(On Running) #16 2026 Tree House Half Marathon
The Story of My 2026 Tree House Half Marathon
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| With my two hard-earned, delectable beers |
Believe in Yourself
The night before the 2026 Tree House Half Marathon, my second race at this distance, I wrote in my journal: believe in yourself. These three words seem to hold immense power when preparing for a race. Because if I don't believe, then how can I expect anyone else to? How can I expect success?
Looking at the weather forecast ahead of the race, the chance of rain was, unfortunately, 100%. To make matters worse, the worst of it seemed to be forecasted between 8-9 AM, which meant it would likely downpour for the entirety of my run.
I did would I could to weather the storm. I packed a bag the night before: a change of clothes and towel for the post race party, a rain jacket and windbreaker to tackle the elements, and my fuel—CARBS gels, a chocolate chip ClIF bar, a Honey Stinger waffle, and a Nuun Sport tablet for my Nathan SpeedDraw water bottle. I laid out my race day outfit, and went to bed at 9 PM.
I woke up race morning without the typical anticipation that I experienced in my first half marathon and first full marathon. At the end of the day, this was merely a tune-up for the 2026 Baystate Marathon in five weeks time. It would be an important fitness test, but not the crowning achievement of this training block. It was just another long, hard effort.
It wasn't raining when I walked out my front door, and I was foolish enough to think that I would be spared. My weather app quickly told me this was not the case, the rain was coming, and I best be prepared for it. As I drove, the rain began, and I began to accept what I already understood.
After some nightmarish race day parking lot/shuttle logistics, in which I was extremely lucky to catch one of the first buses to the start line (everyone else was lined up in the wrong place?), I found shelter in the entry hall/loading dock. After a few static stretches, everyone was kicked out as this space needed to be reserved "for emergencies." The guy standing next to me muttered "isn't the rain an emergency?" and while I knew it wasn't, I agreed with the sentiment that I would rather not be forced to stand in the rain. We were still a little under an hour out from the start.
I surveyed my options outside, and followed the clever folks who had found a series of small, trapezoid-shaped inlets in the outside of the brewery's wall, that could fit four people comfortably and much more than that if you squeezed. These provided shelter and small talk with my fellow runners—I met two friends from Vermont and Connecticut who seemed to have met in the middle for this race. I was able to strip down to my race gear and put on my Nike Alphafly 3's, which I only wear for races.
Typically, to warm-up for a race, I will run a mile at an agonizingly slow pace, do static stretches, a dynamic warm-up, and strides. Today, though, I did an abridged version of my routine; skipping the warm-up mile, and a shorter dynamic warm-up.
I could hear the announcer begin to invite runners to the starting corral, and I had a problem. I still had my bag, filled with my change of clothes, shoes, and other (now wet) gear. I had planned to hand it off to a friend who was spectating but we hadn't been able to find each other yet. To add to my woes, the rain was relentless. I made the decision to bring it to bag check, and I was luckily able to leave it despite not being the "official" bag-check bag with my bib number. I almost forgot to take out my fuel, but remembered just before I handed the bag off.
When I reached the staring corral, the national anthem had already begun. I was cutting it close—which is far from my usual approach. It seemed my lack of energy that morning had carried into my pre-race prep, but now that my gear was soaked, my energy had returned. There is something about running in the rain that makes me feel truly alive, and in my anticipation, I felt a suppressed excitement grow within me.
The Story of My Race
The starting horn went off, and I barreled out the starting corral. Almost immediately, I ran through a massive, unavoidable puddle and my shoes were soaked. I intended to keep pace with a guy I met at the start line through a mutual acquaintance. We were aiming for somewhere between 6:00-6:10/mi pace, around a 1:20-1:21 finish.
The first time I looked down at my watch, we were running at 5:45/mi pace. This is near my 5K pace, and I knew I needed to start conservative. We also shared our recent results; he had a breakthrough 1:16 HM and was targeting sub 2:40 in the Hartford Marathon in four weeks. It was at that moment that I knew I had found the wrong running buddy for this race—he was simply much faster.
1 Mile: 5:38
So, he took off, and I began what I knew would be a lonely race. The first few miles were either downhill or flat, and I locked in around 6:12/mile pace. It was boring, yet scenic. There was one guy in striking distance, and I stayed focused on his back. I knew I was in the Top 20, and I felt content with my position. I also knew the hills were coming, and was confident that I would pass him on the hills.
5 Mile: 31:09
As it turns out, I passed my competitor before the hills began. It had felt nice to have someone in front of me to pace. But I was determined to take ownership over the story of this race.
Just before the first ascent, I noticed an industrial buggy race by me on the other side of the road. That's weird, I thought. I knew that this section of the race was an out and back, and the leaders would be coming down the opposite side of the road. It seemed a safety hazard.
As I climbed the first hill, my confidence grew. I can do this. But then, suddenly, I looked to the side of the road. The industrial buggy was parked next to the bushes within the shallow ditch that bordered the road. I first noticed two bikes lying in the ditch, and thought are they taking a break? My eyes darted to three people in the ditch. One was lying flat on their back, and the other two were actively delivering CPR.
