Santa Rosa Marathon
Santa Rosa, CA
24 August 2025
“All you need is the courage to believe in yourself and put one foot in front of the other.” – Kathrine Switzer - first woman to officially run the Boston Marathon
Boston is history. It’s tradition. It’s strangers cheering like you’re family. It’s running in the footsteps of legends. But more than that, Boston is proof — your proof — that hard things are possible. That showing up again and again eventually leads somewhere unforgettable.
Runners say Boston isn’t just a race, it’s a rite of passage. What about the unicorn logo? It’s not just a mythical creature, but a symbol of sweat, grit, and maybe a little madness. Because qualifying for the Boston Marathon isn’t something you stumble into. It’s something you chase down, mile after mile, long run after long run, GU after regrettable GU.
At some point, usually after your first marathon when your legs still work and your brain is clouded by runner’s high, someone casually asks, “Are you going to try for Boston?”
And you laugh. You scoff. You say something like, “Maybe when I’m 70,” or “Maybe I’ll enter as a charity runner.”
But then, the idea lingers. Like a blister you can’t ignore.
I’ve studied the qualifying standards. I’ve done the math.
“Okay, so if I run 8:45 or better and don’t stop for water and the course is a net downhill, with a temperature of 45 degrees and with a generous tailwind, I’ll join those who’ve run the prestigious race.”
Qualifying isn’t just about speed, it’s about discipline. It’s skipping breakfast for long runs, rearranging life around tempo workouts, and explaining to your non-runner friends why “easy pace” still means running ten miles on any given day.
It’s about trying, and failing, and trying again. Maybe you bonk at Mile 20. Maybe the weather decides to throw a tantrum. Maybe your stomach or a strained muscle stage a revolt mid-race. Whatever the setback, you learn. You adapt. You lace up the shoes and try again.
It’s been two months since I ran the Fargo Marathon. Two months since I crossed that finish line not with the Boston Qualifier I had trained for — but with something a little harder to name.
I’ll start with the hard truth: I didn’t qualify for the Boston Marathon at Fargo. I showed up, gave it everything I had, and came up short. It’s not easy to admit, but there, I said it.
Now, before anyone starts to softly play Sarah McLachlan in the background and lighting a sympathy candle, let me tell you — it’s okay. Really. I’m okay. Just a little disappointed, and a little over energy gels for the foreseeable future.
I went into Fargo with hope. I’d put in the work. I stuck to the plan. I believed I had a real shot. The course was flat, the crowds were kind, and my mindset was ready. But marathons are never guaranteed, no matter how prepared you feel.
By Mile 12, my familiar groin ache returned, and despite adjusting my stride, it only worsened. By Mile 16, my form was off, and I knew Boston was out of reach.
At Concordia College, I let go of racing for a time and focused on finishing with purpose. A gel-and-electrolyte mix-up at Mile 17 led to a rough stomach and an unplanned porta-john stop — another hit to an already fragile effort.
From then on, it was pure grit. The support along the course kept me moving, but I knew this wasn’t my day.
Crossing the finish line, I felt pride in my effort and the sting of unmet goals. Sometimes, giving everything doesn’t get you the time you want — but it still meant something.
That’s the thing about the Boston Marathon. It’s a dream with teeth. It demands more than training — it demands timing, health, conditions, and luck. And when all of those things don’t align on the same day, the goal slips through your fingers, even when your heart is fully in it.
In the weeks since Fargo, I’ve gone through all the post-race emotions: disappointment, frustration, and a lot of quiet reflection. But I’ve also felt something else — determination. Because not qualifying doesn’t mean I failed. It just means I’m not done.
Fargo wasn’t the day. But it was a part of the journey. A reminder that every attempt teaches you something, and that sometimes, the goalposts move so you can learn how to chase them better.
So no, I didn’t qualify for Boston this time. But I’m still running. Still dreaming. Still lacing up my shoes with the belief that one day, it will happen.
And when it does, I’ll carry Fargo with me — not as a failure, but as a chapter in the story that got me there.
I was deep into training for what Santa Rosa is supposed to be my redemption marathon — the one where everything clicks. I’d built a strong base leading into Fargo, my longer runs were feeling solid, and for the first time in a long time, I actually believed I was going to achieve a BQ, or at least PR.
