I don’t know when they became so popular, but in recent years I’ve noticed the proliferation of rustically framed mantras serving as home décor. The possibilities are endless: “Wake up and be awesome.” Or: “Life is what happens between coffee and wine.” Or: “I just want to drink wine and pet my dog.” Although they’re not exactly my sort of thing, I support anything that makes one feel awesome and pet their dog. And I guess if you need motivation to drink more wine, then okay.
One of these mantra-signs stood out to me: “Do hard things.” The implication is that one should do hard things, or that it is good to do hard things. The mantra got my attention because it’s fair to say that one of my hobbies qualifies as hard. For the last decade, my primary hobby has been trail running—specifically, “ultra” running, which is technically any distance longer than a marathon.
I ran my first (and only, so far) 100-mile trail race back in 2019: the Arkansas Traveller 100 (AT100), which covers trails and forest service roads through Arkansas’s Ouachita National Forest. I grew up in Arkansas, and my younger brother has won the AT100 four times and holds the course record, so I have a significant personal connection to the race.
I don’t have any real talent (in the raw, track and field sense) as a runner; I simply enjoy moving through and spending time in isolated, rugged landscapes. And as you might expect, running a 100-mile trail race is often one long suffer-fest, involving rocky and rooty courses with significant climbs and elevation changes, sleep deprivation (the cut-off time for some of these races is 30 hours or more), unpredictable weather, difficulties holding down fuel (without vomiting), and the potential for general body shut-down.
And yet I am considering putting myself through this again and registering for the Pinhoti 100: a point-to-point race on the Pinhoti Trail through the southernmost section of the Appalachian Mountains in Alabama’s Talladega National Forest. Although the race is full and there is a long wait list of people hoping to receive an entry, I am very much on the fence about whether I’ll even start the race. I’ll try to work out the reasons why in this essay.
Some reasons in support of self-imposed suffering
Running 100 miles is “fun.” Here we can note the distinction between “Type I Fun” and “Type II Fun.” If you grab a beer and a bag of popcorn and watch the film “Barbie,” that’s just regular old fun (Type I). On the other hand, Type II fun, for me, has two central elements: It is derived from activities that are difficult (to the point of being painful or even miserable), and yet it makes one feel more “alive” by experiencing a deeper range of emotions and physical sensations—something that might not be appreciated fully until the activity has been completed. So while spending 20-plus hours traipsing through the wilderness for 100 miles—which sometimes feels like a death march from miles 60 to 90—could be mostly miserable while it’s happening, it can be sort of fun in retrospect (Type II fun).
Quality of life. I generally do not think running 100 miles is good for you. It can break your body and mind, albeit temporarily. But—in my experience—the discipline that comes from preparing for the event (and the fear of showing up without being prepared) can encourage healthy habits that enhance one’s quality of life. My children are active (my 13-year-old is a cross-country and track runner), and I’m at least in a better position to keep up with them now.
Adding relief. A relief map illustrates the variations in the elevation of the ground surface—peaks, valleys, and so on. In many ways, my day-to-day experience would mostly be a straight line—a plateau—if it was represented on a relief map. I am a philosophy professor in one of the richest countries in the world; my work involves sitting in a comfortable chair and moving words around on a laptop in perfectly heated and cooled rooms with occasional breaks to talk about those words with students who have the luxury of thinking about philosophy. I am very fortunate, and I am grateful. Long, hard trail runs register tiny peaks on my day-to-day relief map, perhaps making me even more appreciative of the luxurious plateau on which I spend most of my time.
Community. Trail running (and ultra running specifically) is in large part based on the idea of a supportive community. In longer races, runners depend on their crew (typically a small team of family or friends who are permitted to meet the runner at various locations along the course to tend to the runner’s needs), aid station volunteers (motley and enthusiastic, ready to make you laugh or listen to you cry), and fellow runners. 100-mile races in particular involve long stretches of solitude, but one almost always settles into a groove with another runner for a few miles. Shared hardships like this have the potential to create deep bonds, as does mutual aid.
Deepening experience. I suppose this is ultimately what it’s about for me. I’ve been preoccupied with death since I was a child, and I’ve probably been in a midlife crisis for most of my life. (I quit my job as an FBI special agent to study philosophy, for God’s sake.) This is one reason it can be difficult for me to turn down unusual challenges that might lead to unexpected experiences of beauty, growth, and even failure. It seems like the hard things are often the things with the most potential to yield these sorts of experiences on a deeper level. And I hate to be melodramatic, but time is running out.
Some ways we might deceive ourselves about self-imposed suffering
I just finished writing a book called Police Deception and Dishonesty – The Logic of Lying that’s about—you guessed it—police deception and dishonesty. Over the course of writing that book, I began thinking about all the ways I might be deceiving myself about the reasons I subject myself to suffering. Here are a few of my worries.
Alternatives. First, there are lots of ways to have fun, Type I, II, or otherwise. Why not run, say, 50 or even 100 kilometers? Hell, how about a Turkey Trot 5K? Why 100 miles? Or how about just going for a long hike? And I’ve already mentioned that actually running 100 miles itself probably isn’t particularly good for you, so why not set less extreme goals that allow you to achieve similar health and quality of life benefits? Wouldn’t these activities produce the same desirable outcomes without requiring such extreme suffering and sacrifice?
