Lessons from a late bloomer, a Flagstaff floater, and a coach who learned everything the hard way
Introduction: You Don’t Know What You Don’t Know
When people ask me how I’d train myself if I could go back and do it all over again, I never answer with a workout or a mileage number. I don’t think about doing more. I think about doing things smarter. With more structure, more clarity, and more belief in what I was doing—and why.
This isn’t a list of regrets. I’ve been lucky to have great coaches, great friends, and a lot of unforgettable experiences through this sport. But it is a reflection. Of what I missed, what I learned the hard way, and how it’s shaped the way I coach today. If you’re trying to grow as a runner—or wondering why the progress feels stuck—maybe this will help.
Did You Always Know You Wanted to Be a Runner?
Nope. Not even close.
In high school, I wasn’t “a runner” in the way people think of it now. I ran a little in middle school, dabbled in track during a couple high school seasons, and gave a lot of effort when I showed up—but I was more into basketball and other sports. I probably never ran more than 15–20 miles in a week. Definitely didn’t run on weekends. I wasn’t logging training or calculating splits. But I cared. I wanted to be good.
Even back then, I learned something that stuck with me: trying hard doesn’t guarantee results. One season of effort wasn’t going to bridge the talent gap. It was going to take years of showing up. Years of consistency. Years of my body adapting.
That idea—that the magic comes from showing up again and again—is one I still try to pass on to the athletes I coach now.
How Did College Change the Way You Trained?
East Central University in Ada, Oklahoma—that’s where I became a runner.
The training there wasn’t perfect, but for the time and place, it worked. I ran hard, believed in my teammates, and learned how to keep my eyes locked on the big picture. From the first day of cross-country season, I trained with nationals in mind. Conference meets, midseason 5Ks, even regionals—I’d train through those. I didn’t taper. I didn’t obsess about a bad workout or a flat race. I knew I was good, and I trusted the plan.
That was maybe my greatest strength in college—I didn’t flinch. I didn’t get thrown off when things didn’t go perfectly. And when it was time to race, I knew how to flip the switch. I could go to a place on race day that I couldn’t find anywhere else—just flow and grind and hurt in a way that made me feel completely alive.
What I didn’t think much about was nutrition. I’ve been plant-based since 2010, so I always ate a lot of fruit and veggies—tons of bananas, smoothies, big plates of food. I definitely wasn’t under-fueling, and I wasn’t over-training either. I was doing a lot of things right without even realizing it. But college was also a bubble. I had structure. I had teammates. I had very few responsibilities. I didn’t realize how much that environment was holding me up until I left it.
What Happened After College?
This is where the real mistakes started.
After graduation, I moved to Flagstaff. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a coach. I didn’t even have a training group at first. I just knew Flag was where serious runners went, and I wanted to be around that energy. But the transition was brutal.
I was teaching full-time and delivering pizzas on the side—working massive hours—and still trying to run 100-mile weeks. I wasn’t doing workouts consistently. I didn’t have a plan. I wasn’t recovering well. And for the first time in a long time, I started getting my butt kicked in races. The road racing scene was deeper than college. These guys were good. And I didn’t know how to race like that yet.
Eventually, I found that group again—Nick Hilton, Danny Mercado, Dylan Bellis, Nick Arciniaga—guys who became my crew. For a little while, it felt like college again. But the training still wasn’t dialed. I was still floating. Still running hard, but not improving the way I wanted to.
I needed help. I needed structure. I just didn’t know how to find it.
When Did Things Finally Start to Click?
It wasn’t some instant transformation, but things started to shift when I began working with Chris Derrick.
At that point, I was still running 100-mile weeks while teaching high school math. I wasn’t doing a ton of workouts—mostly just running a lot, on my own, without structure. Everything was kind of at-will. I was consistent, but not purposeful. I wasn’t building toward anything. It was a lot of “just running,” and I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t improving like I had in college.
Working with Chris brought that structure back. His training had a really clear rhythm to it—strength-focused, steady, and intentional. It wasn’t about chasing monster workouts every week. It was about showing up consistently, doing honest work, and building over time.
We did a lot of hill work, which is something I still use a ton in my own coaching now. Threshold mile repeats were a staple, and we always had a long run baked in each week—not just cruising, but often with some good quality. It was kind of an unspoken thing that the long run would start easy but end up getting going pretty good by the end.