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| Ouch! |
At first, I did what most runners do — I downplayed it. Probably just tightness, I told myself. A cramp similar to REVEL Mt. Charleston. Nothing major. I took a week off, stuck to swimming and cycling as temporary substitutes, then eased back in with shorter runs, added some extra stretching, applied an ice pack, and swapped out hard workouts for easier miles. But that damn pain in my lower leg never fully disappeared — it hung around like an unwelcome shadow.
For the next few weeks, training was a guessing game. Some days the muscle felt fine, and I’d cautiously test it with a short jog — only to feel it tighten again. Every run became a gamble. Instead of building mileage and confidence, I was managing pain and doubt.
My schedule went from “15 miles with a fast finish” to “rest, cross-train, try again next week.” I read several articles about soleus strains and rehab, clinging to every recovery story like it was a roadmap. But nothing replaced the steady rhythm of marathon training. The miles I was supposed to be logging were slipping away — and so was my confidence.
What I didn’t expect was how mentally exhausting it would be. I had structured my life around this race. It wasn’t just the goal — it was the routine, the structure, the reason I got up early to beat the summer heat, the reason I stayed disciplined. Without it, everything felt… off.
I tried to stay optimistic. I had to focus on what I could do — bike, swim, stretch. But it wasn’t the same. I’d watch other runners cruise by me on the roads and feel this heavy sense of loss. Not jealousy exactly — more like grief. I missed myself — the strong, focused version of me that existed when training was going well.
Some days, I found myself in a fog. I’d stare at my training plan, wondering if I should scratch the race altogether or just show up underprepared. The injury didn’t just hurt my leg — it chipped away at my sense of progress, control, and identity.
I rehabbed by doing eccentric calf raises, gentle mobility work, some massaging — slowly, it helped. I had to let go of the race goal I’d built up in my head. Instead, I focused on healing first, then finishing the race, even if it meant walking part of it.
Letting go of the time goal was hard. It felt like admitting defeat. But oddly, that shift gave me some mental relief. I stopped chasing splits and started paying attention to how my body actually felt — something I probably should’ve been doing all along.
I’m still working through it. Some days the calf feels better, but there’s always that lingering fear it could flare up again. I’ve learned to listen more closely, to respect recovery, and to accept that setbacks don’t erase progress — they’re just part of the process.
Most importantly, I’ve realized that running doesn’t have to be about perfection. Sometimes it’s just about getting through, showing up, and being okay with starting over when things fall apart.
And yes, it can be depressing — the waiting, the uncertainty, the fear that your body is betraying you. But there’s also power in persistence. Even when it’s slow. Even when it hurts.
As Santa Rosa draws near, I may not be exactly where I hoped to be, but I’m still moving forward — deliberate, steady, and grateful for every step. As race day approached, I held onto the hope that things would come together when it mattered most — that I could finish strong and earn a time I’d be proud of.
On race day, I felt strong. Still, the quiet shadow of past injuries lingered — reminding me that strength isn’t just physical. It’s showing up, holding on, and pushing through, even when the path isn’t perfect.
The Expo
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| Expo headquarters |
The expo, typically a bustling pre-race event filled with vendors, giveaways, and promotional fanfare, took a more minimalist approach. There were no lines of exhibitors or branded freebies — just a simple setup focused on efficiency and ease for participants.
Runners looking to browse for gear had plenty of options inside the store, where a 20% discount was offered on a wide selection of running accessories. Participants in the half or full marathon were also treated to a complimentary bottle of wine, courtesy of DeLoach Vineyards.
For me, it’s refreshing. Though I enjoy perusing larger expos, sometimes less is more. I was in and out in ten minutes.
While some might miss the energy of a traditional expo, others may appreciate the no-frills experience. I believe it’s really about the run, not the swag.
Let’s do this
There’s a hush that settles over the start line just before a race begins — an electric kind of silence that’s more felt than heard. As runners assembled at downtown’s Courthouse Square at 4th Street and Mendocino Avenue, the first light of day stretched across the sky, casting a soft glow over the crowd of runners. Hundreds of us stood shoulder to shoulder in designated corals, shifting in place, adjusting watches, stretching legs, retying laces — each of us caught in our own pre-race ritual. And then, the national anthem.
