I wasn’t planning to run Boston again. Been there, done that.
But last year, after a long break from marathons, I ran the Mesa Marathon—and somehow, I “easily” qualified for Boston. Again. With so many of my friends heading there this year, and looking for a good reason to lace up my shoes, I signed up. Now, two weeks out, I hope to run my second Boston (if I can get over this flu!).
But my first time? That wasn’t easy. It wasn’t just a race—it was a transformation.
The Seed
Qualifying for Boston wasn’t always a dream. It didn’t even occur to me until one random Tuesday night outside a bike shop. We’d meet weekly, a group of us setting up our trainers on the sidewalk, spinning to the beat of Tim’s iPod blasting from a giant speaker. Sometimes we’d do “brick” workouts—bike hard, then run hard, practicing that jelly-legs transition.
Then one night, Angela showed up. She had just qualified for Boston, and Tim hyped her like she’d won Olympic gold. I remember staring at her. She had cut an hour off her marathon time. An hour. I was in awe. She wasn’t some elite. She was like us. And I remember thinking, If she can do it, maybe I can too.
That’s when the seed planted itself.
Not long after, Keri—another friend from the crew—qualified for Boston. She hadn’t been a natural runner either. A mom, juggling life, not especially fast, but she went all-in. She trained smart, had support, had tools. I didn’t have all of that, but still—the seed grew.
At the time, I had just finished my first half Ironman. But my run was sluggish. I felt sluggish. Biking had bulked me up, and my long training hours made me tired—and bingeing on peanut butter didn’t help. I wasn’t feeling fit. In fact, I started throwing up after every meal. Something wasn’t right.
A friend suggested I see a naturopath. I figured, Why not? Blood tests came back: allergic to bread, gluten, eggs, yeast. Basically, everything I loved (okay, maybe not eggs, but peanut butter on bread—come on).
So, I changed.
I cleaned up my diet. I read Thrive. I started eating vegetables. For real this time.
And I kept running.
No plan, no pressure, no looming race day. Just running for strength. For health. Then I took a sabbatical, climbed Kilimanjaro, got food poisoning, and came back… lighter. Clearer. Faster. It was like my body finally had space to reset. And I started hitting paces I never thought I’d see.
From Struggle to Speed: The Tucson Breakthrough
That’s when I found Run Less, Run Faster. Sixteen weeks out from the Tucson Marathon, I followed the plan. For the first time, I had target paces—and I hit them. Paces that once felt impossible started to feel… normal. So I pushed harder.
Race day came. I drove to Tucson alone. Ate raisins or something weird. I don’t remember my nerves. Just a quiet focus. The course started steeply downhill, and I let gravity help. Found my rhythm.
About a third in, the road opened up. Only one runner ahead of me. I checked my watch—7:30 pace. A full minute faster than my goal. But I felt good. Better than good. The woman ahead didn’t look like an elite, but she was steady. I stayed with her.
As the miles ticked by, I realized I was holding pace with the 3:15 group. It felt surreal. Terrifying. But I didn’t slow down. Near the finish, I saw Stephanie Whitman cheering. I crossed the line:
3:14.
Seventh woman overall. The top six? All pros or former collegiate runners.
In just four months, I had become a Boston-qualified runner.
But more than that, I’d proven something: that a goal isn’t just a dream—it’s a decision backed by action. The race showed me what happens when you combine vision with a plan. And that anyone—yes, anyone—can do hard things when they commit.
The Spark That Lights the Fire
After Tucson, I wrote training plans for friends. Even my boss. I was convinced: anyone could do something awesome with a good plan and discipline.
But looking back, I know it wasn’t just about the plan.
It was that spark. That seed. That inexplicable thing that made me try in the first place. The thing that made me curious, made me clean up my habits, made me chase a goal that once felt too big.
So how do you find that spark?
Maybe you don’t. Maybe it finds you. Or maybe you get around the right people—the ones who are lit up—and their fire spreads.
That’s what happened to me.
Passion Isn’t Enough
When I made it to my first Boston, I met Marilyn Gardner, who later wrote a blog post about me. She used the word “passion,” and it stuck with me. She wrote:
“Carmen lives life with passion—and that passion is contagious.”
I realize that is what has been fueling me all along.
Passion carried me from my 4:30 debut marathon to a 3:14 finish. From long training hours to the World Championship Duathlon in Spain (More in How NOT to be a Tourist). But even then, I knew:
Passion alone isn’t enough.
The Bible doesn’t say “chase passion.” It says, “Seek purpose.”
“Many are the plans in a person’s heart, but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails.” — Proverbs 19:21
Because passion burns hot—but it burns out fast. Purpose is what keeps the fire going when you’re tired, discouraged, or alone.
We each have gifts—wired in by design. When we use them to serve, to lift others, passion often follows. But now it’s anchored. Directed.
So don’t just chase the spark. Give it somewhere to go.
Boston 2012: The Inferno
A year later, I stood at the start line of the Boston Marathon. It was 2012—one of the hottest Boston races on record. The BAA warned runners. Offered deferrals. But I wasn’t backing out.
The start line in Hopkinton buzzed with nerves. Runners stretched in the shade. This wasn’t going to be a day for personal bests. It was about survival.
And for me, it wasn’t just the heat I was running through. I’d recently gone through a breakup. My tank was empty emotionally, not just physically.
The first few miles were okay. The crowds helped. But by Wellesley, the sun was brutal. Water stations were chaos. Runners dumped cups over their heads. Medical tents were already full.
I chased every friendly Bostonian with a sprinkler or a hose. I ran drenched, grateful. But by Heartbreak Hill, there were too many people to reach the water.
Coming into Boylston, I wasn’t thinking about my time. I was thinking about finishing. And, maybe, about that vegan food spot I liked.
At the finish line, there were rows of wheelchairs, overfull medical tents. Three people collapsed trying to board the subway. I helped one. When I got back to the hotel, I was peeing blood.
Dehydration.
So I drank water. Ate vegan tacos. And kept going.
Endurance Is About Suffering—and Perspective
This is where everything comes together. Passion helps you endure. But real endurance? It’s forged in suffering.
We care about the things we fight for—and we fight harder when we care deeply.
But don’t panic: suffering doesn’t have to be dramatic. Sometimes, it’s just discomfort. The key is how we frame it.
Mountaineer Melissa Arnot said it well:
“If I find myself in an uncomfortable place, I try to look around that space and feel all the things rather than immediately trying to fix it or go towards comfort… discomfort can teach me.”
Discomfort can be a classroom. And noticing it—without rushing to escape—is how we grow.
Paul said the same thing:
“We also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” — Romans 5:3–4
This isn’t poetic fluff. It’s real.
Passion starts the race. But perseverance gets you through the hard parts.
Perseverance builds character. Not personality—character: the grit to keep going when no one’s watching.
And character? That builds hope. Not fake, motivational-poster hope—but a grounded confidence. I’ve been through worse. I’m still here.
Keep Running
If your passion feels dim lately, that’s not failure. It might just mean you’re in the middle of the process—where real growth happens.
You’re building something deeper.
Passion is great. But passion with purpose? That’s what lasts.
So here I am, two weeks out from Boston. I’m not running right now—haven’t been for two weeks—thanks to a brutal COVID flu. Honestly, running still feels impossible. I can already tell: perseverance is going to be the name of the game.
But maybe this setback will be a marker—a stake in the ground to remind me: I can do hard things. I’m building character, not just for a race, but for life. For something bigger.
And that spark?
It’s still there. Still burning.
Let’s hope no notes like this come this year:
