“I never give up.” I think that’s the most common mantra in the world of ultra-endurance. It’s a phrase that, in just three words, embodies perseverance, determination, pushing beyond one’s limits, courage, and self-sacrifice—all the values emphasized in a society focused on performance and productivity.
As a child, I was taught to “always finish”—my plate, my homework, my drawing, my training. At 51, I’m finally rebelling and claiming the freedom to leave things unfinished, half-done, and incomplete—and to find in that a sense of satisfaction just as great as that of success.
Two days ago, Jo (my life partner and adventure companion) and I set out on a 175-kilometer race around the Gulf of Morbihan. Of course, such an extravagant challenge raises the question of “why.” Why run for so long? To prove what to myself? To achieve what? I’ve always answered that question by saying, “Because it’s possible.” This time, my motivation was less clear-cut: I wanted to see the Breton landscapes, spend a night running through ferns and reeds, reach the ferry that connects the two ends of the Gulf, and above all, see how long I could run smoothly, without too much difficulty.
I wanted an honest race.
It was—perhaps for the first time in a long while. No, I didn’t crawl to the finish line; no, I didn’t suffer through one more night just to say, “I did it—I never give up.” I ran as best I could, and then I stopped. I saw the sun rise over the ocean, wisps of mist floating above the marshes, tired yet happy faces; then I paid less attention to the space around me, and my focus narrowed to my own body. I began to deal with the discomfort—first gently, then with resilience, and finally half-heartedly. Continuing no longer made sense. I stopped when I didn’t feel like it anymore; it’s as simple as that.
I didn’t want to push myself into that zone of physical and mental suffering where my own worth would be determined by my ability to endure, to hold on, endure at all costs until a finish line that actually leads nowhere, except to the fleeting illusion that you’re someone other than the person who started out. That you’ve become more admirable, more lovable, stronger, and that life will be different from now on. In English, this is called “the arrival fallacy”—the mistake of believing that we’ve arrived at something, or somewhere.
The relief that comes with accepting that only the quality of the experience matters—not its quantity—is immense. The moment is even joyful. Telling yourself, “I don’t really care about crossing the finish line at all, actually,” “I have absolutely nothing to prove to myself or to others.” “I have complete freedom to start and finish wherever I want, on my own terms.”
I’m not saying that this attitude is desirable or suitable for everyone. I’m implicitly suggesting to anyone who craves an extraordinary challenge that they take the plunge without feeling pressure to achieve a specific result. Because taking the plunge—stepping onto the starting line—is when the realm of possibility opens up, the moment that creates a space. And then you’re free to fill that space of possibility however you want. I chose fluidity—running as long as possible without letting the struggle take over. I succeeded, and I’m completely satisfied.
Success isn’t necessarily about crossing a line; success is also about loving yourself and believing in yourself without conditions of distance, time, or performance. Success is also sometimes about running with precision, elegance, and harmony.