By: Matt Spaid
This story does involve extremes, but not for the sake of drama.
I pushed my body to an extreme point during this 100‑kilometer stand‑up paddleboard race to make something visible that usually isn’t: Operator Syndrome. For many people living with Operator Syndrome, the problem isn’t a lack of toughness. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Our systems don’t shut down when they should. We keep going, often well past healthy limits, until the environment forces a stop.
This race became a way to illustrate that reality in real time. The cold, the wind, the uncertainty, and the fatigue weren’t just obstacles to overcome. They were stressors that exposed how the nervous system behaves under prolonged load, and why preparation, recovery, and intentional stress management matter as much as grit.
It’s worth noting that this was my first official stand-up paddleboard race.
It’s also worth noting that I’m an adaptive athlete.
Many people assume adaptive athlete means wheelchair use or limb loss, but that isn’t always the case. The International Paralympic Committee recognizes ten eligible impairment types, including physical impairments such as impaired muscle power, impaired range of motion, limb deficiency, and neurological conditions. A peripheral nerve injury with a lasting motor deficit falls under impaired muscle power, as it results in permanent weakness and reduced force production.
It’s also important to understand that two athletes can share the same diagnosis and still fall into different classifications, depending on how that impairment affects function. An adaptive athlete, by definition, is someone with a permanent physical impairment who continues to train and compete by adapting methods, loading strategies, and nervous system regulation to maintain performance.
I am trying to compete, but I also have to be my own advocate. Invisible injuries like mine often make it difficult to navigate athletic and medical systems, especially when, on the surface, I don’t appear limited at all. I have a significant nerve injury that isn’t immediately visible, but it has left me with a persistent strength deficit on my right side…you can literally see that a substantial portion of my right pec is missing.
That kind of limitation doesn’t disappear just because you’re on the water. In sustained headwinds and long-duration paddling, unilateral weakness matters, especially when grip, pull, and stability are taxed for hours. Holding a paddle in those conditions is essentially like gripping a giant icicle for miles at a time.
I’m also relatively new to the world of paddleboarding. My athletic background is rooted far more in strength sports, particularly strongman, where performance variables are a bit more controlled and predictable. Transitioning into an environment-driven endurance sport added another layer of complexity to both preparation and execution.
All of this being said, I’m not trying to brag, boast, or take advantage of anyone with a disability. I have one. I’m simply trying to be classified as what I am. I’m not trying to game the system. I’m trying to be honest about my limitations and find a place to compete where those limitations are understood instead of ignored.
How the Day Unfolded
Before race day ever arrived, there was already a mental test.
The event had been rescheduled due to a winter storm that impacted much of the country. Training plans, logistics, and expectations had to be adjusted. Just as things reset, another Arctic blast moved in ahead of race weekend. The forecast once again brought cold, wind, and uncertainty into the picture…oh boy.
What made preparation even more difficult was how quickly conditions were changing. Just days before the race, I was out on the water paddling in my cold weather long‑sleeve Under Armour shirt and ended up having to take it off because I was sweating so bad. That kind of swing makes acclimatization extremely difficult.
It also makes planning confusing. Are these the right gloves? Is this the right footwear? Do I need these layers, or will they just become waterlogged weight? How much water is enough without overloading the board? Every choice carries a cost, and the environment ultimately decides whether it helps or hurts.
At least this time, the snow and ice weren’t coming down during the race itself, but the cumulative effect of delays, weather volatility, and prolonged anticipation added another layer of stress before we ever touched the water.
The plan was straightforward: complete a 100-kilometer stand-up paddleboard race down the Colorado River in the middle of Winter. Long, demanding, but manageable with proper pacing, fuel, and conditions that stayed within reason.
What actually showed up was something else entirely.
Cold temperatures. Sustained headwinds. Gusts that were later estimated in the 40 mph range. Shallow, rocky sections that forced repeated dismounts. Sections where forward progress felt earned inch by inch.
This wasn’t just an endurance event. It was environmental stress layered on top of physical fatigue and if you didn’t prepare, it would show.
I was grateful to get checked into a VRBO the day before the race, but the reality was that I barely slept that first night. After the race meeting and knowing I’d need to be up around 3:00 a.m., the second night wasn’t much better. I managed only a couple hours (maybe).
On race morning, I stuck to my routine.
