Eighteen Years. One Hundred Kilometers. A Father's Responsibility.
- Brendan Neil
- 5 days ago
- 6 min read
On my eldest son Baylin’s 18th birthday, we didn’t throw a party. There were no speeches. No candles. No nightclub.
Instead, at sunrise, we stood on the Mapleton Range. Ahead of us was 100 kilometres of trail, hills, heat, fatigue, doubt and darkness.
That was how Baylin wanted to mark his transition into adulthood.
Not by numbing himself with alcohol or noise, but by facing something real. Something that demanded effort. Something that would strip him back and ask a simple question:
Who are you when it gets hard?
The journey didn’t start on race day
The Blackall 100 wasn’t the real story. The months leading up to it were. A seed sown from 2019, finishing my first 100km with Dean Karnazes.
Early mornings jogging through the bush. Quiet conversations. Planning, adjusting, learning patience — with the body and with each other.
Baylin isn’t someone who rushes into things. He came into the world that way too — slow, cruisy, content to stay exactly where he was. That “delay” caused serious complications during his birth. After a brief cuddle with his mum, Baylin ended up in my arms alone while medical teams worked around us.
He was calm. Oblivious to the drama. And in that moment, looking into those big, deep eyes, I made a promise — not to protect him from life, but to walk beside him as he learned to meet it.
That promise didn’t mean always being comfortable. It meant being present.
A father’s promise evolves
I’ll be honest — I wasn’t born ready for fatherhood. At 36 I had lived a Peter Pan existence for a while. Responsibility came reluctantly.
But fatherhood has a way of demanding more of you than you think you have. And if you let it, it forces you to grow.
As Baylin got older, I kept asking myself a question that I don’t think enough parents ask:
What moments am I deliberately anchoring in his life?
Not birthdays. Not trophies. But moments that mark growth. Responsibility. Capability.
Moments that say:You’re ready for more now.
What we’ve lost — and why it matters
For most of human history, children didn’t drift into adulthood by accident. There were rites of passage. Trials. Ceremonies. Thresholds.
Today, many of those have vanished.
We’ve replaced them with age-based permissions — licences, drinking laws, graduation certificates — and we call it development. But too often, nothing embodied changes. Nothing tests resolve. Nothing asks a young person to confront themselves.
At the same time, parents are busier than ever. Well-intentioned. Exhausted. Providing more, organising more, outsourcing more.
Coaches. Teachers. Institutions. Programs.
Somewhere along the way, many of us quietly handed over one of our most important responsibilities: initiating our children into adulthood.
Not because we don’t care — but because we’re tired, unsure, or afraid of getting it wrong.
Why chosen struggle matters
There’s an important distinction here.
This isn’t about trauma. It's not about being harsh or withholding support.
It’s about chosen difficulty — voluntary hardship that teaches something no lecture ever could.
This isn't the first time Baylin chose challenge.
When Baylin committed to the Blackall 100, he wasn’t chasing a medal. He was choosing to find out what lived on the other side of discomfort.
According to the Deutsche Ultramarathon Vereinigung (DUV) database — the largest global archive of ultra-marathon results — the vast majority of 100-kilometre finishers are decades older, with average competitors often in their 40s. Finishing a 100-kilometre ultra at just 18 years old places Baylin among a very small and rare group of finishers worldwide. To do so on his 18th birthday only deepens the rarity of the moment.
But the statistics aren’t the point.
The point is what happens internally when a young man realises: I can suffer. I can stay present. I can keep going.
That lesson doesn’t fade.
Happy Birthday (now move)
In the lead-up to Blackall, Baylin and I spoke often about how he wanted to approach the 100 kilometres. I told him he was free to run his own race — he’s younger, stronger and faster — and that if anything went wrong I’d eventually find him on course and we’d finish together. He was adamant we stay side by side the entire way. So that’s what we did. My role wasn’t to lead or push, but to observe, encourage when needed, and quietly keep an eye on nutrition, hydration and patience.
