It’s been a while.
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.
