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Arbitrary goals are nonsensical. They also can be the source of great joy.In the pursuit of any goal, we all face a moment of questioning ourselves, sometimes out loud.The first week of last December, I had that moment, a question as I power-hiked up an icy trail, listening to my own labored breath:The answer, of course, was: No, it was not necessary. I had a cold, or enough remnants of a cold that I should have been at home resting instead of semi-vigorously exercising outside.

But I had a goal. Or, rather, I had committed to a goal, with a deadline: 300,000 feet of uphill human-powered movement, in the year 2023. Before I started hiking uphill that day, I had logged 289,476 feet of climbing via running, hiking, ski touring, and cycling. I had 10,524 feet left to climb, and 24 more days to do it. And I wanted to get done early so I could stop worrying about it. So I kept tromping uphill.

Even though I’d have a hard time convincing anyone it was “necessary,” in the sense of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.Every year, human beings such as myself and yourself take part in an ancient ritual going back at least dozens of years: We decide how we are going to become a different person than we were the year before.

Sometimes we become completely different people, finally going to therapy, or deleting all of our social media accounts, or deciding to adopt the extensive and possibly unsustainable morning routine of a person who is an influencer on LinkedIn. Sometimes we just become a slightly different person, by committing to being on time, drinking more water, or meditating for one minute every day.

This probably sounds familiar. You may know it as a “new year’s resolution,” which is a common manifestation of this sort of idea, and also helpful in selling gym memberships. New year’s resolutions work for some people, but I have never had much success with them. Usually I think more along the lines of “what can I do that would make this year interesting/different from previous years?” Which I think is a good place to start, as opposed to “What’s wrong with me that I can attempt to fix or improve this year?” (If you’re asking yourself that same question, let me just say that you’re probably doing great, and at least a few people probably love you just the way you are. But yeah, we could all drink more water and eat more vegetables.)A few years back, a friend of mine mentioned he was going to try to log half a million vertical feet biking and hiking, and I don’t remember if he ended up getting it done, but I think he was probably inspired by a guy named Greg Hill who climbed and skied two million vertical feet in a year in 2010, and Greg Hill was probably inspired by himself, Greg Hill, skiing one million vertical feet in a year in 2005. I’m no Greg Hill. But what about 200,000 feet of ascent in a year? Certainly more doable by a middle-aged dad with a day job? That’s a little under 4,000 feet per week.

So I decided on that. I did a few backcountry ski laps at our local hill, just under 2,000 feet per lap, and hiked/ran up steep trails a couple times a week, trying to log a few hundred feet here or there. If Jay was awake and we had time between naps, I’d put him in the baby carrier backpack and chug up a trail for a few minutes or an hour, the dad version of a weighted training vest. I signed up for a steep 50K trail race, the Tiger Claw, which would get me almost 9,000 feet of climbing in one day, a big chunk.

Then in mid-May, my young friend Torrey, who has not been to my house recently to see my daily life trying to be a present and helpful dad, husband, self-employed artist and writer, said, “200,000 feet? I think you could do 300,000 easy.”

I thanked him for the encouragement by replying, “Fuck you,” and then we argued for a few minutes about who would buy dinner.

And then of course I started doing the math, which really amounted to a big question, How do I want to live my life this year, which is really a series of smaller questions:We’re lucky, as human beings, to have the time and resources to come up with ideas we refer to as “dreams,” and then spend time and resources pursuing those.

Some people put a lot of time and resources into one dream, like thru-hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, or climbing a big mountain halfway across the world, or completing an Ironman triathlon.Since I am a coward, I often tend to shy away from big goals with a high chance of failure, and instead choose to pursue goals with longer timelines, in order to have some flexibility. A bad week of weather can derail a big mountain summit attempt, and an injury can derail a plan to qualify for the Boston Marathon (I guess so could gastrointestinal distress on race day), but an annual goal of a bunch of vertical feet can withstand some bad weather or minor injuries during the year. Or, in my case, catching every communicable disease Jay brought home from daycare in his first six months of attendance, which included something like six colds, and norovirus or something similarly explosive and miserable.

