Fitness

When the Road Teaches
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When the Road Teaches

Perseverance in Difficulty

Some of the most important miles I ever ran were the ones I wanted to quit. They were not fast or easy. They happened on days when my body was tired, my mind was heavy, and the last thing I wanted to do was lace up. Those runs taught me something no effortless day could — how to keep moving when every step feels like a decision.

I remember cold winter afternoons when the weight of the day pressed down so heavily that I almost stayed inside. On those days, I finally pushed myself out the door, even when I knew my run would be slower. Finishing mattered more than pace. It was a reminder that perseverance is often measured in the simple act of showing up.

That lesson carried into training with my son. Together we ran race after race, including a cool morning 5K in Birmingham that marked our fifth together. By then we had both come a long way from where we started. The race was not just about that single morning. It was the result of weeks of steady effort and miles stacked quietly when no one else was watching.

There were also days when I dreaded heading out the door, when the thought of running felt like more of a burden than a gift. Yet those runs often surprised me. As the miles passed, my perspective shifted, and I found myself realizing again that the journey itself held its own reward.

It is in these kinds of miles — the slow, the heavy, the unremarkable — that God has met me most clearly. He didn’t always lifted the struggle, but He always gave me enough strength for the moment I was in.

Surrender in the Stride

There is a kind of running that is not about pace or distance at all. It is the kind that loosens your grip on control and teaches you to let go. These are the runs where surrender becomes as important as effort.

I remember training days when I carried tension into every step. Sometimes it was only a short run, but those three miles were enough to shift the weight I had been carrying all day. It was not about speed or proving myself. It was about letting go and finding peace in the rhythm.

In time, I began to see running less as a way to prove something and more as a gift to be received. That realization changed everything. When the miles stopped being a scoreboard and started becoming moments of grace, the run felt lighter.

Even during serious training, surrender would surface. Preparing for the half marathon, I once found myself chasing numbers until halfway through the run I realized I was missing the point. It was not about beating a time. It was about settling into the stride and releasing control. That run left me with more peace than any record ever could.

The deeper truth, though, was that surrender in running pointed to something greater. No amount of training or discipline could heal the deeper places of brokenness within me. Running might teach me how to let go of control, but only Christ could free my heart.

These runs are remembered not for finish lines but for the way burdens lifted, steps became prayers, and breathing slowed into trust. The real victory was not how far I went, but how fully I let go.

Joy in the Journey

Not every run is about perseverance or surrender. Some are simply about joy — the kind that sneaks up on you mid-stride and reminds you why you began.

I remember one afternoon running with my son when a group of kids was playing nearby. Out of nowhere, a little girl looked at me and announced that she liked pizza. It had nothing to do with running, but it made us both laugh, and suddenly the miles felt lighter.

Joy came in other ways too. Training for the Mercedes Half Marathon, I ran through the streets of Birmingham with both my sons. We talked, we laughed, and I finished that day reminded of why I loved running. The city, the conversations, and the shared effort made it unforgettable.

Even the countdown to race day carried its own kind of joy. Twenty-four days, then seventeen, then just over a week. Each marker brought anticipation, not just of the race but of what the training itself was shaping in me.

There were also seasons when joy came not from one specific run but from the rhythm itself. I realized at times that the journey really was the destination. Running gave me both grit and joy, and together they made every mile more meaningful.

The joy in the journey does not mean ignoring the hard miles. It means recognizing that along the way, God gives moments worth smiling about, worth telling stories about, and worth carrying with you long after the run is done.

Looking back, I can see how the road became more than a place to run. It became a classroom. Perseverance showed me how to move forward when my strength was gone. Surrender taught me to release control and find peace in the rhythm of each step. And joy reminded me that even in the grind, there are moments worth smiling about and carrying with me long after the run is over.

