I grew up in New England, and like most humans in the area who were somewhat proximate to Boston on Patriot’s Day, I spent several of those school-less Mondays watching the Boston Marathon.

I would assume that I had a similar train of thought to many of the non-runner spectators. Starting with admiring the lean physiques and blistering pace of the elite runners, the focused effort and grim determination of the high-level amateurs, and then seeing the glimmer of the everyman towards the middle and back of the pack, and the sudden spark of inspiration and possibility entering a dark corner of my mind, and my internal monologue saying “Hey, you could do this…”

For most of the population, that thought perhaps evaporated into the mental ether as quickly as it arrived, but during my college years it inspired me to lace up my running shoes and hit “the Rez,” a loop around a local reservoir near the actual Boston Marathon route. Decades on I don’t remember the exact details of that effort beyond quickly getting winded, and shuffling back to my dorm red-faced, panting, and determined that I’d been dealt an inferior genetic hand at the table of life, and simply “wasn’t a runner.”

In hindsight, an expectation that a near-sloth who could crush a six-pack of Keystone Light would suddenly spring from the Barcalounger and knock out six-minute miles on his first run was, shall we say, misguided, but for whatever reason, I’d believed the hype that there were arbitrary winners and losers of some genetic lottery, creating “runners” and “non-runners” in the world and I was consigned to the latter. I repeated this cycle a couple or three times over the years, but my short-lived marathon dreams were ultimately shelved.

Fast forward about a decade, and thoughts of starting a family were forcing some hard health-related decisions. I had a job that required extensive travel, and after trying all manner of health routines “on the road” I began to grudgingly accept that running was the only fitness routine I could reliably perform in just about any environment on Earth. Nearly everywhere on the planet had enough connected, flat surfaces to offer space for running, and even the rattiest hotel gyms usually had a semi-functional treadmill. Determined to make running work for me, I turned to the internet and discovered “Couch to 5K,” a program with a description that instantly resonated with my current fitness levels, a goal that seemed reasonable, and a program that laid out weekly goals that started with a whole bunch of walking, and promised a foolproof path to the then mythical-sounding 5K.

I’m a staunch advocate of C25K, and recommend it to everyone, as it ultimately launched my running career. I survived that first 5K, and was hooked on the experience of setting a goal, following a training program, and realizing that goal. I still remember rounding the final corner and seeing the finish line of that first 5K, and feeling a bit of surprise that I’d done something I’d convinced myself was impossible due to a misguided notion about what my mind and body could actually accomplish.

5Ks and running events in general are easy to find, and after a few 5Ks, the 10K seemed like a reasonable objective, and just over a year after I started running, I completed my first half marathon.

Despite getting to a level of fitness where the half marathon was no longer a daunting undertaking, a full marathon seemed a world away, and I comforted myself with soothing platitudes about how it would be “unfair” to my family to dedicate all that time to training, or how I might injure myself, or some other rationalization about why I could leave the marathon distance as some mythical and elusive beast lying in the grey area between reality and dream. Then, something happened.

At the recommendation of a coworker, I read David Goggins’ Can’t Hurt Me. I strongly suggest you go buy the book immediately, and I don’t think I’m providing a major spoiler (he covers this in the introduction), when I say that the primary message of the book is that humans in general are capable of way more than we realize. In essence, our brains are wired to keep us safe and comfortable, but by brushing up against what we’d deemed “impossible,” we’ll likely find far more capability than we’d imagined.

Mr. Goggins’ no-nonsense and no-excuses approach is both compelling and shocking in its simplicity and starkness. It may not be for everyone, but it resonated with me. With some colorfully-phrased “Goggins-isms” in my head, I did something that was personally unthinkable after dismissing a straightforward marathon for all of my life to this point. I signed up for an ultramarathon: a 50K trail race.

I chose the distance as it seemed vaguely doable, but also scared the crap out of me as someone who’d run a maximum of around 15 miles on a pleasant spring day on a flat, paved trail.

