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Over thinking can paralyze us. So what's the cure? Come and under think with us at www.patreon.com/thelonelytriathlete TRANSCRIPT This week we're continuing our series based on Oliver Burkeman's book Meditations for Mortals. We're into Chapter 2 now, which is called "Kayaks and Superyachts." The title of this chapter is "Kayaks and Superyachts," and I think it's a pretty good metaphor for something we all do. Imagine you want to go out on the water. You could spend your time planning and preparing to build the perfect superyacht. You could research every possible feature, make sure you have the best equipment, and wait until everything is just right before setting sail. Or you could get yourself a kayak, get out on the water, and start paddling. And I think that's a useful way of thinking about how we approach our lives, and certainly how we approach triathlon. We can spend an awful lot of time trying to optimize everything, looking for the perfect approach, and waiting until we have all the answers. Or we can work with what we have, get started, and figure things out along the way. And that's really what I want to explore today, because I think triathletes are particularly susceptible to the temptation of building superyachts when what they really need is a kayak. And I want to talk about something that I think a lot of triathletes can relate to: the pursuit of the perfect training program, the perfect equipment, the perfect nutrition strategy, the perfect recovery routine. Basically, the idea that if we can just find the right combination of things, we're going to unlock some incredible level of performance. And I think there's a danger in that. I think sometimes we spend so much time trying to optimize our athletic lives that we forget to actually get on with being athletes. Let me explain what I mean. When I first got involved in triathlon, I went online and found a generic triathlon training program. And I started following it. But it wasn't long before I started worrying about whether a generic program was actually any good for me. Was it good for anyone? Was it good for everyone? I started overthinking the effectiveness of something that wasn't personalized or tailored specifically to my needs. So I went out and bought a book called The Triathlete's Training Bible. And I absolutely loved this book. It was fantastic. It educated me about endurance sport, the science behind endurance training, the different types of workouts, the reasons for doing them, annual training volume, periodization, and all sorts of other things. It really gave me the whole lay of the land when it came to putting together an endurance training program. And at first, I was thrilled. This was exactly what I wanted. I wanted to understand how endurance training worked scientifically. I wanted to know how to put together a training plan that was optimized and would produce results. But then something unexpected happened. I became completely paralyzed. There was so much potential variation that you could introduce into a training program, and I didn't know which direction to go. I didn't know enough about the basics, let alone all the possible variations. I actually constructed a few training plans from scratch using what I'd learned in the book. And they were okay for a week or two. But then I'd start getting caught up in all the details. Should I do this workout or that workout? Should I increase this or decrease that? What about this particular training method? What about that one? And for a while, I was just swimming, biking, and running aimlessly because I didn't know how to do it perfectly. Eventually, I had to reason with myself. I had some experience with running before I started triathlon, and I knew that the basic principles of improving endurance performance involved increasing training frequency, increasing volume, or some combination of the two. So I decided that if I could find a training program that had a logical progression of frequency and volume, it would probably produce results. I went back online, found some generic training programs that looked reasonable, and started following one. And you know what? I started getting faster. As I gained more experience, I became better at making adjustments to those generic programs. I learned how my body responded to different workloads. I learned what I could tolerate and what I couldn't. And gradually, I became more capable of personalizing my training. But the important thing was that I had to start somewhere. I couldn't learn how to personalize a training program without first having some training experience to personalize it with. And I think that's an important lesson for anyone getting involved in triathlon. Sometimes we want to understand everything before we begin. We want to know that we're doing things the right way. We want the best possible training plan, the best equipment, the best nutrition strategy, and the best approach to recovery. But sometimes the best thing you can do is just get started. Because there's a difference between knowing about something and actually doing it. And often, the experience of doing something is what teaches you what you need to know next. The search for the secret sauceI think there's a tendency in triathlon, and probably in endurance sport generally, to look for the secret sauce. We're looking for the magic bullet. The supplement, the massage technique, the new piece of equipment, the training methodology, or some little tweak that's going to give us an incredible amount of performance. And I understand the attraction. I really do. I often think about the 80/20 principle. The idea that a relatively small number of things produce a disproportionately large amount of the results. Now, I'm not suggesting that the precise numbers are universal or that endurance training follows some mathematical formula. But I think the general principle applies. The bulk of our performance improvement comes from doing some fairly basic things. It comes from consistently working out. It comes from gradually increasing frequency and volume over time. It comes from introducing harder efforts when appropriate. It comes from backing off, recovering, and then repeating the process. That's really the foundation of endurance training. And athletes who have been doing this long enough sometimes start to wonder whether that simple approach is really enough. Surely there must be something more to it. Surely if it were that simple, everybody would be doing it. But I think that's where we get things backwards. The information is simple. The application is difficult. It's not difficult to understand that you need to train consistently. It's difficult to actually train consistently for months and years. It's not difficult to understand that you need to recover. It's difficult to resist the temptation to squeeze in another workout when you're feeling good. It's not difficult to understand that you need to build your training volume gradually. It's difficult to be patient when you want to get faster right now. And I think that's what we sometimes forget. We're looking for some secret knowledge when what we really need is the discipline to apply the knowledge we already have. And there's another reason these marginal-gain interventions are so attractive. Many of them are actually quite easy. Buying a new piece of equipment is easy. Trying a new supplement is easy. Shining a red light on some part of your body is easy. Taking sodium bicarbonate before a workout is easy. They're all considerably easier than actually training. And I'm not saying these things don't work. Some of them may well provide benefits. But I think we need to be realistic about the size of those benefits and whether they're worth the time, money, and attention we're investing in them. For most amateur athletes, consistently applying the basics is going to produce far greater improvements than chasing a collection of advanced workarounds. The cost of optimizationAnd this idea extends beyond triathlon. I've experimented with all sorts of things in other areas of my life. Different types of journaling, different record-keeping systems, different strategies for staying on track, meditation, the Pomodoro technique, which is working for 25 minutes and then taking a five-minute break. I've listened to binaural beats. I've listened to different kinds of music that promise to improve focus. And none of these things is necessarily bad. Some might be useful. But I've found that the pursuit of all these different methods can become exhausting in itself. You can only white-knuckle so many new habits and systems for so long. Eventually, you reach a point where you've taken on more than you can reasonably sustain. And then you have a bit of a crash, mentally and emotionally. You lose momentum. You lose time. And sometimes you end up going backwards. Which is rather ironic, because the whole purpose of all these productivity techniques was to make you more productive. I've reached a point in my own athletic journey where I'm much more comfortable doing what I can with what I have. Because what's the alternative? Doing what you can't with what you don't have? Trying to do more than you're actually capable of, with energy that you hope you'll have, while sacrificing time with family, responsibilities at work, or other things that matter to you? I think we need to be careful about the trade-offs involved in taking on that extra thing. Even if something works, it doesn't necessarily mean it works enough to justify the cost. And I think that's an important distinction. It's not simply a question of whether something might improve your performance. It's whether the improvement is worth what you have to give up to get it. When exhaustion becomes a badge of honourThere's another aspect of my own training philosophy that has changed quite a bit over the years. I used to think that being chronically exhausted was a goo

You have finite time, energy, physical capacity and resources. You will never be able to maximize every aspect of your athletic potential while also maximizing every other aspect of your life. And that's not a failure. That's what being an amateur athlete — and being human — is all about. Join now for extras at www.patreon.com/thelonelytriathlete TRANSCRIPT I've been reading a book recently called Meditations for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman. It's an interesting book, and it's one of those books that makes you stop and think about how you're approaching your life. The first chapter is called It's Worse Than You Think, which is a rather cheerful way to start a book! But the underlying idea is actually quite interesting. It's about accepting that we're finite human beings. We have limited time, limited energy, limited resources, and we're never going to get around to doing everything we'd like to do. And rather than fighting that reality, perhaps we should learn to accept it and make better decisions about how we use the time we have. I started thinking about how this applies to triathlon, particularly for those of us who are amateur athletes. Because we have limitations. We have genetic limitations, physical limitations, financial limitations, time limitations. And perhaps most importantly, we have limitations on how much of our lives we're prepared to sacrifice in pursuit of athletic performance. And I think that's an interesting subject. Because I suspect a lot of us get into triathlon with this idea that we're going to become really good at all three disciplines. We're going to get faster, we're going to improve our fitness, we're going to get stronger, and we're going to keep progressing. And that's wonderful. That's one of the things I love about this sport. But I also think there's something to be said for recognizing that we are limited athletes. And that accepting those limitations doesn't necessarily mean giving up on improvement. In fact, I think it might help us become better athletes. Let me explain. The beginner: Discovering your limitations When I first got into triathlon, I was around 30 years old. Prior to that, I'd really gotten into running, and I'd experienced some pretty rapid improvements. Within two or three years, I'd managed to get my 10K time down below 45 minutes, and I had visions of eventually breaking 40 minutes. I found the whole process intoxicating. The idea that you could train your body, apply yourself, and actually improve your performance was almost surreal to me. I felt like I was my own little living laboratory. I'd go out and train, I'd measure things, I'd experiment, and I'd see the results. And I loved it. So when I started triathlon, I think I came into the sport with the perception that I was already a reasonably successful beginner-to-intermediate runner. And I assumed that some of that success would translate pretty quickly into triathlon. Well, I was in for a bit of a surprise. The swimming was absolutely awful. I'd always been comfortable in the water. I'd taken swimming lessons as a kid, I'd played in the water, and I had no fear of swimming. But I had absolutely no appreciation for how technical front crawl actually was. I remember going to the pool for the first time and discovering that I could swim maybe 25 metres, perhaps 50 metres, before I needed to stop. And the physical sensation was shocking. My shoulders were burning. My back was burning. I was twisting my head around trying not to choke on the water. Water was going up my nose. I couldn't believe how difficult it was. And this was someone who considered himself a reasonably capable athlete! Cycling was another interesting experience. I figured cycling would be relatively straightforward. After all, I could run, I had reasonably good cardiovascular fitness, and I assumed that getting stronger on the bike would simply be a matter of putting in the miles. But my goodness, my backside hurt. I actually wondered whether my anatomy was somehow incompatible with sitting on a bicycle. I went through three or four different saddles in that first year, and I was struggling to get comfortable for much more than 20 minutes. So here I was, someone who thought he was reasonably athletic, discovering that I had a tremendous amount to learn. And I think that's an important experience for beginners. When you first get into triathlon, it's easy to become overwhelmed by how much there is to learn and how much improvement seems necessary. You look at experienced triathletes and you see people swimming effortlessly, riding for hours, and running at speeds that seem completely unattainable. And you might start thinking that you need to become good at everything immediately. But you don't. You don't have to learn everything all at once. You can start with the basics. You can focus on one discipline, learn the fundamentals, develop some consistency, and then build from there. You don't need to become an expert in swimming, cycling, running, nutrition, strength training, equipment and race strategy in your first six months. You have time. And perhaps that's one of the first limitations we need to accept as beginners: we're beginners. We don't know everything, we're not particularly good at everything, and that's perfectly fine. Three sports, three different challenges One of the things I discovered as I progressed in triathlon was that each of the three disciplines presented a very different challenge. With running, I always perceived my limitations to be largely cardiovascular. I