A journey through endurance, stillness, and the spiritual invitation of showing up again.
By Nicholas Richards
A whistle breaks the silence. It’s nothing fancy, nor dramatic. In the quiet space between blasts marking 3, 2, and 1 minutes before the start of the next loop, canopies and tents are scattered throughout the start area and tired eyes watch the clock or glance at watches. This is the realm of the Backyard Ultra. Bodies sore and sleep-deprived rise and walk to the start line. Again. For the 10th time. The 20th. The 30th. Or more.
This is the world of the Backyard Ultra – a strange, beautiful, and soul-stripping race format where the finish line isn’t measured in kilometers, but in willpower.
I’ve run a lot of races. The Divide 200, Capes 100, and Chiggy Ultra 100 Miles stand out as accomplishments. But nothing has shaped me the way Backyard Ultras have. These events aren’t just physical challenges, they are invitations into parts of yourself you rarely get to meet or hardly know exist. They have taught me what it means to stay present, to suffer intentionally, and to embrace the uncomfortable spaces between desire and doubt.
There are many things that make Backyard Ultra unique, and many reasons I keep going back.
What Is a Backyard Ultra?
The brainchild of Gary “Laz” Cantrell, who is also the creator of the Barkley Marathons, the Backyard Ultra is deceiving. The format is simple. Every hour, on the hour, runners must complete a 6.706 km (4.167 mile) loop. The distance is purposely set so that after 24 hours, runners have travelled exactly 100 Miles.
The loop must be finished within the hour, and every runner must be at the marked starting box before the bell rings again. If you’re late, you’re out. If you don’t start, you’re out. And here’s the twist – there’s no set finish line.
The race continues until only one runner remains who completes a loop that no one else starts. It’s called a “last person standing” event, and that name couldn’t be more accurate. Everyone except the winner is considered ‘DNF’ – did not finish.
On paper, it’s accessible. One loop per hour sounds manageable. A lot of runners top their distance Personal Bests in the format. But the beauty, and brutality, lies in the repetition. There’s no victory lap. No final stretch. Only the loop. Again. And again. And again. Until you aren’t able, or otherwise unwilling, to go again.
What Makes Backyard Ultras Unique
Traditional ultramarathons have set distances and you know your goal from the start. You pace yourself according to terrain, energy, and time cutoffs. You race toward a finish line a measurable distance from the start line.
Backyard Ultras strip all of that away. Instead of racing the distance, you’re racing time. Every loop is both a reset and a reminder. There’s no “getting ahead.” No banking time. No catching up later. It’s relentless discipline and constant pacing.
In traditional races, your battles are often external: hills, heat, terrain, fatigue. In the Backyard, the battlefield is mostly internal. Hour after hour, in the same corral, facing the same loop, you are among your competitors for the whole race. The only way to win is for everyone else to stop.
And so the race becomes something different. Not a footrace, but a test of patience, resilience, and the ability to sit in discomfort for far longer than feels reasonable.
The Psychological Toll and Spiritual Invitation
Backyard Ultras are mental warfare wrapped in athletic gear. The format sounds manageable, but over time it dismantles your routines, your ego, and your narrative of what you’re capable of. You get to know monotony, become intimate with fatigue, and watch yourself argue internally every single hour about why you should continue.
Each loop invites a new emotion: hope, doubt, pride, despair. There’s a strange rhythm to the suffering. The small moments between loops – when you sit in a chair, change your socks, eat a bite of food – start to feel sacred. Every break is a rebirth. Every loop is a meditation. The challenge is not just in motion, but in the stillness of motion’s absence.
The Backyard teaches you how to endure uncertainty. It removes control. There is no telling how long the event will last. There is no finish line until only 1 remains that is willing to keep going. It forces you to be right here – just this loop, just this hour.
It asks: Can you keep going, even when you don’t know when it will end?
What Backyard Ultras Have Taught Me
My most recent Backyard Ultra was Keji 2025, where I completed 33 loops – about 220 kilometers. I had run the same event for the previous 3 years and learned something new each time. The lessons were many and deep.
I learned that it wasn’t just a race. It was a mirror. In those long hours, I had to face every excuse I’ve ever given myself. Every loop revealed a little more of who I am beneath all the conditioning and trauma.
It’s not about beating others – it was about staying in the moment long enough to meet parts of myself I often avoid: the impatient child, the insecure athlete, the self-doubting man. It was about stripping away performance and getting real.
Endurance isn’t resistance to pain – it’s the willingness to hold it gently and let it reshape you. Allow it to peel the raw and emotional layers and be vulnerable enough to listen to what is revealed. For me it was my way of facing myself and my own mental health challenges.
To give it a voice while finding my own.
To sit with the fear. Not necessarily a few of failure, but the fear of being seen.
That’s what Backyard Ultras do. They pull the truth out of you. Loop by loop. Step by step. Until all that’s left is something raw and real. It’s not speed that will take you far, but a deep honesty within yourself that’ll determine how far you go.
Why I Keep Coming Back
Backyard Ultras have become more than races to me. They’re spiritual practice.
The loop is a metaphor for life. Repetitive. Predictable. Full of small joys and long stretches of effort. You eat, run, rest, rise. And in the repetition, you find yourself. You learn to fall in love with the mundane. To cherish small wins. To redefine what success even means.
There’s something profound about watching people around you hit their limits – and still choose to go again. There’s a sacredness in that kind of shared suffering. It’s not competition – it’s communion.
And when you finally stop – whether you’re the last one standing or not – you’re different. You walk away with something you didn’t have before: a deeper belief in yourself. A sense that maybe the limits you once accepted were never real to begin with.
Final Thoughts
The Backyard Ultra isn’t for everyone. But for those willing to show up loop after loop – to face the stillness, the uncertainty, the doubt – it can become a kind of pilgrimage.
It’s not about distance. It’s about depth.
In every loop, I’ve found a lesson. A truth. A moment of clarity. And even in the pain, even when the legs scream and the brain begs to quit, there’s gratitude. How often in life do we get to suffer – with such purpose, by choice? The suffering is sacred. Recognize how lucky you are to be in that moment and move forward.
In life and in running, the whistle blows. I stand up. I step forward. Again. And again. And again.
Not to win.
Not to prove.
To remember.
To discover who I’ve always been.