My 50K training progressed surprisingly well, and after several weeks I was happily banging out 16-mile trail runs on my local trails. About 75% of the way through my training, I had an oddly timed business trip, which coincidentally ended up being my last pre-pandemic business trip, that overlapped my scheduled 18-mile run. It was in Chicago on a day that was well below freezing, and rather than hit the windy city in the early hours and risk getting sick, the treadmill and I went to battle around 3AM, completing the 18-mile run to nowhere in time to shower and get to work.

I think the treadmill was just a shade out of level, and my knees felt a bit funny after that adventure, although I assumed it was something I could “walk off.” Unfortunately, the symptoms only got worse, and during my next long run, I had to punch out early due to growing pain in both knees.

Like many public events in 2020, my 50K soon fell victim to the pandemic, providing an easy scapegoat when I’m not sure if my knees would have been able to handle the race. Feeling a bit dejected, I again shelved my (now Ultra) marathon ambitions and worked on getting my knees right.

In the spring and summer, I started running in earnest once again, and capped my summer with a Presidential Traverse in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I recovered well, and I attributed part of that recovery to a stronger focus on strength training.

With a minor victory under my belt, I signed up for another 50K, this one closer to home, on familiar trails. I followed the same training program I’d previously used, but was more diligent about the strength days and including stretching in my routine, something I’d generally done in a somewhat haphazard manner. I spent most of the year working on modifying my running stride. I was a certified heel striker, and theoretically, that sent the shock of each step right up into my knees, a scenario exacerbated by distance and the increased stress of running on trails. Shifting to landing on my forefoot would allow the foot to act as a shock absorber and reduce the stress on the rest of my body. This was not as easy a change as it sounds, and nearly a year later it’s still not 100% natural, although I no longer have to consciously remind myself a dozen times during a short run to shift my stride.

I also took the advice of “some dude/dudette on the Internet” that there was limited physiological benefit to running for more than three hours, so I reduced my long runs, doing only about four training runs over 20 miles, with the longest at 24 miles. I arrived at “race weekend” feeling reasonably-fit and, perhaps more critical, injury-free.

I’d also been working on seemingly simple things: tuning up my clothing so I didn’t overheat, managing my “nutrition,” endurance athlete-speak for overpriced sugar water and what’s basically candy, and identifying anything that might chafe, rub, or otherwise go from minor annoyance to potential problem over the course of 30-odd miles of running.

The course was three 10-ish mile laps, and I’d spent a fair amount of time training on the route. I had successfully run two laps in a previous training session, so I mentally broke the race into three 10-mile runs, and set my primary objective to be getting through the aid station and starting the third lap. I figured that I’d finish if I could take those first few strides into lap 3, and that felt like a more approachable goal than thinking about the entire distance. I was a man with a plan.

The day started off a bit brisk, with temperatures just above freezing. I picked up my bib, and found a spot in the start/finish area to lay down my “bag of tricks,” which consisted of a portable chair, Nalgene bottles filled with various drinks (Skratch labs-branded sugar water for lap 2, caffeine-enhanced sugar water for lap 3, and a recovery drink), extra food, spare socks, anti-chafe, and a short-sleeve shirt. I did my pre-race pee, pinned my bib on in the comfort of the heated bathrooms, and then moseyed over to the start.

I’d heard a lot about the camaraderie of Ultra running, and the joys of chatting with total strangers about life, the universe, and everything as you suffered together, and indeed I’d experienced this on several of my training runs. However, on account of the COVID-driven wave start format, narrow trails, and seeing several other people donning headphones, I grabbed my set as well. This “just-in-case” decision ended up being wise, as I found myself alone for most of the race. Before you shake your head in disgust at my lack of safety consciousness, worry not, as I’d recently upgraded to Aftershokz Aeropex, awkwardly-named but brilliant headphones that leave your ears open to the world. There’s an oddly-delightful sensation to having music and being able to hear your surroundings, as it sounds a bit like someone is following you while carrying a giant boombox.

The race director muttered a few words that I could barely hear from the rear of the socially distanced group of about 40 people, representing the “everyone else” wave of runners. We were the last to embark after top-seeded men, women, generally awesome folk, assorted others, and then us. With a wave, we were off, my first of what I hoped would be three departures from the start/finish area that went down what was essentially a straight fire-road, which turned downhill after a few hundred yards, crossed a suspension bridge, and then headed into singletrack for the rest of the lap.

