The Crow sees.

The Dragon does.

The Wizard learns.

I didn’t set out to win. I wanted to do my best by breaking my PB of 33 yards set last year. Maybe make a push to the Canadian Backyard team. Above all else I wanted to exert an honest effort, leave nothing on the table, and believe that I could continue to push my own limits.

After my victory in 2025, I had found a new level of belief in myself. I enjoyed the lessons of the experience, even wrote about “Unmasking the Dragon Within,” (I’d recommend reading that article first HERE) but I thought the lesson was about courage. Grit. Discovering hidden strength that was just waiting to be unleashed.

It was about belief.

Going back as the defending champion brought a different kind of pressure. I felt a responsibility, not to defend a title, but to prepare myself to return to the place that running for a long time always takes me. The place where growth happens. The place where the deepest lessons are learned.

Chosen suffering. The dark places. The pain cave. When the body doesn’t get a vote anymore because it’s going to hurt. That’s a fact. For the first 24 hours I doubted myself, but beneath that doubt there was the experience of last year. 

Always believe.

What followed was 39 yards. 261 kilometers. A second consecutive victory at Keji’s Backyard Ultra. And a lesson far more important than the one I learned a year ago.

The Crow sees. The Dragon does. The Wizard learns.

It didn’t get fun until it got tough.

The Crow Sees: Training, Preparation, and Pre-Race 

The Crow is the observer. 

Watching. Planning. Adapting. Preparing.

After Keji 2025 I knew the challenge wasn’t going to be physical. I have completed the Divide 200 which has since been my distance PB – well, actually 210 miles due to navigational errors, read more about that HERE. 

The question wasn’t whether I was capable. The question was could I prepare myself to believe that when things inevitably got difficult.

Life & Training

We had purchased a new home in January. Family responsibilities became the priority over run training. Time felt at a premium as we balanced moving with the needs of our children, one being a very busy 1 year old! I became more intentional with my training because I could no longer rely on high mileage as I had in previous years.

Weekdays were simple. My employer had sponsored me financially and supported me so that I could run during my lunch breaks. 10 km, every day, on the same industrial park loop. Nothing glamorous, nor really impressive. Just consistent, honest efforts regularly.

The weekends became my laboratory. They were where I built my volume.

Saturday was generally for Frontyard simulations. Repeating 6.7 km loops while practicing eating, pacing, boredom, and the rhythm of a Backyard Ultra. Sundays were for a more traditional long run on tired legs.

I maintained a streak of minimum 10 km a day for just over 90 days. Feeling the pull of the ego to keep it going no matter what, I identified an opportunity for mental training. There was a lot of value in not getting carried away by a number of days at that point in my training, so I took a rest day. I wanted to run, but I chose not to. It became a great experience in mental training that I was being intentional with as I wrestled my ego into slowing down.

Sometimes discipline isn’t about doing more. Sometimes it’s choosing rest and adaptation.

Training the Voice of Belief

Throughout training I wrestled with comparison and the insecure voice in my head telling me that 2025 was a fluke. I wouldn’t be able to catch lightning in a bottle twice and make the same push I did last year. Maybe this year I’ll be exposed. 

But throughout training I was also training a different voice. The voice that was built from literally thousands of kilometers, from Divide 200, Capes 100, Chiggy 100, and Keji 2025.

The voice that simply said: Always Believe.

Not believing in success, as it is not guaranteed, but believing in the choice to believe in myself.

Preparing for the Unknown

As race day approached, I obsessed over packing lists and plans. The tent came together with a new setup and a new cot I planned on using to bank sleep. I had enough groceries to feed a small village for a week!

Every item represented preparation. A decision represented the respect for the challenge I put ahead of myself.

By the time Keji arrived, I wasn’t wondering whether I’d done enough because I knew I did my best. I was confident in my gear, my plan, and my crew.

My Goals

My goal was to do better than I did last year. The field was stacked so I knew this would be possible as long as I prepared properly. As the defending champ I felt a lot of pressure to ‘show up’ again, and I just hoped I could hang on long enough to beat my PB. I also had the thought of making the at-large list for Team Canada’s Backyard Ultra team.

The Dragon: Invoking the Flame Within

The Dragon is action.

