Over the span of the four months I spent training for my first marathon, the 2024 Eugene Marathon, I published 19 articles detailing my experience. Under the alias of “rookie runner,” marathon training became my entire identity, and I fell in love with a sport that showed very little affection in return.

I crossed my first marathon finish line with four rehabbed injuries and very clear intentions set — I would not be running 26.2 miles again for a very long time. Just seven months later, I signed up for the 2025 Eugene Marathon.

These past few months, as I prepared for marathon number two, my training plan had a much smaller digital footprint. Besides Strava, the internet had no clue what I was up to. Without the pressure of my column and my whole social media following as my audience, I routinely forgot I was training for a marathon.

In the months ahead of my first race, I would eat-sleep-breathe marathon. But this year, it wasn’t even on my radar until Saturday nights when I would remember I had an 18-mile run the next day. Arrogantly, I joked about how chill my training block had been, how strong I felt, how easy my long runs were and how surprised I was that I hadn’t been injured yet.

One month from race day, shit hit the fan. On March 30, 14 miles into an 18 mile run, I felt a sharp pain in my outer knee. I knew the drill — rest, rehab, ice and get treatment at the health center. I was diagnosed with Iliotibial Band Syndrome (ITBS), which would become my most stubborn stress injury yet.

In the month leading up to race day, I swam, biked and lifted frantically as I tried to hold onto the fitness I had built in my training block. I took anti-inflammatory steroids, mimicked my long runs with 30- and 50-mile bike rides and received treatment from my doctor once a week. Still, I couldn’t run more than three miles without excruciating pain.

I told everyone in my life — including my Strava followers — that the race was over. And yet, I entered my taper, started my carb load and went to the Eugene Marathon Health & Wellness Expo on Saturday to pick up my bib. I figured with the condition of my knee, I was looking at a DNF (did not finish) or a very long walk, run and pray to God type of race day. But I had worked too hard to not at least try to make it to the finish line.

On the morning of race day, I was not feeling optimistic. “I just really hope I can make it to the finish line,” I kept repeating as my race corral inched toward the start line. Running alongside my two roommates and buzzing with the energy of the crowds, my spirits quickly lifted. But predictably, the pain set in at mile three.

I was determined to ignore my knee until it became too much to handle. I had a plan in place — run until you absolutely cannot, walk for a few minutes and repeat. I found myself walking up hills and through aid stations, but as I approached mile 11, I was still running.

I realized, “Holy shit, I am going to finish this thing.”

By mile 13, I was so high on adrenaline that my conservative 10-minute mile pace had picked up to a 9:40, and at mile 15, I looked at my watch and realized that I was on track for a personal best finish time. With no knee pain and plenty of gas left in the tank, I picked up my pace to 9:20, 9:10 and nine-minute miles.

I was practically floating, passing other runners and grinning goofily as spectators cheered, “Still smiling!” at mile 18. As I settled in on my new goal — a sub 4:20 finish — I dipped below nine-minute miles.

When I saw my mom at mile 24, I told her I couldn’t stop to chat — I was racing the clock. “The 4:20 pace group is just a little bit ahead of you,” she said, riding alongside me on my red beach cruiser. When I passed the pace group, I was half-convinced that I was dreaming.

“I can’t believe it,” I repeated breathlessly to my mom. I had given up the hope of a decent time weeks before, settling for what felt like the far-fetched goal of simply finishing.

I spent the better half of a month praying, worrying and cursing myself for getting injured. I spent the better half of the race waiting for the inevitable pain to crush my dream.

But the pain never came. When I cruised into Hayward Field, the 4:20 pace group was long behind me, my legs were flowing beneath me and I was wearing a smile that trumped the ear-to-ear grin from the year before.

I ran the last 11 miles of my marathon at a 9:14 average pace, a full minute faster than my pace for the first 15. I finished in four hours and 16 minutes. My fastest mile was mile 26.

While my finishing time is far from record breaking and may be entirely unimpressive to most runners, it was a whole 10 minutes faster than my first marathon and hours faster than I had hoped for.

I considered dropping out of the marathon. I considered switching to the half, but I couldn’t help chasing the high of the finish line. I will spend the rest of my life chasing that high. So I wrap up this last installment of rookie runner with the corniest, but most true sentiment I can think of: never give up.

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