Marathon #24-Gavleston

Marathon #24-Race Report
Feb 01, 2026

Galveston, TX

Flat as a pancake—no hills or long inclines.  Over 26 miles, there’s just 35 feet of total elevation change.  The Galveston course is also two loops, which provides a mental boost when you are struggling during the final miles—knowing exactly where you are on the course allows you to visualize the path to the finish line.

While this race has the potential for fast times, it depends on the weather more than other races.  The course runs entirely along the beach access road and seawall, so if there’s a strong wind, it's brutal.  I know from experience; I’ve run it twice before.  At the midpoint of my last Galveston race, I was on pace for a personal best when a strong wind woke up midmorning.  I slowed by 30 seconds per mile, losing six minutes on the back half of the course.

The weather today was not perfect, but solid.  A gun-time temperature of 38 degrees and a high of only 48.  The cloudless, sunny sky was not optimal, but it was not a great worry either, given the low temperatures.  The wind was within a tolerable range, blowing from the northeast at 10–20 mph.

The only remaining issue was that I had no plans to run this race.  A week before the Houston Marathon last month, the forecast was a complete coin flip.  Everything depended on a cold front that might (or might not) sweep in the day before.  Not wanting to leave things to chance, I entered the Galveston Marathon as a backup in case I decided to forego the Houston event.

I pushed myself to the limit in Houston just three weeks ago, hobbling around like a zombie for three days afterward.  After taking a week off and then logging 35 strong miles the following week, I decided to roll the dice and line up in Galveston given the favorable weather forecast.

As we queued in the chute, I knew I still had not fully recovered.  I accepted that I would not beat the 3:27 I posted in Houston and set a goal of 3:40. One minute before the gun, I felt unfocused without a challenge.  “That goal is too reasonable,” I thought.“ Let’s ruin it—3:26 or better!" The gun fired, and we were off.

One mile in, I approached approximately ten runners following the official 3:30 race pacer.  I expected that if I maintained my natural stride, I would pull in front of the group.  However, a minute later, the pacer accelerated 50 yards ahead.

At mile three, we turned northeast and directly into the wind.  Again, I came up alongside the 3:30 pacer, and again, he accelerated, pulling 30 yards ahead as we reached mile five.  Concerned, I looked at my watch for the first time; I was on a 3:29 finish pace.

We turned right and ran along an uneven, sandy access road toward the beachfront for the next mile and a half, then U-turned just feet away from the thick sand.  For the next five miles, the wind would be at our backs; I hoped that my stride would increase and bring me on pace for a 3:26 finish time.

At mile seven, I approached one of the few spectators on this section of the course—the 40-degree temperature this early morning kept most sane people indoors.  Within a few yards, I saw it was a beautiful woman who, to my surprise, yelled out, “You look great,” and leaned forward to hand me a water bottle.  My wife then jumped in her car and drove to wait for me at the other end of the looped course.

Reaching mile 11, I glanced at my watch a second time and began to worry.  The good news is that I was still running at exactly a 3:30 pace.  The bad news is that we had completed another U-turn and started another long stretch directly into the wind.  I conceded defeat.

I would not beat my Houston 3:27 time today.  My disappointment manifested into serious self-doubt, and I began to question my ability—commitment—to even finish the race.  I completed the first lap on a 3:31 pace and was struggling both mentally and physically, which isn’t a pleasant combination when you still have 13 miles remaining.

However, experience has taught me that when a major goal looks doubtful, setting mini-goals can keep you going.  As I began passing runners coming in the opposite direction (still completing their first loop), I estimated that I was running in the top 10–20% of the field.

Approximately 900 runners had entered the race, but three-fourths of them were running only the half-marathon.  I believed that if I could just hold on to mile 20, I might finish in the top three in my age division for the full marathon.

