In February 2016, the Utah trail-running community was rocked by tragedy. A beloved local runner lost his life in a backcountry avalanche, and the outpouring of grief was matched only by the inspiration his life seemed to spark in others. At the time, I didn’t know much about Stephen Jones personally, but the way people spoke about his adventurous spirit and love for pushing limits struck a chord in me.
Not long after, a Facebook post caught my eye and refused to let go. It announced the Moab 200—a 200-mile endurance footrace winding through Utah's canyons, deserts, and mountain ranges, some of the most breathtaking and grueling terrain imaginable, created in Stephen Jones' memory.
It wasn’t just the distance that captivated me, it was the audacity of it—the boldness to dream of such a feat and the courage to try. At that moment, a question resurfaced, one that I realized had been quietly whispering to me since childhood: How far can I go? It wasn’t a new question, but one I’d never felt was fully answered. Now, it felt alive, daring me to explore the boundaries of my potential.
The Journey Begins
We all carry questions like this, ones we’ve never fully answered. What am I truly capable of? What would happen if I didn’t give up? Can I overcome the voice that says ‘I can’t?’ These questions sit in the corners of our minds, daring us to step beyond comfort and test the edges of our strength. Calling us to challenge the limits we assume are fixed. Too often, they remain unanswered—not because we lack the ability to respond, but because answering them demands a vulnerability and courage we rarely allow ourselves to embrace.
The Moab 240 didn’t just ask me how far I could go—it demanded I confront every unresolved question I carried and see what answers lay on the other side. At first, it was just a thought, a curiosity I couldn’t quite shake. I was no stranger to pushing limits—I completed my first 50-miler in 2012—but this? This felt like a different beast entirely.
Two hundred miles of running, navigating day and night, managing fatigue, pain, and whatever else the desert was going to throw at me. It sounded completely insane. And yet, I couldn’t let it go. Every time I thought about the race, a small voice inside me whispered, What if?
That fall, I decided to get a closer look. I volunteered to captain an aid station at the Tahoe 200, a race similar to Moab’s 200-mile challenge, believing it would give me insight into what I might be signing up for. What I didn’t realize was how profoundly it would shift my perspective. At mile 175, we welcomed runners whose bodies were breaking down and whose minds were walking a razor’s edge. Some shuffled in, unable to hold down food. Others fought back tears or sat trembling with exhaustion. Yet, time and again, they found a way to keep going. They rested, ate what they could, taped their blisters, and pushed back out into the night. Watching them dig into reserves they didn’t know they had—to choose forward motion when every fiber of their being screamed to stop—was humbling, electrifying, and transformative. It made me want to understand that kind of strength, not just for myself, but for others.
Volunteering at Tahoe wasn’t just an emotional experience; it was an education. I saw how runners managed their bodies over days of grueling effort—balancing nutrition, hydration, rest, and the inevitable breakdowns. I watched them adapt to setbacks, finding solutions in the face of problems that might have seemed insurmountable at mile one. Witnessing their determination made the idea of running 200 miles feel slightly less impossible—and strangely, entirely necessary.
In the Arena
On October 13, 2017, I stood at the starting line of the inaugural Moab 200, surrounded by 145 runners who, like me, had signed up for something we couldn’t fully grasp. What was billed as a 200-mile race had evolved into the Moab 240—a 238.5-mile journey through Utah’s unforgiving canyons, deserts, and mountains. The air crackled with nervous energy as we exchanged nods and hesitant smiles, each of us aware that the next four days would push us far beyond anything we’d experienced. As the countdown began, I felt an uneasy mix of excitement and dread. I wasn’t sure if I belonged there, but I knew there was only one way to find out.
At mile 70, on the second morning, I hit a wall. My body felt wrecked—like it had been dismantled and reassembled incorrectly. Every step was agony, and my mind was fraying under the weight of exhaustion and hallucinations. Shapes danced along the desert plateaus, taunting my blurred sense of reality. I hallucinated military vehicles in the shadows of a single far-off Pinyon Pine and watched as rocks seemed to move. When I stumbled into the aid station, I had made my mind up, I was done.
That aid-station captain didn’t argue. Instead, he handed me warm food, patched up my battered feet, and let me sit in silence. Enough time had passed and he asked a question that pierced through the fog of doubt: “When you are home next week, reflecting on this experience, what story do you want to tell your friends and family?” The simplicity of it hit me like a lightning bolt. At that moment, I realized I was at a crossroads. I could let the pain and exhaustion define my race, or I could choose to push forward, rewriting the narrative in real time.
Discovering the Mind-Body Connection
From that aid station, I set out for a grueling 7-hour, 19-mile section that climbed 4,000 feet to the summit of Shay Mountain in single-digit temperatures. It was a journey that would mark my first time completing 100 miles in a race. A friend met me at the next aid station to pace me through the following 18-mile descent down the mountain, guiding me toward the La Sal Mountains and what felt like a distant finish line. We moved aid station by aid station, breaking the journey into digestible pieces: Dry Valley, The Needles, Road 46, and into the La Sals toward Pole Canyon. Each segment was its own battle, and each finish brought only a brief reprieve before the next challenge loomed.
The stretch from Pole Canyon to Oowah Lake was one of the most harrowing sections of the race. Exhausted, terrified, and utterly alone in the dead of night, I relied on my headlamp to find the tiny reflective flags marking the trail. High in the La Sal Mountains, every step felt precarious, and the weight of the journey settled heavily on me. At Oowah Lake, I took a deep breath and pressed on to Porcupine Rim, marking the 200-mile aid station. By then, one of the runners I had climbed Shay Mountain with had dropped out, and I was confronted with the true toll this race took—not just on the body but on the spirit.
