Two Books That Made Me a Better Athlete

This post is a little different than normal — I haven’t written a book review since, like, 6th grade, and it feels weird doing so on my blog. That said, over the past few years I’ve really changed my perspective on what it means to be an athlete and why I do what I do. I plan on talking about that a lot on this blog, and it would be unfair to suggest I’ve come to some of my conclusions in a vacuum. So, in honor of my rigorous and oft forgotten academic training, I’m going to give some credit where credit is due.

Plus, reading is awesome and you know you need to do it more.

The following are two books that have influenced me over the past six months and (I hope) made me a better, stronger and more mentally-balanced athlete.

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Book #1 – Natural Born Heroes: How a Daring Band of Misfits Mastered the Lost Secrets of Strength and Endurance by Chris McDougall
— Yes, written by the guy who wrote Born to Run and sparked a dubious, world-wide trend of running without shoes, but how can you NOT pick up a book with a tagline like that? I admit I was a little skeptical of this book because I had read Born to Run and while I had loved it at the time, I had tried to whole barefoot running thing and it had been pretty much the opposite of what my injury-prone feet needed. But I think it was good go into “Natural Born Heroes” with that perspective, because, just to get this out of the way first, McDougall is the ULTIMATE fad monger, and you have to read this book with that in mind, otherwise you’ll be swept off your feet and running for the nearest cross-fit gym while simultaneously purging your house of all carbohydrates. However, if you read this book a little critically, the underlying messages are powerful and, I think, very important. The jist is this: Humans are meant to be athletes. Our bodies are capable of more than we think they are. Play is vitally important. And “single-sport” athletes are often not all that athletic at all outside of their chosen sport.

While there’s all sorts of good stuff in this book (kidnappers, revolutionaries, parkour, steak, etc.), it was that last bit that really got to me — as a long time endurance athlete, I’ve always been a bit of a pile of suck at things outside the realm of riding bikes or running in a straight line. Let’s just say I probably could NOT out sprint a bad guy or leap into a burning building to save someone. In other words, I’m not all that useful to society. The biggest theme of Natural Born Heroes is that we should be fit to be useful — that’s the bigger meaning. Not winning races, being useful. Carrying a person out of a burning building, running to get help, climbing a tree to get an old lady’s cat. That’s why it matters. This is wildly important because I think a lot of athletes struggle with that old “what is the point” question, and fall into depression or just general bitterness when their careers are over, or when things don’t end their way. It’s helpful to have a broader perspective, something a little beyond “I need to ride my bike fast down mountains.” This perspective has certainly helped get me into the gym, working on general strength, not just exercises that will make me faster on a bike. Being strong for the sake of being capable is empowering in and of itself — it doesn’t even have to make me faster (although it has).

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Book #2 — The Chimp Paradox by Steve Peters
— In some ways this book is the polar opposite of Natural Born Heroes. Instead of carefully crafted narrative non-fiction, here we have the classic “beat you over the head with my point” self-help book, in other words, exactly the sort of thing I purport to hate. And yes, I pretty much hated the first two chapters of this book, but then once I got over myself, I realized how incredibly helpful this model could be. The general idea is that we have two brains, the “human” brain that controls our logical thinking, and our “chimp” brain, that controls our emotional, instinctual thinking. One of the main tenets is that, to paraphrase, if you don’t want to be feeling or behaving the way you are, it’s because there’s a conflict between your human and your chimp. I.e. when you plan to get up early and go for a ride, that’s your human doing the work without realistically assessing how your chimp is going to feel about the alarm clock going off at 6am. Or when you want to find the positives in a “so-so” race but the evil part of your brain keeps you wallowing in despair. The titular paradox is that the chimp (in other words, your emotions) can be your best friend or your worst enemy, and it’s a pretty relatable concept for me. It’s a well-known fact on this blog that I can be a total headcase about racing, so this perspective has been somewhat refreshing and has given me a framework for dealing with mid-race implosions (which I’m really hoping to have a lot less of in 2016).

However, the part of The Chimp Paradox that I found the most helpful wasn’t even the whole chimp/human business that takes up the majority of the book, but rather a humble chapter on goal setting where Peters casually drops the following bomb: “A dream is something that you want to happen but it is not fully under your control, while goals are something that you can set and achieve because you have full control over them.”

I mean, whoa. To put that in bike speak — the dream is to win the race and the goal is to follow the training plan. Put that way, everything suddenly sounds a lot more manageable. I can honestly say that this has dramatically changed the way I’ve been thinking about my plans, dreams and goals for the 2016 season. I’ve also realized that, in the past, my goals have been pretty shitty — which is to say they haven’t been goals at all, just poorly articulated dreams. More on this topic coming soon, but it’s been a pretty massive revelation, and I have this book to thank.

So there, your spring reading list is all set. You’re welcome. Also, please feel free to leave me book recommendations in the comments — you know I loooooove books and I’m sure there’s a lot out there on these topics that I haven’t explored at all, so suggest away!

Here’s What You Learn When You Do the Things You’re “Bad” At

I am a klutz. This has been a central truth of my life since I turned 12 and sprouted up to almost six feet tall. Yes, I was the world’s most awkward middle schooler, we don’t need to go there. Things have improved somewhat in the past few years, but I still have a long way to go. My dad says that he hit peak coordination at age 35, so, you know, I’m not holding my breath.

I follow some really cool cats on instagram (you know who you are) who are always posting pictures of themselves doing yoga on mountain tops and other beautiful places. Sometimes they even do headstands. I want to be them. But then I try to do a tree pose on a mountain top and it looks like this, because, unfortunately, I’m basically a tree, as is, and we all know that tree pose is a ridiculous concept because TREES DON’T DO YOGA.