The Crow can prepare, visualize, make plans, and obsess over checklists, but eventually there’s a moment where preparation ends and the Dragon awakens. The race has to start sometime.

The Weight of Expectation

Arriving at Keji felt different this year. Last year I was hopeful and curious, but this year I was the returning champion and I felt the pressure. 

Familiar faces were everywhere. Volunteers, runners, crew members, and friends I had made through the community. There were even some new friendly faces this year that were eager for the experience of their first backyard ultra.  The conversations and questions seemed to feed the pressure as my training and expectations were well known. 

Our tent setup was dialed in. I had the choice of some reserved spots due to my success last year, so I chose the spot closest to the corral. Basically right on top of the starting area. Ground zero. 

The visibility and accessibility made me feel like an imposter. Who was I to think I could set up right there in plain view? How pretentious? What if it was all for nothing, what would people say if I failed with a setup like that, right where everyone could see?

The funny thing about self-doubt, I found, is that it doesn’t disappear when you achieve something. For me, it gets louder and adapts. I felt that evolved form of self-doubt as the camps sprang to life and people walked by my canopy and peeked in.

There was the other voice though to compete with the one telling me I didn’t belong there. The voice reminded me that I earned every inch of that spot. Not because I won last year, but because of the miles I had put in, the lunch runs, front yard simulations, the sacrifices made by my family, and the preparation.

I couldn’t control what happened when the bell rang but I could trust the process.

The First 24 Hours

I lined up right at the front. I sat in the discomfort of being so visible. And, I didn’t want to be caught in the sea of 143 runners as we all set out on our first loop. I felt a responsibility to myself to show up and be seen, no matter how uncomfortable it was.

The first 12 hours were routine. They went exactly as practiced. I was able to chat and pass the time, but I found myself still bearing the weight of expectation in my own mind. Runners seemed to group together, and I seemed programmed into my own thoughts as I started to resist what was happening.

Everyone was having fun, the weather was perfect, and I struggled. I wrestled with comparisons, with the pressure I put on myself, and with cravings of comfort namely in the tune of smoking cravings and cravings for escape. 

The first 24 hours were filled with self-doubt and resistance where I didn’t feel like I was particularly strong, didn’t feel like a champion, and just felt lost in a sea of strong runners. I would come back to my canopy deflated and stuck in my head. The voice of belief, though quiet, was always present. I believed I would do my best. One loop at a time.

Leaning on Others

My crew chief did an amazing and admirable job of keeping me objective. She had printed out cue cards that I could carry with me for something to focus on. Anything to get me out of my own head. She encouraged me to talk to other runners more, which turned out to be a game changer.

I spoke of my struggles to feel engaged. Of my feeling like I wasn’t in it. I spoke of my self-doubt and emotions. I leaned on other runners and they leaned on me. It became a team environment rather than just me against my own thoughts.

One struggle that brought me to my lowest point was one I didn’t share. I had bad cravings to smoke around lap 8. I craved anything to escape where I was at that moment. The feelings of being an imposter peaked at that moment and I was left expending a lot of mental energy in resisting where I was. I wanted a cigarette, or a joint, anything to bring me out of my head for a moment or two.

I felt like a failure even as I was still going. It was just too easy. I craved adversity and I created it for myself. The cravings soon passed and I was left feeling drained, albeit still capable of continuing.

On the first night my headlamp started to die mid-loop, so I had to piggyback another runner’s light to navigate the rest of the way. That’s just one example of how I connected to others, and needless to say, checking my headlamp charge became routine after that!

The Real Race Begins

It was as though I was waiting for the real race to begin. Not physically, but mentally. I wanted to get to the place where the race strips everything away. Up to that point I was just going through the motions, doing as I’ve practiced, and from the outside it looked like everything was smooth sailing.

On the inside, it was a different story.

It’s ironic. I spent months preparing for the suffering, yet I was suffering that I wasn’t suffering enough.

However, beneath all that doubt and negativity, there was something stronger than confidence. Experience and that little voice telling me to always believe in myself.

I didn’t believe it because I felt strong – I believed because I proved to myself I’m someone worth believing in. I believed in my crew chief/wife and especially her belief in me. Her energy that she poured into supporting me became my lighthouse in the dark. It fueled me and made me grateful.

