8. What to Focus on When Things Get Hard
Deep in the backwoods of eastern Kentucky during the Warhammer 100, I found myself facing a series of seemingly insurmountable challenges. Missing aid stations, tight cutoffs, and mounting pressure threatened to end my race multiple times. Yet through relentless focus and strategic decision-making, I transformed potential failure into an unexpected second-place finish.
When races get difficult, our brains flood us with worst-case scenarios and reasons to quit. While staying present and focusing on the next step ahead can help calm racing thoughts, this approach alone isn't always enough. Sometimes it can actually prevent us from thinking strategically and managing our race effectively.
Instead of simply trying to stay present or push harder, I share a powerful alternative approach: relentless focus. By ruthlessly filtering every thought and decision through the lens of "Does this help me get to the finish?", we can cut through mental clutter and make clear, efficient choices. This method doesn't require feeling confident or strong - it just requires disciplined attention to what truly matters.
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What You’ll Learn from this Episode:
• How to transform potential DNFs into successful finishes through strategic focus.
• Why "staying present" isn't always the best approach during tough races.
• The exact method for implementing relentless focus during races.
• How to make quick, effective decisions at aid stations under pressure.
• Why mental decluttering beats trying harder when things get tough.
• The difference between knowing what matters and actually focusing on it.
Listen to the Full Episode:
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Full Episode Transcript:
Welcome to Unstoppable Ultra Runner, the podcast for ultrarunners who refuse to let anything hold them back. I’m your host, Susan Donnelly, veteran of over 150 100-mile races, and a coach who helps runners like you break through mental roadblocks, push past doubt, and run with confidence. Let’s go.
At Warhammer 100, in the remote eastern Kentucky backwoods, it was almost dawn on the second morning. I'd spent most of the race alone, which I like. But I felt a little behind. Not dead last, but more that kind of unsettling, "it's about time to see another human" feeling.
But, it was also a sunny new day, and I was about to hit the next aid station. I was looking forward to filling my bottle, getting some real calories, and checking off another milestone.
I came out of the woods and topped a small climb to cross a paved road at a trailhead gravel pullout where an aid station would logically be, but it wasn't there. Surprised, I thought maybe I was wrong; maybe it was still ahead. So, I checked my navigation app. No, I was in the right place, and a nearby road sign matched the aid station name. Everything pointed to me standing in the right place, but there was nothing.
I looked up and down the curvy mountain road. Again, nothing. I couldn't hear any noise. I scanned the empty gravel pullout I was standing in for clues like dropped food or fresh tire tracks, maybe even a random gel packet—anything to say an aid station had been here. Nothing.
Confusion and panic set in, as you can imagine. Could I have missed it? How? And if so, I was alone, deep in the middle of nowhere, in a situation I hadn't expected. Either way, I had to make a quick decision.
Backtracking wasn't an option; the last aid station was hours behind me. And staying put was an easy no. So, I followed the course markers I spotted, continuing down a narrow dirt road. I ran, focusing on each individual marker because I couldn't afford to miss a turn. I needed to reach an aid station or find people or some sign of civilization. If I worked at it, I might even catch another runner. That was a cheerful thought.
This just wasn't the kind of place I wanted to get lost in, and I couldn't figure out how I'd missed the aid station. And I assumed my race was probably over because I'd missed an aid station, but until I knew that for sure, I was going to operate like I was still in the race. There was still hope.
Then, I saw a group of Jeeps and ATVs coming toward me on this narrow dirt road. And as you can imagine, I braced myself for danger. We all stopped where we met, and it turns out that it was the next aid station crew, already packed up and leaving. Somehow, I'd missed that aid station too. I felt even more deeply confused and disappointed than before. My race was definitely over now.
So I stood and waited calmly while they conferred, already accepting the DNF. But, to my amazement, they said they were supposed to pull me, and they should pull me, but they didn't have any room in their vehicles for me. So, after a radio call to the race director, they told me I could keep going, but only if I made it to the next aid station on time. So, I said, "Okay, deal."
But I wanted to know two things before we parted. The first was what time did I need to reach the next aid station and how many miles away was it? And they told me, and it was clear that it was possible, but it would be close. And the second thing I wanted to know was, there was a deep river crossing I knew between here and there, and I asked if the trail markers and the rope across the river were still in place.
And of course, the volunteers weren't sure and could only say that the markers should be in place and the rope should be in place. And of course, I was hoping for more certainty there, but I decided it was worth the gamble. I didn't have many options.
