What’s it like to run an ultramarathon? Walk out your door and start running. Go as far away from home as you possibly can—until you’re chafed, nauseated, heat-exhausted, sleep-deprived, and utterly broken. And when you reach the point where every part of your mind and body screams that you can’t run another step… turn around and run home.
There is a mysterious yet profound paradox in running with nothing left to give. When I am emptied of fuel, stripped of self-motivating thoughts, and standing at the edge of my limits, my body somehow continues to endure.
I feel weak, yet stronger; doubtful, yet more inspired; down in the dirt, yet somehow lifted.
How does this happen?
There is no one-size-fits-all answer—at least, not one that I can claim to hold. From my experience, the journey itself seems to be the destination. It is part physical, part mental, and part deeply spiritual.
But what I’ve come to realize is this: our deepest reserves are often revealed only when we have nothing left to hold onto.
The long and grueling miles of today prepare us for the even longer, more grueling miles of tomorrow.
Running on Empty
Cross the finish line of a marathon, and you’ll find strength in your strength. Cross the finish line of an ultramarathon, and you’ll find strength in your weakness.
Fasting, running, and reducing sugar intake can help shift the body into a state where it relies more on fat for fuel, producing ketones as a byproduct. This metabolic process, known as ketosis, provides a steady, long-lasting source of fuel, especially during ultramarathons.
It’s like fueling a fire with coal—slow-burning, steady, and enduring—compared to sugar, which burns quickly like paper, providing an immediate burst of energy but depleting just as fast. Fat serves as a reliable and sustainable energy source, while sugar offers only short-lived support.
An ultrarunner who learns to burn fat efficiently becomes far less dependent on constant fueling and greatly reduces the risk of gastrointestinal distress on race day. The result is freedom—a runner who can go farther with fewer supplies, unburdened by the baggage of conventional fueling, finding not just endurance, but a kind of liberation on the course.
I learned this the hard way. My first 100-mile ultramarathon was a lesson in what not to do. I guzzled sugary sports drinks, inhaled gel blocks, and grabbed whatever looked good at the aid stations.
By mile 50, my stomach had enough. Nausea hit hard, and every step became a battle—through the cold night, into the next morning.
I made it to the finish line, but it was brutal. Chafing, blisters, sleep deprivation, and the sheer agony of forward motion made that race feel endless.
Today, I can laugh at my inexperience, but at the time, it was suffering in its rawest form.
Some days, it feels like a part of me is still out there on that trail.
Years later, everything changed. I had embraced fat adaptation, and my races transformed.
One memory stands out: a 100-mile race on a one-mile loop, completed with nothing but a reusable grocery bag of supplies. Inside was a simple collection—coconut water (mostly diluted), salt tablets, a thermos of coffee, and a small bottle of flaxseed oil.
That was all I needed. I finished the race without a single stop at the aid station.
Fat adaptation didn’t just teach me how to run differently—it taught me how to live differently. Lighter. Freer. More present in each moment.
Because when every step of your run begins to feel like the first step of your run, you have mastered fat adapted running.
Minimalism on the Move
There are two strategies that help me endure the immense physical and mental pain of race day: fasting and minimalism.
Rather than explaining them in theory, I’d rather show you—through a glimpse into a typical training run—how these practices take on a deeper meaning.
It’s a summer morning. I wake up and look out the window. The sun is beginning to rise, the birds are chirping, and the warmth of the day is already pressing against the glass.
I stretch out my arms, take a deep, stress-releasing breath, and focus my mind on the run ahead.
What does my physical preparation look like?
Almost nothing. I drink a glass of water, put on my shorts and sneakers, apply a little anti-chafing lubricant, and head out the door.
Ultrarunning can be so much more than just moving your feet forward, and it can be just that, moving your feet forward.
Now, I’m outside, running down the road, shirtless, maybe listening to some music, putting one foot in front of the other. I don’t carry fuel, and I don’t stop for it. This conditions my body to rely on fat for energy.
After enough training like this, I can run up to a 50K with no fuel or water. Yes, my pace slows drastically toward the end. But my spirit is engaged, my mind is clear, and my body moves like a well-oiled machine.
