Snow Outside, Sunshine Ahead
This morning I looked out the window and saw snow drifting sideways again. Another reminder that winter has officially arrived in the Midwest. And yet, tomorrow I'll be stepping onto a plane bound for California, headed straight for Palm Springs. It's the last race of the season. A strange contrast, really. A winter wonderland outside my window and a desert triathlon waiting for me on the other end.
That contrast twists me up more than I expected. There's something surreal about watching snow pile up while mentally preparing to jump into a lake, hammer on a bike, and run 13 miles around a golf course under the sun. Even carb loading feels strange right now. Swimming feels strange. Packing, planning... honestly, sitting here feels strange. It's as if my mind and my environment are out of sync.
Taper syndrome.
Racing Solo
And then there's the part that hits a little deeper...
I'm going without my wife and kids for this one.
I've done races solo before, but I never truly get used to it. Without them, the objective feels a little less purposeful. The rituals of race week, the bags, the logistics, the mental rehearsals, feel heavier without the usual background noise of family life. When they're with me, the whole thing hums with meaning. Without them, it's quieter… and not always in a good way.
But my parents will be there.
Friends will be there.
I need to be there.
Because this is what I do.
It's part of who I am.
The Mission Doesn't Change
So, I'll pack. I'll fly. I'll race. Even with the strange duality of climates and missing faces in the crowd. Snow today, sunshine tomorrow, the mission doesn't change. Every race is a chance to rewrite what I thought was possible. Personal records aren't meant to stand forever.
And that's the plan for Sunday.
Time to break one.