The miles were never just about distance or pace. They were about becoming – becoming more patient, more trusting, more grateful. The road taught me that growth is not measured in trophies or times, but in the quiet strength built through difficulty, the freedom discovered in surrender, and the joy found along the way.

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The Race Reflections

I never chased races for the medals. I chased them because they marked the journey. Each finish line was more than a time on a clock. It was a stone of remembrance, a witness to how far God had brought me.

Humility

My first few races weren’t about performance. They were about survival. In one of my earliest 5Ks, I finished in just over 31 minutes. It was hard. It hurt. But it lit something in me. The desire to keep going. The desire to become someone new.

When I ran my first half marathon, I wasn’t sure if I could finish. I reminded myself not to chase a time. Just keep moving. Just make it to the end. I finished in 1:44:11. Not because I was strong, but because I was faithful to the training. And because God met me there.

Joy

I remember the first race I ran where I truly felt fast. I ran a 5K in 22:10. I gave everything I had, so much that I needed medical attention at the finish line. But even as I caught my breath, I knew something deeper had happened. I had tasted joy. Not because I won, but because I gave everything I had.

There were races I ran with my son. We didn’t always finish together, but we shared the joy of the road. There were training runs with friends and solo miles that gave me peace. These were the bright spots. The good gifts. The laughter after long runs and the gratitude for what my body could now do.

Doubt

There were plenty of moments when I wondered if I could really keep going. During marathon training in the Alabama summer, I logged fifty miles a week. I battled the heat, sore feet, and the fear that I wouldn’t be ready. Even during taper weeks, I struggled to rest. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to heal. I just feared what I might lose by slowing down.

Before the Lehigh Valley Marathon, my goal was 3:29:00. I ended up finishing in 4:14:32. At first, I was disappointed. But then I realized something. I had done what I once thought impossible. I had finished a marathon. And in the process, I learned that grace has nothing to do with performance.

Gratitude

I’ve written before that every mile was grace. I still believe that. Whether it was a 5K, a half marathon, or the full twenty-six miles, every finish line reminded me that God had been faithful.

There was a time I couldn’t run a quarter mile without stopping. Eventually I was logging thirty or forty miles each week. That kind of change isn’t about willpower alone. It’s about mercy.

I don’t remember all my finish times, but I do remember what it felt like to cross those lines. I knew God had brought me there. He sustained me. He wasn’t just cheering from the side. He was running with me.

Endurance

Running never became easy. But it became transformative.

It became the way I learned to endure. It taught me to press forward when things got hard. It taught me to keep believing even when I couldn’t see the outcome. It helped me trust when I didn’t feel strong.

Each race revealed something deeper. I wasn’t just becoming a runner. I was becoming someone who refused to quit. Someone who would keep showing up. Someone who knew every mile mattered, not because of a medal, but because of the One who ran beside me.

Every race taught me something. But together, they taught me the truth:

Every mile was grace.

Grace was there at every start line when I questioned my ability. It was present when I crossed the finish, breathless and astonished. It stayed with me on quiet training days when no one was watching. Grace did not require a perfect performance. It did not wait for a personal best. It carried me when I felt strong, and it carried me when I nearly broke. Every mile I ran, every hill I climbed, every time I got back up and kept moving forward, it was never just about my own strength. It was always about God’s presence. And that, more than anything, is what made the journey worth every step.

Life works the same way. We all face moments that test us. Moments of pain, progress, waiting, and wonder. We walk through relationships, loss, growth, and small victories that no one else sees. The finish lines may look different, but the truth remains. Grace carries us. It walks with us through long days, quiet sacrifices, and unexpected detours. God is not just waiting at the end. He is present in the middle of it all. Every mile. Every moment. Every breath.

In 1 Corinthians, Paul says:

“I beat my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize.” 1 Corinthians 9:27 (NIV)

This journey was never about running alone. It was about obedience, discipline, and walking out the life God called me to — not just in public, but in the hidden moments too. Like Paul, I’ve learned that the race is about more than effort. It’s about surrender. And what matters most is not how fast I run, but who I’m becoming as I run with Him.

