Talented? Ummm… Not so much.

Below is an excerpt from one of my favorite recurring conversations between myself and some of the athletes I work with…

ME:  How is the training going?

ATHLETE: It’s going “okay”.

ME:  What do you mean “okay”?

ATHLETE:  Well I am following the plan and I feel really good.  I just want to know…

ME: Yes?

ATHLETE: When am I going to get faster?

I recently read a book called Bounce by Matthew Syed.  If you like Malcolm Gladwell’s Tipping Point or What the Dog SawBounce is right up your alley.  In fact the author quotes Gladwell several times when making the argument for the book’s main thesis, which is essentially that there is no such thing as talent.  The theory goes something like this: people are not born phenomenal runners, incredible swimmers, amazing cyclists or even exceptional pianists, computer programmers or chess masters.  People win the Masters, become Olympians, and develop into world-famous cellists not because of talent but because they have put in a lot of work doing what they do best.  Gladwell and Syed quote scientists who have actually quantified the mind boggling amount of work these so-called talented people have put in.  The number of hours?  Ten thousand.  Think about that.  You want to be good at something?  Really really good at something?  You have to put in… Ten. Thousand. Hours.

As athletes we are always comparing ourselves to one another, standouts in our sport, or older versions of ourselves.  We want to get faster, stronger, and smarter now.  The rub?  We will never be Michael Phelps unless we put in the time that he has put in.  This thought can be extremely daunting.  He’s been working so hard for so long to be a phenomenal swimmer.  We could never do that, why even try?  But if you think about it, the idea that talent is not born but instead created can be incredibly empowering.  If you commit yourself to the process and commit yourself to purposeful practice, with time you will improve.  Curious about when you are going to get faster? How about chipping away at those 10,000 hours.

When talking about this blog post idea with a few friends, I couldn’t help but notice that this theory didn’t sit well with a lot of people.  Some people are just talented they contend.  According to them, no matter how hard we try or how much time we put in we could never, ever be like these superstars of sport.  As a professional triathlete muscling her way through her rookie year, I am not afraid to admit that I don’t want to believe that.  I am where I am, not because talent was bestowed upon me, but instead because I have been running since I was eight years old and training is one of my favorite things to do.  I am going to get better through work, not some gift from the heavens.  So how do I argue with someone who says, “Some people have talent and some people just don’t”?  Take a look at the circles below.

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My coach and I mulled this over and came up with an idea: Environment, purposeful practice, and genetics can all contribute to our success or lack thereof.  When these three things come together, you get amazing ability.  Michael Phelps was born with an incredible “wingspan”, was lucky enough to train at the North Baltimore Aquatic Club under Bob Bowman from a very young age (so he could start logging those hours) and he has put in lots and lots of hard work.  Unfortunately, we don’t always have control over our environment and genetics.  The good news?  When we are old enough we can often choose an environment that nurtures our abilities and body type isn’t always a limiting factor.  The great news?  The amount of purposeful practice you put in is completely under your control.  So we’re back to those 10,000 hours.

Too many people give too much credit to the genetic and environmental advantages they think talented people benefit from and I suspect the reason is simple.  The idea that we can create talent is scary.  It means a lot of hard work.  And it means a lot of time.  Remember that feeling you would get when your college professor gave you the course syllabus at the beginning of the semester and you thought, “How the heck am I going to do all this?  I don’t even want to start.”  The feeling you get from the idea that talent is created is like that… times 10,000.  But if you don’t think you have the time to create your “talent”, remember this…

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Two flats, two feet, and a little heart…

“Not again.”  That was my first thought. “This cannot be happening to me again.”  I had ridden to mile 40 in Ironman Texas 70.3 and I had flatted in a race. Again.

The race up until that point had been blissfully uneventful.  I managed to stay with the back pack during the 1.2 mile swim, rip off my wetsuit, and grab my new Cervelo P5 for what I hoped would be a powerful, yet vanilla, ride.  On the way out I managed to reel in two pros and after the turnaround I had a renewed sense of purpose when I saw how within reach some of the other girls were.  My nutrition was dialed in and everything was going according to plan.  That is, of course, until my front wheel met that rock around mile 40.  As soon as I hit it I knew.  I knew I had a flat.  I knew I had to stop.  I knew I was going to lose time. And I knew I could only rely on myself to fix it. (In the athlete briefings leading up to race day the officials always talk about support on the course.  From what I have experienced there is never tech support when you need it.  Never. Ever.) So I pulled out my can of Pit Stop, a sort of on-the-go sealant that oftentimes relieves a very anxious and harried cyclist from having to change a flat.  But when I started to use the Pit Stop by pressing the rubber end onto the valve of my flat tire, I quickly realized this job was a little too big for such an easy remedy.  For when I pressed that rubber end onto the valve, the white foamy sealant went into the tube and then immediately back out of the hole created by the blowout and then, quite hazardously into my face.  Luckily for me, when getting my bike race ready in addition to the Pit Stop I opted to also carry a spare tube.  So what’s a girl to do when plan A doesn’t work?  She has to put on her big girl panties and change the damn tire.  So that’s what I did.  About ten minutes after my date with the rock, I was off and rolling again. Of course while I was doing all of this, the pros that I had managed to reel in had cut the line and raced ahead.

16 miles.  16 short miles. That’s all that stood between me and T2 – where I would find my socks, my shoes, a visor, and the final leg of the race where mechanical issues couldn’t bring me down.  Anyone can ride 16 miles right?

About a mile and a half out from T2 I rode down what can only be described as the ugliest patchwork of asphalt ever called a street.  My heart skipped a beat with every jolt, every bump, and every dip.  The sidewall of my tire was compromised from hitting the rock earlier and if a pothole so much as looked at my front wheel cross eyed I was doomed.  Somehow I managed to make it down said street.  But just as I approached the airport tarmac that made up the last mile of the course, a strip of dirt and rocks appeared where the asphalt had been completely torn away.  I rode over it and… Sssssssss.  Flat. Number. Two.  Only this time?  Not only did I not have race “support”, I didn’t have Pit Stop, and I didn’t have another spare tube.

One mile.  One long mile.  That’s all that stood between me and T2 – where I could finally rack this hobbled machine and get on with the race.  Anyone can run a mile right?

I took off my bike shoes and put them in my left hand (because no one wants to start a half marathon with bloody heels) and I grabbed the saddle of my bike with my right hand and I ran… barefoot, across the tarmac.  Oh and that one pro I had managed to reel in again after flat number one?  She passed me.  Again.  When I finally made it back into transition I was so happy to be there all thoughts of DNFing disappeared.  I had made it this far, what was 13.1 more miles?  All things considered, I managed to turn in a pretty good run split as I tracked down and stalked the girl that passed me during my two flat debacles.  In the end, the final pass of the day would be mine.

While this certainly wasn’t the race I had hoped for, I certainly hope to have this much heart in every race.  Next up?  St.Croix 70.3.  I can’t wait!

Two bare feet… And sweet sweet shoes!

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