Since the day I signed up for the New Jersey Marathon, which was one hour after crossing the finish line of my previous marathon, it was my dream to ride my Harley from my house to Asbury Park, NJ home of Bruce Springsteen, to run the New Jersey Marathon.

I finished work early, filled the saddle bags, and took off towards the Varizano bridge hoping the clouds would contain the rain at least until I arrived at my destination.

I pulled up to the hotel at around 4:00pm. Rainbow flags hanging all over the building and a nightclub attached to the hotel made it very clear that this was a party hotel and we were out of our element. I made it to bed at a decent hour the first night after a restaurant and three bars. By the time we got back to the hotel it was lit up like a god damn runway at an airport. People were pouring in and out of the lobby and the sounds of awful club music were all around. I went to bed and it was as if my bed was right in the center of the dance floor. The bass was so incredibly loud I felt as though we put 50 cents into a coin slot to make the bed vibrate on purpose. That mixed with the neon signs outside of our window made it very apparent that this was the worlds worst hotel for anyone looking to get some sleep. (I should clarify that I did not choose this hotel. It was chosen by a teammate who is usually put in charge of planning because he prides himself in being the best planner on the team. Which he usually is. Until now).

I picked up the phone and called every other hotel in the area and they were all sold out. Luckily I was tired enough that I fell asleep regardless of the bass. The next morning I switched to a room on the other end of the hotel as far away from the club as possibly.

A 3 mile run with the team, breakfast, shower, off to the expo. We picked up our numbers and had a beer at the bar next door which happened to be a race track that wasn’t currently running any horses but was still available to make bets on the big race down in Kentucky.

We made our way back to town and found an amazing restaurant that was situated in what looked like at one point was the home of a very wealthy man. The food was amazing. Two bottles of wine were killed along with oysters, pasta, and deserts. On our way back to the hotel we searched far and wide for somewhere to pick up some breakfast for before the race. Eventually we found a small conveinince store with a sign outside that said “Worlds Best Breakfast.” We went inside. I asked the man for 6 scrambled eggs. He cracked the eggs and poured them on a small skilled and let them fry. While watching him try to slice them into sections in order to flip them over, I screamed over the counter “Hey man, just take the spatula and fuck those eggs up. Move them around.” I taught the owner of a place that makes the “Worlds Greatest Breakfast” how to scramble an egg and I’m damn proud of it.

Back to the hotel. Alarm clock at 5:15 am. Off to the race.

The weather was perfect. I took a great shit and felt healthy and confident. At mile 15 I totally died. Luckily my teammate Josh was running with me the entire time. We both struggled for a half a mile at a time for the rest of the entire race. At one point I began to think to myself, I felt much better than this in Anchorage. Seconds later, Josh asked me if I was feeling better or worse than I felt at this point in the race in Anchorage. To which I replied… “I’m fucking dying bro.” Which was a mantra that continued between the two of us for the entire race.

We pushed on towards what would become the greatest finish of my life. Every mile I was in sever pain and wanted to quite. But after 18 fucking weeks I wasn’t about to let New Jersey get the best of me. I left Josh behind at about the 25 mile mark and went on to kick hard over the finish line for a 12 minute PR of 3:27:27. And that my friends, is the Worlds Greatest Breakfast.