The movement.

What if it’s about showing up, falling, and finding the strength to keep going?

Inspired by Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus, Better is a new musical that explores the struggle for meaning through the lens of a triathlon in New York City. Athletes from all walks of life push their limits—not just against the race, but against themselves.

This is more than a competition. It’s a test of resilience, of belief, of how we keep moving forward when everything tells us to stop.

It’s about showing up again, and again, and again.

The athletes.

  • Victor Armstrong

    Victor doesn’t race with heart—he races with discipline. A former Navy SEAL turned Wall Street trader, he built his life around control, precision, and absolute execution. In war, in finance, and now in triathlon, emotions are liabilities—success belongs to those who stick to the plan. The body is a machine. The race is a system. The goal is efficiency.

    But endurance isn’t war, and markets don’t have finish lines. When the course throws him something he can’t control, Victor faces the one variable he never accounted for—himself.

  • Mary Amado

    Mary Amado wasn’t supposed to be here. She isn’t a pro, she isn’t sponsored, and she sure as hell isn’t a machine. She started running when she was sixteen and pregnant, when the world told her she had already fallen behind. Running was never about competition—it was about survival. But grief is a different kind of endurance race, one with no finish line. When she lost the love of her life, everything stopped.

    Now, she’s here for something bigger—for the daughter who still believes in her, for the part of herself that refuses to disappear. She doesn’t know it yet, but this race isn’t just about finishing. It’s about becoming.

  • Andrei "Clyde" Volkov

    Competing in the Clydesdale category, Clyde is here to prove that big boys can race, too—just maybe at a more civilized pace. By day, he’s a hospice nurse, bringing warmth and dignity to people in their final moments. By night, he’s knitting like a madman—and his triathlon kit proves it.

    Clyde is loud, proud, and fueled entirely by good vibes and mid-race snacks. He may not be the fastest, but he’s got the biggest heart on the course—and when the race gets tough, he’s the one reminding everyone to just keep moving forward. Preferably with style.

  • Athena Papadapoulos

    Athena was born big, loud, and impossible to ignore. The world told her to shrink, to soften, to take up less space. Instead, she did the opposite. Competing in the Athena category, she is unapologetically powerful—every step, every stroke, every revolution of the pedals a reminder that strength isn’t small, and endurance isn’t delicate.

    She is fierce, she is fast, and she is here to prove that the finish line doesn’t care about size—it cares about who has the guts to get there. And if you think she’s slowing down? Think again.

  • Diana Hai (海)

    Diana doesn’t need a race number. She is here for something deeper, quieter, harder to measure. At 64 years old, she set out to do the impossible—swimming from Taiwan to the Philippines. People called it reckless. She called it a promise to herself—to prove that endurance is not a number, it’s a decision.

    Now, she is a volunteer, a witness, a quiet force in the chaos. She is here to remind the hesitant: the ocean doesn’t care how old you are. Neither does this race.

  • Betty "The Kid" Kaplan

    Betty "The Kid" took up running at 75 years old and hasn’t stopped moving since. Now, at 80, she’s faster than your excuses. She doesn’t train by heart rate zones or power meters—she runs on vibes, rebellion, and the occasional hit of espresso and whiskey.

    She doesn’t race to prove anything—she just loves the damn feeling of moving forward. She’ll drop a joke mid-race, chat up every volunteer, and still pass you in the final mile. She is here for a good time, not a long time—but at this rate, she might outlive us all.

  • Mike O'Malley

    Mike isn’t just an announcer—he’s the heartbeat of the race. A fixture in endurance sports for decades, Mike has seen it all—the triumphs, the meltdowns, the athletes crawling to the finish line on sheer will alone. He knows every name, every bib number, and every story behind them. His job isn’t just to call the race—it’s to make every athlete feel like a legend.

    Whether you’re first across the line or the last one in before the cutoff, Mike O’Malley is there to say the words that never get old: You. Are. A SUPERNOVA.