thought about improving my heart and lungs, developing capillary density, improving my aerobic capacity, and becoming more efficient. And the feedback was relatively straightforward. I'd train consistently, I'd get fitter, and I'd run faster. Cycling was similar, although I viewed it more as a muscular endurance challenge. Stronger legs, better muscular endurance, more time on the bike. Again, the equation seemed fairly simple. Put in the work, allow yourself to recover, and over time you'll get stronger. Swimming was different. Swimming was where I really discovered that you can't simply throw more effort at a problem and expect it to go away. Yes, there's a muscular endurance component to swimming. But technique is enormously important. You can swim seven days a week, and if your technique is fundamentally flawed, you might just become really good at swimming with flawed technique. At some point, you need instruction. You need feedback. You need to understand what you're doing incorrectly and how to correct it. I eventually started attending Masters swim classes, reading books and watching instructional videos. And I made progress. But I also came to accept that swimming was probably always going to be my weakest discipline. And that's okay. I think that's an important lesson for anyone getting into triathlon. We're not necessarily going to be equally good at all three disciplines. We come into this sport with different backgrounds, different strengths and different weaknesses. And sometimes we have to accept that one discipline is going to progress more slowly than another. That doesn't mean we've failed. It just means we're working with the athlete we actually are, rather than the athlete we'd ideally like to be. The intermediate athlete: More isn't always better Now, let's move forward a few years. You've been doing triathlon for a while. You're reasonably fit. You understand the basics of training, you've completed a few races, and you're starting to become competitive. And this is where I think another challenge emerges. You start to believe that if you want to become a better athlete, you simply need to do more. More swimming. More cycling. More running. More strength training. And there's some truth to that. Training volume is certainly one of the levers we can pull to improve performance. But I've learned that more isn't always better. I have a good example of this with marathon running. I've completed an Ironman. I've been doing triathlon for decades. I've developed a reasonable level of endurance fitness. So I figured that when it came to running a standalone marathon, I should be able to push my body a little harder and run faster through sheer willpower. Well, that didn't work particularly well. There were two things I discovered. First, I don't seem to have the type of legs that allow me to run more than three times a week consistently. Four runs would be pushing it. In previous attempts to maximize my marathon performance, I've increased my running frequency, and I've ended up injured. Second, marathon running requires a level of durability that takes a long time to develop. It's one thing to have the cardiovascular fitness to run 42 kilometres. It's quite another thing to have the physical durability to withstand the repetitive impact of running that distance at a reasonably fast pace. And every time I've attempted a marathon, I've approached it with perhaps four to six months of specific training. I don't think that's enough for me. I think I need a much longer development period. Perhaps one day I'll take an entire year, or even longer, to build a really durable marathon-running body. But the point is that I can't force that process. My experience in triathlon doesn't automatically translate into marathon durability. And I think that's something intermediate athletes need to understand. Sometimes the limitation isn't your motivation. It isn't your willingness to work hard. It's simply that your body needs more time to adapt. And if you keep trying to force that adaptation, you might end up going backwards. I'm 58, and I'm still getting faster Now here's something interesting. I'm 58 years old, and I haven't yet reached a point where I feel I've exhausted my athletic potential. In fact, I'm still getting faster. For the most part, I'm faster at 58 than I was at 57, and faster at 57 than I was at 56. My running improvements are

You have finite time, energy, physical capacity and resources. You will never be able to maximize every aspect of your athletic potential while also maximizing every other aspect of your life. And that's not a failure. That's what being an amateur athlete — and being human — is all about. TRANSCRIPT I've been reading a book recently called Meditations for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman. It's an interesting book, and it's one of those books that makes you stop and think about how you're approaching your life. The first chapter is called It's Worse Than You Think, which is a rather cheerful way to start a book! But the underlying idea is actually quite interesting. It's about accepting that we're finite human beings. We have limited time, limited energy, limited resources, and we're never going to get around to doing everything we'd like to do. And rather than fighting that reality, perhaps we should learn to accept it and make better decisions about how we use the time we have. I started thinking about how this applies to triathlon, particularly for those of us who are amateur athletes. Because we have limitations. We have genetic limitations, physical limitations, financial limitations, time limitations. And perhaps most importantly, we have limitations on how much of our lives we're prepared to sacrifice in pursuit of athletic performance. And I think that's an interesting subject. Because I suspect a lot of us get into triathlon with this idea that we're going to become really good at all three disciplines. We're going to get faster, we're going to improve our fitness, we're going to get stronger, and we're going to keep progressing. And that's wonderful. That's one of the things I love about this sport. But I also think there's something to be said for recognizing that we are limited athletes. And that accepting those limitations doesn't necessarily mean giving up on improvement. In fact, I think it might help us become better athletes. Let me explain. The beginner: Discovering your limitations When I first got into triathlon, I was around 30 years old. Prior to that, I'd really gotten into running, and I'd experienced some pretty rapid improvements. Within two or three years, I'd managed to get my 10K time down below 45 minutes, and I had visions of eventually breaking 40 minutes. I found the whole process intoxicating. The idea that you could train your body, apply yourself, and actually improve your performance was almost surreal to me. I felt like I was my own little living laboratory. I'd go out and train, I'd measure things, I'd experiment, and I'd see the results. And I loved it. So when I started triathlon, I think I came into the sport with the perception that I was already a reasonably successful beginner-to-intermediate runner. And I assumed that some of that success would translate pretty quickly into triathlon. Well, I was in for a bit of a surprise. The swimming was absolutely awful. I'd always been comfortable in the water. I'd taken swimming lessons as a kid, I'd played in the water, and I had no fear of swimming. But I had absolutely no appreciation for how technical front crawl actually was. I remember going to the pool for the first time and discovering that I could swim maybe 25 metres, perhaps 50 metres, before I needed to stop. And the physical sensation was shocking. My shoulders were burning. My back was burning. I was twisting my head around trying not to choke on the water. Water was going up my nose. I couldn't believe how difficult it was. And this was someone who considered himself a reasonably capable athlete! Cycling was another interesting experience. I figured cycling would be relatively straightforward. After all, I could run, I had reasonably good cardiovascular fitness, and I assumed that getting stronger on the bike would simply be a matter of putting in the miles. But my goodness, my backside hurt. I actually wondered whether my anatomy was somehow incompatible with sitting on a bicycle. I went through three or four different saddles in that first year, and I was struggling to get comfortable for much more than 20 minutes. So here I was, someone who thought he was reasonably athletic, discovering that I had a tremendous amount to learn. And I think that's an important experience for beginners. When you first get into triathlon, it's easy to become overwhelmed by how much there is to learn and how much improvement seems necessary. You look at experienced triathletes and you see people swimming effortlessly, riding for hours, and running at speeds that seem completely unattainable. And you might start thinking that you need to become good at everything immediately. But you don't. You don't have to learn everything all at once. You can start with the basics. You can focus on one discipline, learn the fundamentals, develop some consistency, and then build from there. You don't need to become an expert in swimming, cycling, running, nutrition, strength training, equipment and race strategy in your first six months. You have time. And perhaps that's one of the first limitations we need to accept as beginners: we're beginners. We don't know everything, we're not particularly good at everything, and that's perfectly fine. Three sports, three different challenges One of the things I discovered as I progressed in triathlon was that each of the three disciplines presented a very different challenge. With running, I always perceived my limitations to be largely cardiovascular. I thought about improving my heart and lungs, developing capillary density, improving my aerobic capacity, and becoming more efficient. And the feedback was relatively straightforward. I'd train consistently, I'd get fitter, and I'd run faster. Cycling was similar, although I viewed it more as a muscular endurance challenge. Stronger legs, better muscular endurance, more time on the bike. Again, the equation seemed fairly simple. Put in the work, allow yourself to recover, and over time you'll get stronger. Swimming was different. Swimming was where I really discovered that you can't simply throw more effort at a problem and expect it to go away. Yes, there's a muscular endurance component to swimming. But technique is enormously important. You can swim seven days a week, and if your technique is fundamentally flawed, you might just become really good at swimming with flawed technique. At some point, you need instruction. You need feedback. You need to understand what you're doing incorrectly and how to correct it. I eventually started attending Masters swim classes, reading books and watching instructional videos. And I made progress. But I also came to accept that swimming was probably always going to be my weakest discipline. And that's okay. I think that's an important lesson for anyone getting into triathlon. We're not necessarily going to be equally good at all three disciplines. We come into this sport with different backgrounds, different strengths and different weaknesses. And sometimes we have to accept that one discipline is going to progress more slowly than another. That doesn't mean we've failed. It just means we're working with the athlete we actually are, rather than the athlete we'd ideally like to be. The intermediate athlete: More isn't always better Now, let's move forward a few years. You've been doing triathlon for a while. You're reasonably fit. You understand the basics of training, you've completed a few races, and you're starting to become competitive. And this is where I think another challenge emerges. You start to believe that if you want to become a better athlete, you simply need to do more. More swimming. More cycling. More running. More strength training. And there's some truth to that. Training volume is certainly one of the levers we can pull to improve performance. But I've learned that more isn't always better. I have a good example of this with marathon running. I've completed an Ironman. I've been doing triathlon for decades. I've developed a reasonable level of endurance fitness. So I figured that when it came to running a standalone marathon, I should be able to push my body a little harder and run faster through sheer willpower. Well, that didn't work particularly well. There were two things I discovered. First, I don't seem to have the type of legs that allow me to run more than three times a week consistently. Four runs would be pushing it. In previous attempts to maximize my marathon performance, I've increased my running frequency, and I've ended up injured. Second, marathon running requires a level of durability that takes a long time to develop. It's one thing to have the cardiovascular fitness to run 42 kilometres. It's quite another thing to have the physical durability to withstand the repetitive impact of running that distance at a reasonably fast pace. And every time I've attempted a marathon, I've approached it with perhaps four to six months of specific training. I don't think that's enough for me. I think I need a much longer development period. Perhaps one day I'll take an entire year, or even longer, to build a really durable marathon-running body. But the point is that I can't force that process. My experience in triathlon doesn't automatically translate into marathon durability. And I think that's something intermediate athletes need to understand. Sometimes the limitation isn't your motivation. It isn't your willingness to work hard. It's simply that your body needs more time to adapt. And if you keep trying to force that adaptation, you might end up going backwards. I'm 58, and I'm still getting faster Now here's something interesting. I'm 58 years old, and I haven't yet reached a point where I feel I've exhausted my athletic potential. In fact, I'm still getting faster. For the most part, I'm faster at 58 than I was at 57, and faster at 57 than I was at 56. My running improvements are becoming smaller, but they're still happening. Perhaps 30 s

