When I’m training for a marathon, it’s inevitable that my long-run days are filled with the same recurring thoughts: “I want pastries!” or some variation like, “Should I stop at Walmart for a cheese Danish?” or “Why aren’t there any good bakeries nearby?”
Every year I run the Moore & Giles Virginia 10 Miler, and right before mile 5 there’s a short but steep hill in Riverside Park. Without fail, I think of the airport fight scene from Captain America: Civil War, where Ant-Man is sprinting in his shrunken form chanting, “I’m the boss, I’m the boss, I’m the boss.” Paul Rudd’s voice plays on a loop in my head until I conquer that hill.
On strength training days, my mind is much quieter—mostly focused on form and counting reps.
Unlike many runners who can recall every detail of their best races, I’m the opposite. My best races are the ones I barely remember at all. I hit a state of flow—a kind of pure euphoria—where all I feel is happiness. It’s a deep, inner connection to myself and the world around me, and it’s hard to put into words.
Bad races, however? Those stick in my memory with crystal clarity. Short races are tolerable—they’re over quickly—but long events give me plenty of time for an endless, anxious internal monologue, especially when I’m wondering why the race feels harder than it should.
In 2024, I ran the Richmond Marathon for the second time. Right before the start, I realized I had left my gels in my checked bag. Not ideal. My goal time slipped away by two minutes, but I still managed to PR by nearly 30 minutes. Around mile 14, I grabbed some snacks from the course—a handful of pretzel squares and fruit gushers. Two thoughts immediately popped into my head:
- I like pretzels, but I’ve never trained with them as fuel. What’s this going to do to my digestive system?
- I haven’t eaten fruit gushers in over a decade.
At mile 16, I spotted the Army handing out large cups of gummy bears. I took one, popped a few in my mouth, and thought to myself, “God bless the Army.”