November 5, 2022
As I strolled slowly through the dark, humid streets of Manhattan with my dad, I thought about what I had just experienced. Months of training, discipline, sweat, and miles upon miles of pavement had all led to today. I had just completed my first New York City Marathon, largely due to my new friend Matt who helped me finish the last 5 miles of the race after I cramped up in the Bronx.
“I think I want to do it again,” I remember telling him that night.
“Go for it,” he replied.
September 2023
While training for the 2022 New York City Marathon, my favorite route was along Lake Washington Blvd, a long road which hugs the contours of the lakeshore, with beautiful views of Mt. Rainier (and late afternoon shade). As I’m writing this, I can visualize each imaginary mile marker along the way. It’s where I learned to push myself physically (and mentally), and do things that I had never thought were possible.
The terrain is also pretty flat, which I came to realize while trudging up the Queensboro Bridge during the actual marathon. So in 2023, I found a new favorite route, one that loops around the backside of my neighborhood before meandering up a reasonably steep hill, and then dropping into the shade of the Washington Park Arboretum. As the weeks went on, I found myself going further and further into the park, making my way out onto the bridges and wooded pathways of Foster Island, and eventually across the 520 floating bridge and into Bellevue.
During a particularly long 18 mile training run, I remember feeling on top of the world. The water was calm and silky, reflecting the balmy orange glow of the sun that seemed to hang lazily low in the sky that morning. As I reached the summit of one of the hills on my way back across the bridge, my legs had found a rhythm, and warm thoughts bounced around my head.
“Maybe I’ll run all 6 world major marathons and write a book about it,” I thought silently to myself.
Yet a mere four miles later, as I entered the final mile of my run, I felt my quad tighten, followed by my calf. As I slowed down, my left leg fully cramped up, and my glorious training run came to a sobering halt.
I stretched my calf and drank every drop of water I had left, as I hobbled slowly down the block. After some more stretching, I was eventually able to jog the last half mile. Though when I finished, I remember feeling frustrated—frustrated that I had come so close to running what would have been my best training run to date. Frustrated that I had put in so much work and yet it still wasn’t enough. Frustrated that I was trying to run another marathon and seemingly failing.
It took me a few days (and a good conversation with my therapist), but I later recognized that I was choosing to ruminate on the last .7 shitty miles that I walked, instead of acknowledging the 17.3 incredible miles that I had run. It was at that moment that my relationship with running would change forever.
When I decided to run NYC again, I initially wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. I wanted to beat my time from 2022. And I think if I’m really honest with myself, I wanted other people to know that I could do it too. But that particular training run changed all of that for me.
I realized that unless you’re a professional athlete, no one cares about your time. The only person that cared was me. And when I let go of that fallacy, it was then I fell in love with running. It was then I started genuinely looking forward to long runs by myself, and what I might learn along the way. It was then I admitted to myself that what I was doing was hard. Or as the famous ultramarathoner David Goggins says, “uncommon.”
Training for a marathon is challenging. In fact, it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, both physically and mentally. Though there’s a certain rush I experienced when training for my first marathon that takes work to replicate the second time. During the first time around, as each long run got longer, it represented a new milestone. Each additional mile was uncharted territory. I remember reaching the last bit of a long run and thinking to myself that I had never run this far, for this long, ever before.
Training for my second marathon meant that I was doing those hard things again, but without the novelty of the first time. There is some comfort in knowing that I had been there before. That if I could do this once, certainly I could do it again. But I’d be lying to myself (and anyone reading this) if I didn’t admit that, on more than one occasion, I questioned why I was doing this again. Though each time I questioned my decision, I found a way to keep going. Adrenaline is one hell of a drug, but sometimes self-compassion is even more effective.
August 2023
I woke up a little groggy the morning after Caleb and Julie’s wedding, determined to get my 12 mile run in before everyone was going to Hood River, OR that afternoon. A smoky haze filled the warm air of the Columbia River Gorge, as I pulled myself together and headed out the door in search of a nearby trailhead, which I had been told was “part of the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) and good for running.” I found the rocky trailhead and started up what I assumed would be a small hill. More than 4 miles later, I was still climbing, had somehow completely missed the turnoff for the waterfall, and the air quality had gotten considerably worse, so I turned around and decided to take a couple laps through town.
While its name is derived from an ancient land bridge that stretched across the Columbia River as a result of a landslide, the current Bridge of the Gods is where PCT hikers walk from Oregon and into Washington, the final US state on the trail. The bridge was conveniently just outside of town, and is free to cross on foot, so I decided that I’d do just that.
As I trotted out onto the metal grating, I noticed that the gaps in the metal were bigger than I anticipated. So as the rocky hillside sloped away and the wind began to pick up, I found myself staring past my toes (all 11 of them), straight down 100 or so feet into the dark blue river. Maybe it was the height. Maybe it was being 8 miles into a hot, grueling run. But whatever the reason, I felt a little uneasy, so I stopped and grabbed the guardrail. I froze and then turned around, jogging back to safety. Though as soon as I reached solid ground, I stared back at the bridge, not knowing when, or if, I’d ever have the chance to run across it again. So without another moment of hesitation, I started running back out across bridge, keeping my eyes locked on the other side of the valley, suddenly repeating a phrase that has since become my running mantra:
“If I can do this, I can do anything.”