They are everywhere - bacteria and viruses. When they evade your immune system they can put a halt to your training. So, what is a triathlete to do when they get sick? Adjust your mindset. Come cough and sneeze over at www.patreon.com/thelonelytriathlete TRANSCRIPT Hi, and welcome to The Lonely Triathlete. My name is Todd. I am the Lonely Triathlete, coming to you from British Columbia, Canada, on this Sunday, October 25th, 2026. And you'll notice I'm coming to you from British Columbia because, for the past couple of weeks, I haven't been in Victoria. I've been somewhere a little warmer. Well, at least theoretically warmer. I was in Mexico with my wife, and things didn't quite go according to plan. And that brings me to today's topic. It's one I've talked about before, and I'm going to revisit it because it seems to be a recurring theme in my life. But this time, there's a bit of a twist. I'm talking about injury, illness as a form of injury, and what happens to us as triathletes when something interrupts our training. Not just what we should do physically, in terms of recovering and getting back into training, but what happens mentally. How do we deal with these interruptions? How do we maintain our sanity? And how do we come out the other side without losing our joy in the sport? Because I think I've had a bit of a realization recently that's helped me look at these setbacks differently. And I want to share that with you. The perfect start to the seasonLet me give you some context. I started my off-season training in September, which is the earliest I've ever started. And for those first six weeks, things were going exceptionally well. My FTP was climbing. I think I gained somewhere in the neighbourhood of five, six, maybe seven percent over those six weeks. My workouts were getting longer, they were getting more challenging, and I was feeling really good about the progress I was making. I was proud of the work I was putting in. And then it was time to go on vacation. We were leaving on October 8th, and when I looked at my TrainerRoad plan, it projected that if I took ten days off, I could expect to lose about three percent of my FTP. Now, three percent might not sound like a lot. But I'd just spent six weeks working hard to build that fitness, and here I was looking at the possibility of giving a fair chunk of it back in a little over a week. I wasn't particularly interested in that. So I did some digging, and I discovered that if I added three harder workouts before leaving, I could probably maintain most of that fitness through the ten days away. And that's what I did. I added those three sessions, got the work done, and went into vacation feeling pretty good about where I was. I had a plan. I'd done the work. Things were progressing beautifully. What could possibly go wrong? Well, let me tell you. A vacation that went spectacularly wrongMy wife has severe asthma and Long COVID. So getting sick is not something we take lightly. We have to be particularly careful, not only about protecting her from illness, but also about protecting me so I don't bring something home to her. We did everything we reasonably could to protect ourselves on this trip. We wore masks through the airports and on the airplane. We sanitized our hands constantly. We wore masks in common areas at the resort, and we tried to keep our distance from people who were obviously sick. And let me tell you, there were a lot of obviously sick people. On the airplane, there were people coughing and sneezing everywhere. I'm talking about wet coughs. People who sounded absolutely dreadful. I would estimate that perhaps fifteen to twenty percent of the people on that flight were visibly sick. And then we got to the resort, and it was much the same story. People coughing around the pool, people blowing their noses at tables, people sneezing openly without covering their mouths. At one point, we were sitting outside eating when a couple sat down right beside us. We were uncomfortable because we didn't know their health status, so we moved our table farther away. The man asked us, essentially, whether we thought he smelled. We explained that we were being careful because we had health concerns and didn't know who might be sick. They didn't seem particularly bothered by that explanation. And within a couple of minutes, his partner was blowing her nose and coughing. So we got up and moved again. Look, I understand that people get sick. I'm not suggesting that everyone with a sniffle should be locked away somewhere. But when you're travelling with someone who has significant respiratory health issues, you become very aware of how much exposure you might be getting. We even re-sanitized our hotel room when we arrived, aired it out, and took precautions inside. We really did try. And the first four days were wonderful. We found our favourite spot by the pool and the ocean. We figured out where to get our drinks. I was working on my tan. Can you believe it? SPF 50, applied multiple times a day, and I still managed to get a bit of a sunburn on day two. By day four, I was feeling pretty good about my tan, my vacation, and life in general. Then, that evening, my wife said she had a tickle in the back of her throat. The next morning, she was sick. She spent the day sleeping in the room while I stayed away as much as possible. That night, I actually wore my N95 mask while sleeping, trying to reduce the risk of catching whatever she had. I did the same thing the following night. But by that evening, I was feeling unusually run down. And the next morning, I woke up sick too. So there we were. Two people in Mexico at an all-inclusive resort, spending our days lying in a hotel room. We had paid a lot of money for this vacation. We'd made all the arrangements, we'd travelled all that way, and now we were both sick. We even had to cancel a major excursion we'd planned, involving snorkeling and exploring an island off the coast of Cancun. And after a few days of feeling lousy, we tested for COVID. Both of us were positive. Now, for me, COVID has presented itself twice as something resembling a really nasty cold. I seem to recover fairly quickly, without lingering issues so far. But for my wife, this was much more serious. Given her severe asthma and Long COVID, another COVID infection was a significant concern. Her lung specialist had previously advised her to get Paxlovid promptly if she became infected again. So we needed to get her that medication as quickly as possible. And that's when we decided we had to come home. We changed our flights at considerable expense and arranged to fly back the next day. Getting the prescription was difficult enough. Finding the medication was another ordeal. We called fourteen pharmacies before we finally managed to get it. Even after she started treatment, her breathing became concerning enough that we seriously considered whether she needed to go to the hospital. It's been a difficult experience, and I'm very grateful that she's getting through it. But here's the thing. We had taken precautions. We had tried to minimize our exposure. We'd done what we reasonably could to protect ourselves. And we still got COVID. Sometimes, despite your best efforts, things happen. And that brings me to the point of this episode. What do you do when training stops?So, what does all of this mean for me as a triathlete? Well, first of all, you have to stop training when you're sick. And I know that's easier said than done. For me, the hardest part of an illness or injury is often the waiting. You want to get back out there. You want to resume your routine. You want to keep making progress. But your body needs time to recover. In my case, I waited until my fever, body aches, and other acute symptoms had resolved and my energy had returned before cautiously testing the waters. Around day eight, I tried fifteen minutes of easy cycling. That felt fine. The following day, I did thirty minutes of easy endurance cycling. Again, I felt fine. My energy was good, my heart rate seemed consistent with the effort, and I wasn't experiencing the body aches or fever I'd had earlier. I still had some residual congestion, though, and that was a reminder not to get ahead of myself. Every part of me wanted to jump straight into a hard VO2 max session. I mean, I've just come off a period of excellent progress, and I'm eager to get back to it. But that would be a terrible way to approach recovery. COVID can have complications that aren't always obvious during the activity itself. Some people experience cardiovascular problems, and others experience post-exertional symptom exacerbation, where symptoms worsen hours or even days after activity. Feeling good during a short ride doesn't automatically mean you're ready for a hard workout. So I'm being conservative. I'll increase activity gradually, pay attention to how I feel during the session and afterward, and seek medical guidance if symptoms persist or anything concerning develops. Because the last thing I want is to rush back, trigger a setback, and end up losing even more training time. And here's something worth remembering: I have about a year until the World Triathlon Age Group Championships in Hamburg. I don't need to rush. I have time. And even if I lose a little fitness in the short term, that doesn't mean I've lost the ability to build it back. Which brings me to the mental side of this whole experience. The realization that changed how I see setbacksOver the past few years, I've had various injuries. Some have been related to overtraining, and those have prompted me to take a closer look at how I train and recover. I've gone to physiotherapists and chiropractors. I've worked on prehab exercises, stretching, and taking better care of my body. I've made changes because I want to reduce the likelihood of getting injured. And I think that's entirely reasonable. If you notice that a particular behaviour consisten

They are everywhere - bacteria and viruses. When they evade your immune system they can put a halt to your training. So, what is a triathlete to do when they get sick? Adjust your mindset. TRANSCRIPT Hi, and welcome to The Lonely Triathlete. My name is Todd. I am the Lonely Triathlete, coming to you from British Columbia, Canada, on this Sunday, October 25th, 2026. And you'll notice I'm coming to you from British Columbia because, for the past couple of weeks, I haven't been in Victoria. I've been somewhere a little warmer. Well, at least theoretically warmer. I was in Mexico with my wife, and things didn't quite go according to plan. And that brings me to today's topic. It's one I've talked about before, and I'm going to revisit it because it seems to be a recurring theme in my life. But this time, there's a bit of a twist. I'm talking about injury, illness as a form of injury, and what happens to us as triathletes when something interrupts our training. Not just what we should do physically, in terms of recovering and getting back into training, but what happens mentally. How do we deal with these interruptions? How do we maintain our sanity? And how do we come out the other side without losing our joy in the sport? Because I think I've had a bit of a realization recently that's helped me look at these setbacks differently. And I want to share that with you. The perfect start to the seasonLet me give you some context. I started my off-season training in September, which is the earliest I've ever started. And for those first six weeks, things were going exceptionally well. My FTP was climbing. I think I gained somewhere in the neighbourhood of five, six, maybe seven percent over those six weeks. My workouts were getting longer, they were getting more challenging, and I was feeling really good about the progress I was making. I was proud of the work I was putting in. And then it was time to go on vacation. We were leaving on October 8th, and when I looked at my TrainerRoad plan, it projected that if I took ten days off, I could expect to lose about three percent of my FTP. Now, three percent might not sound like a lot. But I'd just spent six weeks working hard to build that fitness, and here I was looking at the possibility of giving a fair chunk of it back in a little over a week. I wasn't particularly interested in that. So I did some digging, and I discovered that if I added three harder workouts before leaving, I could probably maintain most of that fitness through the ten days away. And that's what I did. I added those three sessions, got the work done, and went into vacation feeling pretty good about where I was. I had a plan. I'd done the work. Things were progressing beautifully. What could possibly go wrong? Well, let me tell you. A vacation that went spectacularly wrongMy wife has severe asthma and Long COVID. So getting sick is not something we take lightly. We have to be particularly careful, not only about protecting her from illness, but also about protecting me so I don't bring something home to her. We did everything we reasonably could to protect ourselves on this trip. We wore masks through the airports and on the airplane. We sanitized our hands constantly. We wore masks in common areas at the resort, and we tried to keep our distance from people who were obviously sick. And let me tell you, there were a lot of obviously sick people. On the airplane, there were people coughing and sneezing everywhere. I'm talking about wet coughs. People who sounded absolutely dreadful. I would estimate that perhaps fifteen to twenty percent of the people on that flight were visibly sick. And then we got to the resort, and it was much the same story. People coughing around the pool, people blowing their noses at tables, people sneezing openly without covering their mouths. At one point, we were sitting outside eating when a couple sat down right beside us. We were uncomfortable because we didn't know their health status, so we moved our table farther away. The man asked us, essentially, whether we thought he smelled. We explained that we were being careful because we had health concerns and didn't know who might be sick. They didn't seem particularly bothered by that explanation. And within a couple of minutes, his partner was blowing her nose and coughing. So we got up and moved again. Look, I understand that people get sick. I'm not suggesting that everyone with a sniffle should be locked away somewhere. But when you're travelling with someone who has significant respiratory health issues, you become very aware of how much exposure you might be getting. We even re-sanitized our hotel room when we arrived, aired it out, and took precautions inside. We really did try. And the first four days were wonderful. We found our favourite spot by the pool and the ocean. We figured out where to get our drinks. I was working on my tan. Can you believe it? SPF 50, applied multiple times a day, and I still managed to get a bit of a sunburn on day two. By day four, I was feeling pretty good about my tan, my vacation, and life in general. Then, that evening, my wife said she had a tickle in the back of her throat. The next morning, she was sick. She spent the day sleeping in the room while I stayed away as much as possible. That night, I actually wore my N95 mask while sleeping, trying to reduce the risk of catching whatever she had. I did the same thing the following night. But by that evening, I was feeling unusually run down. And the next morning, I woke up sick too. So there we were. Two people in Mexico at an all-inclusive resort, spending our days lying in a hotel room. We had paid a lot of money for this vacation. We'd made all the arrangements, we'd travelled all that way, and now we were both sick. We even had to cancel a major excursion we'd planned, involving snorkeling and exploring an island off the coast of Cancun. And after a few days of feeling lousy, we tested for COVID. Both of us were positive. Now, for me, COVID has presented itself twice as something resembling a really nasty cold. I seem to recover fairly quickly, without lingering issues so far. But for my wife, this was much more serious. Given her severe asthma and Long COVID, another COVID infection was a significant concern. Her lung specialist had previously advised her to get Paxlovid promptly if she became infected again. So we needed to get her that medication as quickly as possible. And that's when we decided we had to come home. We changed our flights at considerable expense and arranged to fly back the next day. Getting the prescription was difficult enough. Finding the medication was another ordeal. We called fourteen pharmacies before we finally managed to get it. Even after she started treatment, her breathing became concerning enough that