2025 Year in Review
Four Marathons, One Unfinished Dream, One Incredible Journey
Although Albert Einstein made no notable contributions to the world of endurance athletics — running included — his exploration of relativity in the quest for a grand unified theory produced insights that readily apply to reality, and to the running community in particular.
And if there’s any group that embodies those insights, it’s marathoners. Nothing captures marathon training quite like that quote. We willingly sign up to run 26.2 miles — sometimes in weather worthy of a disaster film, sometimes on legs that are basically two stubborn noodles, and sometimes on terrain that changes gradients just to keep us humble — and then do it again anyway. Maybe it’s stubbornness, maybe it’s optimism, or maybe it’s that special kind of runner “stupidity” that keeps us coming back for more — and is exactly what makes finishing a marathon feel so amazing.
That same mixture of fortitude, humor, and questionable decision-making tends to shape how runners look back on a year, too. As 2025 comes to a close, people everywhere take stock of their year: goals achieved, new titles earned, sourdough starters casually annihilated, and the occasional garden plant picked up from Lowe’s calearance rack somehow refusing to die. But for marathoners, the calendar is measured not in months, but in miles — 26.2 at a time. And what a year of running it’s been.
This year was basically a scrapbook of sisu — that Finnish stubborn magic that propels you onward while logic mutters, “Seriously? We’re still doing this?” — trips near and far, weather that spun like a roulette wheel, and finish-line aha moments. More than once, the only “PR” I managed was a healthy serving of “personal resilience.”
Yet with every starting corral and medal clink, runners kept showing up — reminding us that consistency, hope, and a slightly irrational love for long distances can carry us farther than we think. The year may not have handed out easy victories, but it delivered deeper ones: community, perspective, and the quiet pride of simply keeping at it.
Meanwhile, the political division consuming this country sometimes felt like its own endurance event — minus the camaraderie, GU packs, electrolytes and free bananas. Arguments sprinted faster than facts, outrage seemed to carbo-load hourly, and nuance often dropped out within the first five kilometers. Still, much like marathoning, civic life holds a persistent sense that the next mile could be better than the last, the belief that even when the course feels chaotic, progress is possible if enough people keep moving forward with integrity, patience, and a willingness to listen.
In its own way, the year’s political marathon showed that division isn’t about speed or strength, but about who can maintain form over the long haul. Many victories felt pyrrhic, won not through dominance but by simply outlasting the noise. I hope the next lap of public conversation finds a steadier pace — and fewer potholes — in 2026.
Amid all this, what stands out most isn’t a single race or finish time, but the arc of the entire journey. This was a year shaped by ambition, persistence, and the humbling reality of what it takes to chase something big. I started the year with clear intentions and a full heart — determined to push myself farther than before and take another honest shot at that elusive Boston Qualifier.
But November had other plans. One overeager interval workout gifted me a hamstring-like injury benching me for nearly a month. With running off-limits, I retreated to the bike, pedaling away the miles in hopes of preserving whatever scraps of fitness I could. Still, as my running base evaporated, reality settled in: with only twelve weeks left before February’s Ventura Marathon (No. 77), I was afraid that I might not have enough time to rebuild what I’d lost.
What unfolded over four marathons was a mix of determination, growth, and a few moments of comic relief courtesy of weather, fatigue, and my own stubborn optimism. From rain-soaked slop at Jed Smith to the quad-shreddingting descent of Mt. Charleston, to the heat and smoke-filled grind in Fargo and the balanced finish in Santa Rosa, the year delivered a wide range of challenges. Each race came with its own personality, its own test, and its own lesson.
And though I didn’t walk away with a BQ, I walked away with something just as meaningful: a deeper understanding of who I am as a runner and what it truly takes to compete at this level. 2025 reminded me that progress isn’t always linear, finishes aren’t always predictable, and the marathon has a way of keeping every runner honest. And despite falling short of the goal, I’m ending the year more motivated than ever to keep chasing it. Four marathons, four very different outcomes, and one unshaken belief that the pursuit continues.
Here’s a snapshot of how each 2025 race unfolded:
February 1. I kicked off 2025 with the Jed Smith Ultra Marathon in Sacramento, CA, slogging my way to a very damp 4:18:52 with 26.2 miles of rain and mud. It wasn’t supposed to resemble a Tough Mudder, nor was it designed for speed. It was meant to be a controlled reset — a way to shake off the winter rust, log honest miles, and step into the year with forward momentum rather than expectations. The multiple-loop format and quiet park setting along the American River Trail made it an ideal environment to test my aerobic base without the added stress of pacing theatrics or crowded race-day chaos. It was about showing up, staying steady, and seeing what was there.
