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Making it to the 1% at 40

20 Comments in Fitness, Momming, Uncategorized by 2025

Not your typical marathon recap

I’m not a runner. But nothing motivates you like a milestone birthday coming in hot. Forty. Wow. Years ago it was all “over the hill” jokes and black balloons — but there I was in 2024, on the cusp, needing to do something. A marathon before 40 felt big enough.

In a flash of motivation-meets-delirium, I signed up for a marathon in Nashville. Trained for a few weeks. Quit. Failed quietly. Tucked it away as the milestone passed.

The universe had a plan and in late June my inbox lit up with: WE HAVE A BIB FOR YOU, from my contact at the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. Registration for Chicago had technically closed and I had 24 hours to commit, I let the adrenaline pump through me and I replied: I’m in.

Honestly, I didn’t know if I could even run three miles without stopping. Going for a test run would’ve probably talked me out of it. Instead, I laced up new shoes, set a 5 AM alarm, and ran four days a week.

It hurt. It was humbling. It was slow. It was full of wildlife and so. many. spiderwebs.

Stretching in the dark while my family slept became a routine. Eventually, “just 4 miles today” sounded normal. Some runs were lonely. Others had a driveway water boy or a little shadow chasing me down the street.

On workdays, training made it feel like I’d already lived a second life before 9 AM. My legs ached constantly, and long runs hijacked entire weekends — but by October, I’d done more than I thought possible. Every long run was a personal record. When fatigue hit and I took a break, getting back into it was brutal. But race day came anyway.

Walking to Grant Park with my husband that morning, it hit me all at once. Panic, excitement, disbelief. What if I hadn’t trained enough? What if I got in my head? But there wasn’t time for what ifs. He steadied me, and then I was off.

I started too fast, had to pee at mile one, and my watch was off-sync — so you know, everything was going according to plan. Nonetheless, the city buzzed. Strangers cheered. Neighborhoods brought us new life. Signs said things like “Toenails are for losers” (thanks for that, Nike).

Seeing my family on the course lit me up. When I stopped to hug them, my oldest shouted, “Go, Mom, go!” and I did.

As I hit the final stretch — headphones and watch both dead — I heard people shouting my name. I assumed they meant another Erin running nearby. Turns out, they were cheering for me.

When I found my family afterward (and to my surprise cousins who’d traveled in), the tears fell. Medal on my neck, blanket on my shoulders — I’d done it. My oldest beamed, recounting his big day (“Two rides on the red line and five on the blue, Mom!”) and asking when he could sign up for a race and how old he needed to be to run a marathon.

In that moment, every early alarm, every aching muscle, every mile — worth it. Without meaning to, I’d sparked something. As parents we try hard to motivate our kids, light that fire, excite them and get them to reach for goals. When really, it’s giving ourselves permission to reach for our own that teaches them what’s possible.

And in true parent fashion? My youngest missed me at the finish because he had to pee.

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Erin Kasch

Erin is a Professional. Wife. Mother. She’s driven by her family, friends and a desire to put good out into the world. On the occasion that she has more than a minute to spare between work, momming and meal prep Erin likes to sew, bake and think about what would look great with a coat of chalk paint (she has yet to complete a single project).

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