The Miles That Made Me: A Story of Growth, Hope, and Heart

February 20th, 2022 — Austin Marathon.

My first time venturing beyond mile 20, and to my surprise, I was flying—cruising at a 7:30-minute/mile pace, nearly a full minute faster than my target. For weeks, I’d lost sleep dreading the infamous mile 20 “bonk,” the moment so many runners hit a wall. But there I was, powering through it on a tough, hilly course. Adrenaline surged through me, and despite the voice in my head urging me to slow down, I didn’t ease up until mile 22. That’s when I finally steadied into an 8:10 pace, gathering myself for a strong finish. I crossed the line in 3 hours and 42 minutes — my first marathon, at age 50. But what lingers most in my memory isn’t the finish line — it’s the 15 minutes of magic between miles 20 and 22, where I felt weightless, unstoppable, and alive. If you’ve ever flown through that stretch of a marathon, you know what I mean. It’s more than pace — it’s the feeling of conquering something you feared, of pushing through where so many falter. For me, it was a moment of pure victory, and I’ll carry that feeling with me forever.

How it all started

April 2020. It was 5:00 am in the morning, and I was on FaceTime with my trainer for one of our regular workouts. That day, he casually suggested I try a 1-mile run before we started — just a quick warm-up. Having been a gym regular for over four years, crushing HIIT sessions and even having run a 10K back in 2017, I figured a single mile would be easy.

The next morning, reality hit hard. I could barely make it 200 meters without gasping for air. My ego took a serious hit as I huffed and puffed my way through what should have been a light jog. I had just recovered from COVID the month before and hadn’t realized how much it had impacted my aerobic fitness. I was stunned — and a little shaken.

I kept up my daily workouts, but my struggle with running continued. In a desperate bid for progress, I bought a shiny new pair of $250 running shoes, convincing myself that my old gear had been holding me back. I tried running slower, but nothing worked. A week later, I was still winded and frustrated.

Eventually, I turned to YouTube, typing in: “Why is running a mile so hard?” That rabbit hole led me to the science of running — how it’s not just about pushing harder, but training smarter. I learned about heart rate zones and the idea of building aerobic capacity slowly.

So in January 2021, I made a resolution: I was going to learn how to run. We had just moved into a new home in the suburbs, and as luck would have it, we were surrounded by beautiful, winding trails. I began taking 45-minute brisk walks every day, keeping my heart rate under 150, just as the experts recommended.

After 60 days of consistent walking, something shifted. One day in late February, I managed to run/walk 3 miles in 45 minutes, keeping my heart rate in check. That was my first real win. I started running two to three times a week, logging 7 to 10 miles. By summer, I could occasionally run four miles without feeling like I was going to die. It wasn’t pretty — but it was progress.

As my runs started to feel less like survival and more like progress, I knew I needed a new challenge to stay motivated. So I signed up for my first serious event: a half marathon scheduled for October 2021. I had run a 10K once before, but this felt different — bigger, more meaningful. It was the next step in proving to myself that I was really becoming a runner.

But training alone was hard. Running solo — especially on those longer weekend efforts — felt isolating. I craved community, people who understood the grind, the soreness, the little victories. That’s when I discovered Fleet Feet in Folsom, California. In mid-August, about eight weeks out from race day, I showed up for my first group run with them.

I was nervous. I didn’t know if I would be able to keep up or if I even belonged there. But from that very first run, something clicked. I found camaraderie, encouragement, and a shared sense of purpose. It was more than just running — it was being part of something. That group gave me structure, confidence, and the energy to show up, week after week.

Fleet Feet happened to be a sponsor of the Austin Marathon, and as race-day chatter picked up in the group, so did the peer pressure. Before I knew it, I’d signed up for a full marathon — 17 weeks away. I hadn’t even run my half yet.

In October 2021, I ran the Folsom Blues Half Marathon. It took me 2 hours and 12 minutes of pure effort and pain to cross that finish line. That same morning, Shadrack Biwott — an elite marathoner — ran the exact same course in 1 hour and 2 minutes, setting a new course record. That night, sore and sprawled on the couch, I looked him up. And in a moment of equal parts inspiration and panic, I found his email and reached out. I told him I’d just signed up for a marathon without really understanding what I was doing… and asked if he’d consider training me.

To my surprise, he replied. We met for coffee, and after talking things through, we agreed on a realistic goal: 4 hours and 30 minutes. That’s how I ended up training for my first marathon under the guidance of the fastest runner I’d ever met — a man with a 2:12 marathon PR and a podium finish at Boston.