What I didn’t fully account for was how dramatically the weather would raise the difficulty. Relentless rain turned the course into a constantly evolving obstacle course. What started as damp footing quickly became a muddy, sloppy mess — slick corners, waterlogged gravel roads, deep puddles, and miles that demanded constant focus just to stay upright. Every loop added weight to my shoes, grit to my legs, and a new layer of discomfort. I was soaked, cold, and caked in mud, yet oddly energized by the shared absurdity of it all. There’s something about battling the elements that strips running down to its essentials: forward motion, problem-solving, and resolve.
Despite the conditions — or maybe because of them — the race felt like a fitting way to open the year. It wasn’t pretty, but it was honest. Each mile had to be earned, and there was no hiding from effort. That kind of adversity has a way of sharpening focus and reinforcing why long-distance running is so compelling. When everything is uncomfortable, the mind quiets, and the simple act of continuing becomes the reward. Jed Smith reminded me that I love running not because it’s easy or glamorous, but because it asks something real in return.
Just as importantly, Jed Smith delivered the first clear message of the year: marathon fitness doesn’t magically appear. The race was both a confidence boost and a reality check. My legs held together well enough, but I could feel the gaps — the strength still to be built, the endurance yet to be refined, the discipline that would be required if a BQ was going to be more than a hopeful line on a calendar. Looking back, that early, unfiltered truth was one of the most valuable takeaways of the entire season. It set expectations, clarified priorities, and laid the groundwork for the work that followed.
April 5. My first genuine BQ attempt came at REVEL Mt. Charleston, Las Vegas, NV — a race built for speed that politely declined to give me that, finishing in 4:03:05 — a time that, somewhat mercifully, landed in the final year before Boston introduced its now-infamous time penalty. The course’s steep, sustained downhill profile is legendary for producing fast times, but it’s just as notorious for the toll it extracts in return. Mt. Charleston doesn’t simply offer speed; it lends it at usurious rates, collecting payment late and without mercy. Still, on paper, it looked like the perfect opportunity to make a serious move toward that elusive qualifying mark.
Race morning delivered exactly what you’d hope for in a downhill marathon: cool mountain air, clear skies, and gravity working quietly in your favor. Early miles felt effortless. The descent made it easy to settle into rhythm, and the splits clicked by with almost suspicious ease. For a while, everything seemed to be lining up — fitness, conditions, and course all cooperating. I focused on staying controlled, knowing the real race wouldn’t begin until much later, but optimism crept in anyway.
That optimism was tested around Mile 18, when Mt. Charleston began demanding its payment. My quads and calves started issuing loud, unwelcomed complaints, tightening with every downhill step. Gravity was still there, but it no longer felt like a gift — it felt like a negotiation. The pace held, but the effort spiked, and every mile required deliberate focus just to keep moving efficiently.
I managed to hang on through the final stretch, leaning heavily on grit and stubbornness. Crossing the finish line marked my fastest marathon of the year, but it also delivered the most post-race soreness I’ve ever experienced. Within minutes, my legs felt like they’d been tenderized with a mallet. I half-joked that I might need a wheelchair to exit the finish area — and it wasn’t entirely a joke. Walking felt optional, stairs felt impossible, and standing up from a seated position came with real strategic planning.
Despite missing the Boston standard, Mt. Charleston was still a breakthrough. It proved I could push harder and closer than I had earlier in the year, and it rekindled the belief that a BQ wasn’t out of reach — just not yet earned. It also reinforced a lesson that would echo throughout the year: even the fastest courses demand disciplined pacing, strength, and respect. The mountain may help you move quickly, but it makes sure you pay for every borrowed second.
May 31. Fargo followed — flat, friendly, and good for a humbling 4:28:11 — a result buoyed less by the clock and more by the incredible sense of community woven through every mile. If Mt. Charleston was fast and fierce, Fargo was steady and demanding in an entirely different way. On paper, a flat course promises predictability. In reality, Fargo quickly stripped away any illusion of control I thought I had over the day.