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I pretty routinely walk into walls and stub my toes and break plates for no apparent reason other than that I forget I am carrying them. I’m basically a mess. I also race enduro mountain bikes, which, for all intents and purposes, is kind of a sport for coordinated people. I imagine this is a surprise for some people — not necessarily that I became a serious athlete, but that I did so in a sport that requires skill, fast-twitch muscles, body-space awareness, etc., because, for most of my life, my talents so obviously lay elsewhere.

For example, I have always been really good at continuing slowly in a straight line for an extended period of time. I discovered this in middle school, when, right around the peak of my awkwardness, I joined the track team. After brief and tumultuous careers with hurdles and pole vault (read: one track meet), I settled on long-distance events and everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. Here was something that Syd could do relatively well, and with pretty limited risk of hurting herself or others. Phew.

And, as it turned out, I was pretty good at running in circles. I even had just enough body-space awareness to survive cross-country running races without twisting my ankles, which was pretty much all that was required for me to become a long-distance running star in rural Ohio. I wasn’t spectacular, but I was good enough that people said I had promise. People said I could run in college, or that I should try half-marathons, or full marathons or maybe even ultras. It was pretty clear — where I was concerned, the longer the better. If it was a race of attrition, it was all mine. If it came down to a sprint, I was doomed.

Here I am at a track meet in high school and if it looks like my eyes are closed, it’s probably because they were. (Which explains A LOT actually.)

For the 10 years following my first ever track meet, I stuck to “straight-line” sports. Swimming, cycling, running. I dabbled in triathlons and road cycling and started racing cross-country mountain bikes in college. As far as the mountain biking went, the less technical, the better. And, naturally, the longer the better.

And then, last year, 11 years after I first tripped over a hurdle and nearly speared myself on the pole vault, I started racing enduro.

Here is a brief one sentence explanation of enduro for those who still aren’t clear on what it is (which, by the way, is almost everyone and includes people who race it, so don’t feel bad): enduro is a series of timed downhill stages over the course of a day (or two or three or five days, depending on the race), in which racers pedal to the start and then race down the hill, traversing technical rocky sections and going off jumps and drops and generally just trying to go very, very fast.

Put another way, everything I’m bad at. Then add in the fact that the average enduro stage is under 15 minutes, and according to basically everyone, I should be totally, utterly hopeless. But the funny thing is that I’m not (at least not totally).

I have a feeling I know why that might be — I did my first enduro race because it looked fun. Not because I thought I would be good at it. With the exception of one just-for-fun water polo class in college (in which I may or may not have gotten a concussion), it was the first time I had embarked on an athletic endeavor without thinking, oh hey, maybe I’ll be good at this, maybe this will be my thing. The very first time. How messed up is that?

My high school coaches weren’t wrong about me — my natural talent probably does lie in long-distance events. I was the one who was wrong when I took “natural talent” to be a dictum of what I should be doing. I was wrong when I thought I had to be immediately talented at something for it to be “my thing.”

Photo: Nick Ontiveros

Photo: Nick Ontiveros

It would be a lie to say that my first season racing pro enduro was all fun and games. I basically cried myself through my first three races. Old habits die hard — and so do old expectations. Somewhere along the line I had trained myself to expect immediate success. Don’t worry, I know this is stupid, but sometimes it can be hard to be logical in the face of what your brain is telling you, over and over again, is failure. Somewhere around the middle of the season, I had a mental breakthrough. I started to be able to see my own improvements –even though I was still lagging behind my competitors — and I stopped being afraid of failing. Because, frankly, being last while doing something you love is hardly the worst thing that can happen to a person. (Hint: not doing the thing you love because you’re afraid of being last is WAY WORSE.)

I can say completely honestly that I have almost no natural talent for racing enduro. I can’t sprint to save my life (at least not yet, that’s this winter’s project), I require a two-hour warm up to not feel like crap, and sometimes I forget what I’m doing and fall over at 0.5mph and impale my face on my handlebar. Then I have to go to the hospital and get seven stitches in my chin and explain to every single person I see that, no, nope, wasn’t doing anything epic at all.

**warning: slightly graphic picture of the gaping hole in my face #sorrymom***

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However, I can also say, completely honestly, that having no natural talent for enduro is the best thing that has ever happened to me, athletically speaking. While being naturally talented at something can be great, more often than not it is just a gigantic and completely unhelpful mind-fuck. I’m starting to realize that it’s lot more satisfying to be really bad at something and then get okay at it, as opposed to being really good at something and just staying good at it.

Here’s the thing…natural talent is pretty irrelevant when compared to a lot of other factors — grit, drive, determination, and most importantly, loving what you’re doing. It’s one of those “asking the wrong questions” kind of scenarios. Instead of trying to find the thing I was “great” at, I should have been looking for the thing that I loved enough to become great at (or not, in which case, no biggie, cause I love doing it anyway).

I love racing enduro. I love riding my bike fast. I love letting off the brakes on a slippery, rocky section and realizing just how fast I really can go. I love how, after hours and hours of practice, I have done things this year that six months ago I thought I could never do. I also love how everything I have accomplished this year is directly related to how hard I have worked for it. The victories were small, yes, but they were also huge because they were all mine.

I didn’t exactly trample my competition this season. I hardly had that break-out-stellar-prodigy-superstar season that I always expected I would have if I ever managed to find that thing that I was made to do. More accurately, I held onto the rear-end of the pro women’s field by the very tips of my fingernails. I scrabbled. I crashed. And yeah, I lost. Pretty frequently. But a lot of important things happened — I learned a lot. I had fun. I was actually disappointed for the race season to be over. And I think maybe, against all odds, I found my thing.

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