Conversations stopped and silence reigned. Caps came off (for at least most of us). Hands over the heart. Even the breeze was still. A singer's voice rose above the quiet, clear and steady, as the stars and stripes waved gently in the breeze above the start gantry. For a few minutes, we weren’t competitors or strangers — we were a community, standing together in shared anticipation.
That anthem isn’t just tradition. It’s a breath before the storm, a final grounding moment before we scatter across the miles of pavement and trails. And as the last notes faded, the energy shifted. Feet found their place. Eyes looked forward. The quiet was over. The countdown began. It was 0630 hrs. It was time to run.
I went into this marathon with a mission. Basically, a three-part goal: qualify for Boston, set a personal best, or at the very least, improve upon my time from the November 2024 Two Cities Marathon. Early in my training, everything was falling into place — I was nailing some workouts, gaining confidence, and feeling somewhat optimistic about race day. If I managed to hit even one of those goals, I’d consider the race a success.
What had once been a steady, disciplined routine quickly unraveled after my muscle injury. The consistency I had built over weeks was suddenly — and rudely — disrupted.
Some runs showed promise, but others were clouded by lingering discomfort and frustrating setbacks. I had to pull back, add more rest days, and shift toward cross-training just to stay in motion without making things worse.
Eventually, the structured plan gave way to something more flexible. I began improvising, adapting daily, and learning — sometimes the hard way — to listen to my body more than the calendar.
And that became the real lesson: progress isn’t always linear, and discipline sometimes looks like slowing down, adjusting, and trusting that forward is forward — no matter the pace.
Gradually, I came to terms with a shift in focus. I accepted that this race would no longer be about chasing a time. Instead, it became a personal test of resilience — about enduring the training, adjusting expectations, and ultimately finding meaning in simply crossing the finish line.
I approached this race with the same expectations I always have; however, I chose to shift gears from the strategy I used at the Fargo Marathon.
This time, I didn’t align myself with any pace group, once again led by teams from Beast Pacing. I decided to pace myself instead of relying on a pacer’s consistent and controlled rhythm throughout the course.
With my goals redefined, the focus became clear: maintain a sustainable effort, run smart, and finish strong — no matter the final time. Given the circumstances, simply staying steady and crossing the finish line with strength will be the true measure of success.
The first half. I started out with an aggressive pace, fully aware it might catch up with me later. But as I made my way through the city streets and onto the Santa Rosa Creek Trail, I felt surprisingly strong. My breathing was controlled and I was able to hold a steady pace, staying just ahead of the 3:50 pace group.
Runners entered the trail just after Mile 1, near 1st Street and Mendocino Avenue. For the next four miles, more or less, the shaded path and the gentle sounds of Santa Rosa Creek offered a peaceful sense of solitude. That calm, however, was offset by the rhythmic pounding of footsteps and the labored breathing of fellow runners — a steady reminder of the effort underway and not just a casual stroll.
At Mile 5.5, runners turned off the paved trail onto a half-mile out-and-back stretch of gravel road leading to Guerneville Road, before reconnecting with the main path. I’ve never been a fan of running on gravel roads — small pebbles seem to find their way into my shoes, but not today.
At Mile 8, runners made a right turn onto Willowside Road, thence back to Guerneville Road, thence to Olivet Road to the DeLoach Vineyard at Mile 10.
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| DeLoach Vineyards entrance |
As runners approach Mile 10, running through DeLoach Vineyards felt like slipping into a storybook scene set among the vines. As you run between rows of lush, green grapevines with dangling bunches of grapes, that cool, earthy scent fills the air — an intoxicating blend of fertile soil and morning air.
It felt like a peaceful escape from the bustle of the city streets behind me — a chance to settle into the steady rhythm of my breath and take in the gentle hum of the vineyards surrounding me.
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| Exiting the barrel room |
Beyond the vineyard rows, I coasted into the iconic wine barrel room — a cool, cavernous space that instantly transported me out of race mode. Massive oak barrels lined the walls, their scent a blend of aged wood, and grape must. The soft lantern light cast a golden hue over the barrels, and a photographer snapped photos of runners as they exited the room.