Reaching the beach a second time at mile 19, I was cooked and planning to finish using an alternating run-walk-cry strategy.  Fortunately, after the U-turn, the wind would once again push me for the next five miles.  Barely holding on, I set mile-by-mile goals: “Make it to mile 20, to 21, to 22.  Don’t lie down on the road…”

Once I reached the last U-turn at mile 24, the final two miles would be directly into the wind.  However, now only full marathoners remained on the course, and I suspected that I was probably in the top 10%.

Though at a slower pace, I pushed through and ran all the 26.2 miles.  I crossed the finish line at 3:36:07, qualifying for next year’s Boston Marathon, placing 26th out of 251 full-marathoners, and first place in my age division.

Marathon #23-Houston (3:27)

Marathon #23-Race Report

Houston, TX

Jan 11, 2026

Fourteen years ago, I received a call from a firm that I had worked with previously.  They were underwriting a new portfolio company by merging ten very small companies—but operating on six continents.  They offered me the Chief Bean Counter position for the North American division.  My first thought was, “How would this impact my running?”

I had just finished my twentieth marathon and was looking forward to another twenty.  More importantly, I had not reached my peak and still had the potential to run a sub-3:00 race.  I thanked them for the opportunity but declined.

I received a follow-up call the next day to discuss a few interesting attributes.  First, though positioned in the energy sector, the venture was primarily a technology company.  Second, the upper management team had been recruited from a leading O&G company.  Lastly, the most unique attribute was the timeframe.

Unlike most PE investments, which have a 5–10-year horizon, this venture was to sell in three years or less.  The plan was to port a technology already utilized in the Middle East into the Western Hemisphere, then sell the consolidated group.  Upon contemplation, I rationalized that cutting down to only two marathons a year would be an acceptable sacrifice for the career opportunity.

Just three weeks after onboarding, I began to ponder the fable about the dog crossing over a bridge with a juicy bone in his mouth.  When he looks over the railing into the water, he sees another dog with a juicy bone in his mouth looking up at him.  In his avarice, he opens his mouth to snatch the other bone.

I should have anticipated that merging ten companies would produce mistrust among the disparate management teams.  Compounded by the significant cross-cultural modi operandi and expectations, each group had carved out its own fiefdom to hedge perceived post-merger threats.  As my concerns mounted, my professional judgement assessed it best to go on vacation.

My family had already booked our annual summer pilgrimage to Australia, my wife’s homeland.  Although I was apprehensive about leaving just three weeks after joining the company, I was relieved to extricate myself from the post-merger conflicts.  I also looked forward to daily long runs; in the Southern Hemisphere, July is midwinter, with cool, dry weather.  Unfortunately, I didn’t enjoy any running or peace while down under.

Instead, my inbox was inundated with disquieting reports.  I did not suspect intentional “irregularities”—fraud, in layman’s terms.  Rather, the rigor just appeared substantially below my prior experience.  Cutting my vacation short, I left my family in Australia and returned to work.

My first day back, I drove into an empty parking lot well before sunrise.  A few hours later, my assistant—whom I had inherited from the pre-merger group—came to my office.  He stood in the doorway, staring vacuously at me, but remained silent.  After I greeted him with a “good morning,” he replied with a deadpan countenance, “You still work here?  I thought they fired you.”

Though I already knew him to be a very unpleasant fellow, I assumed he was attempting to make a joke given my recent absence.  I forced a half-chuckle with a contemptible grin. “Good one,” I replied.  Without further comment, he turned around and shuffled to his desk.  I soon discovered he wasn’t attempting to be humorous.

An hour later, the US operational VP came into my office and shut the door.  He informed me that he was now the global CEO.  It appeared that I was not the only person skeptical about the company’s post-merger direction.  In my absence, the newly formed and disparate shareholding groups convened an emergency board meeting at our Dubai headquarters.

The board vote was quick and decisive; the company’s entire C-suite group had been terminated—the CEO, CFO, and every major VP.  The new CEO then informed me that I was now the CFO and needed to be in Dubai within the next 48 hours.  In his usual laconic manner, he communicated that I would also be standing in the unemployment line unless I tied down the numbers.

