The Non-Negotiable

It's my most frequent social media comment, one I think of often while I'm standing in my garage at 6 AM, looking like someone who's forgotten how retirement works.

"So… is this a comeback?"

No. It's not.

Not unless the comeback is from the mental chaos that starts when I don't train. Which, let's be honest, happens approximately 36 hours after I decide I'm "taking a break."

The truth is, I train because I have to. Not in a tortured, grim way—but in the same way some people meditate, or go to therapy, or stare at the ocean long enough to remember who they are. For me, it's movement. Sweat. The simple rhythm of body over mind until the mind stops its constant commentary about everything I should be doing instead.

People think I'm still trying to race the clock. But I'm not chasing anything anymore—I'm clearing. Clearing the junk that piles up between WhatsApp messages and voice notes, between expectations and reality, between who I am and who I'm supposed to be in whatever Zoom call awaits me.

Sometimes it's thirty minutes on the bike. Sometimes it's three hours because I got lost in my own thoughts and forgot to turn around. It doesn't matter. I'm not logging the time for some grand training plan—I'm buying back my sanity, one pedal stroke at a time.

In training, I find the space between receiving an annoying message and deciding not to respond like my inner caffeinated teenager. That pause- that breathing room- is priceless. It's the mental buffer that turns reactions into responses, and tension into perspective. It's where I remember that most things don't need to be solved immediately, and that most problems feel smaller when your heart rate's at 150 bpm and you're too out of breath to catastrophize.

To the outside world, this might look like discipline. But honestly? It's addiction. A healthy one, maybe—like being addicted to not losing your mind over things that won't matter next week. But let's not pretend I'm some zen master of self-control. I need it. And that need has nothing to do with racing anymore.

If I didn't train, I'd probably overthink my way into another new project I don't have capacity for. I'd say yes to things I shouldn't. I'd lose my cool over small stuff that future me will laugh about. I'd feel disconnected from my body—this old friend that's carried me through triumphs, injuries, and more questionable life choices than I care to count.

Schedule? What schedule? Some days I'm out the door at dawn because I set myself up for success the day before by going to be early. Other days, I'm dragging myself through an indoor session at 5 PM because I've been a complete nightmare to everyone around me and can't stand another minute of my own thoughts.

There's no periodization here. No base-building phase or peak. Just the ongoing experiment of figuring out the minimum effective dose of movement needed to remain a functional human being. Some days that's an easy spin. Other days it's a sufferfest that would make Dan, my old coach proud—not because I'm trying to impress anyone, but because apparently that's what my brain needed to reset.

The irony isn't lost on me that I spent twenty years training for specific dates on a calendar, and now I train for Tuesday morning meetings and family dinners. The stakes feel different but somehow just as important. Maybe more so.

I've learned that fitness isn't just about what your body can do—it's about what your mind can handle. And my mind, left to its own devices, is a special kind of chaos. It needs the ritual, the routine, the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other until the internal monologue finally turns to something productive and generally happy.

So no, I'm not making a comeback. I'm just showing up—for myself, every day. No starting gun. No finish line. Just the quiet ritual of reminding myself who I am before the world tells me who to be.

And then, maybe, I reply to that message I’ve been avoiding with a little more grace.

Jan

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