we seriously considered whether she needed to go to the hospital. It's been a difficult experience, and I'm very grateful that she's getting through it. But here's the thing. We had taken precautions. We had tried to minimize our exposure. We'd done what we reasonably could to protect ourselves. And we still got COVID. Sometimes, despite your best efforts, things happen. And that brings me to the point of this episode. What do you do when training stops?So, what does all of this mean for me as a triathlete? Well, first of all, you have to stop training when you're sick. And I know that's easier said than done. For me, the hardest part of an illness or injury is often the waiting. You want to get back out there. You want to resume your routine. You want to keep making progress. But your body needs time to recover. In my case, I waited until my fever, body aches, and other acute symptoms had resolved and my energy had returned before cautiously testing the waters. Around day eight, I tried fifteen minutes of easy cycling. That felt fine. The following day, I did thirty minutes of easy endurance cycling. Again, I felt fine. My energy was good, my heart rate seemed consistent with the effort, and I wasn't experiencing the body aches or fever I'd had earlier. I still had some residual congestion, though, and that was a reminder not to get ahead of myself. Every part of me wanted to jump straight into a hard VO2 max session. I mean, I've just come off a period of excellent progress, and I'm eager to get back to it. But that would be a terrible way to approach recovery. COVID can have complications that aren't always obvious during the activity itself. Some people experience cardiovascular problems, and others experience post-exertional symptom exacerbation, where symptoms worsen hours or even days after activity. Feeling good during a short ride doesn't automatically mean you're ready for a hard workout. So I'm being conservative. I'll increase activity gradually, pay attention to how I feel during the session and afterward, and seek medical guidance if symptoms persist or anything concerning develops. Because the last thing I want is to rush back, trigger a setback, and end up losing even more training time. And here's something worth remembering: I have about a year until the World Triathlon Age Group Championships in Hamburg. I don't need to rush. I have time. And even if I lose a little fitness in the short term, that doesn't mean I've lost the ability to build it back. Which brings me to the mental side of this whole experience. The realization that changed how I see setbacksOver the past few years, I've had various injuries. Some have been related to overtraining, and those have prompted me to take a closer look at how I train and recover. I've gone to physiotherapists and chiropractors. I've worked on prehab exercises, stretching, and taking better care of my body. I've made changes because I want to reduce the likelihood of getting injured. And I think that's entirely reasonable. If you notice that a particular behaviour consistently contributes to an injury, it makes sense to change that behavi

Would you call it cheating if I installed a tiny electric motor in my bike that produced 5W of free power? Of course you would. But would you call it cheating if I raced with a $12,000 super TT bike that saved me 10W of power? Hmmm. Memberships can be had at www.patreon.com/thelonelytriathlete TRANSCRIPT So, there's been a story in the triathlon world recently that I find really fascinating. And it's not fascinating because I think it's funny, or because I enjoy watching somebody get caught cheating. Actually, quite the opposite. It's fascinating because it raises a much bigger question about what we're actually trying to accomplish when we race triathlon. The story involves an age-group triathlete who had some remarkably fast bike splits, which eventually resulted in anonymous whistleblower complaints and allegations of motor doping. And I want to be careful here, because this whole thing apparently became a bit of a nightmare, and I don't think it's my place to declare somebody guilty based on what I've read. But the story got me thinking about motor doping. And then it got me thinking about technology. And then it got me thinking about what the heck we're actually doing in this sport. Because here's the thing. We all understand why motor doping is cheating. If I put a little electric motor on my bike and use that motor to propel me down the road, I'm no longer relying entirely on my own physical ability. That's pretty obvious. But here's where I start to get philosophical about it. What exactly is the objective of triathlon? Is it to go the distance as quickly as possible? Or is it to go the distance as quickly as you are capable of going using the power of your own body? Those sound like almost the same thing. But I don't think they are. Because if the objective is simply to cover 40 kilometres on a bicycle as fast as possible, then why would we have any rules about equipment? Let's just remove all the restrictions. Put a motor on the bike. Put a giant fairing around the rider. Give everybody an aerodynamic shell. Give them whatever technology is available. And let's see who can get from point A to point B the fastest. That would be a competition. But it wouldn't really be the sport of triathlon anymore. Because triathlon isn't supposed to be a competition between machines. It's supposed to be a competition between people. And that got me thinking about something that we don't question very often. Why do we allow technology to improve our performance at all? Now, I love technology. I'm a triathlete. I have a power meter. I have an aero bike. I have aero wheels. I have a wetsuit. I have very expensive goggles. I use training software. I have GPS. I have all kinds of technology that didn't exist when I first started doing triathlons. And obviously, I don't think all of that is cheating. But where is the line? And why is that line where it is? Take the bicycle itself. A modern triathlon bike is vastly more technologically advanced than the bicycles we were riding 30 years ago. It's more aerodynamic. It's lighter. It's stiffer. The wheels are more aerodynamic. The helmet is more aerodynamic. The clothing is more aerodynamic. The position we're riding in is more aerodynamic. All of those things make us faster. And we accept that. In fact, we celebrate it. We spend thousands of dollars trying to save a few watts. And I'm one of those people. I love this stuff. But here's the uncomfortable question: At what point does technology stop helping the athlete and start becoming the athlete? Because there is a continuum here. At one end, you've got something like a better pair of running shoes. Nobody would argue that wearing a good pair of running shoes means you're not actually running. At the other end, you've got an electric motor. Nobody would argue that the motor is your athletic ability. But somewhere between those two extremes is a whole lot of grey area. Super shoes. Aero helmets. Deep-section wheels. Electronic shifting. Aero frames. Power meters. Carbon-plated shoes. Wetsuits. Training software. Altitude tents. Cooling systems. Nutrition technology. Recovery technology. And on and on. And I'm not saying any of those things are bad. I'm just asking the question: Why do we allow them? And I think part of the answer is that technology has always been part of sport. Human beings have always tried to make better equipment. We made better running shoes. We made better bicycles. We made better swimsuits. We made better skis. We made better boats. And there's something really interesting about technological innovation. It makes the sport faster. It makes it more exciting. It makes people want to buy things. And, let's be honest, there's an entire industry built around convincing triathletes that the next piece of equipment is going to make them faster. And sometimes it does. But there's another consequence. Money. Because the more expensive technology we introduce into the sport, the more the playing field can become separated by who can afford the best equipment. Now, I know we're not talking about professional sports here. We're talking about age-group triathlon. But age-group triathlon can be incredibly competitive. And especially when you're racing for a podium, or trying to qualify for a world championship, the difference between first and fifth place can be very small. So if one athlete has a $12,000 superbike with $3,000 wheels and another athlete has a five-year-old road bike with clip-on aerobars, are they really competing on an equal playing field? Well... No. They're not. But we've decided that's okay. We've decided that the athlete with more money is allowed to buy some performance advantage. And that's where this gets uncomfortable. Because we draw the line at a motor. But why? Because the motor provides too much assistance? Because it's hidden? Because it replaces human effort? Probably all three. But if that's the principle, then maybe the question we should be asking isn't: “Is this piece of technology legal?” Maybe the question should be: “How much of the performance is actually coming from the athlete?” Now, obviously, that's impossible to quantify. And I'm not suggesting we try to ban every technological improvement. That would be ridiculous. I like technology. I don't want to go back to racing in a cotton T-shirt and riding a 25-pound steel bicycle. But I think it's worth recognizing what we're doing. We're gradually moving the sport toward a place where athletic performance and technological performance are intertwined. And that isn't necessarily bad. But it does change the nature of the competition. And then you get to motor doping. And suddenly, we're looking at something that's different. Because the motor isn't making you more aerodynamic. It isn't reducing rolling resistance. It isn't helping you train. It's actually producing power. You can be sitting there pedalling away, and some of the work is being done by a machine. And that's where I think we all intuitively say: No. That's not you. That's the motor. And maybe that's the simplest definition of cheating in sport. You're getting performance from something that isn't you. But then again... Isn't that happening in tiny amounts all the time? My aero helmet isn't me. My wheels aren't me. My wetsuit isn't me. My bike isn't me. My running shoes aren't me. So maybe the distinction is not whether technology contributes to performance. Of course it does. Maybe the distinction is whether the technology is passive or active. Does it allow my body to use its own energy more efficiently? Or does it actually add energy? That's probably where the line needs to be. And I think that's a pretty reasonable line. But there's another issue with all of this. And that's trust. Because age-group triathlon is supposed to be recreational. We're amateurs. We're not making a living from this. We're not getting paid millions of dollars to win races. And yet we take this stuff incredibly seriously. We train for months. We spend enormous amounts of money. We travel around the world. We qualify for world championships. We stand on podiums. And when we're racing, we want to know that the person beside us is playing by the same rules. That's part of what makes competition meaningful. If I beat somebody, I want to know that I beat them. Not their bank account. Not their equipment manufacturer. Not their hidden motor. And not their ability to find some loophole in the rules. And that's why I think the motor-doping story is worth talking about. Not because I want to pile on one athlete. Not because I think age-group triathlon is filled with cheaters. And certainly not because I think we should start policing every person who rides a little bit too fast. It's because it forces us to ask a much bigger question. What are we actually competing at? Are we competing to see who can cover the course fastest by any means available? Or are we competing to see what human beings are capable of doing? Because I think most of us, if we're honest, chose triathlon for the second reason. That's what makes it satisfying. You swim the distance because your body can swim that far. You ride the distance because your body can produce the power. You run the distance because your body can keep going. And when you cross the finish line, there's something incredibly satisfying about knowing: That was me. Not the bike. Not the shoes. Not the technology. Not the training software. Me. And maybe that's why motor doping bothers us so much. Because it doesn't just violate a rule. It violates the underlying agreement we're all making when we line up at the start. We're agreeing that we're going to find out what we're capable of. And I think that's what makes sport different from simply transportation. If the goal were merely to get from here to there as quickly as possible, I'd take a motorcycle. I'd get there a hell of a lot faster. But that's not why we're doing this. We're doing this to fi

Do you train on vacation? Should you train on vacation? I have some thoughts. Share your thoughts at www.patreon.com/thelonelytriathlete TRANSCRIPT So, it's vacation time. And that got me thinking about something that I've actually changed my mind about over the years: training while you're on vacation. For most of my triathlon life, I didn't. And my reasoning was pretty simple. I'm on vacation. I'm not training. I'm taking a break from the structure, the schedule, the alarm clocks, the workouts, the recovery protocols, all of it. And I actually think there's a lot of value in that. Because when we talk about recovery, we tend to think about physical recovery. You take some time off, your muscles recover, your body gets a break. But there's also mental recovery. And I think that's just as important. If you're training six days a week, and every workout has a purpose, and you're constantly thinking about what you're supposed to be doing tomorrow, and whether you hit today's numbers, and whether you got enough sleep, and whether you ate enough protein... Sometimes it's really nice to just stop. You're on vacation. You don't have to do anything. And that's the way I used to approach it. But lately I've been finding that a little harder to justify. And the reason is five watts. Five watts. I've spent the last six weeks working to increase my FTP by about five watts. And now I'm about to go away for ten days. And if I do absolutely nothing for those ten days, my training software predicts that I'm going to lose roughly five watts of FTP. About one and a half percent. And I'm thinking... Wait a minute. It took me six weeks to gain those five watts. And I'm going to give them back in ten days? That doesn't seem fair. Now, intellectually, I know that fitness doesn't work quite that simply. And I also did a little bit of reading about what happens when you take a short break from training. And it turns out that if you've put in some good, hard training before the vacation, you can actually maintain a surprising amount of fitness over a relatively short period of time. In fact, with some appropriately hard workouts leading into the vacation, I may be able to preserve most, or maybe even all, of that FTP. Which is good news. But then I started thinking... What if I did a little bit of exercise while I was away? Not training. Exercise. And that distinction has become really important to me. Because I don't want to take my training plan on vacation. I don't want to