10 Years Ago Today, I Ran a Marathon.
The Raven Express #22 - 1/18/25
In this issue of The Raven Express, I reflect on the decade since I decided to spend five hours running a lot of miles.
3,652 Days Later
You don’t quite know it yet, but I have a “time to marathon”. It’s a period of about three hours after you’ve met me or read any of my work or seen any of my content before you know that I’ve run a marathon.
On the morning of January 18, 2015, after losing over a hundred pounds and training for 18 months when I’d never taken running seriously before, I launched from the chute of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Arizona marathon in Downtown Phoenix. Running across the desert metropolis, racing down-and-back from Scottsdale, I completed the 26.2-mile course by stumbling over the finish line in nearby Tempe.
The size of the task, the time and effort spent to prepare for it and the fact that I ultimately did it makes that marathon one of the easiest events to call My Greatest Achievement Ever.
But 10 years later, it is my first, last and only marathon.
Before All That
I don’t know why my gym teacher, Mr. Kline, didn’t teach us how to run. Or maybe he did and it was in passing.
Every year at Belleaire Elementary School, we had to complete a mile run before the weather became too cold. It was a five-lap struggle around the playgrounds along a course he spray-painted informally onto the grass, dirt and concrete padding.
For many, many years, I thought running was sprinting, so any time I ran, I did it with all of my might, every last carb in my muscles and every last molecule of air in my lungs. I was never fast or athletically exceptional in any way, so running any kind of distance was off the table, especially when I was doing it wrong. As was anything requiring eye-hand coordination, incredible amounts of stamina, upper body strength or-
Anyway, fast forward to 2013 and I live in Phoenix. My friend Kelly and I moved there from our base here in Colorado Springs to make our entertainment/commentary website a full-time reality for the five-strong team of us internet friends that worked on it. Long story short: it didn’t work out.
By summer, not only was I unemployed and my bank account nearly drained, I was absolutely miserable. Years of sedentary lifestyle brought on by a horrible job at a call center before we left Colorado had caused me to balloon in weight and made me physically weak. This affected everything I did, whether it was walking around a grocery store or just standing on my own two feet unassisted for longer than 15 minutes, a task that became incredibly painful. I had vowed to do daily walks when we moved to Arizona, but the pain from those first efforts was just too much and I gave up within a few weeks.
I’d gotten into minimalist shoes and around 5AM on a July morning, still awake with desperate, depressed thoughts, I saw an ad for Vibram FiveFingers (the toe shoes) on Facebook. It featured ultramarathoner Ruby Muir mid-stride in VFFs running (and ultimately winning) the 2013 Tarawera Ultramarathon, a 100-mile run in New Zealand.
…and I thought, “wait, I wear shoes like that, why don’t I set out to do something huge: run a 26.2-mile marathon!”
It was like a dopamine firework had blown up inside my brain. I genuinely can’t think of any singular instance where a new thought burned in my head so brightly, inspiring me to take action.
Quickly, within mere moments, I dove into the research. I scoured the internet for nearby marathons, targeting the February 2014 Phoenix Marathon (now the Mesa Marathon), a mere seven months away. I researched running routines, read countless couch-to-marathon running blogs, devoured countless tips, diets, gear, pointers, stories, photos, GoPro footage and far more in anticipation of making a huge life pivot.
…okay, maybe seven months until my first marathon was a bit too ambitious considering standing in the shower was still an epically painful task.
(And because I’m that guy, I have to specify that a marathon is not any long-distance run, it is a standardized 26.22-mile or 42.2-kilometer run. A 5K is not a marathon. A 10K is not a marathon. A half-marathon is not a marathon it’s… well, I shouldn’t have to spell it out.)
Going…
I started walking. Then I took a job stocking shelves overnight at Walmart, which was so physically exhausting that I called out of several shifts in my first week because I was in so much pain.
Then I lost the weight: a hundred pounds before I couldn’t drop any more despite my best efforts. I felt more powerful, but my anemic wallet felt the pain of having to transition through three sizes of clothing. I was gaining attention and confidence in ways I’d never experienced before and never anticipated.
Using a starter marathon guide, I began running three and then four days a week. I felt powerful as my limbs could slice through the air more easily with each run. I was buying new neon-colored clothing to breathe in the Phoenix heat and stay visible in front of jerk-ass drivers who weren’t paying attention — a task I still perform today as an activist pedestrian.
Soon I was running half an hour continuously. Five miles fell and then 10. The first half-marathon I ever ran was a series of loops in my neighborhood, starting just after the sun set in May 2014. It was 100 degrees when I left the house and by the time I got back, I had depleted my water and my shirt was stained with salt.
I began documenting my journey run by run on Tumblr. I’d snap a photo, jot some stats, then write a summary of how the run went. Minus the photos, all of that’s lost now, but milestone runs like that half-marathon did survive in the book I wrote afterward, Man Eats Elephant, which was the name of my blog.
