Month: February 2026

12 Weeks to a Sub-1:50 Half Marathon | The Full Journey

/ Elliot Chan / Leave a comment

Chapter 1: New Year’s Day

2026 started with a lot of optimism. I’m six weeks into a twelve-week half marathon training plan, with race day set for Valentine’s Day. The plan itself is pretty straightforward—about four runs a week, with one long run that gets a little longer each weekend, adding ten minutes at a time.

I’ve really enjoyed that gradual build. Ten minutes felt like just the right amount of challenge—enough to push me without breaking me. By the end of the plan, my long runs will be close to two and a half hours, which should give me the endurance I need for the half marathon.

I decided to race a half marathon as preparation for the T100 race I signed up for in August. That race ends with an 18K run, after a 2K swim and an 80K bike ride. That’s my A race for the year.

My B race will be the Vancouver Triathlon in September. It’ll be my second time racing the standard distance on this course, and my goal is simple: do it better than last time.

Running has been my main focus through the winter, but my big Christmas purchase was a set of aerobars for my road bike. As soon as the half marathon is over, my training will shift toward cycling. I want to spend more time in the aero position—especially since I also signed up for a two-day cycling fundraiser that’ll require riding 100 km on day one and 30 km on day two. 

It’s going to be a long year. There’s a lot of work ahead and a lot of progress to make. And it all starts with me running this half marathon.

Chapter 2: Out and Back

One thing I really like about long runs is that they’re long enough to actually take me somewhere. If you’ve got close to two hours, you can get well beyond your neighbourhood. You can explore a route you’ve never tried before and still leave yourself enough time to make it home.

When I’m planning these runs, I always wonder what I prefer: one big loop, an out-and-back, or just heading out in a random direction until time runs out. During this training block, I’ve really grown to like out-and-backs. There’s something about covering the same route twice that I appreciate. On the way out, I’m fresh. On the way back, I’m drained. Same place—completely different experience.

I also like out-and-backs because they’re predictable. If I need to run for two hours, I can go out for one and come back for one. Simple. With loops, it’s harder to anticipate detours, barriers, or wrong turns in the second half. Out-and-back just makes the math easy.

Chapter 3: A Little Getaway

I’ve listened to a lot of audiobooks during this training block—six in total. One about ultrarunning, one about cycling across America, a few self-help and productivity books, and a biography about mountain climbing and Alex Honnold. 

Long runs have been a great way to catch up on my “reading.” I haven’t had much time to sit down with a physical book lately, and when I do, it feels scattered. Running with an audiobook lets me move and be entertained at the same time. I want to say I’m learning—but honestly, I’m not sure how much I’m retaining. 

These long runs feel like a small getaway. A chance to see the water. A chance to be outside. Especially on beautiful winter days, I really look forward to them. Without running, I’d probably just be at home. I’m grateful I get out.

Training has given me structure through these gloomy months. It’s helped time pass. It’s given me something I can control. I go for my run, I check the box, I log the effort. A small internal scorecard. It’s been huge for my mental health—I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done without it.

On days like today, I’m just glad to be outside. Away from the screens. A small escape from everything. Running doesn’t make stress disappear, but for a little while, it gives me space from it. It’s not easy—running is hard and tiring—but with all the pent-up energy I’ve been carrying, those weekend runs have been the best way to let it out.

Chapter 4: New Shiny Things

It was my birthday this past week. I turned 37. I’ve been doing some reflecting lately—and a lot of that thinking happens while I’m out running.

I got a couple of great gifts. My wife bought me Shokz headphones, and my in-laws got me a new pair of gloves. Both have made these winter runs so much better. And I’ve been lucky—the weather’s been beautiful the past couple weekends. 

On a day like today, I had to check out the seawall. Since my half marathon is happening here, I figured I’d run toward Stanley Park. It’s honestly one of the nicest places, even if it gets busy. I guess that’s the tradeoff with nice places.

