How to Make It Out of the “Pain Cave,” with Paralympic Cyclist Oksana Masters

She’s competed in four sports, won eight medals, and has some lessons on overcoming mental and physical barriers for the rest of us. 
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Oksana Masters wins gold at the Winter Paralympic Games in Pyeongchang, March 17, 2018.Vladimir Smirnov / Getty Images

When cyclist Oksana Masters lines up to compete at the 2020 Paralympic Games, it will be her fifth consecutive games—that includes summer and winter. Going back to 2012, she has competed in four different Paralympic sports: rowing, cross country skiing, biathlon (a combination of cross country skiing and shooting), and cycling. She started with rowing, first getting into a boat almost two decades ago, right around the time she had her second leg amputated above the knee.

Masters was born, in Ukraine, without any of the weight-bearing bones in her legs. She spent the first seven years of her life in government-run orphanages, before being adopted by an American mother. It was after coming to America that she had her legs amputated. On her mother’s encouragement, she got into adaptive rowing. It was there that she says she found therapeutic release from some of her traumatic childhood memories. Twenty years later, she owns eight Olympic medals across three sports.

Cycling is the only one of her four sports she hasn’t medaled in. In Rio, she came close, finishing fourth in the cycling road race, and fifth in the time trial, just 30 seconds off the podium. Which is why she’s called 2022 “Operation Unfinished Business.” Whether she makes the podium or not, as soon as these games are wrapped, Masters will turn her attention to Beijing, where she hopes to compete in the Winter Paralympics just six months from now. In fact, she has to mix cross country ski training with her cycling training, despite the fact that they require opposite motions: cycling is all about pushing; skiing is all about pulling.

On the sixth and final episode of Smarter Better Faster Stronger, Masters shares tips for breaking through mental and physical barriers, including the simple counting trick she uses when her self-talk starts going south, and why she approaches races as just another day of training.

GQ: With all the sports that you do, how do you even identify as an athlete?

Oksana Masters: [laughs] Well, right now, being that I'm a summer and winter athlete, and the fact that Tokyo and Beijing are six months apart, I am identifying as a cyclist and a very frantic cross country skier.

What’s a typical day of training look like for you?

In the morning, I’m on my bike for an hour and a half to two and a half hours. Then we'll do a gym session for about 45 minutes. Then I either have a second training session—mostly a recovery ride—or cross-country skiing in the basement. Then we'll do biathlon targets.

How do the different trainings compare?

Training for cycling is so different mentally, compared to cross country skiing. For cross country skiing, you're out there for maybe two hours max. It’s super short and sweet—for biathlon, too. In cycling, two hours is nothing. You're on there for three to four and a half hours, followed by another two hours in the afternoon, depending where you are in the cycle of training.

My progression has been from a rower, where my race was only four minutes, to cross country skiing, a 45 minute race, and then I transitioned to cycling. It went from thinking a 45-minute race was the hardest thing on earth, to two-hour races. The mental side of switching was probably harder than learning the physical side.

So you started with rowing. For those not familiar with your story, I wonder if you could share a little bit of your background and how you got into rowing.

I was born with both of my legs missing the weight-bearing bones. I had all kinds of things wrong with my body. It was just like opening a box of chocolates. What’s going to be wrong with this body part? [laughs]

My hands were webbed, and I didn't have thumbs on them. I had six toes, which I thought was the coolest thing on earth. I was missing the main weight bearing bone, along with the non-weight bearing bones. It looked like a salt shaker on the x-ray. I don't have a biceps on my right side. So if you watch me ride and I'm not paying attention, I'll just start veering off to one side because my left side will just out-power the other side.

When I was seven and a half, I was adopted by my mom, a single parent. We lived in Buffalo, New York. When I was 13, I moved to Louisville. Both of my legs were amputated—the first when I was 9, the other when I was 13 or 14.

Somebody in my middle school told me to try the Louisville adaptive rowing club. I was a typical, stubborn teenager and thought, “Well, just because I have prosthetics doesn't mean I have to do an adaptive program. I want to do what my friends are doing,” which was volleyball and dance team. My mom told me to go out and see if I liked rowing. Finally, just to stop having her ask me to keep trying it, I gave it a chance.