It was jarring. It wasn't a runner, I assumed, because they were wearing a bright, neon yellow vest typical of bikers. But it was still an endurance athlete, and I hadn't seen someone actively receiving CPR in a race before. It seemed serious, and I can only imagine what it must've felt like to be one the leading runners who likely alerted the volunteers of the incident. It was a reminder that running is a privilege—fitness is a privilege—and that just because I am fit doesn't mean I couldn't require CPR at any moment.
I continued to power through the rolling hills. These were unexpectedly tough. The hill I was worried about was at Mile 10: a 200 ft climb. The repeated up-down, up-down, motion wore on my legs, and I knew I would need to start preserving energy for the big hill.
I reached the turn-around point, and began to run past my competitors. First came the people directly behind me, who were undoubtedly relishing the thought of passing me on the Mile 10 hill. Then, came an unexpected wave of support.
"This is your race!"
"Nice job."
"You got this!"
"Great work."
"Enjoy that downhill."
The massive wave of runners was like a wall of consistent encouragement. All I could do was say "thank you!" or "You too!" as I powered forward. It reminded me what these running events are really about—the community. It is easy to get hyper-focused on a BQ goal, to treat a race as "another day in the office." But the most beautiful thing about sport has always been that it brings people together.
9 Mile: 56:06
At this point, with the massive hill approaching, I decided to abandon the 1:20-1:21 goal. My average pace was hovering around 6:15/mile and I knew the hill would be slower. I intentionally slowed down to 6:20/mile to preserve energy for the hill.
Then, I made the turn onto Hillside Road: aptly named for the start of the hill. Nobody was in sight, but I knew there was someone not far ahead. Someone shouted to me "He's way behind you!" and I assumed she meant the guy I passed earlier. Could I pass someone else?
I decided to give it my best effort. I drove the hill the day before, so I knew what was coming—steep pitches with gradual sections in between. The first few steep sections felt good, and I closed in on the person ahead. I returned to my typical strategy of repeating affirmations: you can do this, I believe in you, you got this. Rather quickly, I reached the top of the hill. I was only ~3 seconds behind 13th place. I saw him turn his head multiple times—he could hear me coming.
Unfortunately, the hill absolutely cooked my legs. Despite the downhill that followed, I abandoned my chase. If I had passed him on the hill, mentally, I think I could have gone much faster. But now, I was determined to let him pace me for the rest of the race. And he did, until about mile 11.5, when I developed an intense, abdominal cramp.
My mind flashed back to the first time this happened—a 6 mile run in Summer 2025, when I was still new to running, when 6 miles felt momentous. What had helped then was focusing on my breath. I began to tell myself: just breathe. This is not going to be the story of this race. For the first time, I was having thoughts of slowing down or stopping.
Yet, my experience has taught me that my abdominal cramps are often mental. It is my body and mind trying to give me a reason to stop, to do the easy thing. While I slowed down to 6:30/mile, I persevered. I was not going to blow up. This is not going to be the story of this race.
Mile To Go: 1:17:09
With a mile remaining, my internal dialogue shifted: what is going to be the story of this race?
I was hurting. I thought about speeding up, but I was content with my time. It was a training race, and I was going to PR. I was happy to finish around 1:23.
The last straightaway was a challenge. I desperately waited for the right turn that signified the end, while fighting off my mentally inflicted abdominal cramps.
Suddenly, without notice, a guy sprinted past me. It wasn't the same guy I passed earlier. I thought good for you and told him "nice job!" He must've been pushing 5:30/mi and I didn't have the energy to compete. Until, that is, I heard someone else coming behind me, and sensed it was the guy from earlier.
There is something about passing someone and then being re-overtaken later in the race that feels far more... well, let's just say my competitive streak simply wouldn't allow it. I took off, full sprint, for the last .2 miles or so. I reached the right turn I had longed for, and bounded towards the finish line as if I hadn't just run 13 miles.
Finish: 1:23:11 (6:21/mi) - 15th overall
Was this my original goal? Not quite. But, with the hills and the rain, I am content with my time. It is a PR by over two minutes, almost a year after my first half marathon last fall. My ultimate goal with these races is to have every race become a PR attempt. If nothing else, I aspire to be better than I was yesterday.
With Baystate coming up in five weeks, I know I need to nail these next three weeks of training to have a shot at sub 2:50. I may have to temper my ego a bit and shoot for sub 2:55, which would still be a 12+ minute PR (and a BQ). With the new Boston Marathon lottery for runner's who BQ but miss the cutoff, sub 2:55 wouldn't guarantee entry, but it would give me a shot. I think I would rather BQ and miss the cutoff than risk blowing up the way I did my first marathon.
Training for a BQ is a marathon, not a sprint. I still have five weeks to determine if it will happen at Baystate. But even if it doesn't, I am confident I can achieve it.
I believe in myself.
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