Saturday afternoon, mid-May. I crouch, looking nervous, between metal bars and tarpaulins. Electronic dance music plays, underscored by the sound of a helicopter circling nearby. A speaker announces the program for the next few hours; people are wearing sunglasses. I'm definitely not at a festival. No, highly trained athletes are milling about in front of me. I'm in an athletes' lounge, the last refuge of athletic ecstasy.
The world ranking system can be a tedious process. Even after this early summer weekend in Cagliari, Italy, every athlete will be assigned a rank. This ranking is linked to a number of points, which will be updated on Monday at noon Central European Summer Time, resulting in an updated position in the world rankings. The higher the race series, the greater the potential reward. Mathematical skills become a virtue, strategic finesse a game-changer.
Although I'm proud of few things as much as passing my math exam on the second attempt as part of my bachelor's degree, my tactical instincts would prove to be my downfall today. The faint hope that an athlete already on the starting list might withdraw their bib number at the last minute for some reason gave way to the realization that I would remain on the waiting list. That I had made the journey without competing in a race. That I would now have to do tempo runs while the world's elite battled for valuable world ranking points.
Between global elite and reservist | Photo: Simon Gehr
The system is a bit like capitalism, not really fair. Because funding is also allocated via this list, the elite circle essentially remains intact. While the vast majority have to mobilize their own financial resources to secure opportunities at the continental level and thus gradually work their way into the world series, these 55 men and women live in a land of plenty. Envy can easily set in.
Speaking of step by step: A fleeting slip-up during my heyday at Saarland University led to me finding myself in a seminar room one Thursday evening with fifteen suit-wearing high achievers. The student consulting group was teaching me, as part of their preparatory course, how to hunt a bear. Quite simply, step by step.
Competitive sports aren't quite so simple; the journey is rarely linear. So, as I sit here watching my competitors make their final preparations – pouring baby powder into their cycling shoes, coating their swimming goggles with saliva, or taking another puff of their asthma inhaler – images from long ago flash through my mind. Experiences that shaped me and enable me today to maintain my composure in situations like these.
Step by step, unit by unit | Photo: Simon Gehr
So let's take a look back. Half a decade, for the blog's anniversary. Five years ago, I was already huddled up. The laundry room of the athletes' residence offered itself as a refuge when I held a letter in my hands that threw me into emotional turmoil. Oh, to put it bluntly: I bawled like a baby.
The transition from junior to elite level is often frustrating. 2017, my first year competing at the top level, didn't bring the success, the number of podium finishes, that I had involuntarily become accustomed to over the previous years. 2018 was supposed to be different.
I was wrong, at least initially. In retrospect, we lost our relaxed atmosphere in the new team setup at the Olympic training center. We became rigid, and as a result, I struggled with minor injuries for almost the entire preseason. The harsh reality also showed that my performance diagnostic results at the end of the off-season were better than those immediately after two three-week training camps at altitude. Yes, the mood was somber when I left for a final Easter training camp in Mallorca. But even there, we made mistakes.
Driven by uncertainty and testosterone, we pushed the training volume at this camp to a whole new level. Even though the winter had been anything but smooth, we were determined to see what we could do. Ten days, packed with sunshine and my first week of running over 100 kilometers, then my body gave out. I spent the rest of the week drinking coffee and undergoing physiotherapy. I constantly felt like we'd messed things up big time; I was aching all over. The Schaufler machine was at its limit.
The shovel machine at its limit | Photo: Marcel Hilger
Soon it was time to fly home. While initially my shin was causing problems, now it was my knee that seemed unable to withstand any strain. Because neither conservative methods nor a three-day rest prescription brought any improvement, our physiotherapist sent me to radiology to finally shed some light on the situation. An MRI revealed the cause: a torn meniscus.
My first reaction was relief. Partly because people around me kept telling me I could train through it, that what comes from running eventually goes away from running, I felt defiantly grateful. The usual mix of optimism and pragmatism to ward off physiological setbacks—but it wasn't to be. This time the situation was more serious: surgery was imminent, and it was at that very moment that I opened the letter.
Although I had taken the diagnosis calmly and immediately inquired with the doctor about rehabilitation measures and the course of recovery, it all came pouring out. The letter was from my parents. They were a bit nervous because the boy had planned a big trip. The visa had already been issued, the flights paid for, everything was ready for my first World Cup on a foreign continent. The letter was outlined in Chinese characters: "Good luck in China. Take care."
While my training partners were almost constantly away on competition trips, I spent a summer that I look back on fondly, despite the circumstances. It was wonderful to see how touchingly my friends and family cared for me. I was incredibly grateful to be able to rely on their support, whether as a taxi driver or for their mental support. And so it wasn't uncommon for me, in my role as a member of the training group, to feel obligated to accompany them on tempo runs, standing on crutches.
Alongside many fascinating athletes who shared my fate in some way, I even found rehab genuinely enjoyable. The three hours I spent in the weight room every day flew by. And it was almost time to put the crutches aside when the realization hit me that I wouldn't achieve my ambitious goals in triathlon if I simply carried on as if nothing had happened. A change was needed.
Focusing firmly on the future | Photo: Simon Gehr
I found what I was looking for: a new coach and, with him, a system that prioritized my health over fulfilling training plans; a demanding new challenge that required a complete overhaul of my technique; and, in connection with this, I embarked on my first solo training camp in the Swiss Engadine. At the same time, however, I also had pangs of conscience: had I let my training group down?
After surviving the exam period at university, I felt in St. Moritz for the first time in a long time that I was completely in control of my senses. I worked with more discipline than ever before, and I still get goosebumps when I look back and can proudly report on my successful comeback today.
October 2018, trip to Israel for the U23 European Championships, together with my dad, who still raves about those ten days. In short: I had the perfect race. After almost two hours, during which I was brimming with confidence and gratitude, I became Vice European Champion, finishing behind Max Studer and ahead of Roberto Sanchez. Based on this result, both were selected for the elite World Championship series. I was unceremoniously dropped from the team. Because I hadn't met the criteria that summer, all my funding was withdrawn. Professional sports are an emotional rollercoaster, but luckily I'm not alone.
