Written largely in the darkness of the night

12 hours of traveling brought me here, a place that I’ve been before, where familiarity meets foreign. High up in the hills, where the weather is cold and winds chilly, where the waters of the lake vacillate between hot and cold, depending on where the sun shines. We live in huts amidst trees and forest cover, with overhanging balconies overlooking the beautiful lake, and the mountains in the distance.

The calm and serenity of the surroundings stands in start contrast to the inside of the huts. In mine, bags and shoes are spewed across the floor, loaves of bread and jars of peanut butter line my coffee table and my bike sits in the vast, spacious toilet. Bottles of water accompany my laptop and notes on the reading desk, in preparation of long studying sessions in between the training and racing.

I shut my door to the noise of my travel companions and team mates. I politely decline invitations to head out for lunch, choosing instead my bread and energy bars as sustenance. I stay away from the rooms where the activities are, where everyone gather to play card games and chat, choosing instead to do my readings to the sounds of Jack Johnson. I nap intermittently, awoken by thirst and hunger. I take a bath, and suddenly realised while looking in the mirror, how thin I looked. Lean and mean; that’s what a friend told me. Weak and broken; that’s what my mind says. I’m physically stronger and faster than I’ve ever been, but mentally more broken than ever. Perhaps it makes sense, because all the mental and emotional pain has been diverted to training and racing with a vengeance. I push myself to break past limits, I’ve been hitting crazy training volumes, spending insane amounts of time cycling and running harder than ever on every single run.

6 days away in a place far from home, but the heart is elsewhere.