WHAT DO YOU GET OUT OF IT?

A question I’ve been asked a hundred times. What do you actually win in agility? I always just smile and answer: A good feeling. The best feeling. And then I smile again.

I can imagine you’ve had to answer similar questions too. For someone who isn’t involved, it’s hard to understand why we travel to training sessions several times a week, sometimes dozens of miles away. Why we leave early on Saturday mornings for competitions—if we didn’t already leave on Friday—and why, in the end, we spend most of our weekends there. Our time for rest and recovery after a demanding week. All that just to run three courses per day that last, on average, about 50 seconds each.

I don’t even need to mention the costs of fuel and accommodation—you already know that part. And it’s also hard for outsiders to understand that our dogs have physiotherapists, recovery coats, cooling vests, massage blankets, and all sorts of similar things.

What often remains invisible to the uninvolved eye is that those very competition weekends are what we look forward to all week. And big competitions? Those shine in our calendars like a light at the end of the tunnel. When someone truly commits to agility, very few family celebrations, trips with friends, or holidays have a higher priority than competitions. I know what I’m talking about—I’ve been there many times.

I remember how important it was for me, as a little girl, to come home with a trophy—or at least a medal. It helped answer the questions from parents, family, and friends after a weekend spent at competitions: “How was it?” “Did you win anything?”

Over time, more and more trophies appeared on the shelf above my bed. It was a lovely sight when we had visitors. Less lovely was the fact that I had to dust that shelf week after week. When I moved to Prague for university, my dad packed the trophies into boxes and put them in the basement. A few years later, my parents moved to a new house—and today, I honestly don’t even know where those boxes are. Or if they still exist at all.

But when I close my eyes and travel back in time, I can vividly step back into the competitions, the moments, and sometimes even the exact runs for which those trophies were given.

Like August 2007. The final run of the Slovak Championships. A clean run. The very last run of the competition. Behind the finish line, I saw my trainer with tears in his eyes. We both knew it in that moment—I managed it. I did it again.

Those were the third Slovak Championships in a row—2005 to 2007—where we became national champions in the Medium category with the same dog, my sweet Beny. The pressure was enormous, even more so because no one had ever achieved that before. And, as far as I know, no one has since. A small step for mankind, but a huge one for me back then.

Even now, when I close her eyes, I’m there again. And it feels just as incredible as it did in that moment. That feeling after those runs… The indescribable connection and understanding between my dog and me. That “flow” state, when time stops and nothing else exists.

And it doesn’t always have to be a clean run. I’ve often felt flow even in runs with mistakes, refusals, or disqualifications. In my case, that understanding and inner peace didn’t come naturally. It took time, experience, and awareness. I had to grow into it.

And maybe that’s why we keep coming back to agility. Because trophies can disappear into boxes and basements.

But the feeling never does.

With love,

Vendula

P.S. I’m curious—would you be interested in learning more about how to find joy in competing, even when it’s not your perfect day? It’s a concept I’m developing in the background, and I’d love to know if this is something you’d like to explore with me.

P.S.2: History repeated itself ten years later. In 2017, I stood on that same podium as National Champion, this time with Mr. Eliot. Different dog, different decade, but that same magic.