And I didn't have much left in the tank, obviously. But I'd somehow gotten a second, really a third chance, and I wasn't going to waste it. So I thanked them, and I took off. I followed the markers. I pushed my pace and heart rate as hard as I could and focused everything, every thought, every step, every decision on one goal: make it to the next aid station ahead of cutoff.
I couldn't risk getting lost out there again or getting left. And I shut the door on all the "what ifs." Like, what if the rope was gone? What if I missed the cutoff? What if everyone at the next aid station had already packed up and left too?
I just didn't go there. I focused single-mindedly on getting to the aid station and the finish. That was it. Nothing else. Eventually, I reached the river. It was waist-deep, strong current, but the rope was still there, and so were two volunteers waiting on the other side for me—other race-related humans. I looked at my watch. I'd barely made it, but I'd made it. And I could finally breathe.
I was elated to be back on track and incredibly proud of the hard work. What an adventure that had been. I crossed carefully and climbed up the other bank, soaked and ready to eat, drink, and slow my pace. And I looked around for the aid station and didn't immediately see it because it wasn't there. The two line guys pointed down the road and said, "Half a mile, you'll have to hurry."
As you can imagine, my stomach dropped again. I wanted to give up. I was tired and stressed and tired of being stressed. I'd worked so hard again and again to claw my way back, and it just kept not being enough. It felt like I was losing the battle. Every time I pulled the race back from the brink, it went right back to the brink.
I ran that dirt road as fast as I could, at 80-ish miles into the race, and finally saw the aid station table and two volunteers up ahead. My spirits lifted. Surely, this time I'd made it. I had a drop bag here, and I'd been dreaming of the gels inside for hours. It would be so nice to have them.
So, I reached the aid station smiling, about to say hi, when one of the volunteers interrupted me and said, "You've got 2 minutes to get out of the aid station." I felt a wave of angry frustration. Hours of panic, hope, defeat, more effort, and still not enough? Only 2 minutes ahead? Two? I kept trying and failing. I was working so hard and still felt like I'd fall short. I should just quit fighting.
So, let's talk about that moment. When a race gets hard, it's easy to focus on how far you still have to go, how bad you feel, what you've messed up, what other runners are doing, or the classic thought trap, "I can't do this." That's just your brain doing its job, trying to keep you safe. It's going to flood you with predicted disasters and catastrophes and worst-case scenarios, certain failures if you keep going because it wants you to quit, which is reliable and safe and comfortable. And all of those catastrophes and worst-case scenarios feel so true.
But when you buy into that drama, everything gets harder. Every step hurts more because you're focused on it, and you feel not just tired but wrecked. The finish line feels unreachable. And your mind convinces you're too slow and everybody's waiting, or everybody's just gone. So, quitting starts to seem like the obvious and only option.
And in those moments, you've probably heard, "Just stay present, focus on the step in front of you." And sometimes, that's exactly what you need. Like when you're impatiently needing to be at the finish now and you're overwhelmed by how far away it feels, bringing your mind from the future back to the present can calm you down. But that doesn't solve everything.
Focusing on the step in front of you can also feel like ignoring real problems, like pretending danger or failure isn't ahead. And more importantly, it can stop you from doing what you really need to do: focus on your goal and adjust your plan to hit it. You stop thinking strategically. You stop managing your time, your energy, your fueling. You stop leading. You're just focused on that step in front of you instead. And I've done this.
Zoned out in present survival mode, only to realize miles later that I'd lost time I couldn't get back or skipped calories I'd really needed. The intention was good: calm my brain down, don't panic. But the result? I wasn't leading myself anymore. I'd lost sight of what I was at the race to do. I was numbing out, basically, and calling it being present. And that's not how you build a finish; that's how you coast to a DNF.
"Just stay present" can keep you from spiraling, but it can also keep you from stepping up. And that's what we're here to do. So let's talk about a better way to handle these moments. Instead of tuning out how hard it is, tune out any distraction that doesn't help you get to the finish. This isn't about trying harder; it's about decluttering your mind and narrowing your focus.
Clear away anything that's not essential to the mission of finishing. Filter every thought, every decision, every action through one lens: Does this help me get to the finish? If yes, do it. If no, drop it. Simple, ruthless, effective. And this isn't forever; it's just until the race is done. You can think about naps and pain and quitting all you want after you finish.
So, back at Warhammer 100, here's how that focus worked. The moment that volunteer told me I had 2 minutes, I of course felt the strong frustration and temptation to quit. But more importantly, I knew I was still in the race. It was still mine to either finish or quit. And I wanted to finish. Frustration would not get me to the finish. Staying in the race would. And I didn't have time to waste. So I narrowed my focus, and that frustration disappeared. My mind cleared. I could see exactly what to do.
