When life feels like an ultramarathon

A camper that was born in a barn, kicking into high gear, racing Dad in the yard, the benefit of being equally yoked, and running an ultramarathon in the presence of a great cloud of witnesses

During each of the last ten days, Andy and I have consistently put in 12-14 hours of knuckle-busting, muscle-cramping labor. At the end of each day, after dosing up on ibuprofen and rubbing soothing ointments into our painful muscles and joints, we have fallen into bed and slept like the dead, only to awaken groggy and sore to get back at it a few hours later. The only time we stopped was to attend church on Sunday mornings. I don’t like to work on Sundays, but we did this time—twice in a row. Basically, we crammed three and a half standard 40-hour work weeks into the span of ten consecutive days.

Two years ago, my husband Andy and I purchased a 2010 Mitsubishi Fuso 4x4 and set out to convert it from a medium-duty telecommunications service truck to an overland expedition vehicle—so we can hit the road as nomads. What an enormous task it has proven to be!

Here are a few photos of the transformation, from me first hugging the truck on the day we bought it, August 27, 2021, all the way up to fiberglassing the habitation box today, September 25, 2023.

We named him Walter Mitsubishi. If you’ve seen The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, you get it. He has only clocked in and out of work in the past, dreaming of adventures, but they are coming. Oh, they are coming.

After we took the service body off, converted the dually wheels to super-singles, and beefed up the suspension, we were ready to add a habitation box of our own design.

In December 2022, we began building the habitation box (camper) inside the barn. The little barn’s bay door isn’t tall enough to fit the entire truck inside, so Andy created a sled of sorts—welded steel beams resting on heavy-duty wheeled dollies—as a base on which to build the box while the truck itself sat outside and waited. The plan was to work in the barn all winter and then roll the box out in the late spring or early summer, affix it to the subframe on the truck’s chassis, then set out to explore the world, learn from the people we meet, and be a blessing wherever we can. We installed a wood stove in the barn, split some firewood, and got to work.

Building the habitation box over the winter in the little barn, step by step

The interior walls are made of a lightweight honeycomb material with a glossy finished surface.

Andy designed every bit of this truck, down to this subframe to house the habitation box.

We wanted a color that was highly visible, friendly and approachable, and not easily confused with a military vehicle. Yellow was the winner.

Walter is ready for his other half.

Summer, however, came and went. Andy was working at a steady pace, and I was helping occasionally, in between writing chapters of my book, but the build was more time-consuming than we could have ever anticipated. Building a camper from scratch—all the way down to manufacturing our own panels for the walls—is not as easy as one might think.

We don’t want to snuggle in for another Montana winter, though, so we impulsively contacted a crane operator to come lift the box, ready or not, onto the back of the truck.

Ready?

Not.

When the crane operator called back and informed us that we were scheduled for September 23, we noted with some alarm that we only had eight days to get ready. First, we had to finish the electrical work so we could close up the box and make it structurally sound enough to pull out of the barn. Simultaneously, a buyer emerged for our cargo trailer and a big batch of tools, so we spent a whole day digging out, cleaning, and organizing things to sell as we continue our quest to narrow down our possessions to nearly nothing. Then we needed to cut away part of a hillside and bring in a load of gravel to even out the ground in front of the barn so we could slide the box out onto a fairly level surface. Next we prepared the box and the truck itself for the crane to join the two halves together.

It was crazy, but somehow, we got it all done.

It is hard to believe that big box came out of such a little barn. We are so glad to not be cramped in such close quarters anymore.

It’s a little disconcerting to see one’s house being lifted up and swung through the air.

After getting the box mounted to the truck successfully, we took a short nap (it had been an early and stressful morning!). After that, it was time to get back to work. According to the weather forecast, we had three days before the autumn rains came in earnest, and we still had to fiberglass the entire exterior shell to weatherproof it—including an entire day to dry and cure. Oh, and we still had to eat and wear clothing, so there was the standard shopping, cooking, cleaning, and laundry to do, as well.

I do not want to do fiberglass work, ever again in my whole life. Ever. Is that clear?

Each of the last ten days of crunch time has gone quite late. We have not eaten dinner before 8:30 or 9:00 each night. Tonight, we ate at 10:00.

We have worked on this project for more than a year already, but this last ten days, we shifted into another gear. It’s been a solid effort of racing to beat the challengers, one after another—the buyer of the trailer full of tools, the gravel delivery truck, the crane, and now the approaching precipitation—forecasted to arrive tomorrow night.

