I sob whenever I wish people a peaceful Christmas season during these auspicious pre-Christmas weeks. Primarily because the word "peaceful" is, of course, not firmly established in the vocabulary of my generation. It doesn't roll off the tongue. Yet, in emails, I want to make an impression, I want to appear serious. Yes, I even have a fancy email signature now. But secondly, and this is where the real misconception lies, pretty much nothing can be slow and comfortable, peaceful and serene in the days leading up to the big celebration. In the business world, at least, they're honest and frequently use the modern cliché of "end-of-year stress." As a result, I don't get replies to my emails until January at the earliest. I take in the pictures from the (!) Christmas parties with an eye roll and, for the sake of my mental health, seek refuge in my private life. Here, after all, everything is done to create an artificial atmosphere, one that has been artificially instilled in us through media manipulation. Christmas movies and endless loops of Jingle Bells offer some consolation for the fact that, as the calendar year draws to a close, absolutely nothing seems to work anymore. Even the sliding door separating the toilet on this overcrowded express train has stopped working for the day. The internet is too slow for last-minute gift shopping that would send the Amazon delivery driver into raptures, and damn it, it's cold on this part of the world. But wait, didn't I choose northern Spain, with its almost year-round tropical warmth, as the focus of my activities?
A touch of tranquility | Photo: Marcel Hilger
A plethora of changes, as I've already hinted. But before I bore you with the details, let me take a look back and, as my law studies taught me, proceed chronologically to illustrate the circumstances and conditions that led me to entrust my journey home today to Austrian railway lines instead of French highways. It was precisely there that I spent New Year's, in the car with my sweetheart, constantly searching for the next rest stop, constantly on the lookout for speed cameras. The first meal of the year belonged to McDonald's, and it wasn't even two weeks before my father sent me a picture of an unwelcome letter from our French colleagues. Nevertheless, the mood was enthusiastic; after all, we had just experienced how supposedly cumbersome training can be in the rather gloomy Northern Europe at this time of year. Healthy and happy, we would now be settling back into the cozy warmth of Girona to begin preparations for the upcoming season. Three harmonious weeks passed before things suddenly became chaotic and, at times, very complicated. Fateful phone calls in every area of my life brought the peaceful start to the new year to an abrupt end. To this day, I don't know how I would have reacted to that news sitting alone in my one-room apartment in Heidelberg.
Back to routine | Photo: Simon Gehr
Driven by the desire to complete a project and fulfill a mission, I pulled myself together and saw at least some of the challenges—which the liberal young middle class would be proud of—as thorny opportunities. So I pressed on, fervently hoping to make it onto the starting list for the World Championship series, training hour after hour, now with a new program and, after all, the same sponsor. Other aspects also improved, and I was visibly relieved when, two weeks before the opening race in Abu Dhabi, after updating the waiting list day in and day out, I received an email confirming that I would be making my WTCS debut on the iconic Formula 1 circuit. However, the coach dampened my enthusiasm. We were still in the development phase, he'd take a look, and things weren't exactly optimal. And indeed, I hadn't been running particularly fast in training in mid-February, and it had been about four months since my last transition from cycling to running. Neither my equipment was race-ready, nor were any flights booked. The following week was going to be grueling, and before I knew it, just a few hours after my first race in the top series of short-distance triathlons, I was already on a budget airline back to Spain. A satisfactory result, but one that also took its toll. I caught a mild infection, and because I hadn't earned enough points in the Persian Gulf, the next race was already looming. That European Cup, in turn, brought a solid amount of world ranking points, but also the certainty that I would never again compete in a triathlon in the Spanish enclave of Melilla in this lifetime.
