The Middle Miles - Where Sh*t Gets Real

There’s something seductive about a starting line. The crisp air, the nervous smiles, the sense that anything is possible. And there's a kind of high that comes from a strong start—when your legs feel good, your mind is sharp, and the plan is working. But no one ever talks about the middle miles with the same kind of reverence. They’re the unglamorous stretch where the real story unfolds. The part where you're too far in to go back and too tired to care much about how you look getting through it.

I've learned more about myself in those middle miles than I ever did at a start or finish line.

Take the Pony Express 100-miler in Utah—flat, fast, and deceptively cruel. I was running strong early on—cranking out miles like a machine, feeling that rare magic where pace and purpose align, and I flew through the first 50 miles feeling strong. Tiff was crewing me like a badass pit boss, leapfrogging down the course with water, fuel, and the kind of energy only someone who truly believes in you can provide.

Then the sun dipped low, the chill crept in, and I reached for my secret weapon—my beloved chicken broth. A sodium-rich, soul-warming elixir that usually flips the switch from "hanging on" to "hell yes." Except this time, I didn’t check my gear as closely as I should have… and packed expired broth.

You might think expired chicken broth isn’t a big deal, but your gut will tell a different story. Food poisoning doesn’t care if you were tired, rushed, or just trying to make something warm. It’ll gut-punch you mid-stride and leave you crawling in the dirt wondering why you didn’t just check the date.

Within minutes I was overwhelmed with cramps and sweats as my stomach rebelled like a punk band at a black-tie gala. I tried to get moving as fast as possible which only led to being doubled over on the side of the Pony Express trail, hurling my guts into the dust, painting the desert floor with regret and electrolyte loss. And it didn’t stop. The cold set in, the stars came out, and I was shaking so bad I could barely hold my water bottle.

That should’ve been the end. Rational minds would’ve said, pull the plug. But nothing about ultrarunning—or life, really—is rational in those moments. With Tiff watching me with eyes the size of dinner plates, I just kept going. Shuffling forward, teeth chattering, dry-heaving under a sky so full of stars it almost felt like a cruel joke. I couldn't eat, I couldn't drink, but I could still move. So I did. And eventually, with my stomach twisted and my backside holding on like it was negotiating a peace treaty, I was able to run again. So I did.

We don't really talk about where I placed when we tell that story now even though I somehow did manage to hold on to second overall. That feels like background noise. What we do talk about is the broth. Oh the dreaded broth. And the vomiting. And the staggering. We talk about the way the desert night swallowed me whole and still spit me out on the other side. We talk about the people, the course, and the weird, wonderful culture that forms around suffering on purpose.

The middle miles are where you find out who you are. Not who you want to be, not who you hope to present to the world, but who shows up when there’s no spotlight, no applause, and every cell in your body is begging you to quit.

Out here—on the trail, in life, in creativity—it’s always the middle miles that matter most. The finish line will come. But the miles in between? That’s where the real shit happens. That’s where we earn our stories.

And yeah… we triple-check the chicken broth now.