What’s the difference between 35 and 40?

5 miles?

It’s not just five miles. It’s everything.

It’s the difference between being able to live with yourself or being haunted knowing you could’ve given a little bit more. It’s the difference between whether or not you can look at yourself in the mirror.

The War Starts at Mile 35

Nine weeks after I committed to this challenge, and nine hours into this overnight ultra-marathon, the battle had finally started.

The war doesn’t start at “GO”- that’s just when the race starts. The war starts when you reach the point where every part of your body wants to quit, and 99% of your mind agrees. It’s the tango with that final 1% that determines everything.

Unfortunately, you only get to meet that 1% after enough time and suffering have passed. But here it was. The voice of reason, seducing me to stop: I’ve done enough. I have run farther than I ever have before. 35 out of 50 miles is nothing to be ashamed of. People will respect this effort.

The structure of this race - hosted by Bare Performance Nutrition on a central Texas ranch - was simple but brutal. You had to complete ten 5-mile loops within a 12-hour time cap.

If you chose to stop, voluntarily removing yourself from the fight, you were required to stand at the starting line and ring a bell. Then, you had to drop your gold entry chip into an aged bucket labeled “DNF” - Did Not Finish.

This ritual pays homage to Navy SEAL training. Requiring entrants to physically and audibly acknowledge their failure is an effective incentive to discourage quitting. And it was working on me.

The Breakdown

I had spent the entire previous five-mile loop - my seventh - resigned to the fact that my race was ending here.

The first 20 miles had been a trap. For five hours, the running was surprisingly tolerable; I felt physically strong and mentally optimistic. But the next 10 miles were a cold reality check. The dropping temperatures, six hours of slurping liquid calories, and the accumulating fatigue finally took their toll.

Lap six had been my slowest yet. It was the first time I struggled to hold a consistent pace, leading to a total physical and mental breakdown. I had been forced to collapse into a chair at base camp, looking up at my two-person support crew: my best friend and my fiancé. That stop cost me nearly 35 minutes, but seeing them and regrouping likely saved my sanity. I headed out to the dark forest again.

I stumbled into camp at the end of mile 35 - seven laps down, nine hours gone. I was ready. I called to my team, intending to walk to the line and turn my chip in. I had accepted it. Seven laps is a respectable outcome, I told myself. There is no shame in this.

Then, my best friend cut through the noise.

“You have three hours left.”

It hit me like a splash of cold water. Maybe it was the endorphins of the finish line calling, but the previous lap hadn’t actually been that bad. My body wasn’t failing anymore; it was just my mind. Yet here I was, standing on the precipice, ready to end the fight with three hours still on the clock.

The reality of the transaction sank in. If I quit now, I wouldn’t just leave with no medal - a privilege reserved only for the 50-mile finishers. I would have to hand over my timing chip. I would walk away with nothing but iPhone photos and a haunting realization: I left miles on the table. Ten weeks of training, suffering, and discipline would evaporate into a “Did Not Finish.”

What is the difference between 35 and 40? Or 45? My mind argued. If you aren’t hitting 50, who cares?

I care. The difference is knowing I emptied the tank. The difference is honoring the promise I made to run for 12 hours, not 9.

My team, thank God for them, must have seen the hesitation in my eyes. They had ignored my request to pack up the tent. They were waiting for me to catch up to the truth they already knew: I wasn’t done.

Into The Woods

“Already done nine hours. Might as well go a couple more.”

And out we went for lap eight. I was striving for five more miles, but I knew the difference was much more than that. Surprisingly, miles 35 to 40 ended up being my strongest in hours. My legs remembered how to work, shifting from the pained shuffle of the last 15 miles back into a rhythmic run.

By the time I finished that loop, with 90 minutes left on the clock, the internal debate was over. I knew I was going back out. I didn’t even bother fighting it.

For the ninth lap, the running stopped. I wrapped myself in my fiancé’s camping blanket like a cape and began the long walk. This was the hardest part. Not the physical pain, but the crushing solitude.

For 95% of that hour, it was just me, the biting Texas cold, and the sound of my own feet crunching on gravel. The darkness felt heavy. My headlamp carved a narrow tunnel of light, shrinking the world to just the six feet in front of me. When people ask me now what the hardest part was, I tell them it wasn’t the miles; it was staying strong during those long stretches of isolation in the deep woods.

In that void, humanity became a lifeline. The brief glimpses of my pit crew, or the volunteers at the aid station with their cheery voices and warm broth, were the only things keeping me from a total mental fracture.