Even with a week off here and there, I kept chugging along. I started a Strava club called 100 Grand, because I thought other people might think it was fun to try to log 100,000 feet of climbing, or 200,000 feet, or 500,000 feet, or whatever, depending on where they lived and how much time they had to devote to it. I know not everyone lives in a mountainous area, or even a hilly place, but I also knew about this group of people in Iowa and Illinois who race to see who can log 25,000 feet of vert the fastest (and in the smallest amount of horizontal distance) every December. I mean, look at this spreadsheet:Almost 2,000 people signed up for the 100 Grand Strava club, despite it launching in the middle of the year, and I’m not sure how much it motivated people, but I’m going to do it again in 2024. As soon as I finish mailing out stickers to everyone who clocked 100K or more in 2023.

As I rolled over 200,000 feet in September, and then 250,000 feet (in early October), I started to reflect on how the 300,000-foot number had changed my year of running. I have never been one to pay attention to my per-mile pace, but it went completely out the window this year, since a typical run for me looked like this:Mt. Sentinel is essentially a straight line two miles from my house and roughly 2000 vertical feet higher than my front door*, so I defaulted to it often this year. I stood on the summit 47 times, often enough that it started to feel quite ridiculous, but also a sort of home. Which is probably how my dad feels about certain holes on his home golf course, or how my brother feels about his favorite fishing spots.Every time I got home from a run, I’d check my yearly total on Strava as it ticked upward—except on the rare days I did a flat run, when I was short on time or had to run Jay to or from day care in the jogging stroller.

Eventually, I had a little less than 2,000 feet to go. Unless something crazy happened, I’d just need to get to the summit of Mt. Sentinel one more time and I could stop obsessing about it. My friend Forest had offered to go with me, but also said he understood if I wanted to go up alone. I decided to keep this one to myself, microspikes on my shoes for the icy sections, trekking poles as insurance to keep myself upright.

The last climb up the steep trail on the south ridge seemed like it was taking forever, and I watched several paragliders take off from near the top, a surprise sunny December day. I jogged through the snowy forest between the south and north summits, and then started the steep hike up the final 100 feet to the top. A figure in an orange jacket was starting down from the summit, headed my way.

The person stopped on the trail when they saw me, and without being able to see quite that far, I knew it was Forest. He started clapping, and then went back to the summit with me. He asked if I wanted to have the top to myself, to process it a little bit, and I said Nah, it’s just the last few feet of my dumb goal for the year. Which was true.

The closer I got to finishing, the more ridiculous it felt, and as much as I’d like to have had some epiphany about life, I know sometimes you just need a new motivation to get out the door and experience something, even if you end up on the same mountaintop *checks notes* 47 times. But as ridiculous as it was, I still followed through with it, which has some sort of meaning, maybe.

You don’t need to go far these days to find inspirational quotes about pursuing your goals, and I think everyone is looking for something different. The older I get, the more I think about a line from the late, great, philosopher and restaurateur Kenny Shopsin, in the 2004 documentary I Like Killing Flies:

Long before he became the fastest man in history, before the Olympic gold medals, world records, and global superstardom, Usain Bolt was simply a gifted teenager with extraordinary speed and limitless potential. In 2002, on the track at Kingston's National Stadium in Jamaica, the world witnessed the first chapter of a story that would forever change athletics.

At just 15 years old, Bolt lined up for the men's 200 metres at the World Junior Championships with the weight of expectation resting on young shoulders. Competing before a passionate home crowd, the Jamaican prodigy produced a performance that instantly captivated the athletics world. Crossing the finish line in 20.61 seconds, he became the youngest athlete ever to win the men's 200m title at the championships.

It was far more than a gold medal. It was the moment the world realised that a once-in-a-generation talent had arrived.

Bolt's victory in Kingston marked the beginning of one of the greatest careers in sporting history. Over the years that followed, he rewrote the record books, dominated the Olympic Games and World Championships, and transformed sprinting into a global spectacle through his breathtaking speed, infectious personality, and unrivalled confidence. His legacy continues to inspire young athletes across the globe, many of whom dream of following the same path he once began as a teenager.

This week, that dream comes alive once again as the World Athletics U20 Championships take centre stage at the iconic Hayward Field in Eugene, Oregon. The venue has already witnessed the birth of future superstars. In 2014, it was where Britain's Dina Asher-Smith and Uganda's Joshua Cheptegei captured their first global titles, launching careers that would later produce world championships, Olympic medals, and lasting legacies in athletics.

