The Difference Between 35 and 40

On resilience, the rational mind, and the refusal to ring the bell.

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.