What 43 Miles Taught Me About Doing Hard Things
5:00 AM. Yesterday morning. The street is empty. Not a single person. Not a single car. Just me, the darkness, and the quiet hum of my footsteps.
It’s eerie how quiet it is. Almost unsettling. I stay extra aware of my surroundings, scanning ahead for anything that might trip me up. Three miles in, I miss a driveway edge and almost go down hard. Pay attention. Stay present.
For nearly two hours, I don’t see another soul. The first person appears at 6:45 AM—someone walking their dog. Until then, it’s just me out here.
And that’s when it hits me: I’m not average.
Yesterday I ran 43 miles to commemorate my 43rd birthday today. Three runs. Nineteen miles in the predawn darkness. Sixteen in the brutal midday heat. Eight at sunset that bled into night.
By 8 PM, when I finally finished, I was exhausted. Grateful for the journey, but tired beyond measure. And I learned something about what it actually means to do hard things.
The Realization at 5 AM: Average Is Actually Mediocre
I was listening to a YouTube video during that first run. It was talking about what the average person does with their time, with their mornings, with their life.
And I looked around at the empty streets at 5 AM and realized: there’s no one else out here doing this.
For most of my life, I’ve operated under this mindset that average is good enough. That being like everyone else is fine. That fitting in is the goal.
But here’s what I’ve come to understand: the goals I want to hit require me to be great, not average.
In the world we live in, average is really mediocre. The average person won’t even run a single mile. The average person isn’t willing to wake up at 5 AM to chase something hard. The average person isn’t out here at all.
I aimed to be average for so long. But I’ve realized now that I’m not. What I do isn’t average.
And I don’t mean that in an arrogant way. I’m not the fastest runner. I’m definitely not the strongest. But I’m willing to do things that most people simply won’t do.
That’s what being extraordinary actually means—not being the best, but continuously setting high standards for yourself and then raising them again. It’s about refusing to settle for “good enough” when you know you’re capable of more.
Run 1: The Quiet Darkness (19 Miles)
That first run in the predawn darkness teaches you something about solitude and commitment.
When you’re out there alone and it’s silent enough to hear your own breathing, there’s nowhere to hide from your thoughts. No distractions. No excuses. Just you and the work you said you’d do.
I had to stay hyper-aware. Every shadow could be a crack in the sidewalk. Every dark patch could hide an uneven surface. That near-fall at mile 3 was a wake-up call—literally. Stay present. Watch what’s in front of you.
But there’s also something powerful about being the only one out there. About knowing that while the world sleeps, you’re already moving toward something that matters to you.
Not everyone is willing to do what I do. And that’s okay. But it means I can’t measure myself against “average” anymore.
Run 2: The Heat and the Adaptation (16 Miles)
The second run was supposed to be straightforward. Sixteen miles during the day.
What I didn’t account for was running at the absolute hottest point of the day.
Around mile 5, I knew I was in trouble. My water was going faster than expected. The heat was draining me in ways the morning darkness hadn’t. I had a choice: try to tough it out and risk serious problems, or adapt.
I stopped at a 7-11, refilled all my water bottles, grabbed a Gatorade, and kept going.
Here’s what I learned: always pack extra, but also know when to roll with the punches. Planning is crucial, but flexibility is equally important. The goal isn’t to execute a perfect plan—it’s to finish the mission, even if it looks different than you expected.
During that run, I experienced the full spectrum. Highs where I felt strong and capable. Lows where every step felt heavy and I questioned why I was doing this.
And something unexpected happened: random people on the street cheered me on. A woman at a bus stop. A guy watering his lawn. These small moments of encouragement from strangers gave me a boost I didn’t know I needed.
Another lesson: it’s okay to walk. When the heat got intense, I walked. When I needed to bring my heart rate down, I walked. Walking isn’t failing—it’s strategizing. It’s choosing to keep moving forward instead of pushing so hard you break.
Run 3: When the “Easy” Run Becomes the Hardest (8 Miles)
Here’s the irony: the run I thought would be easiest turned out to be the toughest.
Eight miles. After running 19 and 16, eight seemed manageable. Short, even.