Twelve years later, another generation arrives in Eugene hoping to create its own defining moment.

Among the brightest young talents is Great Britain's Jake Odey-Jordan, the 200m bronze medallist from Lima who now owns the European U20 100m record after an astonishing 10.01-second performance. He enters the championships eager to build on his growing reputation as one of Europe's most exciting young sprinters.

The United States will look to Tate Taylor, who has already made history as the first American high school athlete to break the 20-second barrier for the 200 metres. Fresh from a Diamond League victory in a sensational 19.75 seconds, he arrives in Eugene carrying the momentum of one of the most remarkable junior seasons ever recorded.

Jamaica, the nation that introduced the world to Usain Bolt, will once again have high hopes through Shanoya Douglas. The talented sprinter has established herself as one of the championship's leading contenders after producing lifetime bests of 10.98 seconds for the 100m and 22.11 for the 200m this season.

History has repeatedly shown that the World U20 Championships are far more than a junior competition. They are often the first chapter in the careers of future Olympic champions, world record holders, and global icons. Every generation arrives with ambitious dreams, but only a select few leave having announced themselves to the world.

No one can say with certainty whether the next Usain Bolt will emerge this week. Greatness cannot be predicted, and legends are never manufactured. Yet every legendary career begins with a single breakthrough performance.

For Bolt, that defining moment came in Kingston in 2002.

Now, under the famous lights of Hayward Field, another group of gifted teenagers stands ready to chase history. Somewhere among them could be the next athlete whose name will inspire the world for years to come.

"An athlete cannot run with money in his pockets. He must run with hope in his heart and dreams in his head." More than seventy years after those words were spoken, they remain among the most powerful messages ever shared in distance running. They are often quoted as simple motivation, but behind them lies a remarkable story of sacrifice, courage, conviction, and an unwavering belief that true greatness is never measured by financial reward.

Few athletes have left a legacy as enduring as Emil Zátopek. Known around the world as "The Czech Locomotive" for his relentless determination and unmistakable running style, he redefined what was possible in endurance racing. His legendary performance at the 1952 Olympic Games in Helsinki still ranks among the greatest achievements in athletics history. In the space of just nine days, he captured Olympic gold in the 5,000 meters, the 10,000 meters, and, incredibly, the marathon—a race he had never attempted before.

Yet the world in which Zátopek competed was vastly different from today's professional athletics landscape. During the 1950s, elite sport officially operated under strict amateur rules. Olympic athletes were forbidden from accepting prize money or earning a living directly from competition, although unofficial financial arrangements existed in many sports. Zátopek himself never raced for appearance fees or lucrative prize purses. Instead, he served as an officer in the Czechoslovak People's Army, receiving a military salary while representing his country. Running brought him glory, but not personal wealth.

It was within that environment that his famous words carried genuine meaning. For Zátopek, success was never driven by the promise of money. He believed the greatest performances were fueled by hope, ambition, discipline, and the courage to pursue dreams that seemed impossible. Those qualities, rather than financial incentives, formed the foundation of lasting excellence.

With the benefit of history, his words carry even greater significance. In 1968, during the Prague Spring, Zátopek openly supported democratic reforms in Czechoslovakia. When the movement was crushed, he paid a heavy personal price for standing by his principles. He was stripped of his military rank, removed from public life, and forced into years of manual labor. The man who had once stood proudly atop the Olympic podium found himself performing physically demanding jobs, far removed from the stadiums where he had inspired millions.

His story reminds us that the values he expressed were not empty words crafted for public admiration. He lived by them, even when doing so came at enormous personal cost. His belief that hope and conviction mattered more than material rewards became evident not only in the races he won, but also in the hardships he endured with remarkable dignity.

Distance running has changed dramatically since Zátopek's era. Today's elite athletes compete in a fully professional sport where prize money, sponsorship contracts, appearance fees, and endorsement deals can be worth millions. Success on the track and roads now offers opportunities that were unimaginable during the age of amateur competition. Professionalism has transformed the sport, allowing athletes to train full-time, access world-class coaching and sports science, and build financially secure careers.

Yet despite these changes, the essence of Zátopek's message has never lost its relevance.

