It felt out of this world to be competing again. It was not a long ago when I thought that I won't be able to do it again.
And then somehow, I did it.
I thought that 2017 would be the first year since last century in which I wouldn't do a race. Well, I was running, getting back in shape, regaining my confidence. I was doing hills again, pushing, puffing, feeling my lungs complaining, my legs disobeying. Perhaps procrastinating, especially before interval training and no surprise, punishing hills.
Or before working on my core, and realizing that there was not much core left.
But I didn't race. I was scared. I thought that everyone would know that I was that guy who didn't believe that he could do it.
And I wasn't a professional athlete. I didn't have a team.
I missed that racing excitement. Racing high. Going through all the routine before the race. Breathing, trying to relax, and thinking about the crux. Knowing that it is going to hurt on the hills. Knowing that I will be without breath and that my muscles will be choking.
But also knowing that others will be hurting too.
Knowing that I've seen and felt things that they haven't.
I used to race a lot. During all seasons, and the harder the track, the more demanding weather, the more remote area were, I would feel better about it. I would strive on a steep, single track uphill battle grounds, how I called them. Hills were my friends. Each one of them thought me something about myself, the most, how not to quit, ever.
I learned about a second wind. How it always comes, inevitably. When there is only one thought left - to stop, and to quit pain. And then, that feeling of adrenaline....rushing, and feeling that I move again, using my own power.
Or was it just confirming what I always knew, or perhaps what I learned during Sarajevo siege?
When there was no time to quit. When there was no option called quitting.
At that time I wasn't given that comfortable option, to be able to quit, to simply leave, or to stop.
And somehow now, after 25 years, I got so spoiled, I got so weak, that I couldn't race. Because I was afraid that I would quit, that I would hurt, and that I would fail. What a problem!
It was pathetic - no race can be that tough or comparable to Sarajevo siege. And yet, it took me so long to do it again. Yes, my arm is still not good, but it is not essential for running - why would such thoughts froze me?
I wasn't frozen a quarter of century ago, when I didn't have a choice.
I don't know how I pulled it then - but it seems it got engraved in whatever is that being that is me.
The butcher and his armada who bombed us for 1425 days and who just got sentenced in the Hague taught me invaluable lesson - Never Quit. Race Again. Be Patient. Forgive. Love. Never take anything for granted.
Who would ever think and believe that I could learn such things from a war criminal?
1425 days was a long time. Only people who lived through it do understand it.
Back to racing - When I crossed the finish line, I felt happier, perhaps then ever - I knew that I was doing it again. I was simply doing it, and that was again the only goal - to run.
And then somehow, I did it.
I thought that 2017 would be the first year since last century in which I wouldn't do a race. Well, I was running, getting back in shape, regaining my confidence. I was doing hills again, pushing, puffing, feeling my lungs complaining, my legs disobeying. Perhaps procrastinating, especially before interval training and no surprise, punishing hills.
Or before working on my core, and realizing that there was not much core left.
But I didn't race. I was scared. I thought that everyone would know that I was that guy who didn't believe that he could do it.
And I wasn't a professional athlete. I didn't have a team.
I missed that racing excitement. Racing high. Going through all the routine before the race. Breathing, trying to relax, and thinking about the crux. Knowing that it is going to hurt on the hills. Knowing that I will be without breath and that my muscles will be choking.
But also knowing that others will be hurting too.
Knowing that I've seen and felt things that they haven't.
I used to race a lot. During all seasons, and the harder the track, the more demanding weather, the more remote area were, I would feel better about it. I would strive on a steep, single track uphill battle grounds, how I called them. Hills were my friends. Each one of them thought me something about myself, the most, how not to quit, ever.
I learned about a second wind. How it always comes, inevitably. When there is only one thought left - to stop, and to quit pain. And then, that feeling of adrenaline....rushing, and feeling that I move again, using my own power.
Or was it just confirming what I always knew, or perhaps what I learned during Sarajevo siege?
When there was no time to quit. When there was no option called quitting.
At that time I wasn't given that comfortable option, to be able to quit, to simply leave, or to stop.
And somehow now, after 25 years, I got so spoiled, I got so weak, that I couldn't race. Because I was afraid that I would quit, that I would hurt, and that I would fail. What a problem!
It was pathetic - no race can be that tough or comparable to Sarajevo siege. And yet, it took me so long to do it again. Yes, my arm is still not good, but it is not essential for running - why would such thoughts froze me?
I wasn't frozen a quarter of century ago, when I didn't have a choice.
I don't know how I pulled it then - but it seems it got engraved in whatever is that being that is me.
The butcher and his armada who bombed us for 1425 days and who just got sentenced in the Hague taught me invaluable lesson - Never Quit. Race Again. Be Patient. Forgive. Love. Never take anything for granted.
Who would ever think and believe that I could learn such things from a war criminal?
1425 days was a long time. Only people who lived through it do understand it.
Back to racing - When I crossed the finish line, I felt happier, perhaps then ever - I knew that I was doing it again. I was simply doing it, and that was again the only goal - to run.
