The Torn T-Shirt

A few people often ask why I always wear a torn T-shirt when I race.

It isn't because I don't own another one.

It isn't anything superstitious.

It isn't even about comfort (but it is quite a comfortable T-shirt to be honest!)

The shirt is a reminder.

 It reminds me that I arrive at the start line incomplete. I arrive carrying fatigue, nerves, hope, unfinished work, and countless imperfections. Like the shirt itself, I bear the marks of previous battles.

I wear it because it represents effort, not perfection.

There is something deeply honest about running an ultra-marathon. After enough hours, every mask falls away. Pace no longer matters as much as persistence. Ego becomes useless. What remains is character.

I honestly also wear it for cinematic effect. That battle feeling. Racing in it feels less like a competition and more like entering a battlefield—not against another person, but against complacency and the comfortable version of myself that would want an easier path.

Perhaps that is why I am drawn to the unknown.

The unknown is uncomfortable because it offers no guarantees. There are no promises that your legs will hold, that the weather will cooperate, or that your mind will remain steady. Yet it is precisely in that uncertainty that growth takes place.

If we already knew the outcome, courage would no longer be required.

I wear the torn shirt because it reminds me who I am.

Or perhaps more accurately...

...it reminds me who I am not.

The world encourages us to present polished versions of ourselves. We celebrate the finished product, the perfect performance, the leader who appears to have every answer. Success is often portrayed as arriving.

But I've never believed leadership works that way.

The torn shirt is a reminder that I am still unfinished.

Ultra-marathons have taught me something I could never have learned from a boardroom, a classroom, or a leadership textbook.

Eventually, every race strips away the illusion of control.

The body becomes tired.

The mind begins negotiating.

Comfort disappears.

The finish line remains somewhere beyond the horizon.

And then a question quietly emerges:

"Who are you when everything comfortable has been taken away?"

That question has very little to do with running.

It has everything to do with leadership.

Every expedition I lead, every retreat, every wilderness journey across Africa asks participants to enter unfamiliar territory. Not simply a new location, but a new version of themselves.

The unknown has a remarkable way of revealing what certainty conceals.

Perhaps that is why I keep returning to starting lines in a torn T-shirt.