Wednesday Night Lights

Wednesday, July 30th, 2025

Race days feel different.

From the moment you wake up in the morning, there is a unique essence in the air. Pervaded by a hyperfocus of sorts. Everything feels heightened. Each breath, each thought and action, has a ceremonial or ritualistic sense about it - whether it’s setting out your kit, packing your bottles, attaching your bib to your singlet - and by virtue of that becomes more meaningful than it otherwise would, because each step brings you closer to the race itself. And the closer you get to the race, the closer you come to letting everything go because there is an underlying acceptance that what awaits you at the start line on any given day is unknown. All you can do is remain open. And ready.

Today, we make our way in the late afternoon to the Jack Kemp Stadium at Occidental College in Eagle Rock for the Tracksmith 5000. My brother-in-law Nick and I are running in the 8.40pm heat for runners shooting for a time between 16:45-17:15. I personally think he should be in the following heat as I think he’d easily go sub-16:30 if surrounded by a stronger pack of runners, but no matter, I’m happy to have him in the same heat as me.

We arrive at the stadium at 6pm, for the Kids Tracksmith 500. I love Tracksmith as a brand and have worn their kits since I started distance running at the end of 2019. I loved the events they hosted over Boston Marathon weekend in 2024 when I ran there. The Tracksmith 5000 is becoming an annual tradition for our family. But the kids 500m race is my favorite of them all. And the kids run functions as the adult races do - they wait in the same line as the adults to check in and receive their bibs, it’s overseen by officials (who function more as encouragers), and features a race starter and pacers (who function more as encouragers).

We pin Mira’s bib to her running outfit complete with new Nike running shoes she’s very excited about wearing and take her to the start line where she lines up alongside her cousin Wesley (who is running this for the first time). As it’s a 500m race, the kids begin 100m back from the finish line, run that distance and then continue on for 1 full lap of the track.

The starting gun goes off - Mira is initially a little stunned by the sound - and then she takes off like a bullet. We join the rest of the parents following their kids as we run on the grass quad on the interior of the track, cheering, capturing videos and pictures.

Mira comes off the turn onto the back straight and she is absolutely flying. Em and I are just laughing because she is having the time of her life and that’s really why we’re here.

Lined up on the far side of the track are several run clubs (presumably because that’s where the 5000m races begin), and they cheer louder for the kids as they come through than they do for anyone else the rest of the night. Mira is beaming, buoyed by their energy, but as she passes them and turns the corner, her face changes. I can tell with about 150m to go, that she’s starting to hurt.

Here’s the thing. She’s 4. She doesn’t understand what 500m actually is as a distance. She doesn’t know about pacing. I barely do and I’m 41. All she knew when the gun went off, was to floor it. But 500m is a long way for those little legs to go full gas, no brakes.

So here she is, about to take the final bend and she is, for the first time in her life, in true and quantifiable discomfort. Her muscles are burning, she’s tiring, her breathing is getting shorter, her cheeks are flushed.

Nobody would’ve thought twice if she’d slowed down to walk. Or stopped entirely to catch her breath. This is a kids’ race. It’s just for fun. But as she approaches her breaking point, I’m close enough to see in her eyes, a shift. Something turns on that I’ve seen glimpses of before but never to this extent. It’s resolve. And determination. A refusal to give up. It’s as though she says to herself at the hardest point of the race, ‘I will not give in, I will not slow down, and I will not stop until I reach the end.’ So she wills herself forward, comes round the bend, and as she hits the final straight and sees the banner (they hold up a winning banner for every kid who crosses the line), the competitor in her finds an extra gear and she sprints through to the finish.

She’d never been in a position before where she’d been faced with real adversity. Do I fight, or do I fold? And she, in that moment, found an answer to her own question. She chose to be courageous. One day, when I give her the birthday letters I write her, or give a speech at a graduation party or at her wedding, I’ll probably reference those 2 minutes and 50 seconds she ran for as being revealing of her character and so significant for me as her Dad.

5 minutes and 2 sips of water later, she is adorning the medal that her Aunt Kristen got for her and is playing with Wesley in the long jump sand pit. The race is a thing of the past. But I’m so inspired by her effort that it serves as motivation for my own race 2 hrs later.

