When You’re an Athlete, You Die Twice

But hey, at least I’m not a cat.

Photo via Giselle Villasenor Photography

“An athlete dies twice.” — Roger Kahn

The alarm clock goes off at 6:30 am. I wake up and shoot out of bed like a bat out of hell. It’s time for training.

Again.

“I think I should rest today,” whispers some voice inside me. I know that that’s fear and anxiety talking — the devil on my shoulder, so I deliberately stuff my body’s warnings of its physical limits down deep in my mind where I won’t be able to notice them. There’s no time to contemplate “how I’m feeling”, this isn’t a Lauv album, this is 7 days before the Pan Ams, and it’s my year.

I need to push myself today. Any day that ends in “Y”, I need to push myself.

I stand up and arch my back. My spine cracks in symphony as I lean back, and then I add a couple of pops with my jaw to finish the verse. I don’t know if your jaw is supposed to be able to pop at will, but mine does.

This is the life I chose. It hurts, it kind of sucks, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. This has been my dream since I was 5 years old.

I’m an athlete, at least for now.

My Neck, My Back, My Anxiety Attacks