After two tough marathons that didn’t go the way I planned, I needed to prove to myself that the work still meant something. I wasn’t chasing redemption, just clarity. Hamilton wasn’t supposed to be a big race — it was supposed to be the right one. Flat course, cool temps, close to home.
The goal was simple: sub-3 or nothing. What happened next reminded me why we keep coming back to this sport — to find the day when everything finally clicks.
Pre-Race
After Berlin, I sulked for a bit. Two weeks off, a family trip through Europe, and then the itch came back. I started looking for a race almost immediately. Hamilton made sense — flat, fast, and just an hour and a half away. I reached out, found a bib transfer, and once it was in, I recharged my RunSmart plan and started training again.
This wasn’t about redemption. It was simple: sub-3 or nothing.
If my body didn’t hold up during training or the race, I wasn’t going to fake my way through another 3:05. It was going to be DNS or DNF.
Day Before the Race
I flew solo for this one. Drove up to Hamilton, checked in, and spent the day doing what every runner dreams of but rarely does — nothing.
Fueling, hydrating, lounging. Repeat.
I watched Surrender and King of Moab back-to-back, then rounded out the night with more Schitt’s Creek than I’d care to admit. It was quiet, simple, and exactly what I needed. No distractions. Just a day to mentally reset and let the body catch up to the training.
Race Morning
Woke up at 4 a.m., had half a bagel, and went back to bed for another hour. Up again at 5, went through the usual salt-loading routine, Vaseline, and all the glamorous details of marathon prep. Then it was time to drive to the start.
It was cold (35°F) — but no wind and a clear sky. After melting in Berlin, I wasn’t complaining.
Hamilton’s small, with about 2,500 runners between the half and full. I lined up near the 3-hour pacer, tossed my flannel pajama bottoms to donation, and waited.
Gun goes off. Three or bust.
Settling In
The course winds through a few neighborhoods before dropping down along the water. I locked in early, floating between 4:10 and 4:15 per kilometer. Everything felt smooth and in control.
Fuel plan was straightforward: caffiene gel 15 minutes before the race, another at 45 minutes, then one every 30 minutes after that. In all, I consumed ~60-70g of carbohydrates per hour with two of my gels (Maurten) being caffeinated. I drank water at aid stations and the Gatorade in my handheld.
I hit halfway at 1:29, calm and steady. It felt like a long run — the good kind. I remember thinking “I can definitely do that again.” A quick fist bump to a runner I’ve been with since the start, and we were off on our second loop.
When Things Got Interesting
The next 15K were fairly calm. I felt great and was steadily clicking off kilometers (it is a Canadian race after all) between 4:10-4:15 pace (~6:45 / mile).
At 34K, the right calf started to grab. Not a full cramp, but enough to get my attention.
I started taking in more electrolytes, grabbed another gel, and focused on holding things together. Aerobically, I still felt great — breathing was easy, legs strong — but that calf was the wildcard.
I did some quick marathon math (which is the worst kind when your brain is “meh”). 4:15 per kilometer, 8:30 for two. Get to 40K with nine minutes left, you’re good.
At 40K, I had nine minutes and change. The problem? I wasn’t holding 4:15 anymore. The cushion started to shrink. I wasn’t falling apart — just trying to stay steady without my calf locking up.
The Final Kick
With 800m to go, you take a right turn and hit a short, momentum-killing 20-yard hill (I would classify it personally as a shit kicker).
I grunted my way up, heard a guy yell, “Go get it!” on my left, and that was enough.
I emptied the tank.
2:59:36.
No arms raised. No theatrics. Just a quiet exhale and a lean over the railing to catch my breath.
A text from my wife came through seconds later — she was sweating it out from Buffalo. I grabbed a cup of chicken noodle soup broth (amazing) and chatted with race founder. After a pit stop for a shower, I was on my way home to watch the Bills game.
Reflection
For better or worse, I’ve always hated losing more than I enjoy winning.
Crossing the line in 2:59:36 didn’t feel like a celebration. It felt like checking a box I’d left open for too long. I was proud, sure—but it wasn’t joy or relief. It was validation.
After Chicago and Berlin, I needed proof that the work still lived in me. That the fitness wasn’t gone (it just hadn’t shown up yet).
I still tell people not to revenge race, and I stand by it. But I get it now. Sometimes you need to remind yourself who you are.
The truth is, the losses sting longer than the wins ever last. Something I should probably work on.
Now it’s recovery time—four weeks of the RunSmart Recovery plan before rebuilding for what’s next.
Body’s sore. Confidence restored.
Season over.