The Journey Ends
I pushed forward, determined to make it to the final aid station. But during that technical 20-mile downhill stretch, the depletion I had been staving off caught up with me in what felt like a siege. My left knee felt as if it would explode with every step, and I was overwhelmed by exhaustion and pain. It was no longer a matter of grit—it was a matter of making a decision I didn’t want to face. By the time I hobbled into the 220.5-mile aid station, I knew I couldn’t continue. I threw in the towel, stopping just 18-miles shy of the finish line.
Completing that race—or in my case, bowing out just short of it—wasn’t the end of the Moab 240’s impact on my life. It was, in many ways, the beginning of something much bigger. The race cracked me wide open, exposing not just the edges of my physical and mental limits but also the stories I’d been telling myself about resilience, suffering, and what it means to keep moving forward.
The most profound shift was my relationship with pain. Pain wasn’t the enemy I had always believed it to be; it was a signal—a sensation sent by the body, neutral in its essence. The suffering, I realized, came from the layers I added on top: the resistance, the fear, the stories I told myself about what the pain meant. When I stopped resisting and allowed myself to simply experience it, pain became something I could navigate instead of something to be defeated.
This reframing didn’t just change the way I ran—it changed the way I approached life. Whether it was a difficult conversation, a daunting work challenge, or a season of uncertainty, I began to ask myself the same questions I had asked on the trail: What if I stopped fighting? What if I leaned in?
The Path Forward
The Moab 240 wasn’t just a race; it was a crucible. It taught me that limits are far more flexible than we imagine and that resilience is built in the moments when we want to quit but choose to take one more step, or fall down and then choose to get back up again. The race also revealed the transformative power of connection—the people who supported me, paced me, and encouraged me reminded me that we’re rarely alone in our struggles, even when they feel insurmountable.
Most importantly, the race planted the seeds of a journey that continues to shape my life. It led me to mindfulness and the profound realization that the stories we tell ourselves about pain, failure, and perseverance can either trap us or set us free.
Through my Coaching Certification process, I discovered practical tools to quiet the mental noise, stay present in difficult moments, and approach challenges with curiosity instead of fear. These lessons haven’t just improved my performance in work, life and sport—they became lifelines when I faced one of the greatest challenges of my life. Two years ago, just a week before my 50th birthday, I was rushed to the emergency room with what was later diagnosed as Guillain-Barré Syndrome (GBS).
It’s a rare disorder, affecting just 1 to 2 people per 100,000 each year, and I was one of the "lucky" ones. What started as lower back pain on a Friday night felt like a possible kidney infection by Saturday, and by Sunday morning, I was in overwhelming pain and unable to walk. Stabbing, electrifying sensations shot through my lower back and saddle area. Pain and partial paralysis from the waist down had taken over. My body felt electrified—like a circuit misfiring over and over again.
When you’re blindsided by something like GBS, the first thing you lose is control. Your immune system mistakenly attacks your nerves, leaving you with muscles that won’t respond, sensations that feel like static, and pain that consumes your thoughts. For months, sharp, radiating pain refused to let me sleep. I faced severe dysfunction in the most private aspects of life—a humbling reminder of how much we take our bodies for granted. Even basic bodily functions, like the ability to urinate on my own, were disrupted. I had to learn to perform daily CICs (clean intermittent catheterization ) as a part of my recovery—an act that initially felt invasive but eventually became a symbol of adaptability and resilience. Sitting was excruciating, standing was intolerable, and the only nominal relief was to lie down.
Yet, over time, my body has begun to heal. Numbness has given way to more sensation, and strength has begun to replace weakness. But the scars—both physical and emotional—have remained. My journey of recovery has forced me to confront the same questions I had wrestled with during the Moab 240: What if I welcomed the pain in and asked it what it needed instead of resisting it? What if I rewrote the story I was telling myself about what this challenge meant?
The Moab 240 taught me that pain is not the enemy; it’s the stories we attach to pain that determine how it shapes us and it's when we add resistance to pain, that suffering ensues. GBS brought that lesson back with unrelenting clarity, demanding I apply it in ways I never imagined. Pain became not just a test but a teacher, showing me how to navigate life’s most difficult moments with presence and purpose.
Through these experiences, I’ve come to realize that our limits are rarely fixed. They’re defined by our willingness to look at them, to understand discomfort, and to ask ourselves, How far can I go? Whether I was facing the grueling miles of a 200-mile race or rebuilding from a disorder that, for a time, took away my ability to walk, the journey was always about discovering what lay on the other side of resilience.
Today, those lessons are an important part of the foundation of our work at RSG Performance. Every setback holds the potential for growth if we’re willing to rewrite our narrative and lean into the unknown. The question that started it all—How far can I go?—remains influential in my choices. It’s no longer just about running; it’s about how I show up for life’s challenges, how I embrace transformation, and how I uncover what I'm truly capable of.
And so, I’ll ask you: How far can you go?
Whatever challenge you’re facing, meet it with a willingness to lean in and understand the discomfort, rewrite the stories that hold you back, and uncover the strength you didn’t know you had. It’s in those moments, where everything feels impossible, that we discover who we truly are—and that’s where life really begins.
Ready. Set. Go!