As I reached the other side, I was elated. It felt like a small victory, but small victories are exactly what you need to finish a marathon. I ran down the road for a bit and then turned around to cross the bridge one more time, though this time I did it with a big smile on my face (and even stopped to take some photos from the middle).
Whether it's training for a marathon or learning how to do something new, the process of going through it helps you strip away what’s not important. That day I certainly did not run my fastest, but that’s not what matters. What matters is that I showed up, not only for the run, but for myself.
January 2023
“Well, here goes nothing—again,” I chuckled to myself, as I submitted my application for the 2023 New York City Marathon.
In the months that followed, I was in the gym often, ate healthier, and developed a long run nutrition plan (which thankfully, would not accidentally include vaseline this time). I invested in lighter, faster running shoes. I let go of external motivations, and fell in love with running. In the week leading up to the marathon, even the weather, one of the only factors of which I had zero control, looked to be much cooler and less humid than last year. I felt happier, more confident, and ready for whatever the 2023 New York City Marathon was going to throw my way. Or so I thought.
November 5, 2023
“Good luck man. I love you,” my brother Sam said, as he laced up his running shoes, gave me a hug and slipped out the door of our hotel room. I technically had another hour before I needed to leave to catch my ferry to Staten Island, so I laid still in the cool, dim room, though I don’t think I ever did fall back asleep.
I had waited a whole year for this moment, and it was finally here. Though waited is probably the wrong word—I prepared an entire year for this moment.
I didn’t feel anxious. I felt ready. So I hopped up and started pulling my things together. When I arrived at the ferry dock in Midtown, the line was much longer than last year, so I took my spot and waited. As it turned out, I was in the wrong line, and my ferry was about to board, so I shuffled lines and found myself chatting with two women, each of whom was about to run her first marathon.
Having been in their shoes last year, I could empathize with their nerves, so I calmly answered all of their questions, explained what would happen after the ferry ride, how much downtime we’d have before the starting line, and how to ensure that they get in the correct corral (which some of you may remember, I did not do last year). At some point, one of the women, Izzy, asked if she could pace with me for a couple of miles, so that she didn’t start too fast.
“Absolutely,” I replied, “You’re welcome to stay with me for as long or as little as you’d like.”
Once we got off the ferry, and onto the bus, and back off the bus, and through security, we made our way into the Team for Kids tent just as the earlier group had finished stretching and was about to head out to the corrals.
I spotted my brother and walked over to give him a big hug.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you too,” he replied, as he put his hat and sunglasses on, “We got this.”
When it was finally our turn to head to the starting line, I strolled calmly to the corral, and up onto the bridge with my new friends. The cellphone service in the start village is worse than terrible, but just before the race started, as I was putting my phone into my running belt, a single text message from my brother came through.
“This is for you,” it read. The same words I had shouted at him last year as he jogged down the street in Williamsburg next to me.
The starting cannon boomed, the familiar words of Frank Sinatra’s “Theme from New York, New York” blared through the speakers across the bridge, and with that, we were off.
Part of my plan this time was to start slower, so Izzy and I climbed the Verrazano-Narrows bridge at a steady, moderate pace, taking in all of the views, before descending into Brooklyn. At some point in Brooklyn, Izzy declared that she was just going to stick with me for as long as she could, and honestly I welcomed the company.
I did nearly all of my training runs alone, so it felt different running with someone, but I enjoyed it. There were miles where we didn't say a word, and others where we chatted the whole time. Sometimes we were reminding each other to slow down when climbing hills, or strategizing water stops. Other times we were laughing at a funny sign, or hollering at our respective friends and families.
As we reached Williamsburg, and neared the halfway point, I spotted my parents and my friends, Will and Jez, which gave me a little boost. My legs felt strong. My pace was consistent. And my body felt good. However, I felt a little nervous as the Queensboro bridge drew nearer. As we started to climb the bridge, one of the toughest parts of the course, and where I first started to cramp up last year, I silently reminded myself that I was ok—that if I can do this, I can do anything.
Sure enough, we crested the bridge, and gradually trotted down towards the “wall of sound” on First Ave in Manhattan. I had done it, I made it further than I did last year without any incidents, and I was feeling great.
“Are we almost to the Bronx?” Izzy asked. I glanced up at the nearest intersection, only to see that we had about 50 blocks to go.
“Kind of,” I chuckled, and made conversation to take her mind off of counting street signs.
A couple miles later, we reached the Bronx and while the man from last year wearing a puffy jacket while shouting on Instagram Live, was nowhere to be seen, something else was also different. My legs didn’t crumble. In fact, I ran right past the spot where Matt had ever so kindly offered me help. My body had never run this far without cramping up, and as we exited the Bronx, my legs felt sturdy.
