Why Does Anyone Do These Things?

Why does anyone do these things?

Better question: why do I do them?

On a dreary Friday in Utah, I took a full unpaid day off work—a strong start—to load my car with what could best be described as a chaotic buffet of endurance athlete nonsense: bags of “nutrition” I’d probably forget to eat, three different pairs of shoes for “style and comfort,” and enough gear for four different weather systems. I pointed the car east and began the six-hour drive to Steamboat Springs, Colorado.

I’d been there once before. A friend had taken me, and his dad wore a cowboy hat the entire time—indoors, outdoors, probably to bed. I didn’t understand it then. I still don’t fully, but maybe I’m getting there.

It poured the entire drive, the kind of rain that makes you question every life decision that led you to this exact moment. My fear of lightning is well-documented, and it’s somehow amplified when I’m at elevation—which this race, naturally, took place at entirely. Still, I arrived, unpacked, and told myself all the usual pre-race lies: you did everything right, you’re ready, this is fine.

Race morning came, cool and gray. I felt cautious but weirdly optimistic. The start was reasonable enough—until it wasn’t. The course immediately shot uphill, because of course it did, and I found myself motoring up the climb with the front pack. That lasted maybe three miles before I decided that “reasonable” was an overstatement. My legs felt flat, my brain foggy, my motivation thin. Not even hearing David Roche yelling enthusiastic affirmations to his wife Megan in the dark could pull me out of it. (It’s oddly comforting to hear pure joy while you’re internally bargaining with God.)

Mostly, I just kept asking myself: why am I here?

I didn’t answer. Didn’t engage. Just let the question sit there like an uninvited passenger. In my best therapist voice, I “observed it.”

The good news was the course itself—rolling alpine singletrack that made the suffering at least aesthetically pleasing. I hovered in that mental purgatory for the first half: not pushing too hard, not checking out entirely. Just existing. At mile 25, I rolled into the halfway mark in about five hours—hardly inspiring, but there wasn’t much to change now.

After a pep talk (read: verbal beating) from my crew, something in me finally clicked. The race started—not externally, but internally. I stopped thinking about why I was there and just was. Head down. Forward. Simple.

And then it happened—the magic second half. The part where the suffering alchemizes into rhythm. I started passing people. Slowly at first, then consistently. Twelfth male. Tenth. Seventh. Fifth. There’s something deeply satisfying about passing people who last saw you dying at mile five, only to reappear at mile forty-five like some revenant from their nightmares. I was the ghost of early race mistakes, come to reclaim their dreams of an age-group podium.

The last few miles were a blur of exhaustion and stubborn joy. I wasn’t moving fast, but I was moving with purpose. The finish line came into view, and—like every finish line—I both sprinted and collapsed in the same movement. No grace. Just gravity and relief. I will repeat that performance forever.

I still don’t fully know why I do these things.

Maybe because the question itself—the constant wondering—is part of the ritual. Maybe it’s less about conquering something external and more about the constant process, over and over again. Turning the wheel. Beating the drum. In a constant endless motion of life. A funeral dirge played out for yourself.

And maybe, on some level, I just like haunting the people who went out too fast.