Day 1679
The Second Hill Is Where Life Happens
On a 2.4-mile run, losing $10 on the golf course, and closing the gap between who we say we are and who we actually become.
Yesterday, I wrote an article called Jesus Said Tell No One. In it, I confidently announced that I was going to win my golf match. Not might win. Not hopefully win. I was going to win.
Well, I have some unfortunate news for anyone who placed a wager on the Binmucker.
I lost ten bucks.
But before we get to that, I want to tell you about a 2.4-mile run I’ve been doing while visiting my in-laws in New Jersey. Because somewhere between struggling up a hill and laughing my a$$ off on a golf course, I think God reminded me of something important about life.
Life Is an Uphill Battle. Literally.
I’m a Florida boy. I’m used to running on roads so flat that the biggest elevation change I notice is the sidewalk. New Jersey is a different animal. There’s a 2.4-mile route I like to run when I’m visiting family, and I’ve started to realize it’s a pretty remarkable analogy for life.
The run begins uphill. Immediately. No warm-up, no gentle introduction. You’re just thrown into it.
Kind of like being born: you enter this world with nothing except the body and soul God blessed you with. If you’re fortunate, you’ve got loving parents, perhaps grandparents, people willing to help you navigate the climb. But even with that support, you’ve got work to do. Learning to walk, learning to talk, getting an education, figuring out who you are and what you’re capable of.
Some people go to college. Others enter the trades. We all take different paths, but we’re essentially doing the same thing. Climbing that first hill, trying to establish ourselves in the world.
And then something beautiful happens. You reach the top.
Suddenly, you’re 18, 22, maybe 25. You’ve graduated, landed your first real job, started making some money. You no longer need to ask your parents for permission to do things. You’ve got a little freedom, a little independence, and a whole lot of optimism.
And just like that, the road turns downhill.
Man, does it feel good.
On my run, that first downhill stretch is glorious. My legs loosen up, my breathing settles, and suddenly I’m moving with an ease that seemed impossible a few minutes earlier.
Then comes my favorite part: a little loop-de-loop that’s relatively flat.
I think a lot of people experience this in their twenties and early careers. You’ve got your routine, your friends, your income. You’re comfortable. You’re coasting. Life is pretty freaking good.
But here’s the thing about my run.
The loop eventually ends. And the biggest hill is still ahead.
The Hill That Makes You Want to Quit
After the loop, I have to climb back up the very hill I was so excited to run down.
Except now I’m tired.
I’ve already run more than a mile. I’ve done the hard part at the beginning, enjoyed the downhill, completed my little victory lap. And now I’m staring at the longest, most brutal uphill stretch of the entire route.
This is where Satan starts whispering. “You’ve already done enough Binmucker… You went for a run. That’s more than most people did today. Why not just walk the rest?”
And here’s the uncomfortable truth. Sometimes I listen. I’ve stopped on that hill before. I’ve negotiated with myself, justified the decision, and reminded myself that running a mile is still better than sitting on the couch.
Which is true!
But I’ve noticed something fascinating about those experiences. If I leave the house telling myself I’m going to run one mile, and I run one mile, I feel great. Mission accomplished.
But if I tell myself I’m running 2.4 miles and quit after one? I feel terrible because I failed to honor a commitment I made to myself.
I saw an interesting idea online today about the gap between what we say we’re going to do and what we actually do. The smaller that gap becomes, the more powerful we become.
Think about that.
Every time you tell yourself you’re going to do something and follow through, you’re building evidence that your word means something. You’re teaching yourself that you can be trusted. And every time you casually abandon a commitment because it becomes inconvenient, you’re teaching yourself the opposite.
I think about that second hill as the next phase of adulthood.
You start a family. Maybe you buy a house, take on a mortgage, have children, accumulate investments, advance your career. All these wonderful things that represent progress also introduce new responsibilities.
It’s funny. When you’re young, freedom means having nobody tell you what to do. As you get older, you realize the things you love most often come with obligations.
Your children need you. Your spouse needs you. Your work demands your attention. You’ve got bills, deadlines, and approximately 400 other things competing for the same 24 hours. Suddenly, that glorious downhill freedom of your twenties feels like a distant memory.
You’re climbing again.
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But here’s why I love this particular run so much. If you push through that second hill, the final stretch is downhill. The very same hill you struggled to climb at the beginning becomes your reward at the end.
Now, obviously, life doesn’t guarantee us an easy retirement or a permanent downhill finish. But there’s something beautiful about the idea that the discipline we practice today can create greater freedom tomorrow.
And when I make it over that final climb, knowing I kept my word to myself? Man, that downhill feels so much sweeter.
