents and that especially broke my heart. Somehow, even at that age, I could see that those kids were no different than I was, they were just born into a more challenging life. While it wasn’t my fault that I was born into a middle class family, it wasn’t their fault that they were born to parents who were struggling to make ends meet, who were without a home and without food. It struck me as incredibly unfair, and made me question why it wasn’t me who was in their shoes, why I had a home to go back to and a full refrigerator waiting for me. 

At the end of the day, after everyone was served, those of us who had prepared the meal got to eat, and if we so chose, we were invited to go and sit with all the people we had just served. So that is what I did, every time. I distinctly remember talking to a few of the adults that first day and it only served to reinforce what I had seen of myself in the children who were there in the shelter. These adults, they were just like my parents, except with less good fortune. One of the individuals I had a conversation with was exceptionally well spoken and I wasn’t brave enough at the time to ask how he had ended up the situation he was in, but I always wish I had. The thing that stuck with me the most was the gratitude, the palpable feeling of thankfulness that was always present as everyone shared a meal. There was no anger, resentment, or dissatisfaction in any of the homeless people I spoke with. They were simply grateful to be right there, under a roof, with a meal in front of them. 

I impart the story above for this reason: at fourteen years old, it was the first time that I truly considered life in the broader perspective. From that moment on, I started to pay more attention. My entire life, my mom would always give a few dollars to whatever homeless person was standing under the overpass on the way home from school. As I got older, I remember I asked her why, as I was at the age where I was under the assumption that if they were living like that, they would probably spend it on drugs or alcohol. It was a very privileged and judgmental view (this was before that first experience at the homeless shelter). She told me, “Andrew, it’s not about what they do with it, it’s about the act of giving. They might go spend it on drugs or alcohol, but they also might go spend it to have their first meal in days. You just don’t know, and it’s not up to you to decide.” 

That concept stuck with me, that it wasn’t up to me to judge, it wasn’t my place to decide what happened after doing the right thing, it was my job just to do the right thing. To give with no expectations. As I got older, I understood more and more what she meant when she told me that. You just never know what someone has gone through, where they came from, or what they have overcome along the way. I now recognize that it might have been a miracle that the homeless person my mom was handing a couple of dollars to was even standing there that day, that they had made it that far in life. Standing there under that overpass might have been a small victory for them, a sign that they were beaten down but not broken. When I went to the homeless shelter to prepare the meals and feed those in need, that message hit home. Sure, these people were in the shelter that night, but they weren’t allowed to stay there forever. They might very well be the person under the overpass the next week. 

As I got a little bit older, more focused on college acceptance and then on cycling, I let my humanity slide by the wayside a bit. I let that connection I felt to the rest of the world wane. After I became a professional cyclist, my bubble in the athletic world was very insulated, very comfortable. Unlike sports such as American football and basketball where the athletes do truly incredible things for their communities, many of them coming from tough upbringings or rough neighborhoods, the sport of cycling generally prefers that the athletes do nothing but train, race, and perform. Publicly they might say otherwise, but actions speak louder than words. So, that is what I did, until I started questioning the deeper meaning of my life once again. 

While I was in professional sport, I had this fear, this inkling, that I was living an empty life, one devoid of meaning, or at least the type of meaning that I had expected myself to create while here on this planet. As I have touched on before, the endless focus on racing and training grew old. For a long time, my motivation in cycling was two fold: One part was the personal satisfaction that I got from doing what I did, the feeling of committing wholeheartedly to something and dedicating my life to it. The other was the idea, the hope I clung to, that I could inspire. The justification for the selfishness of being a professional athlete was holding onto the glimmer of hope that I could inspire others to pursue their own dreams, regardless of the odds. I felt that if a kid who started riding at seventeen years old in Miami on an old mountain bike could make it to the Tour de France a few years later, maybe others would would see that and feel inspired. Maybe a kid in some no name town would see me on TV and think he too could make it to the Tour one day. As time passed, that meaning was no longer enough, the justification wore thin, and as you well know by now, I left the professional sporting world for good. 

It’s no coincidence that I first read Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl around the time of that first experience making food at the homeless shelter in Miami and I like to revisit it every so often, as I have done again recently. Each time I read it I find I learn something new, I take something slightly different away from the pages. It seems to be a story that can provide the reader with whatever he or she is looking for depending on where they are in life. For those unfamiliar with the book, it is a short, concise, somehow uplifting story about Frankl’s personal experience in the concentration camps of Nazi Germany, and about how he was able to find meaning in clinging to life at a time when most simply gave up. A true story of how he helped others find meaning in their own lives, helped them discover the internal strength to continue waking up each day when finding the will to live was a matter of life or death. Ever since first reading this book I have always tried to “check in” with myself, to see if I am aligned with my inner compass, to see if I am creating the meaning in my own life that I committed to as a hopeful fifteen year old. 

As I left professional sport, I realized fully that questioning the meaning of my own life, in the situation I was in, was a privilege. Choosing to question it, to dive into it, rather than being forced to consider it meant that I had a roof over my head, food in my belly, a healthy family, and no urgent crisis or imminent threat to my existence. The fact that someone like Frankl could find meaning in his own life even when faced with the most dire of circumstances, as well as find it within himself to provide hope to some of those around him, means that we all have a clear responsibility, both to ourselves and to this world we inhabit. We all bear the responsibility to discover our personal meaning in life and to dedicate ourselves fully to it. The luxury of never addressing this question, or allowing our fear of doing so to stop us, is simply an unacceptable compromise in my opinion. 

As I have pondered this question on and off since I was a teenager I have gained clarity on what it means to me, and I’ll share it with you here: A life of meaning is one that will allows me to die with no regrets. One that, when confronted with the end of my existence, I can look back on proudly, knowing I did the right thing, as judged by my own moral code, knowing that I gave the best of myself to this world and to those closest to me. Growing up in the environment that I did, in Miami, where in most areas you were you were considered poor unless you drove a Range Rover, I was taught by those around me (my mom was an exception, and unfortunately I was influenced easily by others at the time) that meaning in life was centered around power, money, and what others think of you, all of which were directly at odds with the feelings I had whenever I would serve at the homeless shelter. I was taught to admire doctors, lawyers, and people with impressive sounding college degrees. I was conditioned to admire the prestige, not the person. Deep down I knew that wasn’t right, I knew that wasn’t how I truly felt, rather it was how others told me I should feel. In a way, it took getting to experience some of that “prestige” for myself through the good fortune I had in cycling to understand that focusing on all of that leads to an empty life. That all of those things, or accolades from others, are of no real value. They provided no meaning and, if anything, they left me feeling emptier than when I had very little in the material sense, traveling around the country to races with just a suitcase, a bike, and a little car I was driving to my name. 

Over the past months I have once again, quite intentionally, wrestled with the question of meaning, with the challenge of finding it. In doing so I have gained a clearer picture of what actively living a life with meaning looks like for me, at this point in time. I have always felt that if I could inspire even one person, to make their life a little bit better, to connect with them in some way, then that would be worthwhile, and now I have allowed that desire to come to the forefront. The forms in which that desire expresses itself throughout my life varies. Writing is one of them, allowing me to share my experiences, good and bad, in the hopes that it may help someone, that it may provide inspiration, or that it might show others they are not alone in what they are going through. I find purpose in sharing my own lessons learned in life in order to foster a sense of connection with anyone that my writing may reach. 

Now that I have children, meeting the challenge of finding meaning has expanded to include being a good father. Setting an example of what it means to be kind, to yourself and others. Raising good children, ones who know what matters, who understand the value of human connection, as well as our connection with nature, is a gift that I can give to the world. And that same gift is really one I am giving to myself, one that will allow me to look back proudly one day.

I continue to find meaning in nature, in athletic pursuits that no one will ever see, read, or even hear about. I find incredible enjoyment in the privacy that I am now afforded in these athletic endeavors that mean something only to me, getting to choose how and with whom I share them. I find meaning in exploring the limits of my body, discovering what I am capable of, and pushing to expand those limits simply because I believe it is one of the many things I am meant to do while here on this planet. Continuing to do this even when it is not my job is my way of showing gratitude, of giving thanks to mother nature for the physical gifts I have been given and for the body, mind, and spirit that allow me to do so. It is not lost on me that I find far greater satisfaction and purpose in doing so away from the public eye than I ever did while in it. 

