Then there was COVID and a nagging injury that took me nearly 1.5 years to shake. I graduated college and started work. Then there was a DNS at CIM 2022 due to another injury.

There were a lot of things that happened between my last marathon a this one, but we’re going to focus on this race.

Race Recap

Pre-race

10 PM — Head to bed after a cozy watching session with Alexis.

1 AM — Woke up from hunger pangs; didn’t quite eat enough chicken and rice at Zocalo’s the night before. Had a bagel to curb my hunger.

3:45 AM — Got up at slightly before my alarm to head to the bathroom and start eating a pack of Belvita biscuits and a Honey Stinger Waffle while using the toilet. I choose to bring the AlphaFlys in the drop bag and wear a pair of Kinvara trainers to head to the race start. I pack my pockets with 2 caffeine and 4 normal Maurten gels as well as the salt tablet packet.

4:30 AM — Headed to the VIP buses to board.

5:00 AM — Buses depart for the start.

5:45 AM — Buses arrive at start; I disembark and head to the gym that has been set aside for VIP race preparations.

6:00 AM — I have a cup of coffee and chew through a plain bagel. I head to use the bathroom and am done emptying the tank at around 6:10 AM. I then proceed to begin dressing down and switching into race kit.

6:35 AM — Finally link up with David and Curly for warmup and bump into both Austin Mac and Austin Janisch during the course of the warmup. I do 2–4 strides. We see Kofuzi and David says hi.

6:50 AM — Warmup complete, we hear that the race start has been delayed by 10 minutes due to buses running late to the start.

6:55 AM — I head into the sub-2:50 corral and work my way towards the front, but I’m unable to get to the front as the press of bodies thickens into a wall in the front quarter of the corral. After observing the size of the field, I think that I should be able to push through the field in the first quarter-half mile. Oh boy, how wrong I was going to be. I take my first caffeine gel to get a head start on my nutrition/jumpstart my caffeine intake. I see Nick Bare from BPN in the field as well as notice Austin Janisch slide up alongside me.

7:10 AM — The race kicks off and in 20 seconds I’m crossing the start line myself.

Start — 5k

The number of people after the start is way more that I expected; I spent the first quarter mile weaving through the crowd at around 6 min pace and quickly realized that I need to change something or this first mile is going to be a loss. Luckily I noticed the sidewalk on the right is largely empty of runners and made a beeline for it. With that change, I was able to work the rest of the downhill to get myself toward the back of what I believe to be the sub-elite field. I know I’m in the right place when I see the leading woman in my group and finally settled in.

As the first few miles clicked off, I remember wondering if the pace felt easy enough to maintain for the whole race. I had been dealing with imposter syndrome leading into this race, finding 5:30–5:35 pace incredibly intimidating to maintain. That slight tension continued to lurk in my thoughts for the first 20 miles of this race.

5k — 10k

My strategy for nutrition was relatively simple; alternate taking water and electrolyte drinks on the course while taking a gel every 30 minutes. First water station at around 17 minutes meant the first one would be electrolyte drink so that the next could be water to wash down the gel.

While the field of runners was no longer a wave of humans at this point, there was still a steady stream of runners to continue to pass as we worked our way through the rolling hills of the Sacramento suburbs.

My main challenge was trying to find a group of runners to stick with; while I was able to steadily pass most of the runners in front of me, there were one or two groups I decided to let go of in the name of keeping the pace slower than 5:30. The most notable was this pair of Empire Track Club athletes that I swear were running 5:25 pace just to spite my search for a group. I did end up finding one or two friendlies along the way, including one legend wearing a white polo.

10k — Half Marathon

Getting to 10k meant I got my first sight of our cheering squad, which was a fantastic morale boost. Seeing Alexis with her sign gave me a smile a mile wide and watching Terry scream his head off that I was looking great helped beat back the pacing anxiety growing since the start of the race.

While I wasn’t my normal chatty self during shorter races, I was finding myself settling into the steady rhythm of taking water, eating gels, and checking my paces. I also found, to my delight, that the electrolyte drink on the course had been watered down to the point where I could take it every stop without worrying about it creating a clammy feeling in my mouth.

Another thing I remember feeling during this portion of the race was a blend of discomfort and boredom. The pace wasn’t so easy that I felt like I was flying, but neither was the pace hard enough to be engaging in its own right. Most of my engagement came from picking off people one by one.

