I get it. On paper, running 300 kilometres across the UK in six days sounds excessive. Unnecessary. Possibly even a sign of poor life choices. Most sensible people nod politely, then quietly conclude I have lost the plot.
But ultra running has very little to do with sense. It has everything to do with meaning. And if I am honest about it, it’s not the 300 kilometres that matter most. It’s everything that happens before I get there.
The real journey
There’s a myth that the challenge begins at the start line. That the clock starts ticking when the race director says go. That the real test is the terrain, the distance, the weather. Not true.
The real journey begins months earlier, in less glamorous moments. It begins when I decide (not announce, not post, not casually mention, but actually decide) that I am going to do something difficult. Something that will demand consistency when motivation fades. It also forces me to confront how I actually live, not how I say I live.
So here is my decision. I am going to tackle the 300KM Coast to Coast Trail in the UK this July. I am going to run it in six days.
The commitments
In midlife, we tend to become connoisseurs of comfort. Not in obvious ways. We still work hard, carry responsibility, show up for others. But we get very good at avoiding unnecessary discomfort.
We optimise and we rationalise. We tell ourselves that we’ve earned the right to take it easier. That precise moment is when we start letting the old man in and I am in no mood to do so.
As in life, you cannot bluff your way through an ultra. You either train, or you don’t. You either build the capacity, slowly and consistently, or you pay for it later. There’s no shortcut that doesn’t get exposed eventually. And that’s precisely why it matters. Because there are no shortcuts in life.
Say it once, say it loud
There’s a moment in any big challenge where it moves from private idea to public commitment. Telling close friends and family is about creating accountability. It’s about inviting people into your intention, not for applause, but for support and, occasionally, for pressure.
Because once you’ve said it out loud, the option to drift away from it becomes harder. And that matters more than most people realise.
When my legs are heavy and the alarm goes off at 4:30am, I am not always able to rely on intrinsic motivation. Instead I remember that I told people I am doing this, that I am raising money for something bigger than myself. I remind myself that others are watching, not critically, but with belief. That belief has weight. I use it.
My pain is my privilege
Every ultra runner talks about “having a why.” It can sound like a cliché, until you’re deep into a long training run, miles from home, questioning your own judgement. Then you really need a “why”.
In my case, it’s the IFS Foundation. A cause that means the world to me. It’s a charity I helped found that gives kids in remote Sri Lankan communities access to a decent education (and yes you can find a link to a donations page at the end of this article).
I have come to realise that suffering for myself is negotiable. Suffering for something that matters isn’t. When the training gets frustrating, when progress feels slow, when you’re out running at 5am and it starts to rain, when life crowds in and makes consistency difficult, my “why” becomes the anchor.
In these times my mantra is simple: my pain is my privilege. I chose to do this. My pain is my privilege. How lucky am I to have that choice! My pain is my privilege. How grateful am I to have this chance to do something meaningful. My pain is my privilege.
The pain recedes. I focus on the “why”. I focus on my breathing, and another KM flies by.
The unseen work
If the event is the visible part of the iceberg, training is everything beneath the surface. Repetitive, unremarkable, occasionally tedious, and absolutely essential.
It’s about accumulation. Weeks of steady mileage. Back-to-back long runs. Learning how your body responds when tired, when under-fuelled, when slightly broken (my toenails are unsightly). Gradually increasing the load each week and each month.
You have to train properly so your body has time to adapt. Most runners fail because they don’t refuel properly. What do you eat when nothing sounds appealing? The body is exhausted. It does not want to process anything, but you have to refuel. Gels will only get you so far.
It turns out multi-day ultras are extended eating and drinking competitions. You have to learn to eat tired or face the consequences. Then, how do you recover quickly enough to go again tomorrow? These are not theoretical questions. They are learned, slowly, through experience, through training.
And this is where many people underestimate the process. They assume that if they’re reasonably fit, reasonably disciplined, they can figure it out as they go. You can’t. Training is where you pay upfront so that race day doesn’t demand more than you can give. Training also includes diet (prioritising protein, for example), and ensuring regular sleep patterns.