Throw Yourself Into The Fight

The final 90 minutes didn’t feel like a battle. Without the energy-sucking need to fight off doubt, I finally had space to breathe. A feeling of complete clarity washed over me.

In the quiet of that final loop, I discovered who I was again. I found the version of myself I was most proud of - the one I wasn’t sure existed anymore. He still struggles with doubt and insecurity, sure. But I learned that he runs toward the fight. I found a guy who fell back in love with the process, finding peace in the journey rather than obsessing over the outcome.

Most importantly, I found someone who would not let fear define him.

As I finished mile 45 - 32 miles further than any previous race - I didn’t stop. I trotted out to start Lap 10, knowing full well the 12-hour clock would swallow me before I finished. I didn’t care. Out of 200 runners, I was literally the last person moving on the course.

I was defeated by the clock, but not by myself. I can live with that.

This certainly would not have been possible without the anchor of my crew. My fiancé and best friend sat through the rain and the cold, waiting for me to loop back to them. Their belief was the fuel when my own tank ran dry.

So, no. I did not run 50 miles. However, I ran for 12 hours, and I didn’t quit. I left it all out there.

Because the win isn’t the distance. It’s showing up.

You just have to be willing to throw yourself into the fight.

On August 22nd, I learned I’d been selected—out of a lottery of thousands—to run 50 miles overnight at a race hosted by one of the largest supplement brands in the world. The challenge was daunting: nearly four times farther than I had ever run, through the night, from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m., on Halloween weekend at a ranch in Central Texas. My first reaction was anxiety—every excuse surfaced about why this was impossible. But my gut told me this was the jolt I needed. A chance to wake myself from stasis, to test limits I hadn’t touched in years, and to find out what I was truly capable of.

Fast forward three months, and the training miles are in. Alongside that effort, life brought its own milestones—an engagement, a new job—making this one of the most memorable and positive stretches of my life. As race weekend arrives, I’m filled less with nerves than with gratitude. Gratitude for the process, for the people around me, and for the chance to show up at the start line ready.

Coaching and preparation. I cannot overstate the value of good coaching. Under at Tribal Training, I’ve never come close to injury or deep fatigue. He built a plan that drew on my background, accounted for my schedule, and steadily built my confidence. It was simple, effective, and sustainable—everything a plan should be.

My body. I’m grateful for years of training that gave me the capacity to pivot into endurance running and still trust my body to respond. Fitness is the ultimate compounding investment: work you put in years ago pays dividends when you decide to chase something new.

Community. Family, friends, mentors, even casual acquaintances—some knowingly, others unknowingly—have kept me accountable, inspired, and confident. You are the reason I take on challenges like this. You make the journey meaningful.

Consistency. I’m proud of the discipline I showed. Aside from one four-day stretch (where I still hit my mileage), I didn’t miss a session. Every workout was executed, and I even kept up twice-weekly strength training. Could my nutrition and mobility work have been sharper? Absolutely. But the training itself was as close to a 10/10 as I could hope for.

Some moments stand taller than others. The clearest: running 26.2 miles through Manhattan on a random Tuesday. Being between jobs was a blessing—I had the window to attempt it. One of my biggest doubts had been: How can I run 50 miles if I’ve never even run a marathon? That day, with a four-hour session scheduled, I knew I’d be close to the distance. So I pushed. I wanted to know, in my bones, that I could. That run broke me down physically and mentally, but it also built me up. It stripped away the stories I tell myself and forced me to see what was left when excuses fell away. That experience is now a cornerstone of my confidence.

Now, just days out, I feel the nerves. They sit next to excitement. And I remind myself: nerves are good. They mean this matters. Out of thousands of entrants, I get to toe the line. I get to celebrate the work I put in while surrounded by hundreds of others chasing their own limits. I’ve already won by staying committed through a season of change.

I hope the day brings a 50-mile finish in under 12 hours. But the real victory has already happened: I showed up, I did the work, I stayed consistent despite distractions and the fear of failure. Running has become more than training. It has become a grounding force—quiet mornings before the city wakes, feet on pavement, thoughts sharpening with each step.

The race is still ahead. But the preparation is complete. Now comes the fun part. To test myself, to push past fear, to learn who I am through challenge. To remind myself that I am, above all, an athlete—and that joy is the reason I do this in the first place.

One foot in front of the other. That’s all it takes. See you on the other side.

I ask myself this often; but in this unique case, I really have to think about it.