wake up in Mexico and think, "Okay, what's my workout today?" I don't want to be looking at power numbers or heart-rate zones or trying to hit intervals. I don't want to turn my vacation into a training camp. But I also don't think there's anything wrong with getting up in the morning and moving my body for 30 or 40 minutes. And that's essentially what I've decided to do. I'm not taking my bike. I'm not going to use an indoor gym. For one thing, I don't really want to spend my vacation inside a gym. And it's cold and flu season, and I'm just not particularly interested in putting myself into an indoor environment where a whole bunch of people are breathing heavily around me. But I can run. And I can swim. So my thought is, maybe one morning I'll get up early, before it gets too hot, and I'll go for a 30- or 45-minute run. And the next day, I'll go swimming for 30 or 40 minutes. Then maybe run. Then swim. Run. Swim. And that's it. There's no particular workout. There's no prescribed intensity. There's no TrainingPeaks workout waiting for me. There's no TrainerRoad workout. There's no "I have to get this done." I'm just going to exercise. And I really like that idea. Because the swimming in particular doesn't even really feel like I'm giving something up. I'm going to be in Mexico. I'm going to be in the ocean. I'm probably going to spend hours in the water. So why not spend 30 minutes of those hours actually swimming? I'm not taking 30 minutes away from my vacation to go to the pool and do 2,000 metres because my training plan says I have to. I'm already in the water. I'm just moving through it. And running is a little different because I probably wouldn't otherwise get up and go for a run on vacation. But even there, I think there's something enjoyable about getting outside early in the morning, before the heat, and seeing where you are on foot. And here's where I think I've found the middle ground. I'm not really trying to improve my fitness while I'm on vacation. I don't expect these workouts to make me fitter. They're not going to meaningfully increase my FTP. They're not going to suddenly make me a faster runner. They're not going to transform my swimming. But combined with the hard training I've done before the vacation, I think they can help me maintain some of what I've built. And that's a nice side benefit. But I don't think that should be the primary reason for doing them. The primary reason is simply that exercise is good for us. And I think that's something we sometimes forget when we're talking about training. We tend to divide our lives into these categories. I'm training. I'm not training. I'm on vacation. I'm at work. I'm at home. I'm travelling. But our bodies don't really care about those categories. If you can find 30 or 40 minutes to move your body, that's probably a good thing whether you're at home, you're travelling for work, or you're sitting on a beach somewhere. And maybe the trick is not to think of it as training. Think of it as exercise. Because there are some real downsides to training on vacation. The first is time. If you're travelling with your spouse or your family, that 45-minute run isn't necessarily just 45 minutes. There's getting ready. There's showering. There's changing. And suddenly you've taken an hour or more away from the people you're actually on vacation with. And that's not necessarily a good trade. There's also the danger of becoming obsessed with it. You tell yourself, "I'm just going to exercise a little bit while I'm away." And pretty soon you're thinking about your workouts every day. You're setting alarms. You're getting frustrated if you miss a workout. You're changing your plans because you need to get your run in. And now you've recreated the exact structure you were trying to get away from. There's another downside, too. Spontaneity. One of the great things about vacation is that you don't necessarily know what the day is going to look like. Maybe you stay out late. Maybe you have a couple of drinks. Maybe you sleep until nine. Maybe somebody suggests doing something you've never thought of doing. And suddenly that 7 a.m. workout doesn't fit. And that's okay. You're on vacation. You don't want your exercise to become another obligation. And finally, there's recovery. Sometimes your body actually needs the break. Maybe you've just come off a hard training block. Maybe you're carrying a little fatigue. Maybe you've been travelling all day. Maybe you didn't sleep well. Maybe you're jet-lagged. Maybe you're just tired. In those circumstances, going for a hard run because you feel like you "should" isn't necessarily healthy. And I think that's where the distinction between exercise and training becomes really useful. If I'm exercising on vacation and one morning I don't feel like running, I don't run. That's the test. If I wake up and think, "You know what? I would rather sleep for another hour and then go have breakfast with my wife," then that's what I should do. Because I'm on vacation. And if missing that run creates anxiety or guilt... Well, then maybe I've crossed the line from exercise back into training. So I think that's the balance I'm going to try to find. I'm not going to take my training plan with me. I'm not going to try to replicate what I would be doing at home. I'm not going to worry about maintaining every watt of FTP. I'm not going to worry about losing a little bit of fitness. I'm just going to move. Run a little. Swim a little. Enjoy the water. Enjoy being outside. And then come home and get back to training. And maybe that's the bigger lesson here. I used to think the choice was binary. Either you're training, or you're on vacation. And I've come to realize that maybe there's something in between. You can take a genuine break from training without taking a complete break from movement. You can exercise without following a training plan. You can move your body without measuring everything. And you can protect your vacation without completely abandoning the things that make you feel good. So, if you're heading away on vacation this season, maybe ask yourself a simple question: Do I actually want to train while I'm away? And if the answer is no, don't. Take the break. Enjoy the vacation. Sleep in. Eat the good food. Have the drink. Don't set the alarm. Give yourself that mental break. But if the answer is yes... Maybe don't make it training. Go for a swim. Go for a run. Take a hike. Rent a bike. Go for a walk. Do something you enjoy. And then go back to enjoying your vacation. Because maybe the goal isn't to come home from vacation having gained fitness. Maybe the goal isn't even to come home having perfectly maintained your fitness. Maybe the goal is simply to come home feeling refreshed... and still feeling like yourself.

Lately I've observed a tremendous number of people entering a 70.3 as their first triathlon. Back in the day, people hardly ever started at that distance. It usually went something like sprint --> standard --> half --> ironman. So, what changed? I've got some ideas. Check the podcast out at www.patreon.com/thelonelytriathlete TRANSCRIPT There’s something I’ve been noticing lately. I spend a fair amount of time looking at the triathlon subreddit, r/triathlon, and over the past few years I’ve noticed something that I find kind of fascinating. There are so many people doing a 70.3. And not just doing a 70.3. Doing a 70.3 as their first triathlon. And every time I see one of these posts, I find myself thinking… Why? I mean, seriously. A 70.3 is a long-distance endurance event. For a reasonably good age-group triathlete, maybe you’re looking at five hours. For a lot of people, six hours. Six and a half hours. Seven hours. Maybe more. And I started thinking about that in relation to running. Because six or seven hours is a really long time to be doing anything athletic. For most recreational athletes, that's considerably longer than they would take to run a marathon. And yet somebody who has never done a triathlon will sometimes say: “I've signed up for a 70.3.” And everybody says, “Congratulations!” And then they start talking about wetsuits and nutrition and training plans. And I think… How did this become normal? Because I don't remember it being this way. I got into triathlon in the 1990s. And back then, at least as I remember it, the progression was pretty straightforward. There was sprint distance. There was what we called standard distance, which became Olympic distance. And then there was the Ironman. And somewhere in between there was the Half Ironman. And I did one of those myself when I was working my way toward doing a full Ironman. But it wasn't really a thing in the way 70.3 is a thing today. And this is where I had to go back and check my memory, because I wasn't completely sure. And it turns out my memory is basically right. There absolutely were half-Ironman-distance races in the 1990s. There were some very well-known ones. Wildflower had a Half Ironman. Vineman had one. There were others. And I even remembered something called the Tin Man. And this is where I thought, “Wait a minute. Did they actually try to call the half distance the Tin Man?” Well… Sort of. There were races called Tin Man, and some of them were at roughly the half-Ironman distance. But Tin Man wasn't actually the universal name for the distance. It was just a name used by particular races. So, yes, I remembered something real. But no, there wasn't this giant global thing called the Tin Man series. And that's the important distinction. Because the half-Ironman distance existed. What didn't really exist was the product that we now know as the 70.3. And that changed in 2005. That's when Ironman launched the Ironman 70.3 brand. And I think that was a pretty important moment in the history of triathlon. Because they didn't invent the distance. They branded it. They standardized it. They created a global series around it. And then, in 2006, there was a 70.3 World Championship. And suddenly the half-Ironman wasn't just… “Well, this is a good race to do on the way to a full Ironman.” It became a destination. You could be a 70.3 athlete. You could qualify for a 70.3 World Championship. There were 70.3 races all over the world. And Ironman got very, very good at marketing them. And I think that's where this gets really interesting. Because I wonder if the success of 70.3 has actually changed what people think triathlon is. If you came into the sport in the 1990s, like I did, you might have thought about triathlon as something like: Sprint. Then Olympic. Maybe a Half Ironman. Maybe eventually an Ironman. There was a progression. Today, I think a lot of people enter the sport with the Ironman brand already in their heads. They see Ironman. They see 70.3. They see the World Championship. They see people racing in these spectacular locations. They see the professional athletes. They see the finish-line videos. They see the “You Are an Ironman” stuff. And if you're a new athlete, you can very quickly come to the conclusion that this is what triathlon is. You don't necessarily think: “I'll start with a sprint.” You think: “I'm going to do a 70.3.” And I think social media has probably accelerated that enormously. Because what's more impressive on Instagram? “I completed my first sprint triathlon.” Or: “I COMPLETED MY FIRST 70.3!” You know exactly which one gets the reaction. And I don't mean that critically. I understand it. There's something incredibly appealing about setting a huge goal. And I'm certainly not going to criticize somebody for doing it. But I do think it's interesting that we've arrived at a point where doing a six- or seven-hour endurance event can be somebody's introduction to triathlon. And there's another thing I've been thinking about. Television. Because I wonder how much the growth of 70.3 has been helped by the fact that it's actually a really good television product. A full Ironman is fascinating if you're a triathlete. But as a television event, it's difficult. It's a very long day. The professional athletes are out there for hours and hours. And then you've got thousands of age-group athletes spread over an even longer period. A 70.3 gives you a much more compact race. You've got the swim. You've got the bike. You've got the run. You've got the lead changes. You've got athletes racing very, very hard. And you've got an entire race that unfolds in a much more manageable television window. And I think that's probably important. Because the more we see something, the more normal it becomes. And if what we're constantly seeing is professional athletes doing 70.3s… And amateur athletes doing 70.3s… And people qualifying for 70.3 Worlds… Then 70.3 starts to look like the normal thing to aspire to. And maybe this is where I'm going with all of this. I think Ironman did something extremely clever. They took an existing distance and turned it into a brand. And once you turn something into a brand, you can sell an identity around it. You're not just doing a 1.9-kilometre swim, a 90-kilometre bike and a half marathon. You're doing a 70.3. That number means something. And it means something because we've been told that it means something. Now, there's nothing wrong with that. I'm not anti-70.3. I've done one. I've trained for one. I've spent plenty of time thinking about doing another one. But I do wonder whether we've lost something along the way. Because I actually think the Olympic distance is a fantastic race. It's long enough that you have to train. It's short enough that you can race it. You can go hard. You can recover. You can have a life outside of triathlon. And you can get really, really good at it. And that's actually where I've found myself heading. For a long time, I assumed the natural progression was toward longer distance. That's what you did. You went from sprint to Olympic. Then you did a 70.3. Then maybe you did an Ironman. Longer was somehow better. More impressive. More difficult. But I'm starting to question that. Maybe the next step isn't always longer. Maybe it's better. Maybe instead of asking: “How far can I go?” we should sometimes ask: “How fast can I go?” Or: “How good can I get at this distance?” And that's particularly relevant to me now. I'm 58. I've already done the longer stuff. I've done a 70.3. I've done Ironman-distance racing. And now I'm heading toward the 2027 World Triathlon Age Group Championships in Hamburg at the standard distance. And what I'm finding really interesting about that is that I'm actually excited about getting better at a distance that isn't the longest thing I could possibly do. I want to get faster. I want to improve my swim. I want to improve my bike. I want to run well off the bike. And I want to see how good I can get at an Olympic-distance triathlon. Not how long I can survive. How well I can race. And maybe that's the part of this whole 70.3 phenomenon that interests me most. We've become very good at convincing people that the ultimate achievement in triathlon is going longer. But maybe there's another way of looking at it. Maybe completing a seven-hour race isn't necessarily more impressive than doing a two-and-a-half-hour race really, really well. Maybe the challenge isn't always endurance. Maybe it's performance. Maybe it's precision. Maybe it's figuring out how to squeeze another minute out of a swim, another couple of kilometres per hour out of the bike, another few minutes out of the run. And maybe… Just maybe… The next step in triathlon doesn't always have to be longer. Sometimes it can just be better.

