The Wrigley River Run is on June 6 and I’m pumped for this one! There’s a 5K, 10K, and 10 miler. Fast flat course, great vibes, and age group awards 3 deep.
There’s still plenty of time to train, whether you want to PR or want a fun, well-organised race.When an audience watches a professional pianist, they are witnessing a finished product - a seamless flow of emotion and technical precision. They see the "joy" and the "art," but they rarely see the architecture that holds it up. To achieve a high level on any instrument is to engage in a decades-long conversation with discipline, a process defined by what I call "consistent deposits." (As a runner too, this is my go-to phrase whenever someone asks what my key to success is.)
But back to the growth analogy - in the beginning, learning is a series of leaps. You learn a scale, a chord, a simple melody; the progress is visible and intoxicating. But as you climb toward mastery, the mountain becomes steeper and the handholds smaller. The irony of high-level skill is that as you get better, the visible growth becomes incremental. You might spend weeks refining the pressure of a single finger or the resonance of a specific pedal lift. It becomes harder to break through, yet this is exactly where character is forged.
This journey requires a specific kind of accountability. It’s the choice to sit at the bench when the world is binge-watching a new show or sleeping in. It isn't that those other activities are "wrong," but that mastery demands a different currency: time.
However, this "solitary" craft is never truly solitary. To play at this level is to carry the weight of others' sacrifices. I think of the money my parents poured into lessons and the hours they dedicated to my growth. I think of the teachers who pushed me. When I perform, I am a steward of their investment. This realization brings a profound sense of humility. If I don't give my best, I haven't just let myself down - I’ve let down the people who paved the road for me.
There is a "social tax" to this life. People often criticize what they don't understand, viewing your unavailability as a slight rather than a dedication. But the right people—those who understand the ebb and flow of a calling—don’t see your focus as a cold shoulder. They see it as the price of a light that you eventually share with the world through teaching, DJing, or performing. Ultimately, the piano didn't just teach me music; it built the person I am today.
What does a man hanging off Taipei 101 have in common with a musician sitting at a Steinway or a runner crossing the hundredth mile of a desert race? On the surface, nothing. But in the realm of character, they are identical.
Whether it is Alex Honnold free-soloing Taiwan's building or a pianist navigating a complex concerto, the "impossible" is only achieved through the same fundamental mechanism: the daily deposit. We live in a culture that loves to "chop down" high achievers, scratching its head and asking, "What is the point?" People see the risk of the climber or the grueling training of the ultra-runner and mistake it for madness. They don't see the satisfaction of recalibration - the art form of admitting, "I need to stop this race, reflect, and try again."
The common thread is Accountability. The climber is accountable to the rock; the runner to the trail; the musician to the score. None of them are "average" because they have refused the path of least resistance. They understand that to achieve something for the betterment of society - to inspire others and show them what is possible after decades of work - requires a selfless kind of grit.
It is a selfless act because, while the work is done in private, the result is a gift to the public. When Honnold reaches the top, or when I share music with my students, or cross the line of a long-distance race, we are offering a glimpse of human potential. We are saying, "This is what happens when you don't let the world put out your light."
The "point" of doing something so difficult isn't the feat itself. The point is the transformation of the person doing it. Whether you are wearing climbing shoes or sitting at a piano bench, you are building a character that is immovable, out of a deep-seated gratitude for the ability to strive. We are all humans recalibrating, and as long as we keep making those deposits, the "impossible" remains within our reach.
We live in an era of constant connectivity, yet we are haunted by a persistent, quiet starvation for true recognition. It is a modern exhaustion: the labor of rearranging one’s life to prioritize another, only to have that effort viewed through the cold lens of logistics. When you shave off your morning rest or squeeze a thoughtful message into the frantic gaps of a late-running workday, you aren’t just sending a text - you are offering a piece of your capacity. Yet, so often, the text response we receive ignores the sacrifice and critiques the schedule. This disconnect reveals a profound paradox of the human condition: while we possess a universal craving for connection, we frequently lack the specific emotional literacy required to deliver it.
Anyone who has trained seriously for running understands this distinction instinctively. The workout on paper - for example, 8 miles, moderate - tells you almost nothing about the cost. It doesn’t reveal the accumulated fatigue from yesterday’s tempo, the tight calf negotiated mile by mile, or the discipline it took to lace up when rest would have been easier. To comment only on pace or finish time while ignoring the training load is to misunderstand the effort entirely.
Relationships suffer from the same misreading. One person offers a gesture - sending a text while running late between meetings and appointments - the proactive communication meant to answer a person's text earlier than later, because you sensed they could use some words of encouragement, but you also say that this is a short message for now and that you'll write more later because you're behind at work - and you get a response that focuses on the fact that you're behind schedule ("sorry you're running late") rather than the fact that you reached out despite the chaos is exactly this: It is a failure of attunement.
True connection, like good coaching, requires specificity. Just as we would never tell a dedicated runner “nice job” without acknowledging the months of base-building, the early mornings, the intentional recovery sacrificed, we cannot offer vague validation to those we love and expect it to nourish them. Recognition only carries weight when it names the cost. Without that specificity, praise feels like a participation ribbon handed out at the finish line, detached from the miles that made the finish possible.
This leads us to a sobering reality: loneliness is rarely about a lack of people. Instead, it is often about unseen effort. People feel lonely not only when they train alone, but when no one understands what the training costs them. When the invisible miles go unacknowledged.
To be a witness is to run alongside someone, not to set their pace, not to critique their form, but to notice when the wind picks up, when the hill steepens, when they keep going anyway. It is the willingness to articulate another’s struggle, even imperfectly. There is a common fear of “guessing wrong” about someone’s inner state, but this fear is misplaced. The healing power of a relationship doesn’t lie in perfect empathy; it lies in visible effort.