One thing this training block has taught me is that…I don’t know how much I actually love running on its own. Three to four runs a week is a lot for me. When I’m training for a triathlon, it’s usually two runs a week, which is a lot more manageable. I still look forward to it—but I’ve been counting down the days to better weather and more time on the bike.

At this point, I’m getting impatient. I’m ready to race my half marathon and shift my focus to cycling. I’ve noticed this pattern in myself: when I do one thing for too long, I start thinking about the next thing. There’s always something new and shiny. Or rather, another flavor I wasn’t sick of yet. 

That’s partly why the new headphones and gloves were a timely gift. They made the long runs feel fresh again.

I did sneak in a bit of cycling this week, riding out to cheer Sharon on at the finish line of her 10K. We didn’t stay long—she had more miles to run as she builds toward her marathon in May. She’s on her own journey right now.

So we grabbed a little footage of the ride, and then headed home.

Chapter 5: Under the Weather

This weekend I woke up to my longest run of the training plan—and I didn’t feel good at all. Sore throat and a full-body burnout feeling. I definitely thought about taking the day off.

But I needed this run. I’d been looking forward to it. This was the one that was supposed to give me confidence heading into the race. If I skipped it, it would’ve felt like I cheated the plan—like I avoided the hardest workout and never put the punctuation mark on the block. I could skip any other run. But not this one.

So I sucked it up and headed out.

The mistake was starting with a climb. I had this route planned—up toward the Arbutus Greenway, then looping down to the seawall. Once I stepped outside, I couldn’t think of an alternative. I had to be out there for hours anyway, so I just got going.

My heart rate was high the entire time. Averaging 160—which is way too high for what was supposed to be an easy run. That’s when I knew I’d pushed it. I wasn’t 100%. It started raining. And it was too late to turn back, so I kept moving.

Yet, it was still strangely rewarding. Running in the rain. Feeling a little wild and free. Fewer people out than on a sunny day, which I liked. 

But it was one of the hardest runs I’ve ever done.

And I knew I was going to pay for it.

Chapter 6: An Early Taper

So it’s been one week since my last long run, and now I’m one week out from the half marathon.

I ended up getting sick this week.

I already didn’t feel great the morning of my last long run, but I went out anyway and pushed through a tough two-hour-twenty-five-minute run in the rain. When I got home, I knew something wasn’t right. I took a nap, and when I woke up, I checked my heart rate. It had been over 90 beats per minute the entire time. Normally when I nap, it drops to around 50. So that’s when I knew something was off.

My heart rate stayed elevated for most of the week, and I eventually developed a cough. It’s been a tough few days.

The good news is my heart rate has finally come back down. Yesterday I went out for a 30-minute run. My heart actually felt fine, but my legs felt a bit weak. Not terrible — just not strong. I guess it could’ve been worse. I’d rather get sick last week and recover than start feeling this way right before race day.

Right now, I think I’m going to be okay.

Today I’ll do about 45 minutes on the bike, and tomorrow, if the weather’s nice, I’ll ride outside. After that, it’s just the final taper and then race day next Saturday.

So yeah. We’ll see.

Chapter 7: The Half Marathon

Race morning, there was still that slight tingle in my throat, and my calves were a little sore. I didn’t feel 100%, but I felt ready. I had spent twelve weeks preparing for this, and more than anything, I knew I had prepared for the pain. I wasn’t naïve about what was coming. I knew at some point it was going to hurt.

What I didn’t have was a super detailed plan, because I honestly didn’t know how my body was going to feel once things got going. So my approach was simple: start controlled, settle into a moderate pace, and then reassess halfway. If I felt good, I’d build. If I didn’t, I’d manage it. Stay flexible. Adjust as I go.

My goal was anything under 1:50, with 1:45 being the perfect scenario. That was the dream outcome, but not the expectation. Standing at the start line, I’d say it felt 50/50. I wasn’t overly confident, but I did feel prepared, and that counted for something.

