Tears at the Finish Line: Conquering My First 100 Miles in Chongli

Hello everyone. Today, I want to document my personal running journey because, early Sunday morning, I completed my first 100-mile ultra-marathon at the Chongli 168.

（A medal with a premium feel.）

First, let me show you my medal. The Chongli 168 medal looks quite exquisite, but to me, it falls a bit short because I prefer medals I can hang around my neck. I am not someone who typically hoards medals. However, for a day or two after a race, I have a habit of walking around wearing my race gear—which is quite light-colored and covered in Chongli 168 logos—with the medal to show off a little. After those couple of days, the medal usually vanishes into some corner of my house, never to be seen again.

For a major event like the Chongli 168, and my very first 100-miler, I was surprised it didn't come with a lanyard. It deprived me of my chance to proudly show it off. I know many people appreciate its design because it does have a premium feel. But personally, I prefer simpler medals. For example, I really love the Hong Kong 100 medal. It’s small, incredibly light, and made almost entirely of wood. I think it’s fantastic—eco-friendly, yet perfectly sufficient for my "bragging" purposes.

Returning to the race itself, I want to share a few memorable moments.

The First Moment: I Cried

I have never cried during a race, but this time, I actually did.

Looking back, I am filled with emotion. The reality is that I went through a lot during this race. When runners here ask each other if it's their "first hundred," we specifically mean our first 100 miles. To qualify for this 100-mile category (roughly 168 kilometers), you must have already completed a 100-kilometer race. So, many participants out there were like me, tackling the 100-mile distance for the very first time. And yes, I can now say I am a man who has finished a 100-miler.

Taking on 100 miles for the first time presented numerous unforeseen challenges. The rain in Chongli was absolutely brutal. Even if you are used to harsh weather, this rain was relentless and extreme. Furthermore, I experienced severe hallucinations before reaching the final checkpoint. I was literally running in a blur between reality and illusion.

I distinctly remember a moment near the finish line. A female runner, whom I hadn't met before, suddenly stepped in front of me right before the end. She turned and suggested that we cross the finishing chute one by one. I understood immediately: the last 50 meters of the chute are photographed and filmed. That is your personal moment. Some people don't grasp this etiquette and sprint alongside you as if battling for a championship. In a 100-mile race for amateur runners—where the elite athletes finish in half our time—there is no championship to fight over. Yet, some oblivious people still rush it and disrupt the moment. I agreed to her suggestion.

We were both among the rare few who could still maintain a running pace in the final stretch. For the last 2.5 kilometers, we ran, and I stayed just behind her. When we reached the finish line chute, I waited outside the 50-meter barrier, letting her fully enjoy her moment before I entered. When it was finally my turn to run down that chute, in that split second, a profound sense of self-appreciation surged within me, and my eyes welled up with tears.

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(That finish line moment at Chongli 168.)

I have a short video of this. Looking at it, I thought to myself, "This guy has a great running form." Since I couldn't see my own posture at the time, watching it now, it really does look good.

I managed my energy well throughout the race. In the last 30 to 40 kilometers, I actually ran better and better, so that strong finish wasn't just for the cameras. My official finishing time was 44 hours and 10 minutes. The moment I set down the timing board, I broke down. I truly cried. It might seem strange to share a video of myself crying, but that was my genuine state.

A Hobby That Money Can't Accelerate

Since I was already in Chongli for the race, I spent two days at our Beijing office afterward. The team there arranged a client meetup for me to discuss global planning. After speaking, I realized I still know the Common Reporting Standard (CRS) quite well. They also set up some one-on-one client communications for me.

Recently, many people in my age group have been watching my videos, and we often end up discussing the meaning of life. One client shared his own hobby but expressed concern that he was "wasting his ambitions on hobbies." I asked him, "Why do you feel that way? When I run, I never feel like it's a waste of time." It was a great question that made both of us pause and think.

Then I realized: our true hobbies are the ones that money cannot accelerate. If you can use money to significantly speed up the process or the results, it’s not really a hobby; it’s more like a game. A genuine pursuit takes a lifetime. If you throw money at something and master it in two years, it lacks that depth. For me, running transcends a mere pastime—it elevates to the level of life's meaning. It is deeply important to me.