You see, meaning in ones own life doesn’t mean changing the world on a grand scale, it doesn’t have to be visible to anyone beyond yourself. It doesn’t need to make headlines or be shown off on social media. I intend no disrespect to those who have that as their goal, who have grand plans, but to me living an honorable life, one full of meaning, is a very personal endeavor. Changing the world starts with changing yourself. It starts with having a positive influence on those around you. Your family, your friends, your community. This planet. You can find meaning in being a parent, in painting a picture, in surfing a wave, climbing a mountain, or in being a teacher. You can find meaning in almost any pursuit that makes your heart sing, that calls to you. It is not the act of doing those things that creates the meaning but the way in which you do them, the intention behind the act. Having kids does not make you a parent in the true sense of the word. Teaching them, helping to nurture them, to allow them to grow into their own people, to treat others with respect, with kindness, with openness, that is what turns you into a parent. Climbing a mountain to brag about it to your friends, to show the world how adventurous you are, or for the photo on social media, none of that is contributing anything positive to your life, or the lives of others. If you are climbing it because you truly want to, regardless of whether anyone else will ever know about it, or see it, then you can be sure you are doing it for the right reasons.

I think many people harbor a fear of addressing the concept of meaning in their lives. It can be a difficult question to confront, one that at times may lead to a temporary existential crisis, wondering what, at the end of the day, is the point of all this? What is the point of our lives as a whole? But in that question lies the beauty: it is up to us to decide! You, and only you, can tune into what the world is asking of you, what you know you need to ask of yourself, what your purpose is here. From my experience, once you open yourself up to listening, once you allow nature and your own intuition to be your guide instead of the often misplaced and misguided priorities of society you will be amazed at what you might hear. 

It’s not always easy to tune back into ourselves, to get rid of the noise that surrounds us all constantly, but it’s worth doing. The key as we grow older is revisiting our concept of meaning and checking in with ourselves and making sure that what we are doing, the life we are leading, aligns with who we are as we grow and continually change. While I’m sure some of you reading this have already confronted this fear, if it is one that makes you uncomfortable, if the question of finding a deep purpose in your own life is something you write off while you go chase the next thing that temporarily makes you feel good, then I would suggest taking the time to address it. Sooner or later we all have to. 

In that vein, I think there is a larger collective fear that we also need to recognize. I’m referring to the fear of death and perhaps the most important question: why are you afraid of it? One of the most valuable lessons I was taught came from my friend and mentor Tareq Azim back in 2015. He encouraged me to confront death, at times daily. To question myself by the ultimate judgment of life: If you were to die tomorrow, are you at peace with how you are living? With who you are? With the way you treat people? Are you proud of your life? It was a question I had never asked myself, at least not in such a blunt way, and certainly had never been asked by anyone else. 

I know from examining my own life that at the end I will care very little about what car I drove, what house I lived in, what watch I wore, or what clothes I bought. I do know that I will think of the experiences that have filled my heart and soul, the adventures I have had, the life I have lived. I will think of the people I have shared that life with, my friends and family, whose lives I have had a positive influence on. I will remember the incredible feelings that challenging myself out in the natural world provides me with.  Even sitting here now, having every intention of enjoying a long and healthy life, I am fully aware that nothing is promised, and I know that a life lived with intention, filled with the things above, will help me to be at peace one day, whenever that time comes. 

Moving towards a life lived intentionally, one with meaning, is an active way of moving through your fear of death. We live in a culture that seems to avoid discussing death at all costs, especially in the current climate, as if it is something that is avoidable. It is in fact one of very few guarantees that we all enter this world with: we will all die one day, just as surely as the sun will rise and set the day after we do. Anti aging supplements, things to help you look and feel younger, glamorizing youth while shying away from the wisdom and experience of older age, extending people’s lives through drugs and surgeries at the sacrifice of quality of life, all of it seems crazy to me. The fear around getting old is combatted in our society by avoidance instead of action. Instead of change, instead of aligning ourselves with what truly matters to us, it seems most people world rather just ignore the inevitable and stick their heads in the sand, pretending what they fear will not find them there. I would propose that this fear of death comes from the fact that somewhere inside each of us we know what matters in our own life and if we refuse to live in a way that honors that, that aligns with our true values, it creates a great amount of dissatisfaction and discomfort. 

To extend beyond that, I think ultimately the only measure of our lives is how we positively affect those around us while doing what we love. Whether it is our children, our friends, our family, or a complete stranger on the street, what to this world, small or large, is what we will measure ourselves by one day. The specific way in which we create meaning, in which we give back, in which we honor our lives, is up to each of us to find. It brings to mind a passage from Man’s Search For Meaning where, in the situation faced by Viktor Frankl and his fellow prisoners, it would seem that survival was the meaning of life, allowing no time to actively think about a purpose other than trying to avoid death. But Frankl shows in his writing that was not the case. The meaning of life became even more valuable as he stated: “what was really needed was a fundamental change in our attitude towards life…that it did not really matter what we expected from life, but rather what life expected from us.” Frankl followed that by writing, “Life ultimately means taking the responsibility to find the right answer to its problems and to fulfill the tasks which it constantly sets for reach individual.”

As you can see from the above example, finding your own meaning in life is not a luxury, not a first world problem. I would wholeheartedly agree with Frankl, that it is a responsibility, one we are each given the moment we are born. Whenever I find myself in need of a reminder to stay true to my own purpose in life I always go back to what I thought the first time I saw those kids in the homeless shelter eighteen years ago: “That could be me. Why isn’t it me?” I’ve never stopped asking myself that question and because of that I have always wanted to try to understand the stories of others, to understand why they are where they are and how they got there. When we take the time to understand, or even make the effort to try, we begin to break down the barriers that we have constructed. The walls between ourselves and others naturally, if only for a short time, come down. Thinking of that day, of those kids, is a constant reminder that it is my responsibility for having the life that I do to find my own meaning, learn how to channel it, and then figure out how to use it to have a positive impact on those around me.

Nowadays, I find myself seeking out fear rather than trying to avoid it since, as I have learned, it is one of the most powerful teachers I have ever encountered. Fear is an emotion that can allow us to get in touch with our true nature, a feeling that can guide us in the direction we know deep down we should be heading, but at times refuse to do so because, well, we are afraid. So, whether or not you can relate to any of what I have written here, try and take a moment to confront your own fears. To acknowledge them, small or large. Write them down, speak them aloud to yourself, and be honest about the process. Then, confront them, one by one. Face them head on, no matter what they are. Afraid of the ocean? Go learn to swim in it. Afraid of sharks? Swim with them. Afraid of spiders like I am? Go hold one. Afraid your life lacks meaning? Embrace the journey required to find it. Afraid of death? Ask yourself why and use that fear as your guide to start living a life that allows you to move past it. Whatever your fears may be, the only way forward is through. Some fears may never go away, but by addressing them you can at the very least lessen the hold, conscious or unconscious, they may have over your life.

I’ll leave you with one final thought: I have to imagine that at the end of our days, the curtain will be lifted for all of us. There will come a time when we are stripped of everything we once defined ourselves by and only we will know whether we lived a life that we are proud of. Only we will know whether we were able to take our fears and use them as a catalyst for change or whether we allowed them to lead our lives down a path of regret.

The Beginner’s Mindset

“Shoshin” is a term that finds its origin in Zen Buddhism, translating to “Beginner’s Mind”, and that is the subject of todays post. As I have immersed myself in the process of writing again the past couple of months I have experienced a different outlook on several things, some of which I touched on in prior posts. Most recently, I have been reminded of the positive influence that embracing the beginner’s mindset can have when embarking on a new endeavor, as well as in changing my approach to old ones and, in doing so, my approach to life as a whole. Being a beginner means being open to new ideas, to criticism (hopefully the constructive kind) and to changing the way you view, or do, things. It means approaching a situation or task without any preconceived ideas or notions of how it should look or how it is supposed to go. Those two words are the enemy of the beginner’s mindset, as is measuring yourself against others. The inspiration for this post was, as seems to be typical for me so far, sport. More specifically, learning a new one in the form of skate skiing. Sport has historically been a wonderful and powerful teacher in my life when I allow it to be and this most recent reminder to embrace the beginner’s mindset not just in learning a new skill or activity, but in all aspects of life, could not have come at a better time. I wanted to share my experience with you as a reminder that we could all probably benefit from stepping back to the days when we considered ourselves true beginner’s and approached life as such!  