Two days later, I got a text from Shadrack with my training plan for the week. I stared at it in disbelief — was this a mistake? He had me running every day, logging 6 to 8 miles per run at a steady 10:00 minute/mile pace. Up until then, the most I’d ever run in a week was 20 miles. I texted him back, a little nervous, and asked, “Are you sure about this?”

He replied with what would become his signature encouragement:
“Raj, don’t worry. You can do this.”

So I did. Week after week, I showed up. And something amazing started to happen.

On December 4th, just seven weeks after I had struggled through my first half marathon, I lined up at the California International Marathon and ran the half distance at a blistering 8:32 minute/mile pace. I couldn’t believe it. My fitness was climbing, my confidence was building, and for the first time in a long time — I felt like I was actually good at something.

I was hooked. Running wasn’t just something I was trying anymore. It had become something I was.

January was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. In just 30 days, I ran 267 miles — the most I’d ever done in a single month. I took only one rest day and logged three 20-mile runs. It was a relentless grind, and by the end of the month, my legs were constantly sore and my mind was stretched thin.

There were days I didn’t want to run, days where the fatigue was louder than the motivation. But I laced up anyway. I walked when I had to, shuffled through miles when my body begged me to stop — but I never missed a session. Not once. I was exhausted, but I refused to give up.

It was in those moments, pushing through the discomfort and doubt, that I realized what this journey was really teaching me — not just how to run, but how to endure.

I remember a pivotal moment in early November, mid-way through my training. I was talking with a close friend and shared a dream that had quietly taken root in my mind: qualifying for the Boston Marathon. He looked at me and asked, “What pace do you need for that?”
“7:40 per mile,” I said.

He paused. “Have you ever run even one mile at that pace?”
I hadn’t. And I told him so.

The look on his face said it all — skepticism, concern, maybe even a bit of disbelief. But here’s the thing: I never doubted it. Not for a second. I knew I wasn’t there yet, but I believed — deep down — that if I worked hard enough, stayed consistent, and kept showing up, I would get there.

Someday, that finish line would be mine.

December 5th, 2022 — California International Marathon.

The buildup had been anything but smooth. I’d fallen ill in late June, and the recovery was slow and frustrating. My confidence was shaky all summer. I wasn’t hitting the mileage I had during my previous training block, but I managed to get in two strong prep races that gave me a glimmer of hope — a 1:37 half marathon and a 2:32 20-miler in October and November.

Still, as I stood at the CIM start line, shoulder to shoulder with the 3:25 pace group — my Boston qualifying mark — I felt something deep and unwavering: I was going to give it everything. This was my first real attempt at qualifying for Boston, 14 months after I had first started training for marathons.

My friend Nick was with me — we had run all our long runs together, and we’d take on this race side by side. We started strong, hitting our splits right around 7:35 per mile, and cruised through the halfway point in 1:40, right on track.

Then came mile 21.

I had just taken a gel when my stomach turned, and the cramps hit hard. My pace started slipping. For the first time in a race, I seriously thought about stopping. I watched Nick pull ahead, now about 50 yards in front of me. We’d never been separated during a race before. The doubts crept in — Was this the end of the road? Was I going to fall short? Was I about to give up on this dream I’d been chasing for over a year?

I slowed, hoping the pain would ease — but it didn’t. And then something clicked. The pain was there, no matter the pace. So if it was going to hurt anyway, I might as well keep pushing.

With tears in my eyes, I dug deep and found something I didn’t know I had. I picked up the pace, caught up to Nick, and we ran the final miles together — strong, defiant, and fully present.

We crossed the finish line in 3 hours, 20 minutes, and 4 seconds — nearly five minutes under my Boston Qualifying time.

I had done it. After months of doubt, struggle, and relentless effort, I had qualified for Boston.

With my Boston qualifying time in hand — and a solid buffer — I shifted gears in 2023. The goal was clear: focus on speed throughout the year, and begin structured training for Boston in early December.

But then came the announcement: the 2024 Boston Marathon cutoff was 5 minutes and 29 seconds. I had missed it by just 33 seconds.

I won’t lie — I was disappointed. To come so close and not make the cut stung. But I never felt defeated. I had run a Boston-qualifying time, and that alone was something I once thought impossible. Still, the dream of running Boston hadn’t faded — it had only grown stronger.

So I picked myself up, refocused, and set my sights on a new goal: the Tunnel Marathon in Seattle, scheduled for June 9th, 2024. A new race, a new opportunity — and another chance to chase the dream.

I set my sights on a 3 hour and 12 minute finish — a time that would give me a comfortable cushion below the Boston qualifying cutoff. From December through May, I trained with laser focus, steadily building speed and confidence.

