“The finish time tells you what you did.

The journey tells you who you became.”

What the Finish Time Never Told Me

When I think back to why I fell in love with triathlon, it wasn’t because of finishing times.

It wasn’t because of podiums.

It wasn’t because of medals.

It certainly wasn’t because of power meters, aero helmets or carbon wheels.

Those things came much later.

What captured me was something much simpler.

Curiosity.

When I began racing triathlons in the early 1990s, there were no GPS watches.

No Strava.

No online coaching.

No YouTube.

No TrainingPeaks.

After every race, the organisers would pin large sheets of paper to a notice board near the finish line.

Within seconds a crowd of athletes gathered.

Everyone searched for one thing.

Their finishing time.

I searched for something different.

The winner’s.

Not because I wanted to compare myself.

Because I wanted to understand what was possible.

How far away was I?

How much better were they?

What did they know that I didn’t?

I remember driving home after races completely exhausted.

My legs were tired.

My mind wasn’t.

My thoughts would race for hours.

“How do I become that good?”

Not next month.

Not next season.

Eventually.

Looking back now, I realise that curiosity shaped my career far more than talent ever did.

It became my greatest training partner.

Curiosity kept me moving long after motivation came and went.

Curiosity Before Confidence

Today I coach athletes from many different backgrounds.

Some are preparing for their very first sprint triathlon.

Others are chasing Kona qualification.

Some simply want to become healthier.

Others dream about standing on a podium.

Their goals are different.

But one thing is remarkably similar.

Many have become emotionally attached to numbers.

Pace.

Power.

Heart rate.

FTP.

VO₂max.

Race times.

Those numbers matter.

Of course they do.

They represent performance.

But they’re only a snapshot.

Too often athletes begin believing the number is the goal.

It isn’t.

The goal is becoming the athlete capable of producing that number.

There’s a huge difference.

When I was seventeen, I wasn’t discouraged by seeing the winner finish twenty minutes ahead of me.

Quite the opposite.

That gap became possibility.

Every race taught me something.

Every race offered another clue.

Every mistake became another lesson.

I wasn’t chasing certainty.

I was chasing understanding.

That difference shaped everything that followed.

Confidence Isn’t Found

One of the most common questions athletes ask me today is:

“How do I become more confident?”

I don’t think confidence suddenly appears.

I don’t think you wake up one morning believing in yourself.

Confidence is accumulated.

Every completed workout.

Every promise you keep to yourself.

Every difficult session you finish.

Every race you execute well.

Every setback you overcome.

Each one becomes another piece of evidence.

Eventually your brain starts believing what your actions have already proven.

Execution builds evidence.

Evidence builds confidence.

Confidence is rarely something we think ourselves into.

It is something we earn.

That’s why confidence cannot be borrowed.

It cannot be downloaded.

It cannot be bought.

It has to be lived.

My Identity Was Never Fixed

People often look at successful athletes and assume they were always destined to become successful.

I don’t believe that.

I certainly wasn’t born a professional triathlete.

I became one.

First I was simply a curious beginner.

Then a developing junior.

Then an elite amateur.

Eventually a professional.

My identity changed because my experiences changed.

Every season taught me something.

Every environment shaped me.

Every challenge forced me to become a slightly different athlete than I had been before.

Identity isn’t fixed.

It’s built.

And that’s one of the greatest gifts endurance sport can offer us.

Not faster finishing times.

A better version of ourselves.

The Coaches Who Changed My Direction

As my performances gradually improved, something unexpected happened.

People started noticing.

After my early junior races in Bavaria, I received a phone call from the Bavarian Elite Junior Coach, Ramon Gomes Islinger.

That conversation changed the direction of my career.

For the first time I had structured training.

Weekend training camps.

Experienced athletes around me.

I could finally observe how elite athletes prepared.

How they spoke.

How they approached training.

How they recovered.

How they carried themselves.

Looking back, I realise I wasn’t simply learning training sessions.

I was learning an environment.

Because environments matter.

They quietly shape our standards.

And our standards eventually shape our identity.

That lesson has stayed with me ever since.

It influences how I coach today.

Because coaching is never just about writing training plans.

It’s about creating an environment where athletes gradually become the person they’re capable of becoming.

Why I Never Chased Easy Wins

As I improved, something else began to change.

My goals.

Like many athletes, I had opportunities to race events where success was more likely.

Early on, I did exactly that.

I targeted races such as the Bavarian Championships and the Bavaria Triathlon Winter Cup series, which I was fortunate enough to win overall.

Those races mattered.

They gave me confidence.

They confirmed I was moving in the right direction.

But after a while, winning wasn’t enough anymore.

I became more interested in discovering my limits than protecting my results.

So I began looking elsewhere.

First came the German National Elite Championships, where I finished tenth.

Then races in Switzerland.

After that the European Cup circuit.

Eventually the ITU World Cup.

Each step placed me on a start line with athletes who were better than me.

That was exactly where I wanted to be.