I start an extensive warm-up around 8pm, take a caffeinated gel 20 minutes before my heat begins, then take 5 minutes to sit down on the inner field to meditate and visualize the race. A quick chat with final instructions from Coach Torres, well wishes from my Run Till Death teammates and a hug and some words of encouragement from Em and I realize it’s 8.38pm and I dart across to the start line where I see Nick looking for me. I line up with the outside group in the staggered start (a short distance from his spot with the inside group), and we clock each other. As we always do before a race, we nod to each other in silence and he balls his fist in the air as if to fist bump me to wish me good luck. The final ritual.

The moments before a race remind me of the moments before they call action on set. Thoughts dissipate. The mind goes blank. Your breath brings you to the moment. And everything in the outside world fades away. You enter a time and space where you are the race and the race is you.

The starting gun is fired. Off we go. Runners shoot off the line. I keep my eye on the pacer. Do not be swept up by the enthusiasm of others. Do not get carried away. If you run too hard too early we’re going to find trouble. I find a good position in the middle of the pack. Time to hold where I’m at for now, find a rhythm, and just stay connected to the runners around me. What I learned from last year’s race is that it becomes infinitely more difficult when you get dropped by the pack and you’re running on the track on your own.

I like to break up races into the fewest chunks possible - so instead of looking at a marathon (26.2mi/42.2km) as 26 individual miles, I break it up into 8 sections of 5km. It’s easier for me to wrap my head around. Likewise today, 5000m (3.1mi) equates to 12 1/2 laps around the track or 12 x 400m with a final 200m. Splitting the race into 3 x 1-mile sections feels less daunting.

I feel comfortable as I approach the 1-mile mark. I look down at my arm. I’ve written 5:28, 10:56, 16:24 in Sharpie marker as the splits I’m hoping to hit as I make my way through the first 3 miles (for the final 0.1 mi: go as hard as you can).

Mile 1: 5:28. Bang on. 4 laps in. Lap 5 feels good. Fully relaxed now. It’s not that I’m naive to the fact that this will get difficult in the second half, but I couldn’t have asked for a better start. Then it happens in Lap 6. A hollow pain that feels like it’s stretching out arrives all of a sudden in my left quad. It’s difficult to gauge in the moment what it is. And then - almost as suddenly - a part of the quad starts to ball. Is it a cramp? Is it just tightening up? My leg almost gives way as I land on it. Ok. Do. Not. Panic. There is a way to navigate this. I make the decision to ease up some in Mile 2. I feel like at current pace something in my left leg is going to give but my hope is that if I can get through the 2nd mile without it worsening, maybe it’ll pass or lessen by Mile 3 and I can finish well.

Mile 2. 5:33. We’re at 11:01 through 2 miles. The ‘A’ Goal of 17-min flat or sneaking under has probably come to pass. You’re in a different race now. And you have to run the race you’re in, not the race you’d hoped this would be. Maybe low 17’s is still gettable. I was hopeful that by the beginning of Mile 3 this issue wouldn’t be an issue but it’s an issue and it’s hurting in a real way. Just 4 laps to go. Every time I try to surge I feel like I’m on the precipice of disaster. Keep calm. Keep breathing. I also started to feel dehydrated. I call out to Em that I need a swig from my bottle in Kavi’s stroller on the next lap and grab a quick sip when I come through the next time around. With 800m to go I feel like I’m going to be able to keep the pain from getting worse. Hold, hold, go. At 4600m I finally feel confident enough to pick up the pace and try to close strong, finishing in 17:21.

It’s not the time I was shooting for. But it is a 16-second PR. This is only my 3rd 5k ever. The previous two were both Tracksmith races - I ran 18:19 in 2023 and 17:37 a year ago. It’s easy to be hard on yourself when things don’t go to plan. But a PR means you’ve done something you’ve never done before. There is value in that. Merit in that.

In the coming days, I’ll probably wonder if being unwell the night before and the morning of the race sapped me of energy and if I wasn’t able to hydrate with electrolytes sufficiently. I’ll probably wonder if the Nike Streakfly 2’s I was wearing (instead of my track spikes), pushed my foot strike too much onto my forefoot and loaded up my muscles in a way they couldn’t handle. I’ll probably be frustrated that I know I’m faster than the chip time of 17:21 but I’ll have to wait until next year to have another crack at this.

But tonight, I’m just proud of Mira. She showed a lot of heart and a lot of grit out there. ‘I gave it my very best today Mommy,’ she tells Em on our way home.

And what more can we ever ask of our kids, or of ourselves, than that?

We’re 73 days away from Chicago.