The first five kilometers went by slowly. I was holding my pace, but it felt a bit clunky, like I was still figuring out what the right effort actually was. I kept asking myself, what can I really sustain today? How much should I push?

It turned out to be a pretty ideal day for running. Around the 10K mark, we curved along the seawall straight into a headwind, and that’s when things started to feel real. It wasn’t overwhelming, but it demanded focus. One thing that unexpectedly helped was watching for the kilometer markers. I’d spot the sign in the distance and lock onto it. It gave me these small mental checkpoints, something to work toward instead of thinking about the entire distance left.

By the halfway point, I was feeling better than I expected. I glanced at my watch and tried to do some mental math — I’m not sure I actually calculated anything properly — but I convinced myself sub-1:50 was there. The real question became how far under could I go? Was 1:45 possible? I decided I had to at least try, so I gradually picked up the pace, about ten seconds faster per kilometer on the way back.

The final 5K is where it really started to hurt. My legs were heavy, my breathing was labored, and I could feel my energy dipping. I hung onto a small group for a few kilometers, letting them pull me along, but eventually I had to run my own race. With about 2 km left, I pushed and kind of disappeared into myself. There were tourists and pedestrians all around, completely unaware of the internal battle happening within me.

The course finished on a steep incline, which felt almost cruel at that point. I honestly thought that hill might break me, but somehow there was just enough left in the tank. Enough to crest it, cross the line, awkwardly accept a snow globe medal, and then collapse onto the grass.

My gun time was 1:48 on the dot and my chip time was 1:47 — comfortably under 1:50 and right in the middle of that “perfect day” window. It felt fair. It reflected the work I put in and the fact that the last couple of weeks hadn’t gone perfectly. The result made sense, and that gave me a lot of comfort.

I’m proud I followed through. I’m relieved it’s done. And I’m genuinely ready to shift my focus to cycling and ease off the running for a bit.

That said… I know myself. I might miss it sooner than I expect.

But for now, I’m putting these running shoes to the side.

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Making Peace With a Forever Project | What Writing Looks Like After Six Years

/ Elliot Chan / Leave a comment

I see writing as a forever project.

There’s always another word. Another sentence. Another book.

The hope is that I get to do this for as long as possible. That’s the real goal. And honestly, it feels endless right now—and that actually gives me a sense of calm. A few years ago, that feeling used to scare me. I was daunted by the idea that this project might never end. I became obsessed with reaching some finish line. But when I think back to why I started this during COVID, I remember I wanted the opposite. I wanted something that would take a long time. Something I could grow alongside.

When you commit to a project that stretches across years, you evolve with it. I haven’t looked at the first draft of the first page of the first book in a long time, but if I did, I doubt I’d recognize it. The beginning wasn’t really the beginning. And it shouldn’t have been.

What’s changed isn’t just the writing—it’s how I work. This month, I finally upgraded my setup. For years, this project lived in notebooks and on a single laptop screen. And now—nearly six years in—I added a second monitor. It sounds small, but it matters. I’m deep in the editing phase, and being able to see two documents at once—comments on one side, the manuscript on the other—makes the process feel more deliberate. Two versions of the same thing, existing at the same time. 

That upgrade marks a new phase of the project. And this is the phase where the grind really shows up.

I’m right in the middle right now—editing the middle of book two of the trilogy. I can’t think of a harder place to be if you’re trying to stay motivated. Especially because this is a second draft. And second drafts are brutal.

This is where you confront all the things you told yourself you’d “figure out later.” This is where you reread sloppy sections and resent the version of yourself who rushed through them. The momentum I had in the first draft now comes in fits and starts. There’s a lot more reading than writing. The work is slower—at least it feels slower.

This month, I wrote every day for twenty-five minutes. And in that time, I edited chapters nine through eleven. Two chapters in a month. About twelve and a half hours of work.

This book has twenty-six chapters.
And then there’s book three.

Yeah… doing that math was a mistake.