As I began to approach mile 8, I started to notice people who had pulled off to the side. Some were stretching, others puking, and still others trudging along with a limp or an awkward gait. Some had stopped and joined the spectators, while others hopped out of bathrooms, only to return to the course at a trot. This, I realized, was only the beginning of the carnage to be left in the wake of the OTQ train.

Half Marathon — 35k

There is something crazy about coming through the half of a full marathon at a pace that was previously your best not only a year and a half ago. This surreal result combined with the excitement and gratitude at seeing the cheer squad at the half gave me an injection of speed and confidence.

This was happening. I was running 5:30s and could keep running 5:30s.

I didn’t feel like I was flying but as I scanned my legs, heart, and lungs I knew I wasn’t digging myself into hole either. I took my 3rd gel 10 minutes ahead of schedule just because I felt good. I also took the opportunity to stow away my gloves, as the day had warmed past the point where they were helpful for warmth or comfort.

Budding optimism aside, I remember a big low point at mile 15. I had just begun to notice the toll the race was taking and was beginning to question whether I could survive what was left. I was watching a NAIA runner I had been keeping up with slowly get away from me. Luckily, my legs didn’t much care for my attitude and carried me forward over the rolling hills, regardless of my doubts.

Then I started seeing teammates I really, really hoped I wouldn’t see.

The first was Brandon Birdsong, whom I had delivered his racing shoes not 2 nights before. He gave a short go get them and then I was past him, hoping he might follow.

He did not.

The next were David and Curly, the two of them in a pack as we rolled up on the 30k timing mat. These were my closest teammates both emotionally and in terms of pace and the two I dreaded to see the most. Seeing them here meant that their race was slipping away from them way too soon. I pressed forward, hoping beyond hope that they would follow.

They did not.

The final and most surprising teammate I passed was Brandon Johnson. This man was among our fastest and the only one on the team who was granted an elite entry with full bottle support. He was also the closest person with a real shot at the OTQ standard. Seeing him before mile 20 meant his race was coming apart at an all-too-rapid rate. He pushed me forward, telling me to stay relaxed and hold it until the last 10k.

I passed him and carried his words forward.

35k to the end

There comes a point in every race where I try to figure out what happens if I just run 6 or 7 minute pace to the end. I want to know how close or far from my goal I’ll be if the wheels come off and I have to crawl to the finish. It’s not my favorite coping mechanism; I imagine if I was braver that my mind would instead go the other way, imagining what might be possible if I reach out just a little further, just a little faster.

In this race, the math started with my first sign of cramping just before the bridge at 35k. Over the course of 10 steps, I felt twinges in both my left and right calves as they involuntarily protested the pace. I found myself in the frustrating scenario of having my legs giving out before my aerobic capacity or my body’s fuel stores.

As an example of this, I remember having enough breath and morale to shout UP AND OVER as my group crested the slope onto the bridge. Almost as though I could stave off mechanical failure of my legs with little more than brave words and bravado.

The final miles through the capital were one long game of chicken: how little could I ease off the pace and hold the cramps at bay? Luckily, my calves were able to maintain a pace just under 6 minute pace long enough to carry me to the finish.

There would be no kick today. Today, I would be ecstatic with crossing the finish line without stopping. I would be ecstatic with a 23 minute PB of 2:26:35.

I cried multiple times in the 30 minutes following my finish. I cried when I saw Alexis. I cried and screamed out in victory when I saw coach. I cried again when I saw Curly, and David, and Brandon. I cried some more when I called Ian to tell him I did it, I really did it. It didn’t feel real, whatever had just happened.

The thought of the past year of working with Terry paying off was incredible. The thought that 6.5 years after my first real marathon PB that I would turn around and drop it by 23 minutes was insane. That after 2 failed marathons at Boston and New York that this one would be nearly flawless would have been a dream.

If you had asked me earlier this year what I thought I was capable of, I would have said 2:35.

If you had asked me a month ago what I thought, I would have said 2:30.

2 days before? 2:27.

If you asked me after the race what I thought I could have done without cramps, I would have told you 2:25, or maybe just under.

Over the course of 2.5 hours, I shed years of accumulated regret and shame over the marathon. I had also qualified for every single world major in one fell swoop. Just like that, I had met and exceeded every single goal I had set myself since I started running marathons back in 2016. It is wildly disorienting to achieve everything you’ve been working towards in such a sudden and abrupt fashion.

