3 lessons from running my first marathon (that have nothing to do with running)

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I felt like crying and passing out at the same time.

My legs felt like they were stuck in quicksand, and my back ached like it was carrying a thousand trees.

I looked to my left. A woman in her mid-50s was sobbing.
I looked to my right. A man in his 30s was bent over throwing up.

I was at mile 20 of the Las Vegas Marathon. The sharp downhill from Mount Charleston that had felt so effortless at dawn was now a distant memory. The midday sun beat down mercilessly. My left quad was locked in a cramp that sent jolts of pain through my leg with every step. My right calf had joined the rebellion. My lower back spasmed in rhythm with my shuffling gait.

Let me rewind…

My alarm went off at 2:30 AM. The kind of ungodly hour where your body doesn't know if it should be going to bed or waking up. I stumbled into my running gear in the dark, chugged some water, and headed to catch the buses that would drive us up to the start.

The parking lot was buzzing with nervous energy. Hundreds of runners boarding yellow school buses like we were heading to the world's most masochistic field trip. The ride up the mountain was quiet. Some people slept. Others stared out the windows at the darkness. I pressed my forehead against the seat in front of me and wondered what I'd gotten myself into.

At the top, it was freezing. Everyone huddled together wrapped in those crinkly reflective blankets that make you look like a baked potato. We stood there for two hours. Two. Hours. The organizers kept announcing delays. Something about timing chips. Then something about water stations. My legs were already tired from standing, and we hadn't even started running yet.

When the gun finally went off at 6:45 AM, relief flooded through me. Finally, movement. Finally, warmth.

The first miles flew by in the darkness. Headlamps bobbing like fireflies down the mountain road. My shins protested the steep downhill, but everything else felt incredible. The cold air filled my lungs. My legs found their rhythm. By the time the sun started painting the desert mountains pink and orange, I was flying. I glanced at my coworkers, who were running beside me. We were all grinning like idiots.

At mile 10, I still felt incredible. The views were spectacular. Desert stretching forever, mountains rising in the distance, the Vegas skyline appearing as we descended. Water stations every two miles kept us hydrated. Spectators cheered from the roadside. I high-fived a kid holding a sign that said "Running is cheaper than therapy!"

"We should pick up the pace," my coworker said around mile 13. "Bank some time while it feels easy. Trust me, you'll need it later."

Famous last words.

We pushed harder. My GPS watch showed we were crushing our goal pace (I actually didn’t have a goal, but my coworkers wanted to stay above 11min/mile). I felt invincible. This marathon thing? Not so bad. Maybe I was born for this. Maybe I'd do another one. Maybe I'd even qualify for Boston (JK LOL).

Then mile 18 arrived like a slap in the face.

The sun was fully up now, and the temperature had climbed twenty degrees. My legs suddenly felt heavy. Not tired, but heavy. Like someone had replaced my blood with concrete while I wasn't paying attention. I told myself it was temporary. Push through. Mind over matter. Who’s gonna carry the boats!

But then I got to mile 20.

It started with a twinge in my left quad. Then a full cramp that made me gasp and stumble. Before I could process what was happening, my right calf seized up as well. My lower back joined the party with spasms that made me want to curl into a ball on the asphalt.

I slowed to a jog. Then a shuffle. Then a walk.

Walking made it worse. Each time I locked my leg out for a step, the quad screamed in protest. But when I tried to run again, my joints felt like they were made of broken glass. Every impact sent shockwaves through my body.

A few old ladies with compression socks and fuel belts started passing me. I felt awful. Now I understood why only 0.1% of people ever finish a marathon.

The aid station at mile 21 was out of Biofreeze patches. Of course it was. The volunteer looked apologetic as she handed me a cup of warm water. I wanted to cry. I wanted to quit. I wanted to lie down on the side of the road and wait for the sweep van to collect me.

But then this older woman, maybe 60, shuffled up beside me. She pressed an energy gel into my hand. "Honey, you look like you need this more than me." Before I could thank her, she was gone, power-walking into the distance.

A few minutes later, a spectator ran out from the sideline with a bottle of water. "You got this!" he shouted. "Only 5 more miles!"

Only. Five. More. Miles.

At mile 23, a man caught up to me. Or rather, we caught down to each other's pathetic shuffle-walk pace. He was probably 50, wearing a shirt that said "Dad Bod Marathon Squad."

"First marathon?" he asked.

I nodded, unable to form words.

"Mine too. Doing it for my 9-year-old son. Want to show him you can do hard things."

We didn't say much after that. We didn't need to. We shuffled together in solidarity, taking turns setting the pace when the other faltered. When my quad locked up completely at mile 25, he waited. When his breathing got ragged near the finish, I slowed down.

We crossed the finish line together. My coworkers were there, having waited an extra hour after their own finishes. I fist bumped the man and we walked off our separate ways.

I didn't cry on the course, but I cried a little bit then.

Three Lessons from the Pain Cave

1. The story you tell yourself matters more than the pain you feel

When everything hurt and I wanted to quit, I had to decide what story I was going to tell.

Was I the guy who attempted a marathon? Or was I the guy who finished one? The pain was going to be there either way. But the story I'd tell forever depended on those final miles.

Your worst moments only define you if you let them.

When you're facing your own seemingly insurmountable challenge, ask yourself: What story do I want to tell about this?

2. Look to your left and right for someone who needs you

That old lady who gave me her energy gel? The bystander who ran out with a water bottle? They weren't helping because I asked. They saw someone struggling, and acted. The beautiful thing is, I can never pay them back. I don't know their names. I'll never see them again.

But that's not the point. The debt doesn't go backward; it goes forward.

Someone will struggle past me someday, and I'll be the one pressing a gel into their hand. Someone will need encouragement when they're shuffling through their own “mile 22”, and I'll be the stranger with the water bottle.

The best way to honor the people who helped you isn't to find them and say thanks. It's to become them for someone else.

3. The people who wait are the real MVPs

Anyone can cheer for you when you're cruising through mile 10, smiling and high-fiving kids. Anyone can support you when you're winning, when it's convenient, when you're fun to be around.

But the people who stand in the heat for an extra hour, watching runner after runner cross before you finally shuffle into view? The ones who could've gone home but didn't? Those are your people.

They're there in your darkest hours, when supporting you means sacrifice, when you're not your best self. My coworkers could've left. They'd earned their rest, their celebration. Instead, they waited.

Cherish the people who wait for you when you're slow, who stand by you when you're struggling, who choose discomfort to witness your fight.

And more importantly, be that person for someone else. Show up when it's hard. Stay when it's inconvenient. Wait when everyone else has gone home.

I ran my first marathon last Sunday. Technically, that puts me in the top 0.1% of people.

But what I learned in those 26.2 miles wasn't about being exceptional. It was about being human. About suffering and surviving. About receiving help and paying it forward. About finishing something that tries to break you, not because you're strong, but because you're stubborn and surrounded by good people.

The medal hangs on my wall now. When people ask if I'll do another marathon, I laugh and say absolutely not.

But late at night, when I can't sleep, I sometimes think about that dad and his son. I think about the old lady with the gel. I think about my coworkers cheering in the heat.

And I think… maybe.

Until next week,
Jay “You Can Just Do Hard Things” Yang

Ps.

Kind words for ‘You Can Just Do Things’

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