I've been a runner for the majority of my life. I'm attracted to the simplicity and isolation of long runs, and have logged thousands of miles on my feet over the last two decades. However, by any standard measure, I'm not a particularly talented runner. I'm not fast. And I haven't competed in many races. But as something I feel deeply passionate about, I've often considered how to pursue a level of greatness within the sport.
For someone committed to reaching relative greatness through running, I see two distinct options. First, you can train to achieve a definable level of quality, as measured through pace. Over the last 40 years, the average marathon pace has declined 15%, or about 40 minutes over 26 miles. So, you could take the record for your age group and compare yourself against those historic numbers, with the goal of incrementally improving your results. Or, more likely, you would train to hit a specific finishing time, to qualify for a race like the Boston Marathon, which many lifelong runners view as the holy grail of marathons. Having such a defined goal will certainly make you faster, and has a higher probability of external recognition, but you risk chasing diminishing returns in your performance.
You can also choose to pursue greatness through longevity, either with distance or cumulative achievements. I've met many runners with lifetime goals, like trying to run 100 marathons, or completing a race in every state. For those less patient, but equivalently motivated by time, you can increase the distance you run. Ultrarunning has exploded in popularity over the last twenty years, as more people become motivated by running large distances instead of chasing minor improvements in pace.
In this light, running provides us a clear framework for the two paths towards achieving greatness. You can pursue intensity—an unwavering focus to the exclusion of all else—with a heavy emphasis on a specific outcome. Or, you can leverage time—a compounding state of inertia that accumulates slowly but reliably, although sometimes in unpredictable ways.
Both have clear merits, and neither is a guarantee of success. Either path you choose will have a discernible difference on the outcome of your pursuits as well as on the nature of your life amidst the progress.
Knowing I wasn't particularly talented or motivated by speed, I quickly decided my variable to greatness would be time. After a mediocre cross-country stint in high school, I found ultrarunning, and more specifically, a 24-hour race around a small North Carolina lake.
During a 24-hour race, you're focused less on competing with the other runners, and more on finding the limits of your mental and physical capabilities. In these races, your success isn't determined by your maximum possible intensity. Running a five-minute mile won't get you through the night any faster. Many runners burn out too soon, trying to rack up a ton of quick miles, addicted to the sensation of being at the head of the pack. But this isn't a traditional race, and the mindset of going as hard as you can doesn't fit the longer time format.
A 24-hour race allows you to feel both the burden and opportunity that time imposes. If you do something long enough, your probability of achieving greatness continues to grow. Over time, your small but consistent contributions compound into something greater than the sum of its parts. A 14-minute mile is unimpressive for any experienced runner, but run a 14-minute mile for 24 hours straight and you'll have covered over 100 miles, a milestone putting you far beyond your peers. What looks like slow progress in the moment eventually builds into a sizable result, often far more than you would've imagined possible at first glance.
Tell a non-runner you ran a 3:05 Boston qualifier, and their eyes are likely to glass over. Tell someone you ran for 24 hours straight, and you immediately have their attention. This highlights one of the main competitive advantages of relying on time over intensity. People react differently to time. As a scarce resource we are all familiar with, the overlay of time builds immediate understanding to the inherent difficulty of the act.
Pursuits continued over time, whether 24 hours or 20 years, display a level of commitment and dedication that people can instinctually grasp. We hunger for these qualities in ourselves, so seeing results that clearly embody these principles makes it all the more impressive.
Another benefit of a time-based pursuit of greatness is it allows you to define your own game. Pursuing greatness through intensity immediately puts you in a zero-sum competition with others, chasing a specific outcome to distinguish your efforts as worthwhile. In contrast, a time-based focus encourages pursuit for the sake of itself. You can remove yourself from the commoditized race towards a fixed outcome, and while everyone else is competing to go faster, you can create something that is entirely your own.
It's difficult to sustain a pursuit over the course of years if it's not something you are truly passionate about. This commitment over time is what allows you to deepen your practice, propelling you forward on the path to greatness.
For all the benefits of relying on time, there's one potential downside. Time gives you the illusion of more time, which can breed a level of patient inaction, as you convince yourself that you can always do a little more at a later date. You see this during 24 hour races. Someone will start off strong, and convince themselves they've earned a break to stretch and rest. You quickly learn that time is slippery, and every minute you sit on the sidelines is another minute closer to the end of the race. To achieve greatness, you must maintain a steady urgency, nurturing a consistent output over the long haul.
In my last 24 hour race, I ended up running a total of 85 miles, good enough for ninth place overall. And while I was far from the fastest, I was one of the few people who kept going through the entire night. Instead of sleeping, I strapped on a headlamp and resigned myself to a slow shuffle through the dark. Those extra hours moved me from the middle of the pack to the top of the group. All it took was a trust in the compounding nature of time and the patience to see it through until the end.
Time allows you to multiply your efforts and redefine your outcomes. You can accumulate a body of work and achievements that will far surpass those who rely only on short-term intensity. So the real question to ask yourself is: What can I spend the next 20 years pursuing?