I started with breathwork and mindfulness, wrote a quote for the day, and ran through positive affirmations. I wrote that I would do my best and that I would place first. I did some light rope flow and mace work to wake up my body, used the O₂ Trainer to warm up my respiratory muscles, and fueled lightly with smoked salmon, dates, coffee, and exogenous ketones. My stomach felt off, but this was expected due to the early hour and nerves.
Once we arrived at the drop-off location, things moved quickly and with some confusion. There wasn’t much time to warm up or organize gear. It was essentially grab your board, move down the rocks, and go. I carried the board down over uneven terrain, got what layers I could adjusted, and accepted that this was going to start imperfectly.
The race began in the dark at 5 AM.
I ran a headlamp and a deck light initially, but the deck light was angled upward and became more distracting than helpful, so I eventually shut it off. From the start, it was just me and Scott. I am assuming he was a much more experienced paddler, but more importantly, he was an absolute beast. I could not believe the speed, power, and stamina this man produced. Anytime I thought I could ease up, he would be right on my tail.
For hours, we stayed close, but eventually he flew off and there was no way to catch him.
For quite a while, one of us would pull ahead, then fall during a turn or in shallow water. The other would take the lead, only for the roles to reverse again. Falling in was unavoidable, especially in the dark. Shallow, rocky sections appeared without warning, and early on everything was soaked…warming layers, gloves, and gear. I should have just planned on dumping my board and diving in the water from the start.
The wind was relentless.
There were long stretches of headwind that felt every bit like 40–50 mph gusts. I had trained for this, and that preparation mattered, but it was still a gnarly grind.
Eventually, Scott took a different line through a section while I hit an extremely shallow spot and bottomed out hard. He flew past, and that was the last time we were together on the water. At that point, I decided to go ahead and chow down on some of the food I brought…and it was worth it.
I refueled, settled in, and focused on steady forward progress. There was still a long way to go.
Dexterity became an issue as the hours passed. I had to remove gloves at times to access food, but I’d pre-opened critical items like my ketones, which turned out to be pivotal. Exogenous ketones were one of the most effective fuel sources I had all day. About halfway through the race, a small dose of kratom also helped manage nerve-related discomfort from my injury and general fatigue without causing spikes or crashes.
Because Kratom significantly alleviated the pain from my nerve injury, I recognized the value of having it available in case of a flare-up. The stimulus effect also certainly wouldn’t hurt. This definitely helped me manage my pain and fatigue.
At one point, fairly early in the race, I realized my phone was gone. It had been left in a hoodie pouch during a rushed clothing change early on. Losing it meant no tracking and I knew my family might see my dot stop moving. At the next checkpoint, I notified the race coordinator. I originally thought my Garmin would still track me, but wasn’t sure (it did not).
From that point on, stopping would have meant stopping at a checkpoint or having a very rough night of survival waiting for a ride. I wasn’t planning on stopping.
Seeing my family at the final checkpoint was a major lift.
It wasn’t the encouragement from them that helped; it was knowing they knew I was okay. After losing my phone and having no live tracking, that mattered. I could see the trust and confidence on their faces, and that lifted a weight I had been carrying the entire race.
Apparently, they also yelled that Scott hadn’t finished. I never heard it. Maybe they were hoping it would be enough to convince me to turn around and call it there, but it wouldn’t have changed anything.
I didn’t come out to stop early or settle for a partial course. I came to finish the full 100K. I stayed moving.
The final fifteen miles were cold, dark, and quite irritating.
At one point in the race, I was unable to move my fingers. I knew that if I didn’t get my gloves back on, I would be risking frostbite. The liners had shifted and were difficult to work with, but I forced my hands back into the gloves to get them out of the wind. I had to try leaving one set out on my board in hopes that it would dry enough to allow my hand through, but that seemed pretty pointless.
Once they were on, I stayed proactive. I continuously squeezed each finger, worked to move them individually, and focused on maintaining blood flow and neural signaling. I did the same with my toes, consciously moving them, checking sensation, and keeping circulation going while continuing to paddle. I did this for the entire race.
That’s where my training in the Marine Corps paid off, as well as years of working as a Firefighter.
Years of operating in cold, wet environments taught me how quickly small problems can escalate if you don’t stay ahead of them. Managing exposure, conserving heat, keeping circulation moving, and staying task-focused under discomfort weren’t new skills, rather they were ingrained habits. That background made it easier to stay calm, make practical decisions, and keep moving forward when conditions deteriorated.