  • Victoria Amado

    Victoria Amado lost her father before she ever got to know him. While her mother runs to survive, Victoria stands still, angry at a world that never gave her a choice. She doesn’t believe in neat endings or fair races—she sees the world exactly as it is.

    She is the only character who isn’t caught in the delusion of the race. She watches. She questions. She turns to the audience and demands they see what she sees. Because Better isn’t about winning—it’s about knowing the race is rigged and running anyway. And when it’s over, she’s the one who asks—did you get the message?

The music.

The music of Better moves like the race itself—tense, unpredictable, relentless. It mirrors the rhythm of endurance: the steady churn of miles, the sharp spikes of effort, the quiet moments where doubt creeps in, and the final, explosive push to the finish.

It begins in mourning. In 1200 Days, Mary is trapped in a grief she cannot outrun. It has been 1,200 days since she lost the love of her life, and still, the ache lingers. She stays in motion because stopping means feeling, and feeling is unbearable.

Then—impact. In Love is a Feeling, Mary and Victor collide in a moment neither fully understands. Theirs is not a love story, but a recognition—two people who have spent their lives fighting for control suddenly faced with something they cannot strategize their way out of.

But endurance strips you down. At some point, the body gives out. Then the mind follows. In Silence, Victor, broken and lost, collapses beneath the weight of everything he spent a lifetime outrunning. Across the city, in a hospital room, Mary fights to take her first steps again. Two bodies, two battles, one song.

And then—a call to rise. Better is Victoria’s battle cry, a challenge to the world to stop accepting what is and start fighting for what could be. The finish line is not an end, but a beginning. A single voice, turning into many. A movement igniting.

1200 Days
Better the Musical
Love Is a Feeling
Better the Musical
Silence
Better the Musical
Better
Better the Musical

The course.

Swim Course

The race begins in the cold, pre-dawn waters of the Atlantic. Luna Park’s neon flickers behind them, a relic of controlled chaos, but out here, there is no illusion of control. The ocean is restless, indifferent. At the cannon shot, bodies break the surface, arms slicing through the waves. The tide pulls hard, threatening to drag them off course. Some fight it. Some surrender. Buoy by buoy, they push ahead, gasping for breath, searching for rhythm in the chaos. For many, this is the moment of doubt—the place where the mind whispers, Turn back. But the shore is behind them now. The only way out is through. Mary struggles, barely surviving, while Victor executes his plan with precision—until the cracks begin to show. The race isn’t just testing their endurance; it is stripping them of everything they know.

  • The world is unraveling—wars loom, protests rage, the planet teeters—but here, under the flickering neon of Luna Park, the athletes arrive as if none of it exists. The announcer’s voice booms, drowning out the chaos outside, promising perseverance, resilience, and legacy. The course is set, the tide is rising, and the machine is in motion. Watching from the sidelines, Victoria Amado, the only one who sees reality for what it is, documents everything.

  • The sky is still dark, the ocean restless. The athletes stand at the edge of Brighton Beach, hearts pounding, bodies electric with adrenaline. At the cannon shot, they surge into the water—Victor charges forward, executing his race plan. Mary hesitates, the tide pulling her under. For the first time, she wonders if she’s made a mistake.

  • Gasping for breath, Mary grabs onto a kayak, panic tightening around her like a fist. Diana, the volunteer swimmer, steadies her, guiding her buoy by buoy, refusing to let go. As the sun rises, Mary moves forward—not because she believes she can, but because someone else does.

  • The transition zone warps into BILLYSTOPLESS, a surreal strip club where athletes shed their wetsuits like old skin. It is a ritual of transformation––the race demands a new version of them. But as bodies are exposed, Victoria remains covered in her black hoodie, her own invisibility cloak.. Mary stumbles forward, out of the water, onto dry land, onto the bike—she has survived the swim, but the hardest part is yet to come.