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The Making of a Runner

“Therefore, since we have so great a cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us also lay aside every encumbrance and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” — Hebrews 12:1–2 (NASB)

I didn’t become a runner when I lost the weight, or when I crossed the marathon finish line. I became a runner somewhere in the middle — when I kept showing up, day after day, even when no one was watching.

Running didn’t fix me. It didn’t save me. But it changed me. It built something in me that couldn’t be faked — the kind of strength that comes from doing hard things when there’s no applause, no finish line, no crowd.

At first, running was just a tool. A means to an end. I ran to lose weight, to feel better, to get healthy. But over time, it became something more. It became part of who I was — not because I was fast, but because I was faithful.

There’s a difference between someone who runs and someone who is a runner. The first is about activity. The second is about identity. And for me, it wasn’t about pace or distance or race medals. It was about consistency. Commitment. Grit.

I ran in the heat, in the cold, after long days at work, through stress I didn’t know how to name. Some days the runs felt easy. Other days they were a war. But every time I showed up, I was becoming someone new — not just a man who ran, but a man who endured.

And endurance spilled into everything.

Into fatherhood — showing up for my kids, even when I didn’t feel strong. Into marriage — choosing presence over escape, even when it was hard. Into faith — believing, even when I didn’t feel it. Into work — staying steady, even under pressure.

Running wasn’t just a habit. It was a habit that formed me.

I never wore the label “athlete” growing up. I wasn’t the guy who lived for gym class or team sports. But somewhere in the miles, I found a rhythm that matched the life I was learning to live — quiet, steady, marked by perseverance more than performance.

I became a runner not because I was perfect, but because I refused to quit.

And in that identity, I began to find a kind of freedom — the freedom of being fully in the moment, fully in my body, fully present on the road beneath me. The freedom of running not away from something, but toward something better.

Through it all — the quiet mornings, the hard runs, the seasons of sorrow and strength — God was there. Not just at the finish lines, but in every step. He was with me in the struggle, in the silence, in the effort it took just to keep going. I didn’t always feel His presence, but I know now He never left.

It wasn’t just running that shaped me. It was the grace that carried me. The strength I found in the miles wasn’t mine alone — it was His, sustaining me through every up and down.

I became a runner, yes. But more than that, I became someone who was learning to walk with God — not just on the easy days, but especially when the road felt long.

The Road That Changed Me
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A Finish Worth Remembering

After all the setbacks, soreness, and slow miles, something began to shift. My mileage increased. Not all at once, and not without pain — but it happened. Week after week, I kept showing up. And slowly, my legs got stronger, my lungs got steadier, and my confidence grew.

I signed up for the Mercedes Half Marathon in Birmingham. It felt bold at the time — maybe too bold. But I needed something to chase. Not just to prove I could do it, but to remind myself that the road I was on was going somewhere.

Training looked different in that season. I began incorporating speed workouts — not because I thought I was fast, but because I wanted to push myself further. I had a goal: to finish under two hours. I didn’t know if I could do it, but I trained like it was possible.

When race day came, I felt ready — nervous, but ready. The energy downtown was electric, runners everywhere, music pumping, bibs pinned tight. I found my spot in the crowd, looked around, and realized: I belonged here. Maybe I didn’t look like a “real runner” in the traditional sense, but I had earned my place at the starting line.

I wasn’t running alone either. My sons came to support me, and one of them — the same son who had encouraged me to sign up and take on the race in the first place — ran the race with me. Their encouragement meant more than they knew. It made the miles feel lighter.

I crossed the finish line in 1 hour and 44 minutes — well under my goal.

It was amazing. I honestly didn’t think I’d finish the race, let alone finish it that far under two hours. The last few miles were a test of everything in me — physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I had never run more than 10 miles before. Now I had pushed through to 13.1.