Lately I've observed a tremendous number of people entering a 70.3 as their first triathlon. Back in the day, people hardly ever started at that distance. It usually went something like sprint --> standard --> half --> ironman. So, what changed? I've got some ideas. TRANSCRIPT There’s something I’ve been noticing lately. I spend a fair amount of time looking at the triathlon subreddit, r/triathlon, and over the past few years I’ve noticed something that I find kind of fascinating. There are so many people doing a 70.3. And not just doing a 70.3. Doing a 70.3 as their first triathlon. And every time I see one of these posts, I find myself thinking… Why? I mean, seriously. A 70.3 is a long-distance endurance event. For a reasonably good age-group triathlete, maybe you’re looking at five hours. For a lot of people, six hours. Six and a half hours. Seven hours. Maybe more. And I started thinking about that in relation to running. Because six or seven hours is a really long time to be doing anything athletic. For most recreational athletes, that's considerably longer than they would take to run a marathon. And yet somebody who has never done a triathlon will sometimes say: “I've signed up for a 70.3.” And everybody says, “Congratulations!” And then they start talking about wetsuits and nutrition and training plans. And I think… How did this become normal? Because I don't remember it being this way. I got into triathlon in the 1990s. And back then, at least as I remember it, the progression was pretty straightforward. There was sprint distance. There was what we called standard distance, which became Olympic distance. And then there was the Ironman. And somewhere in between there was the Half Ironman. And I did one of those myself when I was working my way toward doing a full Ironman. But it wasn't really a thing in the way 70.3 is a thing today. And this is where I had to go back and check my memory, because I wasn't completely sure. And it turns out my memory is basically right. There absolutely were half-Ironman-distance races in the 1990s. There were some very well-known ones. Wildflower had a Half Ironman. Vineman had one. There were others. And I even remembered something called the Tin Man. And this is where I thought, “Wait a minute. Did they actually try to call the half distance the Tin Man?” Well… Sort of. There were races called Tin Man, and some of them were at roughly the half-Ironman distance. But Tin Man wasn't actually the universal name for the distance. It was just a name used by particular races. So, yes, I remembered something real. But no, there wasn't this giant global thing called the Tin Man series. And that's the important distinction. Because the half-Ironman distance existed. What didn't really exist was the product that we now know as the 70.3. And that changed in 2005. That's when Ironman launched the Ironman 70.3 brand. And I think that was a pretty important moment in the history of triathlon. Because they didn't invent the distance. They branded it. They standardized it. They created a global series around it. And then, in 2006, there was a 70.3 World Championship. And suddenly the half-Ironman wasn't just… “Well, this is a good race to do on the way to a full Ironman.” It became a destination. You could be a 70.3 athlete. You could qualify for a 70.3 World Championship. There were 70.3 races all over the world. And Ironman got very, very good at marketing them. And I think that's where this gets really interesting. Because I wonder if the success of 70.3 has actually changed what people think triathlon is. If you came into the sport in the 1990s, like I did, you might have thought about triathlon as something like: Sprint. Then Olympic. Maybe a Half Ironman. Maybe eventually an Ironman. There was a progression. Today, I think a lot of people enter the sport with the Ironman brand already in their heads. They see Ironman. They see 70.3. They see the World Championship. They see people racing in these spectacular locations. They see the professional athletes. They see the finish-line videos. They see the “You Are an Ironman” stuff. And if you're a new athlete, you can very quickly come to the conclusion that this is what triathlon is. You don't necessarily think: “I'll start with a sprint.” You think: “I'm going to do a 70.3.” And I think social media has probably accelerated that enormously. Because what's more impressive on Instagram? “I completed my first sprint triathlon.” Or: “I COMPLETED MY FIRST 70.3!” You know exactly which one gets the reaction. And I don't mean that critically. I understand it. There's something incredibly appealing about setting a huge goal. And I'm certainly not going to criticize somebody for doing it. But I do think it's interesting that we've arrived at a point where doing a six- or seven-hour endurance event can be somebody's introduction to triathlon. And there's another thing I've been thinking about. Television. Because I wonder how much the growth of 70.3 has been helped by the fact that it's actually a really good television product. A full Ironman is fascinating if you're a triathlete. But as a television event, it's difficult. It's a very long day. The professional athletes are out there for hours and hours. And then you've got thousands of age-group athletes spread over an even longer period. A 70.3 gives you a much more compact race. You've got the swim. You've got the bike. You've got the run. You've got the lead changes. You've got athletes racing very, very hard. And you've got an entire race that unfolds in a much more manageable television window. And I think that's probably important. Because the more we see something, the more normal it becomes. And if what we're constantly seeing is professional athletes doing 70.3s… And amateur athletes doing 70.3s… And people qualifying for 70.3 Worlds… Then 70.3 starts to look like the normal thing to aspire to. And maybe this is where I'm going with all of this. I think Ironman did something extremely clever. They took an existing distance and turned it into a brand. And once you turn something into a brand, you can sell an identity around it. You're not just doing a 1.9-kilometre swim, a 90-kilometre bike and a half marathon. You're doing a 70.3. That number means something. And it means something because we've been told that it means something. Now, there's nothing wrong with that. I'm not anti-70.3. I've done one. I've trained for one. I've spent plenty of time thinking about doing another one. But I do wonder whether we've lost something along the way. Because I actually think the Olympic distance is a fantastic race. It's long enough that you have to train. It's short enough that you can race it. You can go hard. You can recover. You can have a life outside of triathlon. And you can get really, really good at it. And that's actually where I've found myself heading. For a long time, I assumed the natural progression was toward longer distance. That's what you did. You went from sprint to Olympic. Then you did a 70.3. Then maybe you did an Ironman. Longer was somehow better. More impressive. More difficult. But I'm starting to question that. Maybe the next step isn't always longer. Maybe it's better. Maybe instead of asking: “How far can I go?” we should sometimes ask: “How fast can I go?” Or: “How good can I get at this distance?” And that's particularly relevant to me now. I'm 58. I've already done the longer stuff. I've done a 70.3. I've done Ironman-distance racing. And now I'm heading toward the 2027 World Triathlon Age Group Championships in Hamburg at the standard distance. And what I'm finding really interesting about that is that I'm actually excited about getting better at a distance that isn't the longest thing I could possibly do. I want to get faster. I want to improve my swim. I want to improve my bike. I want to run well off the bike. And I want to see how good I can get at an Olympic-distance triathlon. Not how long I can survive. How well I can race. And maybe that's the part of this whole 70.3 phenomenon that interests me most. We've become very good at convincing people that the ultimate achievement in triathlon is going longer. But maybe there's another way of looking at it. Maybe completing a seven-hour race isn't necessarily more impressive than doing a two-and-a-half-hour race really, really well. Maybe the challenge isn't always endurance. Maybe it's performance. Maybe it's precision. Maybe it's figuring out how to squeeze another minute out of a swim, another couple of kilometres per hour out of the bike, another few minutes out of the run. And maybe… Just maybe… The next step in triathlon doesn't always have to be longer. Sometimes it can just be better.

Too much fiber, noisy weekends, high cholesterol and more on this week's episode! Come chat with us at www.patreon.com/thelonelytriathlete

Too much fiber, noisy weekends, high cholesterol and more on this week's episode!

Triathlon works best, long-term, as a lifestyle. Easier said than done? Join up at www.patreon.com/thelonelytriathlon TRANSCRIPT The Lonely Triathlete — Triathlon as a LifestyleI've been thinking a lot this week about the idea of triathlon as a lifestyle. And specifically, I'm thinking about the training side of triathlon. Because when somebody is new to the sport, I think one of the things that can be really interesting—and really beneficial—is that, over time, triathlon can become more than just something you do. It can actually become part of your lifestyle. And I started thinking about what that really means. Because we use the word "lifestyle" all the time, but what actually makes something a lifestyle? Well, I think one of the big things is that it's habitual. It's something you do repeatedly. It's something that eventually becomes almost automatic. I mean, think about eating breakfast. Or eating lunch. You don't wake up every morning and have a big internal debate about whether you're going to eat today. It's just part of your life. And I think there's something really interesting about what happens when training starts to move in that direction. When you're new to triathlon, you probably have to think about everything. When am I going to swim? When am I going to ride? When am I going to run? What workout am I going to do? What do I need to eat? What do I need to bring? Do I have clean cycling clothes? Is my bike ready? There's all this friction around the activity. But if you stick with it long enough, some of that starts to disappear. You know what Tuesday is. You know that Thursday is a run day. You know that Sunday morning is probably going to involve a bike. You start preparing your gear without really thinking about it. You start arranging your life around the things that are important to you. And eventually, you're not really asking yourself, "Am I going to train today?" You're asking yourself, "How am I going to make today's training work?" And I think that's a pretty significant shift. So what creates that shift?I think the first thing is consistency. And I don't mean perfection. That's an important distinction. Consistency doesn't mean you never miss a workout. It doesn't mean you execute every training week exactly as prescribed. It doesn't mean you never get sick, or injured, or have a busy week at work, or have something happen in your family. Consistency means that you keep coming back. You train. You miss a workout. You get back to training. You have a great week. You have a terrible week. You keep going. And eventually, those repeated actions start to become a pattern. And that pattern starts to become a habit. And the habit starts to become part of your life. I think patience is another big piece of this. Because triathlon is really good at teaching you that you don't get everything you want immediately. You can have a great training week and not see any improvement. You can work really hard for three months and discover that your FTP went up by 10 watts. And you might think, "That's it?" But then you look back two years later and realize that those 10-watt improvements, those little improvements in your running, those little improvements in your swimming, all accumulated into something pretty significant. That's the nature of endurance sport. You're accumulating. And I think that's one of the beautiful things about it. There's also resilience.Because if you're going to make triathlon part of your life, you're going to have setbacks. You are going to miss workouts. You're going to have bad races. You're going to get sick. You're probably going to get injured at some point. You're going to have periods where life gets in the way. And one of the skills you develop is simply learning how to pick yourself up and start again. And that's a pretty useful skill outside of triathlon, too. Because life doesn't really care what your training plan says. Sometimes life happens. And the question becomes, "Okay. What do I do now?" Not, "How do I make up every workout I missed?" Not, "How do I punish myself for falling behind?" Just, "Okay. What's the next thing I can reasonably do?" And I think that's another characteristic of something that's sustainable. It's flexible. It can bend without breaking. And that brings me to one of the dangers for somebody who's new to the sport.Because I think it's very easy to confuse enthusiasm with sustainability. You discover triathlon and you think, "This is amazing." And suddenly you're looking at training plans and YouTube videos and gear and nutrition and power meters and heart-rate zones and all of these things. And before you know it, you're trying to do everything. And you're training five or six days a week. And you've bought a bunch of equipment. And you're trying to optimize every workout. And you're exhausted. And you've been doing it for six weeks. And then you wonder why you can't maintain it. So I think one of the most important questions for a new triathlete isn't: "How much can I do?" It's: "What can I do consistently?" And maybe even more importantly: "What can I imagine myself doing five years from now?" Because if the answer is, "Well, there's no way I can keep doing this," then maybe you've built something that's too big. So how do you actually figure that out?I think you start with your life. Not with the training plan. Look at your week. Look at your work. Look at your family. Look at your sleep. Look at the other things that matter to you. And then ask yourself: where does training realistically fit? Maybe you start with a very simple week. One swim. One bike. One run. And maybe that's not your ultimate training program. It's just your starting point. It's your minimum viable version of being a triathlete. And once that feels normal—once it feels like, "Yeah, this is just what I do"—then maybe you add something. And you see how that feels. Maybe you experiment with when you train. Maybe mornings work better. Maybe evenings work better. Maybe you discover that getting everything ready the night before removes a tremendous amount of friction. And that's another thing I think people underestimate: You're not just building a training plan. You're building a system around the training. The bike gets cleaned. The bottles get filled. The clothes get laid out. The shoes are ready. The workout is on the calendar. And suddenly, tomorrow morning doesn't require a whole bunch of decisions. That's what I mean by reducing friction. The fewer decisions you have to make, the easier it becomes to repeat the behaviour. And I think it's also worth deciding ahead of time what happens when things go wrong.Because things will go wrong. Maybe you miss Tuesday's workout. What's your rule? Do you try to squeeze it in Wednesday? Do you move on? Do you change the rest of the week? Maybe you have a terrible night's sleep. What's your rule? Maybe you're feeling beat up. What's your rule? I think having some of those decisions made in advance can be incredibly helpful. Because you don't want to make your best decisions about training when you're exhausted, frustrated, or feeling guilty. Sometimes the best training decision is simply to let the workout go. And then come back tomorrow. But there's another potential trap.And that's allowing triathlon to consume