In that brief moment when I was moved to tears at the finish line, I felt that my running was incredibly meaningful. It provided an emotional peak so overwhelmingly high that rational thought could no longer contain it, and it just poured out.

This reaffirmed a personal theory of mine: the height of your happiness is directly proportional to the intensity of your effort. Simply put, the more you invest, the greater the joy you receive. I firmly believe this. If you don't put in the effort—like mindlessly scrolling through short videos—you might feel a fleeting sense of pleasure, but you will never reach a true emotional high because there is no sense of investment. That moment of crying was one of the highest emotional peaks I've experienced in years, and it made every step worth it.

A Cliché Quote for the Cameras

Because I was crying, the finish-line host immediately seized the moment, assuming there was a great story behind my tears. He approached me and asked, "I see you're emotional. Do you have a story you'd like to share with us?"

I felt like I should have said something profound. I am usually quite articulate. I could have said something like:

● "The journey is the reward. The joy of this race isn't the finish line, but the training itself."

● "There are no miracles in running, only accumulation."

● Or even better, "Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional."

I had plenty of these inspirational quotes ready and should have used one to move the audience.

Instead, to my own embarrassment, I blurted out something incredibly cheesy: "Wife, I love you." As soon as the words left my mouth, I cringed at how cliché it sounded. I suppose my prolonged state of hallucination on the trail had my mind fixated on my family's instructions. They are always concerned for my safety in these extreme sports, requiring me to send a photo from every checkpoint just to prove I am still alive. So, those words just slipped out. But in hindsight, it definitely wasn't cool.

（Me in the pouring rain.）

The Dark Night and the Brutal Rain

Let me share a bit more about the sheer physical toll of the race.

My first major struggle was the torrential rain. Around the 87-kilometer mark at the "Snow Ruyi" venue, we had what we call a drop-bag station. Any race of 100 kilometers or more will have these stations where you can access fresh gear. It is a critical checkpoint.

I arrived there at 8:00 AM, right in the middle of a massive rainstorm on the mountain. The rain was unimaginably heavy and simply wouldn't stop. The winds were fierce, the fog was dense, visibility was near zero, and it was freezing. I vividly remember being so cold and unable to find a dry place to change that I just sat in the mud and pulled on my waterproof pants. I couldn't think about anything else; I was just freezing. Thank goodness I packed those pants—they saved my life. It was sheer torture.

Another major challenge was my lack of sleep prior to the race. I had only slept for about six hours. Initially, I thought that was manageable, but I really should have rested more. In the freezing rain, that sleep deprivation hit me hard, severely diminishing my mental and physical willpower. My only thought was, "I need to sleep." But out there in the storm, it was a deeply agonizing experience.

The Ultimate Tug-of-War: Should I Quit?

At the drop-bag station, I hesitated. You are only allowed 40 to 45 minutes there before you must leave, or you face disqualification. I am usually a decent runner and have never been close to a cutoff time, but this time, I was less than 50 minutes away from being timed out. Sitting on the ground, I kept asking myself, "Should I drop out? Should I quit?" I was only halfway done, and I was already in terrible shape.

I didn't quit at that point, and the reason was surprisingly simple. Last year, I dropped out of a race at the 100-kilometer mark. After a brutal, steep climb, my confidence was entirely shattered. I felt utterly exhausted, and having never completed a 100-miler before, I convinced myself I couldn't survive the rest of the course. I rationalized my decision by telling myself it wasn't a lack of willpower, but a physical necessity to prevent injury.

Looking back, however, I realized I could have pushed a little further safely. When I quit last year, I wasn't actually injured; I was just deeply fatigued.

So this year, I promised myself I wouldn't give up so easily. I decided I would push through until I truly reached my absolute physical limit, and only then would I drop out without hesitation. I still never want to risk serious injury, but I needed to get past that mental block. I pushed through that low point, and thankfully, things did improve later on.

No miracles in running, only accumulation 🏃🏻

This 100-mile race left me with far too many emotions and reflections.

To be continued... Next time, I will talk about running the line between reality and the bizarre hallucinations on the trail.