‘To Find My Limits’ (or Something to That Effect)
Cracking Whys #1
Hello. I’m writing to you from deep within my comfort zone. I have a set of plump 10-years-of-continuous-progress cushions against my back, and I’m wrapped in my cozy can’t-remember-my-last-injury blanket. I’m even drinking my coffee out of my finished-my-dream-race mug.
Except, the cushions are too soft, the blanket is too warm, and the coffee in my mug has gone cold. As comfort zones go, this one is surprisingly uncomfortable. But this is where I chose to spend 2023.
This is the first in a series of posts exploring the whys of ultrarunning—you know, those whys everybody says are so important to have. Because the reasons we have are often the reasons we’re stuck with at the end of that race that was supposed to be easy.
The series ends where it begins: with the zeroth and final (but not last) post. Check out also post #2: ‘To Choose the Effortful Way.’
✤ ✣ ✥
It’s been exactly 10 years since I ran my first full mile, out of breath, out of control, wishing for a swift death, probably looking like I was about to get it. Two weeks later, I ran for 30 minutes, a seemingly impossible feat. Then five miles. Ten. A month with no days off. Mountains. Night running. An ultramarathon. Another. For an entire decade, I watched my perceived limits emerge blurry on the horizon, gradually draw closer and take shape as goals, then whoosh past me—the latest in a trail of wonderfully mediocre achievements.
Even with the inevitable setbacks and failures, chasing after my limits was immensely satisfying. So often did the inconceivable reveal itself to be merely preconceived. It was easy to think the chase would last forever, easier still to deem it most crucial that it does.
Then, last December, while picking my races for 2023, I found myself drawn to the “easier” ultramarathons. The ones I’d have to train for, but not too intensely, with pretty trails and generous cutoffs. Nothing too long, too remote, or too steep. And nothing with “toughest,” “brutal,” or “unforgiving” in the tagline—ultras already feel half-endless as it is (and that’s usually the second half).
None of the races that ended up on my calendar can be said to be pieces of cake, but none are likely to have me venturing outside my comfort zone, either. I don’t plan on getting even close to my limits this year. That said, I’ll just leave this here in the event that I have to eat these words later:
The general unknowability of the future and something-about-best-laid-plans aside, my intention, at least, is to have fun, see some new places, enjoy some time in the mountains, and make no “progress” this year. And it’s bugging me to no end.
Maybe it has bugged you, too. The reason I’m even telling you all this is that I’m hoping you may find it entirely unremarkable. “Ah, yes,” you’ll smile knowingly as you read these lines, “the gut-twisting hunger for the sweet-and-sour victory over our past selves.” And then perhaps you’ll make yourself a mood-appropriate beverage and sit on your porch to gaze at the distance deep in thought: “What in heaven’s name is up with all that?”
I did. And I came up with three reasons why nothing about my comfort zone feels comfortable:
Most obviously, it’s a change. And by that, I mean WHY IS IT HAPPENING, AND WHAT DOES IT MEAN? And, while I may shout the questions with fists raised toward the sky, I’m afraid even to whisper the answers that first come to mind: ᶜᵒᵐᵖˡᵃᶜᵉⁿᶜʸ, ᵇᵘʳⁿᵒᵘᵗ, ᵒᵛᵉʳᵗʳᵃⁱⁿⁱⁿᵍ. Instead of a big scary race on the calendar, now it’s the absence of one that’s making my palms sweat.
In a fun, cognitively dissonant twist, this fear of change is somehow compounded by a nagging concern that not enough is changing. As cherished as our past achievements are, our future ones are still more fiercely pursued; however much it’s celebrated, each breakthrough is still more eagerly assimilated into the common and predictable, so we can focus on the next thing. Contentment does exist, don’t get me wrong, but reaching for more is what humans habitually do. To break that habit and let myself drift along effortlessly seems lateral at best—and backward at worst.
This brings me to my third reason, which could apply even to those who fear neither change nor effortless sameness (some belief in free will is required, however): doubt. By making a choice, we eliminate alternative options. Some such decisions are reversible. Time is not. However we choose to spend it, we’re not getting any of it back. Isn’t it best spent trying to better ourselves, taking every opportunity to go further, doing… more of everything? What luck, then, that by satisfying our craving for “more of everything,” we’re simultaneously satisfying the urge to make the best use of our time! Who doesn’t like double satisfaction?