When I was 13, I got in the boat for the first time. As a 13-year-old girl, coming to a new school, having to make friends all over again, having just been told that I have to amputate my second leg above the knee, it gave me an outlet and a place to let go of all of my frustrations.

I've heard you say it was your way to scream physically, but silently, which I think is a powerful and beautiful way to put it.

When I was in Ukraine, it was a government-run orphanage. There’s a lot of corruption that happens in those kinds of orphanages. We weren’t fed enough, weren't treated the best. I had a lot of memories I suppressed from living in three different orphanages.

When I first started sports, it wasn't to become an Olympian or Paralympian, it wasn't to race for team USA, it was my therapy. I went through a lot of therapy as a kid, but I never talked, because it was sometimes so hard to verbalize the memories. Because when you speak something, it makes it true. There’s so much power in saying things, good and bad. For me, [rowing] was a way to pull on the oars as hard as I could. That was my way to scream without having to actually scream.

Is it still therapeutic for you in the same way? I’m thinking about what you said about cycling, and maintaining that aerobic pain for a long time.

I've learned how to harness it and, in training, let everything out, think about everything, process everything, and scream that way. Then, on the start line, I've learned to do it without going and blacking out entirely, and doing it from a purely angry side—but from a structured and mentally strong side too.

The cool thing about cycling is it allows you to get into this weird trance, into this rhythm. Something I've done through all my sports is that I count to 10. I get into this trance of “1, 2, 3, 4…” all the way to 10, and then I start over. I’m not focusing on the pain that I'm feeling. I'm cognitive of everything around me. When I was telling my sports psych that I do this, he was like, “You're doing mindfulness while you're racing.”

I wasn’t aware know that you didn’t have a biceps on your right side. But I’ve seen your arms, you have strong arms!

It’s triceps. A lot of people don't realize the difference between amputation. They think an amputee’s an amputee. But for every joint you're missing, there’s a different way to be mobile. So I can't just stand up from sitting position. I have to use my arms and push myself up. I also start to sit down with my arms. I use a lot of triceps.

Even in the orphanages, on days where I wasn't able to walk, I would just scoot. It was a lot of triceps, and that's why skiing was an easier transition for me. I was so used to using that muscle group. Because of my anatomy, my arms aren't straight, so I ski more with my triceps than my lats. It makes it look like my arm’s bigger than it really is.

Our bodies are so resilient. We naturally know how and what we need to do to adapt. If you break your leg or arm and you can't use it, the first few days are hard learning it, but you adapt to doing your normal day routines so fast. Instead of fighting it, I got used to letting my body just naturally figure out how to open something, or how to ride a bike. Instead of trying to do it the “right” way, do it the way that uses the natural gifts that are given to you.

Forgive my ignorance, but what’s the competition format of the cycling event you’ll do in Tokyo?

I do road cycling. There’s a 20 kilometer time trial, on the Formula One Fuji race track. Then there’s a road race that can vary from 48 to 80 kilometers.

I love time trials. I love to be in that pain cave and just see how long you can hold that pain. It’s the ultimate test against: you and the clock. No one else. You are in ultimate control—unless you get a flat tire.

For the road race, it's not necessarily the strongest person that wins. It's the smartest person. It has taken me a very long time to learn that, because none of the sports I've completed in have that aspect. It's all about fitness. You have to be the strongest and the best athlete that day.

What is it about cycling that requires more of your brain?

In road racing, you start in a pack. So it’s learning when to draft, when to pull, how hard you're going to pull, when to attack and respond to attacks, or not respond to attacks—those games that people play.

When you say pull, that’s when people are drafting behind?

Yeah. If I’m in front, and you’re behind me, I’m pulling. People in the draft save 30% of energy. So it’s things like that. If you’re pulling, do it for X amount of time or distance. Or if I know that I am stronger than you, I’ll pull harder cause I can sustain it longer and tire you out.

You’ve done rowing, biathlon, cross country skiing, and cycling—all incredibly aerobically taxing sports. How does the mental difficulty compare to the physical difficulty?

It's harder. It's hard. Cause you know the the burn is coming. Here comes a hill, this is going to hurt really bad. But on the downhill, you can recover. So you're gonna be able to get that [rest]. But mentally you're on all the time. Especially in a long race and you're like, “I’m only one mile in and I feel like I'm about to die. There’s no way I can sustain this for another 19 miles.”