Race morning brought conditions that quietly stacked the deck. Warmer-than-ideal temperatures settled in early, and smoky air drifting south from Canadian wildfires hung over the course, making each breath feel just a little heavier than it should have. Add in long, exposed stretches with little shade, and the marathon became less about pace charts and more about managing effort. Somewhere mid-race, stomach cramps joined the conversation, followed not long after my legs that gradually lost their snap. It wasn’t dramatic — just a slow, honest fade that demanded patience and humility mile after mile.
Yet what Fargo lacked in ideal racing conditions, it more than made up for in spirit. The crowds were constant, generous, and genuinely invested. Spectators rang cowbells, shouted encouragement, and made eye contact — the kind of support that feels personal, even when they don’t know your name. The charm of the Midwest showed up everywhere, from volunteers who treated runners like family to neighborhoods that turned an early Sunday morning into a celebration. Even on tired legs, it was impossible not to feel lifted by it all.
While Fargo didn’t move me any closer to a BQ, it delivered an equally important reminder: disappointment doesn’t erase achievement. Not every marathon is a stepping stone forward on paper. Sometimes the marathon simply reveals the distance between where you are and where you want to be. Fargo did exactly that. And I’ve learned that gaps aren’t failures — they’re measuring sticks. They show you what still needs attention, what deserves respect, and where the work must continue. Oj då, aka Uff da.
August 24. My final marathon of the year was Santa Rosa in Santa Rosa, CA, completing the course in a respectable 4:14:31. With cool morning temperatures, smooth roads, and vineyards stretching quietly alongside the course, it offered a calm and almost reflective backdrop for one last attempt to bring the year together. After the chaos, lessons, and accumulated fatigue of the earlier races, Santa Rosa felt like a deep breath — a chance to race with clarity rather than urgency.
I arrived at the start line more experienced, more grounded, and noticeably less desperate to force a result. The year had already taught me what desperation costs. This time, the goal was simple: run smart, stay present, and execute the best race I had that day. From the opening miles, the effort felt measured and sustainable. Pacing was intentional, fueling was steady, and the miles unfolded without drama. There were no heroic surges or emotional swings — just consistent forward progress, guided by patience and respect for the distance.
As the race wore on, the familiar fatigue arrived, but it never spiraled. I stayed engaged, focused on small decisions and manageable goals, letting the course come to me rather than fighting it. When I crossed the finish line, it wasn’t the breakthrough I’d envisioned months earlier, but it was something just as meaningful: a race I could feel genuinely proud of. It was a clean effort, an honest performance, and a fitting way to close out the year.
Santa Rosa also delivered the final, clearest lesson of 2025: marathoning is incredibly hard — and chasing a Boston Qualifier is even harder. The margin for error is razor thin. Training consistency, pacing discipline, weather, course profile, nutrition, mental endurance — all of it has to align nearly perfectly. My year made it clear just how rare that alignment truly is, and how much growth still lies ahead if I want to reach the next tier. Progress is real, but it demands patience.
And maybe, just maybe, that breakthrough will come in my next age-group category.
Looking back, I could focus on the disappointment of not hitting my goal. But that wouldn’t tell the whole story. This year wasn’t a failure; it was preparation. A foundation. A season that toughened me, taught me, and made me hungrier for what comes next. The Boston dream lives on — not diminished, but sharpened.
Here’s to a year of hard miles, honest effort, and lessons earned the long way. And here’s to carrying those lessons into the future. Boston didn’t happen in 2025…but the road isn’t done with me yet.
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| Jed Smith and Fargo medals |
Santa Rosa and Mt. Charleston medals
My 2025 race statistics probably won’t overwhelm anyone, but hey — quality over quantity, right? But in the spirit of full disclosure…
Race Stats:
Half marathons run: 0
Marathons run: 4
Virtual marathons run: 0
Average marathon time: 4:16:10
Number of fellow runners: 5,331
Lifetime marathon average to date (through 76 races): 4:49:13
Standard deviation: 0:29:24
Median finish time: 4:50:57
Mileage Stats:
Total miles run in 2025: 1206.3 in 178/365 days – 6.8 miles/day average
Race miles run in 2025: 104.8
Average marathon pace: 9:46
Final thoughts
Even though being sidelined with a stubborn hamstring injury that kept me off the roads for part of November and most of December, I’ve found myself reflecting on the bright spots runners can be thankful for in 2025. Injury downtime has a way of slowing life just enough to notice things you usually sprint past — the rituals, the routines, the quiet support systems that keep a runner moving even when the miles stop. Forced patience is never welcome, but it does have a way of sharpening perspective.
