No PR. Just This.

There was no plan for a PR yesterday.
(Spoiler alert: there wasn’t.)

The plan was to get to the start line healthy, take it all in, and finish. That’s it. No big expectations. No chasing a number. Just… be there and see what the day gives me.

The start line (and the very real pre-race pee nerves)

Race morning was actually smooth. Suspiciously smooth. I even randomly ran into a colleague on the way to the corral, which was perfect timing—just enough distraction to take the edge off those pre-start nerves.

And then, about five minutes before we were supposed to go…

I had to pee.

And not in a “maybe I should go just in case” way. In a this is going to be a problem if you ignore it way. Because yes, pre-race pee nerves are real, but this was also very real.

So I did the quick mental math and slipped out to hit one of the porta potties right outside the corral. Figured that was way better than trying to ignore it for the first mile.

Felt efficient. Felt like a good decision.

Until about a mile in when I realized… my soft flask with three gels was gone.

Gone gone.

Somewhere between urgency and trying to get back into the corral, I left it behind.

But—this is where being an over-preparer pays off—I had backup gels in my holster. Not ideal, but also not a disaster. Just one of those early “okay, this is how today’s going to go” moments.

And then we were off.

Settling in (and choosing logic over pride)

The first few miles felt oddly… easy. Not fast, just steady. Like things were clicking without me forcing it. I knew people had to be out there on the course, but I didn’t see a single familiar face. (Post-race Instagram told a very different story—apparently a lot of you were there.)

Then Calvert Hill showed up.

If you’ve run it, you know.

That 6–10% grade that always feels personal.

There’s always someone yelling at you to run it. Yesterday it was the drill sergeant. And I’m sure he meant well, but I power walked it anyway and very quietly flipped him off in my head.

Because it wasn’t worth it.

Not worth the energy. Not worth blowing things up that early. That was one of those moments where experience wins over ego. Old me probably would’ve tried to prove something. Current me? I’ll take the smarter move every time.

Got to the top, picked it back up, and not long after I started to feel a little hamstring cramping. Nothing dramatic, just enough to get my attention.

So I walked a bit.

Not because I had to. Because I wanted to keep going later.

The heat (and adjusting on the fly)

Then the sun started to make itself known.

It was one of those perfect blue sky mornings, mid-50s, which sounds amazing unless you’ve spent the entire training cycle in freezing temps, wind, and layers. I’ve had more than a few long runs in -12 windchill this winter, bundled up and just trying to get through it.

This? This was a different kind of stress.

And historically, heat and I are not friends. It’s not just “oh I slow down a bit.” It’s the lightheaded, slightly nauseous, everything-feels-off kind of situation.

So I adjusted early. Grabbed water, took a few sips, dumped the rest over my head. Over and over again. It was clear pretty quickly this wasn’t going to be a fast day, and honestly, that was fine.

The middle miles (where you just keep going)

Somewhere near Howard I missed a friend I thought I’d see, and then suddenly we were rolling down North Capitol—those little downhills under the overpasses and the climbs back up.

At some point I noticed my Garmin was consistently ahead of the mile markers, which just confirmed what I already suspected… no one was running tangents. Everyone was just following the person in front of them.

And then somehow we were getting close to the end.

The last mile (when everything hits at once)

That last mile and a half… I remembered it from 2023. Long. Kind of sneaky in how it drags out. I kept ducking into whatever shade I could find and doing the mental math.

Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.

That’s it.

And then my playlist shifted.

Heart’s version of Stairway to Heaven from the Kennedy Center Honors.

If you know it, you know. It starts slow, almost too slow for that moment, but then it builds and builds until it just… hits. There are a few songs that do that—no matter how many times you’ve heard them, they just cut straight through everything.

I’ve had training runs where that song comes on and my stride opens up, I look up, and suddenly I’m crying for no logical reason.

And there I was again.

Closing in on the last 400 meters, that same feeling creeping in. The straightaway felt like it went on forever, but I knew I was there.

The finish (and what it actually meant)

After my second labral tear in 2024, I really didn’t know if I’d get back to this. Not in a dramatic way, just in a very honest, realistic “I don’t know how this is going to play out” kind of way.

But I just kept taking it piece by piece. Mile by mile. Adjusting when I needed to. Not forcing things when they didn’t feel right.

And in that moment it all kind of landed at once—

My body can still do this.

I’m still here.

There aren’t that many moments where you feel like you’re sitting right on the edge of discomfort and something really meaningful at the same time. Where it’s hard and emotional and kind of messy and really, really good all at once.

This was one of those.

Some people come back for PRs.

Apparently, I come back for that.

The after (because this part matters too)

After I finished, I met up with my husband and daughter. She immediately took about half of my post-race snacks, which—let’s be honest—I fully expected and planned for. Because that’s just what moms do.

Hot shower later, I found the exact spot where my water bottle had been chafing my back (turns out winter layers were hiding that problem pretty well).

A couple slow walks with my dog, and by the next day it already felt like it had shifted into memory.

Why this mattered (and why I’m sharing it)

Because none of that happens without what came before it—

• The cold, slow miles.
• The wet runs you almost talk yourself out of.
• The snow-crete footing.
• The early mornings before anyone else is up.
• The honest moments where you look at what’s not working… and keep going anyway.

That’s the part that builds this.

That’s the part that makes that one moment possible.

And I’m really grateful for that.

What’s next?

I’ve got a few things to sort through now—some cramps, a couple niggles, and yes, some pelvic floor questions in there too—so the adventure definitely isn’t over.

Will I do another one?

I honestly don’t know.

And I’m kind of okay with not knowing.

Your turn

We talk a lot about goals and times.

But the moments that stay with you are usually something else entirely.

Have you ever had one of those moments where it wasn’t about the outcome—but it still hit you way harder than you expected?