In hindsight, I wish I had possessed the sagacity to respond, “I understand.  Thank you,” then packed my desk and called all my old clients to inform them I was available.  However, I was so discombobulated that the following day I found myself boarding a 16-hour flight to Dubai.

Including connections, I finally landed 25 hours later—and went straight to the office.  For the next three weeks, I worked 18-hour days seven days a week.  Yet each night, after arriving at my hotel long after dark, I strapped on my running shoes.

My daily goal was to log at least an easy 6–10 miler (45–75 minutes).  However, in mid-August, the Dubai temperature ranges from 90 to 95 degrees at midnight (110+ during the day).  By mile three, I would be soaked through and squishing in my shoes with each labored stride—not once did I make it to mile four without walking.

Returning to the US, I presented my report to the board.  They let me know that I was still employed, then directed me to be in Ecuador by the end of the week to close on a subsidiary acquisition.  Again, 18-hour workdays were followed by an attempt to log a run before getting a few hours’ sleep.

Although Quito, Ecuador, lies directly on top of the equator, it was surprisingly not as hot as Dubai but rather pleasantly cool and dry.  The city sits at an elevation of 9,350 feet!  Even when jogging slowly, I was gasping for air like a discarded goldfish in a carnival parking lot. 

Returning to the US, I presented my report to the board.  They stated that I was still employed, then directed me to fly to our UK manufacturing facility in Tewkesbury, a small town located a stone’s throw from the Welsh border at the same latitude as Calgary, Canada.

It was now late October, with very early sunsets, temperatures in the low 40s, and frequent rain.  Worried that I had not logged a respectable training run in over two months, I found myself slowly jogging along muddy canals in the pitch dark and freezing my booty off.

Returning to the US, I presented my report to the board. They told me that I was still employed, then directed me back to the Middle East (Oman), back to Latin America (Mexico), back to the UK, and on and on for the remainder of the year.  Despite my lack of training, in my mind, I was still a strong runner.  Before joining the company, I had run 50–70 miles a week for seven years straight.  Accordingly, I registered for the January 1 Texas Marathon Kingwood, in which I had placed fourth overall the prior year.

The night before the race, I had dinner with my lifelong friend and marathon buddy John.  After I relayed my training difficulties to him, I confidently stated, “Yeah, but the weather looks good for the race tomorrow; I’ll probably run about a 3:15.”  John laughed out loud and countered, “Brother, you’ll be lucky to run a 3:45.”  Given how prescient his assessment was, I should have asked him for the lottery numbers for that night’s draw.  I limped, literally, across the finish line at 3:46.

That was it.  I was done running—well, at least until we sold the company.  I gave up training altogether—not a single mile.  After completing the truly agitating first year of work, I slogged through the second, which was only tolerable given that we hurdled the halfway mark of selling in three years.

Then, partially through year three, we received an acquisition offer.  The oil spot price was $110/barrel, and our company had just seen a record profit.  Meanwhile, the potential buyer, a tech company, was already using our technology and wanted to close the transaction in three months or less.

This was it!  After almost three years of running hibernation, in just three months, I would have all the time I wanted to run.  Everything had worked out—well, until Ali Al-Naimi had an epiphany.

Al-Naimi was Saudi Arabia's oil minister, and one week after we signed the letter of intent to sell our company, he released a statement stating that Saudi Arabia’s constrained exports were supporting the $100+ oil price.  The unintended consequence was that it allowed US companies to capture OPEC market share.  OPEC was going to fight back by implementing a price war.

The following morning, the commodities market opened at $80/barrel.  Our potential buyer called and stated everything was still green-lit—no change in the offer.  A month later, oil was $60/barrel.  The buyer sent a revised offer.  Just four weeks before the sale date, oil closed at $29/barrel.  The deal was dead.  For the foreseeable future, the entire energy market was dead—so were my marathoning days.