One thing that stood out this year is just how far the sport has evolved, especially when it comes to recovery and longevity. Today’s tools feel worlds apart from the “apply an ice pack on it and hope for the best” era. Compression sleeves, smart strength programs, home-based therapy devices, and recovery apps now help runners heal with intention rather than intensity. There’s a growing understanding that rest isn’t weakness — it’s strategy. And while no gadget can magically fix a cranky hamstring, the mindset shift alone feels like progress worth celebrating.
As I think about getting back out on the streets in 2026, there’s a lot to be excited about beyond simply logging miles again. Race culture continues to evolve in ways that make the sport feel more inclusive and creative. From innovative race formats to smarter pacing support and community-driven events, the experience is increasingly about connection rather than just competition. Finishing a race now feels less like an isolated achievement and more like stepping into a shared story — one where every runner, regardless of pace, contributes to the energy of the day.
Perhaps most encouraging of all, 2025 seemed to bring a broader appreciation for running as a lifelong habit rather than a relentless chase for PRs. More runners are talking openly about mental health, balance, and sustainability. More people are discovering that a run can be therapy, meditation, or simply a chance to breathe outdoors without expectations. Whether it’s science-backed recovery protocols or the simple joy of movement, there’s a lot to be grateful for — even when the hamstring says, very firmly, “not yet.”
That mindset of gratitude naturally led me to look back on my 2025 marathon year, a stretch of miles that reshaped my understanding of progress. I started the year with bold goals and a clear target — qualifying for Boston — but the marathon has a way of reminding you that goals aren’t just set; they’re earned layer by layer. Training cycles blur together, races refuse to cooperate, and fitness alone never guarantees success. Still, every race added something to the bigger picture. Each one taught me more about patience, preparation, and execution. And while the BQ didn’t happen, the growth absolutely did.
This year also reinforced just how unpredictable marathons can be, always ready with a lesson I didn’t exactly request. From the mud-slicked chaos of Jed Smith to the quad-shredding descent of Mt. Charleston, from Fargo’s cocktail of heat, haze, smoke, and stomach issues to the calm, methodical pacing at Santa Rosa — each race showed me a different way the marathon can humble even the most prepared runner. Some days rewarded restraint, others punished ambition, and a few simply shrugged and said, “Not today.” Highs, lows, and everything in between — 2025 delivered the full spectrum.
Most importantly, the year reinforced that I’m not done — not even close. If anything, missing the BQ sharpened my motivation rather than dimmed it. I’m ending the year healthier, wiser, and more determined than when I started. The foundation is stronger, the lessons are clearer, and the fire is still very much alive. 2025 wasn’t the year I punched a ticket to Boston, but it was a year that moved me closer than I’ve been in a long time — and that matters.
So, with a very uneven blend of relief, pride, and “what on earth was I thinking,” I bid adieu to 2025 and cautiously step into 2026 armed with equal parts eagerness, trepidation, and questionable ambition. My plans aren’t carved into stone — more like scribbled on a Post-it that may or may not survive the laundry — but whatever path I end up blazing, I hope I cross it alongside runners of every stripe. From first-time marathoners discovering what they’re capable of to seasoned veterans shaped by years of hard-earned miles, we’re all chasing our own version of the finish line. We might as well appreciate the eccentric people we meet along the way — myself included.
These are just the musings of a well-seasoned engineer who’s been around the block (and apparently insists on running around it again). Having stepped squarely into the chaos of trailblazing, I fully expect to do it again because, well… that’s what I do.
Happy 2026 to all — may your shoes remain tied, your legs not revolt, and your sense of humor endure all your ambitions, especially while you convince yourself the lead runner is still within reach.
Lesson learned: This year reinforced that progress in running isn’t linear, and success isn’t defined solely by outcomes like a Boston qualifier. Injuries, setbacks, and unpredictable race days are not detours — they’re part of the path I set out to blaze. Downtime taught me patience and gratitude, races taught me humility and adaptability, and missed goals sharpened my resolve rather than dulling it. The biggest lesson was learning to value consistency over perfection, growth over validation, and running as a lifelong pursuit rather than a single result. Injury has a way of making the body whisper “not yet,” and if you’re willing to listen, it’s quietly giving you a blueprint on how to return stronger, wiser, and more prepared for what’s ahead. Learning to accept that message, though, is often the hardest part.
As always, onward and upward.
“The world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.” — Albert Einstein
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