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Why I Stopped Running Races
January 1, 2018 by Pablo Rodriguez
How I Rediscovered Running After Quitting Professional Racing
When I was a professional triathlete representing my home country of Costa Rica, I equated running to competition. Why would I run if not to prepare for the next race? My whole existence revolved around pushing limits, shaving seconds, and standing on podiums.
I never asked myself if I liked running; it was just my job.
The truth is, I didn’t. Not really. It was a means to an end, a relentless grind. Once I stepped away from the starting gun, I saw no point in it.
So after I quit professional sports, I just stopped running. Completely. I traded the track for a desk, and my life became, well, pretty sedentary. It felt like a part of me went dormant.
Running for fitness, NOT ANYMORE.
The Isards taught me a lesson
In 2004, living here in Spain, I decided enough was enough. I needed to regain some basic fitness, to feel alive again, but the only way I knew how to run was by training for a race. Old habits, you know?
After registering for the Budapest Half Marathon – yes, another race, I couldn’t help myself – I began running for the first time in years. My training ground? Girona’s beautiful Devesa Park, with its towering plane trees creating natural cathedrals. It’s a place I’ve come to know intimately over my twelve years here, not just the paths, but the local folks who walk them, the café owners, the community that makes this region home. (My kids used to play hide-and-seek among those trees, you know?)
Trail running?
Fifteen days before that Budapest race, I decided on a little “tune up” – a 21 k.m. trail run up and down the mythical Mount Puigmal in the Pyrenees. I figured it would sharpen me up. At the starting line that day, I felt that familiar, killer competitive instinct kick in – the one I hadn’t felt since my triathlon days. I was ready to dominate.
Stop you idiot!
When the starter’s gun sounded, I sprinted off the line, hammering uphill all the way to the 2,994-meter summit of Puigmal. I was totally focused, felt powerful and strong, a machine. But as I crested the summit and began my descent, a voice inside my mind began yelling, “Stop, you idiot! You’re moving so fast you didn’t even notice the 20 Isards – those agile mountain deer – jump right in front of you!” It was like a slap in the face. I’d been so blinded by the finish line, I’d missed the magic – the real reason I was out there, I mean.
Feeling utterly stupid, I slowed my pace, actually turned around, and really looked at Puigmal’s majestic summit towering above me. I yearned to run back up, just to admire the views of the Cadí range and the distant Mediterranean from its peak. In my rush to dominate that silly race, I had missed so much of the mountain’s raw, rugged beauty.
Understanding running
It wasn’t until many years later, after countless more runs, that I completely understood what truly happened that day on Puigmal. I learned that what truly drives me isn’t the thrill of competition, but rather, the sheer thrill of exploring this blue marble we live on, in the most natural, primal way I know how: on foot. It’s about building a deep, personal relationship with the ground beneath my feet, with the wind on my face – (sometimes the biting Tramuntana here, other times the gentle zephyr of the Mediterranean coast).
Running as just a mean of transportation
Now, I sometimes run up to the Puigmal, not to race, but to simply be. I’ll lay on the ground, being present, noticing every detail. I can tell you the names of the wild thyme and edelweiss blooming near the limestone outcrops, I can identify all the peaks around, from Canigó to Pedraforca. I’m in that place, truly connected, and that’s what gives meaning to my running. It’s just a means of transportation, you see, a way to move through the landscape like our ancestors did, not to conquer it, but to understand it, to become a part of it. (That connection, it’s something you just don’t get when you’re staring at a GPS watch.) Why are these the moments I feel most complete, truly happy and free? Is it just a huge overdose of endorphins? I don’t think so; it’s much more than that. I never felt any of it while racing. This is about more than fitness; it’s about authentic discovery, about connecting with the raw land and its people, whether it’s the shepherds in the Pyrenees or the Berber families who’ve welcomed us into their homes in the Atlas Mountains, offering us tea and sharing stories as if we’ve known them for generations. That’s the real win.
© Copyright 2011 Runcosbra Girona s.l.
