Not 82
*Originally posted on Facebook, March 23, 2026 — written from a hospital bed the morning after the Yuengling Shamrock Marathon.*
Spent a lot of time sitting here in the hospital bed…waiting. So I write. Tried to capture yesterday before its memory slips away.
Not 82.
The days leading up didn't feel right.
Not the usual nerves…not the familiar "am I trained enough?" question that shows up before a race. This was different.
Something deeper.
An unease that sat in my bones…quiet, but persistent. The kind you can't explain, only carry.
Race morning looked normal on the outside. I went through the motions…lacing up, getting dressed, stepping into that familiar mindset. I've done this so many times. I know what it means to prepare for battle.
And that's exactly what it felt like.
Not a race against time…a war against my own body and mind.
I already knew how this one would go. This wasn't about pace or performance. It was about finishing. Survival. Just getting across the line.
My wife dropped me off, gave her a kiss and got our familiar " Have a fun run." send off - then I made my way toward the start.
There's something about that pre-race atmosphere…people stretching, shaking out nerves, talking through their plans like they're already writing the story before it happens. I stood there eating my breakfast, listening to conversations about pace goals and finish times.
Twenty-somethings talking fast splits…confident, almost certain.
I won't lie…there's a part of me that hears that and is envious.
But then I remind myself…
I'm sixty.
And I'm still here.
Slow and steady…that turtle still moves forward.
The sky at the beach pulled me away from it all.
Something about it…like it was calling me to the edge of the boardwalk. I walked over, drawn in, and stood with others along the railing. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, but it was beginning to paint the sky…colors shifting, clouds catching light in ways you can't plan or design. Only He can.
Moment by moment, it changed.
And then…there it was.
A path.
Right there in the clouds…lit by the sun…twisting upward. It looked almost identical to the path from our church logo…this year's focus, The Way. A road rising into the heavens.
I took a picture and sent it to my wife.
"It looks like a road to heaven."
I didn't know then how literal that moment would feel just a short time later.
Standing in the corral, we moved forward step by step.
Another start line.
Marathon number 82.
Here we go.
Within minutes…something wasn't right.
My breathing…off. Not just labored…erratic. I couldn't settle into a rhythm. Within the first quarter mile, I was already thinking about walking.
That's never a good sign.
I tried to push through it…then realized I needed to get to the side. The crowd of runners moved around me as I worked my way toward the curb.
Hands on my knees.
Dizzy. Breathing rough. Trying to steady myself.
Someone came over…checked on me…took my pulse. Said everything seemed okay.
Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't.
I sent a quick text to my wife…just in case.
Then I told myself…let's go. Carefully.
Another quarter mile.
That's all I had.
I took a walk break. Saw a friend at a water stop. He cheered me on, and I told him straight…"I'm feeling off."
Tried to run again.
No.
The dizziness came back…stronger.
I saw a police officer…or at least I think I did. I started moving toward the side again. The world began to tilt. Spin.
I remember thinking…this isn't good.
Then everything went black.
Sound came back before sight.
Voices. A radio. The kind of clipped communication you hear on emergency shows.
Sirens in the distance.
Then light.
I opened my eyes to the sky above me. A police officer's face hovered in my peripheral vision. I heard him say into his radio…"He's back."
Back?
More voices. Movement. Confusion.
He asked my name. I told him.
My age. I told him.
"Do you know where you are?"
I said…"Apparently on my back and not running."
I wasn't trying to be funny. That's just what came out.
"What hurts?"
"My ego."
That one…yeah, I said that too.
The emergency team arrived quickly.
Electrodes on my chest. Wires. Questions. My brain trying to process everything…still racing in strange directions.
And then one thought cut through it all…my Garmin…pause my Garmin.
0.97 miles.
Not even one mile.
You've got to be kidding me!
I asked them to call my wife.
I saw my friend again…he reassured me I was in good hands.
And then I heard something that didn't fully land until later.
From police officer to EMT:
I had no pulse.
I had been gone.
Fifty chest compressions…before I came back.
Let that sit for a second.
The ambulance ride to Virginia Beach General Hospital was surreal.
Mariah and Antonio talking, monitoring, moving with urgency but calm. The kind of calm that only comes from experience.
Meanwhile, everything in my world was shifting.
Within minutes, something else was happening that I couldn't see.
Prayers.
Four different churches. My wife calling our kids. A chain reaction of faith moving faster than anything physical around me.
And then the clarity started coming.
It wasn't the running.
It was my heart. A valve we had been watching…quietly getting worse. Those small dizzy episodes I had brushed off…they weren't random.
The pieces started to connect.
But here's the question that won't leave me.
Why now?
It could have happened anywhere.
On a solo run through my neighborhood.
Up at Serenity Rock…no service, no help nearby.
Driving.
Mowing the lawn.
Sitting alone at the office.
Any of those moments…isolated, unnoticed, unreachable.
But it didn't.
It happened at the very start of a race.
Not miles in.
Not between aid stations.
Right at the beginning…when everyone was still packed together. When help was seconds away, not minutes.
I didn't take that path.
Not this day.
So maybe the answer is simpler…
Maybe there's still something here for me to do.
Still a purpose unfolding.
Still miles left to run…just not the way I expected.
And that leaves a question hanging…not just for me, but for anyone reading this:
If your race stopped unexpectedly today…would you see it as an ending…or an interruption with purpose?
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