Sometimes I think I should speed things up. And now you know why this project is taking so long. Part of me wants to pour everything I have into it. But I also know that I can’t. Not while working full-time, training for a triathlon, making YouTube videos, and still trying to have something that resembles a normal life.

And strangely, I like this balance. When I stop thinking about needing to finish, I feel better. I feel at peace with the project. It becomes a routine. Something I return to. Which I think I talked about in my last video.

It’s hard to explain what writing is to me now. It’s something nobody really cares about. It’s something I barely talk about, because no one wants to hear about a project this vague and this long. Friends and family want something recent to cheer for.

But writing feels more like a birthday.
It’s something you come back to every so often and celebrate the fact that you’re still doing it. You’re still here. You haven’t quit. You’re still creating. Still breathing. Another trip around the sun. A little more progress.

And sometimes, as the world turns, you get small upgrades along the way. This time, it was a new monitor—something to make the journey slightly easier. Which is good, because the work itself isn’t getting easier.

It’s about recognizing when things are hard. And accepting that when it’s hard, it’s going to move more slowly. I curse the writer I was two years ago for leaving me with this messy draft. I curse him for not thinking things through. For making it up as he went.

But… isn’t that life? Making it up as we go.

I think this project is in its adult stage now. I understand that it’s a daily grind. No one is going to finish it for me. If I abandon it, it dies. If I keep showing up—even in small ways—it keeps growing.

Like me.

And honestly, I don’t think there’s another upgrade that will suddenly make this easy. I don’t need a third monitor. Sometimes you already have everything you need, and what’s left is just the work. It’s like buying a faster bike but still being afraid to descend. The upgrade only matters when you’ve leveled up.

It’s like that old saying: When the student is ready, the master appears.

For now, it’s about maintaining inertia. Keeping momentum. Filming myself every day helps. And knowing there’s a break at the end helps too. You learn these little tricks as you get older. You learn how you work. And at this stage—when things feel the hardest—this is enough.

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One Year with Petey | What One Year With a Rescue Dog Really Looks Like

/ Elliot Chan / Leave a comment

We adopted Petey a year ago. At the time, we weren’t sure what to expect. He had come from a shelter and carried a lot of fear with him—fear of people, fear of other dogs, fear of every little sound. The first few months were a lot of learning, and honestly, a little bit of wondering if we were up to the challenge.

In those early months, it was all about getting used to home life. He barked at every noise and chewed on anything soft—blankets and pillows were his favorites. 

We tried having him sleep in a crate that first night. That was a mistake. We put a lot of effort into crate training, but it ended up doing more harm than good. We kept trying to help him gain some independence. But even when we left him alone in our room, he could never fully settle. After being abandoned on a highway and then locked up in a shelter, confinement was understandably hard for him.

The hardest part was taking him out for walks. My wife would wake up early just to take him out to do his business—beating the traffic, getting ahead of the neighborhood, before other people and dogs filled the sidewalks. Then she’d come back home, and Petey would crawl back into bed with me for a couple more hours. It was a strange period, one that now feels like another lifetime ago.

But slowly, things began to change. The house became familiar. Less scary. He started to understand that this was a safe space where no dog was going to sneak up behind him, and where he could actually relax and take a nap. The little wins felt huge. By the end of that quarter, Petey was settling in ways we never thought possible.

And maybe one of the biggest achievements in the first three months was being able to wean him completely off the medication he was on in the shelter. Without the drugs fogging him up or adding tension, his real personality slowly started to come through.

He still chewed blankets and pillows… but we’ll call that progress.

As spring arrived, Petey’s world began to stretch beyond a five-block radius. This is when the real tests started—park walks, new places, brief encounters with other dogs, and slowly, very slowly, being around strangers. But each time he made it through a hard moment, he came out with a little more confidence. Every new experience chipped away at the old ones, rewriting and replacing them.