The most important thing: get out of the aid station within 2 minutes, of course. And the only other necessity I actually had to do to finish was refill my water bottle so I could make it the 7 miles to the next aid station. Everything else? Optional. The hydration powder I wanted, the gels in my drop bag I badly wanted, scanning the table for food that looked appealing, or chatting—all extras I could do without.
I grabbed a handful of PB&Js off the table. They would do. And I thanked the volunteers, and I power-walked as fast as I could out of the aid station while I ate. And then, I turned my focus to the next thing I had to do to finish: move as fast as I could to the next aid station. I ran every little bit and piece of the course I could. Every step, every turn, maximized.
Once I focused single-mindedly on getting to the finish line, every move became clear and efficient and deliberate. Decisions became simple. Zero drama. That's what this skill gives you. It simplifies your thinking. It sharpens your decisions. It saves you time and effort.
Relentless focus, which is what I call it, might sound hard or unforgiving, but it actually makes everything easier. And easier means faster. Back at Warhammer, my only focus was to get to the finish line as fast as possible. Everything—pace, heart rate, thoughts, food, hydration—was aimed at that. It's like every molecule of me was aligned with that one purpose. I stayed steady, I pushed hard, and I made every minute count for hours.
And by the last aid station, I'd built 15 minutes on cutoff. I left and headed to the finish, not entirely sure if I'd get an official finish. I got closer and closer until finally, finally, I saw the finish line ahead. I locked my sights on it, and I crossed it. And then I took a breath of relief. And to my amazement, I found out I'd officially finished and placed second female. I'd gone from three disasters and "no way can I make it" to second place.
That's the power of focus. You don't have to be confident. You don't have to feel strong. You just have to narrow your attention to what matters and drop the rest. Relentless focus may sound obvious. You might be thinking, "Of course I know what matters most. I already do this." But relentless focus is not just intellectually knowing what matters; it's actually focusing on it, intently, singularly, and dispassionately cutting away everything that doesn't serve it. It's not a feeling; it's a discipline. And it's one that will get you to the finish. One you can practice every time your brain wants out.
I've been asked for years how I do this, how I finish when things go sideways and things get hard, and how I look so focused when I come into aid stations. And this is it. So, the next time it all feels like too much, don't waste your time arguing with your doubt in your head. Just get ruthless, get clear, get deliberate. Focus everything on what you're there to do. And that is to finish. And then go for it.
Alright. That's it for this week. But be sure to check out last week's episode, Episode 7, on how to stay in the race when things get hard. Today's episode is all about what to focus on when things get tough, but last week's goes hand-in-hand with it. It's all about why to stay in the race, how to connect with your desire to keep going when you want to quit. So if you haven't heard that episode yet, give that one a listen too. Together, these two episodes are a solid one-two punch for getting through the hardest parts of any race.
Alright, that's it. Talk to you next week. Bye.
Thanks for listening to Unstoppable Ultra Runner. If you want more ultra talk, mindset tools, and strategies for running with confidence, visit www.susanidonnelly.com. This podcast receives production support from the team at Digital Freedom Productions. That’s it for today’s episode. See you next week.
At Warhammer 100, in the remote eastern Kentucky backwoods, it was almost dawn on the second morning. I'd spent most of the race alone, which I like. But I felt a little behind. Not dead last, but more that kind of unsettling, "it's about time to see another human" feeling.
But, it was also a sunny new day, and I was about to hit the next aid station. I was looking forward to filling my bottle, getting some real calories, and checking off another milestone.
I came out of the woods and topped a small climb to cross a paved road at a trailhead gravel pullout where an aid station would logically be, but it wasn't there. Surprised, I thought maybe I was wrong; maybe it was still ahead. So, I checked my navigation app. No, I was in the right place, and a nearby road sign matched the aid station name. Everything pointed to me standing in the right place, but there was nothing.
I looked up and down the curvy mountain road. Again, nothing. I couldn't hear any noise. I scanned the empty gravel pullout I was standing in for clues like dropped food or fresh tire tracks, maybe even a random gel packet—anything to say an aid station had been here. Nothing.
Confusion and panic set in, as you can imagine. Could I have missed it? How? And if so, I was alone, deep in the middle of nowhere, in a situation I hadn't expected. Either way, I had to make a quick decision.
Backtracking wasn't an option; the last aid station was hours behind me. And staying put was an easy no. So, I followed the course markers I spotted, continuing down a narrow dirt road. I ran, focusing on each individual marker because I couldn't afford to miss a turn. I needed to reach an aid station or find people or some sign of civilization. If I worked at it, I might even catch another runner. That was a cheerful thought.
