At the Edge—and Still Moving

Daily miles: 33.04 | Total miles: 15,208.18

I got up early, had a hot coffee, and was out the door by 6:30am. It was a beautiful morning—but I have to say, the fatigue is real.

Yesterday and today have been mentally difficult. After more than 500 days of running, I feel the accumulated fatigue, the pain, the exhaustion—especially now with more elevation and longer stretches. That’s the challenge. And I knew it would come.

But I also know it’s hard to imagine what that really feels like from the outside.

There are days when I’m moving right at my limit—physically and mentally. And interestingly, those are the days that teach me the most. How the mind works. How it negotiates. How it finds a way to keep the body moving when everything says stop.

I don’t talk about this part often. So it’s easy to assume everything is smooth. And in many ways, it is—but there is also struggle. I don’t need advice or pity. I just want to be honest about it. This is part of what it means to move 30 miles a day for over 500 days.

One thing that would help: more sleep.

Still, I’m here. And I’m moving.

The landscape this morning was magical. A quiet Sunday, almost no traffic. Just me, the road, and the valley slowly waking up. The light was soft, the air still, and for a while, everything felt very calm despite the fatigue.

Around mile five, I passed through Möderbrugg, where a group of people was gathering for breakfast. We exchanged a few words—simple, friendly, enough to shift something inside me.

A bit later, I passed a field of cows. One came toward me—and then all of them followed, gathering at the fence. Curious, present. It made me smile.

At mile twelve, my sister passed me and stopped ahead. I was very fatigued, so I sat in the car for a few minutes. A strong, cold instant coffee. Loud music. Singing along. A small reset—but an effective one.

The road then climbed steadily. Not dramatic, but constant. One of those climbs that doesn’t ask for bursts of energy, just quiet persistence. And then, almost without noticing, I reached the top—around 1,200 meters above sea level.

From there, I ran down into the Murtal. My sister was waiting somewhere along the river. I still didn’t quite feel strong, so instead of resting, we stepped into the ice-cold water.

Kneipping.

Sharp, intense, almost shocking—but incredibly effective. The cold pulled me right back into my body. Awake. Present. Alive.

I continued downhill, focused on every step, making sure not to trip. These are the moments where attention becomes everything.

In Trieben, we stopped for a coffee and met Sonja and Günther. A bit later, Heimo and a colleague were waiting along the road. Then I met Siegrid and Peter.

So many small encounters throughout the day. None of them long, but each one meaningful in its own way.

The final miles required another push. Not dramatic—just steady, deliberate movement forward.

And then I arrived in Admont. Admont is world-famous for Admont Abbey (Stift Admont), which houses the largest monastic library in the world.

Bettina welcomed us—Herwig’s sister, or more precisely my grandmother’s sister’s granddaughter. We parked the buggy, and she cooked for us. Later, Heimo, her husband, came home.

Sitting there, after a day like this, I could feel both sides very clearly—the strain and the gratitude. The difficulty and the beauty. They exist at the same time. And maybe that’s what this journey really is.

Now, I need sleep.

Thank you for being here, Andrea