Speaking of double-stuffed Oreos (because that’s what I meant), it would appear that “more” is more felt than measurable.
✣ ✥ ✤
One thousand five hundred miles. That’s how many I ran last year. If I change nothing, and nothing changes on me, that’s 350 more hours of doing what I love, having new experiences, learning new things in 2023. That’s not lateral, and it’s definitely not backward. Yet, it doesn’t and probably won’t ever feel like progress, so long as it lacks the thrill of reaching for the seemingly unreachable.
I realize not everybody feels this way and those who do don’t feel this way all the time. In fact, most of the people I know are perfectly content within their comfort zone. The rest are, well, ultrarunners (hereinafter referred to as “we,” “us,” or “the people whose knees are just fine, thank you”). And this goes for other endurance athletes, as well: How is it that we’re so good at tolerating discomfort but so terrible at navigating the comfortable (see: tapering)?
Now, tolerating discomfort is one thing, and pushing ourselves to our limits is the double-shot-espresso version of that thing. Then again, overdoing it is right there in the sport’s name. Ultrarunning is so damn flirty with limits—even when we’re only playing with harmless discomfort, we often end up crossing some extreme line anyway.
And our race directors, oh, they’re good. They’ve got us right where they want us. They’ve figured out there’s demand for a “World’s Toughest Race,” so there are, like, 50 of those—and that’s in addition to the countless more of just-average toughness. We have the opportunity now more than ever to indulge in limit-pushing in all sorts of ways, in various flavors, with a cherry on top.
And when asked why we run such races and don’t we know they will ruin our knees, we, the people whose knees are just fine, thank you, often reply that we want to “find our limits” (or “discover what we’re capable of,” or “see how deep the well is”). Considering what limits literally are, we’re essentially saying we’re attempting to witness our own failure—to feel the sun’s warmth melt the wax off our wings. Most people regard this as… unwise (which I’ve deduced from their uncomprehending looks, as well as the prevailing opinion on Icarus’s decision-making skills). But it doesn’t have to make sense to them, right? They don’t have to understand.
Do we? I’ve used the “to find my limits” line, or some version of it, more than a few times without truly understanding what it means. I’ve never had to understand it, you see—nobody has. This why, as most other whys, doesn’t require a logical explanation.
But suppose I want to give it one anyway. I might start with a multipart question, such as:
What are limits, exactly,
does—and how does—finding them add meaning, and
to what?
what are limits?
The answer to the first part of the question seems obvious, provided I totally refuse to think about it. What St. Augustine said about time could be said about limits, as well: “If nobody asks me, I know: but if I were desirous to explain it to one that should ask me, plainly I know not.”1
If, as a child, you’ve ever attempted to, say, make a jar of peanut butter float from the countertop to the couch/your face, then you have been disappointed by what all of us except Eliud Kipchoge know to be true: we do have limits (his famous “No human is limited” is marketing gold, but it is patently and demonstrably false; I’ll get to why that’s a good thing in a minute). There are simply things we cannot do, peanut-butter telekinesis being just one obvious example. We learn very early on to equate our limits with those moments when trying for all we are worth has the same chance for success as not trying at all. But is that all there is to them?
We think we know what limits are because we know that we are limited. We sort of infer their definition from their existence in relation to us: they are the “far” in “as far as we go.” This definition is sufficient as long as they remain out of sight. But if we do endeavor to find them, we need to know what it is we’re really hoping to find.
On the one hand, there are our physical limits. They’re the ones we can measure, quantify, define in universally accepted terms. They produce neat, standardized, calculable data. Those data are not the limits themselves: numbers merely instantiate them, as language signifies the meaning we attribute to them. Still (and because of said attributed meaning), the measurable can certainly be motivating.
Then there are the unmeasurable limits, although this might not be the best adjective. Perhaps “vague,” or “fluid,” or “more slippery than a wet noodle” would suit them better. I’m referring, of course, to our psychological limits: difficult to predict, impossible to measure, and shifting this way and that depending on both measurable and unmeasurable outside factors. How do we calculate, for example, the amount of discomfort we feel at any given time? What is the base unit for mental toughness?
