Just keep going.

The downhill

Your mind is a remarkable thing. Given enough pain, it will build you a perfectly reasonable exit, and then hand it to you like it was your own idea all along.

Mine did it at kilometre fifty-one. It was 2:26 in the afternoon on the fourth of October, and I had just reached the 2,500-metre peak: the top of the second-biggest climb of the race, with more than 3,000 metres of elevation gain already behind me. Nine hours into what was already the longest race I had ever run. In front of me was a beautiful, runnable downhill, the kind I usually love, the kind I'm good at. And when the trail finally tipped downhill and I went to open up my stride, there was nothing there.

My heart rate wouldn't climb. My breathing wouldn't settle. My legs, somehow, were just gone. A pace I can normally hold without thinking, and I was barely scraping six minutes a kilometre, fighting for every step. Walk. Run. Walk again. Every full breath was a negotiation, and my legs argued with each one.

It was midday. The mountains around me were the kind of beautiful you train a whole year to stand inside. And I couldn't take any of it in. I had come here expecting to run this section, to enjoy it, and instead I was grinding through it a step at a time, watching the gap between what I can normally do and what I was doing widen with every metre.

Somewhere in that walk-run rhythm, without me noticing, a story started forming. A very sensible story. About how this was harder than any race I had ever run. About how nobody would blame me. About how there was an aid station coming up, and decisions could be made there.

The call

So I did something I had never done in any race before. I pulled out my phone and called my wife.

I told her it was hard. Harder than anything I had run. That I was struggling with every step, that I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep this up. I didn't say the word "quit" (I'm not sure I even admitted it to myself), but I was laying out the cues, one by one, hoping she'd pick them up and say the thing I was quietly waiting to hear. Something like: don't worry, if it's too much, get to the next station and I'll come and pick you up.

That was the sentence I was fishing for. A way out, offered by someone else, so it wouldn't have to be mine.

She listened. Then she said: "You're doing great. Just keep going."

Not what I was expecting. But probably exactly what I needed.

Because something in those three words, you're doing great, made me actually check. Was I hurting the way I hurt when I'm injured? No. This wasn't the sharp, wrong kind of pain that means stop. This was suffering. And suffering, nine hours into the longest run of my life, on a stunning day in the mountains, is not a reason to stop. It's the entire point.

So I made a rule, right there on the trail. Unless I got injured, or unless it became genuinely dangerous to continue, I would keep moving. It might not be my best race. But what was waiting on the other side of that low was something you almost can't get anywhere else in ordinary life: the experience of working, really working, after nine hours, of pushing through when everything says don't.

I didn't start running the second I hung up. But not long after, my legs came back. By the time I reached the aid station I was feeling great. I took a Red Bull, grabbed my gels for the second half, and was back out in under five minutes.

The exit you build

Here's the part I keep coming back to.

I didn't call my wife for advice. I have a coach for that. I didn't call her for information, either. She wasn't on the mountain, she couldn't see my legs or my splits. I called her because some part of me had already decided it wanted out, and it needed a respectable way to get there. My mind had built the exit, dressed it up as concern for my own wellbeing, and gone looking for a co-signer.

That's what minds do. When things get genuinely hard, the easiest option always appears, and it never shows up looking like weakness. It shows up looking like the sensible, mature, responsible choice. Your brain is very good at reasoning its way to whatever outcome the tired part of you already wants. It will build just as convincing a case for stopping as it would for continuing. That's the trap: you can't trust the reasoning in the moment, because the reasoning bends to the pain.

And this isn't only about running. It's the job you keep meaning to leave, and the thoughtful reasons it's "not quite the right time." It's the move you know you want to make, and the responsible-sounding case for waiting one more year. Every hard thing has an exit, and your mind will make that exit look like wisdom.

The only defence I've found is to decide your exit criteria before you're in the pain. On the mountain, mine became simple: injury, or danger. Nothing else counts. Everything else is just suffering, and suffering was always part of the deal.

To be honest, the race didn't suddenly turn easy after that call. I had at least three more lows before the finish, including nearly two hours alone on the final climb, in complete darkness, headlamp on, no idea how far the top still was. But I never reached for the exit again. Because I had already decided what a real reason to stop looked like. And none of the lows that followed qualified.

This week

Think of one hard thing you're in the middle of right now. A decision, a project, a stretch of something that's grinding you down.

Before the next low hits, write down your exit criteria, in advance, while you're clear-headed. What would actually, genuinely justify stopping? Name it specifically. Not "if it gets too hard." Something you'd recognise on sight: injury, or danger, or a real red line that has nothing to do with how tired you feel on the day.

Then, next time your mind hands you a beautifully reasonable way out, you'll have something to check it against. Most of the time, you'll find the exit it built doesn't meet the bar you set.

Until next Saturday, Vitalii

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