The most I have ever run in one effort is 13.1 miles. With a dial back in running, and shifted focus on doing my first triatholon, I MAYBE have run 50 miles TOTAL in the last month.

Despite this - on Saturday, November 1st, I will be attempting to run 50 miles. Consecutively, and through the night no less. At a literal ranch in Central Texas.

Again - almost certainly, there is something wrong with me.

Warm Up

3 months ago, I ran my first half-marathon. This was a big deal to ME, but in the overall grand-scheme of things, running 13.1 miles once, is not an earth-shattering achievement. For someone who had pretty much never spent time in endurance based activities (even going back to my youth sports days; I hated conditioning/running), training for and successfully completing my first half-marathon was a big deal. I had the running bug, and started to understand why so many people fall in love with running.

I have shared before the interest and journey that led me from training for aesthetics, to strength, and then eventually Crossfit. After needing a shift, I had recently taken to running, and became interested in the broader “endurance sport” world. After going from a scrawny teen tennis player, to college-aged kid into strength and powerlifting, then finally a 30 year-old who could do muscle ups on rings and walk on his hands - I still had always looked at endurance athletes as an entirely different breed of athlete and human.

While the movements (running, biking, swimming) are pretty elementary - the ridiculous mental fortitude it takes to do these for hours on end, at the distance some of these people would do them, is jaw dropping.

“That could never be me”, I thought. A little over two hours in my head running was probably my max. Sitting on a spin bike for 60 minutes can be a struggle. I weigh somewhere between 215-225lbs, I am not built for doing anything for 3-12 hours aside from sleeping.

But one day…

Ah the “one day” fallacy.

It would be cool to “one day” complete all the major fitness event types. I pull out my notes app, enter in “powerlifting, crossfit comp, half-marathon” and quickly add a check mark to those.

I add sprint triathlon, half-ironman, full ironman, and a marathon. I added an ultra marathon as well, effectively a marathon on steroids (50-100 miles+ in length, and in some cases no defined ending - the race doesn’t end until there is one runner left). I view the ultra as something I will likely attempt once I do the shorter events, shed 50 pounds, and built of thousands of miles and hours of training. One day…

I’m a hypocrite. I have internally said “people are capable of so much more than they think they are”, and “most people sit around saying ‘one day’ they’ll chase their dreams, and ‘one day’ never comes and they’re filled with regret”. Shame and fear; keeping them paralyzed from ever trying”.

In truth, I found myself getting softer. Maybe not physically, but spiritually and mentally. When I look back on my early 20s; I reminisce on the optimism, confidence, aggression, the internal drive I felt I had. Now that view replaced by feelings, at almost 32, that negativity, self doubt, and lack of credibility/accountability had taken over. The world has beaten me down a little. I am feeling lost - and then the universe comes calling.

Earlier in the summer, I found myself captivated by a race held by supplement company founder and major fitness athlete Nick Bare at his ranch outside of Austin, Texas. Over almost three days, runners completed a last man standing, ultra marathon style race where runners had to complete a 4.2 mile loop every hour on the hour until there was a single runner left (it took an act of god for the race to end, the two runners never quit, there was a storm that created safety hazards for everyone involved).

A few weeks later, I saw a post from BPN (Nick’s company; one of the biggest brands in the supplement space) about the lottery for another ultra race in the fall. I sign up, and text my best friend - “Imagine. I definitely couldn’t do it, but I would have to figure it out and try”. Always giving my fantasy version of myself way more credit than I give my real life counterpart.

Fast forward a few months, focus fully shifts on life and training for my first triathlon. In the middle of the work day, I find out that out of THOUSANDS of applicants, many no doubt more qualified and experienced than me, I was one of 200 people selected to compete in the overnight ultra on November 1st down in Texas.

Fear sets in.

Is this even possible? It is certainly not “safe”. There’s no way. It’s 10 weeks away. Could I do it? How could I turn down this opportunity? But the risk.

The thoughts flood my mind, excuses, fears, excitement, apprehension, determination all building.

I share it with some close friends and fitness enthusiasts (endurance and non-endurance), and receive the same response: “You HAVE to do this”.

It takes me approximately 48 hours to decide against any logical or reasonable judgement. I have to try.

Why?

I might not be the most prepared. I don’t know if I'll succeed or fail. There is a risk of injury. All those “if, may, maybe” statements. One thing I know for certain, is that if I don’t at least give it everything I have and show up and attempt this, I will always regret it. I’ll always regret, and wonder what if. What if I had bet on myself. What if I had had full faith in confidence in my preparation and dedication and the support around me that I could embrace fear, uncertainty, pain - and accomplish something I never thought possible. Push myself farther than I ever thought possible.

