2026 Houston Marathon: 2:22:27

By mile two, I had a choice.

The pace was aggressive from the gun. Packs were forming and splitting quickly. In a marathon like Houston, if you miss the right group early, you can spend the next twenty miles alone in the wind. That’s rarely how fast times happen.

I needed alignment between preparation and performance.

So, even though the pace was a touch faster than planned, I committed to the group.

The lead international women’s pack rolled through the early miles in the low 5:20s — slightly quicker than my 5:25–5:30 target — but my heart rate was controlled. The effort felt sustainable. I stayed.

Escort vehicles hovered. Motorcycles buzzed close. Carbon plates struck pavement in unison. Communication was minimal — a finger toward a pothole, a hand signaling a bottle, a subtle shift before a turn. Friendly. Fast. Focused.

A year and a half earlier, that scene would have been unimaginable.

Thirteen years away from the sport after college. Burned out more than injured. Running had become transactional — something I did for a scholarship, then something I used to do. The return started in late 2024 with a few old teammates and a half-serious pitch about Boston. The fitness came back quickly. Once it did, I couldn’t unsee what might be possible.

Houston was not a miracle. It was accumulation.

After Little Rock, the goal sharpened. The Olympic Trials standard — now 2:16 — demands seriousness. Houston wasn’t a Trials attempt. It was a checkpoint. After races that hadn’t fully reflected my fitness, I needed an honest result.

Training was consistent. Weeks stacked without interruption. Long runs extended. Threshold sessions controlled. The kind of unglamorous preparation that builds durability.

Peak week brought an Achilles flare-up. Not catastrophic, but enough to test discipline. That’s where having a real coach becomes obvious — not just for prescribing workouts, but for decision-making when emotion wants to override judgment. We adjusted. We arrived healthy.

Conditions were favorable: cool air and a north-to-northeast wind that would punish anyone running alone through the middle miles. The plan was straightforward — stay controlled through mile 20, protect the effort, then race the final 10K.

I fueled every four miles and wrote a mantra on each gel. A strategy borrowed from Brian Sell years ago: get to the next fuel. Short horizons.

• Chill & Control.

• Make It Look Easy.

• Confidence & Gratitude.

• Tough & Focused.

• Don’t Settle. Fight.

• Fly.

The night before, texts arrived from friends old and new. My college teammates FaceTimed with our old pre-race chant. Standing on the line next to Chelsea the next morning steadied the moment. The start of a marathon can feel strangely isolating despite the crowd. That morning, it didn’t.

The early miles clicked by inside the pack. Bottle exchanges were fluid. The rhythm made the effort feel almost automatic.

At mile eight, a side stitch arrived. It had been years since I’d dealt with one mid-race. For several minutes it occupied all of my attention. Breathing deepened. Shoulders relaxed. It faded.

The day stayed intact.

Around mile twelve, the pack destabilized at a bottle station near the base of a short climb. The rhythm fractured — and in less than a mile, we would turn north into five miles of headwind.

A surge came from Matt, a local Houston elite I had been sitting behind. I followed. Luke, a triathlete from California, came too.

From that point forward, the race became smaller and more tactical. We moved through the headwind, catching runners who had overextended early. I tucked behind Matt whenever possible. Small savings early become meaningful late.

Through twenty miles, I felt composed. Not comfortable — but in control.

The fatigue arrived gradually, not catastrophically.

Around mile twenty-three, the rollers through Memorial Park demanded more than expected. Tightness crept into my hips and glutes — unfamiliar territory. Pace slipped by roughly ten seconds per mile through 24 and 25.

Not collapse. Just friction.

There’s a specific sensation in a marathon when the mind is willing but the legs negotiate. I wanted to press. Mentally, the gear was there. Physically, it resisted.

When I saw 2:22 on the clock approaching the finish, the emotion caught me off guard.

2:22:27.

It wasn’t the end goal.

It was confirmation.

For months, the training had suggested something more than the early results showed. Houston aligned performance with preparation. The time itself mattered less than what it represented: evidence that the trajectory is real.

Little Rock reopened the door.
Houston moved it forward.

The standard now sits at 2:16.

There’s work left.