2024 Recap... (Or, "So What Happened Was...")

As is the case for most of us at this point, 2024 was quite the whirlwind of a year. While change, growth, and the associated pains are always present, they really seemed to be in rare form for me this year.

This goes a little (ok, a lot) off the rails from here, so I want to go over the easy overlook at my year. I finished 2024 with:

801.3 miles

162 runs

137 hours

1 full marathon, PRs in 10K and half marathon

For context, my previous high water mark was 237 miles in 41 hours, and that was in 2020, which... yea. I've run 1,570 miles in total since 2019, so slightly over half of ALL my running was this year. And, spoiler alert, I plan to surpass that in 2025.

Now, the long awaited story of the marathon this blog was originally intended to be centered around.

Previous versions of myself, including the one as of 1/1/24, wouldn't have believed half of what's happened this year, and the other prior Adam iterations (or "Adamations," as I, but nobody else, likes to call them,) would have assumed it killed me. But what didn't kill me made me stronger. Much stronger; and in every sense of the word. Right at the beginning of the year, I went through what we'll just call a devastating break-up. I had run once, on January 1st, for less than two miles. But the last thing I could worry about was running. I went into a depression, fairly predictably, and spent the month of January focused on getting through. I'd never loved the extended darkness of the winter, which didn't help anything.

This will primarily be about running, but it's relevant to set the stage here. At one point, early in this ugly grieving process, it was brought to my attention that my vision of "successfully getting through this" was one of mere survival; a pattern I'd embodied most of my life. "Good enough," "70%," and "doesn't work to potential," were all commonplace phrases in my life. It wasn't immediate, but that conversation and that moment stuck with me; I needed to do more than survive - I needed to live.

February 1st, I got back out for a run. I had previously signed up to do a half marathon in March, and I was hoping that would be possible without injury. Somewhat ironically, this was the same race I had done under-prepared the prior year and sprained my Achilles in the process of. I decided not to chance that re-injury, but signed up for a 10K in April instead.

And from there... the running snowballed.

That 10K led to a trail race 10K, which rolled right into half marathon training. By this point, my buddy Dave and I had decided to take on the Seattle Marathon, and the day after I set my half marathon PR, I set my sights on the full marathon.

What followed next is a blur to me now. Four months and almost exactly 400 miles worth of work went into preparing for the Seattle Marathon. As much blood, sweat, tears, and.. more.. as I've ever poured into anything in my life were spilled along trails, roads, treadmills, showers, floors, and probably more places I'm choosing to forget. More fear than I've felt without a literal life at stake, and as someone with anxiety, that's saying something.

It all came to a head December 1st, at 7:30 AM, as Dave and I stood in the corral, keeping warm and me frequently wondering aloud "what the fuck did we sign up for?" At the expo the night before, I'd seen just how steep the hills were going to be, including the steepest incline at 24.5 miles; seemingly for no other reason than a nice big "fuck you." The hills got deep in my head, I felt I hadn't trained enough on hills or done enough cross-training. But in that moment, waiting for the gun to go off, that didn't matter. I'd done the most important part already: I'd made it there, and I was healthy and capable. The only thing stopping me over those next 26.2 miles... would be me.

I could detail the next several hours in more detail than anyone wants to read, so I'll summarize it as briefly as I can. (NOTE: It is not brief. This was a lie, though I didn't know it when I wrote it. My bad.)

My stomach elected to be uncooperative, and I spent some time in a medical tent at mile 12, debating if I could push through and keep going with all the hills still in front of me. Medics checked that I was reasonably stable (or whatever constitutes as such mid-marathon,) and said I was cleared to continue, but they could get me a ride if I couldn't. I asked where the next aid station was, and they said shortly before halfway, so just a mile away. I said "thank you," wiped away the tears, sweat, and whatever else from my face, and walked on towards that next medical tent. I'd come this far, I figured. I might as well try.

In that moment, I'd have told you I was going to tap out at mile 13. But then I got there and realized I didn't need to stop. I passed through and hit the actual halfway mark, which was seemingly a party in Gasworks Park. Music was blaring, there were bubbles and just a very fun atmosphere. Oh, and a photographer. All of those things meant one thing; I couldn't be the guy NOT running through here. A guy with a megaphone shouted so much support that I'm not sure anyone could have not run through there. So I ran. Then I saw a photographer, so I ran some more. I walked a lot in this race, more than I ever wanted to, but you won't find a picture of it, because if I saw a camera, I sped up. Almost instinctually. Maybe it's the photographer in me, maybe the competitor, maybe I'm just vain. All are possibilities here.