But I hadn’t done it alone.

I prayed the entire race, through every step, every ache, every mile marker. I knew I couldn’t have even made it to the starting line without Him — and I was certain He had carried me across the finish. He was with me in the doubts, in the fear, in the final stretch when everything in me wanted to slow down. And I know that He celebrated with me when I crossed that line.

Later, I had coworkers tell me they knew athletes in great shape who couldn’t break two hours in a half marathon. They were amazed — and honestly, so was I. That finish time became a reminder: I was capable of more than I thought. I had done something real. Something hard. And it lit something inside me.

I started dreaming about running more half marathons. Even a full one. The finish line didn’t mark the end of something — it opened the door to everything that came next.

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Failing Forward

Somewhere between mile two and mile ten, things started to fall apart.

It wasn’t dramatic — no collapse, no ambulance, no headlines. Just the slow, steady ache of joints not used to this kind of repetition. The tightness in my Achilles tendon that I tried to stretch out, ice down, and pray through. The mornings I woke up limping and still pulled on my shoes.

I had to soak my Achilles in a bucket of ice after nearly every run. It was the only way I could manage the inflammation and keep moving. I’d limp into the backyard, still catching my breath, lower my foot into freezing water, and grit my teeth through the sting. It became part of the routine — run, ice, recover, repeat.

Eventually, even that wasn’t enough. The pain wouldn’t let up, and I started seeing a chiropractor. My body was trying to catch up to my ambition, and some days it simply couldn’t. The adjustments helped, but they also reminded me that every step forward came with a cost. I wasn’t just building endurance — I was holding myself together, piece by piece.

Building mileage felt like chasing progress with a moving target. I’d hit five miles and feel unstoppable one day, only to struggle with three the next. Every gain seemed to come with some small price — a sore knee, a tight calf, a bruised ego.

There were days I had to stop and walk, not because I wanted to, but because my body gave me no choice. I remember trying to run through pain, then spending the next week regretting it, icing my foot each night just to get back on the road.

But I kept going.

Not perfectly. Not quickly. But forward.

It was during this season I learned that failing didn’t mean I was finished. It meant I was trying. It meant I was testing the edge of who I was and slowly stretching beyond it.

Some weeks, my body needed rest. Other times, it needed courage. And sometimes, it needed grace — the kind I had to extend to myself, the kind that whispered, you’re not done yet.

Because every step, even the limping ones, was part of the journey. And every run — good, bad, or broken — was better than standing still.

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Learning the Rhythm (The Hill, the Heat, and the Lamppost)

There was a lamppost at the top of a hill.

It wasn’t grand or symbolic, just a plain old wooden post at the end of a quiet street near my house. But for weeks, and then months, it became the center of my discipline. My turnaround point. My finish line. My proof that I had done what I said I would do.

Every run started with the same goal: reach that lamppost. Touch it. Turn around. Make it home.

I didn’t love running. Not at first.

Especially not in the Alabama heat—thick, humid, relentless. But I ran anyway. Not because it felt good, but because I knew if I didn’t go right then, I probably wouldn’t go at all.

My workdays were full. I was in IT, overseeing systems for our company. It was demanding, and I enjoyed it, but it wore me out. By the time I pulled into the driveway each evening, I was tired. Not the kind of tired that makes you want to go for a run—the kind that makes you want to collapse on the couch and disappear into dinner, TV, and bed.

But instead, I walked in the door, said hello to everyone, pet the dog, changed into my running clothes, and walked right back outside. That rhythm—day after day, same time, same steps—was everything.

It didn’t matter if it was ninety-five degrees or if my body begged for a break. I had to go. Because I wasn’t just trying to lose weight anymore, I was building something. Something deeper. And to build it, I needed consistency.

At first, I stuck to a simple route: from my house to that lamppost and back. One mile out. One mile home. The hill leading up to it burned every time. Some days it felt like a mountain. But I’d push to the top, touch the post, and know: I didn’t quit.

