A Lesson on Fueling

One of the hardest parts of writing my book—and the very reason hiring an editor was so important—was having someone help me keep my story on track. As a writer, everything feels essential. Every memory carries weight. Every race feels like it shaped you.

But it’s an editor’s job to ask the harder question: does it move the story forward?

My book includes stories from countless races and competitions—but not all of them made the final cut. Some were trimmed for clarity. Some for pacing. And some, though meaningful to me, simply didn’t serve the larger arc of the story.

So here’s a small preview of one section that was cut from the book. It was one I was sad to let go of—but I understood why it needed to be.

2017 had become a year of new challenges. I was digging deep, searching for my limits—and yet somehow, I felt limitless.

No matter what I accomplished, though, I was still tracking my food. Every day. I had a long streak going on MyFitnessPal and felt a pang of frustration whenever something like a triathlon or long cycling event disrupted my perfect logging. As soon as we got home from an event, it was back to daily weigh-ins and meticulously inputting every bite.

Despite all my training, I struggled most with my body while running. Without lifting as much, it felt harder to maintain my preferred weight. Each time I stepped on the scale, the number moved. After my most recent triathlon, I kept running and riding my bike. But one afternoon, I felt the itch to redeem myself at the marathon distance.

I brought it up to Armando, and to my surprise, he agreed.“Maybe we should both run a marathon again.”. Our last marathon together was four years earlier, when we both swore them off for good.

He picked the race: the Columbia Gorge Marathon. I built a training plan and stuck to it. Armando joined me occasionally for the long weekend runs but struggled to fully commit to the distance while working full-time.

During a work trip to Portland, I mentioned the race to a friend. “Oh wow,” she said. “That’s a tough course. It’s uphill out, downhill back.”

I stared at her. What?

That night, I called Armando. “Did you know the race you picked has 1,800 feet of elevation gain?”

“Does it?” he replied, completely unfazed. Classic Armando—unbothered and underwhelmed.

As race day approached, I was still caught in the tension between performance and appetite. I picked up The Endurance Training Diet and Cookbook by Jesse Kropelnicki and, for the first time, truly educated myself on how to eat like a runner—not a dieter wishing to be an athlete. On the drive to Hood River, I munched on pretzels like the book suggested, taking in the salt and carbs. Even with science behind it, it felt like cheating.

A few days earlier, Armando had decided he wasn’t prepared for the full marathon after all and dropped down to the half. I’d be running this one solo.

The afternoon we arrived, rain hammered down. I hadn’t packed properly for the weather. After picking up our bib, we scrambled from store to store until I found a rain jacket that would work for the race the next day. Race morning, still drizzling, I boarded a big yellow school bus with the other marathon runners and rode to the starting line. Armando would begin an hour later at the start/finish line on a slightly different course for the half.

When the bus arrived, the clouds parted. The rain stopped. Blue sky opened above us as we headed up the historic highway on a steady incline for the first ten miles.

I ran alongside a woman named Tammy—an experienced runner who had completed the Boston Marathon earlier that year. We spent six steady miles together before she slowed with hamstring tightness. By the time I reached the turnaround, the climb was behind me. I lengthened my stride and let my legs carry me, grateful for gravity finally working in my favor.

At mile 23, my phone rang. It was Armando, calling from the finish line. “What’s taking you so long?” he asked, sipping a post-race beer.

Steam practically poured from my ears. “I’m running the full marathon, remember?” I snapped.

After we hung up, I called Angie for a little moral support. Somewhere along the course, my GPS watch had thrown off, so I didn’t realize I was closer to the finish than I thought.

Thinking I still had a mile and a half to go, there it was—the final stretch. The finish line.

I crossed in 3:55—more than an hour faster than my first marathon time of 4:58.

It was my first real lesson in what could happen when I fueled my body like an endurance athlete.

The lesson, however, was still a work in progress.

Thank you for reading! This section was pulled from Chapter 6. To read my full book go here.