But I made a critical mistake: I overlooked my strategy because the distance seemed “short.”
I was running late on my schedule. I wanted to catch the sunset for a picture. And I forgot my night light for running.
As the sun set and darkness came, I found myself trying to hold my phone for light, or use my watch light to see the road ahead. Neither worked well. Cars came at me with blinding headlights, and I couldn’t see the road I was running on.
I was exhausted. Mentally drained from 35 miles already done. Physically depleted. And now I was literally running blind.
The lesson hit hard: don’t overlook your strategy because of how “short” something seems. Stick with the plan. Distance is relative when you’re already deep into a challenge.
Run 3 was a battle. Not against the distance, but against everything I’d already done combined with the mistakes I’d made.
The Full Spectrum: From Darkness to Darkness
When I finally finished at a little after 8 PM, I had quite literally gone from darkness to darkness.
I started in the quiet, eerie predawn where I was alone with my thoughts and the empty streets.
I ended in the chaotic darkness of sunset bleeding into night, with car headlights blinding me and exhaustion weighing on every step.
The contrast is striking. The morning darkness was peaceful, almost meditative. The evening darkness was a struggle—chaotic, disorienting, challenging in ways I hadn’t anticipated.
Both were hard. Both required different things from me. Both taught me something.
What 43 Miles Actually Taught Me
1. Average is a choice, and it’s one I’m no longer willing to make.
I spent too long thinking average was good enough. It’s not. Not if I want to hit the goals I’ve set for myself. Not if I want to be the person I’m capable of becoming.
Extraordinary isn’t about being the fastest or strongest. It’s about continuously raising your own standards. It’s about being willing to do what most people won’t.
2. The “easy” parts of hard things are often the hardest.
I prepared intensely for the 19-mile run. I was cautious and strategic with the 16-miler in the heat. But I got complacent with the 8-miler because it seemed short by comparison.
That complacency cost me. Never overlook your strategy just because something seems manageable.
3. Adaptation isn’t failure—it’s intelligence.
Stopping at 7-11 for water. Walking when I needed to. Adjusting my pace based on conditions. These weren’t signs of weakness. They were smart decisions that allowed me to complete the mission.
The goal isn’t perfect execution. It’s finishing what you started, even when it doesn’t look like you thought it would.
4. Solitude reveals what you’re really made of.
When you’re alone on empty streets at 5 AM, there’s nowhere to hide. You can’t perform for anyone. You can’t feed off anyone’s energy. It’s just you and your commitment.
Those are the moments that show you who you actually are, not who you want people to think you are.
5. Small encouragements matter more than you think.
The strangers who cheered me on during run 2 gave me energy I didn’t expect. When you’re doing hard things, even the smallest acknowledgment can carry you through a rough patch.
Remember that when you see someone else struggling through something difficult. Your encouragement might be exactly what they need.
What Comes Next
I’m 43 years old today. Forty-three miles yesterday seemed like the right way to mark it.
I’m tired. I’m grateful. And I’m reminded that I’m capable of more than I give myself credit for.
A few years ago, I could barely run a mile. Yesterday I ran 43 in a day. The transformation isn’t just physical—it’s a complete rewriting of what I believe I’m capable of.
But here’s the thing: I’m not done. This isn’t the peak. This is just another milestone on a journey that doesn’t have a finish line.
Because being extraordinary isn’t about arriving somewhere. It’s about continuously pushing your own boundaries, refusing to settle, and showing up even when—especially when—no one else is watching.
Today I turn 43. Yesterday I proved to myself that average was never where I belonged.
The goals I want to achieve require greatness, not mediocrity. And every hard thing I do—every 5 AM start, every 43-mile day, every moment I choose to push beyond comfortable—is evidence that I’m building toward something bigger than average.
Yesterday, from darkness to darkness, I kept moving forward.
That’s all any of us can do. Keep moving forward, even when it’s dark. Even when you’re tired. Even when the “easy” part turns out to be the hardest.
Especially then.
What hard thing have you been avoiding because you’re settling for average? What would change if you decided to be extraordinary instead?