I’ve also spent years working as a firefighter, where waiting for perfect conditions isn’t an option. The jobs I have done teach you how to function when you’re wet, tired, under-fueled, and exposed. You still have to work. You still have to think. You still have to take care of the task and the people around you.
That perspective carries over directly. A lot of people struggle not because they lack ability, but because they’ve rarely had to operate while uncomfortable. We live in a culture saturated with convenience, and paradoxically that comfort is contributing to poor health and resilience. The answer isn’t reckless hardship, it’s intentional exposure to manageable stress. Getting outside your comfort zone, even briefly, builds capacity. Avoiding it erodes it.
In the final stretch, at least the last two hours, I got wet again and knew there was no chance of drying out. Temperatures were continuing to drop, and once that happened, the only option was to actively manage heat from the inside out.
For a solid two hours, I relied on dynamic breathwork while standing on the board to stay warm. Rhythmic breathing, controlled exhales, and staying mentally engaged with the breath helped generate heat, maintain circulation, and prevent the cold from taking over. I didn’t “rise to the occasion”; instead, I defaulted to the standard of my training.
Being able to do that under fatigue required mental resilience as much as physical preparation. Breathwork wasn’t a recovery tool at that moment. It was a performance and survival tool, and it made the difference in staying functional through the final miles.
Living and competing with an invisible injury is frustrating at times, but it’s also shaped how I train and prepare. I don’t get to rely on symmetry or ideal conditions. I have to be deliberate about strength, mechanics, and efficiency. I also have to earn every bit of output I can generate.
I had hoped to beat most of the darkness, but headwinds erased that plan. After another fall and a hard hit into a submerged branch, I was soaked again just as temperatures began dropping toward the 20s. For the last couple of hours, I relied heavily on dynamic breathwork, rhythmic breathing and Ujjayi-style breath, to generate internal heat and stay functional.
Near the end, my light failed or was knocked loose. For roughly the last ten minutes, I paddled in complete darkness. My fingers were too numb to turn on my headlamp.
When I reached the finish, I learned that I was the only athlete to complete the full course. My official time was 15:15:16, earning 1st place.
Like most long-distance efforts, it was never really about winning. It was a you-versus-you race and one that required preparation, restraint, and composure far more than brute force.
Gear Reality Check
I made some mistakes here, and they’re worth documenting.
I carried too much gear on the board. Once everything got wet, the board became heavier and harder to manage. Waterlogged items added drag and cost energy every mile after.
The gloves were another hard lesson. Once soaked, they became nearly impossible to get back on. Dexterity dropped fast, and wet gloves only made hands colder when the wind picked up. At times, I had to take them off entirely just to function. I had thought of getting a better set, but didn’t want to spend more money on gear.
What saved me was having a backup: mitten-style Gore-Tex gloves that could shield my hands from wind once paddling became less about power and more about survival. Thank God I brought those, or I probably wouldn’t be typing this with my fingers right now.
This race reinforced a simple truth: if gear doesn’t work when it’s wet and cold, it doesn’t work.
Fueling Under Stress: What Actually Worked
Fueling for this 100K wasn’t about perfect timing or ideal macros. It was about what I could physically access and tolerate once conditions deteriorated.
Early on, I had multiple options available:
- Exogenous ketones
- RX Bars
- Dates
- Energy gels
- Kratom (used sparingly)
As the hours passed, and especially once my hands became numb, that list shrank quickly.
Cold exposure and repeated immersion crushed dexterity. Anything that required tearing wrappers, fine motor control, or prolonged handling became difficult or borderline impossible.
Exogenous ketones ended up being the most reliable fuel I had once things got ugly. They required minimal effort to consume, were easy on digestion, and provided a noticeable lift in both energy and mental clarity when traditional calories were harder to access.
Energy gels and dates worked when I could get to them, but only intermittently. RX Bars became impractical later simply due to packaging and chewing effort.
I also had one key dose of kratom about halfway in the race, not as a stimulant, but as a way to manage discomfort that may arise from my nerve injury. Used intentionally and conservatively, it helped blunt the edge without creating spikes or crashes.
The key lesson was simple: fueling plans don’t fail because they’re bad, they fail because conditions change. It is extremely difficult to predict conditions for a 100k SUP race.
However, in cold, wet, high-wind environments, simplicity wins. I wish I had brought a lot less with me, but hindsight is 20/20.
