Notes Along the Way - Week 21

Imposter Syndrome 

No power going up the hill. No speed. Just legs that forgot what they were doing and a brain that spiraled.

I'd just started tapering — reducing training, resting more, trying to be okay with stillness. And mostly I thought I was managing it well. Extra rest. Relaxing cups of tea. Walks in nature. Journaling. I thought I was handling it impeccably.

Then I went for an easy thirty miles and everything came apart.

The trigger was real. Riding with Joe on a laid-back route, we collided and he went down. My fault. I saw him hit the pavement out of the corner of my eye and watched him cradle his arm. Holy shit. All the effort and preparation, the hopes and dreams for Unbound — suddenly in jeopardy. He was bleeding. I was the reason.

A moment to take stock showed he was okay. Some cuts, a sore hand, but okay. His bike too.

I was not okay.

I dissociated. Shut down. Into a vast emptiness the negative voices streamed like a tidal wave: I need to wake up to the failure that I am. I should separate myself from everyone before I embarrass myself and bring them down too.

And then, about Unbound specifically: This has been stupid of me. A farce. My training has been all wrong. It's made me slower. I'm impossibly slow. I thought I was good at hills — what a joke. I haven't learned anything mechanically and that makes me a liability. I'm not the kind of rider who should be at Unbound. I will put others at risk and embarrass myself.

The voices didn't stay there. They never do. They moved through the obvious targets and kept going. Deeper inventory. Old wounds violently slashed open. I cannot make progress in any aspect of life. Career ambitions — years of trying and nothing to show for it. All the running goals I aimed for crumbled in the end. Old cruelties toward myself about weight and shape I thought I'd gotten over. Even my closest relationships are tenuous at best, despite how much they mean to me. The ride opened a door that was already there. Old failures. Old griefs. Things I thought I'd made peace with, or at least learned to set down. It's remarkable how a bad ride can reach all the way back. 

At mile sixteen of a thirty mile easy ride, I had no idea how I was going to get back. The tears came and the floodgates opened. I was grieving everything. Grieving that I was not the person I thought I was.

What is happening? Why am I so completely falling apart? Is this just tapering? Is this just what happens when the training load drops and the anxiety has nowhere to go — when the nervous system goes quiet and the dark places get louder? Or is some of it real? Maybe both. Maybe that's the hardest part.

I cried and cried. It helped and allowed me to finish the ride, get home. But now what? I'll do my best to rebuild and continue this last bit of training, but I can't help but be shaken by this glimpse at the demons within. Can I make peace with them? Is this all a test? Can I persevere? Or is it preparation for a deep disappointment?

At the start line, will I feel ready? I don't know. I know I don't want to give up, despite what's revealed. I don't want my doubts and insecurities to limit me, even if they do show some stark truths. I know that what happens in the Flint Hills will be part of the story of who I am — but it won't be the whole story. The story continues beyond what those hills inform.