Every elite runner naturally hopes to earn a good living from years of dedication and sacrifice. There is nothing wrong with financial success, and the rewards available today have elevated the standard of competition across the world. But history consistently shows that money alone is rarely enough to sustain greatness. The athletes whose careers endure the longest are often those driven by an inner passion to improve, to test their limits, and to chase excellence for its own sake. Financial rewards become the result of that commitment, not the reason for it.

When competition is motivated solely by wealth, its deeper purpose can fade. But when an athlete races with genuine belief, relentless determination, and an unwavering dream, extraordinary performances often follow naturally.

That is why Emil Zátopek's words continue to resonate across generations. His legacy extends far beyond Olympic medals and world records. It lives in every runner who laces up their shoes with a goal that cannot be measured in dollars, every athlete who refuses to surrender when the race becomes painful, and every competitor who understands that the greatest victories begin long before the finish line.

The economics of distance running may have evolved beyond recognition, but the heart of the sport remains unchanged. Every athlete still arrives at the starting line carrying something far more valuable than money—hope in their heart and dreams in their head. Those invisible qualities have always been, and will always remain, the true fuel of greatness.

Winning a major championship is never just about crossing the finish line first. Behind every gold medal lies a carefully crafted race plan, and Josh Kerr's unforgettable Commonwealth Games triumph in Glasgow was a perfect example of tactical brilliance meeting extraordinary finishing speed.

While the final time of 3:54.12 for the mile will be remembered as the official result, the split times reveal a much deeper story—one of patience, precision, and devastating acceleration when it mattered most.

Kerr resisted any temptation to force the pace from the gun. Instead, he settled into a controlled rhythm, allowing the opening stages to unfold naturally. His first four 100-metre segments—14.9, 15.1, 15.3 and 15.1 seconds—brought him through 400 metres in 60.4 seconds, a measured opening that conserved valuable energy while keeping him firmly in contention.

The second lap remained equally composed. Passing 500 metres in 15.3 seconds before recording splits of 15.7, 16.2 and 15.4, Kerr reached 800 metres in 2:03.0. The pace had eased, but that was exactly where the Scottish star wanted to be. Rather than chasing early speed, he was setting the stage for a decisive finish.

Everything changed after halfway.

Kerr gradually increased the tempo with smooth, controlled acceleration. His 900-metre and 1,000-metre splits of 15.2 and 14.9 seconds signalled that the race was beginning to stretch. He then surged through 1,100 metres in 14.3 seconds before covering the next 100 metres in just 13.4 seconds to reach 1,200 metres in 3:00.8.

From there, the home crowd witnessed championship running at its finest.

Instead of fading, Kerr became even stronger. He reeled off three consecutive 100-metre splits of 13.4, 13.4 and 12.8 seconds, dismantling the field with every stride. His final 100 metres were covered in a stunning 12.5 seconds, sealing an emphatic victory and sending the Glasgow crowd into celebration.

The progression of his race was remarkable. After opening with relaxed 15-second splits, Kerr transformed the closing stages into a demonstration of world-class speed endurance. His ability to accelerate continuously over the final 600 metres highlighted not only exceptional fitness but also supreme confidence in his race plan.

Championship middle-distance racing is rarely about producing the fastest possible time from the start. More often, it rewards athletes who understand when to conserve energy and when to unleash everything they have left. Kerr executed that philosophy to perfection.

His split chart paints the picture of a runner who never panicked, never wasted effort, and saved his greatest weapon for the closing stages. It was a textbook display of patience followed by relentless aggression—a combination that turned a tactical race into a memorable Commonwealth gold medal performance.

For aspiring middle-distance runners, Kerr's Glasgow masterpiece offers an important lesson: the strongest finish often belongs not to the athlete who runs hardest from the gun, but to the one who knows exactly when to make their move. On home soil, Josh Kerr timed that move to perfection, producing a performance that will stand as one of the defining moments of the championships.

At just nine years old, Oliver Smith has achieved something extraordinary—not by chasing records or medals, but by proving that determination, compassion, and consistency can create a life-changing impact.

