Do the Hardest Thing

I don’t do hard things.  

Mister Soft Life. 

I don’t like to do hard things. 

I like to do leisurely things like reading books. Well, I like listening to them on Audible anyway. I just finished the book “Do Hard Things,” by Steve Magness. Man, I love to read about doing hard things. 

I also love listening to David Goggins’s inspirational videos on YouTube. This particular guilty pleasure has not gone unnoticed by the algorithm.  

Nick Saban. Jocko.  

Stay hard, mother f*$k+r! 

I really like the sound of that. In theory, I really do. I’m an eternal optimist who is easily motivated. But to stay hard, you first must be hard. And to get hard, you must do hard things.  

As a side note, I will be avoiding obvious and juvenile humor surrounding the word hard. I have standards. Standards that don’t require a pole vault to clear but standards nonetheless. 

I do not like to do hard things. I like to do somewhat difficult things, like a really tough running workout. 400-meter intervals sandwiched by two separate 3-mile tempo runs sound like an enjoyable burn, like some real noble suffering.  

I like to do somewhat difficult things and pretend that they are hard things, truly hard things.  

But first! In the words of podcaster Rich Roll, let’s define our terms. A somewhat difficult thing pushes us to a limit, not the limit, but a limit. The brain’s first red flag, sounding an alarm, yelling at us to stop. We cannot go any farther. We are done. But then a coach yells something about 40%, we override the brain, we squeeze out just a little more, and then we collapse. Those excruciating last 37 seconds of effort are what I define as somewhat difficult, undeniably hard, but not truly hard. 

It is my belief truly hard things are rarer than the average person assumes. What most people consider hard things are actually just somewhat difficult things. And truly hard things to most people would be considered the hardest thing. 

Now here comes the part where I toss in an illustration to showcase my point. 

The first rule of CrossFit is you must always talk about CrossFit. That’s really the only rule. There’s no second rule. I know this because I was a proud member of JONES N 4 CROSSFIT for a couple of years pre-pandemic. 

Contrary to popular belief, the vast majority of CrossFit workouts are not hard; they are somewhat difficult. Of course, I did not believe this at the time. I was oblivious back then. As you will discover, I am often oblivious by nature. I thought CrossFit made me hard. Compared to my average American neighbors, the baristas at work, my aging classmates on social media, I might as well have been a Conner McGregor. Friends and family affirmed me. I was hard and every twelve-minute CrossFit burner kept me hard. 

The pinnacle of the sport is an annual competition called the CrossFit Games: Four continuous days of multiple extraordinarily challenging CrossFit workouts against the world’s fittest athletes. You almost need a translator to understand CrossFit verbiage so I will spare you the details of the workouts. Just understand the CrossFit Games workouts are not twelve-minute burners. I remember one year connecting with my CrossFit community to watch an event. We marveled at the TV as the world’s best athletes rowed an entire marathon for their last workout of the day. Collectively, we understood an event like the CrossFit Games was not the same thing we did at our box. If what we did were hard things, then what they did was the hardest thing. 

My panic attacks started at the age of 15. 

The realization that I am not actually hard was a pill the size of a Boston Terrier, not that I would try to swallow a dog. Side note: I try to avoid cliche where possible so instead of a pill, you get a Boston Terrier. Please do not send this to PETA. 

I began asking my friends and customers, “would you say that you do hard things?” And the answer always came back yes.  

“What sort of hard things do you do?” I would ask.  

The most common answers were working out and getting a lot things done despite being really tired. The big revelation stemmed from one particular answer. 

“Well, I don’t know. I wouldn’t say I do hard things, but I have been through a lot of hard things. Like, when my mom passed when I was in high school. I am the oldest of four, so I felt the need to take care of my brothers and sisters but I was also still trying to grieve.” 

Of course, to fully empathize to her level of grief and emotional burden was impossible.  This felt like another case of the hardest thing. And that’s when it hit me. The hardest things in life tend to be things that happen to us, not things we choose. 

My BODY experienced panic attacks starting at the age of 15. Clenched jaw, raised traps, racing brain. Unescapable tension. Andrew, the person, the observer of thoughts, was only along for the ride.  

I am an adult now. I have will power. I have options, so I do not choose hard things. I choose somewhat difficult things. Just a taste. Somewhat difficult things are invigorating. A truly hard thing?  

Only by force. 

