09/23/2025
Now that the dust has settled and I’ve had some time to recover, I can finally put into words what this marathon meant to me.
The results first. I set out with a primary goal of finish the marathon and a second goal of sub-5 hours. I came up short on the second goal —finishing in 5:40:07. Out of 424 finishers, I landed 252nd overall (59th percentile) and 163rd among men. I was about eight minutes slower than the average runner. On paper, that makes me “barely average.” But in truth, I’m proud beyond words that I finished.
Because this wasn’t just a race. It was a fight with myself.
I’ve wrestled all across the country, stepped into the ring for kickboxing, competed in Brazilian jiu-jitsu, endured Spartan races, ran a ton of 5ks a few half marathons. Fighting and marathons are apples and oranges—but both are brutal in their own ways. Fighting is explosive, adrenaline-charged, and public. The marathon is the opposite: long, quiet, and solitary. Nobody’s cheering. Nobody’s watching. It’s just you versus the voice in your head telling you to quit.
I came into the race confident. I’d trained the hills, dialed in my fueling, practiced hydration and electrolytes until I knew my body’s needs. But life doesn’t care how prepared you are. An old hip injury flared almost immediately. By mile 5, I knew I was in for a war. By mile 12, cramps seized my quads and calves despite everything I’d done to prevent it. Every step was a negotiation with pain.
On the infamous “Out-and-Back” section of Ester Dome, I nearly quit. I even made peace with the thought of stopping. But something inside me refused—maybe pride, ego, stubbornness, or just the deep need to know what I’m capable of. More than that, I thought of my daughters at the finish line. How could I ever let them see me quit simply because I was “uncomfortable”?
Continued in comments…