One loop at a time became my anchor. I didn’t need to know how many yards I could or would run, I just needed to know people believed in me and more importantly, I believed in myself.

Always believe.

The race totally changed with the weather of the second day. It became hot. Chafing started as the sweat poured downwards. Nutrition and hydration became even more important as we kept ahead of heat exhaustion. 

And then when the sunshine disappeared behind rain clouds, and the temperature started to drop, I began to have fun. The comfortable backyard ultra that everyone was having so much fun in vanished, and I started to feel at home in the adversity.

It just wasn’t fun until it got tough. The field kept shrinking as sleep deprivation hit, boredom struck, or people just didn’t want to go anymore. I felt the belief strengthen in me as I could feel the race get more difficult. More into the zone of suffering that I craved so badly.

Belief is a Decision

I started to realize that this form of belief isn’t a given. It’s earned. It’s not a feeling, but a choice. Or a series of choices. Thousands of small choices made over months and years.

The choice to run at lunch every day, to show up even when motivation is absent, to rest when my ego wanted to train, to keep going even though comparison whispered that I wasn’t enough, to trust my preparation, and to believe people that believed in me. Above all, it was choosing to connect with others instead of retreating into myself.

I had spent so much of the first 24 hours waiting to feel like a champion.

The truth is I never needed to feel like one. I only had to act like the person I had spent years becoming. 

Belief isn’t a feeling.

It’s a decision.

Every loop became a vote for the person I wanted to be. 

As the rain fell into the second night and temperatures lowered even more, the field got smaller. The conversations quieter. The miles heavier. Darkness deepened.

And for the first time all weekend, I began to feel at home. I was entering the space I had prepared for. 

Not the sunshine, not the laughter, not the easy miles. But this. The uncertainty, the fatigue, the suffering – this is where the dragon lives. For the first time in the event, I stopped wondering if I belonged.

I knew I did.

Gratitude Leads the Way

There were no longer crowds of runners moving through the woods. The course felt more intimate, quieter, and more serious. For every limit reached, I knew that surpassing my PB was possible. I was now looking at going beyond and pushing for a Team Canada spot.

I became so grateful. 

How many times in life can someone get the chance to discover what they’re truly capable of? To willingly step into uncertainty and discomfort to push through to see what’s on the other side? 

The further we went, the more grateful I became and the more alive I felt.

The funny thing about suffering like that is that once you stop resisting it, it becomes something else entirely. Presence. Purpose. Freedom.

By now I knew I belonged. I knew I was strong enough. I knew I had started to reach my goals.

And I simply just ran one loop at a time, mitigating any issues and focused on eating and resting. 

It was down to 2 runners after yard 34. Oddly enough I thought even less about winning. Until that point, I focused on doing my best with the opportunity in front of me. One loop. One kilometer. One step.

For so much of the race I had been trying to get out of my own way. To quiet the doubts that swirled in my head. I tried to compare myself to others around me. Trying to trust the process and the preparation.

Now, at 34+ yards, there was no room for any of that. It became one more yard. One more meal. One more opportunity to rest and close my eyes. The next opportunity to continue.

It wasn’t a race against anyone else. It was simply me refusing to give up on myself. I wanted to exert myself honestly, humbly, and efficiently. I couldn’t end it knowing I had more to give, I just wouldn’t be able to be happy about that for the next year.

One More Yard

The final yards came and went almost quietly. I was settled into my fate of having another night to run through with one other runner. Running in the rain by myself and in the dark was comfortable to me. Surrounded by the forest and darkness felt like home. I wondered about the other runner. He would run his loops fast so I never got a chance to talk to him.

It wasn’t until the final yard, he slowed down to walk and chat with me. The realization came that he wasn’t sleeping, maybe wasn’t fueling enough, and I playfully mentioned how good I felt after my cat nap. I truthfully don’t know if I slept at all, but I felt coherent and willing to carry on. I wanted to portray that fact and let him know I was ready to continue.

We chatted about our why, our kids and fatherhood. Deep and meaningful conversations shared by runners that suffered together. There’s a bond built out there on the trails. The team aspect of this sport is something I’ve really come to admire and enjoy. I wanted him to keep going so that we could both keep going.