“Can we slow down for a little bit?” Izzy asked.
“Of course,” I replied, hoping that we’d run into my friend Reilly and her banana stand soon enough.
A few minutes later, around mile 23, Izzy said she needed to pull over for a moment, and just as we neared the sidewalk, her legs completely cramped up. She yelled out in pain, as random strangers ran over to help. At one point, I was holding her up, while random women stretched her legs, and gave her salt tabs and gatorade. A police officer offered to call an ambulance, to which Izzy declined.
“No,” she said defiantly, “I want to finish this race.”
My friend Matt had finished hours ago, having been invited to run with the Good Morning America hosts’ relay team in the front of the pack, so I texted him, asking if any volunteers on the course could bring us some biofreeze.
“I’ll see what I can do, but you’re running a great race. Don’t be a hero,” he replied.
“You don’t understand. I’ll explain later,” I shot back and put my phone away.
“Just leave me, I don’t want to ruin your time,” Izzy pleaded through her tears.
According to my watch, I was on pace to beat my time from last year by an hour.
“No,” I said, “I’m not leaving you. As long as we can get you walking, I’m going to make sure you finish this race.”
I had quite literally been in Izzy’s shoes last year, and I wouldn’t have finished that race without Matt’s help. When I crossed that finish line last year, I was determined to run New York City again and do it faster. And for the first 23 miles of this race, I had done just that. In the first 23 miles, I had proved what I needed to prove to myself. So these last 3.2 miles were for Izzy to prove to herself that she could finish a marathon.
Once she was able to stand and we started walking, I could empathize with all of the different emotions she was probably feeling. I remember feeling a sense of shame, as I walked those last few miles through Central Park. But I now know that shame is the last thing that anyone even attempting a marathon should feel, so I tapped into my swim coach roots, and just started encouraging her as best I could. Not only was Izzy in my shoes from last year, but I was now in Matt’s.
At mile 25, we finally found some biofreeze, which allowed Izzy to start jogging. Her eyes were locked straight ahead, focused on each step, while I kept shouting words of encouragement. As we rounded the base of Central Park, we picked up the jog into a full on run towards the final straight away. And then just like that, we crossed the finish line together (10 minutes faster than I had done so in 2022).
Although we had to find our own biofreeze out on the course, as soon as we finished, Amanda, a TFK volunteer, rushed over to greet us and make sure Izzy was ok.
“Matt told me that I absolutely had to find you two,” Amanda said with a smile, “Also, congratulations!”
Marathon Sunday in New York City is one place in this very complicated world, where human beings are consistently at their best. Yes, it was a full circle moment for me, in that I chose to pay Matt’s selfless act of kindness forward, but that moment wouldn’t have been possible had Izzy not gotten up off the pavement and chose to keep going. I could not be more proud of this total stranger, and the courage and resilience that she showed that day.
After we got our medals, and took a couple photos, I sent Izzy what I wrote about running the 2022 marathon.
“Thank you,” she said, “For everything today.”
“You’re welcome,” I replied, “And if you read what I sent you, you’ll understand why I did what I did today.”
And with that I began weaving my way through the crowd to find my family on a nearby restaurant patio, where we took some photos, and ordered so much food. It was then, I learned that my brother had cramped up around the same place I did in the Bronx last year, but fought through it and still managed to run a great race. I couldn't be more proud of him! He said that he’s never running another marathon, but I’m not convinced—I'd love to share the course with him again. As we began eating, my phone rang.
“Hello?” I said.
“Congrats buddy!” Matt said, “So what happened out there?”
I recounted the race, and told him about how I had helped Izzy, after he helped me last year.
“You did the right thing. I’m proud of you,” he said, “But I think this means you have to run it one more time.”
“I think it does too,” I said.
After dinner I took the train downtown to meet some friends at a bar, and when I walked in wearing my bright orange poncho and medal, the whole place went nuts. You would’ve thought I’d just won the Olympics the way strangers were congratulating me as I shuffled through the crowd. But no, it was just people celebrating people (literally) chasing their dreams, one mile at a time.
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Thank you to each and every person that helped make this dream possible (again). Thank you to those who donated on my behalf to Team for Kids and/or cheered me on that day (both on the course and from afar). Thank you to my family and my friends for believing in me—I love y’all more than words can describe. Thank you to my running coach, Michaela—all of those offseason squats were worth it. Thank you to Team for Kids and New York Roadrunners for another incredible event—there’s no other day like Marathon Sunday. And Izzy—it was a privilege to run with you, and I’m so proud of what you accomplished that day.
As always, thank you for reading. It genuinely means the world to me.
I will be running the 2024 New York City Marathon on November 3, and was selected to be a mentor for Team for Kids runners this season, so if you’d like and are able to donate to Team for Kids on my behalf, please visit my Team for Kids donation page. I am so incredibly grateful.