That is worse for me than any “maybe”, “but what about”, or “this might happen”. I would rather go down swinging, knowing I tried - than look back and say I didn’t, that I was too afraid to step into the arena when called. Not hitting 50 miles wouldn’t be a true failure, that would be quitting before I even tried, before I even knew the limits of what I was capable of.

Fear and self doubt will no longer be the overriding factor in my decision making. Will it be hard? That’s the whole [expletive] point. Only certain things can be learned by going through the “hard”. You don’t wake up resilient. It’s forged in the fire of hard.

It’s free, but it costs everything -

There is a strong possibility I will not be able to make it through the full 50 miles. I might get injured. I might do all this training, get down there, and not finish the race. I acknowledge those facts.

But I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, if I didn’t live by what I believe in. That WE are all capable of anything we set our minds to. That failure is nowhere near as bad as not even trying in the first place. Most times, we quit on ourselves before even giving ourselves the chance to succeed.

I am writing this to hold myself accountable. I am writing this because maybe it will help someone else. I am writing this to document the process and the journey - so I can look back on it as a reminder when I feel that fear, self doubt, and softness creeping in once again. Because it always comes back. It’s never an end, only a temporary reprieve.

I hope I finish. I don’t know if I will.

The only thing I know for certain?

I’m going to try and fight like hell.

See you in the arena.

1. Build Up Volume Slowly, Especially If You’re New

The key to finally being able to train successfully for and actually complete a half marathon was being smart about how much volume and how fast I would run. During my first few attempts, I immediately wanted to start logging double-digit miles at my estimated CrossFit mile pace—unsurprisingly, this led to inflammation and injuries. Running one mile fast is a lot different from being able to run 13.1 consecutively. You have to build your body up to be able to stay in the race, particularly if you are a larger athlete like myself. 225 pounds is a lot of force to be putting on your joints and tendons; if you do not gradually build into the volume and pace, you will blow yourself up—literally and figuratively—before you even start.

2. You Need A Date and a Motivating Factor

The first time I said I was going to run a half marathon, I never signed up for a race and, after a week, quit entirely. The second time, I signed up for a local race, but it wasn't one I was particularly excited about or had any real reason to do aside from it being close to where I lived. This time was different: I was going back to my hometown, running through the city I was born in, and doing it with one of my best friends. Having something more motivating than simply “running a race” powered me through those cold winter training sessions. Also, telling my family I was coming home to do it created even more accountability.

3. New Challenges Can Unlock Yourself Mentally

The gym was starting to feel like an obligation rather than something I looked forward to every day. Instead of being excited about training, I was mentally figuring out how quickly I could get through everything. This was rare for me, as I am usually very motivated and dedicated to my fitness routines. But for the first time in several years, I was getting sick of going to a basement gym every day. Two years ago, I made the commitment to really go all-in on improving at CrossFit. I hired a coach who created personalized programming (who also programmed my half marathon build and is excellent), and it completely supercharged my progress. Suddenly, I could walk on my hands, bang out ring muscle-ups, and do all the stuff I never thought I would be able to do. But after two years of training at a minimum of 2.5 hours a day, with a lack of competitive events to measure my progress, I was completely burnt out. I felt like I had given it my all and made tremendous progress, but I needed to do something different—I needed to feel that novice excitement and challenge again. The running training immediately scratched that itch, and suddenly I was excited to get back to training again. That leads to my next lesson…

4. Being Outside is Refreshing, Especially in NYC

The thing about CrossFit, especially in a major metropolitan city, is you're almost always in a small confined space. More times than not, it’s a dingy basement. The musclehead in me loves this environment, but there is something to be said for being outside, even when the weather sucks, feeling fresh air in your lungs. I started the run build in the middle of March in NYC—not ideal conditions. However, where I normally would’ve dreaded the city streets and cold temperatures, I found myself invigorated by them. The streetlights at night illuminating the course, the quiet empty streets in the morning providing time and space to mentally reflect and prepare for the day ahead—getting outside fixes a lot of problems.

