An Ultra Marathon that's mostly not about running --- How many steps to fit an elephant into a fridge?

Last Sunday, I ran the Marine Corps Marathon 50K ultra, and I thought I'd jot down a few notes—not for the race itself, since there's nothing extraordinary about running a marathon or ultra, really. But sometimes, it's what happens around the running that’s worth noting. After all, what does an old proverb say? The real meaning is rarely in the wine itself.

The last time I ran a marathon was three years ago, in Chicago. Since then, life has moved along at a sprint: I snagged another degree while pandemic winds still blew, got married, welcomed a child, and shouldered more work responsibilities. These past three years have been intense—dense, even—but we made it through. Beyond one or two close people, no one really knew what I was up to. Be like a swan, paddling madly underneath the water but appearing graceful and elegant on the surface. Not that I think of myself as a swan, but you get the idea. It wasn’t intentional concealment; I just wanted to live my life privately, in my own lane.

Our son was born this July, and by September I’d finally settled into the rhythm of diaper changes, midnight feeds, and the art of putting him down to sleep without breaking a sweat. That’s when the realization hit me—I needed to do something for myself, something to reclaim a piece of my identity outside of being a dad and a husband. I casually mentioned running a marathon again, seeing as it had been a few years. My wife was enthusiastic, but I gently reminded her of the “price tag”: even the bare minimum of training would mean I’d be peeling off a good twenty or thirty hours from our already hectic baby duty rotation. She hesitated, but before she could object, I feigned noble sacrifice, saying, "Alright, alright, if you insist, I'll ‘make do’ with one more finisher medal for the kid’s toy box."

On September 16, I signed up for the MCM 50K, right in my own backyard, with exactly six weeks until race day. “Let the mission begin; God will provide.” And yes, six weeks is far from ideal. Real marathoners are probably rolling their eyes, thinking I'm an affront to the sport for not respecting the distance. It’s not that—I’d love a structured training plan, a shot at a PR. But here’s the thing: I’ve never trained “properly” for a marathon. I’ve never been a true runner; running has never been my top priority. For me, life’s meaning lies in trade-offs. You can pursue anything, but you can’t have everything. Pick the one thing that matters most. Focus on it, and let the rest go.

But on the flip side—who says you need perfect training to finish a race? If there isn’t a challenge, create one. I say: Whatever it takes.

So back to that elephant. Six weeks, 180 miles total on my shoes for 2024, which is as good as zero in marathon training. I decided I’d run a couple of 3-to-6-mile weekday jogs to avoid rusting completely, then pile on distance with long weekend runs from September 16 onward. First up was 12 miles, then 14, then 16, then 18, then 20, and then I’d rest before throwing myself into the 50K on October 27. This would total 300 miles by race day, a “meh” tally if we’re comparing to real runners clocking thousands each year. But my biggest marathon season topped out at 500 miles, and even then, my cardio reluctance (and occasional horror) made it a one-off.

I’d come up with a modest plan: start slow, no speed goals, finish uninjured. Five weekend long runs from 12 to 20 miles. Doable. Step 1: Open the fridge door.

The weeks ticked by, and I made it to race week with my 300 miles logged. Only one hiccup: I came down with a trending virus two weeks before race day. Ten days of coughing, congestion, and wheezing without seeing a doctor (probably pneumonia, to be honest). Morning of the race, I was still coughing, downing Tylenol and cough syrup. I had no energy gels, just a pocketful of cough drops.

At 5 a.m., I left for the Pentagon parking lot, the designated start. No need for a gear bag or an entourage; I like to keep things light. One to slay, miles away. Finish, brush off, disappear. You get the vibe.

But as luck would have it, my shuttle bus got lost. Yes, in D.C., no less. Since 4 a.m., much of the city was closed to cars, and the shuttle driver had taken us on a wild goose chase through dead-end streets, completely stuck. At 6:20 a.m., those running the marathon could afford to wait; they wouldn’t start until 7:55 a.m. But the 50K started at 7:15.

A guy from New Jersey and I jumped off the bus, made for the nearest Metro station, and hopped the Blue Line, getting off two stops later and hustling 1.5 miles to the start. With thousands of runners streaming toward us, I told him, “If we’re going to run the 50K, we’ll need to sprint. Let’s get in the zone.” He gave me a nod, and we were off. By the time we got to the start area, there were about ten of us. Turns out our mini “lost souls” sprint became the warm-up we needed.

With ten minutes to go, heart racing, I couldn’t have asked for a better pump. Somehow, the adrenaline banished the cough, the foot pain from tendinitis disappeared, and suddenly, I was ready to tackle the day. Let’s get that elephant in the fridge.

Second step: Put the elephant in.

The course was surreal in the early morning, the streets still quiet. At this point, the cheer squads hadn’t fully emerged, and the only spectators were the Marines posted every few dozen yards. With no marathoners yet in sight, it was a rare moment of calm within the race. I kept telling myself to hold back, to stay slow—today, the key to finishing was restraint. Training had been thin, and with a cough and tendinitis, the real challenge was avoiding injury.

As I got into my stride, I knew the route like the back of my hand: out from Arlington, down GW Parkway, across Key Bridge into Georgetown, through Rock Creek Park, then south to Hains Point, Jefferson Memorial, National Mall, and back toward the Pentagon. Nearly every footstep was familiar, places I usually walk on weekends with friends or family.

The first 10 miles ticked by smoothly, but by Mile 14, my tendinitis began to flare up on the long, uneven slopes around Rock Creek Park, setting off sympathetic cramps in my thigh. A choice had to be made—stop and stretch or power through. I’ve often wondered what belief really does for us in life. I’d say it lets us generate the strength to lift ourselves past our limits, beyond what we think we’re capable of. Faith is that hidden arm, lifting you up even when your body is ready to falter. So, without even a pause, I kept moving, step by step, mile by mile.

Third step: Close the fridge door.

Around Mile 26, I finally broke a sweat. Realizing this, I picked up the pace to finish with something close to a sprint. As I neared the final mile, I saw a surprise waiting: my wife, holding our son, with a few close friends cheering me on at the barrier. They yelled my name, their voices a burst of energy. I wanted to roll my eyes at the fanfare—it was a nice touch, but really, I’d planned to run this race solo, slip out quietly, and be home by lunch, medals and all. Yet, there they were, pushing me into the home stretch.

And yes, don’t forget to close the door.