Over the long Labor Day weekend, I rode 50 miles of gravel roads up a mountain. Then another 18.9 on Sunday.

A friend asked me to join him for 50 miles of gravel climbing at Rebecca's Private Idaho.
He knew I'd probably say yes.

Not for a medal. Not to prove anything.
But because I tend to say yes to hard things that test me — and shape me.

There was no leaderboard. No KPI. Just dust, altitude, and effort.
It didn't "count" for anything in a professional sense.
But it did something important.

The effort we don't track still shapes us

In work, we're wired to focus on what's measurable. Revenue. Productivity. Outcomes.

Even in health, we track sleep cycles, VO2 max, and heart rate variability.

But some of the most meaningful efforts we put in don't show up anywhere.

Grinding through a long climb at mile 43, I wasn't thinking about pace.
I was thinking about why I keep signing up for things like this.

The answer?

Because they change me. Slowly. Quietly. Meaningfully.
They sharpen something that doesn't show up in any dashboard.

Challenge has always been how I grow

This gravel ride wasn't a new thing for me.
This kind of effort — voluntary, uncomfortable, inconvenient — has been a pattern in my life for a while.

I've trained in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.
I've done Muay Thai boxing.
I've run marathons.

Not to make a point.
But because these kinds of challenges are how I learn — physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Each one taught me something different:

• Jiu-Jitsu: patience under pressure

• Muay Thai: moving forward through fear

• Marathon training: consistency over time

All of them built the same core habit: Doing hard things that don't count.

Choosing discomfort on purpose

A few years ago, I read Can't Hurt Me by David Goggins.
He's intense. Vulgar, sure. But the mindset he describes stuck with me:

"You are in danger of living a life so comfortable and soft, that you will die without ever realizing your true potential."

I'm not trying to live at Goggins-level intensity. But I am trying to stay close to my edge.

And for me, that happens when I choose something uncomfortable — and stick with it.

Not for applause.
But for the adaptation.

The skills transfer — even if the activity doesn't

None of this stuff makes it onto a resume.
But it shows up at work all the time:

• Staying calm under pressure

• Thinking clearly when tired

• Pacing energy across long efforts

• Leading when things get unpredictable

The resilience I build on the trail shows up in Monday's meetings.
The patience I learn in training shows up in high-stakes decision-making.
The discipline of doing something hard with no external reward builds quiet confidence — and that bleeds into every area.

What's next?

Right now, I'm eyeing another challenge for next summer: The Last Best Ride in Whitefish, Montana (I'm looking at you, Todd Whitaker).

It's longer. Higher. Harder.
I haven't committed yet — but I'm thinking about it.

Because the further out of my comfort zone I go, the more I learn about where the real limits are — and usually, how far beyond them I can go.

You don't need a bike. But you probably need something.

Doing hard things that don't count isn't about athleticism.
It's about growth without an audience.
Effort without metrics.
Discomfort with no deliverables.

It might be:

• Journaling when you think you have nothing to say

• Hiking something that intimidates you

• Saying what needs to be said in a room that makes you nervous

• Practicing something before you're "ready"

• Mentoring someone, even when you feel stretched

It's the kind of thing that doesn't "count."
But it does something far more useful:
It makes you capable.

So what's your version of the hard thing that doesn't count?

I'd love to hear it.