This just wasn't the kind of place I wanted to get lost in, and I couldn't figure out how I'd missed the aid station. And I assumed my race was probably over because I'd missed an aid station, but until I knew that for sure, I was going to operate like I was still in the race. There was still hope.
Then, I saw a group of Jeeps and ATVs coming toward me on this narrow dirt road. And as you can imagine, I braced myself for danger. We all stopped where we met, and it turns out that it was the next aid station crew, already packed up and leaving. Somehow, I'd missed that aid station too. I felt even more deeply confused and disappointed than before. My race was definitely over now.
So I stood and waited calmly while they conferred, already accepting the DNF. But, to my amazement, they said they were supposed to pull me, and they should pull me, but they didn't have any room in their vehicles for me. So, after a radio call to the race director, they told me I could keep going, but only if I made it to the next aid station on time. So, I said, "Okay, deal."
But I wanted to know two things before we parted. The first was what time did I need to reach the next aid station and how many miles away was it? And they told me, and it was clear that it was possible, but it would be close. And the second thing I wanted to know was, there was a deep river crossing I knew between here and there, and I asked if the trail markers and the rope across the river were still in place.
And of course, the volunteers weren't sure and could only say that the markers should be in place and the rope should be in place. And of course, I was hoping for more certainty there, but I decided it was worth the gamble. I didn't have many options.
And I didn't have much left in the tank, obviously. But I'd somehow gotten a second, really a third chance, and I wasn't going to waste it. So I thanked them, and I took off. I followed the markers. I pushed my pace and heart rate as hard as I could and focused everything, every thought, every step, every decision on one goal: make it to the next aid station ahead of cutoff.
I couldn't risk getting lost out there again or getting left. And I shut the door on all the "what ifs." Like, what if the rope was gone? What if I missed the cutoff? What if everyone at the next aid station had already packed up and left too?
I just didn't go there. I focused single-mindedly on getting to the aid station and the finish. That was it. Nothing else. Eventually, I reached the river. It was waist-deep, strong current, but the rope was still there, and so were two volunteers waiting on the other side for me—other race-related humans. I looked at my watch. I'd barely made it, but I'd made it. And I could finally breathe.
I was elated to be back on track and incredibly proud of the hard work. What an adventure that had been. I crossed carefully and climbed up the other bank, soaked and ready to eat, drink, and slow my pace. And I looked around for the aid station and didn't immediately see it because it wasn't there. The two line guys pointed down the road and said, "Half a mile, you'll have to hurry."
As you can imagine, my stomach dropped again. I wanted to give up. I was tired and stressed and tired of being stressed. I'd worked so hard again and again to claw my way back, and it just kept not being enough. It felt like I was losing the battle. Every time I pulled the race back from the brink, it went right back to the brink.
I ran that dirt road as fast as I could, at 80-ish miles into the race, and finally saw the aid station table and two volunteers up ahead. My spirits lifted. Surely, this time I'd made it. I had a drop bag here, and I'd been dreaming of the gels inside for hours. It would be so nice to have them.
So, I reached the aid station smiling, about to say hi, when one of the volunteers interrupted me and said, "You've got 2 minutes to get out of the aid station." I felt a wave of angry frustration. Hours of panic, hope, defeat, more effort, and still not enough? Only 2 minutes ahead? Two? I kept trying and failing. I was working so hard and still felt like I'd fall short. I should just quit fighting.
So, let's talk about that moment. When a race gets hard, it's easy to focus on how far you still have to go, how bad you feel, what you've messed up, what other runners are doing, or the classic thought trap, "I can't do this." That's just your brain doing its job, trying to keep you safe. It's going to flood you with predicted disasters and catastrophes and worst-case scenarios, certain failures if you keep going because it wants you to quit, which is reliable and safe and comfortable. And all of those catastrophes and worst-case scenarios feel so true.
But when you buy into that drama, everything gets harder. Every step hurts more because you're focused on it, and you feel not just tired but wrecked. The finish line feels unreachable. And your mind convinces you're too slow and everybody's waiting, or everybody's just gone. So, quitting starts to seem like the obvious and only option.
And in those moments, you've probably heard, "Just stay present, focus on the step in front of you." And sometimes, that's exactly what you need. Like when you're impatiently needing to be at the finish now and you're overwhelmed by how far away it feels, bringing your mind from the future back to the present can calm you down. But that doesn't solve everything.
Focusing on the step in front of you can also feel like ignoring real problems, like pretending danger or failure isn't ahead. And more importantly, it can stop you from doing what you really need to do: focus on your goal and adjust your plan to hit it. You stop thinking strategically. You stop managing your time, your energy, your fueling. You stop leading. You're just focused on that step in front of you instead. And I've done this.
