Henry Banner is my friend. We are never apart, he stays by my side from morning to night. He will always be there for me when things are tough. The problem with Henry is that he doesn't have a driving ... [+]
"Toom... Toom... Toom!" The sound of the light switch echoed throughout the gym.
The time now – 5 a.m. It is still dark out, the moon merely mirroring the cast of the distant sun. A light, chilly breeze cuts through the air, carrying with it a fresh scent of morning dew.
As I set foot into the gym, a sense of heaviness overcame me. I was greeted with the pungent smell of body odour and rusty equipment, followed by a slight hint of citrus, probably from the air freshener that goes off every 9 minutes. My pupils constrict, causing momentary blindness, as my eyes adjust to the sudden streak of light. But even then, my body instinctively knew – past the squat racks... up the stairs... turn right into the cardio room.
"Beep... Beep... Beep!" Like clockwork, I pressed Quick Start – incline: 5, speed: 8. And with that, the symphony of huffing and puffing resonated throughout the gym.
This has been my routine for the past 1461 days, or 4 years to be exact. One would assume that by now I would have at least gotten used to the early waking hours, sleep deprivation and silent sacrifices. But in the words of 3-time Tour de France winner Greg LeMond: "It never gets easier." These thoughts lingered within me until –
"Toom... Toom... Toom!" The all-too-familiar sound of the light switch reverberated in my ears, except this time – more distant, more faint. Like the tune of a pied piper, I was lured towards the doors of the gym. However, just as I was about to enter, I felt a slight tug on my shoulder. I initially resisted, almost as a reflex mechanism. But what followed was the sound of an unfamiliar voice, one that disrupted my otherwise routine morning.
"Good Morning! Could I see your athlete accreditation card please?"
I instantly panicked. I began frantically rummaging through my gym bag, digging through mounds of used muscle tape, half eaten granola bars and even spare face masks... basically fishing out everything but my accreditation card.
Seeing my state of frenzy, the organising personnel calmly explained, "Due to the recent spike in COVID-19 cases, only athletes and organising personnels are allowed to enter the competition venue. Without the accreditation card, I'm afraid I can't let you in. So sorry about this."
As the words floated in one ear and out the other, like the wisp of the morning breeze, it finally hit me – I did not have it. Not because I had misplaced or forgotten it, but because I was never issued one.
After all, I was no longer an athlete.
Now, I am just the coach.
In that moment, a wave of sadness, frustration yet numbness consumed me. I guess the closest emotion to describe what I was feeling would be grief. Grief over not being able to fulfill my duty as a coach and be there for my athletes – or my kids as I would call them. Grief over not being able to see the fruits of my labour in developing my kids so that they can compete at the highest level. And grief over the fact that these all just serve as a reminder that I will never gain the same level of recognition, or any for that matter, as that of if I were an athlete.
Glancing around, I looked to the other coaches — some of whom I recognise from my time as an athlete — to figure out how to respond to the situation. Some were lashing out at the organising personnel for their lack of transparency; others were giving their kids final reminders and words of encouragement before sending them in; a few simply accepted the circumstances of the pandemic and turned away without causing a scene.
Before I could even think of how I wanted to react, I found myself drifting towards the emergency exit, where a narrow slit of glass allowed me to peer into the gym. It was almost as if my body moved by instinct, like my muscles were twitching with the desire to compete or that my heart was yearning for the recognition that I once received.
In the silence of it all, the image of my own reflection emerged in the glass as the sun began to rise – staring back at me, daring me to confront the current state of my identity.
Was this what my life has resorted to after years of dedication to the sport?
Have I become just another face in the crowd, merely an outsider spectating?
Looking back, it all happened so fast. One moment I was just doing it as an extracurricular activity, and the next I was scouted by the national team. By 12, I was training full time, travelling the world for competitions and building a life entirely revolving around my sport.
At 21, when burnout hit and I no longer saw a future in the sport, I was confronted with the harsh realities of the sacrifices that I have made over the years. With no formal education beyond elementary school and having virtually no experience of the outside world, I felt trapped in my sport with nothing but my athletic skills that meant little in the real world. Coaching seemed like the only way out.
Now, 4 years on, the pandemic has forced me to be an outsider in the place I feel most at home. For the first time in my life, I am at a competition not as an athlete; not as a coach; just... a spectator. The reality that I once feared and kept me anchored to the sport every time I had thoughts of retirement. The reality that pushed me into coaching as a form of escapism because I was not ready to let go. The reality that I have come to realise I will inevitably have to face one day no matter how long I try to run from it.
Standing here, face to face with my own reflection, it feels almost poetic. It gazes into who I once was, mirrors who I am and projects who I will become. From a girl who was once relentless in the pursuit of sports, to a coach who does the job just to live vicariously through others. And now... now a young adult stood at the crossroads of what is and what could be.
Do I continue coaching knowing that I am doing it for the wrong reasons?
Or do I take a leap of faith – like I once did with sports – rekindle the inner child in me and venture out into the unknown, into the real world?
Will this all have been for nothing if I decide to walk away?
As these questions flood my mind –
"Toom... Toom... Toom!" The lights of the gym slowly dimmed, one by one, and with it my reflection.
As I walk towards the bus to reunite with my kids, I turn back for one last glance at the gym.
For a moment, time stood still.
And I wondered –
Is this the last time I will call this place home?