Tag: trail run

I was listening to a podcast about how the lizard brain is still inside us. It developed first, and the larger brain grew from there. The lizard brain can’t speak, and it’s primal. Since it doesn’t communicate with words, it needs basic things and operates on a simple level with less complexity. I started wondering if there’s a better way to live—one that caters more to that lizard brain—in an attempt to make life simpler, be happier, and reduce anxiety or depression. After all, anxiety and depression are often byproducts of a brain that tries to live in the future or ruminate on the past.

So, what does this lizard brain need? Let’s get real basic with it. The lizard needs sunlight, connection with other lizards, natural and simple food, the ability to run from predators, rest, and the chance to do it all again. When you put it like that, it all sounds so simple! The problem is that when this lizard starts interacting with things unnatural to its basic, primal needs, it begins to suffer. The lizard doesn’t care about what car it drives or its social status—it just uses its feet to get from point A to point B. The lizard doesn’t care what its house looks like or what clothes it wears—it’s always butt naked!

Remember, we’re only focusing on basic survival and self-preservation needs here. I’m not trying to add any unnecessary complexity. The lizard just wants to see tomorrow, maybe find a mate, and, if it’s lucky, see some offspring. So, what do I need to give it, day after day, to make sure it keeps moving forward?

As I dug into this idea more, I realized that the lizard brain is always in the moment. It can’t handle an abundance of time—it’s not sitting still long enough to catch the latest episode of its favorite TV show. If it did, it would get eaten.

When I’m running ultras, I feel like I go into lizard brain mode. I’m running from predators, I’m fueling, and I’m just being present in the mile and the moment. I try to force my brain back to simpler times. During a race, there are always unknowns, and the advanced brain doesn’t like that. But the lizard brain thrives in simplicity—it understands clear actions and conditions. The lizard brain wants training it’s seen before, food it’s eaten before, and even shoes for its lizard feet that it’s used before. The lizard brain doesn’t like “new.” It fears the unknown.

To thrive, the lizard brain needs simple, day-to-day living. Run the lizard. Feed the lizard real, alive food. Move the lizard. Get the thinking out of it. The lizard only worries about today—not the past or the future. It takes action on what it can control, not on what Sally the lizard receptionist in accounting thinks about it. Complexity kills—in design, in training, and in making life reproducible.

The lizard brain evolved in the wild, in the forest—not in the city. It needs to get back to nature. Feeling the sun, wind, rain, and dirt connects the lizard runner back to its primal instincts. It thrives in its original environment, where it can roam in wide-open spaces.

The lizard also loves to struggle with its support network of other lizards, training with others who are doing the same thing. The camaraderie of enduring difficult challenges together strengthens bonds and reinforces the lizard’s purpose. The cheering crowds, pacers, and aid stations during a race let the lizard know it’s not alone in this fight for survival.

The basics work for a reason—that’s what I’m saying here. We’ve broken away from simple daily habits that our brains need to function. Where can I remove complexity when it doesn’t need to exist? That’s the core principle of success.

The lizard brain also needs a problem to solve. It thrives on overcoming obstacles and is hardwired to conquer challenges to survive. The lizard brain doesn’t binge-watch Netflix. It gets out and does things. The trail is our survival scenario—a life-or-death struggle, both physically and mentally. This struggle gives the lizard brain a sense of purpose and validation.

The lizard brain wants one task—a single focus. That’s what ultrarunning does: it gives you one task, with the sole purpose of putting one foot in front of the other. The lizard brain can’t multitask, and anyone who says they can is just doing multiple things poorly instead of one thing well.

The lizard brain also pushes through pain. It actually loves pain as a feedback mechanism, using it as a tool to modify behavior. Pain tells the lizard when to slow down, adjust its form, eat more, or take a break. That’s a core survival ability: the ability to endure enough to see another day.

Above all, the lizard brain needs a reason to keep going. It needs a clear goal, like a finish line, where it can be rewarded. The lizard thrives on the satisfaction of being tested, pushed to its limits, and becoming something more than its current self.

So, the lizard brain needs its basic fuel, rest, safety, movement, connection, and purpose. Ultrarunning, in many ways, strips life down to these core elements and satisfies the primal brain’s instincts while aligning them with a modern challenge—with guardrails in place to keep it manageable. We might not like it, but it’s all very simple. I see this when I watch squirrels or other mammals surviving in the wild. This all runs through my mind as I sit watching out my window with my plethora of problems, while they live in the moment, just trying to survive.

I sit on my couch worrying about a future that might never come or a past that doesn’t matter. I need to get back to simpler times. Simple. How do I just make it simple? What would this look like if it were easy? That’s always the question to ask yourself.