Environmental Stress and Decision-Making
While this article isn’t framed as a survival story, it’s still important to be honest about the reality of the conditions. Many would not have survived an attempt at completing this race with the environmental conditions we faced, or they would have at least sustained severe injuries.
Cold water, sustained headwinds, repeated immersion, and long stretches of isolation create an environment where mistakes compound quickly. This wasn’t something that could be powered through on fitness alone. It required preparation, composure, and the ability to adapt under stress.
Stand-up paddleboarding is uniquely challenging because the environment is never static. Wind, water level, temperature, and terrain can change rapidly, and those changes directly alter performance. That makes gear selection difficult. What you bring can help you, or quietly work against you once conditions shift.
The key lesson from this race was simple: prepare to be wet and cold.
Anything that only works when dry is a liability. Anything that absorbs water adds weight, drag, and cost. I learned that what’s best isn’t to bring more tools, it’s to bring the right ones, and as few as possible, while still being able to function when dexterity, comfort, and ideal conditions disappear.
If those tools fail or become inaccessible, fundamentals take over.
That’s where strong roots matter: strength, power, endurance, speed, balance, breath control, and mental resilience. The ability to keep producing force, regulate effort, access fuel when needed, and restore yourself when conditions degrade becomes the real performance metric.
This is also why there aren’t many people who could have finished this course under those conditions. Not because they aren’t tough, but because they aren’t prepared for the full spectrum of demands that an unpredictable environment imposes.
That perspective isn’t about ego. It’s about respecting the environment, the demands of the task, and what it takes to operate effectively inside it, because Mother Nature doesn’t care “how much ya bench”…
After more than fifteen hours on the river, I crossed the finish line. There was no celebration at that moment. Just relief, gratitude, and the quiet understanding that finishing mattered more than winning. I also desperately wanted to get warm and sit down…
After Action Review
What Went Well
- Early mental commitment to finishing
- Adapting gear use as conditions changed
- Managing cold exposure under repeated immersion
- Maintaining forward progress despite uncertainty
What I’d Change Next Time
- Reduce overall board load
- Eliminate absorbent gear
- Improve wet-weather glove strategy
- Build redundancy into tracking and communication
Motivation and Bigger Picture
This race was never just about a first place finish.
Many of the people who come to Operation Antifragile arrive believing they’re finished; sometimes physically, mentally, or both. Injury, trauma, or years of accumulated stress convince them that their best days are behind them.
I don’t believe that.
I believe most people have never been properly shown what they’re still capable of.
“No man has the right to be an amateur in the matter of physical training. It is a shame for a man to grow old without seeing the beauty and strength of which his body is capable.”
— Socrates
Efforts like this 100K paddle are one way I demonstrate that message in real time. Not recklessly, not without preparation, but deliberately, with respect for limitations and a refusal to be defined by them.
Operator Syndrome isn’t about weakness. It’s about prolonged exposure to stress without adequate recovery, education, or support. When people are given the right tools such as strength training, nervous system regulation, recovery practices, and purpose, then their ceiling is often far higher than they believe.
I finished the full course in 15:15:16, taking 1st place and I was the only athlete to complete the entire route.
More important than the result is what it represents: proof that adaptation is not the end of performance. It’s often the beginning of a more intentional, resilient version of it.
A Call to Action
My hope in sharing this experience isn’t to glorify hardship or extremes.
It’s to raise awareness for Operator Syndrome, the cumulative toll that prolonged stress, hyper‑vigilance, and constant performance demands place on the nervous system. Veterans, first responders, and high‑performing professionals often don’t break because they’re weak; they break because they’ve been operating without adequate recovery, education, or support.
This is exactly why I built Operation Antifragile.
Through strength training, breathwork, recovery practices, education, and community, Operation Antifragile exists to help people rebuild capacity, restore balance, and realize they are far more capable than they believe.
If this story resonates with you, I encourage you to learn more, get involved, or support the mission in whatever way you can. Awareness is the first step. Action is what creates change.
I know there are people out there who are hurting and some who are quietly dying under the weight of unaddressed stress, injury, and isolation. I also know how to help.
If you’re able, please support Operation Antifragile and help me get the right tools, education, and support into the hands of those who need it most.
I know there are still people out there who are hurting, and that’s where my motivation comes from. I know that I can help them. As long as I have the ability to do so, I’ll keep showing up and doing my best.
Find the balance. Become antifragile.