My First Ultramarathon: 30 Miles for Kellis

In May of 2023, I was still new to running. I had only started earlier that year—no training plan, no finish lines in mind. Just a growing instinct to move, and a quiet sense that something deeper was stirring.

One night that week, I met up with my cousin Maggie in Dallas. During our conversation, she told me that her brother—Kellis McQueen Dooley, my little cousin—had just had his name etched in stone at Elena’s Children’s Park in University Park. The park is a memorial dedicated to children who have lost their lives. Kellis passed away on September 1st, 2021, after a battle with addiction. He was still so young.

It was the worst summer of my life.

When she told me, something shifted in me. I felt compelled to make a pilgrimage in his honor—on foot, from my home to that sidewalk, as a way of processing, remembering, and showing up for him in the only way I knew how.

I opened my maps app, typed in the park, and selected “walking” instead of the usual “drive.” The route stretched nearly 30 miles from my place near the Horseshoe Trails at Grapevine Lake, cutting through neighborhoods, business parks, and city streets. To my surprise, it followed sidewalks and pedestrian paths almost the entire way.

That was all I needed. Over the next couple of days, the idea turned into a plan. I marked potential gas stations along the way to serve as aid stations—places to refill my soft flasks, grab snacks, and reset. I checked the weather. Made sure my gear was dialed in. I didn’t know exactly how it would feel, but I knew when I left on Saturday morning, I wasn’t just going out for a long run—I was heading into something personal. Something sacred.

From there, the run took on a life of its own. I filled my flasks with fountain drinks and tore into fresh muffins stacked near gas station counters. I moved through quiet neighborhoods and sprawling business parks, weaving my way between two major airports—from DFW to Love Field. It’s wild to think about, but I technically ran between them.

There were a few stretches where the sidewalk disappeared and I had no choice but to run up against the curb. The worst section came while crossing the north entrance of DFW Airport on North Airfield Drive—there was barely six inches of shoulder on the bridge. It was dicey, to say the least. I walked that part backwards, just to keep my eyes on the oncoming traffic and stay as cautious as I could.

Somewhere just before the Northwest Highway / 114 split, I called the only person I had told about the run—my friend Greg, who lived in Las Colinas. Ten minutes later, as I was making my way down the waterways of Lake Carolyn, I saw Greg walking toward me. I had just run further than I ever had in my life—and still had almost that far to go.

Greg welcomed me into his place, brewed a cup of coffee, and gave me a real bathroom to regroup. It was a much-needed pause—a little breath of comfort in the middle of something incredibly raw.

When I headed back out, I took a wrong turn—thinking I’d wrap around the lake and follow Northwest Highway—but the route had me taking an adjacent road that cut east of the water. Soon I was running through an older industrial stretch just off California Crossing Road in Koreatown. The street was quiet, weathered, and wide open.

That’s when I noticed a big dog near a row of garbage bins up ahead. I slowed down, eyes on it. There was nowhere else to go but forward, so I kept marching on.

Then I slipped, just for a second. I instinctively glanced down at my watch, and by the time I looked up, the dog had already cut the distance and was barreling toward me at full speed. A stealth move on its part.

I had no time to think, no way to run. I braced for impact—legs bent, arms out. I let out a sharp, panicked “Ahhhh!”, hoping someone—anyone—would hear me. The dog leapt at me, getting a little too mouthy on my arms and wrists.

Thankfully, I’d wrestled dogs before—mostly for fun—so some part of me kicked in. I used my forearms to control its neck, let it gnaw at air, switching arms when needed. I call it Paw Patrol—not exactly textbook, but enough to keep the situation from escalating.

I shouted again. And again. Finally, a man emerged from one of the nearby buildings. I was still unsure if the dog would be called off—it never got friendly, never backed off on its own—but the man finally called it, and it ran back.

The adrenaline in that moment was like nothing I’ve ever felt. Pure instinct. Raw and primal. I stood there catching my breath, heart thudding, before turning back toward the path and continuing on.

I pushed another four miles down Northwest Highway, trying to shake off the tension. Eventually, I stopped at a gas station—filled my flasks with Gatorade and crushed a couple of freshly-baked muffins. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was exactly what I needed. Calories, electrolytes, and a brief moment of stillness before the final stretch.

By the time I got to Bachman Lake, my foot started to give me fits. I slowed to a walk through the park, cheering on runners finishing a local race and reminiscing about feeding the ducks here as a kid. It was a surreal moment—physically worn down, emotionally full, and surrounded by echoes of the past.

I continued on, passing Love Field, legs heavy and aching. The final approach was slow, steady, and personal. I walked it in along Lover’s Lane, making my way toward the sidewalk where Kellis’s name was etched.

With about a mile to go, the emotions caught up to me. As I wandered through the quiet, tree-lined streets of University Park, I broke down—shedding tears I hadn’t planned for but knew I needed. Every house, every corner felt reverent, like the whole world had gone still to let this moment land.

When I finally arrived at Elena’s Children’s Park, I found his name and sat down right there on the path in front of it. I just... talked to him. Let everything I’d carried across those miles come out. It was an intense release—not just of grief, but of love, memory, and all the weight I’d been holding since that summer.

Eventually, I moved to a nearby bench and stayed there for another hour—soaking it all in. Saying hello to friendly neighbors out walking. Trying to download every detail into memory before it faded. That patch of sidewalk held more than a name—it held purpose.

When it felt right, I ordered an Uber. First to a gas station, then all the way back to Grapevine, the place where it all began.

Through it all, I kept moving toward Kellis.

This wasn’t a race. It wasn’t something I trained for. It was a run pulled from instinct, grief, and love. A tribute I didn’t know I needed until the route practically unfolded beneath my feet.

That pilgrimage had a very specific purpose—and it continues to shape my why for every ultramarathon I run.

Kellis is buried in Creede, Colorado, in one of the most beautiful mountain valleys I’ve ever seen. I’ve sat with him there at sunset, in the silence of that cemetery, surrounded by peaks and light and memory.

It only makes sense that my first 100-miler will be there—in Creede, for him.

I didn’t know it then, but that run would become the first of many. A quiet beginning to something bigger than miles.