Bike Course

On the Verrazano Bridge, Victor is thrown off course by injustice, landing in the penalty tent, where he meets Athena and Clyde. Together, they launch into a high-octane chase, their differences erased by speed—until the road fractures beneath them. In the Cemetery Belt, Mary chases ghosts while Victoria battles stalled trains underground. The storm looms as the racers reach Van Cortlandt Park, where exhaustion gives way to something primal—a rain dance. Here, Victor, stripped down to nothing, finally lets himself feel. And then, Mary arrives. When Victor’s tire blows, the one who needed saving becomes the savior. On the West Side Highway, Mary pushes beyond fear, riding fearless—until the crash. The race was never fair. The road was never safe. And in the shadow of the World Trade Center, those still standing must decide what comes next.

  • Victor moves like a machine, his cadence flawless—until it isn’t. A whistle blows, a red flag waves. “Drafting violation. Five-minute penalty.” But Victor wasn’t drafting—a Black man in a mostly white field, he was singled out, called out for something he didn’t do. The penalty isn’t just about lost time—it’s about whether he can let it go, or if the injustice will consume him.

  • Victor seethes, watching precious minutes slip away. Across from him, Clyde knits, unbothered, while Athena sits motionless, her breath measured, controlled. Their ease grates against him—they should be counting seconds, like he is. Then, Athena speaks, her words steady, rhythmic—cadence on a march. It lodges in his mind, instinct before meaning. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but when Clyde’s tire goes flat, he tosses him a CO2 cartridge without thinking. A small act, nothing at all—except later, it will cost him.

  • Victor, Clyde, and Athena drop low, bodies aerodynamic, moving as one. The road was never meant for this—a speedway that never was, a warehouse that never should have been, a place discarded and sold for parts. For a moment, they are weightless, flying, alive inside something that was never built for them. Alone, they were outliers. Together, they stir the winds of change—and now, nothing can stop them.

  • Mary rides alone. The sky darkens—it is morning, but it looks like night. Gravestones stretch endlessly, watching. She sees him—the man she loved, the one she lost. A trick of exhaustion, a shadow in the fog. For a moment, relief—like he’s there to save her. But he does not speak.

    🎶 1200 Days – Listen Here

    It’s been 1200 days, but grief doesn’t have a finish line.Now she understands. This race is hers to finish, alone. She does the only thing she can. She pedals.

  • Two battles unfold against the same broken system. Above, Victor, Clyde, and Athena hit the Cross Bronx Expressway, a stretch of road that feels more like sabotage than strategy. Potholes, crumbling asphalt, debris—this isn’t just an obstacle, it’s a reckoning. Below, Victoria sits on a stalled subway—just another delay, another day where the city does what it always does. She should have been in Queens by now, meeting her mother. Instead, she waits, powerless, already too late. The voices collide in a rhythmic, spoken-word cacophony of frustration. Each fights in their own way, convinced their struggle is singular. But no matter how they resist, they all land in the same place, brought down to the same level.

  • Van Cortlandt Park, once a plantation, once a battleground, now a green sanctuary in a city of concrete. It is a place where bodies have fought before, and bodies will fight again. The storm is coming, but no one is thinking anymore. The beat begins—drums, footfalls, breath, heart. This is a rain dance. A war chant. A communion of exhaustion and will. They tap into something older than sport, older than strategy.

    And then—Mary arrives.

    She has been slow, steady, consistent. She does obstacles. She doesn’t panic when the road gets hard. While the others fought the course, she moved through it. Now, here they all are, together at last. Victor is still, his body spent. His mind wants to fight it, to resist. But the cracks are showing. And through those cracks, something enters—something he has never let in.

    🎶 "Love Is a Feeling" – Listen Here

    It isn’t that Victor doesn’t believe in love. It’s that he has never surrendered to it. But here, he is tired. His will is being tested. And in this moment, his body betrays him—not in weakness, but in opening. And then—his mistake catches up to him. His tire is flat. The CO2 cartridge he gave to Clyde is gone. He has nothing left.

    Mary steps forward. The one who needed saving is now the savior. She kneels beside him, hands him the cartridge, no words exchanged. Together, they fix the bike. Together, they ride into the storm.

