LETTER FROM THE EDITOR 1/23/08
It was a moment of truth, and I failed.
I'd gone to Snowbasin for a day of relaxed skiing, and stopped in the repair shop to say hi. One tech looked at the baggy bibs I was wearing and said, "Where have you been? Where's your race suit? Today's the Town Challenge! You're late!"
My jaw dropped in shock.
Ski racing is my hobby and passion. I spend considerable income on Masters and other races. I train and do gym work outs specifically to be in shape for this sport.
The Snowbasin Town Challenge is a series of giant slalom races with great prizes and even better bragging rights. Last year, I won it. I am the defending women's champion. But I had totally forgotten that the first race in this year's series was that very day. It was already 1:00. If the race was not yet over, it was close.
My shock turned to panic. I rushed to put on my boots, didn't even buckle them, grabbed my skis and ran to the gondola. The whole way up I stressed, knowing I wouldn't have a warmup run, wouldn't be able to inspect the course, what if they had pulled the gates, I'm on my short skis, oh no, I'm not prepped to race---on and on. I got to the start just as they were ready to pull. "Wait, wait!" I yelled.
"Hey, we got one more," the starter said into his radio, as I skied up, panting hard, frantically tearing off my backpack and maneuvering into the start. I looked down the course and all I could see was a huge rut at the first gate. I must have gasped. One of the race department guys put a hand on my shoulder, saying, "Relax. Calm down. Take a deep breath." But I didn't listen to his wise advice. The starter counted me down. I leaped through the wand, thinking about ruts, about my short skis, my lack of race wax,---thought about everything but what I was doing at that moment. I wasn't in the moment at all; I was in my imagination.
I came in dead last. DFL.
I thought about it for days; about how not controlling my mind in a sport that is primarily mental kept me from the immediate reality; and the reality was that my skis were holding just fine, the ruts weren't actually that big, I could have easily gone for it. I figured I learned a valuable lesson. It would help me in the next race, a three-day Masters event at Sun Valley the following weekend.
But in fact, I hadn't learned anything. In the GS race the next Saturday, my first run was okay, and I was ready to rip the second run. But as I stood behind the wand, the starter said, "Better put your coat back on. There's a course hold." Then he said into his radio, "Is she moving? Oh, she's going to need help?"
Instantly, panic swelled and filled my world. I thought about the woman who started before me laying somewhere on the course, waiting for ski patrol, hurt, maybe needing surgery. Would that happen to me? When the starter said "Go!", I didn't even take a deep breath. I oozed slowly out of the start, and cautiously skied around the gates, thinking only about the injured racer. Again, I was not in the moment.
And again, I was DFL. Beaten by everyone. Everyone.
In that post-race beat-yourself-up time, I vowed to learn from that experience. But I realized I still hadn't learned the necessary lesson after the first run of the following day's slalom. While lined up at the start, I had to ask another racer to please stop talking about the 'holes' (collapsed snow) in the course. Though she instantly did, I still could not stop thinking about those holes as I meandered through the gates. But finally, this time, I'd had enough. There were three hours until the second run, and I was determined to use that time to get control of my wandering mind. On the lift, I thought, "What do you want to do in this run?" The answer: concentrate on the race; be in the moment. During course inspection and warmup runs, I concentrated on concentrating.
As I stood in the start, someone began talking about how difficult a section was near the finish. I forced my attention away. At the first gate, my mind flashed on the immediate past: how bad my start had been. I forced myself back to the present moment. I used each gate as a focus for in-the-moment concentration. I'll turn there. I can get close to that gate. I can speed up in this section.
As my time flashed at the finish, I realized that it was the best run I'd had all season.
And so perhaps I may have learned the lesson required to do well in competition, the one I had been neglecting. When I get to a race, I'm always physically prepared. I have the right equipment, the right wax, the right race suit. But like every athlete who wants to win, I must also prepare to have the right mind. It won't happen by itself. Without deliberate mental prep, the right mind can be gone without its owner even realizing it.
Back in the 60's, icon Timothy Leary wrote a marvelous book called "Be Here Now," a concept that is timeless. It's almost too basic to be mentioned, but in competition, being there, being totally in the moment, is essential. It's too late to think about your gear or the mistake you made seconds ago which now is in the past. Thinking about the victory or the person you want to beat takes you out of the moment and into your imagination, where nothing is really real. The victory has not yet happened, the person you want to beat is not there. The only real thing is the current moment.
The most startling realization is that the winning mantra "be here now" is essential for success in every other part of life too.
Wina Sturgeon, Editor