PicoBlog

“We won’t need to file Schedule C anymore after this year,” I told my accountant this winter, “I’m no longer getting any sponsor money.”

“Oh, Amelia - I’m sorry!” she replied, with that mildly pitying look we all know. “Don’t be,” I laughed, “it’s honestly glorious.”

“In your peak, damn - you were unstoppable,” a well-meaning person said to me the other day. It’s a wonderful compliment, and, in moments where I feel like I can own my accomplishments, yes - I can admit that I was. Three World’s Toughest Mudder titles, a Spartan Race World Championship and countless victories, ultrarunning podiums - the accolades back it up. Throw in some magazine covers, substantial sponsorship income, ESPN hosting gigs, an Oberto Beef Jerky commercial - it really was kind of a wild and surreal time, and I feel incredibly lucky.

I don’t have any of those things anymore. It’s been years since I’ve won a race. Potential sponsors aren’t lining up, free gear no longer shows up randomly on my doorstep, and that beef jerky commercial shockingly did NOT launch my acting career. I always knew this would be part of the process - decline of performance is an inevitable part of the arc of a professional athlete. While I was in my prime, I feared it for many reasons: the loss of relevancy, the loss of external validation, the fact that people may stop caring about me.

But I’m here now, and honestly - not only is it not that bad, it’s actually incredibly freeing. Perhaps it’s perspective, perhaps it’s the wisdom that comes with aging and the fewer fucks we have left to give, but I am more excited now as an athlete than I have ever been.

Because now more than ever, I am doing it solely for me.

That doesn’t mean that my ego hasn’t smarted over the past year or two, or that the edges of this transition aren’t raw and a bit sharp at times. My therapist is intimately familiar with this topic.

I can hear the inevitable responses to this piece: “but you are only 40! Female ultra runners can hit their prime in their 40s - you are still young! Look at xyz runner doing incredible things still!” Yes, that is very true, and I’m not writing myself off by any means. For better or worse, I will always have a competitive fire, and I still have this firm belief that my best running days are actually ahead of me.

But “best” doesn’t necessarily mean “fastest times” or “most race podiums.” “Best” can mean competing like hell out there but not losing the joy and the meaning. “Best” can mean stringing together years without a stress fracture, something which has eluded me thus far. “Best” can mean the most involved I’ve been in the community, and the most fun I’ve had out there on the trail.

The joy I have now and the peace and confidence in myself as a whole person is what I wish I had ten years ago while I was at the top of the sport. I try to not have regrets in life, but one thing that makes me sad is that I was so tortured and miserable during a time in my athletic career when I, objectively, *should* have been riding the high. Why did I care so much about what others may think of me? Why did I think that the only reason people liked me was because I was winning? Why was I so fearful of it all going away that I couldn’t even enjoy what I was doing?

There will also always be some melancholy and wistfulness around the “what ifs”: what if I hadn’t let my eating disorder de-rail my athletic career at my peak? What if I could have avoided those 7 (8? I’ve lost count…) stress fractures that kept me constantly in a state of injury and recovery and never allowed for the consistency to build a season? What if I didn’t have to give up those two Golden Tickets to Western States or the three additional shots I had at Barkley because I was too injured to get to the start line?

I will always carry the feeling of unfinished business with me because of that. Maybe that’s part of what keeps me running. It’s not an anger, but just a small pinprick under the skin that catches me every now and again, propelling me forward, whispering “you aren’t finished yet.”

A part of me likes to think this is all a natural part of the broader topic of success and longevity: at some point, we all start the (mostly) inescapable decline in our chosen career/art path. I imagine musicians feel it after selling out stadiums and then struggling to fill small venues in later years. Or actors as parts become fewer and further between. Or even social media influencers as following counts and engagement starts to drop.

Some people chose to pack it up when this happens - “go out on top” and not let it “hurt the legacy.” I have complete respect for that decision, but that’s not me (I am captain of this slowly sinking ship and I’m gonna ride it allllllllll the way down). I love running and this sport too much to walk away just because I’m no longer standing on top of podiums, and I know there are many others out there who feel the same way. Perhaps that’s the beauty of participation sports: we can continue to do it for as long as we choose (hopefully), and consistently redefine our relationship to it and the meaning it gives to us.

I may be past my prime, but only if we define prime as “race results and accolades.” If we define it as “confidence in myself as an athlete and excitement for the sport,” then I’d say I have many more years left.

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