As I sat down to write this and looked over the past fifteen years, it had been nearly the full fifteen since I was really a beginner at something, since I had embraced the mindset and openness that comes with it. Fifteen years ago was when I first started riding a road bike. It was a completely new experience and I was like a sponge, absorbing all the input that older, more experienced riders offered. When I first began I took on all of the input from various coaches, trying to learn as much as I could because I was starting from zero. From what clothes to wear, to what gear to ride in, to race tactics, training and nutrition, I embraced a beginner’s mindset without consciously trying to for two reasons: First, I was young and hadn’t become stuck in my ways and second, I was actually a beginner, I was entering into a sport that I knew nothing about and had no expectations from. I progressed rapidly and certainly at some point I became more selective with who I listened to and what input I would take on board, but I always tried to remind myself to remain open to new ideas, new approaches, and some of the greatest success I had always came when I did. 

As I mentioned I recently became a beginner again which sparked the motivation for writing this, but before I address that experience I want talk about the first time after cycling that I tapped into the beginner’s mindset. It is a perfect example of how even when we do so unconsciously it can yield great results. Here I am referring to the swimming portion of triathlon where a coach named Gerry Rodrigues earned both my life long respect and friendship for the way he helped to guide and teach me.

I first met Gerry in January of 2018. I had picked up a little running injury as I made my way into Ironman so we decided to do my first “real” swim camp down in Santa Monica where Gerry runs his triathlon and open water oriented swim program called Tower 26. While Jesse Moore was my coach during that first year of Tri, he was humble enough to defer to Gerry when it came to most of the swim training we incorporated. Having been coached my Gerry himself through his own journey in the sport, Jesse knew a good mentor when he saw one. I remember the first time I met Gerry he reminded me a little of my hard ass middle school swim coach, but as I would learn he was soft as a teddy bear on the inside. Any harshness that he would bark out during practice when sending us off on one of his cruel, self devised sets, was always followed my a mischievous grin. One that clearly conveyed the sense he was getting a kick out of doling out this suffering that he knew would make us better, something that would always either deeply annoy or amuse me depending on how my morning in the pool was going.

Looking back I think Gerry knew the mindset I was coming into his program with: that of an elite athlete, not a beginner, and he knew just the remedy for it. On day one, having been swimming for less than two months, he threw me into lane one at the Pacific Palisades high school pool (for those not familiar with swimming, practices typically have the fastest athletes in lane one and get slower as the number progresses upward). I figured that I was fit, a world class athlete and that I would find myself near the front of the group. Oh how wrong I was. On that first morning with Gerry and his Tower 26 crew, at 5:45 am, I was humbled more than I had been since getting dropped within five minutes of starting my first group ride when I was seventeen. Everything I thought about “who” I was because of my cycling background, any ego I had developed swimming at my local pool, any delusions of grandeur or hopes for a rocket fast progression were all blown to pieces during the first half hour in the water, during the first set of that workout. A woman who I thought did not look like an elite athlete literally swam circles around me (I would later learn some of the blazing fast race times she had recorded in the pool and be further humbled, if that was possible). People of all shapes and sizes kicked my ass up and down lane one for ninety straight minutes that morning. I think they all took a little bit of pride in doing it too, in serving a big slice of humble pie to the former pro cyclist who thought he might be the exception to the rule. 

Gerry, with his heart of gold, did what he did for a purpose that morning. He knew I would have an inflated ego given my background and, through his experience with elite athletes, he also knew that simply talking to me, using words to tell me to embrace the beginner’s mindset, wasn’t going to work. So, he showed me that I had no choice other than to embrace it. I emerged from that first day a bit shell shocked, a little embarrassed, and certainly very humbled. Before I left the pool that morning Gerry pulled me aside. He told me that it would be a long process, that there would be no shortcuts, but that he could see it was possible to get my swim where it needed to be. That day he broke me down enough to get me to embrace learning, both from him and the other swimmers, and to let go of any preconceived ideas of how I thought things should go for me. From that first encounter I instantly respected Gerry. I understood what he was trying to do and over the next couple of years during my time in the sport of triathlon, Gerry would always gently nudge me back into that beginner’s mindset whenever I got led astray. 

I’m sharing the story above to demonstrate the clear value of the beginner’s mindset, in this case applied to a competitive sport. With swimming there was an easy to grasp, tangible improvement that was reflected in becoming a better swimmer quite rapidly during the two years I worked with Gerry. In other aspects of life that progress isn’t always so quantifiable or measurable. Take writing for example. I don’t think writing is a process that I will ever “master” or stop learning. I think the beauty of writing lies precisely in the fact that it is a never ending journey that can teach countless lessons along the way, a path towards self discovery that can ideally be shared with others. Despite seeing the value in approaching swimming as a true beginner, of letting go of my ego and my expectations around it, at the time I wasn’t able to fully grasp the value that a similar approach could bring to all aspects of life. The more recent experience I have had of embracing the beginner’s mindset is a little different in that I have been able to successfully start applying the approach to my life as a whole. As with the above, the origin of this most recent experience relates to sport as well. Everyone has their great teachers in life and it seems that for me sport will always be one that I turn to for guidance. 

When we first made the decision to stay in Truckee for this winter a couple of months ago I felt a bit depressed. As our plans to return to Maui were derailed, as many plans have been during this past year, I realized how deeply I was going to miss being near the ocean, seeing our friends over there, feeling the embrace of the warm water during morning surfs. I thought of how I wouldn’t get to enjoy the evening walks taking in the sunset, watching my kids playing in the sand and running free. On a personal level, one of the most acute concerns I had was being unsure of what I was going to do in order to get outside, to connect with nature, having never lived in the mountains through a real winter. I knew how to snowboard, but a day at the slopes is a project (often a crowded one), a large time commitment, certainly not a solitary pursuit, not like an easy jaunt to the beach for an hour in the ocean first thing in the morning. 

As luck would have it, I’m fortunate to be surrounded by a friend group of outdoorsmen here in Truckee, quite a few of them twenty to thirty years older than I am, and still some of the fittest people I have ever spent time around. One of my good friends Bill had been hounding me for years to try skate skiing, a variation on classic Cross Country skiing, that is quite popular up here. He tells me now he was convinced I would enjoy it (he was right) but I secretly think he just wanted a sport we could do together where he was able to make me suffer. So, with no commitments to any pro sport and a winter in the snow ahead of me, I listened. I went out and bought the full setup. Boots, skis, poles, clothes, I was ready to go! The way Bill had sold it to me, the idea of being able to drive five minutes from my house to our world class XC center, to be outside in nature immediately, no crowds, no lines, it all sounded wonderful and seemed to be exactly what I was looking for.

Just over a month ago I pulled up to the XC ski trails in Tahoe Donner for my first outing. I was a little nervous but excited at the same time, convinced I’d be flying along before I knew it. Without realizing it, I was already falling back into the mindset of an egotistical former elite athlete, thinking that because I could pedal a bike fast once upon a time that surely I would ski like a pro from the start. Other friends, including a former pro cyclist who was on the podium of the Tour de France, had tried to tell me that learning to skate ski properly was a process, that it would be tough but very rewarding, and ultimately fun. “Maybe it was hard for you, but I’m sure I’ll get it quickly” was what I was secretly thinking each time the topic came up. It was clearly just my ego whispering in my ear but I was foolish enough to listen. You would think I would have learned my lesson back in the pool with Gerry but some mistakes I apparently need to repeat. You can probably guess how that first morning went.