But that's where, instead of having this negative conversation with yourself in the middle of a race, I start tuning into the counting. You train to be the fittest, so your body can do what it needs to do physically. But it's your mind that's pushing the muscles. It's the mind that's more responsible in the race than your body.

Cycling is the hardest for me to mentally stick with and not stop. But I do not ever want to see a DNF, unless someone is carrying me off of a course. That’s also what's fueling me. I believe in finishing what I started. So if I start this race, I'm going to finish it. And if that means that today, I’m dead last, then that's okay. I know where to start tomorrow. Or if I'm going to finish it and it puts me on the top of the podium, I have a new start line.

What advice would you give to someone who's struggling to break through those mental or physical barriers? Are there sayings or mantras you come back to?

One thing I do on every single start line is I breathe in really slowly, for a count of five, hold it and say, “I am...” Then I breathe out for five, hold it and say, “...strong.” It gets everything—your nerves, your body—calm, and gives you that last minute positive affirmation of, “You're strong. You got this. You can do this.”

Also trust the hours you've put into the training. Set a goal, but the minute you're on the start line, let that goal go. Let your body do what you trained for, go an autopilot mode, and just be in the moment of each part of that race. Don't let your mind feed into those things: “Oh my God, it hurts. We're uncomfortable. Let's stop. Let's just get a break.” Don't feed into that. Your mind is stronger than your body.

Another thing I do in all of my races: halfway through a race, I tell myself, “Okay, this is the real start line. Now this is where you race.” It helps you get sharp, take that deep breath, and you're able to do more than you realize in that moment.

Do you remember the first time you realized your mind was stronger than your body?

It's a learning process. I'm still learning it. Honestly, I think the moments that I realize it are in training. Half the time, training is harder than the actual race. That's the point. You break down your body, to thrash yourself so it can rebuild. The race is not as hard as the training and the hours that you’ve put in. I'm not racing for four hours, but I'm training for four hours.

It’s been very powerful having these conversations with Olympians, and hearing how you also struggle with self-doubt and having to find some strength on the starting line.

It's the way you interpret doubt, too. Your body is trying to psych up your mind. That feeling when you're on the start line and your heartbeat's going crazy. You're like, “Oh my gosh, calm down, calm down.” Your body knows it's getting ready for battle. And that's all it is.

It also means that it means something to you, that this isn't just some race. Whether it’s a race or a job interview, your heart rate is racing—and it goes down into your stomach, and through your knees—and there’s a little bit of self-doubt, because it means something to you. Just trust that and just let it go.

With your story and everything you’ve gone through, you never seem to let discouragement win.

As a kid and going through the experiences that I went through, that was my normal. I didn’t know any normal. You just go regardless. You wake up, do it again, and keep moving one foot in front of the other.

It was learning how to channel that into sports. And knowing your purpose and your “why.” It started out as a way to prove people wrong, or to show what I could do because my entire life people were telling me what I could and couldn't do. It was pissing me off. it was a way to physically show society that there is more than one way to do something. That helped me from getting discouraged. Because I wanted to show what is possible—that I'm possible. How dare they determine what they think is possible for me.

What’s your “why” now?

As a Paralympic athlete, it's a lot harder to get the resources, support and opportunities to get into sports. I see my why as taking down those bricks, so that the next generation can be able to walk right in and thrive. Cause I wish I had that when I was 13. Every little kid has pictures of Michael Jordan, Serena Williams, Michael Phelps, all these incredible athletes on their walls. Well, every kid born with a disability or a unique difference deserves the same idol, and deserves the same physical representation to be like, “I can be that person. And I want to be that person from a young age.”

What’s something you know now you wish you’d known in your first Paralympics?

A race is just another training day. The only thing that’s different is the word: training and race. We associate races with this fail or succeed kind of thing. In training, it's just a starting point. That’s something that I'm going to be thinking about in Tokyo, on that start line. When I'm hearing that clock countdown: This is just me in my living room, with my Netflix, and I'm just going to train. It's just a different word. But the goal is the same. The pain is going to be the same. We're just got this really cool mountain, Mount Fuji, in the background now.

This interview has been edited and condensed.


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