Adapting to the sun takes time too. Early in the season, I might tuck a shirt into my waistband or under my hat to cover my ears and neck. Later in the summer, when I’ve built a tolerance, I leave it behind.
The point is this: instead of obsessing over fuel and gear before every training run, I save it for race day and choose discomfort now.
I run hungry and thirsty, tired and hot, uncomfortable and tempted to quit—all so I don’t have to rely on comforts when it matters most. In my mind, the more discomfort in training, the less suffering on race day. A lot like life in a way.
Because here’s the thing—whether physical endurance, mental clarity, or spiritual well-being—I’ve never found peace in addition. It has always been in subtraction.
Running with less, releasing burdens, breaking habits, surrendering outcomes. Put simply, running with less makes you feel more, and the meaning that emerges from this discipline is what drives me to the finish line.
Fast forward to the middle of a 100-mile race—I take a sip of coconut water. That’s a luxury.
When the heat is relentless, I wrap an ice bandana around my neck. That’s a luxury.
Running through the night, I grab a quick cup of coffee. That’s a luxury.
But if you’ve embraced suffering in training, these small comforts on race day feel like gifts rather than necessities—and you’ll thank yourself for every sacrifice you made.
The Weight of Burdens
“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” — Rumi
Sit with that for a moment and reread this quote.
Don’t try to understand it intellectually. Meaning don’t mistake the finger pointing to the moon for the moon itself.
Feel where it takes you.
Beyond judgment and division and whatever other duality we create, the release of the burdens you hold invites you into a space that expands. This is the inner space to work towards when trying to increase your endurance.
A place where we can truly see each other and hear each other, it’s the field of our true selves.
Yes, your everyday life certainly spills into your running life, and undoubtedly has an effect on your performance.
We tend to split our world into moral absolutes: good versus bad, right versus wrong, us versus them, and so on.
We cling to whatever side we identify with, creating hostility and resentment that we hold onto and project onto other people and situations, and those people take the pain, and transmit it to other people and situations, and the cycle continues.
If we don’t pass the pain along we store it.
Yet there’s a danger when we choose to store pain. Buried beneath the surface, it doesn’t disappear; it festers, growing heavier with time.
Stored pain can manifest as anxiety, depression, or emotional instability. It can distort how we see the world and how we see ourselves, turning the weight of the unseen into a seemingly inescapable burden.
Left unchecked, this stored pain will eventually demand release, often in ways we don’t intend or control.
Pain is a form of energy—constant and indestructible. So we face a choice: to transmit it, to transfer it, or to store it. In each case, how we handle pain shapes not only our own lives but also the lives of those around us.
When we transmit pain, we send it outward, often in unproductive ways. A harsh word, a passive-aggressive remark, or a moment of confrontation that may seem small, but continues to ripple through others, creating wounds in their wake.
Pain transmitted is pain shared—never in the sense of easing a burden but rather amplifying it. Without realizing it, we contribute to the very cycles of anxiety, frustration, and suffering that often caused our own pain in the first place.
However, pain doesn’t need to harm. It can be transferred instead, transformed into something powerful, meaningful, and productive.
The Strength of Struggle
What if you were conscious of the pain, took it, and instead of transmitting it, you transferred it to mechanical energy? Imagine the distances you could run if pain fueled your energy rather than drained it.
And not only do you serve others by refusing to pass on the pain, but by running farther, you may inspire others to run, improve their health, and experience the transformative power of crossing the finish line. Imagine the burdens lifted—not just from their lives, but from your own.
The key, then, lies in mindful action: transferring pain into something that heals, inspires, and empowers.
When we channel pain into our runs or other purposeful pursuits, we transform it into a force for good, sparing those around us from unnecessary harm and breaking cycles of negativity.
Pain, when accepted and repurposed, can even become a gift—a reminder of what we’ve overcome and the strength we can pass on.
And that’s the secret.
Looking back at 150 ultra distances and counting, several 100 mile races, some 200 miles and more. Running fasted, chafed, exhausted, sleep deprived, thinking back to how I grew up, to running those first few miles pushing myself into marathons, and ultras, and then to some of the longest races on the planet, it was rarely about figuring out what to do with my ambition and almost always about learning what to do with the pain.
