Ten years on from my first ultra. Still chasing clarity, one brutal mile at a time.
Behind the Books #2
By Scott Evans
People often ask why Why Trail Running Became My Therapy. I used to joke that I was just trying to outrun my own thoughts. But the truth is, it’s not a joke. Not really.
After leaving the Army, I carried more than physical weight. The military drills routine into you—your days have order, your gear has a place, your mind has a mission. When that disappears overnight, you don’t just lose a job. You lose structure. Purpose. Identity.
For a while, I told myself I was adjusting fine. I kept training and opened a gym. I stayed sharp. But the cracks were there. Sleeping was out of the window. I avoided certain places, certain conversations and stopped talking altogether on some days. I wasn’t explosive—but I was bottled up. Always two steps away from snapping, or shutting down completely.
I knew something had to change.
What I didn’t expect was that it would start with a run.
Not some glorious ultra or charity event. Just a grim little shuffle along a local trail with a hangover, a bad mood, and no plan. I didn’t stretchpace myself. I barely made it a couple of miles before I stopped, drenched in sweat, gasping and furious.
But I noticed something:
I felt a little clearer. A little emptier.
Not empty in a bad way—empty like the noise had finally stopped for a second.
So I went again. Not every day. Not far. But I went. And something started to shift.
Movement Became Meaning and Therapy
Running gave me what the civilian world hadn’t: Rhythm.
Not the kind you plan in a diary, but the kind your body starts to crave.
Foot. Breath. Step. Step.
No email. No small talk. Just terrain and effort.
There’s something about trail running in particular that clicks differently. Roads are fine, but trails? Trails demand more of you. It asks you to pay attention and trips you up if your mind wanders. The trails hurt, but in a good way—like they’re beating something out of you that shouldn’t have been there in the first place.
That’s when it hit me.
I wasn’t just running to stay fit—Running was keeping me sane.
I wasn’t seeing a therapist and I wasn’t taking medication.
But I was clocking miles.
Miles that helped me process, breathe, and feel something again.
Not all veterans need therapy in the traditional sense. But we all need somewhere to go with the weight we carry. For me, that place was out on the trails.
The Run That Changed Everything
Ten years ago, I signed up for my first ultra.
Not a 10K. Not even a marathon.
An ultra.
I hadn’t even run a marathon before, but I just knew I needed a challenge—something brutal, something beyond myself. I wanted to test my mind and body at the edge.
And it delivered.
That first ultra broke me in all the ways I needed.
Physically, it was chaos—blisters, cramps, terrain that didn’t forgive mistakes.
Mentally, it was a war. But the strange thing is, I loved it. I loved the grit. The simplicity. The brutal honesty of it all.
There was no pretending out there. No false smiles. No polite conversations. Just the trail, the pain, and whatever truth you were brave enough to face.
That race didn’t just change how I trained. Thats Why Trail Running Became My Therapy
It changed how I lived.
From the Trail to the Page
I started writing Running on Empty not because people needed another running book—but because I needed to tell the truth about what running had done for me.
It’s not a guidebook and It’s not filled with top tips or shoe reviews.
It’s a story about what happens when you lose your identity—and how movement helps rebuild it, piece by piece.
For those days when you don’t want to get out of bed.
When the weight in your chest is heavier than any kit you ever carried.
And how sometimes, the only way forward is to move—step by painful step—until something clicks.
Writing the book felt like running that first ultra all over again:
Exposing. Gritty. Necessary.
And if you’ve ever felt like you’re stuck in silence, I hope Running on Empty offers something. Not answers. But maybe a direction.
Military Mindset vs Runner’s Mindset
There’s overlap, but they’re not the same.
In the Army, pain is currency. You grit through it, compartmentalise and harden. That works—for a while.
But running taught me the opposite.
It asked me to feel.
To slow down and to listen to my breath. Notice when I was angry, tired, broken—and not bury it under training or bravado.
That shift in mindset saved me.
Running isn’t about suppressing emotion—it’s about making space for it.
Not pushing it away. Pushing through it.
Final Thoughts – Why Trail Running Became My Therapy
I’m not special. I’m not the fastest runner, or the strongest bloke on the course. But I show up. I run when I don’t want to. And over time, those miles stitched me back together.
That’s why trail running became my therapy.
And that’s why I wrote the book.
If this resonated, you might want to check out the book behind it. It’s on the Books page.
Curious what else I write? Visit the official homepage for books, updates, and more.