Zoned out in present survival mode, only to realize miles later that I'd lost time I couldn't get back or skipped calories I'd really needed. The intention was good: calm my brain down, don't panic. But the result? I wasn't leading myself anymore. I'd lost sight of what I was at the race to do. I was numbing out, basically, and calling it being present. And that's not how you build a finish; that's how you coast to a DNF.
"Just stay present" can keep you from spiraling, but it can also keep you from stepping up. And that's what we're here to do. So let's talk about a better way to handle these moments. Instead of tuning out how hard it is, tune out any distraction that doesn't help you get to the finish. This isn't about trying harder; it's about decluttering your mind and narrowing your focus.
Clear away anything that's not essential to the mission of finishing. Filter every thought, every decision, every action through one lens: Does this help me get to the finish? If yes, do it. If no, drop it. Simple, ruthless, effective. And this isn't forever; it's just until the race is done. You can think about naps and pain and quitting all you want after you finish.
So, back at Warhammer 100, here's how that focus worked. The moment that volunteer told me I had 2 minutes, I of course felt the strong frustration and temptation to quit. But more importantly, I knew I was still in the race. It was still mine to either finish or quit. And I wanted to finish. Frustration would not get me to the finish. Staying in the race would. And I didn't have time to waste. So I narrowed my focus, and that frustration disappeared. My mind cleared. I could see exactly what to do.
The most important thing: get out of the aid station within 2 minutes, of course. And the only other necessity I actually had to do to finish was refill my water bottle so I could make it the 7 miles to the next aid station. Everything else? Optional. The hydration powder I wanted, the gels in my drop bag I badly wanted, scanning the table for food that looked appealing, or chatting—all extras I could do without.
I grabbed a handful of PB&Js off the table. They would do. And I thanked the volunteers, and I power-walked as fast as I could out of the aid station while I ate. And then, I turned my focus to the next thing I had to do to finish: move as fast as I could to the next aid station. I ran every little bit and piece of the course I could. Every step, every turn, maximized.
Once I focused single-mindedly on getting to the finish line, every move became clear and efficient and deliberate. Decisions became simple. Zero drama. That's what this skill gives you. It simplifies your thinking. It sharpens your decisions. It saves you time and effort.
Relentless focus, which is what I call it, might sound hard or unforgiving, but it actually makes everything easier. And easier means faster. Back at Warhammer, my only focus was to get to the finish line as fast as possible. Everything—pace, heart rate, thoughts, food, hydration—was aimed at that. It's like every molecule of me was aligned with that one purpose. I stayed steady, I pushed hard, and I made every minute count for hours.
And by the last aid station, I'd built 15 minutes on cutoff. I left and headed to the finish, not entirely sure if I'd get an official finish. I got closer and closer until finally, finally, I saw the finish line ahead. I locked my sights on it, and I crossed it. And then I took a breath of relief. And to my amazement, I found out I'd officially finished and placed second female. I'd gone from three disasters and "no way can I make it" to second place.
That's the power of focus. You don't have to be confident. You don't have to feel strong. You just have to narrow your attention to what matters and drop the rest. Relentless focus may sound obvious. You might be thinking, "Of course I know what matters most. I already do this." But relentless focus is not just intellectually knowing what matters; it's actually focusing on it, intently, singularly, and dispassionately cutting away everything that doesn't serve it. It's not a feeling; it's a discipline. And it's one that will get you to the finish. One you can practice every time your brain wants out.
I've been asked for years how I do this, how I finish when things go sideways and things get hard, and how I look so focused when I come into aid stations. And this is it. So, the next time it all feels like too much, don't waste your time arguing with your doubt in your head. Just get ruthless, get clear, get deliberate. Focus everything on what you're there to do. And that is to finish. And then go for it.
Alright. That's it for this week. But be sure to check out last week's episode, Episode 7, on how to stay in the race when things get hard. Today's episode is all about what to focus on when things get tough, but last week's goes hand-in-hand with it. It's all about why to stay in the race, how to connect with your desire to keep going when you want to quit. So if you haven't heard that episode yet, give that one a listen too. Together, these two episodes are a solid one-two punch for getting through the hardest parts of any race.
Alright, that's it. Talk to you next week. Bye.
Thanks for listening to Unstoppable Ultra Runner. If you want more ultra talk, mindset tools, and strategies for running with confidence, visit www.susanidonnelly.com. This podcast receives production support from the team at Digital Freedom Productions. That’s it for today’s episode. See you next week.
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