Summer slowed me down substantially, but on a return trip to Colorado Springs that September, I scored my first running medal by completing the American Discovery Trail half-marathon. Running solo around my neighborhood was fun enough by itself since it gave me time and space to be alone with my thoughts and the environment. But being able to apply my training to an event with hundreds of other excited runners who’d also worked hard, paid the fee, got the clothing and did the training was electrifying.
I ran another half-marathon in November, this time in nearby Peoria, Arizona, which is still my fastest at 2:17:39. In the dark and cold night of Christmas day, I completed the long run mandated by my training regime before a training taper: a 20-miler around the neighborhood that took just over four hours. The consistent weather year-round made training relatively easy, minus the summer’s excessive sun that had me running long at 2AM.
As the distances grew, miles gradually became an abstract measurement of time and space. Completing increasingly longer runs felt like mountains crumbling to dust beneath my feet. It was such a thrill to tell someone I’d just run a dozen miles and see their eyes widen like a TikTok filter. At work, customers would stop and say they were proud of how much work I was putting in and how much weight I’d lost. Unknown to me, they’d watch me as I ran up and down their streets and around their homes three to four times a week. It was so freaking validating.
After the prescribed January taper, it was time to run the marathon.
Going…
The Rock ‘n’ Roll Racing Series, which is owned by Competitor, which is owned by the Ironman Group, which is owned by— is a big deal. Their events are huge and expensive.
Or, they were anyway.
The expo for the Arizona event was held at the Phoenix Convention Center and took up an entire hall. Not only would you pick up your bib and tracking chip there, but there were tons of vendors, local news stations and other race events as well.
Rock ‘n’ Roll Arizona was so large that the starting lines for their marathon and half-marathons runs were miles away in different towns, both concluding at Tempe Beach Park. There, finishers were greeted with back-to-back concerts featuring The Wallflowers and OK GO, depending on when you arrived. Along the course, local bands played on temporary stages.
I cannot emphasize enough that I consumed every post-run blog and video about the event from previous years that I could find. I wanted to know what I was getting into, to the extent that I’d spun myself into an anxious bundle of nerves by the eve of the run.
The morning of the run was chilly as I walked past cop cars that blocked off chunks of Downtown from passing traffic. Looming high above the starting chute, which spanned more than a block, were glass skyscrapers plastered with Super Bowl advertisements which was being held in nearby Glendale.
I kept the warm neon orange sweatshirt at home because I knew I’d shed it immediately on the course… and I really liked that sweatshirt. The crowd grew, many hiding in buildings or donning shiny space blankets to stay warm before migrating to the chute. I made it a habit to find a spot toward the back of the crowd of runners as these events began because overtaking waves of slower runners (and intermittent walkers) worked as a big psychological boost early on.
After a countdown, we were off, the beginning of the 213th run of my couch-to-marathon journey.
I’d made the mistake of putting my phone in battery saver mode in hopes I’d still have some left by the time I finished, but this killed Runkeeper’s ability to track me, so the first mile and a half or so is lost. Despite logging well over 1,400 miles in total to that point and most of the run otherwise, Runkeeper still doesn’t know that I ran a full marathon.
The run was incredible. Over 26.2 miles, we fled the tall buildings of Phoenix for the suburban sprawl, then east past majestic desert hills. I peed twice, thankfully in provided facilities. On the return leg from Scottsdale, I caught a glimpse of the “lag wagon” crawling in the other direction, scooping up back-of-the-pack runners that were pacing too slow to remain on the course during the strictly enforced time limit. The roads we were running on had to be reopened for the public eventually.
As I reached the last critical miles of the event, I began to run out of fuel. I hit “the wall”, so to speak, a common point for marathoners after 20 miles when your body has exhausted all of your simple carbs and now has to turn to much slower and inefficient methods of metabolism to continue to fuel your muscles. It feels like the spirit departing you or your battery running out. Even thought I had trained with and brought gels, by mile 20, I could no longer stomach to squeeze another one into my mouth. The temperatures were approaching the mid-70s by this point and there was little in the way of canopy coverage. The sun was delivering a direct beatdown.
I slowed to a walk, summoned my strength for a time and began to run again. In fits and starts, I managed to make it to the downhill slide into Tempe where I could then manage a continuous run to the sound of OK GO playing and the roar of the crowds.
With each step, the excitement grew. 25 miles down. 26 miles down. Soon, my family was shouting at me from the sidelines as I made the hard right turn toward the finish line. With every last bit of my strength, I pushed toward the raised barrier under the big glowing arch, throwing my arms up in celebration as the emcees gave me high fives.