We took him to events, hoping the exposure would help—and honestly, to run a few tests, since we had a lot planned for the summer. Some moments were rough: barking at passing dogs and people, or panicking when my wife or I walked away to step into a store. But over time, something shifted. He started to realize that the world isn’t always dangerous. That we would always come back. And what once felt unbearable slowly became just a mild inconvenience to him.

We noticed it most on our walks. Instead of staying on constant alert, he began to sniff more, linger a little longer, and actually enjoy his surroundings.

At home, there were fewer and fewer uncontrollable, crazy moments. During the first few months, the hours between 1pm and 4pm were Petey’s crazy hours, where it would rather demand constant attention, freak out over nothing, or chew on things. This made it hard for us to work. So we were glad that this was just a passing phase, something he was able to grow out of. 

Step by waddle-y step, Petey started trusting not just us, but the world around him too.

By the third quarter, it felt like Petey had found his stride. Summer arrived, and with it came longer walks, new trails, and lazy naps in the sun.

We had always believed that underneath the fear was a sweet personality waiting to come through. Over the summer, it finally did. He was now enjoying his life to the fullest.

We started leaving him home alone for short stretches—an hour at a time—watching him through our little security camera. We were relieved to see that after a few howls, he’d curl up in his bed. He wasn’t completely relaxed, but he wasn’t overwhelmed either. Mostly, he just seemed grumpy.

We took him on a few trips that summer, and each time he surprised us. He would sniff, explore, and often lead the way. One of those trips was to Pender Island, where he stayed in a hotel for the first time. It was challenging—for him and for us. 

The ferry ride was tough, and dog-friendly hotels come with a lot of dogs wandering around, which can still send him into a panic. It would have been easier, and definitely more relaxing, to leave him at home. But pushing him to come along ended up being another big step forward.

And we could see the difference afterward. The moments of uncontrollable fear were fewer and farther between. Back at home, he started napping more during the day. Watching him enjoy the small, ordinary joys of summer, he felt like a completely different dog from who he was six months earlier.

As the seasons changed again, Petey was looking so much healthier. We were starting to recognize all of his little irritabilities—his sensitive skin, his sensitive stomach, and his sensitive disposition. Shelter trauma still shows up from time to time. He still startles occasionally if a dog starts barking on the TV, and he still doesn’t exactly love it when kids run toward him.

We’ve also been able to leave him home alone for longer stretches without him getting anxious. What started as forty-five minutes has slowly grown into a few hours. We played chill music on YouTube while we were away, just so there was always some background sound. That way, bumps in the building, beeping in the alley, or random noises wouldn’t immediately send him into a fit. It meant our algorithm got completely taken over by lo-fi and jazzy playlists, but that’s a small sacrifice.

Walks feel more relaxed. He’s even gotten really good at walking with a loose leash. He still has his moments of stubbornness, but he’s becoming a dog who can enjoy life without constant fear. 

What surprised me the most this year was the change in his physical appearance, especially his eyes. It’s wild how much they’ve changed in a year. It really shows how stress, anxiety, fear, and abandonment can shape an animal, whether it’s a dog or a human. 

We used to joke that he just had Steve Buscemi eyes. Turns out, once he felt safe, they were more Zooey Deschanel eyes.

Looking back over this year, it’s hard to believe it’s the same dog. We were warned that adopting him would completely shake up our lives. And yes, the first few months were stressful—and yes, we still sometimes have to wake up in the middle of the night to take him for an urgent late-night poop or have to cross the street a few times to avoid dogs or loud families—but honestly, life with a dog has made us happier than life without one. 

We were told Petey might never be cuddly, might never learn anything new, and might never be able to go anywhere with us. None of that turned out to be true. Over the past year, we’ve watched him transform from an anxious, fearful little dog into a confident, happy sidekick. And this is just the first year.

Petey has shown us patience, resilience, and the joy of learning to trust a whole new world. If this year is any indication, he still has a lot more adventures—and growth—ahead of him.

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