I got hooked on marathoning in 2017, after my first kid was born. Even if my times didn’t strictly improve, I got better and better, and took it more and more seriously.

In early 2020, I was feeling fitter than ever, but then COVID ruined everything for everyone. I won a virtual podium in a half marathon in April, and assumed the pandemic would be over in a couple of weeks, in time for my fourth Chicago marathon later that year. Silly me.

The marathon was postponed, so I ran it in 2021. I had built up two years of expectations and emotion, and anticipated a personal best by a long shot. What I didn’t plan for was the heat, the late start (2+ hours later than when I usually start my long runs), or the stress of needing to pick up my packet from McCormick Place knowing that the thousands of people there were likely infected and going to kill me with their maskless coughing.

I bonked. My time wasn’t terrible – 3:33:37 – but I was more than fifteen minutes short of my goal.

Completely deflated, I decided that my next marathon would be solo: no pressure, no expectations. I’d plan for a Saturday so if the weather was unfavorable, I’d delay a day. My goal was strictly to build back my confidence so I could run Chicago again the next year, be in control, and crush it: Peterthon I.

Then, in fall of 2022, the week before my last run preceding taper, I broke my shoulder by tackling the pavement. So Peterthon I was a DNS.

(I avoided an enormous puddle on the sidewalk by stepping on some leaves, which I didn’t realize were covering a deep mud puddle. My foot got stuck, and my forward momentum translated into vertical (downward) momentum. It hurt. A lot.)

We can skip past the identity crisis, the midlife crisis, the conflicting opinions of three orthopedic surgeons and the near-miss of getting four screws in my shoulder, to the point where I had built myself back up and felt good again.

For Peterthon II, I ran along the north branch of the Chicago river, in a well shaded, peacefully quiet park. My mom and sister came out at mile 19 and again at mile 24 – exactly when some support not only gives me a boost but gets me gently crying. I realized I could deliberately slow down for the last two miles to finish feeling strong and still beat my 3:20 goal by more than a minute. I saw some friends at late mile 25, and I crushed my PR, at 3:17:24, a time I’ll never forget.

And now I’m not sure I’ll ever run an official marathon – at least not a world major – again. Peterthon FTW.