The Quiet Place Beside the Race

A weekend of old traditions, early starts, a determined wife and one sleeping man showed me that rest is not always doing nothing. Sometimes it is knowing when to step forward, when to step back, and when to let the sofa win.

Sunday Begins at 4:30.

On Sunday morning, my wife came into the bedroom at half past four and said we had to get up. She had already been active since four o’clock. She had showered, made coffee and even allowed me another thirty minutes of sleep without me noticing. Then she came back and said, ‘Now you must also stand up.’ I looked at her and thought: Hello, it is Sunday.

But on a triathlon morning, Sunday is not Sunday. There is no pardon. My wife is already inside the race before we leave the house. Her checklist is ready in plastic so she can mark everything. She drinks coffee with milk. I drink mine black. She eats something sweet, often one of these soft, wet cinnamon rolls from Aldi that are much better than they have any right to be.

In the car we do not speak very much. Only normal things: there is a car coming, yes, I see it. Her brain is already swimming the course, cycling the turns and running through the changing zone. At the beginning I did not understand this. I spoke to her and received no answer. Then I learned: let her run. Let her do her thing. She will tell me when something is needed.

That is one kind of rest, I think. Not sleep. Not lying down. It is the rest of not forcing another person to come out of her concentration just because I would like a conversation.

A Festival That Gets Smaller and Bigger.

The weekend had already started before the triathlon. On Friday we went to the Otterndorf Altstadtfest. For many years it was a big highlight. Today the festival becomes smaller and more uniform. The special salmon grill is gone. It begins to look like every other town festival.

For the festival, this is sad. For my wife and me, it becomes more important every year. Twenty years ago, at this festival, we gave each other our first kiss. This is where we came together. The public event gets smaller and smaller, but our private meaning gets bigger and bigger.

There is still a Ferris wheel. We also went up. From the top you can look across the town and towards the Elbe, where the river is already salt water and slowly becomes the North Sea. Some people call it the sea, some call it the river. The fact is that the water does not care what we call it. It keeps moving.

Below, at the Lions Club wine stand, you buy a one-litre bottle of Grauburgunder for twenty-five euros and receive as many glasses as you need. We met another couple whose life is also full of triathlon. The two women could talk about bicycles and races very fast, while the two men had time for wine and survival strategies.

This is also rest. It is returning to a place where your own history is waiting for you. You do not need a new attraction every year. Sometimes you need the same Ferris wheel, the same town square and the same person beside you.

Forest, the Bicycle.

My wife’s bicycle has a name: Forest, like Forrest Gump. Forest is fitted exactly to her body. My wife does not want a new one. Forest runs and runs and runs, and they are a special team.

At Sunday’s triathlon, she made a very good overtaking move and escaped from a group. Then a car braked hard in front of another cyclist. My wife also had to brake, and the whole group caught her again. Later, the changing zone was slippery and she fell. She was angry. Before a race she can say, ‘This is only training. This is only preparation.’ But inside the race another voice arrives and says: no, we want the podium.

She finished first in her age group and ninth among eighty-five women. When we came home, she still looked full of energy. I was happy tired. At about five in the afternoon we sat on the sofa and started a film. One hour later she congratulated me: I had already slept through most of it. I opened my eyes when the film was ending.

That was honest rest. No programme, no technique, no breathing exercise. The body simply switched me off.

My Kitchen, Her Tunnel.

The interesting thing is that I understand her race tunnel because I have something similar in the kitchen. When I cook, I need space around the stove. No dog and no wife. I have explained this clearly. It works for three or four times, and then curiosity returns. My wife comes in and asks, ‘What is this? What is this?’ The dachshund also appears and looks at me as if immediate food is a human right.

Now we have a system. My wife comes into my kitchen – and yes, it is my kitchen – mixes her sports drink with water, and leaves again. She knows I am not a friend of company around the oven.

This is not because I do not like people. It is because concentration needs a little territory. Her territory is the silent car before a race. Mine is the space around the stove. A good partnership is not only doing everything together. It is also learning where not to stand.

Earlier in our conversation, we spoke about my lasagne. I do not use béchamel sauce. I make more Bolognese instead, with very small cubes of carrot, onion, leek and celeriac. I add many, many, many garlics. The sauce cooks slowly for three or four hours.

People may call this cooking. For me, it is also a quiet place. Hands are busy, the sauce is moving slowly, and the rest of the world can wait outside the kitchen door.

The Rest Before the Big Start.

The next weekend will bring the main event: a half Ironman near Flensburg. My wife has trained for it since February. Her programme became bigger and bigger: more swimming, more cycling, more running. Now, in the final week, the programme becomes smaller. One kilometre of swimming instead of two. A little running. A little cycling. No action. This is the rest phase before the big start.

That sentence interests me: rest before the big start. Rest is not a reward only after the work. It is part of the work. Without it, the body cannot arrive at the starting line ready.

The weekend itself will be organised around her. We drive on Friday, making a large detour around the Wacken festival and its eighty thousand rock fans. She will eat carbohydrates. I will eat normally. On Sunday morning she will begin six hours plus six minutes plus X – this is her calculation.

For those hours, she is the centre and I take the back seat. This is not a problem. When somebody has worked for a dream, there are moments when you make space around that dream. But afterwards, I also look forward to normal life again. Training has shaped many weekends and many plans. Supporting a dream matters, and so does returning home from it.

Doing Nothing, Together and Apart.

Can we do nothing? Yes. I like lying on the sofa and watching a normal, stupid film. When my wife is running, swimming or cycling for two or three hours, I have time for myself. I watch YouTube videos about cooking, grilling and barbecuing, or I do nothing at all.

When she is in the house, we are a team. But being a team does not mean every minute must be shared. Her training can create my quiet time. My cooking can create her space somewhere else. We can be connected without standing in the same room.

Maybe this is why rest matters. A full life needs empty spaces, otherwise even good things become too loud. The Altstadtfest matters because it carries our first kiss. The triathlon matters because it carries my wife’s long work and ambition. Cooking matters because it gives me concentration and pleasure.

But the sofa also matters. Silence in the car matters. A slower training week matters. A Ferris wheel turning above the same town for another year matters.

Rest is not one thing. Sometimes it is sleep. Sometimes it is wine with an old story. Sometimes it is letting another person enter her tunnel without following her inside. Sometimes it is asking everyone, including the dachshund, to leave the kitchen. And sometimes it is waking at the end of a film and discovering that your body made the decision for you.