It took me five minutes to get my skis on. A process that now takes all of a few seconds took me a full five minutes. Embarrassed from the get go, I pushed myself with my poles over to the practice track. Bill told me to watch him and try to do what he was doing, so I tried, and could not for the life of me move more than a few feet. There was no gliding, there was no skating, there was no movement of any kind. There was however a lot of falling and silently cursing under my breath. That went on for about fifteen minutes till I finally was able to make a little forward progress, shortly followed by ending up on the ground again. Trying to incorporate using the poles was a whole different story. Arms flailing, poles flying, I made my way around that practice track through sheer will, but it wasn’t fun, it wasn’t pretty, it was completely exhausting, and I saw no way I would ever be able to cruise along in the effortless way that Bill was demonstrating. Humbled was an understatement. I felt like a fool, investing the money to get all the gear for a sport that I clearly was not going to be able to do. That feeling didn’t go away that first day. I headed home feeling defeated but resolved to try again at least one more time since I figured it couldn’t go any worse. In hindsight, I felt discouraged because I had met a sport (much like swimming) where sheer physical effort was only a piece of the puzzle, where fitness could not overcome bad technique no matter how hard I tried to force it, where I would have to embrace the process of learning the sport rather than just putting my head down and charging ahead! 

The next day I went out with Bill again and this time, after once again flailing my way around the practice track and feeling ready to put all my gear on craigslist, we ran into a friend of Bill’s named Julie. She’s an upbeat, very fit, early fifties woman who is renowned for her ability to do it all up here. I felt embarrassed having someone else who knew who I was watching me as I was hoping to struggle in anonymity that morning. In the moment I recall thinking “Great, someone else to watch me make a fool of myself”. It’s amazing how the ego can get in the way when it runs unchecked, creating stories about what others think that have nothing to do with reality. Then, instead of laughing, giving me a hard time, or saying something along the lines of “I told you so”, Julie said she had watched me struggle around the track and gave me a few pointers. She had me ditch my poles and she crept with me, skate by skate, around the practice ring. All of the sudden, making the few minor changes she had suggested, I was moving! The ever so gradual uphill that seemed impossible without relying on my poles suddenly felt flat and before I knew it, I had done one lap, then another, and another. What thirty minutes prior had seemed impossible, I was doing. Not with ease, not gracefully, but I was doing it. For all of Bill’s talents teaching is not one of them. The man is a natural athlete and, just as very few good swimmer’s can convey the “how” to the average person, the same applies to skiing. Gerry broke the mold on that one in swimming while Julie, and another great teacher I have been fortunate to meet named Jeff, do the same for skate skiing. 

Much like my experience in swimming, that first day on the skis served to humble me. To break me down completely to where I had no idea how I might improve but where I was open to any input that might help me do so. Without immediately realizing it, I was back in the beginner’s mindset, and once I was there the improvement came rapidly. Longer and longer ski’s have followed since then while I soak up everything I can from those around me. From not being able to circle the two hundred yard practice track to being able to ski nearly twenty miles and make it up to one of the highest points on our cross country trails two weeks later, it was fully embracing the beginner’s mindset that allowed me to do it. And it made me think that embracing that mindset, applying it to life, rather than just to sporting endeavors, might yield similarly incredible results.

Sport has often been my teacher, so I relate the stories above because they are the instances that reminded me of what being a beginner is truly about. Whatever form the reminder to embrace being a beginner might take in your own life may vary, but the message is the same: It is about being a student of whatever you are doing, being open to learning, to criticism (when it is productive), and seeing that when you do embrace this mindset there is no such thing as failing, only learning. That is a key take away. 

That first day in the water with Gerry, I felt like I had failed, until he pulled me aside and lifted my spirits, told me that he would teach me, told me that it wouldn’t be easy but that I could do it. That first day on the skis I felt like I had failed, until the following day when Debbie unknowingly changed my entire outlook on things. After the initial feelings of failure which served to open my mind to a new approach, each bit of positive reinforcement I got helped me to feel like I was progressing and learning. What I didn’t see at the time was that every single one of the people I was skiing with had been doing this sport for upwards of thirty years and the people who made up lane one down south with Gerry were all far superior swimmers. The same way that I would never judge someone on their first bike ride against a Tour de France rider, my friends and lane mates weren’t judging me against their ability, they were treating me as the beginner that I was, that I still am. It just took me realizing that to start treating myself that way as well. 

Once my mindset shifted, every single time I have gone to ski has been positive. Even the day I was trying to learn to go a little faster downhill and flew off into the trees, sliding along an ice patch and giving myself the first bit of “road rash” I have had since leaving cycling. That experience ended with me laughing because at least I had learned I was not ready to go that fast! When someone tells me how to hold my poles, how to tuck my arms in, to bring them a little higher, or shift my weight and bend from my ankles I don’t recoil and become defensive as I used to. Rather, I find myself viewing this criticism as the beneficial kind, the type that is offered solely to help me improve, not just to point out what I am doing wrong. It has led me to feeling that there is no such thing as a bad ski!

I’m not sure why it took me this long, but learning to skate ski has finally helped me embrace the beginner’s mindset through all areas of my life. I have long been my own harshest critic, going all the way back to my time swimming in middle school and continuing into my cycling career. Beyond sport, I have times where I feel that I am a terrible father, husband, friend, even person. Times where I want so badly to be better at all of these things but cannot stop constantly judging and criticizing my every move. All too often, in the past, I have had an idea of what things should look like or how an experience is supposed to go, but the reality is far from it. Through embracing the beginners mindset I am finally getting out of my own way and allowing things to simply be what they are. 

I mentioned it earlier but should and supposed are two words I think you can throw out from your vocabulary, something I have been working on doing recently, and it’s shocking how often they pop into my mind now that I am paying attention. I should have spent more time with Bodhi (my son) this week. I should have left earlier to avoid traffic. I should have remembered the beans at the grocery store. From the important to the mundane the word should can be a relentless adversary. Here is the truth: it serves no purpose except to allow us to berate ourselves for things that we didn’t do, while completely ignoring that we have the opportunity to improve the next time around. For example, I know I am guilty of thinking I should be able to swim faster or ski better when I first began each sport. But why? Why should I have done something, or be able to do something? I know in my own life the majority of the thoughts centered around should and supposed to are self inflicted, existing only in my mind rather than reality. When I came into both of those sports, I created an artificial standard based on my past, or on others, that I was judging myself against. This negative cycle can extend far beyond sport and I think almost all of us are guilty of falling prey to it. If you look at your own life, I would venture that most of the time no one else is constantly telling you what you should have done or were supposed to be able to do, and if they are then that is probably not someone you want to spend too much time around. We are usually the ones telling ourselves how we should have been or what we were supposed to do and far too often we are our own worst enemy, offering up only the most derogatory type of criticism: the kind that is solely intended to point out how we have failed rather than help us find a way improve.

For me, the concept of Shoshin, embracing the beginner’s mindset, means accepting it all. It means instead of just becoming a student of a new sport I am choosing to become, or return to being, a student of life. It means writing this piece and putting it out there so that I can continue to move forward. It means working each day and each week to show up for my kids and my family in the best way that I can, in this moment. It means bringing myself back to the present whenever I start to drift into the land of should. It means viewing each day as a new opportunity, as cliche as that sounds. Each day truly is a new beginning if we can unburden ourselves of the judgment, expectations, and the should haves from the day prior. Living in the beginner’s mindset means embracing every experience in life knowing that each one is working towards the larger goals we may have. Sport taught me that as well. 

During my time as a pro athlete, it was not uncommon for me to be unable to complete a workout in training. There were plenty of days where it just wasn’t going to happen. But, the thing I learned (that seemed to lack any logical reason), was that I could often try it again the very next day or a couple of days later and get a completely different result. Sport taught me that instead of sitting there focusing on what I should have been able to do on a given day, I instead had the opportunity to try again. It was only in my mind that I was supposed to be able to do a certain workout, complete a certain ride, or even get a certain result at a race. The body is not a machine. It is connected to the mind, the heart, and the spirit in each one of us and that is what makes us different from machines. I believe that we as humans are unpredictable creatures living in an unpredictable world. How boring it would be to know the outcome of everything before we begin! Treating yourself as a beginner allows you to let go of your own ideas that are keeping you stuck, to get out of your own way, and to accept that actively living life is a journey that has no set destination. One where you never stop learning, changing, or growing. Some would even venture that death is only another version of change, a shift of energy from one form to another. The day you stop allowing yourself to be open to growth, to possibility, is the true day you stop living. 