Over the next five years, I attempted to maintain a minimal level of training.  However, work exigencies would constantly interfere.  The only real consistency in my training was injury.  After a three-year absence, all the typical running injuries reemerged.  I limped along for eight years until we sold the company.

Seven years without a single race—not a marathon, a half-marathon, or even a 5k.  However, now unshackled by international obligations, I committed to returning to my peak performance.  Pushing through injuries, I logged six SLOW half-marathons over the next five years.  But after each race, acute injury would sideline me for several months.

Lamenting to my wife, I lugubriously moaned, “That’s it; I’m done.  Can’t train through the pain anymore.”  Fortunately, being a therapist, my wife accepted the challenge.  The next day, she designed a core body training protocol for me and advised, “By strengthening the abductors through your lower back, hips, and glutes, you can improve your stride stability.”

While not a panacea, the core training did abate my acute pain to a tolerable chronic level.  By summer’s end, I was consistently logging 20-mile weeks.  The final component was to get super skinny.  At 6′2″ and 185 lbs., I was already quite lean.  But to ramp up to 40+ miles/week, I committed to dropping another 10 lbs.

By race day, I had done all I could; the only item remaining was to set a time goal.  It had been 15 years since I set my personal best of 3:10—nope, I would not be setting any records today.  It was 20 years, almost to the day, that I had run my first marathon in 3:59.  That would be an excellent goal—to run as fast at 58 years old as I did at 38.

However, the weather was cool and my training was decent.  It had been 13 years since my last marathon, which I finished in 3:46.  If I could pick up where I left off 13 years ago, that would certainly be a worthy goal.  I queued up in the chute, the gun fired, and we were off.

Over the first mile, my stride felt relaxed and light—always a good sign.  But the runner congestion was still dense, and I needed to find a smoother rhythm.  I hit my stride by mile three and began to run entirely on feel without looking at my watch.

At mile six, though the temperature was still in the high 40s, I felt my breathing a bit off due to overheating, so I tossed my gloves and shirt.  At mile eight, my pace felt strong, but I was concerned that I had gone out too fast.  I intentionally boxed myself behind other runners pacing at a quarter-beat slower.  However, my stride felt unnatural, so I resumed my original pace.

I reached mile 13 feeling good aerobically, but I was certain my pace was too fast to maintain.  My apprehension was confirmed at mile 16.  I approached a group of 15–20 bunched runners and saw that one of them was an official race pacer wearing a 3:30 tag.

Crap!!!  I was running at a completely unsustainable pace.  I broke stride behind the group, and my thoughts turned to speculating about which mile I would implode.  However, unexpectedly, I then thought of the famous quote by famed coach John Wooden: “Don’t let what you can’t do interfere with what you can do.”

“Can you hold your pace for another three miles?” I asked myself.  “Yes; then that is your goal—your only goal.”  I pulled in front of the 3:30 group and resumed my pace.  At mile 19, my legs began to cramp.  Again, I asked, “Can you hold this pace another 15 minutes?  Then that is your goal.”  By mile 22, I was striding in pain.

One last time, “Can you hold another few minutes?”  I broke stride halfway up a hill at mile 24 and walked for five seconds.  I also looked at my watch for the first time.  Crazy!  Totally crazy!  I was running at a 3:25 finishing pace.  This was going to hurt.

Over the next two miles, I paused to walk for 5–10 seconds five times.  Each time, I looked up for other struggling runners and jogged to their side, saying, “Come on, let’s stride for a quarter mile.”  The combination of camaraderie and ego would push us at a quick pace, with neither of us wanting to break stride first.

With a half-mile remaining and a straight line of sight, the finish line pulled me across in a time of 3:27:12, qualifying me for the Boston Marathon—always the imprimatur of a good race.

Glad to be back in the saddle.

A special thank you to my therapist ❤️