I lost the Golf match yesterday, but I won the day. My buddy Pierce and I played some golf, and I had been talking a BIG game the morning before. Pierce is actually a significantly better golfer than I am. But for whatever reason, we ended up playing at roughly the same level. I might have even played a little better than him, which I’m absolutely going to enjoy saying while I have the opportunity.
The problem was that Pierce seemed determined to narrate his own downfall. He’d shank a drive, mishit an iron, and announce something along the lines of:
Man, I cannot play golf to save my life today.
Meanwhile, the Jets, for some reason his favorite team, were losing. That certainly wasn’t helping the situation. And I’d be standing there telling him, dude, you have got to start manifesting better things!
Have the memory of a goldfish! You hit a bad shot? Who cares? It’s over! You’ve got another one coming.
Because think about what happens when you constantly tell yourself you’re terrible at something. What kind of expectations are you programming into your brain? Your subconscious is listening.
I’m not suggesting positive affirmations magically turn a 25-handicap golfer into Scottie Scheffler. I wish! Trust me, I would have discovered that cheat code by now.
But I do believe the stories we tell ourselves influence how we approach the next challenge. If you’re convinced you’re going to fail, it’s a lot harder to approach the next shot with confidence. And this isn’t meant to rag on Pierce. The guy had some good shots, too, and we were both having an absolute blast laughing so hard on the golf course it hurt. I just thought it was funny watching the contrast between our attitudes.
I was convinced I could win. He was convinced he couldn’t hit a golf ball. And somehow, we both ended up losing ten dollars.
So perhaps positive thinking isn’t quite the guaranteed money printer I was hoping for yesterday, but I still felt like I won. Not in some ridiculous participation-trophy sense. We lost the match. That’s a fact. I can accept reality without allowing it to dictate how I feel about the entire experience.
I won because we were outside on a golf course, surrounded by nature, drinking some beers, eating some golf course food, and laughing so hard at times that I could barely contain myself.
What more could I have asked for? I guess 10 dollars hahahaha.
Dad jokes aside, as I’ve gotten older I’ve started appreciating these moments so much more. In high school and college, hanging out with your boys was practically the default setting of life.
You saw your friends all week. You saw them on the weekends. You didn’t need to coordinate three calendars, arrange childcare, check work obligations, and negotiate with the universe to get everyone in the same place.
You just hung out.
But adulthood changes that. People get married. They have children. Careers become demanding. Friends move to different states. The same freedom we were so excited to gain when we became adults slowly gets exchanged for responsibilities we willingly take on.
And don’t get me wrong, I love those responsibilities. My family is one of the greatest blessings God has given me. But it does mean those afternoons with your friends become increasingly precious.
You start to recognize that another round of golf with the boys isn’t guaranteed. Another afternoon laughing until your stomach hurts isn’t something you’re entitled to.
It’s a gift.
And I wonder how many people spend these moments worrying about their score, their performance, or the ten bucks they’re about to lose instead of recognizing how unbelievably fortunate they are to be there in the first place.
Yesterday, I didn’t play perfect golf. Neither did Pierce. But I enjoyed the heck out of the experience. That’s worth considerably more than ten dollars (worth of sats).
Keep Climbing. Keep Your Word. Enjoy the Downhill.
I think these two experiences are connected by something deeper than optimism. On the running trail, I’m learning to trust myself by following through on what I say I’m going to do.
On the golf course, I’m learning that confidence doesn’t mean controlling the outcome. It choosing how I approach the challenge of each shot I get & how I respond on the next one when things don’t go my way.
You can keep your word to yourself and still lose. You can do everything right and still hit a terrible golf shot. You can climb an enormous hill only to discover there’s another one waiting around the corner.
That’s life.
Faith doesn’t mean God owes us the outcome we want. Although my 3 year old daughter prays like He does & it’s a joy to see. What life means is trusting Him enough to keep going, even when the outcome isn’t what we expected. Because as The Rolling Stones so nicely noted "You can't always get what you want, but you can always get what you need"
And perhaps that’s why the second hill matters so much. It’s easy to be optimistic when you’re running downhill. It’s easy to be grateful when your golf ball lands three feet from the pin.
The real test is what happens when your legs are burning, your ball is in the woods, and that little voice starts telling you to give up. Are you going to believe it? Or are you going to remind yourself that you’ve still got a beautiful life to live, people to love, and a finish line worth pursuing?
Yesterday, I told everyone I was going to win.
I didn’t.
But I showed up, played my best, laughed with my friends, and came home grateful to God for another beautiful day.
And the next time I’m staring up that brutal second hill, I’ll remind myself of something. The goal is to become someone who can be trusted to keep climbing. Because once you hit that downhill the ride is pretty freaking sweet.
And apparently, so is losing ten bucks with the boys.
10/26/26
Conor Jay Chepenik
