This past Monday I finished the Canada Ultra520K race, commonly known as an Ultraman. Beyond an Ironman, this is a 3 day event broken up as a 6 mile swim and a 93 mile bike ride on day 1, a 170 mile bike ride on day 2, and then what amounted to a 53+ mile run on day 3 (a bit over the advertised back-to-back marathons). Here I am finishing on Day 3, just under 29 hours of combined racing in the previous 3 days. I finished 11th overall. 8th male. Fat as I may be, I f*cking nut up.
It’s non-stop. It’s grueling. It’s exhausting.
It makes you a shitty person. To your crew. To the race staff. To your family.
It’s not worth it.
For the first time I’ve realized something fundamental. It will never be long enough. The race won’t be long enough. The effort won’t be big enough. It won’t matter enough. It won’t fill the hole. It won’t make me happy.
Even before this race I told Wendy that I didn’t think it would ever be far enough. I couldn’t cover enough miles for it to matter.
Then another friend who is also an ultra athlete threw in the towel and declared he was chasing a ghost.
This is the end. I may race again. I may cover more miles. But I can’t race as fast as a ghost. My mind is lickety-split. Too fast for me. Too fast by far.