There is a special kind of boredom that comes from listening to people talk about their dreams, so I’ll spare you. It’s enough to relay that I was being relentlessly chased by a rather large and ornery capybara, and that the incident was extremely trying. Then, a couple days later, I came across a passage in E R Dodds’s classic The Greeks and the Irrational (1951) that really made me laugh. Homer, or the bards he represents, clearly suffered from the same anxiety-inducing nightmare of being chased as I did – as we all do – because he describes an event in the Iliad like this: ‘as in a dream one flees and another cannot pursue him – the one cannot stir to escape, nor the other to pursue him – so Achilles could not overtake Hector in running, nor Hector escape him.’

Those moments of recognition across gulfs of time and culture are always affirming. No matter our differences, we’re all afflicted by the same dreamy frustration of trying to get away. But, as usually happens with the ancients, recognition swiftly gives way to strangeness. Dodds says that the Greeks often took their dreams to be messages from the gods, in which an authoritative personage is dispatched to inform the dreamer what’s going to happen or what needs to be done. Homer himself naturally became a common emissary, telling Socrates the date of his death and giving Alexander the Great some much-needed encouragement.

Given how demented dreams seem when reviewed in the light of day, I’m glad that they aren’t likely to be missives from the higher-ups. But it’s still a comforting thought that, regardless of how we interpret our dreams, all of us take a nightly sojourn into the phantasmagoric realms – and wake up wondering what the hell it all means.

It’s fun stumbling upon psychological concepts in unexpected places. I remember first learning about the Johari Window (an obscure framework for thinking about the limits of self-knowledge) in the Robert Galbraith novel The Cuckoo’s Calling (2013). It happened again the other day. I was enjoying the action thriller Nobody’s Hero (2024) by M W Craven – my middle-aged version of brain rot – when the hero Ben Koenig invoked the ‘Peter Principle’ – the idea that people tend to get promoted to the point of maximum incompetence.

Koenig is already a curious character for anyone interested in psychology. He has Urbach-Wiethe disease, which has calcified his right amygdala – apparently rendering him incapable of feeling fear (a handy attribute for an action hero). By dint of his training with various special forces, he’s also a repository of fun psychological wisdom, such as the Peter Principle, which he draws on to explain why the assassins have chosen to murder a bunch of mid-ranking infrastructure experts, rather than their superiors.

I checked it out, and the Peter Principle is a genuine concept that originated with a bestselling, semi-satirical book of the same name in 1969, co-written by two Canadians, the educationalist Laurence J Peter and the playwright Raymond Hull. There’s a simple logic to their idea – you keep performing well, you keep getting promoted, until you reach a managerial role at which you struggle and so you don’t get promoted again. Various studies have confirmed there’s a truth to the logic, at least in the context of sales, the military and academia.

I’m going to add the Peter Principle to my mental dictionary of psychological concepts – and use it as a reminder not to rest on my laurels. We can’t assume that the skills and knowledge that served us well in the past will be enough for whatever challenges we face in the future.

Outside work, I run. I love it, mostly – it’s my own form of mindfulness. But aching legs and bleeding toes are inevitable. So I was intrigued to hear the ultrarunner Courtney Dauwalter describe in a recent short film how she overcomes pain during a 100-mile race.

Research suggests that ultrarunners like Dauwalter have a higher pain tolerance than the general population. Perhaps their bodies are different, but it also appears to be mental. Dauwalter describes how her mind helps her push through pain. After hours on her feet, she explains, she enters her ‘pain cave’: a place where only mental grit is left.

What particularly struck me was Dauwalter’s approach when inside the cave. Initially, her instinct was to leave. Indeed, she quit her first 100-miler. But now she applies curiosity instead: she explores the cave’s walls, and expands them. ‘I put on my hard hat, I grab a chisel and I imagine going into the very back corners of that cave and just digging into the work,’ she says. ‘Each time I go in the cave, it’s getting bigger for the next visit.’

I find that helpful. Now, when running gets uncomfortable, I remind myself I’ve felt similar before, and survived. Through this, I’m reaching ever-longer distances, curious about how far I can go.

I’m reminded of an observation the novelist Haruki Murakami makes in his memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running (2007) – ‘Say you’re running and you start to think, Man this hurts, I can’t take it anymore. The hurt part is an unavoidable reality, but whether or not you can stand any more is up to the runner himself.’

You don’t need to run to find insight from these runners. In life, we all spend some time in our own personal pain caves, especially when stretching ourselves. Pain is unavoidable. The good news is that our tolerance can rise.