03 Dec Things the mountains taught me
About a year ago, my brother called me one morning. He’s not one for lingering phone chats, so he got straight to the point: “Donsy, I’ve entered Skyrun, and I think you should too. You’re turning 40, and you and Ewan need something big to mark this milestone birthday.” I can’t say I was immediately all-in, fully committed. At first, I didn’t believe it was something I could actually do. But I did take a few looks at the website, and it kept popping up in my thoughts. A year later, we can say this: as the months passed, we became all-in, fully committed—and we did it.
People often say they’re forever changed by endurance challenges, which I used to think was such a cliché. But now, I’m one of those people. As with so many moments in life, I look for the lessons. This adventure—16 hours of self-navigating through those mountains—delivered more than its fair share. Here are ten of them:
1. You never know what’s around the next bend
The mountains are stunning—clouds from new angles, tiny pink flowers in the grass, glittering dams, and rocks jutting out in perfect symmetry. But you never know what’s around the next corner: strong winds, towering boulders, muddy cattle paths, or barbed wire fences with no gate. Even those who’ve been on those paths before couldn’t predict every twist.
Life is like that too. Just when you find your rhythm, something disrupts it—sleepless nights with kids, illness, grief, work stress. And you know what? This isn’t always a bad thing. It’s bloody awful in the moment, but these disruptions keep us agile, they keep us growing. They remind us to celebrate small wins and appreciate the good things.
2. Downhill is hard
For 41kms, we climbed. Up and up and up and up. We reached that highest point to the sound of a small group of people ringing cow bells and cheering us on supportively. To this point, the climb had been tough, but we were feeling so strong and we were 40 minutes ahead of our pace chart.
And then, then we went down. And down and down and down. And it was so tough. The first bit of the down was rocky and narrow, 3 meters wide to be precise, with steep drops on either side. It’s not called the Dragon’s Back for nothing.
In life, we often assume downhill means smooth sailing, but it’s not always true. Downhill requires a different kind of focus—watching your speed, avoiding hidden bumps, and managing the terrain. Sometimes, the downhill is harder than the climb.
3. Be excited to see the people you love
For 58kms, we only saw other runners and very small groups of marshals and medical crew. But at 58kms, we knew we would see our three children, my mom and dad and some of the other family and friends who were seconding. Knowing that we were going to see them and hug them kept me going down those rocks, down those hills, through the muddy cattle paths.
How often do we get excited to see the people we love? Not the ones that live far away that we see occasionally, but those that live in the same space as you do. The ones that walk through the front door every afternoon and evening. The ones that sit with us at the dinner table. The ones that kiss us goodnight and ask for a snuggle. The ones we see every day. We need to be excited to see these people, to hug these people. Every day.
4. It’s not about how you look
Since forever, I’ve thought that athletes need to look a certain way. You know – the lean, slim, muscular type we see in magazines and on Instagram feeds. This is what we’re made to believe that endurance athletes need to look like. And I say “athlete” on purpose, because this is what the race organiser called us in the briefing on the Friday evening and I realised he was talking about all of us, not just the lean, slim, muscular ones in the crowd.
But out in those mountains, what you look like really doesn’t count for much. What it really comes down to is what we think and how we feel. Thoughts and feelings (and obviously some training to get you feeling fit). When you’ve got 6kms to go to the finish line and have a mountain as steep as Table Mountain to get over, what you tell yourself really matters. I did it 10 steps at a time. Ten. Because ten was manageable. The whole way up felt impossible, but ten steps I could convince myself to do.
And sometimes, this is how we need to convince ourselves when we come to mountains that feel impossible. Just a few steps, then a few more. How we speak to ourselves can make us or break us. You’re the speaker – you choose.
5. The Why really matters
Getting ready to run 65 self-navigated kilometers in the mountains doesn’t just happen. Yes, we had a training plan, but no one had a gun to our heads making us stick to it. We had to do that ourselves. There were many early mornings, many hours away from our children, many missed glasses of wine. But our ‘why’ kept us focussed on the goal. And that’s it – when your why is big enough, then doing the hard work to get you there is worth it. Not easy, but worth it. The trade-offs are worth it.
So, what was my why? I wanted to take up my brother’s challenge to do something big in the year I turned 40. I wanted to do something big with him, but also with my husband. I wanted to teach our children what it means to have a goal and work hard for it. I wanted to teach my children that even when life gets in the way, when burdens feel heavy, we can pursue big things that push us beyond what we feel capable of. These things kept me going.
6. Every step counts
Obviously, every step gets you closer to the finish line, but really – every step counts. Not for one moment can you take your focus off the path in front of you. Rocks look stable come loose, mud looks solid but isn’t, grass tufts look secure, but wobble loose. Every step counts.
We can’t really ever see the full path, but maybe just a few steps ahead. And this is often the best we can do. Just focus on the step in front of you, then the next one. What we hear and see often influences us to believe that we need to have the whole route all figured out. But really? How? It’s not always possible, there’s too much unknown. And that’s ok. Know the direction. Then focus step by step.
7. Pain is inevitable, but not permanent
Did you know that a popped blister stings so badly for about 3 minutes and then the pain subsides. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it just becomes familiar and isn’t so sharp anymore. Just like stiff muscles and sore knees. The stiffness and aches become familiar and then slowly fade away, without us even realising it.
And the same is true for pain we experience in life. It’s bloody sore at first. It stings so much it takes our breath away and makes our eyes water. But slowly, without us realising the exact moment, it becomes familiar and fades. Maybe it doesn’t fade away, but it fades to less. The breathless, tears in our eyes pain isn’t permanent. It may not go away completely, like the scars I now have from the blisters and the blue bruising I have from a rolled ankle, but it heals a tiny little bit each day.
8. Look back, but not for too long
There were many moments when we had to look back to appreciate the beautiful views. There were also a few moments when we had to look back to see how far we’d come, to encourage ourselves to keep going to cover how much we still had left to go. But each time I looked back, I felt a little dizzy, disorientated, a bit off balance. I had to quickly turn back to look ahead, in the direction we were heading.
I’m a big believer in reflection. To celebrate, to learn. But we can’t look back for too long, otherwise we’ll feel a bit dizzy, a bit disorientated. Reflection should be brief, not to dwell. We shouldn’t get stuck in what’s already passed, but rather glance back to appreciate the views and how far we’ve come.
9. It doesn’t matter how long it takes
We were aiming for a pre-sunset finish. We didn’t get it. For the first half of the race, we were ahead of schedule. Until the downhills. And the rocks. And the mud. We really didn’t know what to expect. Because we’d never been there before – physically and mentally. And when we realised we were going to be getting those headlamps out to finish the last few kilometers to the finish line, we kept going anyway. The time didn’t really matter. Finishing did.
(And number 10 – this one isn’t from the mountains, but after) When you expect your body to do hard things, you’ve got to let it recover as though it has done a hard thing. Recovery is essential. Rest is required. Listen to your body.
We don’t always know what’s around that bend, or over that hill. We don’t really know if the mud will sink or the rock will come loose. But we do know that each step counts and the why keeps you going. You are capable of doing hard things, even if it’s just ten steps at a time.
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