The Setup

Mid-September. Two weeks in. Halfway through the month, halfway through the madness I signed myself up for: 250 kilometers in 30 days.

When I set that goal, I pictured the grind. Heavy legs. Shin splints. Maybe a few blisters I’d complain about later. What I didn’t plan for was getting steamrolled by a bug that took me out of commission just long enough to screw with my head.

Friday afternoon, it hit. Not a sniffle, not a scratchy throat — a full-on wipeout. Fever, sweats, chills. I thought maybe a nap would fix it, but that nap stretched into hours, then days. Friday vanished. Saturday evaporated. I was stuck in bed, weak as hell, a swampy mess of sheets.

And the whole time, one number circled in my brain like a hawk: twelve.

That’s what I needed. Twelve more kilometers to stay on pace for 250. Every time I woke up half-delirious on Saturday, I’d mutter it under my breath. Twelve. Twelve. Twelve. It was a fever chant.

Sunday Morning – Long Run Day

By Sunday morning, I was still wrecked but knew I couldn’t wait any longer. It was long run day. The sacred day. The day every runner in town seems to hit the road.

And sure enough, when I stepped outside, there they were: packs of fresh-legged, smiling runners, cruising the streets like it was the easiest thing in the world. Crisp pace, shiny gear, laughter between strides.

Meanwhile, I looked like hell. Pale, eyes bagged, still sweating like I’d run a marathon in my sleep. My body was saying no way. But tradition said otherwise. If I didn’t run, I’d fall behind. And if there’s one thing worse than being sick, it’s being sick and behind schedule.

So I laced up. One way or another, I was getting those twelve kilometers.

The Route of Doubt

I picked my 10.5-kilometer loop — not because I felt good, but because I knew every corner of it. First half-kilometer is flat, then that brutal uphill stretch that makes me question my life choices.

That hill was my crucible. My test. And halfway up, I almost folded. My lungs burned, my stomach rolled, my head swam. Every rational voice in my brain was screaming: Turn around. Go back to bed.

But I’ve learned how to bargain with myself. Just crest the hill, I told myself. Then you get the downhill. Let gravity do some of the work.

That bargain carried me. It always does. Runners are basically professional negotiators with their own brains.

The Heart Rate by Feel

Now here’s the thing: I wear an Apple Watch, but I didn’t set it to nag me about heart rate zones. I wasn’t out there chasing metrics. What I’ve learned after enough miles is this — you can feel it.

You know when you’re redlining. You know when your chest tightens, when your breathing shifts, when the burn creeps into your legs. You don’t need a number flashing on your wrist to confirm it.

So that’s what I did: ran by feel. If I drifted too high, I slowed down, kept it easy until I settled. Not much walking — just dialing back, steadying the rhythm, trusting my body.

It wasn’t about perfect pacing. It was about not blowing up. I didn’t need my watch to tell me when I was pushing too hard. My body already knew. And for once, I listened.

Temptation Everywhere

As if the run wasn’t hard enough, there was temptation around every corner. Other runners, everywhere. Packs of them, floating past, chatting mid-stride, looking like they were shooting a Nike commercial.

And there I was — pale, coughing, dragging myself along, pretending I belonged. I nodded as they went by like we were part of the same club. But inside I was thinking: you don’t know the war I’m fighting right now.

It’s funny, in a cruel way. Their runs looked effortless, mine looked like survival. But I still kept moving.

The Mental Picture

When things got bad, I pictured the finish line. Not a medal, not a cheering crowd. Just my house. My front door. The driveway I’d stumble up, knowing I’d done what I had to do.

That simple picture kept me going. Through the climbs, the fatigue, the sickness still lingering in my chest — I saw home. And step by step, bargain by bargain, I got there.

The Result

12-point-something kilometers. Enough. More than enough.

124.7 total on the month. Still on pace for 250.

Not fast. Not pretty. But finished. And that’s the win that mattered.

The Rite of Passage

Afterwards, I realized: this was a rite of passage. Every runner has that run. The one you do when you shouldn’t. When every sane part of you says don’t. When your body begs you to stay in bed.

And yet, you lace up anyway.

It’s not heroic. You don’t set records. You don’t look good doing it. But you finish. And when you do, something changes. You’re tougher. A little more unbreakable.

And toughness is the currency endurance runners live on.

Thinking Bigger

That got me thinking. Here I am clawing my way through 250 kilometers in a month. Meanwhile, there are people who run 250 kilometers in one go.

Alex Quinn, a local runner, ran 100 miles around King Square. A city block. Over and over and over. Took him about 25 hours. I watched the documentary. Saw the delirium, the grit, the madness. And weirdly, I could relate.

Maybe I’m getting closer to that level of stubborn. Maybe once this 250 is behind me, I’ll start eyeing something crazier. 100 miles. 24 hours. Circles in the dark.

The Humor in the Hurt

Looking back, I can laugh at it.

Me, sick and pale, bargaining with myself like a hostage negotiator.
Me, celebrating a downhill like I’d invented gravity.
Me, nodding at fresh, smiling runners while secretly praying I didn’t pass out in a ditch.

There’s comedy in the misery, if you’re willing to see it. And maybe that’s the only way to survive it.

Aftermath – Broken but Building

By the time I staggered back through the front door, I was toast. My body fried, my head still foggy. But underneath all that, I felt alive.

That run stripped me down. Made me confront myself in a way easy runs never do. And on the other side, it left me stronger. Not faster, not fitter — but tougher.

Running does that. It humbles you, then it lifts you. Sometimes in the same hour.

Halfway

So here I am. 124.7 down, 125 to go.

It’s daunting. Terrifying. But also kind of thrilling. Because I know it’s going to hurt, and I also know that’s the whole point.

Running exposes the cracks, but it also reveals the steel underneath.

And on this Sunday morning, sick and shaky, I found a new layer of steel. Not polished, not pretty — but solid.

And that’s enough.