I didn't talk a lot about it here, but I was sharing a lot on Insta so I don't feel to bad about that.
Last year I decided that I wanted to run a marathon. It's a landmark year, another one of those decades starting fresh and I wanted to do something new and really hard. After running a half-marathon in '23, I figured it was time to just double down and go the distance. 
I trained for six months, all with the goal of completing the marathon on my feet and collecting a finishers medal. I had an idea of what I could finish it in but that didn't work out for me. Around mile 17 my left calf started popping like a rubber band snapping with every step, so I had to slow down... like a lot... like walking a lot. Until I reached the aid station I was pretty sure I was going to end walking, but they helped me out with a salt tablet and a bucket of water to wash it down and in a while I was feeling better. Whether it was the salt, the water, or walking it off I couldn't tell you but I ran across the finish line and that was priceless.
One of the advantages of being one of the last to cross is there's no crowd around you. So you get to hear your name being called out as you come in. One of the disadvantages of my last name is that most people get it wrong, so that happened. 
Still, in spite of my certainty that I'd never do it again, the next day I was already processing what I would have to do to run the whole thing, finish closer to 4:30. 
Odds are, I'll be doing this again.