Twenty Miles In
A disappointing marathon, meaningful moments, and the reminder to keep the long view.
Twenty miles into the San Diego Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon, I started walking.
In nineteen marathons, I had only seriously considered stopping twice before. This became the third.
The strange part was not that I was struggling. Marathons are hard. Everyone reaches a point where they have to decide how much discomfort they are willing to endure.
The strange part was that I had done the work.
I had trained consistently all spring. I had built my fitness. I had arrived at race day believing I was ready to run around 2:35 on a challenging course.
Instead, I couldn’t breathe.
My original goal was to run the Boston Marathon, but due to life constraints I was unable to make the trip. I shifted my focus to San Diego on May 31, adding about six weeks to my training cycle.
At the time, six extra weeks of training seemed like an opportunity.
I didn’t realize how much could change during those six weeks.
Since turning forty, I have experienced minor seasonal allergies in Boise, but they had never affected my running. I had never needed medication or had to adjust my training because of them.
This spring was different.
As early as mid-March, I started having days where breathing felt unusually difficult and something just didn’t feel right. My workouts continued to go well, so I didn’t think too much about it.
By early May, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Some days I felt completely normal. Other days I struggled to finish easy runs. I thought maybe I was sick, but the symptoms continued.
Around that time, I read that Boise had become one of the worst places in the country for spring pollen allergies after ranking much lower the previous year. A mild winter had created the perfect conditions for an unusually difficult allergy season.
Unfortunately, San Diego was also near the top of the list.
By the time race weekend arrived, I knew something wasn’t right.
I hoped it would improve once the race started.
It didn’t.
I made it through twenty miles at around my goal pace before everything unraveled. My breathing became difficult, my legs felt like they were on fire, and I found myself alternating between running and walking simply trying to reach the finish line.
All I could think about was getting to the end.
I knew I needed to finish to secure my qualifying time for next year’s Boston Marathon. At the same time, I wanted to quit badly enough that I almost convinced myself to step off the course.
Eventually, I crossed the finish line in 2:54:25, well under the qualifying standard for my age group.
I was relieved.
I was also frustrated.
I’ve had bad races before, but this felt different. I had done the work. I had trained consistently. Yet my body simply wasn’t responding the way I expected it to.
As athletes, we like to believe that effort guarantees outcomes. Most of the time, effort matters greatly.
Sometimes, though, circumstances outside our control have other plans.
I assumed I would be fine once the allergies settled down.
Five weeks later, not much has changed.
One day I will have a great run. The next day I will struggle through a few easy miles. After putting it off for months, I finally made an appointment with an allergist. My sister has severe grass allergies, and I suspect I may be dealing with something similar.
Hopefully, I will get some answers.
When I first sat down to write this, my intention was to explain what had happened with my running. I wanted to describe the frustration of a difficult race, the uncertainty of these last several weeks, and the challenge of not knowing when things would improve.
But the more I reflected on everything that has happened, the more I realized the story wasn’t really about running.
I had spent months focusing on the one area of my life that wasn’t going well while overlooking all the areas that were.
Three weeks before San Diego, while I was already feeling worn down, I had the privilege of celebrating graduation with many of my students and their families. Every year this is one of my favorite days. Watching students leave college and begin the next stage of their lives reminds me why I love teaching.
A week later, although I wasn’t feeling nearly as good as I would have liked, I was able to run seven miles with my friend and training partner Thomas from Tree City Track Club as he went on to win the Famous Idaho Potato Marathon.
A few hours later, I boarded a plane to Alaska to celebrate my nephew’s high school graduation. During that trip, I was also able to spend time with my dad. Looking back, the timing was meaningful. He had recently helped move his mother into long-term memory care, and our time together reminded me how precious and fleeting these opportunities really are.
Then came San Diego.
The marathon wasn’t what I had hoped for.
The trip was.
My wife, kids, and I spent a week in Southern California disconnected from our normal routines and simply enjoying time together. A few hours after the race, we were sitting on the beach.
Physically, I felt terrible.
Mentally, I was exhausted.
But as I watched my kids play in the waves, I felt incredibly grateful.
They had not seen the ocean since we moved away from Southern California eight years ago.
In that moment, the marathon that had occupied so much of my attention for months suddenly felt much smaller.
Looking back, that afternoon on the beach means more to me than anything that happened during the race.
It reminded me that some of life’s most meaningful moments happen completely outside the things we spend so much time chasing.
After leaving San Diego, we visited friends in Riverside and spent a few days at Universal Studios before heading home. The race may not have unfolded the way I wanted, but the trip created memories my family and I will cherish for years.
Since returning home, the reminders have continued.
Tree City Track Club continues to grow, and each week new runners show up looking for community and challenge. At Infinity Running, I have the privilege of helping athletes pursue goals that matter to them. Being welcomed into people’s lives during those journeys is one of the greatest parts of coaching.
I also had the opportunity to be part of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes camp at Northwest Nazarene University. I helped start this camp nineteen years ago, and watching it grow from fifteen athletes in the first year to nearly six hundred today has been incredible.
This year was especially meaningful because my son and nephew attended as campers for the first time.
Watching them experience something that has been part of my life for nearly two decades reminded me that influence is often measured in years, not moments.
A few weeks later my family escaped to Lake Cascade for several days of camping, fishing, paddleboarding, and sitting around the fire together. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the trip. No personal records. No major accomplishments. Just time together. Yet looking back, those are often the moments I remember most.
Experiences like that have a way of reminding me that some of the best parts of life cannot be measured on a watch, a race result, or a training log.
This spring has not gone the way I expected.
The truth is, I still want answers.
I still want to train consistently.
I still have goals I hope to pursue.
But these past few months have reminded me that even when running isn’t going the way I want, life can still be incredibly good.
For years, I have encouraged athletes to take the long view—to understand that one bad workout, one disappointing race, or even one difficult season doesn’t define them.
This spring has been my opportunity to practice that lesson myself.
Running is something I do.
It is not who I am.
That’s a great perspective and reminder about what truly matters in life. Thanks Coach! Hopefully you and the allergist will come up with some answers. That is no fun at all.