From sport I have learned that when life breaks us down, it is so that we become open to learning once again, so that we can let go of all the stuff that doesn’t serve us well: our egos, our notions of “who” we are, why we should be able to do something, why things should go a certain way for us. It is freeing to realize we can let go of it all. The severity of how far we have to break down in order to do this varies from person to person. I actually think in most cases there are many gentle taps on the shoulder that occur before life has to beat us with a hammer to get us back into the beginner’s mindset. What I am working on now is trying to feel those subtle taps, trying to listen rather than simply speak louder and drown out what the universe is trying to tell me. You could say I am trying to get back to the place where we all begin as children, our natural state of being, open and receptive to wherever life leads us.

In closing, if you do nothing else after reading this, I would encourage you to examine your own life, looking for any experiences where you may have benefited from treating yourself as a beginner, treating yourself with the kindness that accompanies it. You might have to go all the way back to your childhood to find one, as I did until recently. I would also challenge you, just for a week (at least to begin with) to pay attention to every single time you use the phrases should, should have, or supposed to in reference to yourself or towards others. The exception to this task would be something along the lines of telling yourself “Life is unfolding exactly as it should”. That is one of very few cases where the word can have a positive connotation rather than negative. I think you might be surprised at what you find if you decide to try this. 

Being a beginner can be fun, freeing, and incredibly rewarding, and I am finding it a very enjoyable way to go through life. In addition to noting how often you use those words or phrases that are of no use to you, pay attention and be open to those gentle taps on the shoulder, the ones that say “hey, stop getting in your own way” or “hey, why don’t you try approaching this problem differently”, or even the not so gentle tap that shakes you a bit and says “hey, don’t be such an egotistical ass!”, so that you don’t have to get a cinder block dropped on your head to wake you up. If you read my last post, I promise you there are times I wish I had listened to the gentle nudges that came before the wake up call I forced the the universe into delivering just over a year ago! While I can’t, and wouldn’t, go back and change that experience, I have certainly learned from it. I can tell you that now I have opened my mind, heart, and spirit, listening for any guidance that might come my way. I hope that after reading this you will find yourself doing the same. 

What We Can Learn from an Injury (or any obstacle life throws our way)

We have all heard the phrase “what doesn’t kill you will make you stronger”. While I am no longer a fan of such a hard nosed approach to life or to learning, I would venture the following: “what doesn’t kill us can always teach us”. We are all capable of surviving difficult situations, both mental and physical, but I think that boiling it down to coming out of such a situation stronger over simplifies it. If you fall down a mountain while on a solo expedition and have to survive on your own for a week in the wild with no supplies, does it make you stronger? Sure, in some ways it might. But I would propose that what you learn about yourself during that week and how you view life as a whole is what might really experience a significant shift. While I have been fortunate to avoid having an experience quite like that, I have realized that there is much to be learned from something that when viewed from the surface is a purely negative situation. In my case, or at least the one I am going to talk about, it relates to an injury. I’m hoping that by reading what follows you might be able view whatever setbacks or obstacles you face in life through a different lens, as I am learning to do. 

It was just over a year ago, the middle of November 2019, and I set out on a run from my home in Truckee. It was a beautiful Fall morning, shoulder season in the mountains had arrived, or “locals summer” as we like to call it here. There is a calmness that seems to descend on the mountains as summer winds down and I was looking to tap into it by getting outside. I was still sore from a stunning run from Donner Summit to Squaw Valley along the PCT a week prior, but I felt like I needed to move. The end of October had marked the end of my professional athletic career and the only thing keeping me grounded was continuing to train (although I told myself I was just doing it for “fun”), as I really didn’t know what else to do at the time. So, I headed out the door for a quick jaunt on the trails behind our house. As I stepped out the door, I could feel I was tense, stressed, and I was hoping that the run would help me unwind. While my prior blog post addressed a lot of what I experienced after leaving pro sport in the broader sense, in the immediate few weeks that followed making the decision I felt very uncomfortable in my own skin and exercise was the only thing that seemed to help calm me down. 

Less than a mile from my house, on a very bland, non technical, gradual downhill, I suffered the worst injury of my life. Since taking up Triathlon I had experienced a little ankle roll here and there and I knew immediately this was different. I rolled my left ankle completely underneath me while hopping over a rock, I could feel things tearing as my body weight crashed down on it. As I hit the ground, instinct took over and I popped back up, or at least tried to. I couldn’t put any weight on it and a few moments later I was back on the ground as the pain began to set in. I’ve experienced a lot of pain throughout my life and I would consider myself pretty tough. I could get up from a bike crash after sliding along the ground at thirty miles per hour and continue riding. I could break a bone on a training ride and remain calm while I called for help. But there was no controlling this pain. The way I started screaming I was sure someone would think I had been attacked by a bear and come running out to help. But, as I had mentioned, shoulder season had arrived and all the houses along the trail were deserted. Despite being in immense pain the irony was not lost on me that this happened within weeks of leaving pro sport, at a time when I was doing all I could to avoid slowing down, to avoid addressing the changes that were happening in my life. I was running away from them and had literally been stopped in my tracks! 

Of course since I had been planning on a short run on familiar trails I had left my phone at home. I crawled to the nearest road about one hundred feet up a hill while I continued yelling for help, trying to make progress towards a main road where I was hoping I could flag someone down. Thankfully, after what felt like ages, a frazzled looking man with a cup of coffee popped out onto his back balcony, saw me laying on the side of the road, and sprung into action. I felt so bad for the guy, it was a Sunday morning, he was probably trying to relax, and here I was screaming like a mad man. Moments later he pulled his truck around and helped me into it. He offered to take me to the hospital but I asked him to just take me home, hoping to avoid a trip to the ER.  Trying to hold back the tears and keep calm while in his truck, I felt like I was going to pass out. He got me back to my house and more or less carried me to my door. I’m not sure if I even said thank you (although I’m certain my shocked wife did). I am not a religious person but I think that man must have been an angel. Not a single other soul emerged to help me that morning and if he hadn’t show up, I truly don’t know what I would have done. The moment I got into my house I couldn’t contain it any longer, crying in pain I laid on the ground of our entry way, asking myself “why” over and over.

I had made it through my entire cycling career without a single major injury. I had never been off the bike for more than a week due to an injury or a crash. The longest break I took from exercise since I was seventeen was each off season when I embraced four weeks of inactivity to let my mind and body heal from the other eleven months of abuse. And here I was, supposedly out on a “fun” run, and this is what happened, within two weeks of deciding to leave pro sport? There had to be a reason. I refused to believe that the universe would be so cruel as to simply throw something like this my way. Over the coming months I would begin to understand that reason and now, over a year later, it is crystal clear to me, but let’s not jump too far ahead. 

A week later scans would show that I had, to put it kindly, destroyed my left ankle. I had torn everything just about as badly as you could possibly tear it without snapping it completely. I was borderline on needing surgery, thankfully being relatively young and healthy I was able to avoid it. I was relegated to crutches for seven weeks, which I had never used in my entire life. I thought back to my youth: surfing, snowboarding, skating, wakeboarding, bike racing, and I had never used crutches. It made no sense. At a time when I was already frustrated and lost, the overwhelming anger I felt at the situation was intense. This was the year I was supposed to be able to enjoy the Holidays with my family, to go into the mountains, to not have to obsessively focus on training, to have fun for crying out loud! Instead, I spent the weeks that followed sitting, moving my ankle a few millimeters at a time, absolutely convinced that I would never be able to fully use it again. In the state I was in I simply could not see how things would ever function as they once had. Black, blue and swollen, three weeks after the injury it almost felt worse than when I first did it. 

When I crutched my way into the Physical Therapy office for the first time I was greeted by Sabina, the most wonderful, kind hearted, fierce, take no bullshit, older German woman who would kick my ass into gear twice a week. She looked at my scans and said, I kid you not, “Wow, I’ve never seen anything like this before, are you sure you were on a run? I’ve been doing this a long time but this is a first”, and then called over a couple of the other therapists in there to look at the scans with her. 

That’s when I knew things were bad. And they were, she didn’t sugarcoat it. My hopes to be up and moving a few weeks later were pipe dreams. But she did tell me I would get back to normal, my normal, it would just take a while. That’s an important caveat that Sabina and I discussed. My own normal, my own requirements of my body and my ankle were different than most. What I wanted to be able to do wasn’t walk around the house and go about my day to day life, it was to surf, snowboard, trail run, bike, hike, jump, to do everything and anything that I could think of. It made me impatient that it wasn’t on the timeline I wanted but the desire to get back to doing those things was ultimately what helped me make a full recovery over the months that followed.

