A startup is a great adventure. Especially in the planning stage.
Planning from the comfort of your home is like preparing for your next ultra race. You feel optimistic. Confident that everything will fall into place. Of course, it’s going to be hard—but you’re ready. You’re strong. You believe you can make it.
Then comes the launch.
Suddenly, you feel alone. You don’t understand why customers don’t see what you see. But you have energy. You keep talking to them. And nothing compares to the feeling of your first sale. Finally, someone gets it. Someone understands you.
In an ultra, that’s the first 10 hours. Just hard work. The finish line is far, but it’s still daylight. You can still see the horizon.
That horizon in a startup? It’s break-even. The moment you realize you’re no longer drowning. You’re at least floating. You can breathe. Survival feels possible.
Then comes the first night.
And nothing prepares you for it.
The discomfort, the cold, the solitude—none of it can be anticipated from the planning stage. In the race, or in the startup, it’s the same. You feel like you could die. Your mortality becomes real.
But somehow, you keep going. Not because you’re motivated. Not because you have a reason. You keep going out of discipline. You put your head down and hammer forward.
Eventually, the sun comes up. You’re tired, but happy. The worst feels behind you. You keep moving. Still far from the horizon—but you’ve made it through the dark.
Then the grind begins. You move like a robot—just continuing.
That’s when the external problems show up. Competitors start giving you advice—and you’re naive enough to take it. You follow the wrong trail. Now you’re lost. You turn back. A few weeks wasted. But you’ll survive.
Your machine starts to squeak. On the bike, it’s a loose crank. On the trail, it’s a slight strain in the Achilles. In the startup, it’s your logistics—understaffed, overloaded. You keep going, but it’s uncomfortable. You patch it with massage—or with more hours—but the damage is done.
You realize you’re behind schedule.
There’s a cutoff at checkpoint one—24 hours. In a startup, that’s cash flow. And you’re running out of it. You scramble to adjust—marketing, ops, team alignment. When you’re running, you increase your pace by 1 mph. In your company, every department tightens. But the pressure builds. Everyone feels it.
Your team starts to doubt.
This is when you start waking up in the middle of the night trying to solve the problems you couldn’t solve during the day. For some entrepreneurs, this is when they start taking pills. For the ultra community, it’s the painkillers.
Not me. I’ve never liked pills. I feel a close relationship with pain. It makes me feel alive.
Then comes the climb.
In the race, it’s the steepest ascent. In the company, it’s the hardest quarter. Everyone is stretched. Your legs cramp. Your team slows down. They stop saying “good morning.” Morale is gone. They want safety. You want risk. They want stability. You crave purpose.
You see checkpoint one. 23 hours and 40 minutes in. You don’t know if you’ll make it.
You arrive. But you’re out of cash. Payroll’s due.
You're done. Out of the race.
Some founders will reach checkpoint two. But for 90% of entrepreneurs, the race ends before the finish line—before profitability.
And then comes the aftermath.
In the ultra, you finish lighter. Your body hurts, but your spirit is intact.
In the startup, you might finish heavier—numb. Your soul hurts. The weight isn’t physical—it’s psychological. This is when some founders start antidepressants. Many won’t be able to stop even years later. The damage becomes permanent.
But some—like me—choose to look forward.
You stand in front of the mirror. You study what you did wrong. What you did right. You lick your wounds.
And then, you go again.
Because you only get one life. And there’s no point complaining.
You give it everything again—until you make it, or die trying.
So here’s to all the entrepreneurs—the truly free people. The ones who follow their own path.
The path is the way. And there is no finish line.
Duc in Altum.
—Alvaro Madrazo