We don’t, and there isn’t one. With psychological limits, it’s about perception. They are perceptions—not merely embodied by feelings but feelings themselves.
And they’re there for a reason: to guard the sanity of our efforts. We know this, instinctively, when we venture out to find them. We know our brain’s aversion to facing the manifestations of our deficiencies, and we seek them out anyway.
why? what is the meaning of finding our limits (or searching for them, for that matter)?
Imagine you’re standing in front of a beautiful painting, admiring the masterful brushwork. You step back a bit to take in the whole picture. Then you take another step, and another, until it becomes clear that the canvas is too big for you to see the entirety of it. The painting has no frame, it is boundless, and as you back away from it in horror, it swallows the universe, and there are no more paintings.
In this impossible scenario, I’m using the measurable to illustrate the absurdity and uselessness of the infinite. Our limits are our connection to the reality we belong to, even as they restrict it. They may prevent us from flying, but they also keep us from floating away.
The search for our limits is, in a sense, a search for a tether. What better way not to be lost than to understand the relationship between what we are and where we are?
and then what?
When we finally reach our limits, undoubtedly at a great cost, what do we see in front of us? An unfamiliar world? The impossible? Nothing at all?
Limits define the limited—in at least one way and at least at that point in time. Beyond those lines we cannot cross, there’s nothing but otherness. If we were to glimpse into that which is not us in any way, what would we be able to perceive about it?
✥ ✤ ✣
Imagine another beautiful painting, this one a normal size. You don’t typically pay attention to the size of a normal-sized painting, but that’s the first constraint imposed upon the artist. Before she starts working, she must agree to paint inside the canvas.
You can stop imagining paintings now.
We become skilled at that which has constraints. And it is this skill that allows us to travel to the place that borders the impossible, and it is at that place that all sorts of possibles start cropping up. True, not everything is attainable. You’ll never be able to move a peanut butter jar with your mind. But if you were that kid who tried, you know it was never about getting a snack, anyway. You didn’t particularly want to violate any laws of physics, either. You wanted a cool superpower you could show off to your friends (or maybe keep secret and use to fight crime).
The superpower is right there for the taking. If it looks like running a full mile now, soon it will look like running five. Our limits move further away to accommodate our chasing after them.
Thus, standing at the edge of our known universe, I don’t think it‘s the end of it that we see. Instead, we witness its expansion: new journeys, destinations far beyond what was recently unimaginable. Beginnings where we were looking for ends. Our lives instantly richer, our pursuits more daring and plentiful.
✤ ✣ ✥
It bears saying, in closing, that finding our limits needn’t entail a violent crash into them. Well, a crash of some intensity is probably to be expected, but it will be less traumatizing to a prepared, calm, deliberate mind. I give you today’s Reading Recommendation in a Single Quotation with No Further Explanation:
❝I reached a deeper point of futility in this race than in any of the others, yet the revival was even bigger. I’ll never again be able to tell myself that I can’t carry on. After all these revivals, I’ll never again be able to say I’m too tired, that I’m broken.
—Adharanand Finn, The Rise of the Ultra Runners
✣ ✥ ✤
I started writing this hoping that by the time it was finished I would’ve reasoned my way to a more comfortable comfort zone. But it would appear reason has worked in favor of my doubts about remaining there. If our limits are what I just claimed they are, I may well miss out on some truly life-changing experiences this year.
I could open another browser tab right now and sign up for something that would make me regret my damned healthy knees can’t be used as an excuse to quit. But I won’t. Writing about this why has made me realize how clueless I can be about the potential of anything—including my comfort zone and everything cozy, and therapeutic, and fun, and “lateral” in it. So I’m sticking with my decision for at least this year. Who knows, maybe by the end of it, I would’ve learned how to be comfortable.
Thanks for reading. If you liked this post, please share “‘To Find My Limits’ (or Something to That Effect)” or this newsletter.
Augustine, Confessions, trans. William Watts (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999–2000), Adobe Digital Editions EPUB.