I grew up loving to compete in races, pushing myself beyond what I thought I was able. But this stretch has felt fairly extreme, even for someone like me, who has been a competitor for as long as I can remember.

While other parents let their children win little faux competitions, my own father beat me at every single front yard foot race for years. “When you finally outrun me fair and square,” he reasoned, “you will know you have accomplished something big.”

The first time I outran my dad, I knew I was fast. I challenged every kid who would race me, and I beat them all—across the park, across the quad at school, across the church parking lot. When I was sprinting, I felt nearly weightless, as though my feet barely touched the ground and the law of gravity did not apply to me. A rush of exhilaration flooded my soul. Just when my competitor thought they had a chance of beating me and strained to take the lead, I could shift into another gear entirely and float past them to the finish line, a smile upon my face and a lightness in my heart.

I relished running fast, but I struggled when it came to running far. I didn’t know I had exercise-induced asthma; I just knew my limbs felt like lead and I struggled to breathe—much more than the typical athlete should—if I had to run for any distance longer than a quick sprint. It held me back for years. I wanted to be a distance runner and couldn’t understand why it just didn’t seem to work for me.

Now that I have finally figured out the asthma thing and made adaptations so I could actually run longer distances, my joints are not cooperating. Middle-age aches and pains—one set after another—are keeping me grounded, unfortunately. Blah.

However, building this expedition vehicle and preparing to set out as full-time nomads has proven to be enough to satisfy my appetite for a challenge.

This past ten days has felt like a grueling ultramarathon, the kind that gains and loses thousands of feet of elevation and keeps racers going through the night, following the trail by the bouncing beam of their headlamp.

But we did it. Our travel rig is not finished, but at least we beat this particular push against the clock. The camper is mounted on the truck and the fiberglass has tonight and all day tomorrow to cure before the rains are predicted to come. We will install the cargo bay doors and tarp the other openings tomorrow. Sitting out in inclement weather will not harm our little home on wheels.

As is often the case when one crosses a major finish line, we are both exhilarated and exhausted.

This ten-day push has been all-consuming. But through it all, Andy and I have worked together as true partners, supporting each other and doing our best to spur each other on despite our fatigue. We have laughed, sung along to catchy tunes while we worked, and sought out ways to practically support the other when one seemed on the verge of collapse. We have each been able to fully exercise our strengths and use them to help compensate for the others’ weaknesses.

Like equally-yoked oxen or draft horses, we have pulled together—not apart—allowing us to move straight ahead toward a common goal. I am so grateful for this partnership. It hasn’t always been there, and it is far from perfect, but I am well-aware that this kind of pulling together is a beautiful thing to be treasured.

And, in addition to the partnership between Andy and me, we also have had a great cloud of witnesses cheering us on. When the crane lifted the box out of the barn, we broadcasted the event on Facebook Live. Quite a few people from far away actually tuned in and watched the slow-speed operation. They left little virtual hearts, thumbs-ups, smiles, and lovely comments. A few family members texted and called, cheering for us and congratulating us on a job well-done. Our overland community on Instagram (@nomadic.midlife) has been full of well-wishes and encouragement as we have updated our progress.

Knowing people are cheering for us—even from far away—helps so much, doesn’t it? Distance racers of all sorts often speak of the buoying effect of cheering spectators along the route. It’s just so nice to know someone is noticing our struggles, right?

There is indeed a race set out before us, and it is bigger than ten crazy days of working on a camper build. Contrary to the carefree, euphoria -inducing, parking lot sprints of my youth, this larger race of life is generally run in a low and slow gear—like an ultramarathon. Life is an endurance event, not a sprint, but that doesn’t mean it is without joy along the course of the journey. Having a partner pulling in the same direction helps. Having a great (or even small) cloud of witnesses cheering us on helps, too. Having a purpose, a focus, helps the most.

I pray that we will daily lay aside the weights that slow us down, and the sin that so easily entangles us, and run with endurance the race set before us—whatever that might look like for each of us—keeping our eyes focused on the example of Jesus.

If you want to know more about this Jesus stuff I keep writing about, I would be happy to discuss it with you, friend. Or perhaps you are trying to run with endurance in a particularly challenging section of your race, too. Perhaps it feels overwhelming and impossible, maybe even unfair—no one should have to go through the things you are facing. I don’t know your circumstances, but I know that feeling, for sure. I hope you can allow yourself to rest. Each day we get a fresh start. I’m here to cheer you on.