Murphy’s Lore
Sam wonders if success is all about the smile
They say every picture tells a story; if that’s true, then the photos taken of me at a recent trail race tell the story of Someone Not Having a Good Day. In one, I look sullen and tense – as if I’d rather be doing anything other than running through beautiful woodland in late autumn. In another, I’m walking and giving the photographer what is known among my friends as the ‘death stare’ – the granddaddy of dirty looks. Even in my finish-line pic, I’m scowling. What’s most galling about this is that the images of me are in complete contrast to every other image the photographer snapped that day, in which mud-splattered runners give the thumbs up, flash cheesy grins, leap over puddles and pose for the camera with their running buddies. Everyone, it seems, is having a great day out. Except me.
Now that it’s all over, I feel slightly disturbed – ashamed, even – by my inability to enter into the spirit of the event. While others squealed and chuckled at the mucky conditions underfoot, I could be heard tutting and muttering things such as, ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers.’ I simply didn’t find the experience pleasurable. You might think that once I was back in the warmth of the car, heading home, I’d have found something positive to say, such as, ‘Ah well, it was a lovely route,’ or ‘That’s 13 miles in the bank,’ but instead I scrolled through my appalling mile splits and berated myself for a shocking performance.
I’m torn about what tale to tell you about that day; which one rightfully accompanies those dreadful pictures? Is it the defensive one about how frustrating and joyless – and, yes, bloody hard – I find running through ankledeep mud that has the consistency of a smoothie, and tripping and slipping on concealed tree roots, rocks and fallen branches along a bramble-lined singletrack path? Or is it the worried confessional, admitting how much I struggle to enjoy things I’m not good at? (OK, I’m being a bit hard on myself here. Anyone who’s heard me play the guitar can attest that I am pretty terrible at it, but I do enjoy that.) I guess the nub of the issue is that running means a lot to me. It’s a huge part of my identity and the feeling of being inept at it felt threatening, disproportionately so. Enough, in fact, to force me to have a good, hard think about my attitude to racing.
What do I actually mean when I say I had a bad race? One: I didn’t feel good on the run – heavy-legged and devoid of energy. Two: I performed badly, as in the time on the clock and the position on the list of finishers. Three: I didn’t enjoy it.
Which of these is the worst? Or do they come as a trio? Is it possible to feel bad but still perform well? Yes, it sometimes happens. Is it possible to perform well and not enjoy it? I’d say so. Is it possible to enjoy yourself and not perform well? That, I think, brings us back to the race photos. The story they tell – all except mine – is that it certainly is. I’ll assume that not everyone in those pictures set a PB, ran a great time, or even performed to the best of their ability. But still, they enjoyed the race. Perhaps they weren’t even worrying about how ‘well’ they were running – they were just out there having fun, and the fact that they’d pinned on a race bib before they set off was immaterial.
A couple of weeks after the race, I was leading a group on a long run through woodland that was every bit as gloopy and treacherous as that race route, when it struck me that it’s not running in these conditions I detest, it’s racing in them. Without the pressure I put upon myself to perform every time I don a race number, I can enjoy a slow-going muddy trail run as much as everyone else. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s not better trail-running techniques I need, but a change of mindset. For my next race, my definition of success will be how big my smile is in the finish-line photo