your life. Because there's a difference between making triathlon part of your lifestyle and making triathlon your entire lifestyle. And I think that's an important distinction. For me, anyway, triathlon is important. It's a significant part of my life. But it's not the whole thing. There are relationships. There is family. There is work. There are other interests. There is downtime. There is just being a human being who isn't training. And I think the sport is actually healthier when it has a place in your life rather than when it takes over your life. And that probably goes back to sustainability again. Because if the thing you're doing is constantly competing with everything else you value, eventually something is going to give. And then there's comparison.That's another one that's really easy to fall into. Especially today. You can go online and see somebody's power numbers. You can see somebody's race results. You can see somebody's training volume. You can see somebody who is swimming six days a week and running 50 kilometres and riding 300 kilometres. And you're sitting there thinking, "Well, I guess I'm not doing enough." But you don't know their circumstances. And you certainly don't know their starting point. You're comparing your beginning to somebody else's middle. And that's a pretty easy way to take something that was supposed to add to your life and turn it into a source of stress. So I think the better question is: Is what I'm doing sustainable for me? Not for somebody else. For me. And if you get that right, I think some pretty interesting things happen over time.Obviously, you get fitter. You get stronger. Your cardiovascular fitness improves. You become more capable. You may race faster. You may achieve things that you never thought you were capable of. But I think there are some benefits that go well beyond the physical. There's confidence. Not the kind of confidence where you think you're better than somebody else. It's the confidence that comes from knowing you've done difficult things before. You know what it feels like to be uncomfortable. You know what it feels like to have a bad day and keep going. You know what it feels like to work toward something for months and finally see the payoff. And there's a sense of structure. Training gives your week a rhythm. There are things you do on certain days. There are goals you're working toward. And for a lot of people, I think that can be really valuable. There's also community. You meet people through triathlon. You become part of something. And maybe one of the most interesting benefits is the relationship you develop with aging. Because

Triathlon works best, long-term, as a lifestyle. Easier said than done? TRANSCRIPT The Lonely Triathlete — Triathlon as a LifestyleI've been thinking a lot this week about the idea of triathlon as a lifestyle. And specifically, I'm thinking about the training side of triathlon. Because when somebody is new to the sport, I think one of the things that can be really interesting—and really beneficial—is that, over time, triathlon can become more than just something you do. It can actually become part of your lifestyle. And I started thinking about what that really means. Because we use the word "lifestyle" all the time, but what actually makes something a lifestyle? Well, I think one of the big things is that it's habitual. It's something you do repeatedly. It's something that eventually becomes almost automatic. I mean, think about eating breakfast. Or eating lunch. You don't wake up every morning and have a big internal debate about whether you're going to eat today. It's just part of your life. And I think there's something really interesting about what happens when training starts to move in that direction. When you're new to triathlon, you probably have to think about everything. When am I going to swim? When am I going to ride? When am I going to run? What workout am I going to do? What do I need to eat? What do I need to bring? Do I have clean cycling clothes? Is my bike ready? There's all this friction around the activity. But if you stick with it long enough, some of that starts to disappear. You know what Tuesday is. You know that Thursday is a run day. You know that Sunday morning is probably going to involve a bike. You start preparing your gear without really thinking about it. You start arranging your life around the things that are important to you. And eventually, you're not really asking yourself, "Am I going to train today?" You're asking yourself, "How am I going to make today's training work?" And I think that's a pretty significant shift. So what creates that shift?I think the first thing is consistency. And I don't mean perfection. That's an important distinction. Consistency doesn't mean you never miss a workout. It doesn't mean you execute every training week exactly as prescribed. It doesn't mean you never get sick, or injured, or have a busy week at work, or have something happen in your family. Consistency means that you keep coming back. You train. You miss a workout. You get back to training. You have a great week. You have a terrible week. You keep going. And eventually, those repeated actions start to become a pattern. And that pattern starts to become a habit. And the habit starts to become part of your life. I think patience is another big piece of this. Because triathlon is really good at teaching you that you don't get everything you want immediately. You can have a great training week and not see any improvement. You can work really hard for three months and discover that your FTP went up by 10 watts. And you might think, "That's it?" But then you look back two years later and realize that those 10-watt improvements, those little improvements in your running, those little improvements in your swimming, all accumulated into something pretty significant. That's the nature of endurance sport. You're accumulating. And I think that's one of the beautiful things about it. There's also resilience.Because if you're going to make triathlon part of your life, you're going to have setbacks. You are going to miss workouts. You're going to have bad races. You're going to get sick. You're probably going to get injured at some point. You're going to have periods where life gets in the way. And one of the skills you develop is simply learning how to pick yourself up and start again. And that's a pretty useful skill outside of triathlon, too. Because life doesn't really care what your training plan says. Sometimes life happens. And the question becomes, "Okay. What do I do now?" Not, "How do I make up every workout I missed?" Not, "How do I punish myself for falling behind?" Just, "Okay. What's the next thing I can reasonably do?" And I think that's another characteristic of something that's sustainable. It's flexible. It can bend without breaking. And that brings me to one of the dangers for somebody who's new to the sport.Because I think it's very easy to confuse enthusiasm with sustainability. You discover triathlon and you think, "This is amazing." And suddenly you're looking at training plans and YouTube videos and gear and nutrition and power meters and heart-rate zones and all of these things. And before you know it, you're trying to do everything. And you're training five or six days a week. And you've bought a bunch of equipment. And you're trying to optimize every workout. And you're exhausted. And you've been doing it for six weeks. And then you wonder why you can't maintain it. So I think one of the most important questions for a new triathlete isn't: "How much can I do?" It's: "What can I do consistently?" And maybe even more importantly: "What can I imagine myself doing five years from now?" Because if the answer is, "Well, there's no way I can keep doing this," then maybe you've built something that's too big. So how do you actually figure that out?I think you start with your life. Not with the training plan. Look at your week. Look at your work. Look at your family. Look at your sleep. Look at the other things that matter to you. And then ask yourself: where does training realistically fit? Maybe you start with a very simple week. One swim. One bike. One run. And maybe that's not your ultimate training program. It's just your starting point. It's your minimum viable version of being a triathlete. And once that feels normal—once it feels like, "Yeah, this is just what I do"—then maybe you add something. And you see how that feels. Maybe you experiment with when you train. Maybe mornings work better. Maybe evenings work better. Maybe you discover that getting everything ready the night before removes a tremendous amount of friction. And that's another thing I think people underestimate: You're not just building a training plan. You're building a system around the training. The bike gets cleaned. The bottles get filled. The clothes get laid out. The shoes are ready. The workout is on the calendar. And suddenly, tomorrow morning doesn't require a whole bunch of decisions. That's what I mean by reducing friction. The fewer decisions you have to make, the easier it becomes to repeat the behaviour. And I think it's also worth deciding ahead of time what happens when things go wrong.Because things will go wrong. Maybe you miss Tuesday's workout. What's your rule? Do you try to squeeze it in Wednesday? Do you move on? Do you change the rest of the week? Maybe you have a terrible night's sleep. What's your rule? Maybe you're feeling beat up. What's your rule? I think having some of those decisions made in advance can be incredibly helpful. Because you don't want to make your best decisions about training when you're exhausted, frustrated, or feeling guilty. Sometimes the best training decision is simply to let the workout go. And then come back tomorrow. But there's another potential trap.And that's allowing triathlon to consume your life. Because there's a difference between making triathlon part of your lifestyle and making triathlon your entire lifestyle. And I think that's an important distinction. For me, anyway, triathlon is important. It's a significant part of my life. But it's not the whole thing. There are relationships. There is family. There is work. There are other interests. There is downtime. There is just being a human being who isn't training. And I think the sport is actually healthier when it has a place in your life rather than when it takes over your life. And that probably goes back to sustainability again. Because if the thing you're doing is constantly competing with everything else you value, eventually something is going to give. And then there's comparison.That's another one that's really easy to fall into. Especially today. You can go online and see somebody's power numbers. You can see somebody's race results. You can see somebody's training volume. You can see somebody who is swimming six days a week and running 50 kilometres and riding 300 kilometres. And you're sitting there thinking, "Well, I guess I'm not doing enough." But you don't know their circumstances. And you certainly don't know their starting point. You're comparing your beginning to somebody else's middle. And that's a pretty easy way to take something that was supposed to add to your life and turn it into a source of stress. So I think the better question is: Is what I'm doing sustainable for me? Not for somebody else. For me. And if you get that right, I think some pretty interesting things happen over time.Obviously, you get fitter. You get stronger. Your cardiovascular fitness improves. You become more capable. You may race faster. You may achieve things that you never thought you were capable of. But I think there are some benefits that go well beyond the physical. There's confidence. Not the kind of confidence where you think you're better than somebody else. It's the confidence that comes from knowing you've done difficult things before. You know what it feels like to be uncomfortable. You know what it feels like to have a bad day and keep going. You know what it feels like to work toward something for months and finally see the payoff. And there's a sense of structure. Training gives your week a rhythm. There are things you do on certain days. There are goals you're working toward. And for a lot of people, I think that can be really valuable. There's also community. You meet people through triathlon. You become part of something. And maybe one of the most interesting benefits is the relationship you develop with aging. Because when you make endurance training part of your

I'm always trying to get more organized. But even if I were to succeed, would it help me in triathlon? Come be more organized with me at www.patreon.com/thelonelytriathlete TRANSCRIPT There’s something I've been thinking about lately, and it has to do with organization. And I know, organization isn't exactly the most exciting topic in the world. But I've been thinking about it in a slightly different way. Because I've realized that I tend to think of organization as something that happens when my life gets too messy. I've got a desk covered in papers. I've got things on my calendar that I haven't dealt with. I've got little projects that I've started but haven't finished. I've got receipts that need to be submitted, notes that I wrote down because I didn't want to forget them, things that I need to file away, things that I need to follow up on. And my first reaction is usually: "God, I really need to get organized." And I think that's true. But a few days ago, I was looking at all of this stuff and I had a slightly different thought. Maybe all of this stuff is also evidence of a life that's being lived. Because those papers didn't just magically appear on my desk. They're there because I'm doing things. I'm interested in things. I'm starting things. I'm trying things. I'm thinking about things. And that doesn't mean that I should leave my desk looking like a disaster forever. But maybe I don't have to look at the mess and immediately see evidence that I'm failing at being organized. Maybe I can look at it and see evidence of a life with some interest in it. And that got me thinking about triathlon. Because if there's one hobby that can generate an absolutely ridiculous amount of stuff, it's triathlon. Three sports. Three sets of equipment. Training plans. Nutrition. Clothing. Shoes. Bikes. Goggles. Fins. Paddles. Snorkels. Heart-rate monitors. Power meters. Bike computers. Lights. Radar. Bottles. Gels. Electrolytes. And then you've got all the little things that have to happen before you actually do the workout. And sometimes I think that's one of the reasons training can feel overwhelming. You don't just have to do the workout. You have to prepare to do the workout. Take swimming, for example. I might have a swim scheduled. And in my head, that sounds pretty simple. "Okay, I'm going swimming." But then I actually think about what that involves. I've got to get my swim bag. I've got to make sure I've got my goggles. I've got my cap. I've got my towel. I've got my snorkel. Maybe I've got paddles. Maybe I've got a pull buoy. I've got to know what the workout is. Maybe I've printed it out. And if I'm putting the workout beside the pool, I might even put the damn thing in a Ziploc bag so it doesn't get soaked. And suddenly, "I'm going swimming" has become this little logistical operation. And you can look at that and think: "Jesus. This is a lot of work just to go swimming." And that's where I think organization becomes really important. Because one of the great things about being organized is that it removes friction. If I put my running shoes by the door the night before, that's one less decision I have to make in the morning. If I've already prepared my bike bottles, that's one less thing I have to think about. If my watch is charged, I don't have to discover at the last minute that it's sitting at 14 percent. If my swim bag is already packed, I don't have to go hunting around the house looking for my snorkel. And these things sound incredibly trivial. But they're not. Because motivation is a funny thing. Sometimes you have plenty of motivation. You actually want to go for the run. You actually want to ride