I’m competitive. I always have been. That’s not necessarily a problem. It’s a sense of what’s possible (“If he or she can do it, then why can’t I?”). It’s a driving force that has propelled me forward, allowed me to accomplish a great deal, and led to frequent success in the conventional sense of the word.
The mirage of perfection
But being competitive is also exhausting. It’s a never-ending race forward, one that leads you to believe in the mirage of perfection—never attained, always disappointing. As the years went by, I thought a lot about my relationship with competition; at times I distanced myself from it considerably and often preferred my solitary adventures.
In January, I decided to run a few races again—short distances that I enjoy and from which I recover quickly. I made it my mission to be fair. Fair to myself, to my effort and my expectations, and to let go of comparisons as much as possible. I envisioned a pure paradox: gentle competition.
I decided to treat these three races as an experiment: not worrying about my position in the starting corral, starting gently or even downright slowly, keeping the right amount of effort in mind, constantly tuning into my body’s sensations, slowing down to connect with gentleness, and making my run a journey of moderation.
I can’t say it was easy. In the first race, I was champing at the bit at the start, fell in behind a local speedster telling myself I could keep up with her, ignored the screams of my quadriceps on the uphills, constantly judged myself, rushed to check the results at the finish, and was, of course, disappointed. I didn’t have fun; I suffered, felt old and slower, and lost touch with myself.
In short, it was a bit of a flop this time around, but the experience reinforced my intuition that I’ll only be able to enjoy future races with a less competitive—or more gently competitive—attitude.
Gentle Competition: First Attempt
Two weeks later, at the Serre Chevalier snow trail race, I was finally able to put my “gentle racing” approach to the test.
It was certainly made easier by the setting—the mountains I love so much—and the fact that I didn’t know anyone there. It was much easier to let go of the urge to compare myself to others. I started at the very back of the starting corral, listened to my breathing—which was faster at that altitude— so I slowed down on the climbs, walked up some of the steep slopes, took in the scenery, and lost a good five minutes reattaching one of the snow chains that had come off—all without getting frustrated at all; I raced down the snowy slopes like a little kid and crossed the finish line with a huge smile.
I went to the aid station, happily watched the finishers for a good three-quarters of an hour, chatted with a few runners, and only then realized I was just off the podium. My best chocolate medal ever.
A week after the snow trail, I was at the starting line for the 11-km Galinette, a small local race with technically challenging terrain and a significant elevation gain. Still buoyed by the positive experience from the previous week, I set off confident that “gentle racing” was truly the key if I wanted to compete sustainably. And especially if I wanted competition to be a path toward self-awareness and openness, rather than a selfish, brutal, and inevitably unsatisfying pursuit.
Second Attempt
Things were tougher, though, at La Galinette. I knew a lot of the runners and was aware of how I stacked up against this or that person. Chris was there too, and I always tend to want to prove (to myself? to him?) that I can run faster than him. It’s not exactly something to be proud of, but it’s often true enough. I recognized this tendency to measure myself against others; I heard the voice of comparison several times (“Oh, but so-and-so, who’s always on the podium, is right there a little further up the hill—come on, Elise, push harder, you can catch up to her!”) but I didn’t listen to it. A small victory over my competitive streak with big results.
I ran at my own pace, with ease; I cheered on lots of people, talked with others, didn’t systematically sprint past everyone on the downhills by taking stupid risks (another stubborn habit of mine), and I even took the time to push the association’s wheelchair up a steep slope—the one used to support people with disabilities on the trails. I accepted without resentment that my legs had given out on the last two kilometers, so I cheered on the two girls who passed me (and cost me my spot on the podium) in the final 500 meters. I went to talk to them at the finish line and was surprised to find myself genuinely happy for them. The overall experience completely overshadowed the race results.
Running Happily
I’m glad I came up with the idea of “gentle racing”; if I were younger and had more of a taste for this sort of thing, I might even start a new trend: #gentleracing. I hope to inspire other women (and men) to pursue their passion for sports in a balanced way, to look kindly upon all the ways we’re hard on ourselves, and to learn to respect ourselves with dignity and without complacency.
Honestly, you run so much better when you’re happy.