I'm sitting in a mountain hut in the Austrian Alps right now, legs sore from a morning of skiing powder with friends. The kind of day where you keep taking one more run until your quads are screaming and you've forgotten what year it is. Someone just made a joke about "knowing when to stop"—no surprises here for this group: it’s never.
Which brings me to something Alistair Brownlee told me in our first podcast that made me laugh and wince at the same time: “I would feel it's an aberration if I got to the Olympic start line at 95%. That's not what I'm here to do. I'm here to get there at 99.9%. And of course, if I go to 101%, that's part of that parcel.”
I heard those words and thought: Yes. Exactly. And also: We're both completely insane.
Because looking at this logically, the difference between 95% and 99.9% prepared? Maybe you finish second instead of first. Maybe you don't make the podium. Disappointing, sure, but you live to race another day.
The difference between 99.9% and 101%? That's not a podium position. That's a stress fracture. A torn muscle. An entire season gone. That's lying on a physio table wondering if you've just ended your career chasing a fraction of a percentage point that doesn't actually exist.
Here's what fascinates me though: risk appetite is wildly personal. Some people will bet their entire season on squeezing out that final 0.1%. Others play it safe at 97% and still perform brilliantly. Neither approach is wrong — they're just operating on different internal calculators or perhaps instincts.
I've met athletes who are absolute maniacs in training — pushing every boundary, ignoring every warning sign — but won't jaywalk in real life. Their personal risk tolerance? Zero. Their professional risk tolerance? Suicidal.
And I've met people who are the opposite: conservative in their sport, calculated in their preparation, but will dump their life savings into a startup or move to Girona on a Tuesday because "it felt right."
But here's what I can't quite figure out about myself: why did I always take that risk?
Because the math never made sense. The pain of getting it wrong — lying on a medical table, watching a season evaporate, feeling your body not able to hold on — that was so much bigger than any win was ever satisfying. The losses hurt more than when the victories felt good. By a factor of about ten.
And I knew this. I had the data. Every injury was proof that pushing to 101% wasn't worth it. And yet, the next training block, there I'd go again, edging toward that line, then crossing it, then acting surprised when my body sent me another invoice I couldn't pay.
I remember walking out of an MRI scanner in 2018, hip injury, and having that conversation with myself. The technician had that look — the one where they're professionally trained not to tell you anything, but their face is screaming "this is bad."
You lie there in that claustrophobic tube listening to it bang and whir, and you're bargaining with physics. Maybe it's just inflammation. Maybe it's not as bad as it feels. Maybe I can still make it to Kona.
Hope meets physics in an MRI tube. Physics usually wins.
And walking out, I remember thinking: You did this to yourself. Again. Why?
Because here's the uncomfortable truth: I think I was more terrified of showing up at 95% than I was of breaking completely.
Not performing at my best felt like a moral failure. Like I was cheating the people who believed in me, cheating the sport, cheating some invisible judge who would know I'd left something in the tank.
Breaking was almost easier to explain. "I gave everything" sounds heroic. "I held back to stay healthy" sounds like you quit before the fight even started.
Where does that come from? I've spent enough time in my own head to have a few theories. Maybe it's my upbringing — where "good enough" was never actually good enough. Maybe it's twenty-three years in a sport that celebrates suffering and treats caution like cowardice. Or maybe it's just my particular brand of insecurity dressed up in athletic achievement.
Probably all three.
The thing is, that 99.9% to 101% range being "part of the parcel"? I could never chase greatness with a calculator and a safety net. But I also look back at my medical file and wonder: was the parcel worth the price?
I still don't have a good answer. Just a knee that clicked for about two years after retiring when I walked and a lot of memories lying in MRI tubes, negotiating with physics.
In the end, I guess we all try and do what we can to go to bed feeling good about the day.
Have a great weekend,
Jan.