Along the way, I hit some major milestones — setting a new half marathon PR of 1:32, and clocking fast, consistent splits during my long runs. Just three weeks before race day, I ran my fastest 16-miler yet, averaging a blistering 7:30 pace while keeping my heart rate in low Zone 3. Everything was clicking. The fitness was there, the training was dialed in, and mentally, I was all in.

I wasn’t just hoping — I knew I was ready.

Tunnel Marathon — My Third Marathon

The days leading up to the Tunnel Marathon were more hectic than I’d hoped. Between travel and restless nights, I wasn’t as rested as I wanted to be. My wife joined me on Friday night before the Sunday race, and while her presence was comforting, my nerves were relentless. I knew I was fit — I had trained hard for this — but the anxiety was real.

Race morning started early at 3:30 a.m. — and not in the way I wanted. I woke up with stomach cramps and mild diarrhea, and panic began to creep in. Was my stomach going to sabotage my race? I tried to shake it off, went out for a two-mile warmup, and my legs felt decent. A few more bathroom trips later, I felt okay — tense, but okay.

But just minutes before the start, another wave of cramps hit. I dashed to the porta-potty and emerged with about one minute to spare before the gun went off. I crossed the start line and settled into pace — but something felt off. My heart rate was already 165, about 15 beats higher than normal for that effort. I immediately eased off, dialing back to a 7:45 pace, a full 30 seconds slower than goal pace, trying to regain control.

The first 6 miles were a mental battle. I fixated on my heart rate, doing everything I could to keep it under 160 — way too early in a marathon to be redlining. Meanwhile, a fellow runner I had met in Seattle, Mike, was far ahead. We had similar training goals and had planned to aim for the same finishing time, but by mile 6, he seemed out of reach. I was running with the 3:25 pace group — a full 10 minutes behind target — and I’ll admit it: I started to doubt everything. My Boston dream felt like it was slipping away.

Then, at mile 7, I made a decision: I would fight. I picked up the pace — just for a couple miles — to see what I had. Gradually, I reeled myself back into rhythm, and by mile 10, I had caught up with Mike.

I told him how my heart rate was still spiking, hovering near 170. He smiled and said, “Just enjoy the view, man.” And that’s what we did — we ran together, soaking in the beautiful scenery, side by side, through mile 19.

That’s when we caught the 3:15 pacer. I told him I was worried — I was running hot, my heart rate was sky-high, and I wasn’t sure I could hold on. He looked at me and said something that stuck:
“You sound great. If you can talk in full sentences at mile 19, you’re doing fine.”

That moment flipped a switch in my mind. I stopped running by the numbers and started running by feel.

And something amazing happened — my legs just kept moving, my pace kept improving, and I never looked back. I surged through the final miles, crossing the finish line in 3 hours, 14 minutes — an 11-minute buffer for my Boston qualification.

Despite everything — sleepless nights, stomach issues, and a rough start — I had done it.

The Boston Acceptance — and What Came After

On Tuesday, September 24th, 2024, the email finally arrived:
I had been officially accepted into the Boston Marathon.

It marked the end of a 3-year journey — one filled with setbacks, breakthroughs, and relentless effort. I was running well again after a short break to rehab an Achilles issue, and my workouts were sharp. My fitness was returning, and the path to Boston felt wide open.

The very next morning, I joined my running group for a typical Wednesday session: 8 miles total — a 2-mile warm-up, 4-mile tempo at a brisk 6:55 pace, and a 2-mile cool-down. I felt strong. Confident.

But as I walked back to my car, I felt a sudden, sharp pain in my right chest. I figured I’d pulled a muscle.

That night was rough — I barely slept. By afternoon, I found myself in the ER. The diagnosis:
A collapsed right lung.
I needed immediate surgery.

What followed were the hardest six months of my life. Just as my lungs began to heal, I was hit again — this time with pneumonia. It felt like one blow after another.

It should have ended there, but recovery had more in store. As my lungs healed, I was hit with pneumonia. And just as I was turning a corner, I caught the flu.

As I write this in late March 2025, still recovering, I’ve had to face something I never imagined:
I won’t be running the Boston Marathon this year.

But like every time before, I am not defeated.

I haven’t given up hope. I’m giving my body the time it needs — because I know that when I return, the training will be harder, the goals even bigger, and my resolve absolutely unshakable.

I live to fight another day.
The Boston dream still burns bright, and the belief runs deeper than ever.

To anyone out there battling injuries, illness, or setbacks — keep the faith.
Keep showing up. Keep fighting.
Your day will come.
And when it does — we’ll cross that finish line together, and we’ll taste victory.