That said, I still have goals I’m working towards that mean I won’t be done with running anytime soon. There’s a sub-15 5k waiting for me, an actually good 10k time, and 4 more majors to get to.

Acknowledgements

I’m incredibly grateful to my wonderful girlfriend Alexis for not only driving me to and from this race, and being my biggest cheerleader, but also for being there for me every step of this training cycle and all of my cycles to come.

Thank you to my coach Terry for seeing and drawing out potential I never believed I had and pushing me to believe that I can.

Thank you to my BCR teammates for the countless miles and workouts we have done and have yet to do.

Thank you to Will, my friend and rival, who inspired me to reach for sub 2:30 despite 2 years of on and off injury. If I can, so can you.

Thank you to Ian, my first coach and the original person who believed that I could.

There’s a story about 4 blind men trying to figure out what an elephant is. One blind man grabs the tail and proclaims an elephant is a rope. Another hugs a leg and declares that elephant is a type of tree. Yet another feels the ears and insists that an elephant is a fan. The final one grabs the trunk and exclaims how an elephant must be a pipe. The point is that none of them have the full picture and that surface details can only tell so much.

So why the random story about blind men in a blog post about a marathon?

There are always a lot of numbers when it comes to running. There’s your mile pace, your mile splits, gun time, net time, max elevation gain, net elevation, overall placement, gender group placement, age group placement, qualifying times, and goal times. You’d be forgiven for thinking that races can be boiled down by the numbers that make them up, and that those numbers tell a complete picture. I definitely have for every race that I’ve ever run.

We’d also be like the blind men; totally and utterly wrong, for numbers only tell a small portion of the story. To boil a marathon (or any race for that matter) down to the numbers is to ignore the far more interesting and compelling side of it: the story.

The Numbers

Finish Time: 2:52:19 (6:35 min/mi)

First Goal: sub-2:45:00

Second Goal: sub-2:49:36 (aka beat my old personal record)

Third Goal: sub-3:00:00

Overall placement: 602/52,700

The Story

I came into this race with what I considered a reasonable goal: beating my PR of 2:49:36. My coach and I felt that it was almost certainly going to happen when we considered my training for the past year and a half. I also still had a chip on my shoulder from what happened at Boston. “This time,” I told myself, “there are no excuses.”

And for the first 20 miles, that seemed to be exactly what would happen. All of my worries about pacing and the crowds slipped away as mile by mile I settled into my groove. I found myself making jokes and chatting with other runners (those willing at least) and was clicking through the miles like a machine. I felt strong enough to start picking up the pace around mile 17, and crossing the bridge into the Bronx (mile 19) felt like I had enough to kick it in for the last 6 miles.

At mile 21, I started feeling a little heavy, and decided to back off to leave enough to kick in the last 3 miles.

At mile 23, I just wanted to hold on to 7 minute pace, which would still let me just barely make my PR.

At mile 24, I’m keenly aware of how heavy my body feels as I run through Central Park. My form is holding but my pace is not.

At mile 25, I found myself looking at my watch and realized that I wasn’t going to make my PR by almost 3 minutes. I tapped a sign for a power up, but the paper mushroom did nothing to make my dizziness go away.

At mile 25.5, I walked 50 meters with some of the largest crowds around me as I tried to battle the dizziness that had overtaken me in the last 2 miles. I’m too tired to even get mad about it.

As I approached the finish, I find myself thinking “Oh good it’s almost over.” The crowd’s roar falls on deaf ears as I lean into a jog for the final 200 meters.

Needless to say, I’m not thrilled about the time I got at New York. Even after talking it over with my coach and other runners and deciding that my problem was nutrition, I can’t help but feel like I’m scapegoating yet again. I find myself confronting the voices telling me that LA two years ago must have just been a fluke and that maybe 2:45 really is out of reach. “Where’s the evidence to the contrary?” I ask myself, twisting the knife that’s up to the hilt in my self confidence.

And yet here I find myself, deeper in love with running than I’ve ever been before.

You can find my Strava activity for the race here.

Yesterday was hell. Bitter cold, heavy rain, and a strong headwind all converged to create the perfect storm for the 2018 Boston Marathon, and it absolutely destroyed me.