Privilege. Second, doing hard things may provide “relief” in my life, but my self-imposed suffering is remarkably privileged. My socio-economic advantages result in my having to create suffering to appreciate the full range of life’s experiences. Look at what’s happening in the world today. There are many who have no choice but to live a life of hardship and suffering, and it can seem unforgivably selfish for me to embrace suffering as a “hobby.” Relatedly, there are a lot of people who do not have the option to run 100 miles (or run at all) because of mobility challenges and other reasons. (Although I have focused on ultra running as a personal example of self-imposed suffering, there are of course many other examples that might be available to an even broader range of people. And I see no reason that those examples need be limited to activities that are primarily physical in nature.)
Death denial. Third, the experiences that one seeks through self-imposed suffering are perhaps nothing more than an embarrassing attempt to deal with a bourgeois midlife crisis—a vain way of chasing “toughness” or immortality. Sure, running 100 miles might be better than buying a sports car, but perhaps only moderately so. If I really want to have meaningful experiences, maybe I should just spend more of my time volunteering and helping those with greater needs than my own.
Recklessness. Finally, perhaps the sort of self-imposed suffering I’ve described is reckless, both personally and environmentally. Regarding the former, I worry that running another 100-mile trail race might demonstrate a reckless disregard for the healthy body I have currently. Regarding the latter, perhaps it’s irresponsible for me to pursue this hobby because—in my case—it requires me to own a 4×4 truck that makes it possible for me to get to the off-the-beaten-path locations where I enjoy camping and training.
A tentative conclusion
The objections I’ve noted are not the only ones I should be worried about. There are more, and I’m not even sure I can address the ones I’ve described. It’s for this reason that I don’t know whether I’ll be at the starting line of the Pinhoti 100. If I do show up, I think it will have something to do with the following considerations.
Primarily, I’m optimistic that I’m at least conscious of the ways I might be deceiving myself about my motivation to run 100 miles. And that gives me hope that just maybe I’m embracing this eccentric hobby for the right reasons.
For me, trail (and ultra) running is truly fun, and fun of both the Type I and the Type II varieties, and I think people have an interest in doing things that give them pleasure (even if they’re strange pleasures). Part of the fun is not just the physical challenge, but also the intellectual and psychological challenge. Running 100 miles is almost as much about logistics and planning (figuring out strategies to tackle the specific course, when and what to eat, how to use crews and pacers, and so on) as it is about physical fitness.
Although there is not as much ethnic diversity as one might like, the ultra running community is known for embracing all types of runners with all types of abilities and bodies. The aid station volunteers cook hot food for the runners and take care of their physical and emotional needs. They want everyone to have a wonderful experience, whether they’re at the front of the pack or the back. And while entry fees to the races aren’t exactly cheap, the necessary gear is not cost-prohibitive for most people (a good pair of shoes, a headlamp, and a couple of bottles and pockets in which to carry fuel).
It would be better if I drove a Prius—or even an Outback—but those vehicles literally wouldn’t get me to some of my favorite spots to camp and train. I drive a six-year-old, midsize, 4×4 Toyota Tacoma with a modest V6 engine; my roundtrip commute to work—which only happens a few days a week—is 8 or 9 miles. I haven’t flown to Europe for work or pleasure in well over a decade. I know this sounds defensive—and it certainly doesn’t justify anything—but perhaps it’s relevant to an all-things-considered analysis.
I still worry that a part of my motivation is deceptive—that I’m actually trying to run 100 miles (again) because it makes me feel better about getting old. Or that I’ve come to subconsciously enjoy the idea of having an eccentric, difficult hobby. On the other hand, I’m pretty confident that trail and ultra running allow me to experience unique, genuine moments of solitude, beauty, and growth. So there’s that.
I don’t know if I’ll be at the starting line of the Pinhoti 100, but these are things I’ll consider in reaching a decision. And if I do start the race, I think it will be in defiance of a popular ultra running mantra that I would have followed in earlier years: “Never—ever, ever, ever—quit (unless you’re about to die).” I don’t need to run and finish this race; I need to decide whether I want to be there to see what unfolds, and whether it’s for the right reasons.
Surely most readers are thinking: It’s a dumb race—who cares? Fair enough, but I guess this is what philosophy professors do. Perhaps I should just “keep calm and drink wine,” as they say.
Coda
Luke was diagnosed with COVID-19 and then flexor hallucis longus tendonitis in the weeks leading up to the Pinhoti 100 (November 4 – 5, 2023). After three weeks of rest and low-impact training (mostly swimming with his dog), he felt comfortable starting the race. Luke was crewed by his brother (Wesley) and 13-year-old son (Henry, who paced Luke from mile-95 to mile-100), and he was cheered on by his wife (Melissa) and youngest son (Oliver). Luke considers this shared experience—on a stunning day in the Talladega National Forest—to be his most meaningful run. He finished in 22:38 for twelfth place overall.
Luke William Hunt
Luke William Hunt is Associate Professor of Philosophy at the University of Alabama, where he teaches in the department's Jurisprudence Track. After graduating from law school, he was a law clerk for a federal judge in Virginia. He then worked as an FBI Special Agent in Virginia and Washington, D.C., followed by his doctoral work in philosophy at the University of Virginia. He is the author of The Retrieval of Liberalism in Policing (Oxford, 2019), The Police Identity Crisis: Hero, Warrior, Guardian, Algorithm (Routledge, 2021), and Police Deception and Dishonesty – The Logic of Lying (Oxford, 2024).