We started conservatively, letting others rush ahead, focused on racing the course rather than anyone around us. It was warm, and we knew our pace would put us in the hottest valley and biggest climb in the heat of the day. Around marathon distance, our plans began to wobble. Baylin overheated badly — the kind of melt that’s confronting, dangerous, and unforgettable the first time it hits you. We stopped in the shade by a creek, drained what fluids we had left, and stumbled our way to the 45km checkpoint, sinking into stagnant water just to cool our bodies enough to keep going.
From there, the Bluff, the steepest longest section, became a lesson in survival. Five kilometres of relentless climbing, little shade, no wind, and a young body trying to regulate distress for the first time. We moved when we could, stopped when we had to. I talked him through it, not rescuing him from the discomfort, but helping him listen to his body and stay present inside it. This was the struggle we’d expected somewhere across the 100 kilometres — I just hadn’t expected it so early.
The remaining 50 kilometres were a quiet fight. Less running, more walking. Pain everywhere. Energy long gone. Hills that felt endless, rocks that punished every step, and a constant stream of internal negotiations about stopping. Checkpoint by checkpoint, with the help of our crew - Ben and AB - volunteers, family and friends, Baylin kept choosing to move forward. Into the darkness, he faced more discomfort, doubt and resolve than he had encountered in his first 18 years.
We crossed the line together — not triumphant in the way people imagine, but changed. The moment wasn’t lost on either of us: the rare alignment of effort, timing and intention that allowed an 18-year-old to complete the Blackall 100 on his birthday, side by side with his dad.
Baylin pushed through a complete physical meltdown — a point that ends races for most runners, regardless of age. Recovering from that state mid-race is rare. Doing so in heat, with another 50 kilometres of hills and technical trail ahead, is rarer still. Many adults reached that same place and chose to stop. They followed the logic, accepted the sympathy, and were met with understanding and social permission to quit.
Baylin reached that same edge. But instead of pulling back, he stayed. And in that space — where comfort disappears and excuses are easy — he discovered something real about who he is when circumstances turn hard.
This wasn’t about running
People will ask if this was extreme. If it was too much. If there were easier ways to mark the occasion.
Probably.
But easy moments don’t tend to shape us. I've written before about parenting styles that I see destroying kids and our communities. Not through neglect, but through the type of Love that Stunts Growth.
This wasn’t about turning my son into an ultra-runner. It was about giving him an experience that required:
commitment over comfort
preparation over impulse
resolve over escape
And about sharing that space with him — not as a coach barking orders, but as a father modelling how to approach life when it demands something of you.
A quiet challenge to parents
This isn’t a prescription. It's an invitation.
What moments are you intentionally creating with your children? What memories will they draw strength from when life inevitably gets hard?
Being a “good” parent isn’t just about sacrifice or provision. It’s not only about what you give your kids — it’s about what you invite them to experience.
We don’t need to recreate ancient rituals or send our kids into the wilderness alone. But we do need to be conscious. Present. Willing to step back in and take responsibility for guiding, not just managing.
Not telling them who to be — but walking with them as they discover it.
See more. Do more. Be more.
The Blackall 100 gave Baylin a memory that will live in his bones long after the soreness fades. It gave me something too — a reminder that fatherhood isn’t a role we outsource or outgrow.
It’s a practice.
If we want our children to live meaningful lives, we have to be willing to live deliberately ourselves. To question the paths handed to us. To create moments that matter.
See More of what’s possible.
Do More of what’s meaningful.
Be More present in the lives that matter most.
That’s the work. And it’s worth it.
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Huge thanks to Run Queensland for agreeing to schedule the Blackall 100 on 19th Oct 2024.
For Ben and AB being the best crew. My folks, Baylin's girlfriend and family for sticking to the finish. And to the amazing volunteers and competitors who understood what Baylin and I were attempting that day.
