Race Day

I’m a distance runner. I’ve noted this on numerous occasions, and suggested on every one of those occasions that running has been a great metaphor for many life lessons.

Hold onto your hat.

When I travel, it’s race day.

No, not for running. (At least not always.)

See, for every race a runner runs there are often months of training. If I’m running a half marathon in August, then in April we’re starting hills, planning weekly increases in distance and working out a strategy for all the other bits that go into a successful showing.

Race day is the last day of a very long era of practice, honing, patience, suffering, and growing.

When I travel, it’s race day for my hobbies: my art, my photography, and often my writing.

I’ve just spent months out in the neighbourhood pointing my camera at interesting suburban things, colourful patches of trees, and posed pictures of my dog. I’ve hunkered down with a sketchbook and inked endless mundane nearby objects, strolling people, and familiar landscapes. I’ve sat in the field and written essays, penned journals, and compiled updates for social media.

All of that is practice.

And then I step off a plane, camera strapped over a shoulder, pen and paper ready, and a blank journal stuffed into my backpack—ready to perform. Ready to take the best photos I know how. Ready to sketch things I’ve never seen before. Ready to scribble notes about experiences and impressions into pages for later perusal.

Race day is the last day of a very long era of practice, honing, patience, suffering, and growing, even if that is about running… or art and hobbies and habits.