Smiling volunteers handed out small samples of cellar-fresh Pinot Noir. I took a quick sip — just enough to awaken my senses — and in that moment, the barrel room felt less like a course checkpoint and more like a tribute of Sonoma winemaking. It was a welcome pause, brief but unforgettable.
Turning out of the winery’s driveway onto Olivet Road, I scanned my body for signs of fatigue — tight calves, heavy legs, a faltering stride — but everything still felt surprisingly intact. My breathing was steady, my posture upright, and I was holding my pace with some effort, but in control.
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| Naked ladies along the course |
Following a right turn onto Woolsey Road, the half marathon split came into view — along with rows of naked ladies lining the roadside. Not the scandalous kind, of course — just the bold and blooming Amaryllis Belladonna in full, cheeky bloom, flaunting their pedals like they own the course. My quads burned slightly from the small hills, but my stride was still smooth and my breathing controlled. I pushed forward, still ahead of the 3:50 pace group, surging toward the half marathon timing mat at 1:55:50. I felt strong — but the question loomed: how much longer could I sustain this rhythm?
The second half. Crossing the half marathon mat in 1:55:50, I did the math — an even split would put me at a 3:51:40 finish. The realization hit hard: my hopes of a BQ were slipping out of reach. I tried to stay focused, but the mental weight of that number began to creep in, dulling the edge of my momentum. With my BQ goal fading, I shifted my focus to Plan B: a PR. But with my PR only slightly above the BQ mark, even that began to feel out of reach. The mental strain was setting in — each recalibration of my goal felt like a quiet concession. I narrowed my focus to the most realistic target left: beating my Two Cities time of 4:17:43.
The next six miles unfolded over rolling terrain, with short, steep hills that chipped away at what strength I had left. My quads ached with every climb, and though I kept my mile splits between nine and ten minutes, it was taking more mental effort to stay dialed in. I realized I had to adjust my goal time to a 4:15 or better finish. I forced down energy gels every 40 to 50 minutes, hoping they’d do more than just fuel my legs — hoping they’d help push back the growing fog clouding my mind.
The mental battle. Just before Mile 20, runners rejoined the Santa Rosa Creek Trail for the final stretch to the finish. This was the critical moment — the last 10K — but my pace had slipped beyond ten minutes per mile, and the mental fog was thickening. Fatigue pressed in from all sides, and I found myself repeating quiet affirmations, not to gain speed, but simply to keep moving forward with purpose and grit.
At this point, marathoners merged with the slower half marathon runners (generally walkers). I found myself weaving around them — not because they were in the way, but because my focus was slipping and even the smallest adjustments felt magnified. Mentally, every shift in rhythm took effort, and what would’ve been a minor inconvenience earlier now felt like another weight to carry.
Around Mile 22, I reached for an acetaminophen-caffeine tablet — a small tool I’ve used in multiple marathons for a quick boost. I knew it wouldn’t carry me to the finish, but in that moment, I needed anything to sharpen my focus and steady my stride. It was a deliberate move to stay in the fight.
I could feel my pace start to shift — twelve minutes became eleven, and my legs began turning over just a little more smoothly. For the next two miles, something clicked. That’s when my wife caught up from behind. Sensing the fatigue in my posture, she wouldn’t let me fade. “Keep running,” she urged. “No walking allowed.”
She was listening to what sounded like a fiery sermon from a motivational podcast — more preacher than coach — but somehow, the intensity of it cut through my exhaustion. That voice, paired with hers, snapped me back to the moment and kept my mind locked on the task in front of me: finish strong, no matter what.
The final push. I held a steady pace along the wooded trail, the gentle flow of the creek beside me and half marathoners falling behind one by one. The fatigue was still there, but so was the finish line — getting closer with every step. At Mile 25, I spotted an unofficial beer table offering cold sips of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I paused briefly for a cup. It was ice-cold, refreshing, and surprisingly energizing.
Crossing Pierson Street, I could almost feel the pull of the finish line ahead. My legs responded — my stride lengthened, my form tightened. Somehow, there was still something left in the tank. It was time to empty it. “If only I had found this strength a few miles earlier,” I thought, as I leaned into the final push.