5. Patience is a Virtue

I’ve never been a patient person. I prefer to move fast and struggle sitting still or taking my time with any task. The thing about running, especially when you get to longer distances, is you can only do it so fast. At a certain point, it’s going to take what it’s going to take. When you’re running a mile, you can grit your teeth and say, “Let’s get this over with.” When you’re running 13+ miles, you just have to embrace you're going to be there a while. If you’re mentally complaining 20 minutes into a 2-hour race, you’ll have a miserable time and sabotage your own success. When you accept it’s going to take as long as it takes, focus on breathing, and just be in the moment, you suddenly feel much better and more comfortable, and the run comes easier. Just like in life, sometimes it's about putting one foot in front of the other.

6. Running Solo is Necessary, but Running with Others is Awesome

You cannot avoid running solo when training for any event. There's tremendous benefit in this—the mental fortitude and self-reflection are huge positives. However, spending 90-120 minutes by yourself running gets pretty boring, and you can’t help but frequently check your watch, wondering how much longer the last few miles will take. There were probably only 2-3 sessions where I ran with someone else, but it felt like a party the entire time. Suddenly, instead of focusing on paces and breathing, a casual conversation would take my mind off the remaining distance, and I felt like I could run all day.

7. Running Gear is Sick

Self-explanatory. About 75% of why I get into any endeavor is the merch/gear/accessories. This probably isn’t ideal, but I am who I am at 31 years old.

8. Proper Fuel and Maintenance Are Paramount

Like a car or any expensive machinery, if you do not take care of it, it will eventually break down. Another previous fault of mine was abysmal effort or focus around proper fueling and body maintenance. I'd put on cool shorts and shoes, get after it, and wonder why my shins blew up one mile into the run. Proper warm-up is essential, as is post-run cooldown and mobility work. Ensuring your body holds up throughout the training cycle is crucial. Fueling also matters; proper carbohydrates pre- and post-workout, along with hydration, allows you to perform better and keeps your machine running well.

9. My Energy Noticeably Improved

Maybe it was just the excitement from embracing a new challenge and routine, but the amount of positive energy I had coming home from running sessions was noticeable. Instead of returning from training feeling like I'd been hit by a truck, I was energized, enthusiastic, and optimistic about the day ahead.

10. Runners’ High is Real…

I never understood when people talked about the “runner’s high” until I was several weeks into my training block. I think it is only possible once you surpass a certain distance or volume threshold, but it’s a real thing. One minute, I'd hear the same old complaints and negativity in my mind about running; the next, chills would run through my body, and I'd feel like Thor in an "Avengers" movie—like I could keep running literally all day. Once this feeling hits, it is as addictive as everyone says it is.

11. …but So Is The Mental Wall

On the flip side, there definitely comes a point where your legs start to get heavy, your body feels the accumulated volume, and you realize just how much further you have left to go. At this moment, you must literally see “The Mental Wall” and run through it. For me, this happened at miles 11–12 of the race (which, unfortunately, happened to be mostly uphill), where I felt the mental fatigue of what I was doing. Thankfully, training taught me that if you push through that brief period of mentally induced fatigue, you'll soon return to feeling strong again.

12. The Marathon Environment

The energy and crowd gathered in the city on marathon day were something I’ll never forget. Thousands of people were not just in the pre-race area but throughout the entire race—lining the streets, screaming words of encouragement, holding signs, and cheering on the runners. The actual half marathon was the first time during the entire eight-week training cycle that I ran without headphones or music. Some of this was intentional—I definitely wanted to fully absorb the atmosphere and energy of marathon weekend—but partly because my friend (who I thought I'd be running with the entire time) immediately took off during mile one to attempt a sub-2-hour finish. In the end, it turned out even better, as it allowed me to be fully present, mentally engaged, and to truly experience something unforgettable.

13. Running Your Own Race

What initially drew me to the world of endurance events (half and full marathons, triathlons, Ironmans, etc.) was the sense that the primary focus seemed to be about completing the race or improving personal times and accomplishments rather than “beating” anyone else. Maybe it’s just a novice perspective, and once you become competitive and experienced in any sport, you naturally want to beat others. Still, after almost a decade focusing exclusively on CrossFit—where leader boards and scores constantly measured against others often felt demoralizing, like I was never as good as I wanted or expected to be—running and endurance sports seemed to scratch an itch where the competition is really against yourself. Could I finish my first half marathon successfully? That felt more rewarding than beating someone else or achieving a certain time. The entire energy of both the full and half marathons centered around runners doing their best, running their own races, and focusing on personal achievements rather than the runners ahead or behind.

0.1. The Finish Line

It all hits you. It was all worth it. The feeling of seeing a commitment through to the end and being proud of the work you put in—that’s it. I said this was the 0.1 lesson…