YOUR “A” RACE… CONVENIENTLY CHANGES AFTER YOU LOSE.

One of the most fascinating skills in obstacle course racing isn’t grip strength, endurance, or running economy.

It’s the ability to completely rewrite the importance of a race after the results are already in.

It’s almost magical.

Before the event? Months of countdown posts. New shoes. New nutrition strategy. Every workout is somehow “dialed in.” Friends are told this is the race you’ve been building toward. Family is following live tracking. Social media gets the dramatic sunrise photo with the caption about sacrifice, discipline, and chasing greatness.

Then something happens.

You miss a podium.

You fail an obstacle.

You lose your band.

You get humbled by weather.

You meet an obstacle you’ve never seen before and discover Mother Nature doesn’t care about your Instagram reel.

Suddenly…

“Well, this wasn’t really my A race anyway.”

Amazing.

Apparently the importance of a race exists in a quantum state until the finish line decides whether you performed well or not.

Funny how that works.

Because let’s be honest.

If you had won, we’d never hear that it wasn’t your A race.

We’d hear about your relentless work ethic.

Your discipline.

Your resilience.

Your mindset.

Your nutrition.

Your visualization.

Your morning routine.

Your recovery protocol.

Your breathing exercises.

Your cold plunge.

Your dog believing in you.

Everything would have contributed to that victory.

But lose?

“Oh… this was really just a tune-up.”

Sure it was.

One thing that drives me crazy in OCR is how quickly people diminish races simply because they didn’t perform well there.

Especially local races.

Some of the hardest obstacle races I’ve ever done weren’t giant productions with television crews, prize purses, and thousands of spectators. They were smaller events built by people who genuinely wanted to challenge athletes instead of create another glorified trail run with occasional monkey bars.

Sometimes those local races beat people.

And instead of giving the course credit…

Instead of admitting they got outperformed…

Instead of saying, “That obstacle exposed something I need to improve…”

They simply shrink the value of the race itself.

“Yeah… my real focus is the next big race.”

Interesting.

The course didn’t suddenly become easier because fewer people were watching.

The obstacles didn’t become less legitimate because they weren’t branded by a billion-dollar company.

The only thing that changed was the result.

That’s the part that gets rewritten.

I don’t race very often anymore.

Life, business, coaching, and finances don’t exactly allow me to travel every weekend pretending I’m a professional athlete sponsored by my Visa card.

So when I register for a race, I’m racing.

Not “testing.”

Not “seeing where my fitness is.”

Not collecting participation photos before my real season starts.

If I paid the money, drove the distance, woke up before sunrise, stood in the starting corral, and crossed that timing mat…

That race mattered.

Every single one.

I’ve kept my band at most OCR races I’ve entered.

I’ve lost it at a few.

Most notably at Frontline OCR on Halloween of 2020. 

The coach with the biggest team, the team with the most accomplishments across local OCR’s of the Midwest, and someone who desperately needed a personal win during an incredibly difficult time couldn’t get Kraken 2 out of 3 times seeing it. 

I couldn’t believe how small it made me feel. This “wasn’t supposed to be happening to me” never crossed my mind. 

I was unprepared and the race exposed it, the very purpose of a purpose driven race. 

I didn’t I cross the finish line and suddenly decide it had all been practice because things didn’t go according to plan.

Sometimes I simply wasn’t good enough that day.

Sometimes someone else was better.

Sometimes the course exposed weaknesses I hadn’t addressed.

That isn’t failure.

That’s racing.

Years ago, I watched this mentality spread through our own gym.

One athlete started treating every disappointing result as though it didn’t count because something bigger was supposedly on the horizon.

Soon enough others began adopting the same excuse.

Every bad race became a stepping stone.

Every poor performance became “part of the process.”

Every failure came with an explanation before anyone had even asked for one.

It became a disease.

Because once you convince yourself every disappointing result doesn’t really count…

You never actually have to confront why it happened.

Your ego stays perfectly protected.

Your weaknesses stay perfectly hidden.

Your progress stays perfectly stagnant.

Then there’s my favorite collection of post-race explanations.

“I’ve just been really stressed lately.”

“I’ve been fighting a little injury.”

“I’ve been overtraining.”

“I’ve been undertraining.”

“I’ve been sick.”

“I’ve been too busy.”

“My nutrition was off.”

“My taper wasn’t right.”

“My sleep wasn’t great.”

“My chakras were slightly misaligned.”

And of course…

“It was God’s plan.”

Apparently God has become OCR’s official public relations department.

Look, I’m a man of faith.

But maybe—just maybe—God didn’t sabotage your low rig because He wanted to teach you humility through hanging upside down from a ring.

Maybe you just let go.

Maybe someone else executed better.

Maybe you simply got beat.

There’s no shame in that.

The shame comes from refusing to admit it.

At HartFit, we have a different philosophy.

Practice happens here.

The simulations.

The grip work.

The carries.

The conditioning.

The failed attempts.

The repeated obstacles.

The ugly sessions where nobody is watching.

That’s practice.

The race is the exam.

You don’t get to finish the test, look at your score, and then decide it was only a pop quiz because you didn’t like the grade.

That’s not how competition works.

Respect the race enough to let it count.

Respect the course enough to admit when it beat you.

Respect your competitors enough to acknowledge they performed better.

Most importantly…

Respect yourself enough that you don’t need to rewrite history just to protect your ego.

Because if every victory proves how great you are, then every defeat deserves the same honesty.

Otherwise you’re not competing.

You’re just negotiating with reality.