I had a bit of a home-court advantage, having run this same route several times, combined with most of my short trail running career occurring on similar terrain. This area is noteworthy for punchy, short hills, roots, and mud. We were lucky in that we’d had a few rain-free days, but there was still some slop on the trail to keep things interesting.

My race plan was simple: in addition to my primary objective of starting lap three, I planned to keep my heart rate firmly in Zone 2. This should allow me to make reasonable progress while minimizing the risk of “blowing up” by trying to go too hard. With no real data on how my body would perform past 24 miles, I wanted to play it safe for my first 50K attempt.

Even at this somewhat restrained pace, I was able to pass a few people and find my rhythm. The first aid station was around mile 5, and I breezed through, grabbing some water and an elbow bump from the voluteer. A bit past mile six, I ate one of the Gu Stroop waffles I was carrying and felt great. The course winds around a small lake before climbing a hill to the start/finish area, and as I worked my way up the rise at the end of lap one, I was pleasantly surprised to see my family there, cheering me on. Our initial plan was to have them come out for the final lap, so this was an unexpected surprise that lifted my spirits significantly, and whatever minor grimace might have been on my face was replaced with a beaming smile.

It was a bit strange to round a familiar corner to music, people, and all the accouterments of a race. I grabbed a PB&J at the aid station, filled my bottles, changed my shirt, and attempted to give my daughter a sweaty hug which she skillfully dodged. These tasks took about five minutes, after which I was back on the trail, realizing a few miles later I’d forgotten to pack this lap’s waffle in the excitement of seeing everyone.

At this point, I was largely alone on the trail, seeing other runners at some of the intersections where the course looped, but otherwise lost in my thoughts and listening to whatever song shuffle play decided to pull from my running mix. I had some crackers at the aid station, a gel a bit after that, and at this point found myself on the back half of the course, with nary a human in sight. I did an impromptu (and likely out of key) singalong with my music, performed a mental systems check and found everything in OK condition save for some hip pain, and trudged up the hill to the start/finish area. I was likely a bit slower this time but broke into a huge smile when I saw my daughter dancing and waving a “Go Dad Go” sign at the top of the hill.

I was slightly more efficient on this pass through the start/finish area without the shirt change. I topped up my bottles with my Lap three drink mix, remembered to pop a waffle into my vest, and downed a few aspirin for the hip pain. Seeing the kids and focusing on refueling and logistics made embarking on lap three, an act I’d built up in my pre-race game planning to near-mythical status, a non-issue, and it was only a few minutes later that it sunk in that I was on the home stretch.

The aspirin began to kick in and my hip pain faded, and I set my mental goalposts first at achieving a new personal distance record at 24.1 miles, and then at achieving the elusive marathon distance. Just shy of 26.2 miles, I hit the aid station, grabbed what was the most delicious half-bag of Cheetos in the history of my life, and eventually looked down at my watch to discover I was finally a marathoner. Cool.

I began to come across more people out enjoying the warming weather, and the miles seemed to tick down until I was on the final couple of miles and could see the start/finish area across the lake. I also noticed a runner in front of me, the first I’d seen in what seemed like the entire lap. I’ll often pick a one-sided battle with another runner during races, challenging them to a sprint finish, a challenge of which they are of course completely unaware. In what must have been the most plodding and unimpressive running battle of all time, I gradually closed the distance and moved up a spot in the rankings, exchanging smiles and heartfelt pleasantries with the runner as I passed.

About 0.5 miles from the finish, the trail passes just below the start/finish area, so my family met me at this point, and my oldest son joined me for the last segment of the race. I chatted mindlessly, and threw my remaining energy at conquering the previously-insignificant hill that seemed to have grown exponentially with each lap. I crested the hill to find my wife and other two children, and the four of us ran the last dozen yards, hand in hand, while my wife cheered us on.

I let out a primal yell as I crossed the line. Nearly three decades after seeing my first live marathon, and hearing that tentative and timid voice in the back of my mind saying: “Hey, maybe you could do that someday…” I had finally arrived at “someday.”