Frustration is part of the deal
There can be moments of anxiety that are not dramatic. It doesn’t make for compelling stories. It’s just … persistent. Runs that feel harder than they should. Weeks where progress seems to stall. Minor injuries that force you to adjust. The constant negotiation between training and the rest of your life. It can be frustrating.
It’s easy to disengage. At times it stops being fun, and that’s perhaps the point. it’s not supposed to be fun all the time. It’s supposed to be meaningful. There’s a difference. Fun is immediate. Meaning is cumulative.
Keeping it real
Physical challenges offer me a rare kind of clarity. Long distances runs afford me time to reflect and to work things out.
I am 53 years old. As I navigate each run I am also navigating midlife. I begin to see through my own excuses more quickly. I recognise patterns I have repeated. I become less interested in superficial wins and more interested in things that actually matter.
And if something is troubling me, or causing stress, then I quicken the pace, so my breathing becomes a little harder, forcing any other thoughts out of my mind. There I find “the zone”, where I focus on bringing my breath under control. I play counting games in my head to free my mind of any unwelcome thoughts. I focus on the process, not the outcome.
Also, I feel compelled to bust a common myth. The idea that, after a while, it gets easier. It doesn’t. But you do learn to handle hard better. That is an important lesson, and not just for those of us navigating midlife.
Discipline
Motivation is unreliable. It comes and goes, often without warning, and it tends to disappear precisely when you need it most.
Discipline, on the other hand, is less exciting, but far more dependable. The decision to run when you don’t feel like it. The decision to go to bed earlier because you know you have a long session in the morning. The decision to prioritise training over less important distractions.
These small decisions compound. They don’t feel significant in isolation, but over weeks and months, they create the foundation that everything else rests on. By the time I reach the start line, I will not be the same person who first had the idea. And that’s the point.
The start line
By the time July comes around, something important will have already happened. I will have put in the effort.
The physical distance, that still lies ahead, but the demanding work of preparation is done. The early mornings. The long runs. The small sacrifices. The repeated decisions to continue when it would have been easier to stop.
The start line is simply the moment where that work becomes visible, where the internal becomes external, and where the journey to the start line gives way to the journey across the country.
Community
These events do not happen in isolation. They rely on the support of family and friends, strangers you meet while out training, a dedicated support crew, each contributing just as meaningfully as the person running. To them I say a heartfelt thank you.
Community is a core value I return to time and again. Ultra marathons epitomise this value. I love it.
Don’t let the old man in
It would be easy to frame this as a physical challenge. 300 kilometres. Six days. A test of endurance. But that’s only part of the story. The deeper value lies in what it represents, which is a refusal to drift, and a decision to engage with difficulty rather than avoid it. Handle hard better.
Meaning is built, deliberately, through effort and intention. In midlife, that matters more than ever. Because the alternative is subtle, a form of slowing disengagement. Lowering the bar, gradually. Accepting less from yourself without really noticing.
Challenges like this interrupt that process. They force me to raise the bar again. It’s not about age. It’s about attitude. It’s about resisting the voice that suggests I have done enough, that things are fine as they are, that there’s no need to push further.
Growth doesn’t stop unless I let it, and sometimes, the best way to remind myself of that is to do something undeniably difficult, something that requires me to show up consistently, even when it’s inconvenient.
When I finally take that first step in July, it won’t just be the beginning of a run. It will be the continuation of a decision I made months earlier, and to find meaning not just in the destination, but in the process of getting there. And that, far more than the distance itself, is what makes it worth doing.
But for now, it’s getting on for 8pm and I have to be up at 5am tomorrow morning for a 15KM run. I will trust the process, and bid you goodnight.
—
This post was previously published on The Wisdom Vault.
***
You may also like these posts on The Good Men Project:
 Escape the Act Like a Man Box |
 |
 |
 |
If you believe in the work we are doing here at The Good Men Project, please join us as a Premium Member today.
All Premium Members get to view The Good Men Project with NO ADS.
Need more info? A complete list of benefits is here.
Photo credit: iStock