For a quick recap, I ended up coming in at 3:16:32, which is 7:30 min/mile. A far cry from where I planned on being (~2:45:00). I went out harder than I should’ve, swept up in the mixture of excitement and fear that came with both the race and the weather. I pushed hard for the first 3/4 of the race, and paid for it on the infamous Heartbreak Hill, where I was forced down to a walk.

I could go on about how cold it was, how scary it was to be hypothermic halfway through the race, and so on, but that wasn’t the toughest part to deal with.

I want to talk about the shame, frustration, and pain of the aftermath. I want to talk about dealing with failure.

I’m not happy with how yesterday went. I think back to the pain I felt in the last 8 miles, how I was reduced to a walk/jog and I want to hide in a corner. It leaves me both terrified and livid to think back on how powerless I was in the face of those last 8 miles, how scared I was that I might not finish, how scared I was I might not even make it to a medical tent if I did go down.

I was genuinely afraid I might die on the course.

After the race, all I could do was smile through gritted teeth as people congratulated me on “just finishing,” as if I was someone running their first marathon. What could I say? How could I convey the guilt and frustration of watching 20 weeks of brutal training slide down the drain from overexcitement and bad weather? I just nodded and said thanks for the congratulations, but I didn’t feel deserving of it.

This is normally the part of the article where I should tell people what I do to deal with the pain and frustration. Something to the tune about how we say things to ourselves that we’d never dream of telling any other person in a similar situation. Maybe a joke about how it’s no fun if you never mess up. But hell if I could tell you all what that lesson is, or how to internalize it, or that I’ve figured it out so here’s how to do it.

I don’t know what to do about it.

I’m still mad. I’m still sad. I’m going to be for a little while to come. I’m going to struggle to forgive myself for making the mistakes I did on race day. There’s not going to be any magic saying, no quick little trick that will help me get over it.

And that’s okay. Healing is a slow and painful process, and anything short of that is just band-aids and kisses over a long and deep wound.

Next up will be the New York Marathon in November. Until then, it’s back to the drawing board so that I’ll come back stronger, tougher, and faster than before. Here’s to tougher training, smarter pacing, and better weather.

Check out the Strava activity here.

My name on this list:

Abbott World Marathon Majors

This my current life goal, and here’s my plan to achieve it.

How does it work?

The concept is simple: complete all 6 World Major Marathons, submit your bib number, time, and year for each of the six that you completed, and they’ll send you the medal in the mail. You do not have to complete all 6 in the same year/within a year of each other.

Sounds easy enough, right?

6 marathons? I can’t even run one!

Trust me, this goal/project is a labor of love. I started running 3 years ago and have fallen in love with it since. I promise you that I’m enjoying this — just ignore all the gasping, wheezing, limping, groaning, whining, and crying.

So you just have to run 6 marathons and they give you the medal?

In principle: correct.

In practice: much more complicated.

The problem is not so much running the 6 marathons so much as it is qualifying for them. Simply having the privilege to toe the starting line can be a huge deal depending on what marathon it is. Here are the qualifying times in order of difficulty (note: these times are for me, a 19 year-old American male):

Chicago: 3:15:00

Boston: 3:05:00

New York: 2:53:00

Tokyo: 2:45:00 (See “Run as ONE”)

Berlin: 2:45:00 (Under “Fast Runners”)

London: $$$$ (Overseas entries cannot qualify by time)

So in theory, I just have to run under 2:45:00 at a qualifying marathon and it should be fairly simple right?

Not quite: as it turns out, in large marathons such as Boston, you often need to beat the qualifying time by a couple of minutes to be selected by ballot.

2:45:00? How fast is that?

It is a grueling 6:17/mile (3:55/km) pace that sucks your soul from you and leave you a shell of your former self. Personal comment aside, it’s quite a bit faster than where I currently stand.

Okay, well where do you stand?

Time for a bit of a humble brag: my current marathon PR (personal record) is 2:49:36 (6:29/mile), which I ran at the 2017 Los Angeles Marathon taking home first place in the Male 16–19 division.

My current plans are to apply to both the Boston and New York marathons in 2018, in the hopes that I can shave my time down to a sub 2:45:00. If I reach that goal, then it’s off to Berlin and Tokyo for me, barring me not being cut off because I failed to run far enough under the qualifying time. If I fail, then I’ll regroup and go again for 2:45:00 at Chicago.

And if that fails, well thank god for charity spots.

You can follow my training and progress on Strava.