I can, I will, I must.

The title for this blog has been ungracefully stolen from another of my coach's athletes, if you are that athlete sorry and thank you, as this is my race day mantra. The romantic ideal of athletic struggle is often glamourised by adverts and films adding music and showing the victor post race, things are put into slow motion o black and white and it is as if the world's best are able to summon super human strength and overcome pain and win with seeming ease.

I cannot speak for all athletes but I suspect this is not the case. Success, however you define it, is got through dogged determination and, quite simply, being willing to suffer. Lance once said something of similar effect about people who thought he "flew" up the cols and mountains of the tour, he didn't "fly" he suffered in pain up every one, he was just able to go faster while suffering than his competitors.

I ain't Lance, not even close, and tomorrow I'm not really racing anyone except the clock. When the voice in my head says, stop, for the love of God stop, your feet are bleeding, your fast approaching incontinece and your legs cannot support your weight, I will have to shout out my mantra. I will have to shout damn loud to be heard through the flood of common sense telling me pain isn't weakness but leaving the body but your body telling you to stop, your hurting it you moron. I will have to shout it loud to drown out the voice telling me it isn't worth it, or I've done enough. I'd like to think as I sit here I will develop a massive second wind and it will feel effortless, that I will arrive at some kind of sporting nirvana where pain is but a distant memory and sub 7:00 mile splits flow like honey, but I know on race day that isn't how things work. It will only hurt more and then more as I get progressively further on in the race, I must convince myself that suffering is worthwhile. Easier said than done.

For me to able to say I raced hard and well only two outcomes are acceptable:

1. I collapse into the canal and wake up on a drip in hospital,
2. The clock reads 8:XX:XX when I cross the line.

Sub9orbust!