That lamppost became more than a destination. It became a line in my day. A marker of effort. A quiet kind of altar where I laid down excuses and picked up a little more grit.

My family noticed.

My wife and kids knew I had just come home from work, but they gave me that space. They knew I needed it. They encouraged it. And when race days came—5Ks on early Saturday mornings—they were there. Cheering. Smiling. Making it fun. That meant everything.

But most of the time, it wasn’t about races. It was just me and the pavement. Day after day. One step at a time.

Over time, the run became more than exercise. It became a boundary, a line in the day between everything I had carried and everything I still hoped for. It was where I reset. Where I pushed through the tension of work and fatigue and stress. And in that rhythm, I started to feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time: control.

Not over everything. But over something.

The repetition shaped me.

Not just physically—though the weight was slowly coming off—but mentally, emotionally, spiritually. My energy improved. I started sleeping better. I felt lighter. More focused. Even a little more confident.

And I started noticing changes outside of running, too. I was more organized at work. More present at home. More grounded in my choices. What I ate. When I went to bed. How I prayed. It all started to line up.

The discipline I found on the road spilled into the rest of my life.

There’s a strength that comes from doing the hard thing when you don’t feel like it. A kind of steady muscle that builds when you say, I don’t want to, but I will.

That’s what running after work taught me. It taught me to build a life on follow-through. On rhythm. On showing up, especially when it’s not easy.

God didn’t meet me in fireworks or breakthroughs. He met me at the lamppost. In that quiet decision: to run up the hill, touch the post, and come home. To try again the next day. And the one after that.

That’s where the foundation was laid. Not in one big transformation, but in the rhythm of a thousand small choices.

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Part I: The First Miles

When I first stepped outside to run, I wasn’t chasing a goal. I was testing a hope.

I had already lost 50 pounds, but I still carried the weight — physically, yes, but also mentally. There’s a kind of heaviness that doesn’t show up on a scale. Years of unhealthy habits, of shame, of feeling like I’d never get it right. That’s the weight I carried to the starting line. Not of a race — but of a quiet street in my neighborhood on an ordinary afternoon after work.

I remember standing at the edge of the driveway, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt that didn’t quite fit. I didn’t look like a runner. I didn’t feel like one either. But I had a small goal: run two miles without stopping.

It felt impossible and I didn’t make it. I ran one and a half miles and walked home. That was okay though. When I tried running 50 pounds heavier, I only got a quarter mile before I quit. So for me, one and a half miles was a win. 

The sun was still high, and the Alabama humidity clung to everything. I had just gotten off work — tired, drained, with every excuse in the world not to run. But something in me knew that if I didn’t go then, I wouldn’t go at all. So I started. Slowly. Awkwardly. Each step a mix of effort and embarrassment.

About a half mile in, my body was already protesting. My legs were tight, my breathing ragged. People passed me in their cars, and I imagined what they must be thinking. But I kept moving. Step by step. Breath by breath. And somewhere around the halfway point, a strange thing happened: I realized I wasn’t going to quit.

I wasn’t fast. I wasn’t strong. But I was moving — and I wasn’t going to stop.

That run didn’t change my life in one big cinematic moment. What it did was give me something I hadn’t felt in a long time: momentum. Not just the physical kind, but the kind that happens when you do something hard and realize you’re capable of more than you thought.

And then I did it again the next day. And the day after that.

My runs became a rhythm — not in the sense of easy repetition, but in the way they began to structure my life. I’d get home from work, change clothes, stretch out muscles that still complained, and hit the pavement. It became part of my day, like brushing my teeth or eating dinner. It became a habit.

That’s what changed everything.

I didn’t suddenly love running. In fact, for the first few weeks, I kind of hated it. Every afternoon, my body argued with me. But I kept showing up. Not because I was strong, but because I was learning the strength of consistency. I was building something, mile by slow mile. My body was changing — yes — but more importantly, my mindset was shifting.