The next challenge was the first, longer hill. And by long, I mean loooooooooong. About 2.5 miles of consistent elevation gain. Going up Aurora Blvd. in Seattle, I started to feel similarly to how I had felt before I hit the med station earlier. I slowed to a crawl, and began looking for a curb to sit down on. But I knew internally that if I sat down, it was done. My legs felt unlikely to allow for another rally like the first, and my mental strength, while still there, didn't need the additional test. So I kept walking. I told myself "get to the med tent at the top of the hill, they'll help." I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, and suddenly... I was a top the hill. Then at the med station. I stopped, and they asked if I was ok. I said "I... uh... yea, actually, I am." And I took off running.

Well, in my memory I took off running. In reality, I doubt it was as picturesque a moment, but I choose to live in my own reality in this, and many other, instances.

I had read often about mile 18 being where many people hit a wall. You've already run 18 miles, and yet there's still 8 more to go. Supporters are starting to say "you're almost there!" when, in fact, you are not. But I didn't have that experience. Once I hit 16 miles, my on-and-off run/walk was more on than off, even as I had to weave through parkgoers at Green Lake. I saw my watch hit 16, and my gut instinct, before I could process anything thought was: "Ten miles left... I can run ten miles." That was it. There was no question in my mind at that point, it was as good as done. Well, not done, but this is the first moment "finishing a god damn marathon" became a realistic idea.

"Are you going to let 10 miles stop you now?" No.

"Are you going to look back and feel you didn't give it all?" No.

"Are you going to finish this race?" Fuck yes I am.

A team of therapists would need much more time than I have here to determine exactly whom each of the condescension-laden inquisitive voices belonged, but that was irrelevant. This moment wasn't about them, anyway. It was about me, and what I had left in me.

From there I cruised. My last 3.2 miles were my fastest splits, by a lot. Including the hill that had so horrified me at 24.5. (The cover image, along with a few of my favorite photos from race day are from that hill.) A guy that was just out for his morning run ended up running up it alongside me for the majority, actively cheering for me. We alternated passing each other back and forth, but when he got to the top before me, he stopped, waited, and gave me one last big cheer. No idea who this guy was, but his impact was huge in that moment. So thank you, random guy.

With a half mile to go, at what I now know was a sub-10:00 mile pace, (something I hadn't planned to do at all, let alone after everything else,) my left leg, from the calf down, felt... wrong. I don't know how else to describe it. It didn't "hurt," though I realize many endurance athletes have flexible definitions and questionable relationships with pain, so do with that what you will, and it wasn't numb, that's something I'm used to. But I felt as though I had no control over anything below my knee. I attempted to slow to a walk, but quickly discovered I was better off keeping the same motion going than trying to slow down. I couldn't feel it, but the leg still seemed to be doing the right thing... Besides, there's now less than half a mile left, I'd have chewed it off and drag myself the rest of the way at this point.

Luckily I didn't have to do that, my leg stayed attached, and I made my way all the way into the stadium, heard my name called (and pronounced more correctly than usual, which I appreciate,) got across the finish line, got my medal, and collapsed. Dave had found me, and asked if I needed help. Once I assured him I was medically ok, I realized...

It was done.

4 months.

400 miles.

26.2 miles.

6 fucking hours.

It was done.

All that was left was a feeling of pride like I've never felt before. Dave and I spent DAYS just reminding each other "we ran a fucking marathon." Ok, honestly we still do it now, a month later. I'm close to wearing out the shirt and jacket I got there, and have already ordered more. I'm planning to get "I RAN A FUCKING MARATHON" tattooed on my face. (An exaggeration, perhaps, but not a huge one.)

But literally within MINUTES of finishing... I was thinking about what I'll do differently so I can be better, stronger, faster, and more prepared next time.

Next. Time.

If anyone's stuck around and read this all, know I appreciate it and you.

Tomorrow I'll be posting a (hopefully shorter) post about my plans for running in 2025. I hope you'll join me.