The long road back

MY STORY

I started running in fifth grade. From the beginning, I was fast. I won races early and often, but talent came more naturally than discipline. Running was not yet an identity. It was simply something I was good at.

For much of my youth, it lived alongside other ambitions. In high school, things sharpened not because I suddenly loved running, but because I understood what it could offer. My goal was practical: earn a scholarship and pay for school. I trained with purpose my junior and senior years, learned how to compete, and achieved exactly that.

College was where ability and intention drifted apart.

I was a Division II cross-country scholarship athlete, a multiple-time all-conference performer with legitimate results, including an 8K personal best of 24:33. I was good. But without meaningful athletic goals, I never came close to my potential. Training became transactional. Running was no longer a pursuit. It was an obligation. I showed up, did the work, and checked the box. By the time I graduated, I was burned out and relieved. I walked away from running convinced I would never lace up my shoes again.

And for a long time, thirteen years, I did not.

After college, my focus shifted entirely to my career. I worked hard, built momentum professionally, and kept my competitive edge alive through cycling. I raced bikes seriously for several years, learning how to train consistently, manage fatigue over long efforts, and balance performance with the rest of life. Over time, friends moved away, priorities changed, and racing quietly faded as well.

The return to running was not planned.

A group of former college teammates floated the idea of running the Boston Marathon together as a final hurrah. Most fell out of training or got hurt. I did not. My fitness came back quickly, almost too quickly. I struggled to understand how to pace or structure training because the progress was immediate and steep. Six months after lacing up again, I ran my debut marathon in 2:33.

It was a solid debut, but more importantly, it was revealing. I knew there was far more on the table.

That race forced a decision. I could enjoy a respectable comeback and move on. Or I could give running another honest attempt, this time with clarity, discipline, and real intent.

I chose the latter.

I set a goal that felt uncomfortable and unlikely: qualify for the U.S. Olympic Trials in the marathon. To do that, I hired Luke Humphrey, a former Hanson’s Distance Project athlete and the author of The Hanson’s Marathon Method. The shift was not about chasing volume or intensity. It was about structure, patience, and long-term thinking. For the first time, my talent was matched by discipline.

The results followed deliberately. A 2:33 debut became a 2:22 marathon over the next six months, not overnight, but through focused and intentional work.

Why the marathon? I do not have a clean answer. It is difficult, honest, and unforgiving. It exposes shortcuts and rewards discipline. Somewhere along the way, it became the clearest expression of the athlete I always suspected I could be.

At 36, this pursuit exists outside the usual timeline. That is part of the point. This is not about reclaiming a past version of myself. It is about finally finding my potential and proving that age is not a limit, but a variable.

While balancing a demanding full-time career and life beyond sport, I am chasing a goal most would consider unrealistic. Not because it is guaranteed, but because it matters.

This page is a record of that work.
The training. The races. The long pursuit.

The story is still being written.