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Last week I did maybe the hardest thing I have ever done in at least a decade. I redlined the Marine Corp Marathon while suffering from Over Training Syndrome.  

Over training syndrome. The medical condition, not the commonly used expression “over trained” that runners say when they fail a workout because they’re physically fatigued to the point of not hitting splits. Over training syndrome is a medical condition: Brain fog, mood swings, insomnia, depression, digestive issues, irritability, anxiety, weight loss, muscle soreness, elevated resting heart rate. 

I would later find out the solution to OTS is complete rest. No cycling, no aqua jogging, no running, like no running-no running, no easy runs, no hard runs, no short runs, certainly no marathons, certainly no hard marathons, certainly not Marine Corp Marathon. 

I was a hermit in high school as the anxiety waned. Hermitting tampered the abundance of energy, the restlessness. Watching the Astros, playing Warcraft, these were my safe spaces. When I graduated high school, I thought somehow my anxiety paid attention, that it recognized the rite of passage. I was grown now. At almost five foot six inches, my body had grown beyond it. Only, it hadn’t. At the age of 19 the panic attacks came back in a familiar fluctuating pattern. They would only subside at the age of 22, the same age my drinking career began. 

The over training syndrome symptoms materialized 16 days from race day. The day prior, 17 days prior to race day, I received flu and COVID shots. So, when the fatigue settled in, the elevated heart rate, the foggy mind, I placed blame on the vaccines. It took almost 10 days for my heart rate to return to something resembling “slightly elevated” and by then it was race-week, a few days from the flight to D.C.  

No going back.  

Everything is going to fine.   

Soft life.  

It will work out. It always works out.  

Stay hard. 

I met with fellow running YouTuber Joshua Hubbard and a few Strava friends the day before the race for a shakeout run. I intentionally use the phrase “running YouTuber” in place of “running influencer” because brands rarely send me product and I cannot even influence my kids to do their chores most days. During this shakeout run on tender shins and in perfect running conditions, my average pace was 9 minutes and 13 seconds a mile with an average heart rate of 134 beats per minute.  A month earlier I ran 10 recovery miles in 80-degree Fahrenheit weather with the exact same heartrate with an average pace of 8 minutes and 4 seconds a mile. In Washington D.C. fall temperatures, I would’ve anticipated something closer to a 7:30 min/mil to 7:40 min/mil pace.  

9:13 min/mile. 

I couldn’t shake it. This was not a flu shot. This was not race-day nerves. This was something else: Overtraining Syndrome. I scratched the surface of this topic via Google nine days prior when the aftershocks of the vaccines should’ve been long gone.  

“Can you race with Over Training Syndrome?” 

Nine days prior the answer came back “yes” followed by some other text I did not bother to read because I already received the answer I was looking for at the time. 

Back at my brother Kyle’s house in D.C., I typed it in again. “Can you race with overtraining syndrome?” 

“No, you should not race while experiencing overtraining syndrome,” ChatGPT replied. OTS can significantly reduce your performance and make it harder to sustain the same level of intensity. It can increase the risk of injury. It can prolong the time you need to rest. The best way to treat OTS is to rest and give your body time to recover. You should plan to rest for 6-12 weeks.” 

I consciously unclenched my jaw. I lowered my shoulders. I took a deep breath as denial shattered around me. My body was on overdrive. My cortisol levels were through the roof. The sensations happening in my body were the exact same twenty-five years ago during those panic attacks. And if I had learned anything all those years ago it was that anxiety does not have an off switch, no immediate resolution. 

I’m f*^ked. 

I laid in bed distraught, a musical chairs of emotion. I was angry at myself for pushing it, for being so naive. I was in despair, a foreign reality to an eternal optimist. I was fatigued. I was wired. I was nauseous. I was everything all at once. It felt like one of the few times one of the kids brought a stomach bug home from school and wiped out the family. Laying down on a blanket-mattress by the toilet between vomit sessions without being able to get much sleep and wishing the night/sickness would end. 

My wife rubbed my head as I sized-up the task at hand. I was broken: Physically and mentally. I had not felt good in weeks and tomorrow would not be any different. I was going to struggle to run the marathon distance, let alone a sub-2-hour 50-minute marathon, a realistic time goal reflected in the training. The failure to hit the time goal, while frustrating, was the least of my worries. No matter where the time ended, running a marathon while overtrained was going to put me into a larger deficit.  

