A year before the race, I signed up for something I could not do.
The Big Sur 21 miler has a six hour cutoff. When I registered, the math felt generous. Six hours seemed like enough time to finish even if I walked the whole way. And the image in my head was lovely. Highway 1 on foot. A road most people only ever see through a windshield, closed to cars, mine to move down slowly with the ocean on my right.
That was the whole reason I signed up. Not a time goal. Not a personal record. I wanted to be on that road.
Then I started training, and the math fell apart.
Walking the entire course would not fit inside six hours. Not at my pace. I would have to mix walking and running, which meant I could no longer show up and see what happened. I needed a strategy. If I ran too much early, I would not have the legs to even walk at the end.
So I went looking for a plan, and I could not find one.
Every strategy I found was written for a different person. Runners chasing a finish time. Experienced marathoners managing their fifth or tenth race. Plans that assumed you could already cover the distance and were now optimizing. There was nothing for someone whose actual goal was to finish under a cutoff by combining walking and running.
I have felt this exact thing in my career, and I suspect you have too. You look for the roadmap and every version you find was built for someone with more experience, more runway, more of something you do not have yet. The advice is not wrong. It is calibrated to a different person's situation.
At some point you accept that nobody wrote the plan for your circumstances, and you build it yourself.
What I Came Up With
Mine had three parts.
Walk every uphill. Run the flats. Take time back on the downhills.
That last one goes against standard advice. Running fast downhill beats up your legs and most coaches will tell you to hold back. But I was not preserving my legs for a strong finish. I was banking minutes against a cutoff, and the downhills were the only place minutes were available to me.
Second, real food. The typical energy gels made me gag, so I tested different options on training runs until I found things my body would accept while moving, and I planned to eat every few kilometers. Six hours on the road is a long time to be running on nothing.
Third, and this turned out to matter most, I decided in advance that I would only look at two numbers on my watch. Pace and heart rate. Not the clock.
I practiced the walk-run pattern several times at around 25 kilometers. I wanted to reach 30 at least once. I never got there. Twenty one miles is about 34 kilometers, which means I arrived at the start line having never come within 9 kilometers of the distance.
I knew that. I stood there knowing my longest run was well short of what the day required, holding a strategy I had built over months and never fully tested.
So I made one more decision before the gun went off. If I had to stop somewhere in the middle, fine. Oh well. But I was not going to abandon my plan while I was still moving. Falling short was allowed. Panicking and improvising was not.
The Math I Never Did
I finished in five hours and fifty minutes.
I want to be honest about why, because there is a version of this story where I take all the credit and it would not be true. The weather that day was cloudy, cool, slightly rainy. Excellent conditions for running. If it had been hot, my strategy would not have saved me. I do not think I would have finished.
Conditions get a vote. They always do, in races and in careers. The market, the timing, the hiring freeze, the reorg, the person on the other side of the table who is having a hard week. You do not control any of it.
But here is the part I do think I earned.
I never thought about the time.
I knew where I was on the course. There were mile flags, so distance was not a mystery. What I never did was the math. This much time gone, this much course left, here is the pace I would need to hold to make the cutoff, and can legs that have never gone this far actually hold it.
Not once, over five hours and fifty minutes.
And I am fairly certain that if I had run those numbers, I would have quit. Somewhere around mile twelve the arithmetic would have added up to too much. Good weather and a working strategy and all, I still believe that calculation could have ended my race.
Pace and heart rate asked me a different question. Am I doing my job in this mile. That was a question I could answer, and answer again, and answer two hundred more times.
Three Things I Keep Coming Back To
You will move before you are ready, and that is normal.
I signed up a year out, when I was significantly less capable than the race required. That commitment is what created the training. If I had waited until I could already run the distance, I never would have registered, because I could never run the distance.
The interview you take before you feel qualified. The application you send while the gap is still open. The reach out to someone whose work intimidates you a little. Those moments are not reckless. They are how you become the person who can do the thing.
The plan has to be built for your actual situation.
Not the situation of the person whose advice you found. If a networking approach was designed by someone who loves working a room and you do not, it is the wrong plan for you no matter how well it worked for them. If a preparation method assumes you already have two offers in hand, it is built for a level of pressure you are not under.
Borrowing a strategy built for a different person and different stakes is one of the most common reasons capable people underperform in the moments that matter most to them.
Watch the strategy, not the clock.
This is the one I want to leave you with.
The clock in a career is that running calculation about whether you are going to make it. Is this going to turn into an offer. Is this relationship going anywhere. Am I behind where I thought I would be by now. How much time do I have left to make this work.
The strategy is a different question entirely. In an interview, it is whether you are answering the question you were actually asked and telling the story you prepared. In networking, it is whether you reached out to the people you said you would reach out to.
The clock is real, and I am not going to pretend otherwise. But running that math in the middle of the effort mostly produces one conclusion, which is that there is too much left and not enough of you. Meanwhile the strategy sits right there, answerable in the current mile, entirely inside your control.
None of this means never change your plan. It means the unit of commitment is one attempt, not forever.
You will rarely have a tested strategy going in. Usually you have a few options and a hunch about which one fits your situation best. Choose that one, then hold it through the thing itself, the actual interview, the actual conversation, the actual six hours on the road. The middle is when you have the least information and the most fear, and the changes people make there are almost always panic rather than strategy.
When it is over, that is when you think. What worked. What did not. What was the weather. Change what needs changing, and hold the new version through the next attempt.
Commit, execute, review, adjust. The mistake is not sticking with an imperfect plan. The mistake is rewriting it mid-effort, or finishing and never reviewing it at all.
What I Took Home
I crossed that line 9 kilometers past anything I had ever done, with ten minutes to spare, on a road I had wanted to walk down for a year.
Not because I was ready. I was not ready. I was undertrained, holding an untested plan I had cobbled together because nobody had written one for me, prepared to fall short and doing it anyway.
You do not need certainty to start. You need a strategy you believe in and the discipline to stay with it while the outcome is still unknown.
The finish line does not need your attention right now.
This mile does.