your bike. You actually want to get in the pool. And then you encounter five little obstacles. Where are my shoes? My watch is dead. I haven't made my drink. Where's my towel? What am I supposed to do for this workout? And suddenly that little bit of motivation has been chipped away. So I think one of the great purposes of organization is not necessarily to make you more motivated. It's to protect the motivation that you already have. And I really like that idea. But I think there's another layer to this. And that's where the idea of ritual comes in. Because there's a difference between doing something because you have to do it and doing something as part of a ritual. Think about making your coffee in the morning. You could describe it as a series of chores. Fill the machine. Grind the beans. Put the coffee in. Turn it on. Clean it up. Or you could think of it as a little morning ritual. And somehow, that changes the experience. And I think the same thing can happen with training. Take preparing a bottle of carb drink. You can think: "God, I have to make this stupid drink again." Or you can think: "Okay. I'm getting ready for my ride." And you get the bottle. You put the water in. You measure out the carbs. You add the electrolytes. You shake it up. You put it in the fridge. And that's not just a chore anymore. It's part of the ride. It's the beginning of the ride. The same thing with charging your watch. The same thing with laying out your clothes. The same thing with getting your shoes ready. The same thing with packing your swim bag. The same thing with putting that workout into the Ziploc bag. You can look at every one of those things and say: "This is stuff I have to do before I can train." Or you can say: "This is how I prepare to train." And those two sentences sound almost identical. But emotionally, they're completely different. One is a burden. The other is a ritual. And I think there's something really powerful in that distinction. Because we spend so much of our time trying to get to the thing we actually want to do. We rush through the preparation. We rush through getting ready. We think the preparation is just an annoying obstacle between us and the good part. But maybe the preparation is part of the good part. Maybe there's actually some pleasure in getting ready. There's something satisfying about seeing the bike bottles lined up. There's something satisfying about getting your kit laid out. There's something satisfying about knowing that everything is ready to go. And I think that's particularly true in triathlon because there are so many little rituals. You put on the cycling shoes. You get the bottles into the cages. You turn on the trainer. You pull up the workout. You put your headphones on. You get on the bike. And there's a transition that happens. You're no longer sitting around thinking about everything else in your life. You're becoming the person who's about to train. And maybe that's part of the value of ritual. It tells your brain: "Okay. We're doing this now." And I think this also changes the way we think about all of the equipment. Because if you're not careful, all of the stuff that comes with triathlon can feel overwhelming. You start thinking: Why do I have all this stuff? Why do I have five different kinds of nutrition? Why do I have all these swim toys? Why do I need this bike computer? Why do I have a radar? Why do I have this light? Why do I have these shoes? And you can certainly take it too far. Triathlon is an excellent hobby if you want to become an obsessive consumer of tiny improvements. There's always another piece of equipment. There's always another gadget. There's always another thing that might make you three percent faster. And I'm certainly not immune to that. But I've also started thinking that some of that stuff is part of what makes the sport interesting. Take swimming. Maybe you've got a snorkel. You can use it to work on your body position. You've got paddles. You can feel what your catch is doing. You've got fins. You've got a pull buoy. And suddenly swimming isn't just: "Get in the pool and swim back and forth." There's this whole little world of things to explore. And the bike is the same. You can get interested in power. You can get interested in aerodynamics. You can get interested in tires. You can get interested in nutrition. You can get interested in bike fit. You can get interested in training. And I think that's one of the things I love about triathlon. There's always something to be curious about. And that brings me back to my messy desk. Because maybe the desk and the triathlon gear aren't actually that different. The desk is covered with evidence of all the things I'm interested in. And the garage, or the swim bag, or the training calendar, is covered with evidence of all the things I'm interested in as well. And I don't think the answer is to eliminate all of that. I think the answer is to organize it. Not because those things are bad. But because I want to be able to enjoy them. And that's an important distinction. Organization shouldn't necessarily be about simplifying your life to the point where there's nothing left in it. Maybe it's about organizing your life well enough that you can enjoy its complexity. Because triathlon is complex. And that's part of the fun. But there's a danger here, too. Because you can take this idea of preparation and ritual too far. You can become so focused on preparing that you never actually do the workout. You can spend an hour researching the perfect nutrition strategy for a 45-minute run. You can spend all day organizing your training instead of training. You can convince yourself that you need one more piece of equipment before you can really get started. And that's not what I'm talking about. The ritual is supposed to lead you into the activity. It's not supposed to replace the activity. So I think there's a balance. Prepare enough that you remove the friction. Organize enough that you don't have to make a hundred little decisions. But then actually go and do the thing. And maybe that's the real purpose of organization. It's not about having a perfect desk. It's not about having a perfect calendar. It's not about having everything checked off. It's about making room for the things you care abou

I'm always trying to get more organized. But even if I were to succeed, would it help me in triathlon? TRANSCRIPT There’s something I've been thinking about lately, and it has to do with organization. And I know, organization isn't exactly the most exciting topic in the world. But I've been thinking about it in a slightly different way. Because I've realized that I tend to think of organization as something that happens when my life gets too messy. I've got a desk covered in papers. I've got things on my calendar that I haven't dealt with. I've got little projects that I've started but haven't finished. I've got receipts that need to be submitted, notes that I wrote down because I didn't want to forget them, things that I need to file away, things that I need to follow up on. And my first reaction is usually: "God, I really need to get organized." And I think that's true. But a few days ago, I was looking at all of this stuff and I had a slightly different thought. Maybe all of this stuff is also evidence of a life that's being lived. Because those papers didn't just magically appear on my desk. They're there because I'm doing things. I'm interested in things. I'm starting things. I'm trying things. I'm thinking about things. And that doesn't mean that I should leave my desk looking like a disaster forever. But maybe I don't have to look at the mess and immediately see evidence that I'm failing at being organized. Maybe I can look at it and see evidence of a life with some interest in it. And that got me thinking about triathlon. Because if there's one hobby that can generate an absolutely ridiculous amount of stuff, it's triathlon. Three sports. Three sets of equipment. Training plans. Nutrition. Clothing. Shoes. Bikes. Goggles. Fins. Paddles. Snorkels. Heart-rate monitors. Power meters. Bike computers. Lights. Radar. Bottles. Gels. Electrolytes. And then you've got all the little things that have to happen before you actually do the workout. And sometimes I think that's one of the reasons training can feel overwhelming. You don't just have to do the workout. You have to prepare to do the workout. Take swimming, for example. I might have a swim scheduled. And in my head, that sounds pretty simple. "Okay, I'm going swimming." But then I actually think about what that involves. I've got to get my swim bag. I've got to make sure I've got my goggles. I've got my cap. I've got my towel. I've got my snorkel. Maybe I've got paddles. Maybe I've got a pull buoy. I've got to know what the workout is. Maybe I've printed it out. And if I'm putting the workout beside the pool, I might even put the damn thing in a Ziploc bag so it doesn't get soaked. And suddenly, "I'm going swimming" has become this little logistical operation. And you can look at that and think: "Jesus. This is a lot of work just to go swimming." And that's where I think organization becomes really important. Because one of the great things about being organized is that it removes friction. If I put my running shoes by the door the night before, that's one less decision I have to make in the morning. If I've already prepared my bike bottles, that's one less thing I have to think about. If my watch is charged, I don't have to discover at the last minute that it's sitting at 14 percent. If my swim bag is already packed, I don't have to go hunting around the house looking for my snorkel. And these things sound incredibly trivial. But they're not. Because motivation is a funny thing. Sometimes you have plenty of motivation. You actually want to go for the run. You actually want to ride your bike. You actually want to get in the pool. And then you encounter five little obstacles. Where are my shoes? My watch is dead. I haven't made my drink. Where's my towel? What am I supposed to do for this workout? And suddenly that little bit of motivation has been chipped away. So I think one of the great purposes of organization is not necessarily to make you more motivated. It's to protect the motivation that you already have. And I really like that idea. But I think there's another layer to this. And that's where the idea of ritual comes in. Because there's a difference between doing something because you have to do it and doing something as part of a ritual. Think about making your coffee in the morning. You could describe it as a series of chores. Fill the machine. Grind the beans. Put the coffee in. Turn it on. Clean it up. Or you could think of it as a little morning ritual. And somehow, that changes the experience. And I think the same thing can happen with training. Take preparing a bottle of carb drink. You can think: "God, I have to make this stupid drink again." Or you can think: "Okay. I'm getting ready for my ride." And you get the bottle. You put the water in. You measure out the carbs. You add the electrolytes. You shake it up. You put it in the fridge. And that's not just a chore anymore. It's part of the ride. It's the beginning of the ride. The same thing with charging your watch. The same thing with laying out your clothes. The same thing with getting your shoes ready. The same thing with packing your swim bag. The same thing with putting that workout into the Ziploc bag. You can look at every one of those things and say: "This is stuff I have to do before I can train." Or you can say: "This is how I prepare to train." And those two sentences sound almost identical. But emotionally, they're completely different. One is a burden. The other is a ritual. And I think there's something really powerful in that distinction. Because we spend so much of our time trying to get to the thing we actually want to do. We rush through the preparation. We rush through getting ready. We think the preparation is just an annoying obstacle between us and the good part. But maybe the preparation is part of the good part. Maybe there's actually some pleasure in getting ready. There's something satisfying about seeing the bike bottles lined up. There's something satisfying about getting your kit laid out. There's something satisfying about knowing that everything is ready to go. And I think that's particularly true in triathlon because there are so many little rituals. You put on the cycling shoes. You get the bottles into the cages. You turn on the trainer. You pull up the workout. You put your headphones on. You get on the bike. And there's a transition that happens. You're no longer sitting around thinking about everything else in your life. You're becoming the person who's about to train. And maybe that's part of the value of ritual. It tells your brain: "Okay. We're doing this now." And I think this also changes the way we think about all of the equipment. Because if you're not careful, all of the stuff that comes with triathlon can feel overwhelming. You start thinking: Why do I have all this stuff? Why do I have five different kinds of nutrition? Why do I have all these swim toys? Why do I need this bike computer? Why do I have a radar? Why do I have this light? Why do I have these shoes? And you can certainly take it too far. Triathlon is an excellent hobby if you want to become an obsessive consumer of tiny improvements. There's always another piece of equipment. There's always another gadget. There's always another thing that might make you three percent faster. And I'm certainly not immune to that. But I've also started thinking that some of that stuff is part of what makes the sport interesting. Take swimming. Maybe you've got a snorkel. You can use it to work on your body position. You've got paddles. You can feel what your catch is doing. You've got fins. You've got a pull buoy. And suddenly swimming isn't just: "Get in the pool and swim back and forth." There's this whole little world of things to explore. And the bike is the same. You can get interested in power. You can get interested in aerodynamics. You can get interested in tires. You can get interested in nutrition. You can get interested in bike fit. You can get interested in training. And I think that's one of the things I love about triathlon. There's always something to be curious about. And that brings me back to my messy desk. Because maybe the desk and the triathlon gear aren't actually that different. The desk is covered with evidence of all the things I'm interested in. And the garage, or the swim bag, or the training calendar, is covered with evidence of all the things I'm interested in as well. And I don't think the answer is to eliminate all of that. I think the answer is to organize it. Not because those things are bad. But because I want to be able to enjoy them. And that's an important distinction. Organization shouldn't necessarily be about simplifying your life to the point where there's nothing left in it. Maybe it's about organizing your life well enough that you can enjoy its complexity. Because triathlon is complex. And that's part of the fun. But there's a danger here, too. Because you can take this idea of preparation and ritual too far. You can become so focused on preparing that you never actually do the workout. You can spend an hour researching the perfect nutrition strategy for a 45-minute run. You can spend all day organizing your training instead of training. You can convince yourself that you need one more piece of equipment before you can really get started. And that's not what I'm talking about. The ritual is supposed to lead you into the activity. It's not supposed to replace the activity. So I think there's a balance. Prepare enough that you remove the friction. Organize enough that you don't have to make a hundred little decisions. But then actually go and do the thing. And maybe that's the real purpose of organization. It's not about having a perfect desk. It's not about having a perfect calendar. It's not about having everything checked off. It's about making room for the things you care about. And that brings me back to something I've been thinking about a lot