I didn’t run the most mileage I ever had under Chris—most weeks were in the 90s—but the training was more consistent than ever. There was usually at least one really good workout a week, and sometimes two. Not the highest highs, but far fewer dips. It just flowed.
As we got closer to the marathon, the workouts started to shift. We moved into longer threshold work—stuff like 2-mile reps at threshold, more extended segments. Before my marathon PR, we did this session that I still give to athletes today: 2 x 5 miles at around marathon pace (at 7000 ft altitude for me). Just two big, honest five-mile tempos with a long warm-up and a good cooldown. It was a real session—nothing flashy, but it let me feel the effort. Settle into it. Practice dialing in pace and fueling and patience.
Under Chris’s guidance, I ran 2:21 for the marathon, and that same spring I also set a PR in the 1500m—not off a ton of specific speed work, but mostly off that consistent strength work. We weren’t hammering track intervals or sharpening every week, but the aerobic strength and rhythm from all the threshold reps and hills gave me the foundation to run fast when it mattered. That told me a lot.
Chris was a really smart coach. There were definitely things we could’ve improved on, but I trusted him, and I was excited to see what he had planned each week. I had a lot of buy-in, and I executed that training at a really high level. That was a huge piece of the success. It wasn’t just the workouts—it was the belief in the process.
What Coaching Principles Came Out of Your Own Mistakes?
Raise your floor. That’s one of the biggest ones. I learned the hard way that your aerobic fitness doesn’t matter if your calves cramp halfway through a race. You’re only as strong as your weakest link. For some people it’s their chassis—calves, glutes, hamstrings. For others, it’s pacing. Or fueling. Or confidence. We work on all of it.
Speed matters. I neglected strides and top-end speed for years. But speed makes you more efficient. It keeps you connected to your mechanics. It makes you a better runner, not just a better aerobic machine.
Joy matters. Belief matters. The best plan in the world is useless if you’re not excited to follow it. Enthusiasm is underrated. If you don’t enjoy what you’re doing, you won’t keep doing it. Period.
How Do You Balance Structure and Flexibility?
It took me a while to figure this out.
Early on, I gave people too much flexibility. I wanted to be understanding. And that’s still part of my style—I’m adaptable, responsive, and I adjust things on the fly for athletes all the time. But I’ve learned that without structure, it’s really hard to improve.
So now, I build plans that are structured but breathable. There’s a clear progression. A clear purpose. But when life happens—sick kid, work trip, surprise fatigue—we pivot. And we keep moving forward.
Why Does Community Still Matter So Much to You?
Because I lost it—and I know what that felt like.
College gave me a brotherhood. Post-college, I felt adrift until I found that again. And now, I coach a lot of people who are trying to do this thing solo. They live in rural areas. Or they’re the only runner in their friend group. Or they’ve lost their community.
I try to be that connection point. And I always remind athletes:
Don’t let your training plan get in the way of your running community.
Go run with your club. Go run with your friend visiting from out of town. I’ll change the schedule. Running is better with people.
What Mistakes Do You See Runners Making That You Also Made?
• Floating through training without a clear plan
• Not knowing how or when to race
• Neglecting strides or avoiding speed
• Under-fueling or not recovering well
• Relying too much on motivation, not enough on rhythm
• Trying to do everything alone
I help people build the structure I was missing. I help them feel confident in their process. I help them stop guessing—and start growing.
If You Could Talk to Your Younger Self, What Would You Say?
You don’t have to figure it all out on your own.
That’s it. That’s the truth.
You’re not weak for needing help. You’re not soft for asking questions.
You’re not failing just because it’s hard.
The passion is already there. With the right structure, the right support, and the right crew—you’re going to get where you want to go.
Final Thoughts: How I’d Train Myself If I Could Start Over
If I could go back, I wouldn’t train harder. I wouldn’t run more miles.
I’d train smarter. I’d build more structure into my week. I’d become a complete athlete. I’d prioritize sleep and fueling and strides. I’d find a coach. I’d find a crew. I’d stop mistaking effort for direction.
And more than anything else, I would’ve spent the time to find someone I really trusted with my training. Someone I could work with for years. Not just a plan-writer, but a partner—someone who could learn me over time, develop me with a long-term vision, and guide me through the ups and downs without losing sight of where we were going.
That’s probably my biggest regret.
That’s where I left the most performance on the table.
Not in a missed workout or a race that didn’t go well, but in trying to do too much on my own, for too long.
Because running isn’t just about how bad you want it.
It’s about having someone in your corner who knows how to help you get there
