I’ve been in the middle of revamping my training lately. With a 250-miler looming and my autumn training being almost nonexistent—thanks to busy work and a few poor choices—I fell into the mileage trap again. That familiar feeling that I have to start piling up miles, that I need to hit some arbitrary monthly number if I’m going to be ready for Infinitus in May.
Of course, I know this is wrong. I’ve fallen into this trap before and had to course-correct. You’d think I’d learn. But here we are again.
I suddenly jumped into long runs and started pushing mileage, and—predictably—it led to constant fatigue. I felt overtrained. My legs were always running on empty. Every run felt harder than it should have.
I’ve been here before.
When I think back to the years between 2016 and 2018, I was probably in the best shape of my life. In 2018, I realized I could complete 100-mile races. So I started doing what I thought 100-mile runners were supposed to do: run lots of miles. And I did. I ran a ton, and I finished several 100-milers.
But here’s the thing—I felt weaker, slower, and more tired earlier in those races than I had in previous years. Even though I earned the buckles, my overall level of physical preparedness was worse. I was surviving, not thriving.
In 2020, I doubled down on mileage again while preparing for a 500-miler that never ended up happening. By late summer, I was pathetically slow. My legs felt weak. I was clearly overtrained, and even though I was logging plenty of miles, my running was actively getting worse.
That’s when I finally had to admit something important: you need to train for who you are.
Despite completing multiple 100-milers, I’m not an endurance runner in the classic sense. I’m built with more fast-twitch muscle fibers. My body is naturally better at short, powerful bursts of effort—sprinting, lifting, athletic movement. And that kind of build tends to fatigue quickly, which has always been true for me.
True distance runners—the ones who seem born for it—are typically slow-twitch dominant. Their bodies are made to keep going steadily for long periods of time. That’s not me.
But fast-twitch doesn’t mean you can’t do long-distance events. It just means you may need a different approach.
What I eventually realized is that my strength isn’t speed or endless energy—it’s athleticism and durability. In long races, I might be slow and I might get tired early, but my body holds up. While others start accumulating injuries, joint pain, or debilitating issues on downhills and technical terrain, I tend to keep moving. Not fast—but steady. I don’t break down easily.
Even knowing this, though, it’s hard not to fall into the trap of copying what everyone else is doing and assuming that’s what I should be doing too.
People are different. And there’s almost never just one way to reach a destination or achieve a goal.
So yes, I recently fell back into the mileage trap. But I’ve course-corrected. I’m focusing again on durability and athleticism—training in a way that enhances my strengths instead of fighting them. I’ve been doing sprint intervals, and my legs feel great. The way they’re supposed to feel.
I’m excited to keep building on that, adding dynamic and athletic movements like cone drills and footwork, and strengthening my feet, ankles, knees, and hips. This kind of training makes me feel capable, resilient, and ready.
You have to be you. And you have to train for who you are.
I know this approach isn’t traditional. I know some people might see it as the “wrong” way to prepare for a 250-mile race. That’s fine. Humans love simple narratives and formulaic dogma—do X miles and you’ll succeed. But it’s important to recognize those stories for what they are and avoid getting trapped by them.
And if you do fall into the trap—and you probably will, more than once—remember that it’s part of the journey. Notice it, pull yourself out, and step back onto your own path.