I’m certain that if someone, outside of my own family, would have spent any significant time with me during this period they would say I became depressed. Unable to move, unable to do the one thing (physical activity) that had kept me grounded since childhood, unable to connect with nature, at least in the only way I knew how at the time, I became miserable. The Holidays passed, friends came over, meals were shared, but I wasn’t really there. I was in my own world: hurt, angry, and bitter. In my own world full of self pity, thinking why oh why did this have to happen to me, why did this happen at all? I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. There had to be a lesson to learn. And of course, there was. Over the coming weeks, I kept going to see Sabina. On day one, I could not move my ankle more than a few millimeters in any direction. The next week I could do a little more, and by the time we left for Maui, two months after my injury, I could walk, albeit very timidly, without crutches. Little by little I had made progress. Those words, little by little, and that slow, almost imperceptible progress that often goes unrecognized, are what this entire post is about. 

The dominant Kenyan runners have a phrase they love when it comes to training and their approach to sport, and no one embodies it more than Eliud Kipchoge, the world’s fastest marathoner. The phrase is, “slowly by slowly”. It is how they approach training and how they live their lives. Many might find it odd that “slowly by slowly” is the motto of the world’s fastest runners, but it’s true. As I progressed through my recovery I began to understand that what I was going through was about much more than just the physical side of things. I believe that this injury came to me precisely because I was so unsettled. I was so unwilling to confront my departure from pro sport, to address the emotions that came with it, to examine what my life might look like without training and racing as the sole purpose. This injury quite literally forced me to stop dead in my tracks and without it, I am almost certain I never would have slowed down. I would have used sport to self medicate, to distract myself endlessly, and who knows where I would be right now. Certainly not here, writing, doing something that I have loved since I was a child that got pushed to the side during my athletic career.

It was a chilling experience to be stripped of my ability to do what I had always taken for granted, my ability to move. My ability to do what I wanted when I wanted physically has always been a point of pride. Taking care of my body has always been directly correlated with my self worth. It made me question a lot of things, namely just how healthy my relationship with sport had been over the past decade. What had I been running (or riding, or swimming) from? What was I using the next race or training session to cover up, or avoid? A lot of emotional discomfort accompanied this period of intense physical discomfort. The endless time to think led me to a few interesting observations, namely this one: While I was good at bike racing, I am not sure that I ever fully belonged in it. Unbeknownst to most people, during my cycling career I often had thoughts of leaving it all behind, of walking away and living peacefully somewhere, maybe in Haiku on Maui, maybe in a little no name town in the Swiss Alps, where no one knew, or cared, who I was or what sport I used to be a part of. I often wonder what would have happened if I had voiced that to someone. I never worked with a sports psychologist during my career but I’m sure they would have had a field day with some of what ran through my head.

It wasn’t till just over a month ago, over one year after that trail run, that I truly grasped why that injury had to happen, why I needed that experience in my life, why it happened when it did. As I mentioned above I am not traditionally religious, but I am spiritual. I believe that everything happens for a reason and this was no different. I needed that time to address my inner demons, to sit with them and feel just how uncomfortable I was. That injury forced me to look at myself and my life. It forced me to acknowledge that I had used sport to avoid ever asking myself the questions that really matter: What do you want in life? Are you happy, or are you just doing this because you’re good at it? What did you want to do in life that got thrown to the side as your cycling career took off? The answer was, a whole lot! 

While I will never regret my time in professional sport, looking back, it seems like a necessary detour along the course of my life rather than the path I was always meant to be on. If it was my life’s calling I would probably still be in it. Allowing myself to acknowledge that maybe I wasn’t destined to be a professional cyclist, or at least not destined to define my entire life by it, brought about a major shift in my mindset. To accept that it was an experience that I needed to have along the way, to learn and grow from, was a completely different way of looking at things. I know guys in the sport who would genuinely rather die doing what they love than not be able to do it. Johan Van Summeren comes to mind. He was forced out of the sport with heart issues and that man lived for one thing: to pedal, and pedal damn fast. For him, having that taken away was like being shot through the heart. Cycling was never that way for me, and I think that says it all.

So what does it all have to do with my injury, with setbacks? Well, I cannot think of anyone, myself included, who likes being hurt or dealing with a major setback in life, especially the ones that we never could have seen coming. Nowadays it seems the popular school of thought is to rise up, to embrace the attitude of individuals like David Goggins, and “crush that motherfucker” (the motherfucker being your obstacle). I think a different approach is of at least equal value. You know the phrase “love your enemy”? My suggestion is to do that with your setback, whatever form it takes. Acknowledge that it is there to teach you something, that no matter how painful, emotionally or physically, there is something to be learned from it. 

Some of the most balanced, spiritual, kind, peaceful and happy individuals that I know have dealt with substance abuse issues in their younger years. I didn’t know any of them while they were using, but from the conversations we have had it seems many now view their addiction as a gift of sorts because it led them to the life they are now living. Granted, this may be a sheltered view as the ones I know are successful chefs, doctors and the like. Still, if they can embrace something that is potentially life altering, if not life ending, with gratitude, looking for the lessons to be learned, then surely we can all do the same. 

This doesn’t mean you can’t temporarily wallow in self pity. Give yourself permission to be angry, frustrated, to yell at the world, “why?!”. Then, keep moving forward. Look for the lessons, look at what you might be able to learn from whatever painful, terrible, or even simply inconvenient thing you are dealing with. There is nothing wrong with looking to crush the obstacles you may face, I’m simply pointing out that there is another way. A kinder, gentler way to approach them as well as to approach yourself. That approach might not be for everyone but I know that it has worked for me. Simply acknowledging that there was another option, that I didn’t have to confront this injury, or all of the emotions that came with departing pro sport, with a “kill or be killed” type of attitude changed everything for me, and I’m hoping it can do the same for you. 

Unfortunately it seems that all too often kindness, to oneself as well as to others, can be mistaken for weakness. My time in sport forced me to cultivate a tough outer shell, one that conveyed the message: I am on a mission and no one is going to get in my way. One where I intentionally shied away from forming strong friendships or emotional bonds with teammates, directors, mechanics, etc. There were a handful of individuals with whom I let my guard down and those turned out to be lifelong friends. I now go surf with a former doctor. I recently picked up a surfboard from a former mechanic. I laugh when I read correspondence from a former director living in Switzerland because reading his words and imagining his voice puts a smile on my face. But they are the exception, not the rule. Right or wrong, I felt that sport forced me to take on a persona that had nothing to do with who I truly am, or even who I was. The problem was I held onto that persona for so long I actually started to believe it was who I was. When I got injured last November I initially tried to take that same hard ass approach that I thought had served me well in sport, that had led me to podiums and wins and supposed success. What I found was that it didn't work anymore. Trying to be who I used to be, to approach the situation the same way I had for years, simply wasn’t yielding the results I wanted. Instead, it led to feeling depressed and frustrated that I couldn’t simply will myself out of the situation I was in. 

It may sound odd, but prior to this injury I don’t believe I had ever faced a situation that I couldn’t overcome through sheer willpower. Any illness, poor performance, anything that I had faced in sport, I could always more or less will my way out of, or through. I considered this to be an asset but in hindsight it might have been my greatest crutch. Rather than accepting that some things take time, I always wanted them to happen on my schedule, to force them to happen rather than allow them to happen. My injury taught me that at the end of the day, I wasn’t the one in control. Sure, I had to show up, I had to do the PT exercises, I had to do the work, but the timeline wasn’t something that I had control over. I would heal when I healed and all the frustration and anger in the world wasn’t going to change that. 

If there is something to take away from everything I have shared today I would say it is this: “slowly by slowly” isn’t just a motto for Kenyan runners, it’s a motto for life. A motto that embraces kindness to oneself, that embraces change but does not attempt to dictate the pace at which it happens. A way of living that allows for appreciation and recognition of the small, subtle, constant progress we are making towards our goals, progress that might otherwise be easily discounted or go unnoticed. Recognizing the progress that you are making in life I have found to be a key component of happiness. Take this as proof: the first steps that I took without crutches last January put a smile on my face that was uncontrollable. It was the simple act of walking, something I had taken for granted, that did it. It wasn’t running, it wasn’t riding, it wasn’t what I’m able to do today, but at the time it certainly was progress. People have overcome far greater injuries and have far more inspirational stories than simply hurting their ankle, but it wasn’t the injury that was meaningful in my story, it was what I learned from it.