  • A pro and an age-grouper, riding together. Mary got him back on the bike. He gave her the confidence to take a risk. Now, they move as one—Victor’s power, Mary’s instinct, matching stroke for stroke. The rain turns the road into a mirror, lightning flashing across the slick pavement. Electric guitar. Synthesizer. Speed. They ride fast, reckless, and fearless. The city is a blur, the race a fever dream—pure motion, pure surrender. And then—a crack. A slip. A split-second mistake. Mary’s front wheel catches a hidden pothole. She goes airborne. She collides into Victor. The world snaps. Metal. Flesh. Impact. Silence.

  • Flashing lights. Sirens. An ambulance pulls in, blocking the wreckage from view. The race disappears behind it. A stretcher is lifted. Someone is loaded in. The doors stay open. The sirens wail. The race keeps moving. Racers stream into transition, swapping their bikes for running shoes. Some glance at the ambulance. Most don’t. The audience doesn’t know who was taken. They are left waiting, guessing, holding their breath.

  • The lights don’t go up. The race keeps going. Runners filter in, slipping through transition, heading out onto the course. Volunteers pass water. Shoes slap pavement. The audience stops paying attention. The race does not.

Run Course

It begins in the Financial District, where runners thread through canyon streets. At Union Square, the crowds swell, the noise rising, time slipping. By the time they reach Times Square, reality distorts—the neon bends, the billboards flicker, and the race loops in on itself, forcing runners to pass the same stretch twice. Meanwhile, in the hospital, Victoria waits, suspended in time—pacing, breathless, helpless. Her world now mirrors the runners above. No way to speed it up, no way to stop it. And then—silence. Victor collapses at Shakespeare’s Garden, his body failing him. Miles away, Mary rises, relearning how to walk, her journey echoing his. They have both been shattered, but they keep moving. The finish line at Central Park waits to see who will cross it. When Victor finally does, he is not alone. The movement ignites—Victoria stepping into a race of her own.

  • Victor stands motionless. Mary is gone. The race moves past him, bodies flowing like a current. He should stop. He has every reason to. Then—Betty. A blur of color. Eighty years old, all fanny pack and momentum. She blows past him, oblivious to what just happened. He resents her for it. How can she still be running? She loops back. Not for him—just because she can. Then, something small. A glance, a gesture. Something familiar. Victor doesn’t think. He just moves. One foot forward. Then another. He runs.

  • Victor runs—not toward the finish line, but away. Lost in exhaustion, grief, and the pull of an easier life, he slips into a trance of memory—his mother, his childhood, a home that feels safer than this endless race. But before he can disappear into the past, Diana finds him.

    “Who are you looking for?” He doesn’t have an answer. All he has is a number—315. Diana names her for him. Mary. And just like that, the world snaps back into focus. Mary is in the hospital. But she wouldn’t want him to stop. He takes the fuel she offers. He turns, not backward—forward.

  • Victoria spirals into panic. The hospital, the waiting room, the call—it’s too much. She can’t breathe. The world spins. The race becomes her nightmare. Times Square warps. Neon. Billboards glitching. The runners are looping endlessly. The carousel music stretches, distorts.

    🎶 The chorus sings Saturn Returns. 

    The costumed mascots, the flashing lights—it’s all part of the hallucination. She sees Victor, but not as he is. He’s lost in the loop, running in circles. She is drowning in this moment, in grief, in the fear that time is running out. And then—it breaks. She gasps awake. The hospital lights buzz. She is not in the race. She is waiting. Helpless. Stuck. 

  • Now we are truly in Times Square. Not a fever dream, but the actual mess of neon, tourists, chaos. Victor is still running. He is tired, beaten, but still going. He is starting to feel the absurdity of it all. The city, the lights, the endless loop of movement. And then—Fran steps into the road. Cigarette. Eye roll. The only thing in this city that doesn’t move.

    "All these fucking healthy people trying to turn back time by running backwards up Broadway."

