At the end of your rope

Tasting blood in his mouth. Feeling his muscles tear until he was paralyzed, until each limb took on the unyielding consistency of reinforced concrete. Accepting the burning in his lungs as a willing tribute to his final effort. Hands white from gripping the handlebars too tightly. Numb feet. Back aching from the lumbar vertebrae to between the shoulder blades. The pulsing of blood resonating in the temples like the drumbeat of a warring horde. 

With his forehead resting on his forearm, or sitting with his head between his knees, his gaze fixed on the ground, nothing exists anymore except the waste produced by the intense and magnificent display of human strength that has just been demonstrated. It spreads through a body that radiates, oozes, cries from having suffered so much. Sometimes, nausea. Dizziness. 

Later, after the rush of endorphins, after the sweet ecstasy, will come the heavy fatigue that only sleep can repair. Then it will be time to start all over again. 

Pushing yourself to the limit comes at a price. But it also pays off. This is the variable in the equation that those who have never reached this frontier of body and mind cannot calculate. It's not their fault. They lack the data. 

This unknown is a piece of an enhanced life, improved by this knowledge and gratitude towards oneself for having been able to achieve such a degree of self-sacrifice. It is the exclusive knowledge shared by athletes who experiment, who prefer to embrace the possibility of failure rather than bask in the comfort of habit. 

That's why I love training. And competition. Both allow you to attempt what you thought was impossible. To succeed, sometimes, but not always. And to get back up and try again, again and again, until you achieve the desired result.

I am 44 years old. I never tire of the idea of pushing that boundary a little further. Of preventing it from losing ground with age. Of playing with my body like a finely tuned instrument; a weapon ready to be drawn, whatever the occasion. Everything counts. The quality of the gesture, the efficiency of the movement, the position, the technique, the strategy. 

It is all the more difficult to understand because watching the professionals gives us little insight into the abyssal depths we sometimes have to draw on, physically and mentally, in order not to crack. The pros wear the impassive mask of the game, of this poker game that is competition, while we try to tell our neighbor that he is suffering more than we are, that he would be better off giving up since he has no chance of winning the bet.

We also learn to draw this mask during training. Especially with a mirror in front of us, while we endure a series of efforts on the roller, refining our position and learning to act while a drama unfolds inside us. The desire to give up, to resign ourselves. 

Pushing yourself to the limit sometimes means crossing the line, breaking down. It's a school where you are your own subject matter. Clay that you shape. Data that you compile and analyze. Techniques that we refine in order to deceive our fears and scramble the signal sent by our brain when it commands us to stop subjecting our bodies to such aggression. 

I am never disappointed by my failures when I push myself to the limits of my abilities. They teach me about myself. They tell me what I need to do better, or differently. They force me to seek advice from professionals. They teach me resilience and make me stronger. 

The border is receding because I'm working on it. I don't know yet for how long. But I want, once again, to go to the limit.