Writing all of this down now brings back one of my favorite memories from my time in cycling: I was in a small, no name airport somewhere in France. It was July of 2014 and I had finished over thirty minutes behind the peloton in the Tour de France the day prior. Sick and dealing with a back injury and I had decided not to start the next day. Or, more accurately, my body had made that decision for me. I was sitting on the ground in a corner of that airport, feeling like I had been ejected mid flight from the bubble of excitement and energy that accompanies the Tour, waiting for the plane back to Barcelona. While I was staring into the distance two younger french boys came up to me. In broken English they asked if I was Andrew Talansky. “Yes” I replied, unsure of what they wanted, or how they knew who I was without a cycling kit on. “Your ride yesterday was amazing, thank you for not quitting” was what they said next. I was dumbfounded. I thanked them for their kinds words, shook their hands, and then they left me alone again. 

In that moment my whole view began to shift. Later that day, I would learn that French TV had continued to follow me during my time behind the peloton, all the way to the finish line, something that apparently hadn’t been done before. I had no idea that my own private battle was being broadcast around the US, around the world. It was something that was so personal that at first I felt very exposed. But then the messages started to come in. It wasn’t just those French boys who had found something good in my ride, people all across the US responded in a similar way. I was awestruck that something that felt so bad, so negative, so painful on a personal level could have created so much good in the broader scope, that people found a message of “never give up” from the depths of my own personal hell. While it didn’t make leaving the Tour that year any easier, it did change my perspective on it and to this day I feel immense gratitude that something positive came from one of the worst experiences of my life, that others could find something good in it, even if it took me much longer to do the same. It helped me see that even the darkest of experiences can have a silver lining.

The final thing I hope you can take away is this: the moments that seem the most difficult, that challenge you, are often the ones that can teach you if you let them. They can also break you. If you choose to fight against them, to engage in battle, rather than open your arms and embrace whatever obstacle you are facing, odds are you will lose. There is always something to be learned even if we don’t see the lesson until years later. I hope that by being a little bit more gentle with yourself, a little bit kinder, and by acknowledging the progress you are making, you won’t have to wait so long to learn those lessons. 

The Roots of Motivation and Searching for “That” Feeling

Where does motivation come from, what is it, is it necessary, does it even exist? Entire books have been written and countless debates waged over motivation, its existence, origins, and purpose (or lack thereof). It seems that the central debate is a classic “chicken and egg” scenario: do you need motivation to undertake a new endeavor, to get started on a project, to change your life? Or do you start taking the steps in the direction you want to go, take action, and the motivation to continue will follow? This past year has provided me with a different perspective on it than the one I held through the majority of my professional athletic career. One that I thought others might find value in, especially during a time that is challenging the motivation of many around the world.

For as long as I can remember, all throughout my younger years, I had one driving force that carried me through all of my pursuits, especially the athletic ones. From swimming in junior high, cross country in high school, to preparing for the Tour de France several years later, I had one goal: To be the best (let’s be clear, I was never the best in any of those, but it didn’t stop me from trying). 

The thing was, I didn’t just want to be the best in a healthy, intrinsically motivated sense. I wanted it in a very external, very visible way. I didn’t want to be better than I was a month or a year ago, I wanted to be better than every single one of my competitors. I was not content with getting the best out of myself, I wanted to win. As I progressed during my first few years in the sport of cycling, that motivation changed slightly, but not much. Certain races I still wanted to win, to cross the line first and feel that moment of elation that nothing else could match. Other times, the “win” took on a different form, although it was still measured by the results sheet. A top ten in the Tour de France, podiums in one week stage races, a top five in a Grand Tour,  and a win in the national championship time trial were just a few examples of the goals I set for myself in cycling. As I ticked each box and continued to aim higher there came a point, probably around 2015, where I began to wonder why. What was I aiming for? What was the point of all this? What was driving me to improve? What was the motivation behind my desire to win, or to meet the goals that I set?

As I pondered this during the off season in 2015, heading into the 2016 season, something began to shift internally, something that in hindsight I wish I had fully recognized and taken advantage of. My mindset began to change from needing a given result as validation of all the work I had done in order to sustain motivation to truly just loving the process. I didn’t fully see it at the time as it was a subtle shift, but one I can clearly pick out looking back. I had always loved the work, loved the training, loved the long days in the freezing rain in the middle of winter, but my reasons for loving it had evolved. I recall one specific New Year’s day early in my career: I woke up at 7am and rode for six hours alone, in the rain, laughing to myself at one point about the fact that this was what I got to do everyday. The grin on my face on that ride wasn’t brought about by a thought of any specific result but it was motivated by the fact that I felt like I was doing something more than my competitors. It was still an external motivation.

Every time I went out in nasty conditions during training each winter I viewed it as hardening myself, bettering myself, imagining my competition sitting on trainers, riding less, altering their workouts, not willing to take the risk of getting sick or simply unwilling to deal with the mental challenges that accompany training consistently in bad weather. As far as I can remember, up until 2016, I would always dig into the mental reserves during the months of off season training, especially on hard days where I would imagine winning the race I was training for, imagine dropping my competitors on a climb, or flying through a time trial. I was always digging into the well, but at that time the well could only be filled with external motivation, and it was always destined to run dry.

And run dry it did, on and off during 2015 and the early stages of 2016. Then, in the first few months of the 2016 season, the best year of my career, there was a clear shift that took place. I had a truly abysmal start but as I refocused I found a sort of faith in what I was doing. The work began to provide purpose. The suffering, and ensuing lessons I would learn about myself, provided the meaning. Without consciously realizing it motivation, in the external sense, ceased to be a factor. I had found such a rhythm in life and in cycling that I didn’t need to “motivate” myself to get out the door, or gear up for a hard workout, I simply got it done, and I did so happily. When I arrived in Madrid at the end of that season sitting in fifth place in the Vuelta Espana, my best career result in a Grand Tour, it wasn’t the result that put a smile on my face. It was all the memories of the moments in the race where I was completely present. The final time trial, the final uphill finish, the feeling of emptying myself completely. The result could have been third, it could have been sixth, it didn’t really matter to me anymore, because I knew I had done everything I could in the moments that did matter, both in the race and in the months leading up to it. I had been present and fully engaged in the process rather than focusing on the outcome. 

As you can probably guess if you followed my time in cycling at all, unfortunately, and without realizing it, I lost that feeling of ease, that flow that I had found in 2016. It was something so valuable but so subtle that while I was in it I wasn’t able to harness it and channel it moving forward. I knew something was missing in 2017 and, in hindsight, it’s easy to pick out. I had shifted back to trying to externally motivate myself, digging into a well that had run dry a couple of years prior, not realizing a well brimming over was available to me if only I would let myself see it and tap into it.

Why am I telling you all this, how can my experience in pro cycling apply to someone else’s life? Well, I’ve always believed that sport is basically an accelerated version of life and if you pay close attention to it, there are many lessons it has to offer. 

The challenges that I faced as an athlete, the source of my motivation, the sustainability of it, are all things that apply to anyone pursuing something in life. Athletics, business, a spiritual practice, education, all of it is dependent on our commitment to what we are doing, and our commitment comes down to motivation. Cultivating a deep well of intrinsic motivation is something I believe is a necessity to succeed in any aspect of life but it is often one of the things we most neglect. Take it from my own story above, you need to fill that well and tap into it if you are to succeed! 

Fast forward a few years down the road and here I am, retired from cycling and professional Ironman, and still trying to gain a deeper understanding and clarity of my own motivation. Now that I am just like everyone else, now that it is no longer my job, what place does going for a bike ride hold in my life? What is the point of strengthening my body? Why do I push myself into the ocean to ride waves that make my stomach drop, my heart beat faster, that genuinely scare me? Why do I do things that I dread in the moments before I do them? There is no one paying me, no sponsorships to consider, there is no result on the line. There is, externally at least, no tangible reward for doing any of the things I do these days. It has been a challenging process but I finally think I am rounding a corner, beginning to understand myself a little bit better, and so finally able to perhaps help others examine and gain a better understanding of their own motivation in sport and in life. 