Back on the city streets, the Mile 26 flag came into view — like an anchor in the storm. I glanced at my Garmin: sub-nine pace. That lit a fire. The cheers of the crowd lifted me when my legs had nothing left to give.
As I rounded the final corner at 4th and D Streets, something deep inside took over. I dug in, emptied the tank, and launched into a final kick for the finish, clocking in at 4:14:31. Goal met! I had nothing left — and that’s exactly how I wanted it.
I stood there for a moment, medal resting against my chest, heart still racing, lungs working overtime. But more than anything, I felt relief — deep, overwhelming relief. The struggle, the doubts, the recalibrated goals... they had all led here. I didn’t qualify for Boston, nor did I set a new PR, but I had beaten my Two Cities time. I had stayed in the fight, mile after mile, when my body begged me to stop and walk.
I thought back to the dark moments on the trail, to the mental battles, the affirmations, the final kick down 4th Street. Every decision to keep going had mattered.
And now, medal in hand and legs trembling beneath me, I let a quiet sense of pride settle in. I had earned this finish — not with ease, but with grit.
RACE STATS:
Distance: Full marathon (Garmin measured 26.21 mi).
Date: 24 August 2025
Bib No.: 1643
Weather at the start: 55°F, Cloudy with a deep marine layer
Average cadence: 161 spm
Gun time: 4:14:40
Chip time: 4:14:31
Average pace: 9:43 per mile
Overall rank: 786 of 1348
Gender rank: 598 of 922
Division rank: 36 of 59
Age graded score: 58.77%
Age graded time: 3:25:10
Mile splits: 8:51, 8:46, 8:46, 8:42, 8:30, 9:00, 8:48, 8:41, 8:49, 8:40, 9:11, 8:51, 9:21, 9:13, 9:36, 9:30, 9:51, 9:23, 9:55, 10:39, 12:28, 12:23, 11:39, 11:28, 11:02, 10:26, 8:37 (remaining 0.21)
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| Finishing |
LIKES / WHAT WORKED:
• While generally flat, the course features gentle rolling hills that add variety to challenge runners’ endurance pushing them to stay strong.
• Rural charm featuring vineyards, shady creek-side settings and farm land.
• Smooth packet pickup.
• The spectators that came out to cheer strangers.
• Running through the barrel room at DeLoach Vineyards — the signature part of the course.
• Very well-organized event from packet pick-up, the aid stations along the course.
• Sipping a sample of the Pinot Noir as runners exit the barrel room. (Runners over 21 receive a bottle of Pinot Noir at the expo).
• Super friendly volunteer support.
• Easy parking race morning. (I suggest getting there early to secure a close city lot).
• FINISHING!!
DISLIKES / WHAT DIDN’T WORK:
• Expect congestion on narrow path sections along the Santa Rosa Creek Trail, especially where the marathon and half marathon runners join up late in the race causing some runners to zigzag around slower runners.
• Some sections along the trail contain lumpy, crumbly, gravelly and cambered forcing runners to sacrifice a smooth pace or footing. Use caution.
• Spectator support lacks for most of the course as runners run through the vineyards and along the trail.
Growing up in Northern California, the coast redwoods and the rolling vineyards of Sonoma County are a familiar sight — quiet, majestic constants in the backdrop of everyday life. So when I signed up for the Santa Rosa Marathon, it felt like more than just a race; it felt like a homecoming.
The marathon course winds through the heart of Sonoma County, passing familiar landmarks, stretching alongside quiet creeks, and even cutting through the vineyards I’d driven past countless times as a kid. Running there, surrounded by the landscapes that shaped my sense of place, added a deeper meaning to each mile. It wasn’t just about chasing a finish time — it was about reconnecting with where I came from, and pushing myself forward on some of the very roads that had once felt so ordinary.
As a native Californian, I see the quiet kinship between the coast redwood (Sequoia sempervirens) and the giant sequoia (Sequoiadendron giganteum) trees and marathon running — both are enduring symbols of strength, patience, and growth over time.
Sequoias, among the largest and oldest living organisms on Earth, don’t reach their towering height or immense girth overnight; they grow gradually, year after year, weathering storms, droughts, and fire. Similarly, marathon running offers no shortcuts — it demands months, sometimes years, of consistent training, mental grit, and the resilience to push through setbacks. Just as a sequoia draws strength from its root system, a runner builds endurance and inner fortitude one mile, one effort, one recovery at a time.
