There is something about the end of a season that gets the mind working.

The races are behind us. The results are in. We've had some time to reflect on what went well, what didn't, where we made progress, and where we fell short of what we hoped to accomplish.

And naturally, we start thinking about what comes next.

Maybe we need a new training plan. Maybe we need a different coach. Maybe we've been doing too much volume and need more intensity. Maybe we need to try Norwegian double-threshold training, change our fueling, overhaul our strength routine, or find the next thing that will finally unlock the performance we've been chasing.

Sometimes, a change is exactly what we need.

But sometimes, I wonder if we're just uncomfortable sitting with where we are.

We want to do something. Anything. We want to feel like we're taking action, moving forward, fixing what didn't work.

And in that process, we can overlook something incredibly powerful.

What if you don't need to start over? What if you just need to fine-tune a few things and give them the time and attention they deserve?

The temptation to change everything

I see this with athletes all the time.

They finish a season and immediately start questioning everything they've been doing. They consider canceling their coaching, abandoning a familiar training structure, or jumping into an entirely different methodology because they've heard about something that's working for someone else.

The Norwegian double-threshold approach is one example. It's a legitimate training methodology with a particular purpose and context. For the right athlete, with the right foundation and appropriate coaching, it can be a valuable tool.

But hearing about a method and understanding whether it's right for you are two very different things.

The same goes for any new training philosophy, workout structure, nutrition strategy, or recovery practice.

We see someone else having success, and the mind starts connecting dots. Maybe that's what I've been missing. Maybe this is the answer.

So we make a big change.

And then, a few weeks or months later, we find ourselves circling back to what we were doing before.

Why?

Because the old routine is familiar. We know how it feels. We know how to execute it. We understand what to expect, and there's comfort in that.

The new approach, on the other hand, asks something different of us. It requires adjustment. It may feel awkward, uncertain, or even less effective at first.

That doesn't automatically mean it's wrong. It might simply mean we haven't given ourselves enough time to learn it.

And here's where I think we need to be honest with ourselves.

Are we changing because the evidence tells us something needs to change, or are we changing because we haven't developed the patience to stay with something long enough?

Those are two very different places to make a decision from.

Familiar doesn't always mean effective. And unfamiliar doesn't mean better.

As endurance athletes, we're pretty good at doing hard things.

We'll swim thousands of yards, ride for hours, run through discomfort, and spend months preparing for a race that might come down to a handful of moments.

We understand that fitness takes time.

Yet when it comes to the smaller things that support our performance, we can become remarkably impatient.

We try a new breathing technique for a week. We experiment with a different fueling strategy for a couple of long rides. We change our strength routine after a handful of sessions. We follow a new workout structure for a few weeks and decide it's not producing the results we expected.

We want evidence that it's working. And we want that evidence now.

But some adaptations take time. Some skills need repetition before they become natural. Some practices reveal their value gradually, through subtle changes that are easy to miss when we're constantly looking for a dramatic breakthrough.

There is also a difference between a practice that isn't working and a practice we haven't practiced enough to evaluate.

That distinction matters.

Of course, we shouldn't blindly stick with something that isn't serving us. Training needs to evolve. Our bodies change, our circumstances change, and our goals change. We need to pay attention to the signals we're receiving and adjust when necessary.

But there is a difference between making a thoughtful adjustment and abandoning something simply because the excitement has worn off.

One is driven by observation.

The other might just be the mind looking for something new to chase.

My own reminder: nasal breathing

If you've followed my journey or listened to me talk about training, you know how passionate I am about nasal breathing.

It's something I've spent considerable time practicing in my running, and it has become an important part of how I approach my training.

But here's what I keep coming back to.

What would happen if I had treated nasal breathing as a passing experiment?

What if I'd tried it a few times, found it uncomfortable, decided it wasn't for me, and moved on to the next thing?

I wouldn't have developed the experience I have today. I wouldn't have learned as much about my own responses, my pacing, or how to work with the practice over time.

The value isn't just in the technique itself. It's in the relationship I've built with it through repetition.

And that's the part I find fascinating.

We often look for the next workout, the next protocol, or the next performance breakthrough. Meanwhile, there may be tremendous value waiting inside a practice we've barely scratched the surface of.

I'm not suggesting nasal breathing is the answer for every athlete or every training situation. It isn't. Different athletes have different needs, and there are times when breathing demands change with intensity.

I'm suggesting that the willingness to practice something consistently, observe what happens, and learn from the process can be just as important as the thing we're practicing.

So I ask myself, and I ask you:

What might be possible if you committed to one or two meaningful changes for an entire year?

Not a week. Not until the next training trend catches your attention. Not until you have a workout that feels harder than expected.

An entire year of deliberate, repetitive practice.

Where might you be?

The mind gets bored. That's part of the work.

One of the challenges with consistency is that it eventually stops feeling exciting.

In the beginning, a new approach has energy behind it. We're curious. We're motivated. We pay attention to every detail because everything feels fresh.