Within steps, I was handed me my medal — a minor miracle considering they’d just barely arrived at the event because the ship from China had arrived late. There were a pair of fields on the back to have my name and finishing time custom etched on, but it was one of many RNR add-ons I couldn’t afford. They gave me a bottle of water, some snacks to recover and with that, I stumbled out from the park in a daze of pain and confusion. I found my family and, embracing my mom, I cried.
I’d taken the next day off at work and my body felt like a vessel of broken glass for most of a week, but I had done it. I had eaten that elephant.
In 2012, Republican and vice presidential candidate Paul Ryan was criticized for not knowing off-hand how long it took him to run his singular marathon. Such a thing isn’t something you easily forget because each minute and mile on the course accumulates into a self-inflicted injury that changes your perspective on life.
5:13:11.
…Gone.
With all this training under my belt, with so much fitness, with so many mountains to still conquer and medallions to claim and hang above my desk, a more financially secure runner would’ve just kept going. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
My years at Walmart working minimal hours for minimal pay had caused me to fall behind on debt to the extent that I was now faced with declaring bankruptcy. The lawyer fees ate every free dollar I had, plus the fees of any future runs.
My marathon was an epic event amidst a sea of depressing sadness and as triumphant as it was, it was also effectively the end of my long run ambitions. Even the Phoenix Marathon a few weeks later was out of reach. Without the money to do much of anything except barely survive or a huge event to maintain my fitness for, my running fell by the wayside and I began to gain weight.
We moved back to Colorado that November and things made more sense as my bankruptcy finalized. I ran the American Discovery Trail Half-marathon in September 2016, the Colorado Springs Half-marathon the following year and my final half-marathon, the frigid Super Half on Super Bowl Sunday in 2018, as I navigated an extremely abusive marriage that kept me from nearly all of the habits and events that I enjoyed.
Since 2020, I’ve run a pair of 5Ks plus some jaunts around the neighborhood, but the dream of running a full marathon today is almost as distant as it was in the latter months of 2013 when I was struggling to get my weight down and not running at all. Colorado winters have kept me indoors while Arizonan ones kept me on my feet.
At a point, I dreamt that I’d get a job where I could head out of town once or twice a month to run a new marathon in a seasonally appropriate locale. I’d fly out Friday night, run Saturday morning in an exotic new city on a shiny new course, snap up my medal and bottles of water, then fly back in time for a hazy Monday morning on the job. I spent so long researching events across the country that at one point, I’d built a wishful tour schedule.
As my running habit faded away, so did the scope of so many of the events I’d looked into. The American Discovery Trail Marathon, one of my hometown dream runs that carried you from Palmer Lake to Downtown Colorado Springs, disappeared entirely after COVID. The Colorado Springs Marathon, which at one point directed runners away from Downtown, out past Memorial Park and back, was now almost entirely confined to the same public trails that every other local paid running event traced their courses along. I love the Pikes Peak Greenway, but paying to run along it several times a year is… a stretch, even if there are medals being handed out in the end and a time tracked online.
But the increased price of permitting and increasing logistical issues isn’t a local phenomenon. Rock ‘n’ Roll Denver eliminated their full marathon course in 2015 — leaving the Colfax Marathon as the only full marathon course in the city — before COVID eliminated Rock ‘n’ Roll’s Denver event entirely. Rock ‘n’ Roll Arizona no longer offers a full marathon course while its half-marathon course has been slashed down to a circuit run from Tempe to Scottsdale.
(Reading online, a lot of Competitor/RNR’s struggles seem to fall to typical corpo mismanagement. In 2017, they produced 30 running events around the world after an overzealous expansionary period. For 2025, only nine events will carry the Rock ‘n’ Roll banner with only one outside the United States.)
I’m not happy that I haven’t run the Las Vegas strip at night or the streets of Denver in the day or the closed streets of Washington D.C. or a multi-day Star Wars Rebel Challenge at Disney World. It feels like an entire dream of athletic tourism and peak physical fitness has slipped through my fingers.
But 10 years after my marathon, the scope of my running achievements isn’t lost on me. No, that rack of medals hangs right beside me in my office every single day.
Maybe 2025 is the year I find a big hoary marathon to tackle — maybe that Mesa Marathon I once scouted for my very first event — and slip on the FiveFingers to start collapsing those miles into the abstract again.
HE DOES STILL POST I SWEAR IT. MEOW.
- Captain Kirby Jack Raven, a.k.a. DJ Scratch-a-Lot.
The Raven’s Recommendation
This is something I’ve munched on since the last time we’ve chatted that I want to share with you.
Special effects magician and YouTuber Captain Disillusion breaks down yet another elaborate visual effects sequence… except it’s an otherwise straight-forward SNL sketch? What’s going on? Hmmmm…
What an amazing journey! I look forward to reading more articles (maybe) about THIS journey! ♥️
Great read!