The Goalposts Have Moved

In the last few weeks, I've heard from several athletes who are going through it.

One is recovering from surgery to repair a deviated septum — not a cycling injury, technically, but suddenly his breathing, his sleep, his training, his everything is on hold while his body does the slow, unglamorous work of healing. Another is dealing with a new hip injury that's sidelined her at the worst possible moment — the tail end of XC ski season, just as the roads are drying out and outdoor riding is coming back. And then there's an athlete I coached twenty years ago, someone I remember as strong and determined, who recently sent me a note to say he's had surgeries on both knees — both menisci — and that he's quietly, carefully, hopefully working his way back to the bike this summer after a long time away.

Three different athletes. Three different stories. One common thread.

Something happened — and now they're in the waiting room.

Here's the first thing I want to say about that: it's hard. It's frustrating in a way that's difficult to explain to people who don't train. When you've built your life around showing up — around the discipline of the early morning, the earned tiredness of a long ride, the rhythm of the season — having that taken away, even temporarily, feels like a kind of grief. It feels unfair. Sometimes it is unfair.

I'm not going to rush past that, because I think athletes often feel like they're not allowed to admit it. Like they're supposed to immediately go full stoic. Trust the process. Everything happens for a reason. The comeback is always greater than the setback.

That's all fine, eventually. But first — it's okay to be frustrated. It's okay to be scared. It's okay to sit with the loss of it for a minute.

Okay. Minute's up.

Here's the second thing: injury and illness are not aberrations. They are not signs that something has gone wrong with your athletic life. They are, in fact, a completely predictable feature of it. The question was never if you'd get hurt or sick. It was always when, and how you'd handle it when you did.

Every athlete you admire has a version of this story. Every one.

The ones who come back strong aren't the ones who avoided getting knocked down. They're the ones who knew what to do while they were down.

So what do you do?

You do the same thing you've always done. You focus on what you can control — and you let go of what you can't.

You can't control the timeline. You can't rush the flu. You can't negotiate with a surgeon's instructions. You cannot will a meniscus to heal faster than it's going to heal. The athletes who try usually end up right back where they started, sometimes worse.

But here's what you can control:

Rest. Real rest. Not the "I'll just do an easy spin" version of rest that athletes are famous for. Actual, deliberate, unapologetic rest — because your body is using every resource it has to rebuild, and it needs you to get out of the way and let it work.

Nutrition and hydration. The unglamorous stuff. Protein to support tissue repair. Vegetables and fruit for the micronutrients your body needs. Water, actually enough of it. The basics, done with intention. This is where you can genuinely help your body do its job.

Your rehab protocol. Whatever your PT or your doctor or your surgeon gave you — do it. All of it. Consistently. Even when it feels too simple. Especially when it feels too simple. The boring band exercises and the gentle range-of-motion work and the short walks are your training right now. Treat them like it.

I wrote about this a couple of years ago — the mental game of bouncing back from setbacks — and a lot of what I said then still applies here: the process of recovery and the process of training are the same process. Show up. Be consistent. Look for small, sustainable forward progress. Don't skip steps.

The details change. The framework doesn't.

When you're training, you don't go from zero to a four-hour ride in a week. You build. You layer. You trust that the accumulation of small efforts produces something real over time. Recovery works exactly the same way. The athlete who did the band exercises every single day, who slept eight hours, who ate his protein, who followed the protocol even when it felt pointless — that athlete comes back. Slowly at first, then faster than she expected.

The goalposts may have moved. That ride you were targeting, that race you circled on the calendar, that summer you were going to finally get back on the bike — it might look a little different now than it did six months ago. That's real, and it's okay to acknowledge it.

But the process hasn't moved. It's right where you left it, waiting for you.

Small steps. Consistent effort. Trust the accumulation.

That's it. That's always been it.

If you're in the waiting room right now — recovering, rehabbing, watching your fitness from the sidelines — I see you. Keep doing the work, even when the work is just resting. Even when the work is a few minutes of PT exercises in your living room. Even when the work is eating well and going to bed on time.

You're still training. It just looks different right now.

And different is temporary.

See you next week,

Steve

PS: Questions? Thoughts? Reply to this email — I read every one.