After much reflection, and some trial and error in a “living life” sense, I have found that the underlying motivation, the root of why I do what I do is simple: I need to feel alive and connected. “Connected to what?” is probably your first question. It’s a little abstract, but for me it means a connection to nature, to the real world around us (not the digital one so many are living in), to the energy that we can draw from nature if we allow ourselves to. A connection to the fact that at a base level, we are no different than any other creature on this planet, although we like to pretend we are. We are just visitors here and nature has a way of making you feel very small if you allow it to, to humble and inspire at the same time.

Then there is the need to feel alive. That is a little easier to understand. In cycling, that came through suffering, much as it did in Ironman. It came from pushing my body to a place where it was supposed to break, supposed to give out, and still finding a way to continue on. That’s how I knew I was alive, the pain made me acutely aware of that, and learning to accept that pain allowed a state of bliss (and taught me lessons about myself) that few things in my life have rivaled. In sport, there were clear moments where I knew I would come face to face with this feeling and have the opportunity to chase after it. Sometimes I was up to the task and others I was not. Everything I did in training (or in life as a whole at the time) was to prepare for these moments, to be able to meet them head on. I knew that not every day in training would be amazing, that there would be days I would not be up to meeting the challenge. But I also knew that if I just kept at it, it would pay off. I knew I would be rewarded with the day where it all came together, where mind and body allowed me to push up against that pain, then to accept it, and finally to feel really and truly alive. 

I think the part I have struggled with the most since leaving sport is not knowing when (or if) those moments will come and realizing that now I’ll have to create them for myself, otherwise I run the risk of losing them entirely. Some people step away from sport and feel a relief at not having to meet those moments anymore, but I have learned that I need them, that they are as important to my being as the air that I breathe or the food that I eat. In order to the best person, father, husband, and friend I can be, I rely heavily on those moments. 

I remember the precise day when I finally understood that I could have these experiences, the connection to nature, the jolting reminder that I am indeed alive, outside of professional sport. It was in Maui this past winter. My daily surf spot Ho’okipa was big, big enough that only a handful of people were out. But it was clean which was a rarity, the wind was light and offshore, the channel to paddle out was still relatively open with the exception of the occasional closeout set. I stood on shore and watched rideable wave after wave rolling in. Usually Ho’okipa at that size began to close out making it both unrideable and unappealing. There had been a couple of days like that since we had moved to Maui and I had been content to watch from the shore. For whatever reason on this day, I grabbed the biggest board I had and paddled out. 

Once out there, much further offshore than I usually sat, the true power of the ocean revealed itself. The sound was immense as the waves broke just past where I was sitting. It felt like the entire ocean was welling up and rolling beneath me. I had the thought that if there was a way to get in, a bail out option, it probably would have been wise to take it. But of course there was no way out, other than through. As I sat and watched the better, braver, more experienced surfers pick off waves from each set, from the perfect spot, I wasn’t envious, but frightened. The majority of surfers out there would let the larger waves of each set roll through, unridden. No one was really talking. A jet ski had come out to keep us company manned by one of the lifeguards after they had rescued a surfer getting sucked out to sea when his leash broke. This wasn’t one of the famous North Shore spots but there was a reef beneath us and the thought of being pummeled into it by a wave that was three times my height didn’t sound appealing. I sat for over an hour before finally paddling for a wave. I caught it, then fell, and braced for the beating that was to come. It came, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be. As with most in things in life, we can build something up in our heads, paralyze ourselves with fear, but often times the scenarios we can create in our minds are far worse than anything real life can throw at us. 

A little while later I saw the right wave coming to me. I paddled, made the drop, heard the crashing boom of the wave breaking right behind me, and I felt alive. Riding this mass of water I felt like I was a part of it. I rode that wave all the way in, it peeled perfectly to the left giving me easily the best ride I’ve had in the past year. As I rode the inside white water to shore I couldn’t get over the feeling I had. I had found what I was looking for, I felt alive and deeply connected at the same time. Sure, it was a little bit different, but overall it was the same thing I had experienced in sport. I walked onto the sand, looking back at the ocean, feeling grateful, humbled, and at peace, much like I did after a time trial during my cycling days. Standing on the beach, I felt empty in the best possible way. I had given myself fully to the ocean, accepted the potential consequences, and been rewarded with something exquisite. 

It took me a while to understand what this meant, finding this feeling outside of sport. It has taken me even longer to figure out how to make use of it, how to incorporate it into my life rather than chase it like an addict. I had missed that feeling for so long, I thought it was something that was left in my past and, when I realized that it was possible to feel that way outside of professional sport, something inside me shifted. Over the months that followed I have done a handful of things that have given me that feeling. Some have been planned, others have been an adventure gone wrong (or very right depending on how you look at it), but the end result was the same: I found the feeling I was searching for.

So what does it all mean? It means that for me, much of my life life outside of these moments is designed to make sure that I am prepared for them when they do come along. Unlike racing, I’m never certain when they will be. A great swell can roll in at any time, the perfect day in the ocean is certainly not something that comes on anyone’s schedule except for Mother Nature. A day of pushing myself beyond my physical limits is something I can plan for a bit more, but even that most often comes as a surprise. It comes from being on a planned cycling route and deciding I’ll take the “long way home”, even if that way ends in hopping barbed wire fences and praying that I don’t have to hike twenty miles out of the woods when I get a flat tire. The point is, there is only so much planning I can do, the rest is just accepting the moments when they come. 

To summarize, you could say that my motivation in a nutshell is to be prepared and to be present. To be able to look out at Ocean Beach in San Francisco on a big day (well, the biggest day that I don’t genuinely think I’m going to drown) and say “yes”, and paddle out in search of the ride of my life, accepting the consequences that are sure to come but also accepting the possibility that something wonderful might come my way. When I go ride my bike now, it is so I can say “yes” and take the long way home when I feel like it. If someone asks me if I want to go run 100 miles, ninety nine times out of one hundred I’ll probably say no, but I want to be able to say “yes” if I so desire in the moment. My goal, my motivation now, is to be able to say “yes” to the moments that allow me to feel alive, that help me feel most at peace and connected to nature. 

In order to do that, I have to be in a place, mentally and physically, where I can. Knowing that I have opportunities to prepare my mind and body for gives me the motivation I need to live in a healthy way physically, emotionally and spiritually. Sure, it sounds a little abstract but it works. Through it all, I continue to grow as a person, continue to learn about myself and why I do what I do, why I need what I need in life. It is the most interesting journey I have embarked on so far.

I decided to sit down and write all this out because I think that the lessons I have learned can apply to anyone’s life. In my life those lessons often take on a physical form, I need the physical side in order to have those moments of clarity, to have that connection with nature. For others, that might not be the case. The exact same principles, preparing yourself to say “yes” when opportunities arise apply to every walk of life. If you’re starting a business, maybe it means embracing the challenges, embracing all of the time and energy, early mornings and late nights, so that when the opportunity comes for you to grow, sell, or expand your business you are ready for it. If you make “be present, be prepared” your life motto in whatever way it best applies to you I’m certain that some great experiences and opportunities will come your way.

There are bound to be some detours along the path if you do choose to dive a little deeper into yourself, to examine the source of your motivation and what role it plays in your life. As I left sport over a year ago I felt I was prepared to deal with the challenges that accompany such a transition. But, as I quickly discovered, I was woefully unprepared to go on the journey that I have been on since then. A journey of examining my inner workings, of figuring out what makes me tick, what brings me fulfillment and peace

The fun is in the finding, in figuring out what does it for you. What fills your personal cup? What do you need to be your best self in your life? It could be ten minutes of meditation a day that opens the pathway for you to go on a spiritual journey or it could be chasing waves the size of buildings as handful of wild men, and women, do. It could be writing a book, it could be starting the business you’ve always dreamed of. All of those things involve confronting fears and examining motivation, none are easy, and all are surely rewarding.

I do hope that after reading this you’ll dive a little bit deeper into your own motivation for why you do what you do. Asking myself this simple question is one of the most rewarding things I have done so far in my life. It is a process that, as far as I can tell, has no finish line. It has allowed me to to get to know myself a little bit better, and I hope that it can do the same for you.