Not because I expected to beat them.

Because I wanted to discover what they could teach me.

I also realised something else.

Races weren’t the only place to grow.

Training environments shape athletes just as much as competitions do.

So I deliberately searched for places where excellence was simply the standard.

One of those places took me to Australia.

For months I trained with one of the strongest swim squads I had ever experienced, surrounded by athletes connected to Olympic champion and world record holder Kieren Perkins under legendary coach John Carew.

Walking onto that pool deck each morning, nobody cared what races I had done.

Nobody cared where I had come from.

Respect wasn’t given.

It had to be earned.

Not through words.

Through showing up.

Every morning.

Again and again.

Most days my goal wasn’t to win the lane.

It was simply to make the send-offs.

To avoid getting lapped.

Sometimes I had no idea what was waiting for us.

You would arrive at 5:30 in the morning, climb onto the pool deck and discover the session only after the coach wrote it on the whiteboard.

Maybe it was twenty repetitions of 400 metres with progressively faster send-offs.

Maybe ten 100s on 1:10 in a 50-metre pool.

There wasn’t much talking.

Everyone simply got to work.

Many afternoons I went home completely exhausted, needing nothing more than food and a long nap.

The workouts made me fitter.

The environment made me better.

Looking back, I realise those months shaped me in ways I couldn’t fully appreciate at the time. The sessions improved my swimming, but the people around me changed my standards. Excellence became normal.

But every session gave me something far more valuable than fitness.

It gave me evidence.

Evidence that I was beginning to belong in that environment.

Evidence that I could adapt.

Evidence that I was moving one step closer to becoming the athlete I hoped to become.

Slowly something changed.

The athletes who had barely noticed me when I first arrived began greeting me by name.

Before long, I was occasionally asked to lead the lane, sending swimmers off behind me every ten seconds.

I never took that for granted.

It wasn’t because I had become the fastest swimmer. I hadn’t.

It was because I had earned their respect.

Not by talking about what I wanted to achieve.

By quietly showing up every single day and doing the work.

Looking back, I realise that’s exactly how real confidence is built.

Not through compliments.

Not through motivation.

Not through wishful thinking.

Through repeated action.

Execution builds evidence.

Evidence builds confidence.

Racing With What I Had

One memory has stayed with me for decades.

It wasn’t my greatest race.

Nor was it my greatest result.

It was my first Ironman as a professional.

Today, if you walk through transition at a major triathlon, you’ll see bikes that represent years of technological development.

Deep carbon wheels.

Integrated hydration.

Electronic shifting.

Disc brakes.

Aerodynamic helmets.

Everything has become faster.

Everything has become more sophisticated.

Back then my equipment looked very different.

I raced on a titanium Litespeed road bike fitted with clip-on aerobars.

No dedicated time trial frame.

No integrated cockpit.

No aero helmet.

No disc wheel.

Looking back now, the bike almost seems ordinary.

At the time, I hardly noticed.

My attention wasn’t on the equipment.

It was on the opportunity.

Could I execute?

Could I compete?

Could I discover where my limits really were?

That’s where my focus lived.

Not on what I didn’t have.

But on making the very best of what I did have.

The Art Of Dancing With The Conditions

That race taught me something I still carry with me today.

I led the swim in forty-seven minutes.

I rode aggressively and, for much of the bike, found myself racing alongside some of the best long-distance athletes in the world.

Eventually my nutrition caught up with me.

I faded during the marathon and finished outside the prize money.

Of course I was disappointed.

Professional athletes don’t travel to races hoping to finish eleventh.

But disappointment wasn’t the lasting memory.

Experience was.

Years later, with everything we’ve learned about nutrition, aerodynamics, bike fitting and pacing, I have little doubt I could have raced that day differently.

Probably faster.

But that’s not really the point.

The race gave me something much more valuable than a faster finishing time.

Perspective.

It taught me that progress doesn’t come from waiting until every condition is perfect.

It comes from learning to work with the conditions you have.

Too often we spend our energy wishing for different circumstances.

A better bike.

Better weather.

More time.

More talent.

Better genetics.

Less stress.

The list never ends.

Yet endurance sport has taught me something much simpler.

The art isn’t demanding a different song.

The art is learning to dance with the one that’s already playing.

Process First

Throughout my career I discovered something that still shapes the way I coach today.

The athletes who ultimately reach their potential are rarely those chasing immediate results.

They become fascinated by the process.

They ask questions.

They remain curious.

They continue showing up even when improvement isn’t immediately visible.

Because they understand something many people never discover.

Performance fades.

Results are eventually forgotten.

Even finishing times disappear from memory.

But the person you become through the pursuit of excellence stays with you for the rest of your life.

Looking back after more than three decades in the sport, I don’t remember most of my finishing times.

I remember who I became while chasing them.

— Torsten Abel

Former Professional Triathlete • Coach • Lifelong Student of Sport Science
Founder, T3 Endurance Coaching