Training Optional, Consequences Mandatory

Brendan Neil
Jan 7
6 min read

Belief isn’t a Strategy – Back to Back Marathons

I have a habit. A dangerous one.

I take on big physical challenges with very little training and somehow convince myself that this is acceptable. Not just acceptable — logical. I tell myself I’ve done it before. I know what to expect. I know I can get through it.

And in that belief, I show very little reverence for the distance, the sport, or my own body. I go looking for the place where it hurts enough for the voice to arrive — the one that sounds reasonable, seductive, almost kind — telling me I’ve done enough, that I can stop now. I don’t argue with it. I stay until it goes quiet.

In 2025, I decided to run a couple of marathons despite doing very little running over the previous two years. No structured build. No progressive load. No respect for the reality that bodies change — especially at 55. I ignored the muscle I’d added through 2 years of daily strength training followed by a short swim session. Ignored the weight difference. Ignored the very real fact that past fitness does not equal present readiness.

This isn’t new behaviour.

Across 17 years of completing the Island Charity Swim, there were multiple years I turned up having done no ocean swims since the year before. I still remember standing on Mudjimba Beach one year, realising I hadn’t swum in the ocean at all since finishing the event twelve months earlier. I shrugged and walked into the water anyway.

Somewhere along the way, I built a belief system that past achievement could substitute preparation.

It can’t.

Back-to-Back, Underdone

August brought two races on consecutive days. Rainbow Beach Marathon on Saturday. Sunshine Coast Marathon on Sunday.

Rainbow Beach is run by my good mates at Run Queensland — the same crew behind the Blackall 100, where I ran my first 100km ultra alongside Dean Karnazes. I love their events. I was gifted an entry. Friends were racing. Everything aligned — except the training.

The Rainbow Beach course wastes no time reminding you what you’ve signed up for. Hills. Bush track. Sand. Early on, the Carlo Blowhole ridge, some 400m stretch of sand that opens to a stunning ocean view before dropping you back into sandy single track. I’d bought a brand-new drink bladder the day before. It leaked.

For 16km I ran with electrolyte trickling down my back and into places no athlete ever wants constant moisture. Sweat, salt, friction — a perfect recipe for chafing that would haunt me for two days.

Then came the long beach section. Nearly 10km of sand. At first it felt manageable — firm sand near the waterline as the tide turned. Then the surface softened. The camber shifted. One foot started screaming. The sun was relentless. No shade. No escape.

The only landmark was the lighthouse.

When I finally reached it, the reward was unexpected magic: a school of baitfish, a turtle, a large stingray, and then — impossibly — a baby humpback whale swimming close to shore. A reminder that even in suffering, beauty finds you.

At the lighthouse, another runner collapsed. An official and I caught him and laid him down. He came to quickly. Not life-threatening — but serious enough to remind everyone how thin the line can be out there.

The remaining 16km was brutal. Walking. Shuffling. Sand. Heat. My foot worsening. My chafing constant. I spent long stretches completely alone, questioning how arrogant I’d been to show up like this.

For the previous 18 months I’d been training five days a week with Ufit Australia — lifting heavy, building strength, adding muscle. I was stronger than ever… and 15kg heavier than when I started ultra running in 2018.

Strong, yes. Prepared to run? No.

I was embarrassed. Embarrassed by my pace. By how many people were ahead of me. By how little respect I’d shown the event and its organisers — people who in 2024 moved the Blackall 100 back a week so Baylin and I could tackle it together on his 18th birthday.

I finished. I pulled my shoe off at the line for relief. I was dirty on myself. Not broken — but disappointed. I felt I’d broken a promise I made to myself back on a hospital bed in 2018: to keep getting better, fitter, more capable. Able to take on any endurance challenge at any time of the year.

Then I drove two hours home, barely able to walk, knowing I had another marathon the next day.

Sunday: Owning the Reality

The Sunshine Coast Marathon mattered. It was my last realistic chance to post a qualifying time for the Comrades Marathon — the oldest ultra marathon in the world. An 89km uphill race in South Africa.

When I arrived at my mates Tawny and Jason’s place near the start line, they went into full support mode. Jacuzzi. Food. Recovery drinks. Magnesium. Magic potions. Sleep.

I wasn't optimistic about even starting. My plan was wake up, at least just go to the start and if I could do anything, just go and walk the whole damn thing.

In the morning, I shuffled onto a bike and rode 3km to the start. As I moved, my body loosened. The crowd was enormous — the biggest the event has ever seen. The new single-lap course had opened space and energy everywhere.

This race was built by good mates. Jason, the race director, is also the logistics brain behind the Island Charity Swim. I've known him for over 20yrs. I told him the truth: I’d just try to finish. Four hours was impossible.

And that honesty mattered.

Out on course, people streamed past me. People I once would have expected to beat comfortably. But I didn’t deserve to be ahead of them. They’d done the work.

What I was really confronting was something psychologists call illusory superiority — the tendency to overestimate our own capability based on past identity rather than current behaviour. Pair that with a stubborn belief in “mental toughness” and you get a dangerous narrative: I can get away without preparation, because I’m not like everyone else.

And the juxtaposition is I'm acutely aware of my lack of condition, the chafing and muscle ache from the day before: and look forward to the challenge it brings.

Reality doesn’t negotiate.

By 30km, all ambition disappeared. The only goal was forward motion.

Why Events Matter

And yet — this is where the magic lives.

You see it everywhere. People of all shapes, ages and abilities wrestling themselves into something bigger. You see those who quit — not because they can’t go on, but because the voice of limitation sounds reasonable. And you see others refuse to listen.

At 35km, I watched a young girl in a walker-style wheelchair, eyes locked forward, jaw set, refusing to surrender to pain. Carers flanking on either side, changing over every 10km. That image alone could carry someone through a lifetime.

You see families screaming themselves hoarse. Kids watching parents redefine what’s possible. People running for loved ones lost. People telling cancer to go get fucked. People claiming a second chance at life with blistered feet and full hearts.

When Monday comes, their lives are different. They’ve shifted their personal paradigm. They’ve done something only a tiny percentage of the world will ever do.

And none of that happens without the organisers.

Run Queensland. Atlas Multisports. The people who risk everything to create these arenas for human struggle and triumph. They don’t just run events — they build containers where ordinary people can meet extraordinary versions of themselves.

The Lesson I Didn’t Want

I finished both Saturday and Sunday. Against fear. Against doubt. Against the version of myself I used to be.

My paradigm shifted — not upward, but inward. From chasing what I used to be capable of, to confronting what it takes to become capable again.

This wasn’t about failure. It was about honesty.

Big dreams demand respect. Preparation is not optional. And belief without action is just fantasy.

But here’s the thing — finishing still matters. Showing up still matters. Pushing on when everything says stop still matters.

If you’re reading this wondering whether you should sign up for something big — do it. Train properly. Respect the process. Be prepared to reveal who you are. Learn from this.

AND if you don't, the course will teach you.

And when it gets hard, remember: limits are rarely where we think they are.

I was reminded of that — painfully, humbly — one step at a time.

And I’m grateful I listened.