This weekend is race weekend. The Achilles St Patrick’s Day 5k. Admittedly it’s not the first race of the year, but it is my first race of the year. I love racing. I love challenging myself and pushing myself to my limits, and I get very excited about race season. And yet, I sit here wondering about tomorrow morning: it’s going to be -18 degrees and if the last few days are anything to go by, pretty damn windy too. I find myself wondering how fast I’ll be in those conditions, doubting my ability to meet my own high expectations of myself, and not wanting to let my team down.
And then I think of Michelle, currently running between Los Angeles and Las Vegas as part of a team of six. That equates to roughly 90km per runner, split into manageable segments. She’s almost 36 hours into the challenge right now, somewhere in Death Valley, kilometre after kilometre of arrow straight road and soul destroying monotony. If she can do that, I can run a little 5km.
And I think back to some of the workouts that we’ve done in the past year. All of the early mornings. All of the burpees, the squat jumps, the push ups and stair sprints. Those summer workouts with never ending mosquitoes and ridiculous humidity. The winter workouts, ice everywhere and the nagging thought that this time could be the time that your fingers and toes don’t ever warm up again. Even this month’s PR day, all 360 reps in the deluge that hit us that morning.
Damn right I can do this. This is what we train for. We push through the pain every Wednesday morning: whilst most people are still sleeping, we’re throwing down burpees and popping squats. We don’t say that we’re #weatherproof because it looks good on social media, we say it because it is true. We are weatherproof, the tribe is strong, and this shit is good. Time to crush this race season.