I am competitive. It’s not like I hip check small children to get ahead of them in line or anything. I prefer creating distractions so they don’t notice.
On one hand, I treasure my competitive nature. It motivates me to get out bed each day and leads to achievements otherwise beyond imagination. But on the other hand, it drives me a little wackadoodle. Sometimes, staying in bed would be a nice change of pace.
My ongoing affair with running is a prime example. After a twenty-plus year break, I started running again in 2010 and in the past six years have completed four half-marathons and a variety of shorter races—and it has been awesome. I love the thrill of the big race where all sorts of humanity gather on a weekend morning for a good cause, and I love the battle within myself to see if the long hours of training can produce a new PR (“personal record”).
But training for those races tends to make me a little nutty. I do, mostly, enjoy those training runs, watching my times, seeing improvement, envisioning the big race, and counting down the days, but it has a tendency to become an obsession, which is a nicer way of saying that I become a little like Yosemite Sam but only in a bad mood. And that’s no fun.
Recently, I have enjoyed running with friends all over the map—from Paul in Kenya to Dodie and Rusty in Arkansas to all sorts of friends in California. With no race on the calendar, I simply enjoyed the company and stories and scenery without worrying about times or mileage or anything. And yet, signing up for a race calls me like a siren.
I’ll do it. I know I will. And on certain days I will regret it, most notably on race day when my lungs are burning and I open up negotiations with God. But when it’s over, and I inhale that intoxicating sensation of accomplishment, I will be glad.