How long you can run is proportionate to how long you can suffer. If you’ve overcome great struggles in your life…then you have the mindset to run extraordinarily long distances, and you may not even know it.
In this way, your very worst run has the power to become your very best run. Struggle isn’t a wall—it’s a doorway, leading you into deeper waters, longer roads, and the hidden truth waiting within you.
Never forget these words.
Transforming Pain into Power
How do we transform pain into forward motion? The answer begins with forgiveness, a process that takes deep courage.
Pain was never meant to be carried forever—holding onto it only weighs us down. This is true in life, and it’s especially true on race day.
When the miles strip away all pretense and ego, we are left with nothing but ourselves, the night sky, and the burdens we’ve refused to release. And in that honest space, pain feels heavier than ever.
I learned this lesson profoundly when I moved from running 100-mile races to attempting 200 miles. I had no idea what would happen, but I knew one thing: I would cross that finish line—whether the distance built me up or shattered me to pieces.
But as I trained, I became increasingly aware of the weight I carried—not just physical fatigue but old regrets, past mistakes, and resentments. I had spent years justifying certain choices, but deep down, I knew I had wronged others. I had excused my past, but the pain of it had never truly left me.
So, I let it go. I spoke forgiveness aloud—to others, to myself, to God. I reached out to people I had thought I hurt and made amends. I walked into my parish, sat with a priest, and confessed everything I could remember.
And in doing so, I felt something I hadn’t in years—lightness. As if I had been running with a weight vest and suddenly set it down.
Forgiveness doesn’t mean excusing what happened or pretending the pain wasn’t real. It means breaking the cycle. It means choosing not to let old wounds drain the energy that could be used for something greater.
When we forgive, we reclaim that energy, directing it toward resilience, patience, and endurance—not just in running but in life. We stop running with chains around our ankles and instead move freely, powered by something greater than ourselves.
Surrendering the Outcome
There’s a quote by Richard Rohr that has stuck with me:
“The mind will always do two things—reprocess the past or worry about the future. And while useful for survival, this is no way to have a spiritual experience. It will never allow you to be fully present.”
Ultrarunning teaches us this lesson well. You can plan, train, and strategize all you want, but at some point, you have to surrender to the race. You have to trust.
Willpower can take you far, it’s useful for pushing through tough miles and difficult seasons of life. But if you rely on willpower alone, your own voice might become too loud to hear the One calling you.
You may climb hard and fast, only to realize-like Thomas Merton once said-that your ladder has been leaning against the wrong wall.
You may find yourself climbing hard and fast, only to realize—like Thomas Merton said—that your ladder has been leaning against the wrong wall.
When I committed to my first 200-mile race, I prepared as best as I could. I trained, adjusted my diet, lifted weights differently, and fine-tuned my fasting.
But I also had to let go of control.
There were too many unknowns, too many miles ahead to predict every twist and turn. I could either grip tightly and exhaust myself trying to dictate every outcome, or I could surrender to the experience—to the movement, to the challenge, to God.
Surrender isn’t about giving up; it’s about opening up. It’s letting go of our obsession with control and making room for something greater—grace, peace, flow.
Meister Eckhart once wrote, “To be full of things is to be empty of God. To be empty of things is to be full of God.” When we release our grip—on pain, on expectations, on outcomes—we create space for strength we never knew we had.
In ultrarunning, the more we resist the race, the harder it fights back. But when we surrender, we stop wasting energy on what we cannot control and instead move with the rhythm of the course.
Pain becomes a companion rather than an enemy. Uncertainty becomes part of the adventure. We run lighter—not just in body, but in spirit.
And maybe that’s the real finish—not just crossing the line, but arriving with a peaceful heart.
Final Thought
If this resonates with you—if you’ve ever wondered what’s possible when you push past pain, embrace struggle, and run with nothing left to give—then Inside the Mind of an Ultramarathon Runner is for you.
This book isn’t just about running; it’s about endurance in all its forms—physical, mental, and spiritual. It’s about transforming suffering into strength and finding freedom in the miles.
Grab your copy today and take the first step toward discovering what lies beyond your limits.