In both training and love, being seen isn’t about accuracy, but rather, it’s about attention. And sometimes, the most sustaining words aren’t “you’re fast” or “you’re fine,” but: I see how hard this is, and I see that you showed up anyway.
New year, new gear, courtesy of the running apparel company, rabbit
Since being selected to join the RADrabbit team last year, I’ve had the chance to connect and race alongside fellow athletes both near and far. What truly binds us is the shared encouragement when training gets tough, and the celebrations, whether it’s a podium finish or just finishing a very long race (yep, some of them really are that long.) It’s a special feeling knowing you have this team camaraderie.
rabbit just released their new PR Racing Collection, and I can’t say enough about this singlet. It’s feather-light, constructed with smooth, chafe-free seams, and finished with cooling vents along the back. Perfect for race day!
2019 was, by my standards, a quiet year of running. I still raced (about once a month) and even took the entire summer off. Somewhere along the way, though, I lost my competitive edge. Looking back, that makes sense. 2018 was a huge year: big mileage, ambitious goals, and personal firsts. I fell about 100 miles short of my run-the-year goal, but it was still my highest annual mileage to date. I ran my first marathon, then another five weeks later, and completed my first 50-miler. And then… my hip started hurting.
I backed off. I took rest days - something anyone who knows me understands did not come easily. I missed running deeply, and each inactive day brought a quiet fear of fitness slipping away. I tried to cross-train doing biking, lifting, swimming, hiking, all excellent substitutes during a niggle or injury, yet consistency was hard. Still, there was a bright spot: I won my age group at a December trail half marathon. That surprise result gave me hope and the push to finally look deeper into what was going on.
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More than anything, the last couple of years have tested my patience. But they’ve also been full of learning. One of the beautiful things about running is how easily it allows us to shift focus. A 5K PR. An hour of uninterrupted running. A marathon PR. Another ultra. Or simply not finishing DFL in an ultra (yes, that was me in my first 50K, and yes, I’d still like a redo). I’ve even DNS’d a race once—a 5K, of all things—after missing a 3 a.m. alarm for Hollywood. I’d already driven up the day before, picked up my bib, and was completely pumped. Oops.
And then there’s the marathon - the distance that still eludes me.
My first marathon was the LA Marathon, chosen thoughtfully after plenty of research. My aunt is a legacy runner, LA is iconic, the course is relatively forgiving, and the destination meaningful. My primary goal was simply to finish, but I also believe in tiered goals: reach high, recalibrate if needed, and always leave room to succeed.
My tiers were sub-4:10, sub-4:30, and finish. I was on pace for the first through the halfway mark, but around mile 15 - ironically, in Beverly Hills - my knee and hip flared up on a downhill. From there, it was survival. I fought through the next 11 miles, watched the 4:20 pacer pull ahead, and with 5K to go, set one last goal: don’t let the 4:30 pacer pass. I “surged” (which probably looked more like a determined shuffle) and although they briefly overtook me, I hung on through sheer will. That’s how I earned my painful but proud 4:28.
The finish was emotional. I was grateful, but I also knew I could do better. As a first-time marathoner, I’d started far back in the corrals, weaving through traffic early on. I told myself: come back next year, start with runners of similar pace, do it right.
Cue 2019.
I arrived undertrained and managing lingering issues. On the bright side, I ran freer. I enjoyed the course. I ate the pretzels. I tested gels (despite being a typically fasted runner—fasted, not faster). I finished, but with much more time on feet. 5:15. Ooof.
So yes, the marathon remains unfinished business.
I don’t consider myself a naturally gifted runner. Nothing comes easily. Breaking a 10-minute mile takes work on any given day. But I love the process. I love racing. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the marathon mindset, why we keep coming back. Most of us aren’t running sub-2:30. We’re not winning prize money. So why do we sacrifice late nights and social plans? Why do we wake up at dark o’clock, pin on a bib, obsess over hydration, logistics, parking, and then willingly endure recovery?
For me, marathon running is about the art of tackling challenge.
There’s the distance - 26.2 miles is far. There’s pace. Injury prevention. Strength work. Fueling. Mental stamina. Holding a plank a little longer. Accepting that progress is incremental. (For the record, I’m at a two-minute plank. Three minutes will not happen tomorrow. Change is gradual.)
The marathon mindset demands thoughtful planning and patience. Adjustments must be smart and slow. As a lifelong musician, this feels familiar. You don’t master a sonata overnight. You can read through it, sure, but true polish takes months, sometimes years. Progress matters more than speed, and pressure only interferes with growth.
Steady runs, intervals, and long runs build marathon success, just as scales, arpeggios, and metronome work build artistry at the piano.
In short: nothing arrives overnight. Plan carefully. Improve incrementally. Celebrate quick gains, but don’t confuse them with lasting progress.
My goal for January is simple: rebuild a strong base. I won’t be running the LA Marathon this year - it’s too soon. Some things are best done when you’re truly ready.
And I’ll get there.
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| The start - I am way back in my corral - 2:30 finish was my best goal guess |
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| Somewhere between mile 8-9...I'm smiling! |
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| Still had energy to do a jump shot at the end! |
What makes this race especially cool is that it’s truly global: it takes place in 28 countries and counting. When you sign up, you’re not just running a race—you’re part of an international fitness celebration.
I ran the 10K last year in Long Beach and loved it. The course is flat, right by the ocean, with great views of the marina—perfect if you’re chasing a PR or just want a beautiful run.
If you’re interested, sign up and use the code GOGLOBALLL (that’s three L’s at the end) to get $5 off either distance. And bonus: this race is known for having some pretty great swag and shirts, too.
Hope to see you out there!
