Confidence Over Everything — Bridget Black Writes

There are certain joys that come with living with me. They include, but are in no way limited to: half eaten granola bars abandoned on countertops, the rare but reliably 1x/year locked-out situation, and an obsession with "smooth sheets" (post for another time). Oh, and also, lengthy, extremely repetitive bouts of verbal processing in times of indecision or stress or maybe both. My boyfriend, who moved in last fall, has been so delighted by these discoveries!

So, on the days preceding the glorious occasion of my return to triathlon competition, which were marked by work stress and numerous small disasters (INCLUDING A ROACH SIGHTING MY MF-ING APARTMENT; JUST A ROACH CRAWLING AROUND MY FLOOR; I AM NOT OKAY), do you think I was peaceful and flowing like a river? Or do you think I was screaming in my sleep and then talking to myself for hours on end while awake?

That's right, you smart cookie, it was the latter.

The key point of my insane equivocation, which again, my cohabitating boyfriend LOVED, was a borrowed race bike. While I do have a history of being slightly gear-challenged, every triathlete knows race bikes are needed for fast times, cool medals, and general Tough Looks. I had been in the market for one in 2015, when I was In Deep with the tri training and racing. My friend even let me borrow/possibly buy her TT for Nationals that year! I was waylaid by a nasty case of mono. I did not buy her bike that fall. I did not even get on a bike that fall.

But anyway, through some magical Sisterhood of the Traveling Bike forces, that exact bike - the one I should have owned had my immune system been cooperative in the slightest - was generously loaned to me for use in the NYC tri. It's a fast bike. I have a weird history with it. No brainer, right?

But.

But I'd done all my training on my trusty aluminum roadie - and some of those workouts had been good. But my endlessly frustrating SI joint got cranky every time I got on it. But the handling was new and different and essentially felt like trying to ride a paper plane. But I was less terrified of being slow, and more terrified of crashing and not finishing at all. But the setup was for someone else's body.

But it was a fast bike and I would be fast on it? And the magic of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Bike had presented me with this opportunity and I should take it? I told you I equivocate.

By Friday of race week, my bf/roommate, who had so "happily" (no) been "listening" (checking golf scores) finally blurted out: "How is this even a question? You said you want to have fun and be safe so do that. Ride your own bike!!"

This was sound advice, and he had a great point. I did what anyone in a relationship would do when offered good advice by their partner: I ignored it.

Instead, I continued waffling, soothing myself with the knowledge that I did not have to decide until "tomorrow." (Note: bike check in is Saturday, and this was....Friday night.) Finally, I did what any woman whose significant other has just snapped at her does - I texted my friends. Specifically, the friend who first owned this bike, who is a wise, wise woman will shoot you straight.

I told her I had to check in a bike - any bike! - to the transition area in, like, 3 short hours. She told me to ride what I felt most confident on, because comfort and confidence will make me an aggressive racer and rider, while timidity will take away any benefits from the race bike.

She was right, and I realized it all at once: Confidence Over Everything. I checked in the roadie.

On race day, I got a very minor bike split PR on very minimal training. I can't attribute that PR to time in the saddle. There's only one reason why I could beat my previous best: I road confidently, and it worked.

Confidence.

Over.

Everything.

Just a spoonful of confidence makes the pain go down.  I learned that from Mary Poppins. — Just a spoonful of confidence makes the pain go down. I learned that from Mary Poppins.