Then before I knew it, he had stopped and offered a fist bump. He said, “do it for them,” meaning my kids. I was grateful for him. His backyard debut and he earned the assist with 38 yards. The thought of winning finally entered my brain. 

I couldn’t believe I was there again. The last one on the course for a second straight year! After the day(s) and doubts that I had, to persevere and get stronger with adversity, I swelled with pride and satisfaction. What surprised me most was the pure gratitude I felt for the people who helped me get there.

My wife’s unwavering cheers and support, my friends that came to cheer, my family that supported us at home, my employer and sponsor. I was so overcome with gratitude that I wanted to soak it all in.

I was also eager to be done, but that last loop was something special.

The dragon had done its work. Though part of it didn’t want to be done.

The Wizard Learns: Post-Race Lessons

The Dragon has acted and returns to its slumber. In its wake is always a lot to unpack. The Wizard transmutes the suffering, the emotion, the raw experience and brings it to life. This article is the Wizard.

The last loop I was in disbelief. I was surprised it was over but I still had one more loop to run. I enjoyed every step of it. The discomfort, the feeling of seeing what was on the other side of all my doubts and reservations, to persevere in the face of adversity that came from so many different angles.

After the Finish

I said a prayer to my dad. To my friends and family. To everyone that cheered and chatted. This event has become a journey of self-discovery and I’m humbled to push into that realm with my heart every chance I get.

The funny thing about winning is that eventually the race ends. The cheering fades. The camp comes down. The finish line disappears and life slowly gets back to normal. I took the following week off of work so that I could give my body and brain time to recover. 

I was left with a lot to unpack and I wanted to pay my respects to the experience by not jumping into something else right away. Sitting with it all for a few weeks as I wrote this article allowed me to digest the experience. I wanted to really adapt and absorb what had happened, both at the race and within myself.

After Keji I felt exhausted. Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. My legs felt slow to recover and my energy seemed depleted. Other runners were posting training runs while I was still processing what had happened.

I was in no rush to return to running. I ran a 5k, a 10k, just to test things out, and physically I was able to run but mentally I was enjoying the downtime. There was a lot of energy invested into me and the event and it took a toll on me.

I expected to feel triumphant. Instead, I felt almost empty. Not in a negative way, but more like the race had asked everything of me and I had willingly given it. But now there was nothing left to prove. Nowhere left to dig and no immediate goal waiting on the horizon. The race was over but the lessons were still unfolding.

The Lesson Behind the Lesson

As I reflected on the experience, I found myself revisiting the messages, posts, and my own article about 2025. 

Back then I thought the lesson had been about courage.

I thought it was grit. Resilience. Discovering hidden strength that had been lying dormant inside me all along. But somewhere between yard 33 and 39 I realized I had misunderstood the lesson. 

That lesson was belief. 

Always Believe

Courage comes after belief. Perseverance happens after belief. Resilience happens because of belief. Growth is what happens after belief. Not a blind or confident belief, but one rooted in faith and adversity. 

Before every meaningful thing I’ve done in my life there was a moment where I had no evidence that I would succeed. It was there before Capes. Even before Chiggy. Before Divide. Before Keji.

There was uncertainty. Fear. Doubt. But there was also a choice.

The choice to believe anyway, regardless of what I felt.

Belief is not confidence. It is not certainty. Belief is not knowing everything will work out exactly as planned.

Belief is moving forward despite not knowing. Despite not having evidence.

It is trusting yourself when the outcome is hidden. Connecting with others and allowing their belief in you to fuel you. It is continuing when doubt gets loud. It is taking the next step when you cannot see the finish line.

The crow sees. The dragon does. The wizard learns.

And what the Wizard learned was simple.

When you can’t see the way forward, that’s when belief matters most.

Believe in those around you, in your journey, in the process that brought you here. Believe in yourself.

You don’t find the way.

You become the way.

Always believe.

Recommend reading: The Crow, the Dragon, and the Wizard

If this story resonated with you, I offer one-on-one mindset coaching for runners, speaking engagements, and personalized coaching through The Wayward Way. Or reach out to me directly here.