    Victor laughs. The first real laugh in miles. The carousel slows. The music fades. 

  • Victor collapses. The finish line is right there, but unreachable. His body is finished. His will is gone.

    🎶 Silence – Listen Here

    FLASH FORWARD: A hospital room. Mary, struggling through physical therapy. Every movement is a battle. Every step is an act of defiance. Two bodies, miles apart, fighting the same fight. Neither knows if the other is still moving. Victor presses his hands into the pavement. He exhales. Mary grips the therapy bars. She exhales. They rise together.

    The song ends. The silence lingers. The choice is made. Victor moves toward the finish line. Mary takes another step. The race isn’t over.

  • Victor crawls across the finish line. The race clock flashes above him. The medics rush in. Shock blanket. Hydration. He hears voices, but they are distant, muffled. The crowd, the lights, the weight of exhaustion—none of it matters.

    And then—Victoria. She has seen it all. She has spent this entire race trying to understand. Trying to reconcile the suffering with the purpose. Now, she knows.

    🎶 Better – Listen Here

    She steps forward, her voice quiet but unwavering.

    "This is not my world. This is not my home.
    If there were a God, we would not die alone."

    She thought this race was a distraction. She thought her mother was running from reality. But now—she understands. This isn’t just a race. This is the work. The work of surviving. The work of pushing forward even when everything tries to break you.

    🎶 Mary’s voice rises. "There's a place I imagine..." Her lyrics shift from blame to responsibility. "I should be better.  We could be better."

    And then—they come. The racers. Hundreds of them. They cross the finish line, one by one, in waves. Among them are all the characters we’ve met—Clyde, Athena, Betty—each of them fully themselves, transformed. The song swells. The moment expands. This is empowerment. This is self-actualization.

    The announcer’s voice echoes through the night. "Athena, you are a SUPERNOVA!" "Clyde, you are a SUPERNOVA!"

    The sky darkens. The race continues. Some runners fly through the finish, some limp, some barely standing. But they all finish. And with every step across the line, a star appears in the night sky. More racers. More names. The constellation grows. At first, it’s just scattered light. Then, the pattern emerges.

  • Victor stands, wrapped in foil, looking up at the sky. The constellation above him spells out "BETTER." The race is over, but he is still catching his breath, still feeling the weight of everything that brought him here.

    Victoria steps up beside him. She doesn’t overthink it. She just says it."My mom wanted me to let you know—she’ll see you next year." Victor does a double take. The words land. The meaning lingers. His mind processes it, but then—his eyes catch something else. She turns to go, and on the back of her hoodie—the same butterfly that was on Mary’s bike kit. He calls after her. “See you next year.” Victoria stops. She tilts her chin. Two fingers to her brow. A hat tip. 

    Victor watches her for a moment. Then, without a word, he takes off his Finisher cap. He doesn’t need it anymore. He holds it out. Victoria hesitates. She didn’t run the race. She doesn’t deserve it. But Victor just nods. She takes it. She pulls it onto her head. And then—she starts to jog.

    Blackout.

  • The band kicks in. The cast returns. The stage explodes into sound. The rock anthem version of "Better" takes over. The race is over, but the movement is just beginning. The final message isn’t in words. It’s in music, energy, bodies moving, people standing, arm in arm.

    No one finishes alone. Every movement begins with one voice.

Read a Script Sample

The creator.

Better is my magnum opus.

From growing up asthmatic, to moving to NYC alone, to coming out in my 40s, to starting my own business, my life has been a Sisyphus story—pushing forward, falling, and choosing to rise again. This story, told through archetypal characters competing in a triathlon, is mine, but it belongs to everyone.

Broadway has always been where America confronts itself—what better place to ask, "Can we get better?" It is more than a musical. It’s a movement.

And it only lives if I do the work.

I am invincible.

〰️

I can climb mountains.

〰️

I will build bridges.

〰️

I do envision it.

〰️

I am invincible. 〰️ I can climb mountains. 〰️ I will build bridges. 〰️ I do envision it. 〰️