My official time: 3:48:02 (a personal best by four minutes) Finished 1,812 out of 15,977 Finished 241 out of 1,368 males aged 30-34

Longer Story:

This past Sunday my alarm went off at 4:15am. I was in a hotel room in San Diego, groggy, weary, and about to run 26.2 miles. Ali, who was planning on running half the distance, and I were out the door in a matter of minutes, having said goodbye to our loved ones. It was entirely dark outside and still rather cold, especially I thought for Southern California. Runners already mingled around the lobby and parking lot. We jumped on a shuttle to the start area, watching cars and busses and vans all making this kind of silent pilgrimage to the staging area.

I only remember one line of dialogue from the shuttle ride to the start. Behind me a woman from Reno was talking to a guy about to run his first marathon. She was talking about the course and giving a couple of last minute pointers. Then she paused and said, "but don't worry, it's easy." Everyone in the shuttle laughed. Then everyone was totally silent. I wasn't the only one in that van I suppose who was feeling a bit nerve-y, a bit anxious.

Ali and I stationed ourselves somewhere between a sea of port-a-potties, the medical tents, the baggage drop, and the starting line. We watched people. We stretched. We chatted. We saw the purple Team In Training groups everywhere we looked. We saw Elvis look-a-likes taking the "Rock 'n Roll Marathon" idea as far as possible. We saw old men sitting alone. We saw nervousness and excitement. The sun was starting to come out.

At 6:10, in one fell swoop, we dropped off our bags, said a goodbye and made our way to our respective starting corrals. The race was scheduled to begin at 6:30 sharp. I remember walking to the front to my corral with a sense of calm. Maybe not readiness, but calm. How ready can you really be for a marathon?

Just before I made it to my corral I decided to try one more bathroom break but saw that the port-a-pottie lines, right before the starting gun now, were literally hundreds of people long each. I wasn't willing to miss the start. I continued to walk forward to the start, hoping to find better luck there, and ultimately found myself at the elite tent, where the elite athletes change and prepare themselves for the race. I made friends with the guard outside of this tent and, within a matter of minutes, found myself in a throng of Kenyans and Ehiopians, mingling with the likes of Daniel Yego, who would soon run and win the race in a mere 2:09:08 and collect $20,000 for his efforts. He'd also win a new Saturn. (I'm sure Saturns are very popular in Kenya). I also found myself chatting for just a second with none other than Bill Walton, former NBA phenom and current broadcaster. I think he might live in the area. (No, he didn't run it). After a final pit stop in a decidedly cleaner, decidedly elite, port-a-pottie I made my way toward the start and lined up with 15,977 of my closest friends. All ages. All states. Some forty countries.

Different abilities and goals and backgrounds and reasons for standing where they stood at that moment, on that morning.

The early miles were easy-going, crowded. My slowest mile of the day was in fact mile one. I ran through the first seven miles or so generally alone. Maybe there was some passing banter, but people were generally trying to find their own rhythm, trying to settle into their own day. I was trying to relax, focus on my form, run consistent splits. For the most part I felt OK, but knew there was still a long, long way to go. At more than one point I thought to myself: Thank God for this opportunity.

At about mile eight I found myself running quite evenly with two other young guys, about my age. We went along for a couple of minutes without saying much of anything. Once it was clear that we were all essentially running comfortably, at the same pace, we began to talk a bit more. As a trio we would survive for another ten miles. First we talked about other races we had run. We had each run multiple marathons, all over the place. Our times in those races were relatively close. We talked a bit about our families. Then we talked a bit about where we are from. This is when I learned that one of the two, Chris, is from none other than Yardley, PA. He and Lisa went to the same high school. We knew various people in common. We talked Philly sports, the Eagles, Cole Hamels, T.O. Then I learned that the other member of our trio is a youth pastor and thus another window was opened wide. We talked at length of his work compared to mine. We talked about the challenges that come with working with kids, the right kinds of challenges. We talked about books. We talked about groundedness, community, morality. All of this as the miles ticked from eight to ten to twelve to fourteen.

Around mile eighteen I surged forward a bit. I had started to feel heavy and sluggish around mile fifteen and knew that I needed to break out of the rut. I had been running for over two hours already and everything was starting to feel it. At mile eighteen I took my third energy gel of the day and went ahead of my two pals. I didn't see them again. I pushed from eighteen to twenty, knowing that was Lisa waiting for me just after mile twenty. By now we had left Balboa Park, run through downtown San Diego, and were now coming around to Mission Bay on the long trek to the finish. I was on pace to run a strong time. I knew that if I could hit mile twenty in under 2:56 I would be in very good shape. I would practically be able to walk the last six miles and still run a personal best. I hit mile twenty in 2:54:30. Then I saw Lisa. This was a tremendous boost. She was smiling and waving and taking pictures and screaming encouragement, somehow all at the same time. It was great. Afterward I put on my iPod for the first time all day. Life was good. It was happening. I felt strong. Determined.

Then came the pain. By mile twenty-two I was suffering. We ran a long uphill, followed by a long downhill. I'm not sure which was more torturous on my legs. I was passing runners rather consistently now, people with much higher bib numbers than me, and I may have even seemed fresh, but inside there existed nothing short of a world of struggle. I was doing everything I could to focus. I think I stopped looking for mile markers. I put my head down and simply ran. I looked forward, only remotely hearing the crowds lining the course. I dug deep. I thought thoughts. I pictured my (ever growing) family.

I thought of my friends. I thought of the hundreds of miles run in preparation for this day: in the cold, in the rain, in the snow, uphill miles, painful miles, miles run too fast, too slow, miles before funerals and workdays and meetings, miles in Queens, Central Park, Cherry Hill, Yardley, Israel. I thought of people who have it so much worse than I do. I thought of being able to return to the hotel room after the race, get in bed, close my eyes, and grin at the effort I gave on this morning. And on all mornings leading up to it.

I thought of single words: COURAGE, NOW, YES, GO, BELIEVE. More than anything, from mile twenty-four on, I thought: DO NOT STOP. I must have repeated this to myself a hundred times. I will not stop. All I want to do is stop, but stopping is what's standing in the way of something good and something…better. I would not stop. People stopped all around me. I would not stop. All I wanted to do was stop. I was pushing like I've never pushed before.

When I crossed the finish line I had nothing left. I could barely look down at my watch. (I did anyway of course). I could barely hold the water they handed me. I dragged my bag after picking up at baggage. I hobbled into the medical tent for ice and Tylenol. My legs screamed. Had the race been ten feet longer, I wouldn't have made it. I sat in the med tent, my feet up. I was soaked, spent.

The man next to me was being loaded into an ambulance. I sent a text message to Lisa: 3:48. If I knew how to do one of those smiley faces, I would have added that too.

Over the next hour or so I limped to the shuttle, rode the shuttle with Ali back to the hotel (she successfully finished the half, her first), showered, collapsed by the pool, and began to think, again and again, of the morning.

A Boston Marathon qualifying time is flickering, very vaguely, in the distance.