quitting in the desert
a story on quitting and a lot of miles in the mojave desert
I was attempting to sleep. Laying on the upper bed above the driver's seat in our 26 ft long RV, we had been awake for 17 hours of day two already and the sun hadn’t even set yet. I needed to nap to energize up for the miles I’d join Rob for later that night.
While scrolling I got a call. It was Rob. I had added him to my “Do Not Disturb” override list so that his name would always pop up if he needed us along our 340 mile trek through the Mojave Desert.
At 6:29PM on Tuesday, March 26th, Rob needed us.
“Come back and get me, no rush, but more dogs.”
Tina and Sarah (fellow crew members and photographers) were already on alert as they heard me answer the phone. They paused their photo editing, Tina jumped in the driver's seat, and whipped our RV around (which was a feat in itself). We hadn’t seen the speedometer hit 30 mph yet, and Tina was now going 60.
“Hang tight, we’re on our way.”
Rob was standing on the opposite side of the road, hands on his poles crossed in front of him, dogs just on the other side of the street. As we pulled up, a forced smile appeared and we scooped him up, turned back around, and drove just past the dog's reach, pulling over about 200m up the road.
We were on day two of The Speed Project Solo. A running race from Los Angeles to Las Vegas. The solo division starts on a Monday morning at 4am from the Santa Monica Pier with the goal of getting to Vegas by foot any way you can. Only rule: No highways.
I had volunteered to crew my friend Rob months prior after watching him take on a similar ultra race in Chile and winning, by a lot. I told him I could make sandwiches and drive (neither of which I ended up doing). I’m not even sure why I reached out, or why he let me on the crew. I had never run more than a marathon, never been to an ultra race, never crewed anyone before, and this race was serious. An ultra of ultras.
To be honest, Rob amazed me. He had accomplished insane things. I just wanted to see it done up close. And I had no doubt he’d complete the race, the question was if he would win it.
Tina and Sarah were our other two crew members, and while Tina and I shared a best friend, we’d never spent time together and neither of us had ever met Sarah. Rob was our common denominator, and supporting his feat was our inspiration.
The feat I didn’t realize we’d be witnessing was his decision to quit. Our decision to quit.
We were on day two, hour 37, 135 miles in. And we were done.
The story of why we quit isn’t mine to tell. It’s a story of trauma. Of being triggered and retriggered. A story of reliving your fears over and over again.
The thing about endurance runners is they have a pain tolerance you can’t even imagine. It’s like they have this internal switch they can just flip and disconnect their minds and their bodies, from the agony the miles ensure. Pain doesn’t phase them. The internal dialogue you and I might hear screaming after one mile, or five, or ten, they don’t hear. Or maybe they do hear it. Maybe they process that scream differently than we do. Maybe that’s the scream that keeps them going. This was a different scream. This was a different pain.
People say facing your fears makes you brave, makes you stronger. But they rarely say quitting is what shows true bravery. They expect people to finish, to “succeed”. Job’s not done. Those are the stories we’re told.
This isn’t that story.
The goal wasn't to detach our voices, needs, and ambitions from who we innately are. The goal wasn’t to hear the voices and shut them down. The goal was to listen. To recenter ourselves. To learn from our challenges, and face our human limitations. For that day.
That’s the other piece. Rob had found his limit on that Tuesday evening. That wasn’t his same limit as the November before when he ran 250 miles in the Atacama desert, or the March before that on this same path completing the 290-mile course to Vegas through the powerlines. Our limits will change. Our ability to endure will change. Because our circumstances are always changing.
Quitting was Rob’s superpower that day. It was agony. It was heartbreak. But it was his triumph.
I know Rob. Rob could’ve shut down the screaming voices and powered through the rest of the miles. We had been talking through alternate options all day. Quitting is rarely the easy option, the preferred option, the glorified option.
But it’s often the right option.
Every time we say yes to something, we’re saying no to something else.
We focus on the yeses and ignore the no’s.
This is about both.
Rob’s no was to reliving his fears. To walking back into the inevitable trauma again and again. To the increased physical and mental pain. And for what?
There’s a fine line between quitting and failing. A gray zone I’m not sure I fully understand. And yet I knew this wasn’t a failure. Maybe failing is quitting without learning. Maybe failure is just a judgment of quitting.
There’s something special about this being my first substack post, because my life has dramatically improved with everything I quit. Every lackluster job, every overbearing boss, every “just too long” book, every friendship that no longer empowers, every soul-sucking relationship, and every too-dry piece of cake (jk I always finish the cake). Our no’s strengthen our yesses.
We finished our trip in the desert going to find other solo runners and their crews to share some miles, hand off extra food and supplies, enjoy a Modelo, and bask in the gorgeous sunshine. It was the trip of a lifetime.
It was the most fun I’ve ever had quitting.
Imagine that.
Stopping his own race (after 135 miles!👏🏼) and then choosing to take the time to celebrate his fellow racers’ successes is a wonderful example for us all. Congratulations Rob and team!
Very good way to tell a part of the story.