To sum it up: I laid in bed the night before race day physically and mentally weak, looking up at the daunting mountain of miles I planned to redline, which would then make me physically and mentally week for much longer. 

I do not recommend doing this. It’s obviously a really stupid thing to do. If you’ve ever had a stupid friend, then you know he or she is only stupid because they do stupid things, like a backflip off a fence four feet away from a swimming pool while a girl in the pool turns her back to him and says she can’t look and another friend cheers him on while others bark at him not to do it. He jumps anyway, his head inches from the pavement, and lands in the pool, resurfacing with a whoop. Then the girl slaps him on the shoulder and says, “you’re so stupid.” Jordan would race a marathon overtrained. Perhaps I am stupid, however, I still do not recommend it. Doctors, friends and family would also likely not recommend doing running a marathon overtrained. But I flew all this way, paid all this money and put in all that training. I still did not want to do this. 

“You have to do it,” my wife said.  

I can’t do it. 

“I need you to get me to the start line. If I can just start running, I think I will be fine.” 

“I got you, baby.” 

My wife Tiffany deserves more words than I can write on these few pages. She deserves a book. A trilogy. A library. 

The Marine Corp Marathon is not a flat and fast course, so choosing to for a personal best attempt was already an arguably hard thing to do. To race this course in an over trained state was going to be the hardest thing. 

Only by force. 

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At the start line the MC reminded runners why we run. 

Running isn’t just all about you. Running is about your self-centered time goals. Think of others. Never relent, never walk, unless you’re going to die. If you’re going to die, then you can walk. But give it everything you got. Embrace the suffering and fight. 

Strategy:  In January of 2024 I ran the Houston Marathon in a time of 3:02:24 on a mission to break the three-hour barrier. The revenge-marathon attempt two months later at the Woodlands fell short with a 3:08:28 due to predictably humid weather and a mild illness. In April I hired Matt Fox from the Sweat Elite Coaching Academy to run a speed block. Over the spring and summer, I set personal bests for the 5k and 10k in hot and humid conditions. By the time marathon training rolled around my marathon pace had dropped form 6:50 earlier in the year down to 6:20 in the heat and humidity of south Texas. I was in sub 2:50 marathon shape a month before the race but I had no idea what shape I was in on race day. Fortunately, the biggest skill coach Fox had instilled was the ability to run by effort. Previously, I had run by heartrate. I had run by pace. In both scenarios I was married to my watch. For the Marine Corp Marathon, I ran it by feel. 

Mile 1 – 7:00 

Mile 2 – 7:08 

Mile 3 – 7:02 

I climbed 230 feet of elevation in the first 5k. Most of the elevation is confined to the first 15k outside of the last 400 meters. All these numbers I pulled from Strava after the race. 

Mile 4 – 6:13 

Mile 5 – 6:57 

Mile 6 – 6:52. 

Ironically, I was still on pace for a sub 3 after the hilliest portion of the marathon, however, the adrenaline wore off after the 10k mark. My shins and feet ached, my legs were heavy, and the perceived effort mirrored the back half of a marathon. I understood I was slowing as a steady line of runners overtook me in mile 7. 

Mile 7 – 7:02 

I pressed back up to the line.  

F*^k your feelings. Stay hard mother f*^ker! 

Mile 8 – 6:54 

Mile 9 – 6:54 

Mile 10 – 6:58 

Mile 11 – 7:02 

Mile 12 is called the Blue Mile. It is to remember the fallen military members, portraits of the fallen soldiers flank either side of the road every ten feet. Names and photographs. 

Running isn’t just all about you. 

Mile 12 – 7:15 

Push. 

Mile 13 – 7:06  

I crossed the halfway at 1:32 and some change, which meant if I ran just under 1:28:00, sub 3 was still on the table. Historically, I am terrible at math in the middle of any sort of running effort and the day was no different. All I knew was that I had to land well below 6:52 to make it happen, something closer to a 6:40. I pushed my effort. 

Mile 14 – 6:48 

My watch beeped at me. Threshold. I finished the out leg of the out-and-back and headed back toward the national mall, straight into a head wind with no pack to tuck in behind. I continued to push. 

Mile 15 – 7:20 

My watch beeped at me again. Threshold. Threshold effort is not sustainable for 11 miles. Despite the pushing, runners were still slowly overtaking me. I was slowing. The more I pushed, the worse the pain. It was almost every step. 