Hailing from Wombwell, on the outskirts of Barnsley, Oliver set himself a remarkable challenge at the beginning of the year. Rather than attempting a single marathon, he decided to complete the equivalent distance of nine marathons over several months. From January 1 to April 26, the young runner covered an incredible 380 kilometres, breaking the distance into manageable daily runs suitable for a child his age.

His routine was built on dedication. Saturdays were reserved for parkrun events, Sundays for junior parkrun, while the remaining kilometres were steadily accumulated throughout the week. Averaging approximately 3.3 kilometres each day, Oliver never lost sight of the goal that inspired every step.

The challenge carried deep personal meaning. Last summer, Oliver's father, Tom Smith, suffered a devastating health setback after losing most of the vision in one eye. Medical examinations revealed a 4-centimetre meningioma wrapped around his optic nerve, leading to a complex 12-hour operation at the Royal Hallamshire Hospital in Sheffield.

Throughout the family's difficult journey, The Brain Tumour Charity provided invaluable guidance, support, and reassurance. Grateful for the help his family received, Oliver decided he wanted to give back in the most meaningful way he could. He launched a fundraising campaign with an initial goal of raising £2,000 to support others facing similar challenges.

What followed exceeded everyone's expectations.

Oliver brought his incredible fundraising challenge to a memorable conclusion at the Mini London Marathon, finishing on the very same day his mother, Hannah Smith, completed her first-ever London Marathon. It was a fitting family celebration of courage, resilience, and perseverance.

By the time Oliver crossed the finish line, donations had soared beyond £16,500—more than eight times his original target. His remarkable achievement captured the hearts of supporters, demonstrating how one young boy's determination could unite an entire community behind an important cause.

For Oliver, however, the journey is far from over. Inspired by the overwhelming support and the difference his efforts have made, he has already begun working toward his next fundraising challenge.

His story serves as a powerful reminder that age is no barrier to making a meaningful difference. Sometimes, the greatest acts of courage are measured not by speed or distance, but by the willingness to take one small step after another for the benefit of others.

Oliver Smith's inspiring journey is more than a fundraising success—it is a testament to the strength of family, the power of kindness, and the extraordinary impact that can begin with the simplest decision to help.

Sometimes the smallest opportunity creates the greatest triumph, and Jamaica's Navasky Anderson proved exactly that with a stunning performance to capture the men's 800m title at the 2026 Commonwealth Games in Glasgow.

Less than 24 hours after scraping into the final by the slimmest of margins, Anderson produced the race of his life, surging to victory in 1:45.33 to complete one of the most remarkable comeback stories of the championships. His gold medal was not only a reward for exceptional talent but also for courage, determination, and unwavering belief when everything was on the line.

The journey to the top nearly ended in the semifinals. Locked in an intense battle with England's Max Burgin for the final qualification place, Anderson threw himself across the finish line in a dramatic dive, stopping the clock at 1:45.38. That desperate effort earned him the last available place in the final as the fastest non-automatic qualifier, keeping his Commonwealth dream alive by the narrowest of margins.

With another chance in his hands, the Jamaican made sure it counted.

In a fiercely contested final, Anderson displayed outstanding tactical awareness and patience throughout the opening stages before unleashing a devastating finishing kick down the home straight. His perfectly timed acceleration left the rest of the field with no answer as he crossed the finish line first, securing a memorable Commonwealth crown and one of Jamaica's standout victories of the Games.

Australia's Luke Boyes delivered an impressive performance to claim the silver medal in 1:45.93, while Kenya's Wyclife Kinyamal battled strongly to take bronze in 1:46.12 after another highly competitive championship race.

Anderson's unforgettable triumph will be remembered as one of the defining moments of Glasgow 2026—a powerful reminder that championships are not always won by the fastest qualifier, but often by the athlete who refuses to surrender. From a fearless dive that kept his hopes alive to a brilliant gold-medal performance less than a day later, the Jamaican wrote one of the most inspiring chapters of these Commonwealth Games.

Men's 800m Final Results

1. Navasky Anderson (Jamaica) — 1:45.33

2. Luke Boyes (Australia) — 1:45.93

3. Wyclife Kinyamal (Kenya) — 1:46.12

Navasky Anderson arrived in the final as the last man to qualify, but he left Glasgow as the Commonwealth champion—a remarkable transformation that perfectly captures the unpredictable beauty of championship athletics.