So if you’re stuck, plateauing, or overwhelmed, pause and ask: What was your mile one? Your mile ten? What did it take to get there? And what would it feel like to carry that same raw belief, or disbelief, into the next big thing?
One of the best things about ultrarunning is the sheer number of milestones. There’s your first ultra. Your first 100K. Your first 100 miler. And then, depending on your PTO balance, your partner’s patience, and your willingness to financially immolate yourself for the sake of a belt buckle, your first 200, 250, or 300 miler.
But the two milestones that stick with me the most? The first time I ran one mile without stopping, and the first time I hit ten miles.
I was not what you’d call a natural athlete. When I tried out for the high school cross country team, the coach gently suggested I try volleyball instead because, and I quote, “you seem more like a jumper.” Which, in hindsight, is a very polite way of saying, “I can’t put someone on the team whose most competitive experience involves arguing online about the rules of Quidditch.” I was the kind of kid who thought The Silmarillion was a beach read. My greatest feat of endurance was finishing Dune and Dune Messiah.
I went on to be aggressively average at volleyball and tepidly okay at high jump. As a teenager, I had neither motivation nor coordination, a real handicap for anything more demanding than sitting on the bench and ranking which members of the Fellowship I’d most want to take to prom (Legolas, Frodo, Sam, in that order).
After volleyball ended senior year, I suddenly had more free time and energy than reading high fantasy novels and poking people on Facebook (this was 2011) could absorb. So I decided to try running.
Every afternoon, I’d lace up my volleyball shoes, complete with chunky ankle braces, and head to the high school track to attempt the impossible: one mile without stopping. Four laps felt like an eternity. I ran, shuffled, and walked. But eventually, I made it. One whole mile. No stops.
I still remember how it felt: cotton tee soaked in sweat and Arkansas humidity, volleyball shoes falling apart from off-label use, heart pounding with something new, pride. One mile. All mine.
Fast-forward three years. I was working at a running store (support your local shoe nerd) when I joined a half-marathon training group. The farthest I’d ever gone was maybe five or six miles, still tracked by time on my $11 Casio, which was neither smart nor kind.
Each Saturday, we met in some random parking lot at an hour no college student should be awake (RIP my ability to train after a single IPA) and ran long. Six miles. Then eight. Then… ten.
Double digits had always felt like a threshold, where “fun jogger” turned into “real athlete.” What would happen when I crossed it? Would I hurt? Would I survive? Would raccoons pick my bones clean?
That morning, I laced up a pair of returned shoes from the store (one man’s plantar fasciitis is another woman’s lucky break), threw on a heavy cotton tee (I had yet to understand performance fabrics), and downed a coffee and an off-brand toaster pastry. The breakfast of broke champions. We set off in the dawn light, a jittery conga line of adults in neon gear shuffling through quiet streets.
I hit six miles. Okay, been there.
Eight. Still standing.
And then, ten.
I did it. I half expected angels to descend with a slow clap and a medal.
I’ve run longer races since—50Ks, 100Ks, 100-milers, and a few suspiciously defined European races that exist somewhere in the quantum realm between 70 and 100 miles (seriously, Europe, get it together). But none of those finish lines matched the emotional magnitude of that first mile. Or that first ten.
We throw around phrases like “pushing your limits,” but those early efforts—the ones where you truly don’t know if you can finish, those are different. That’s not just physical training. That’s emotional alchemy. It’s terrifying. It’s electric. It changes you.
And that beginner’s mindset? Full of doubt, guts, and wonder? That’s worth reconnecting with.
So if you’re stuck, plateauing, or overwhelmed, pause and ask: What was your mile one? Your mile ten? What did it take to get there? And what would it feel like to carry that same raw belief, or disbelief, into the next big thing?
Maybe dust off that old Casio. Sometimes, the best way forward is remembering the kid who started the stopwatch in the first place.
Beautiful writing, Zoë. Keep it up.