Then the novelty fades.

The workouts become routine. The practice becomes familiar. We're no longer getting that little hit of excitement from doing something new.

And the mind starts looking around.

Maybe there's a better way. Maybe we should try something else. Maybe we're missing out.

This is where we can confuse boredom with stagnation.

Just because something no longer feels new doesn't mean it has stopped being valuable.

In fact, some of our most meaningful development happens after the excitement has disappeared. It's in the ordinary repetitions, the quiet sessions, and the days when we show up without needing to feel inspired.

This is where consistency becomes more than a training principle. It becomes a practice in how we relate to ourselves.

Can we stay curious when progress isn't obvious?

Can we trust the process without demanding constant reassurance?

Can we continue doing the work when the work is no longer exciting?

These are questions worth exploring because endurance sport will ask them of us repeatedly.

And so will life.

Your next breakthrough might be a fine-tuning, not a reinvention

As you reflect on this past season, I want you to look at the whole picture.

Yes, look at the race results. Look at the splits, power numbers, pace, heart rate, fueling, and training consistency. Review what worked and where you struggled.

But don't stop there.

Look at how you recovered. How you responded to difficult sessions. How you managed your thoughts when things didn't go according to plan. Look at the habits you maintained, the ones you abandoned, and the moments when you allowed frustration to dictate your next move.

Then ask yourself a different set of questions.

• What is already working that I could build on?

• What have I been practicing consistently, and what have I only experimented with?

• Is there one weakness I could patiently work on instead of trying to fix everything at once?

• Am I considering a change because I have good reason to believe it will help, or because I'm impatient with where I am?

• What would happen if I committed to the fundamentals for another twelve months?

You might discover that a significant change is warranted. Great. Make it thoughtfully, with a clear understanding of why you're making it and how you'll evaluate whether it's helping.

But you might also discover that your training doesn't need a complete overhaul.

Maybe you need to become more consistent with strength work. Maybe your fueling needs more attention. Maybe you need to practice pacing instead of repeatedly testing your limits. Maybe you need to protect your recovery, improve your sleep habits, or spend more time developing a skill you've been neglecting.

Maybe it's just one or two things.

And maybe the biggest opportunity isn't in identifying those things.

Maybe it's in staying with them.

Give yourself enough repetitions to learn something

There is a reason we call it practice.

We don't expect to master a skill in a handful of attempts. We don't expect a musician to play a piece beautifully after picking up an instrument a few times. We don't expect years of movement patterns to change after one mobility session.

Yet in training, we sometimes expect a new approach to prove itself almost immediately.

We want the result before we've accumulated the repetitions that might produce it.

This is where I encourage athletes to shift their perspective.

Instead of asking, Is this working yet?, try asking, What am I learning?

Instead of judging a new practice by how it feels on one particular day, look for patterns over time.

Instead of demanding that every session confirm you're making progress, allow individual sessions to be what they are: pieces of a much larger picture.

And be willing to adjust when the evidence calls for it.

Patience doesn't mean ignoring feedback. Consistency doesn't mean being rigid. Trusting a process doesn't mean refusing to think critically.

It means giving a well-considered approach a fair opportunity to work before deciding it isn't right for you.

That is a different kind of discipline.

And it's one I believe can make a tremendous difference in how we train, race, and grow.

Play the long game

As I look ahead to another season, I keep coming back to the long game.

Not because I don't have goals. I do. I love the challenge of seeing what I'm capable of, finding opportunities to improve, and showing up to the start line prepared to give my best.

But I also know that progress doesn't always require something dramatic.

Sometimes it requires a little less searching and a little more doing.

A little less reacting to what everyone else is doing and a little more attention to what we know about ourselves.

A little less urgency to change everything and a little more willingness to work on what matters.

The goal isn't to hold on to a plan just because it's familiar. And it certainly isn't to stop learning, experimenting, or evolving.

The goal is to become more intentional about the changes we make, more patient with the process, and more consistent with the practices that support the athlete we're working to become.

So, as you close out this season, resist the urge to throw everything out and start from scratch just because the calendar says it's time for something new.

Reflect. Be honest. Take what you've learned and use it.

Then choose one or two things that deserve your attention.

Commit to them. Practice them. Pay attention to what changes. Give yourself enough time to gather real evidence, not just an initial impression.

And when the mind gets bored and starts looking for the next shiny thing, remember that feeling isn't necessarily a signal to change direction.

It might be an invitation to go a little deeper.

What if you gave one or two meaningful practices an entire year of your attention?

What could that do for your training? Your racing? Your confidence? Your relationship with the process?

You don't always need a new plan.

Sometimes, you need to stay with the plan long enough to discover what it can do.

The long game is built in those repetitions.

Keep showing up. Stay curious. Make the adjustments that matter.

And trust that the work you're willing to repeat, especially when nobody is watching and nothing feels particularly exciting, may be the work that changes everything.

Mindset first. Training second.

BJ Gumkowski
YogiTriathlete Coaching