Speeding through the triathlon scene | Photo: Marcel Hilger
Because I continued to spend weeks poring over start lists for upcoming races, even during training, and the likelihood of securing further starting positions in the spring Olympic qualification rankings was steadily dwindling, I decided to tackle a middle-distance triathlon in nearby Peñíscola as an alternative. In retrospect, it was the best event of the year, where, cheered on by childhood friends, I managed to place on the podium alongside childhood idols. My form looked promising, so I also made the short trip to Ibiza for the Multisport World Championships and enjoyed a thoroughly successful weekend there just a few days after my middle-distance debut – and all without any partying. After two more weeks of training, each ending with me watching my competitors in far-flung corners of the world rack up points, my patience finally snapped. I traveled to Cagliari, Italy, hoping to slip onto the start list during the briefing. A complicated system and tactical games within the German "team". Here too, I was condemned to watch.
Six days later, another briefing. In Madrid, the chain of events involving people, climate, and rain led to such abysmal water quality that the European Championships had to be held as a duathlon. No result, no points, but a frantic, late-night search for a flight from my hotel room bed, because the next race in the series, in Montreal, was to be my event. And although the nature of every athlete seems to be rooted in a certain restlessness, even chronic dissatisfaction, both my second-place finish at the Kitzbühel stopover and my 18th place in Montreal left me quite happy. When I then managed to influence the race at the prestigious World Cup in Tiszaujvaros, Hungary, and finished sixth, I was able to visibly enjoy my short break at Lake Como. I was satisfied and felt I was gradually realizing my potential. However, I did try to forget that I had once again been relegated to the spectator stands during the first weekend of our altitude training camp in the Engadine. The German competitors had also scored points, so I followed the race in Hamburg on my laptop screen. A quiet moment of admiration, a respectful wave of the hand, and a few mathematical calculations later, the certainty dawned on me. My grand ambition, participation in the test event in Paris, had been denied me by the strong performance of the other Germans. After a successful training block under reduced oxygen saturation, I went to Turkey as a substitute. The European champions in the super sprint distance were determined there in unbearably hot conditions, just as in Abu Dhabi, in front of empty stands. I felt uneasy from the start and finished ninth. I was disappointed, even embarrassed, and sank into a mixture of altitude sickness and summer blues. After five days of eating nothing but spaghetti with tomato soup for lack of alternatives, I felt a profound emptiness. Haunted by the crazy emotions of professional sports, that initial despondency soon gave way to defiance, then to pride at having completed another training block and further improved my form, then to anticipation for the World Cup in nearby Valencia, then again to disappointment and anger at having thrown away a better result there due to my own dietary mistakes. It faded. And then it was gone.
"For those who grind in the dark to shine in the light!" | Photo: Simon Gehr
My World Cup season was originally supposed to really kick off in September. Right up until the last minute, I believed I'd be able to start in Karlovy Vary, Czech Republic. My training had felt okay; I was probably just still tired from finishing ninth in Valencia. But on the eve of my flight, my body gave out. The mere thought of having to pack my bike case made me feverish with exhaustion. For the first time in my career, I was going to have to cancel a race due to illness. Unfortunately, my symptoms didn't improve over the next few days. On the contrary, an abrupt trip to the hospital and the devastating diagnosis of pneumonia brought my season to a tragic end, even though I didn't want to accept it in my youthful exuberance.
A very difficult time followed, during which I grappled with some big questions. Like my mother, I'm more of a realist than a dreamer, which is why I was quickly able to accept that I wouldn't be on the starting line in Paris next year. Other dimensions, however, weighed more heavily. Did I want to remain so dependent on systems over which I had little control? Wasn't it once the freedom I valued so much in my work as a professional athlete? What sacrifices was I willing to make, and for what goal? The latter question, in particular, troubled me. I firmly believe that we are only truly successful, as defined, if we pursue a goal for which we are prepared to accept corresponding losses and overcome setbacks. And because I also believe that failure is inevitable without this certainty, I evaluated my options and made decisions, leading to a readjustment that prioritizes my health once again. With a new coach, a new team, and new goals, an instructive year is drawing to a close. After coughing up blood for two months and almost losing my love for triathlons over the summer, I'm more grateful than ever today and really looking forward to Christmas with my loved ones. Despite the EOY stress.