This is where I began to understand the power of habits.

God didn’t meet me in a lightning bolt moment of transformation. He met me in the small choices. In the uncomfortable, sweaty, ordinary afternoons. When I ran even though I didn’t want to. When I chose grilled chicken over pizza. When I went to bed early so I could be sharper the next day. Habits became training grounds for growth. They were where grace and discipline met.

Those early runs didn’t give me Boston, in fact, at that time I hadn’t even thought about Boston. That said, they gave me something better: the realization that change wasn’t about intensity — it was about intention. About returning to the road day after day and trusting that what I was doing mattered, even if it didn’t feel heroic.

And slowly, things did start to change.

I was sleeping better. My energy improved. I felt lighter — not just physically, but emotionally. My confidence grew, even if only a little. My kids started asking me how my runs went. My wife noticed I was smiling more. And somewhere deep inside, I began to believe that maybe — just maybe — I could do this.

I could be the man who finishes something. Who shows up. Who runs.

And something else started to shift.

This rhythm of running — of lacing up my shoes every afternoon and doing the work — began to spill over into other parts of my life. I hadn’t planned on that. But it happened, almost without me noticing at first. Because when you commit to something hard and keep showing up, that commitment starts to shape you.

Suddenly, I was more organized at work. I was more present at home. I started sticking to other good habits — eating cleaner, drinking a lot of water, praying more regularly, even sleeping better. There was a momentum that bled outward from those afternoon runs. Running wasn’t just something I did. It was setting the tone for the man I was becoming and going to become.

Consistency in one area gave me clarity in others. The discipline it took to run when I didn’t feel like it made it easier to resist other compromises. I wasn’t perfect — far from it — but I was becoming faithful in the small things. And in that faithfulness, I was finding something important. A rhythm. A structure. A grace.

It felt like God was using these runs not just to change my body, but to build a foundation — brick by brick, habit by habit — for a life that was stronger, steadier, and more grounded than the one I had before.

I didn’t know it then, but I was laying down the tracks for the rest of the journey.

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I just figured out there is more to fitness then running…

Life keeps moving at such a fast pace, it gets harder and harder to find time to write.

Summer running stinks!

I hate hot, 100 degree runs.  In fact, most days it is just 90 – 95, but with the humidity it can be as much as 15 degrees hotter outside.  Add black asphalt and a 3:00PM run, and – well you get the point.

So I’ve made some changes.

I’ve started playing tennis with TJ a couple times a week for the past few weeks.  It has been a lot of fun and it is much easier to play tennis for an hour or two in 100 degrees then to run 5 miles.

Also, RS has made incredible progress at the Y lifting weights and working out.  In 3 months he went from a fairly normal, slightly overweight teenager to six pack abs and thin and trim.  I must say that although I never wanted to cross train or do anything but run, now I see the value.  So I’ve joined the Y with him and yesterday was our first workout.  Needless to say, I can’t lift my arms above my head today, LOL.  Actually as he was showing me what he does, an Iraq war vet came over to help.  He basically told me that I needed to start slow, get a balance and be patient for about 3 weeks.  Once I was able to lift a bar without weights for 3 reps of 20, then I could move on.  I could tell he knew what he was talking about.  We didn’t stay to long as I needed to meet TJ at the tennis courts, but it was a good beginning.  After being at the gym for 45 minutes, I proceeded to play 90 minutes of tennis.

So my quest for the long run and another marathon is on a bit of a hold while I adjust to my new routine.  I’m not stopping running all together though.  I’ll run 2 -3 times a week and do other exercise the rest of the week.  My goal is to get through the summer without giving up on my 3+ years of fitness and weight loss.  I honestly think if I tried to go through a 4th summer of just running in the afternoon heat, I would have just given up.

Life keeps moving at the speed of light.  I’m just trying to keep up!!!

Tom