At mile 16 I became convinced a pebble had infiltrated my shoe. I pulled over to the side of the road and took them off. Nothing. My foot was cramping. I put back on the shoe and pushed. Every step hurt. Sometimes during a marathon, a certain level of discomfort comes and goes at various points but this was different. I was not well. It was totally plausible that it would just be painful for the final 11 miles 

Mile 16 – 8:28 

Push. 

Mile 17 – 6:54 

At Mile 18 the body fatigued considerably. Runners now passed me at a faster clip. Despite holding the effort, I felt like I was running in slow motion, running through sand. Every step hurt. I could not think of tangents. I just pushed and held on to the person in front of me. 

Embrace the suffering and fight. 

Mile 18 – 7:20 

Mile 19 – 7:20 

On my left arm are names of loved ones and of those who inspire me. One name per mile. When the pain feels unbearable, I pretend that person is running alongside me cheering me on. My mile 20 person was Coach Fox. He paced me and said indeterminate things in an Australian accent.  

Mile 20 – 7:24 

My wife makes a few appearances throughout the marathon, physically with bottles doubling as my aid station, but also on my arm and in spirit. Because mile 21 and 22 held the last bit of elevation outside of the finish, Tiffany was my mile 21 and 22. 

Mile 21 – 7:34 

Mile 22 – 7:34 

Mile 23 – 7:24 

The brain is funny. When I type “brain” I really meant “central governor.” He’s the guy trying to keep me from dying, holding me back. Over the four years I have been running, I have only convinced him 5k is really not that far of a distance. We can run 5k pretty hard and still be okay. So, at mile 23 he let me push just a little harder.  

I started passing runners. The body felt a little better when I was passing runners. 

Mile 24 – 6:57 

My watch beeped at me. 

Mile 25 – 7:06 

My watch would not shut up.  

In mile 26 I almost felt a bit dizzy. Having seen runners in other marathons suddenly side-step into a wobble and need immediate medical attention, I down shifted.  

Mile 26 – 7:28 

The last 400m is over 50 feet of elevation, a cruel joke that has crushed many a runner’s dreams.  

Last 400m – 7:16 pace. 

My heartrate spiked to 194 beats per minute, close to my max. 

Never relent. 

I crossed the finish line without collapsing. 3 hours, 10 minutes, 15 seconds. 

I have run 3 marathons with a faster finishing time than Marine Corp Marathon. However, my average heartrate for the 26 miles has never been higher, meaning the Marine Corp Marathon was my strongest effort and the one I am most proud. 

As I write this, it has been almost two weeks since race day. The delayed onset muscle soreness lasted for 5 days on account of the hills. Tomorrow marks one month since the body first crashed. The central nervous system has calmed. Neurohormones and hormones are back to business as usual, meaning I can finally fall asleep at night. My traps are relaxed. My mind is at peace.  

Because on a crisp, cool, future morning when I am feeling fresh, when I am running a marathon PB, crushing a pace present me cannot fathom, when the discomfort and pain settles in, my central governor will allow me to push. Because he knows we done much harder things. We have done the hardest thing. 

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Epilogue: The following section exists only because it contains a great resource for runners. 

Coach sent a great article on the offseason by Alan Couzens. I will leave the link at the end of this paragraph, even though I know almost nobody will click on it. I feel like 81% of runners jump from marathon training block to half marathon or marathon training block year-round and 18% of runners alternate between marathon blocks and 5-10k blocks. I’ve never actually met a runner who takes an off season but I imagine it has to be 1% of the running population. Regardless, here we are... 

https://alancouzens.com/blog/off_season.html 

In summation, I will take another 3 weeks of rest so that I carry only 1% fatigue into my next build. My fitness will be at a paltry 17% but that’s something that can be rebuilt in 6-8 weeks. I pushed myself to the line and I went over it. Now I know where it is and I will do my darndest not to cross over it again. 

Someone commented on one of my YouTube videos the other day asking if I ready to get back to running. I am not. Yes, this is a season to shed a few unnecessary pounds and develop short transferable mobility routines into habits I can carry into my training. However, this is mostly a season for my children and my wife. While I cram most of my running into the margins of life, marathon training inevitably bleeds into their time. They have sacrificed for me and now it is time for me to sacrifice for them.  

Running isn’t all about you.