Standing beneath the General Sherman Tree in Sequoia National Park, I am reminded how much is possible through quiet persistence. Standing at the start line of this marathon, I felt the same awe. Every runner carries a story of early morning runs, injuries, comebacks, and hope. As I crossed the finish line — though not in record time, but upright, grateful, and stronger than I started — I couldn’t help but think of those ancient trees again: still standing, still growing. In both nature and in running, greatness isn’t rushed — it’s earned slowly, with resolve, and a deep respect for the journey.
My wife and I quietly passed on the post-race festivities at Courthouse Square. Instead, we returned to the hotel — grateful for hot showers, a warm meal, and the quiet comfort of rest. After pushing our bodies to their limits, stillness felt like the celebration we needed most.
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| The Schoolhouse |
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| The Schoolhouse today |
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| The church behind the Schoolhouse |
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| Contemplating at Salmon Creek Beach |
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| Makeshift structures at Salmon Creek Beach |
The next day, before heading back to our humble place of abode, we took a small detour to Bodega Bay — a stretch of California I had yet to explore.
Known as the filming location for Alfred Hitchcock’s thriller The Birds, Bodega Bay welcomed us with cool temperatures, a steady breeze, and coastal fog as we strolled along Salmon Creek State Beach.
With flocks of seagulls scattered across the strand, I couldn’t help but recall the infamous bird attacks from Hitchcock’s film — though, of course, this was the real world, not a fictional thriller.
Final Thoughts
Looking back, this race taught me more than any personal best ever could. It reminded me that strength isn’t always measured in pace or finish time — it’s found in the moments when quitting seems easier, but you keep moving anyway. I learned to adapt, to fight through mental fatigue, and to find meaning in effort, not perfection. Even when my original goals slipped away, I discovered new ones worth chasing. And in the end, I crossed that finish line stronger, not just as a runner, but as someone who knows how to endure, refocus, and finish what they started.
The Santa Rosa Marathon isn’t just another check-mark on my race calendar — it’s a vivid reminder that, much like a good bottle of wine (fittingly), running improves with age, patience, and a bit of unpredictability. It’s not just about chasing numbers anymore (it’s #76). It’s about finding meaning in the miles, humor in the hard moments, and a strange sort of peace in the early morning fog as the course winds through California’s wine country.
From the cool, misty start through the quiet beauty of the vineyards, Santa Rosa offered a course that felt both intimate and energizing. There was no chaos, no big-city bluster — just the rhythmic sound of feet on pavement, the riffling of Santa Rosa Creek, the occasional dog spectating from a nearby home, and the steady hum of runners all chasing something, whether it’s for a BQ, a shiny new PR, or simply a shiny finisher’s medal.
But what really set this race apart was its ability to seamlessly blend challenge and charm. One moment you’re marveling at the rolling hills in the distance, the next you’re bargaining with your quads to keep it together for just a few more miles. It’s the kind of race that humbles you in the best way: not because it’s punishing, but because it sneaks up on you. The miles unfold easily… until they don’t. And when that wall shows up, so does the grit, the stubbornness, and that weird runner joy we only seem to find when everything starts to hurt.
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| Paavo Nurmi |
Because at the end of the day, we don’t remember every split or every aid station. We remember how we felt — challenged, exhausted, proud, alive. We remember the smiles, the struggle, and the weirdly emotional moment at Mile 24 when the thought of a cold sample of a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer becomes more motivating than any pace band could ever be.
So yes, it’s one more marathon in the books — legs sore, heart full, shoes slightly more worn. And as I sit back with a medal draped around my neck, I’m reminded that the finish line isn’t the end. It’s the start of another chapter — filled with fresh miles, new faces, and unexpected joys.
Though I may not hold membership in the esteemed Confrérie des Chevaliers du Testevin, I raise my glass with equal appreciation. Please, pass the wine. Skål för löpningen! (Cheers to the run!) Mission accomplished!
“Juokse kovaa, kun juokseminen on vaikeaa. (Run hard when it’s hard to run.)” – Paavo Nurmi, Finnish distance runner.
As always, it’s onward and upward.
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